Omens

Teri asked me last night if I was feeling okay.

"Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"Well I read your blog post today and you seem discouraged."

Oops. If that's the message you received yesterday, it wasn't the one I intended to convey. I meant to leave you with a message of hope and determination in the face of adversity.

If you were also concerned for my mental well being, don't be. I'm feeling great.

Thanks to both of you who recently added your names to the roll of the dishy by clicking the followers button. Hey David, I didn't know you were out there. It's great seeing you.

I'm seeing omens again. Whenever I have several sightings of unusual wildlife or natural phenomenon in a short period of time, some superstitious part of me considers that as a sign. The only problem is, I have no ability whatsoever to interpret the signs being left for me, so it's not a very good form of guidance.

Yesterday morning I saw a pair of bluebirds in our back yard. I can't think of anything more beautiful than a bluebird--especially one in flight. I haven't seen bluebirds in my yard in a long time, so it was a special moment. Teri was getting ready for work when they appeared, and I dragged her away from her blow dryer so she could see them too. As we watched them, a beautiful red-headed woodpecker landed on the lawn.

Also yesterday morning, I stepped outside and felt spring in the air for the first time this year. I'm sure of it--it was unmistakeably the coming spring. The Bayberry Woods are still lifeless and barren and another cold snap is on the way this weekend, so this long winter isn't ready to let go. But the season of new life and rebirth is upon us. I'm positive.

Last night I noticed a ring around the moon as I toted our garbage to the curb. Early this morning I saw a great heron as I drove past a farm pond.

This all must add up to something. Right?

For at least the next few weeks I'm going to be blogging less and will try to restrict my random ramblings to two or three per week instead of the four or five posts I usually do. It's not that I'm tired of you--far from it. I'm at a point where I need a little more time for both my "real" writing and my "real" life. Both aspects of my world have taken a turn for the busy lately. On top of that, I want to see if limiting my posts improves the overall quality of this blog. What are the odds of that?

Have a wonderful weekend, y'all.

Whiff of doubt?

This one is more self-obsessed blah, blah, blah about me and my book, but it's also about you. I urge you to read on and find out how.

Yesterday I told you about the rave reviews pouring in for my book on a social networking website for wannabe authors. My book climbed another 77 spots since yesterday, breaking the 1,000 barrier on the charts for the first time. Go me!

Here's an excerpt of a review that came in yesterday from a writer in Ireland: I read on and on as if I was just enjoying a book for my own pleasure. I haven't been taking notes, or thinking about what I should say in my comments. Instead, I've been relaxing and laughing and having fun. This is a brilliant book, quite a lot different from the usual, written in an excellent, publishable style and original in its characters and settings.

Whoo hoo!

Now, let's get real for a moment, shall we?

For the last few weeks I've been sending out query letters and writing samples to literary agents and publishers. I'm sending out a handful a week to tweak my presentation based on the feedback I receive.

So far, of the dozen or so queries I've sent, I've had a whopping two responses. Here was the more encouraging of the two: Thanks so much for considering us. Although this sounds quite interesting, it is not what we are looking for at this very time. Thanks so much for giving us the opportunity and good luck in your quest for publication.

As for the others--all I've heard back so far is the sound of crickets. The silence is worse than the outright rejection. The silence is also a statement of rejection--only louder.

Is that the first whisper of self-doubt I hear? Could be, friend--could be.

Is the BYE a fool's errand and the product of self-delusion? Could be, my dear Discerning Reader--could be.

Was it unrealistic to believe that I could write a publishable manuscript the first time out of the blocks against very long odds. Maybe so--maybe so.

I think the posters sold on despair.com are hilarious. They turn the bright, cheery images and vapid messages of the motivational posters you often see in business upside down. I've put a few of them below this post so you can see for yourself.

As the posters remind us, there are dreams and aspirations, and then there's reality.

I'm not going gently into the world of reality just yet. No, no, no. I'm going to rage, rage against the dying of the light. Not while there's still time.

A week or so ago I printed up a quote from the author Samuel Beckett and posted it on the wall in front of my computer. You can see it in the picture of the nerve center of the dream factory. It's my new mantra.

Here's how the Beckett quote reads:

Ever tried. Ever failed.
No matter.
Try again. Fail again.
Fail better.

I'm off to fail better. See you later.

Crack for writers, part 3

I suspect that most people who read blogs are also members of one or more social media sites, so you'll all relate to this.

I have a Facebook account I check daily. I have a Twitter account that I use to leave short teasers on whatever I'm posting here. I also belong to LinkedIn, but since it's geared to business networking and I left the real world last year, I rarely check that one these days. Teri reminded me yesterday that my LinkedIn profile was in desperate need of attention and updating since it still showed me working for my former employer.

Some of my friends, especially my younger relatives, are Facebook addicts. Teri saw some research the other day that showed students at one major university (not hers) spend 1.7 hours on average on Facebook per day. Hard to believe.

A couple of weeks ago I joined a fourth social networking site and I'm hopelessly addicted. I won't even name it here for fear that other unpublished authors will stumble on to this post and become addicted themselves. Okay, it's Authonomy--just don't tell anyone.

Here's how it works:

A major publisher owns this literary crackhouse and encourages unpublished authors to upload all or part of their books onto their site. Right now there are something like 5,000 full or partial manuscripts available for your reading pleasure.

The authors on the site then read and give critiques of the posted works of the other authors. I think most writers are motivated much more by the desperate desire for an audience than by financial reward, so the idea of having other people seeking out and commenting on the thing they treasure most in life is incredibly attractive.

But there's more!

It's also a game. Each book on the site is given a ranking based on the number of people who "back" it by putting it on their virtual bookshelves. If you reach the top five in any given month your manuscript gets a formal reading by the editorial board of the publisher sponsoring the site. Each reviewer holds a "talent spotter" ranking based on how the books on their shelves perform. If a person with a high TS rank backs your book, it moves up more notches than it would if a person with a low ranking does.

Cool.

For someone anxious to see their work disseminated and read, this is incredibly enticing.

But there's even more!

It's hypnotizing watching your book fly up the virtual charts and your influence as a reviewer grow. Heaven help me, I'm actually keeping a chart of my performance. You start at the very bottom of both lists, somewhere in the five thousands. But Carnival Time has been on a rocket ride since I posted it a couple of weeks ago. This morning I checked and the book is at 1,057 on the charts, up nearly 400 slots since Sunday evening. My reviewer ranking is only 2,748, but I got a slow start and that rating is currently rising even faster than the book is.

I suspect most authors weren't the most popular kids in school--we bookish folk seldom are--and to see an actual number attached to your popularity and to see your acclaim grow is the ultimate in positive reinforcement for our kind.

But wait, there's still more! There are the reviews.

As of this morning, I've had thirty reviews for my book. Want to hear bits of some of them?

"Highly entertaining."

"...enjoyable with much humor and a delicacy of touch that is very engaging."

"Great story ... much better than I expected."

"BRILLIANT ...it is evident we are in the hands of an accomplished professional."

"As I read it I had to stop a few times to think about what a hugely interesting and different plot this is. They say there are no new ideas, and you seem to be kicking the crap out of that saying."

"Brilliant. You have seen to the heart of the lunacy North Americans inhabit and served it up to us as dark satire."

I could go on (and I am tempted to do so), but the reviews are all pretty much like that, and you get the idea. It's a screen chock-full of warm fuzzies and pats on the back.

Okay, but here's where Authonomy meets reality. Everyone says nice things about all of the books on the site. If you've put in the work on something as personal and creative as a book, you know how others who have done the same feel, and it's impossible to be brutally honest. My reviewers have debated a few structural issues and pointed out a handful of typos, but none of them would dream of saying "this is a huge load of stinking garbage. For the sake of humanity, step away from the keyboard and don't ever come back."

It's a popularity contest. Remember? If you get a reputation for saying nice things, people will want to review and back you and increase your own book's rating. So literary merit and unvarnished truth seldom find their way into the mutually congratulatory reviews.

Most of the books posted on Authonomy will never see the light of day. Frankly, most of them aren't very good. There are a few polished and unpolished gems in that pile of rubble, but you can't spot them from the ratings alone. So I will never know how good or bad my book really is from this jury of my peers. And my peers, like me, all carry a faint whiff of desperation.

To date, the publisher running the site has signed three books of the thousands posted, and a handful of others have allegedly attracted the attention of literary agents rumored to be roaming Authonomy, so the odds of meeting your goal (if your goal is publication) are long indeed. I knew it was going to be a crapshoot when I started the BYE, but I try not to think about that.

More on facing long odds tomorrow.

Crack for writers, part 2

As of today, the Best Year Ever is two-thirds complete. Are you as surprised by that as I am? Where has the time gone?

A quick shout-out to Hungary, Spain, Portugal, Poland, the Netherlands and the Philippines, all of which have joined the BYE League of Nations in the last couple of days. I don't know what's up with the global readership lately, but it's nice to see all of you.

I began the BYE with a simple career plan in mind.

Goal one: Write book.

Goal two: Rewrite book until readable.

Goal three: Sell book to publisher and hope a few people buy it.

Goal four: Repeat first three steps multiple times until I either die or run out of things to say.

So I entered an unknown land, not knowing if I could meet any of these goals but with exactly one year to find out.

I met my first goal much faster than I thought I would, and the process was easier than I thought it would be.

Goal two was a stumbling block because I learned so much in the process of meeting the first goal that I was able to see some of my rookie mistakes--and I made plenty of them. By the time I fixed my first round of mistakes, I had learned even more about the art and craft of storytelling and had uncovered more problems in desperate need of attention. It was a vicious cycle. One thing I have learned is that I can rewrite until the end of time and I'll never be completely satisfied with the result. At some point I determined that it had to be either good enough for review or left for dead, and I guess that's what I'm finding out now.

Now I'm working on goals three and four simultaneously. Tomorrow we'll discuss goal three in more detail. Today let's talk about tackling goal four.

I've got a new novel in the works, a police procedural set in the fictional college town of Constantinople, Alabama. It will explore the themes of infidelity, football, religion and technology, probably in that order of emphasis. I've outlined the book, written some of the character sketches and put together my suspect list.

Teri is disappointed that this one won't have a love interest, at least in the conventional sense, but my young niece Katie will be happy to know that she can read this manuscript when it's done since it will have either a PG or PG-13 rating.

I've started writing the new book, call it Project A. The whole thing is in my head, even if some of the characters and plot twists are still lurking in the background. The thing is, this time around I know they'll be there waiting for me when I need them.

I'm excited about Project A, and I can already tell that I'll be able to avoid some of the pitfalls I tumbled into the first time even as I create new ones. I don't think I'll "love" this one as much since it won't be my "first" love, but I can already tell it's going to be better technically and be better crafted than the first.

At the same time, I've just begun work on a third project. When I started the BYE, a wise friend came to me and said: "I have one word of advice for you--nonfiction." I ignored him and followed my heart, but I get it now--believe me, I do. There are something like 50,000 nonfiction books published in any given year and about 10,000 novels. Your odds of successfully getting a nonfiction work to print are five times greater than getting your Pulitzer-worthy first novel published.

Other than wanting to tell a story, the reason I ignored my wise friend was that I didn't feel expert enough in anything to write a book about it and was too busy to learn. Also, I didn't have a great idea. The other day I had a flash of inspiration and came up with the right idea. It is a non-fiction book that I'm positive I am competent to write and that will sell well. I haven't found a book on this subject written from the approach I'm taking.

I'll have a collaborator for this book. When I told Teri about my idea and showed her the first few pages I had written, she became as excited as I am about it. Teri is helping me with the outline will contribute one or more semi-scientific self-assessments to it. Surveys are one of her research strengths as an academic, so this is right up her alley.

So what is it about? I'd love to tell you, Discerning Reader, but I'm going to be mysterious about Project M until we're further along. Stay tuned.

A very good day

One of my favorite films of all time is Tender Mercies. Released in 1983, Robert Duvall won the Oscar for Best Actor for his performance in this brilliant tale of redemption. If you've never seen this movie, you should.

Duvall plays Mac Sledge, an alcoholic who was once a country music star. Mac hits rock bottom in a motel room in a rural Texas town and becomes the motel's handyman to work off his bill.

The movie is filled with great moments. At one point Mac and his new stepson Sonny are baptized together in a humble country church. As they ride home after the baptism, they're not sure what they should be feeling. Sonny finally asks Mac if he feels "different". "Not yet," Mac replies.

I was thinking of that scene yesterday as two events converged to make it the biggest and best day in the Best Year Ever.

Yesterday morning I knelt as the elders of my church laid hands on me, our pastor said a prayer and the congregation gave its formal assent. At that moment I was ordained as a deacon in my Presbyterian church. I even have a framed certificate to prove this really happened and I didn't dream it.

If you knew me "back in the day" this small tale of redemption might come as a surprise.

I'm excited and nervous about holding the office of deacon. A real job comes with the title, since in our denomination the deacons are charged as caretakers of the church and members in need. It's an honor to be made an officer in the church, but it's also a huge obligation--one I'm determined to live up to.

On the drive home I asked myself if I felt "different". Not yet, but I want to be.

But there was a second major event in my life yesterday. The New Orleans Saints played the Minnesota Vikings in the biggest football game New Orleans has ever seen.

You can say that it was "just" a game. But that isn't true. No, not at all. I can't exaggerate the importance of this particular game to the life of a city and its people.

The Saints form a huge part of the self-identity of the city of New Orleans, and the people there are bonded to the team in a way that is difficult to explain to outsiders. But I'll try anyway.

For most of their 43 year history, the Saints were lovable losers. They were bad. How bad? They were so bad that at one point many Saints fans came to the games wearing paper bags over their heads. The bagheads, as they were known, were determined to support the team, no matter how terribly they performed. They never won anything and they were always losers, but they were "our" losers, and New Orleanians loved their "boys" anyway.

The Louisiana Superdome, where the Saints play their home games, is a landmark and iconic structure for the city. It has hosted Super Bowls, college championships, political conventions, Mardi Gras parties and a host of other major events. It had holes ripped in it and sheltered refugees for those first dark disorganized days following Hurricane Katrina. To New Orleanians, the Dome is much more than just a building.

If you're not a New Orleanian, you can't fully understand how important yesterday's game was for the city. To win in the Dome and go on to a Super Bowl would mean a kind of redemption for a place in desperate need of moving on from the most difficult period in its history.

Kickoff was at 5:40 p.m. and I had been looking forward to this moment as much as anyone on the planet.

When Teri reminded me that there was a special service being held at our church Sunday evening at 6, my heart sank. Church officers are expected to show up when evening services are held--not just the major Sunday morning service. It's not a rule or anything, but it comes with the territory.

Before yesterday I wouldn't have considered going to that service and missing a moment of the biggest football game of my life. Not for anything.

So my first test came within a few hours of becoming a deacon. How different was I? Where did my priorities lie?

As the message Sunday evening ran on and on, I squirmed in the pew. Teri patted my leg several times to comfort and restrain me. I don't know what the message was about last night. I was too distracted, and whatever points were made, they went in one ear and out the other.

We rushed home and made it back in time to watch most of the second half. The game was a thriller that the Saints won in overtime and in miraculous fashion. After 43 years of futility, the Bless You Boys were going to the Super Bowl. Redemption!

Teri and I screamed and cried as we danced in our living room. I'll bet almost everyone in New Orleans screamed and cried last night. If you are very lucky, you get to experience a handful of moments of pure joy in your lifetime, and this was one of mine.

That moment of pure joy made me think of another line from Tender Mercies. Mac's life has turned for the good, but he's not confident his new luck will last. "I don’t trust happiness. I never did and I never will," he says with bitterness and suspicion in his voice.

Lucky for me, there's no special service scheduled at our church on Super Bowl Sunday, two weeks from now, so I won't have to face the Saints test a second time.

Super Bowl party at my house. Who's bringing the dip?

Crack for writers, part 1

I'll get on with the main topic in a minute, but first I have a favor to ask of you.

Periodically I beg and plead with those of you who are even semi-regular visitors to the BYE to bravely click on that follow button on the right hand side of the screen. As I write this, 36 of you have already done so. Thank you! Well, really it's only 35 since I registered my dog Callie without her permission. Now that Callie has gone, I like having her there with you and looking over my shoulder.

Every time I ask you to do this, one or two more of you humor me, so I'm pleading once again. Please click that button. There's no downside. Becoming a "follower" doesn't put you on any mailing lists or e-mail my new posts to you or anything like that. Quit being so paranoid. Unless you use Google Reader, the only thing it does is give my ego a little positive reinforcement. If you do use Google Reader (as I do), it's another way to access the content on this and your other favorite blogs.

I ask you to "follow" the blog for a couple of reasons. First of all, I am trying to build the illusion of popularity for this site. I'm not sure of my motivations for that--for our collective amusement, I suppose. But the main reason I want you to "follow" is that I try to write to an audience, and seeing you out there gives me a mental picture of the people I'm talking to.

Besides, you really are a dishy crew, and I dig seeing all your smiling, groovy faces.

There are more of you now. Not long ago I put up the flag gadget you see on the right side of the screen. The number beside each flag represents only unique visitors to the site from each country. If you come back to the site using the same computer you won't get counted again.

As I write this Discerning Readers from 17 different countries have joined us in the last few weeks. Russia joined our federation for the first time today, Добро пожаловать as did Saudi Arabia, مرحبا . Not surprisingly the US dominates the readership here with 681 different Americans visiting our freehold in the last month or so since I posted the flag gadget, so we're still number one at something, anyway. I love seeing all those flags flying. Thanks especially to the big contingents from Canada and the UK. And a big willkommen to all four of you from Germany.

Overall readership is up here too and January will be our second record month in a row for visitors. As I keep reminding you, growth is relative--your ranks are swelling, but you are still members of a tiny but fiercely proud club.

I was going to write about "crack for writers" today, but I just wasted so many words on flags and followers that I'll hold back until tomorrow and a rare Saturday "bonus" post.

Hey, today's post wasn't a total loss. I enjoy writing about you guys. The truth is the audience is the drug any writer is addicted to.

Now click that button.

Debtors' prison

You're going to hate me after this one, but I promised myself that I'd always be honest in this space, so here goes.

People who know me tend to like me. If you met me, you'd like me too. I really am a nice guy, as nice guys go. I can be a curmudgeon at times but an affable and generous one.

The tiny handful of people who know me best have had glimpses into the furthest corners of my being. Once in a while I let them see beneath the veneer of affability on the surface and they learn that not everything living inside of me is beautiful. There are a few corners of my soul where the light doesn't quite reach.

One of my less noble characteristics is my amazing ability to carry a grudge. If there were a standardized test for grudge-carrying, I would be in the 99th percentile. I'm not proud of it, but the concept of forgive and forget does not come easily to me.

Example:

Many years ago I had a slimy boss. How slimy? This was a guy who bragged about cheating on his wife and cheating his employer. Those things I could forgive and forget. But he also took credit for my accomplishments at work and cheated me out of a bonus I had earned. At the time I was powerless to do anything about it. I moved on, but I couldn't forgive those actions. Or forget them.

Decades passed. Not long ago I learned that this guy had contracted a terrible disease and was going to live out the remainder of his life in misery. My first thought wasn't one of heartfelt sympathy for the suffering of another human being. My first thought, God help me, was that it served him right. He was getting what he deserved.

I know. I told you that you'd hate me, and I'm not done yet. We still have a little honesty to go.

When I first learned of the horrible tragedy in Haiti, my very first thought wasn't of the massive loss of life or the terrible human suffering. I didn't even flash back right away to the ruins of my own city following Hurricane Katrina and my gratitude to those who helped us in that dark time.

My very first thought was that Haiti still owes me forty dollars.

A very long time ago I found myself delivering pizzas at night and on weekends in Miami to supplement my income. It was a local chain just like Dominos. The crew consisted of one Anglo (me), a bunch of Cuban-Americans, and one Haitian immigrant who was the assistant manager. The Haitian was funny and friendly, and I liked him a lot. Until.

It was a busy Friday night at the pizza joint, and I was happy because the tips were pouring in. Times were tight so the cash was needed and welcome.

The Haitian assistant manager, the only Haitian I've ever known more than in passing, stole forty dollars of my tip money that night. I was furious. I was positive who did it, but I couldn't prove anything. That money was the product of a night's work and a major financial loss for me at the time.

I never forgave. I never forgot. Haiti still owes me.

You don't have to tell me that I can't blame an entire nation on the actions of one individual. I know that. At least I didn't think that the earthquake was retribution for the slight against me so many years ago, and I certainly took no joy in this disaster.

But still. Why was that my first thought?

I've never been to Haiti, but I've been to Belize, another poor nation heavily dependant on foreign aid. I was in Belize with a church group a couple of summers ago and spent most of my time there helping to build a new school in a rough part of Belize City. We spent the better part of two days wiring the building. A local man was employed to guard the work site overnight. The night after we finished our wiring job, the guard left his post for an hour or so to grab a bite. While he was away, thieves stripped the unfinished building of all the wire we had worked so hard to install.

I was filled with righteous anger. After all, we came there to help them and the thieves were the same people who would soon be sending their children to that school.

The "real" missionaries heading the building project took the setback in stride. Frequent setbacks are the reality in this corner of the world. Life there is hard, at times brutish. Focusing on the setbacks and wallowing in indignation was the first step to admitting defeat, and they wouldn't allow themselves to engage in that kind of thinking.

Every week in my church we all pray out loud "forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors". I've still got a long way to go, but the idea is starting to sink in. Forty dollars isn't worth carrying a grudge around for twenty-five years. Your own soul is worth way more than that.

If you want to donate to the Haitian relief effort, I can think of no better organization for that than the American Red Cross. Here's a link to their donation web site.

AA meeting

Sorry guys, I've got nothing for you today. It's a gray day here in Suburbingham and I think I'll spend it all in a world of my own invention.

I'm plotting out my second book right now and laying down the first words. Teri wants me to call this one Academic Affairs, but we'll see. If I tell you in future posts about going to an "AA meeting", you'll know what I mean.

This book is going to be very different from the first. I want to try my hand at a straight ahead murder mystery. The protagonist is the "acting" chief of the police department of a major southern university.

I've already killed my first victim (there will be at least one more), and I do believe that my method of murder I employ is a literary first, but for the rest of it I will follow all the conventions of a detective novel to the extent that I am able.

I think I know who the killer is, but I'm not positive of that just yet. It's one of two people for sure. Some of the characters are already roaming around in my head and they're a lively bunch. They're whispering to me now, and I have a feeling they will soon be shouting for attention.

Teri is mystified and, I think, a little frightened by my ability to create people and places out of whole cloth and have them inhabit their own worlds. What scares me is how much easier the process feels this second time around.

I'm shooting for 80,000 words this time, which is about right for this kind of book, but I've got a lot of people who want to show up in those 80,000 words. We'll see what happens.

Slain by the funk

Five of us spent the better part of yesterday wielding rollers and paintbrushes and trying not to make a complete mess of things.

My friends Jeff and Cathleen will be moving this summer as she takes a new gig as a professor at Auburn University.

To get their home ready for today's challenging real estate market, they wanted to "freshen up" their place, and our mutual friend Ginny, along with Teri and I, volunteered for a spend-the-night/painting party.

After a day of brushes, rollers and ladders, we all agreed on two things: it's amazing the difference a fresh coat of paint can make to transform a room; and house painting in middle age requires much more Alleve than we remembered.

Jeff is a chief master sergeant in the air force and one tough hombre, but he has a secret life as an inventive gourmet chef, so we were paid well for our labors. His latest gastronomic contrivance is a creamy orange concoction Teri and I are calling Jeff Sauce. We used the spicy stuff over the weekend as a glaze, a dip and a condiment for everything else edible that came within reach. It would also make a wonderful low calorie salad dressing, but we weren't being that healthy.

To keep their workers motivated, our hosts cranked up "The Groove", an old-school R&B station, on satellite radio. From time to time the paint crew would be slain by the funk and break into an impromptu dance session.

"I don't know if the sight of a dancing heavy middle aged man in paint-splattered overalls is a such a good thing," I said as I threw caution to the wind and bounced around to Earth Wind and Fire. Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror as I danced and observed my moves through the mind-altering veil of paint fumes. "Hmmm. Not bad. Not bad at all."

In-box, part 3

This is the last in a three part series.

Yesterday we talked about all of the new in-boxes technology has blessed us with. Today let's take a look at a non-random sample of what has shown up in my various in-boxes in the last couple of days.

Our in-boxes can fill us with confidence. Or doubt. Or maybe both at the same time.

Yesterday I received my first rejection letter from a literary agent, a signal event for me. Here's what it said:

Dear Hank,

I regret to say that I don’t feel that I’m the most appropriate agent for your work.

However, opinions vary considerably in this business, and I wish you the best of luck in your search for representation.

Best wishes,

Agent X

Ouch. That's what we call a form letter in the writing biz. Agent X found my heartfelt query so uninspiring that he bounced back within an hour or so with his standard two-line rejection--the literary equivalent of "go away kid and don't come back."

Usually, if the agent thinks a project or author holds some promise he/she will make a comment or two about why he/she is saying no before telling you to get lost.

I've contacted two other agents within the last few days, and Agent X is the only one to respond so far. My plan is to tweak my query letter based on agent feedback and circulate my latest version to only a few at any one time. Given the usefulness of the first feedback I received, I may have to rethink my strategy.

So I'm off to a disheartening start to marketing the fruit of my months of labor.

But it was Aristotle who said "one swallow does not make a summer." There are plenty of other agents and publishers out there who haven't had a chance to reject me yet.

I feel my skin getting thicker already.

Then there's this comment posted here the other day by an anonymous Discerning Reader:

I started a new job yesterday. Before that, I was unemployed for 9 months. I was not writing or anything else. I was unemployed. I felt useless, and I was. I was not creating anything but misery. I do not have a creative bone in my body. Although I believe that everyone has a good book within them, I have not yet found mine. Hank, I admire you so much for what you are doing. I hope I can get to that point some day. For now, I need to be a follower, and do as I am told. Wish me luck at my new job...I think I will need it. All the best to you...I KNOW you will SUCCEED!

Here was my response. Anon: Whoever you are, you have inspired me on a morning when inspiration is exactly what I needed. Thank you!

The way you describe your feelings during your time of unemployment doesn't surprise me. I have a number of friends who are now enduring exactly what you have gone through for the last nine months, and I know how being unemployed has impacted them in every imaginable way, especially in the way they see themselves.

Congratulations on the new job and the new start. Once you've gained some distance from the bad times, I'll bet you will better appreciate your own worth--not as an employee, but as a person who loves and is loved by others. I suspect you will also realize that our greatest contributions to this world don't come in work we do to earn a paycheck

Our self-identities may be wrapped up in our work, but who we really are is revealed in the hours when we're not pulling a shift to earn a salary.

The other day I got a phone call from a friend with an offer to do some temp work. I turned him down, but I was tempted for a moment at the idea of doing some "normal" work for a fixed amount of money.

After I've received several dozen more cut-and-paste rejections like the one from Agent X, I'll have to start considering other options for bringing cash into the house.

But the Best Year Ever isn't over yet. There's still a little more than a third of it left and a new project is in the works.

For now I'm going to cling to the words of Anonymous, my wife and friends who have told me in their own ways "I KNOW you will SUCCEED!"

Hope? Despair? Who knows what the in-box will bring today.

In-box, part 2

This is the second of three parts.

Many of you are too young to remember the days when we only had one real in-box—the mailbox outside our front doors.

We had a few other in-boxes too in the form of newspapers, magazines, radio, quaint institutions known as libraries and as many as three television channels. But all of those forms of communication ran one way.

Oh, I almost forgot. We also had telephones, which sometimes provided two-way communication. Not long ago, phones were so valuable that they were wired to the walls to prevent you from carrying them with you. Today you can buy a disposable cell phone in any drugstore. In my youth someone had to be at home to answer the telephone in order for a message to be passed on to an absent family member. Any long distance call was, by definition, an important event. I still remember when we had a party line, when the first push button phone replaced the last rotary dial phone at our house and those days before answering machines. In those days only rich people with teenagers in the house had more than one phone number in the family.

Don’t worry, Discerning Reader, this isn’t going to turn into a nostalgic piece about the golden days of yore. I prefer today’s multitude of in-boxes and out-boxes to the good old days.

All of the old one-way means of communication still exist, but today our in-boxes come in so many different forms. Cell phones, e-mail, voice mail, text messages, podcasts, social networking websites, interactive television and blogs like this are now part of the way most of us interact with the world. Our communications aren't limited to one or two directions these days--they can be networked and broadcast to anyone who cares to receive them, like this blog.

I like that most of our new in-boxes also come equipped with out-boxes so we can talk back. The comments section of this blog is the perfect example. When I say something wrong or ridiculous here, you have the option of calling me on it.

I like being able to send a message to friends around the world, instantly and for free. I like the security and convenience of having a telephone in my pocket wherever I roam. I prefer having hundreds of entertainment options piping through my television. Last year I signed up with Facebook, and I’m finding pleasure in tracking the lives of my friends and family through that medium, although Facebook has made me come to appreciate the term “too much information”.

Like most people my age, I’m not so keen on texting, though. The younger people in my life are completely addicted to this form of communication. I think that’s a generational thing.

All of the in-boxes we now have available to us come with a price. They make our real lives more difficult to manage.

It’s so easy for me to lose an entire evening to an Anthony Bourdain marathon on the Travel Channel. I can get so busy living out my virtual life on Facebook that I sometimes forget to live a real one. So much information coming at me from so many divergent sources takes time and energy to access, filter and prioritize.

I’m trying to cut back on my in-boxes, but I do backslide. For me, the television is the worst culprit. When I’m tired, it’s way too easy for me to flop in my easy chair at 7 p.m. and passively watch whatever is moving around on the screen. The next thing I know, it’s 2 a.m. and I wake up in my easy chair stiff and cold with an infomercial playing in the background.

I bet I’m not alone. Am I?

The time we previously devoted to mastering an art or craft or socializing with other people, we now give to the gods of cable and the internet, and I suspect that's a very bad thing. How many great works of art and literature have been lost to hours spent watching television? We'll never know.

I know today’s post doesn’t represent original thinking. This is a well-plowed field and you’ve thought of these things yourself. But, here's the deal--I need to keep reminding myself that every hour is precious, and I’m not getting any of them back. Our communication may be networked, but the limited hours of our life still flow in only one way.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to shut down my technology. I still prefer today’s golden age of communication and all of the options it gives me to interact with the world. I just need to keep in mind that it’s always better to live in the real world than in a virtual one.

In-box, part 1

For the last few weeks I’ve been plodding through yet another draft of Carnival Time, and I’m bored with my story and with trying to fix it. Writing feels creative. Editing is tedium. I’ll be finished with this draft in a few days, and then I’m moving on to another project until I can stand to be around Tony and Daphne again.

Re-writing is a kind of limbo. It’s a mechanical process and for me it sucks out the creative juices. I find satisfaction in making a sentence better, but there’s not much joy in it.

I’m on several mailing lists for writers and this morning there was something in my in-box that just made me want to throw up my hands and walk away from the computer. The item was a list of 10 writing tips from Elmore Leonard, a prolific and talented writer whose work I have enjoyed for many years.

Here they are:

1. Never open a book with weather.

2. Avoid prologues.

3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely.

5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.

6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose.

7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.

8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.

9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things.

10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

As a first-time novelist, who has so much to learn, I mentally ran through Mr. Leonard’s checklist against my own work.

Item one: I’m on solid ground here since I didn’t begin with “It was a dark and stormy night.” Hooray for me.

Item two: I have a prologue of sorts. Uh oh.

Item three: I already knew the rule but violate it early and often in my book.

Item four: Another rule I’ve broken many times, even though I’ve cut way back on this sin in the last two rounds.

Item five: I think I’m okay on this one, but I'm certain my 95,000 words of prose have more than the three exclamation points allowed.

Item six: Ouch and ouch again!

Item seven: I’m in big trouble here.

Item eight: I think I’m okay on this one, mostly through incompetence.

Item nine: A mixed bag, but I can think of some examples in my story.

Item ten: How would I know if I broke this rule? I didn’t skip any of it when I wrote it.

So, of the nine rules I can comprehend, I have broken at least seven of them. I’m going to endeavor to spend the rest of the day out of the vicinity of sharp objects.

“Shoot fire! Suddenly it’s a gloomy fog-bound day in Suburbingham,” the six foot, blue eyed, gray haired, fifty-year-old myopic writer exclaimed weakly!!!!

On defense

Indulge me in the briefest of rants today.

As I get deeper and deeper into my new craft and occupation, I become increasingly irritated with people who describe me as either retired, semi-retired, unemployed or between jobs.

I am none of those things! Please stop using those words to describe me. Especially in my presence.

I have a full time job. I am a writer. I get up every day and plop my butt down in my office and open up the dream factory. At some point in the day I take a break and talk to you, Discerning Reader. At some other point in the day I close the dream factory. That is my full time job. It's what I do for a living.

I own a company--The Infinite Monkey, Ltd. My company has one employee who is currently working on a deferred salary. Me. I love my company and I really love my company's name since it holds within it not one, but two self-deprecating jokes.

I may look and dress like I'm unemployed and you might find me lurking at the library at noon on a Tuesday, but you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

I had another one of those conversations today when a family friend called me for some advice and in the course of the discussion asked me how it felt to be "retired."

"Actually, I'm not retired at all, and I'm as busy as ever."

"Semi-retired then."

"That's not it either. I'm working full time."

"Sure. But it must feel good not to have a real job."

Ugh! At this point I did what I usually do and agreed with him. That's much easier than debating my employment status with others.

I suppose I'd be okay with it if I hadn't had the virtually identical discussion with dozens of other well-meaning people over the last six months. I'd also be okay with it if my labors to date had brought in the first penny of income, making the comments hit a little too close to home.

I guess I'm being a little defensive, and I need to get over other people hanging unwanted labels on my life. But still, just cut it out, won't you?

Holding my breath

I don't usually do two posts in a single day, but it's a big moment in the Best Year Ever, Dear Discerning Reader, and since you've come this far with me, I wanted to share it with you.

A few moments ago I took a deep breath as I hit the send button and an e-mail was whisked away to the in-box of a literary agency.

I had just sent my first query letter as a professional writer. Now I'm waiting for my first rejection letter as a professional writer.

The typical way of marketing a novel these days is through the good offices of a literary agent. I won't go into a lot of detail on the process--I barely understand it myself--but here's how I think it's supposed to work.

You begin by sending one or more agents a query letter and the first few pages of your manuscript and then, months later, one of the agent's assistants responds with a form letter telling you they will under no circumstances represent your book. Then you repeat the process indefinitely until a temp accidentally asks to see more.

Nowadays, most agents accept queries via e-mail, which saves on postage but not the agonizing length of time it takes for the pro forma rejection letter to follow.

So, do you want to see what a query looks like? Even if you don't, here's the one I just sent. Tell me, Discerning Reader, would you want to read this book? I'm feeling vulnerable right now and need your validation.

Dear Ms. Xxxxx,

When you mentioned in your agency profile that you are seeking to represent books with a fantastic/paranormal element that reach beyond genre fiction, I knew that I had to send you this query.

Tony Brand, the overweight, middle-aged, middle-management protagonist of Carnival Time, is having a very bad day. And it's about to get even worse. It's not even noon and already his estranged daughter is furious with him, his best sales rep. has just given notice, and he has just learned that he could be terminated at the upcoming managers' meeting. On his way to the Houston home office, his evening flight makes an emergency landing in New Orleans, stranding Tony there overnight.

There's just one problem; it's Mardi Gras weekend. Carnival time.

Tony's brief stay in the Crescent City is extended when he is kidnapped by a bumbling motorcycle gang, meets an intriguing history professor, goes on a quest for a lost chalice, rides in a Mardi Gras parade and becomes mixed up with an odd collection of people who claim to be gods and goddesses.

Oh, and he also has to save Mardi Gras by preventing an unthinkable act of terror.

Carnival Time is a genre-defying visual roller coaster of a novel that combines elements of farce, fantasy, romance, and suspense while gently exploring the theme of isolation in an ultra-connected age. It's also a 90,000-word love letter to a haunted and haunting city.

Like his protagonist, Hank Henley is a middle-aged former journalist and a former middle-manager for a large textbook publisher, although he's not as overweight as he used to be. Last year, he abandoned a two-decades-long career in college publishing to chase his dream of writing a good, commercially-successful novel.

As his potential agent, you should know that he has made a good living for many years selling other peoples' books and is committed to doing whatever it takes to sell his own.

Okay, enough third person. I know the setting of my story intimately, having lived in New Orleans for fifteen years, and I've thrown beads and doubloons from floats in quite a few Mardi Gras parades. You can learn all about me and my Best Year Ever by visiting www.hankhenley.com.

This is my first novel, and you are the sole recipient of my very first query letter.

Best regards,

Hank Henley

So, what do you think?

Just passing through

I recently spent the night with my brother at his apartment.

He and his family are currently living in a three bedroom apartment in a large modern complex just off a major highway exit. They moved to Georgia last fall and are waiting for their home in Virginia to sell before buying another in their new city.

Just finding my brother was a challenge in that vast maze of identical box buildings, and I arrived only after calling so he could wave me down from the street.

"Nice apartment," I said, looking around. "How do you like it?"

"I hate it," he said with the vehemence of a man serving a wrongful prison sentence.

I understand. There's something transitional about living in an apartment that makes life less enjoyable when you're eager to put down roots in a new town. And when you add in noisy neighbors above you or on the other side of your bedroom wall and the other inconveniences that come with close proximity to a lot of strangers, the unpleasantness intensifies.

Teri and I enjoy our tiny castle in the Bayberry Woods as much as any place we've ever lived, and I prefer home ownership to apartment life. But I've happily resided in my share of apartments over the years.

I'm part hermit and adapt easily to apartment dwelling.

My most recent stint as a tenant came just a few years ago as Teri and I exchanged our lives in post-Katrina New Orleans for new lives in shining Birmingham.

That apartment was new, upscale and filled with all the conveniences of modern life. It had a beautiful swimming pool, a wonderful gym, a sparkling lake and the grounds were beautifully maintained. The staff was professional and helpful. I liked living there, even though it was never "home" and we were ready to buy a house as soon as the time came.

That was the year Teri and I spent more apart than together as I worked in Alabama and she completed her university duties in New Orleans. We saw each other mostly on weekends, and Teri thought of our Birmingham apartment as her mountain weekend retreat and an escape from the insanity that was New Orleans at that time.

Other apartments I've inhabited have ranged from beautiful to shoddy to ancient, but I enjoyed them all.

People don't move to an apartment complex to settle down. No matter how nice they are, an apartment is a transitional home by nature and people usually find themselves living in one because they are in the midst of major life or career changes. Intense sadness and supreme optimism mix easily at any big apartment complex.

When you're in an apartment, you're just passing through. Kind of a metaphor for life, don't you think?

There's something about that between time and the ephemerality of living in an apartment complex that I find intriguing. No one intends to live in an apartment complex forever and the neighbors come and go on a monthly basis. You get to know some of the folks on the other side of the wall, but most of your neighbors will always be strangers. That lack of community and responsibility provides a certain freedom and anonymity that you don't have when there's a lawn to maintain, neighborhood association meetings to attend and the repair list is all on you.

The freedom that comes with apartment living can be a nice thing at certain points in your life. Other times, the apartment complex can feel like a prison compound. That coin has two sides.

A spin through the mall

The other day I entered an actual indoor shopping mall for the first time in years.

My brother and I share an avoidance of malls that we both believe stems from traumatic shopping trips we experienced as children. I know that sounds odd, but if you were eight years old and trapped in the ladies clothing section of a department store with our mother and with no possible means of escape, you'd understand how the scars have lingered into middle age.

My brother and I both love our mother. I know she's going to see these words and I don't want to hurt her feelings. For the record, she's a good person and she raised us well--but to this day neither of us will enter any kind of retail establishment with my mom for any reason.

But I was in a strange town with an hour to kill and a mall was right next to the place I was going, so I decided to see if anything had changed since the last time I visited one of these places.

The Waldenbooks at this mall was having a going out of business sale. To me, the only surprise was that Waldenbooks still existed in the first place. These days I buy most of my new books at a discount online at Amazon. I also buy a lot of cheap used books at the thrift store. When I do go to a physical bookstore these days it tends to be a big box bookstore with a big selection like Barnes and Noble or Books-A-Million.

As much as I love the idea of independent bookstores, I rarely patronize them. The independents tend to be located in downtown locations, and I live and work in the burbs. Birmingham is supposed to have a wonderful independent bookstore, but I've never been to it and don't even know the name of the place. Shame on me.

The mall was filled with cell phone kiosks. There weren't nearly as many of those the last time I was inside a mall. I am amazed at how much of the advertising on television today is for cellular service providers. It wasn't that long ago when most people didn't own a cell phone, and now we can't live without them.

There were several jewelry stores catering to different income levels. I went to the "fancy" one and priced the Rolex watch I bought on a whim years ago. It's now worth $3,000 more than I paid for it, which makes it my single best investment over the last several years. Go figure.

I couldn't find a clothing store at the mall that wanted money from someone like me. The clothiers in this mall were all targeting customers who were either much hipper, skinnier, younger or of another ethnicity than me. I guess middle aged guys are stuck with Macy's and the other anchor stores if they want new threads.

The record store had become a music, DVD, video game and electronic accessories store since the last time I was in a mall. I wasn't surprised by that adaptation. What did surprise and disappoint me was the big selection of porn DVDs in an "adult" section of the store only a couple of rows away from the children's films.

I was delighted to see that Spencer's Gifts has become even more raunchy in the many years since I last entered one. The merchandise for sale at Spencer's has always revolved around the baser fantasies of hormonal eighteen year olds. I can't describe many of the things I saw for sale there in a blog intended for a general audience, but the most innocent items I saw for sale included a full range of "official beer pong" accessories and stripper poles.

I called Teri from Spencer's to describe some of what I couldn't quite believe I was seeing and had left me laughing out loud. When I reached her, she was inside our local Target store, so we were having simultaneous, but very different, shopping experiences.

I wouldn't describe my wife as a prude exactly, but, well, she kind of is. She would only allow me to describe one item before cutting me off, and I had to tell her the name of it twice. The combination of words coming from my mouth didn't register in her innocent brain as an actual tangible object the first time I said them. She was so unamused at her juvenile delinquent husband that she threatened to tell me about every single item within her eyesight at Target in retaliation, starting with each brand of laundry detergent and moving on to the air fresheners.

It was early evening and the offerings at the food court looked and smelled more enticing than I remembered, particularly a Japanese place. There were lines at most of the (what do you call the food places in a food court? restaurants? kiosks? food outlets?) stations. I resisted temptation.

I left the mall empty-handed with the hour successfuly killed and my curiosity satisfied.

Big day in Bama

Here in the northern half of Alabama we don't know what's happening in your part of the world today, and we don't care.

Here in Suburbingham it's the biggest day of the year. It's Christmas, New Years, Mardi Gras and everybody's birthday all rolled into one.

Two huge events are happening on the same day.

First, it might snow.

A little.

Forecasters say we might get anywhere from a half an inch to an inch of snow, starting in the next couple of hours. Schools are closed here today because of the Great Blizzard of '10. Some area school systems have already announced that they will also be closed on Friday.

Bear in mind that we haven't seen the first snowflake yet and we should get less than an inch of snow in total. Yet people have been cleaning out the grocery store shelves for days in anticipation of this calamity.

I'm not kidding.

For some reason you are required to stock up on bread and milk before a major weather event. It was true in New Orleans whenever a hurricane threatened and the same thing is true here in Suburbingham before every predicted snowfall. Why those two items in particular? Why not pistachios and pickled herring in cream sauce? I have no idea--loading up on bread and milk is just what you're supposed to do.

Those of you in Canada, the Midwest and the Northeast may think it's absurd for an entire state to be paralyzed by a mere half an inch of snow, but, trust me, you don't want to see Southerners attempt to drive after the second flake has fallen. It's not a pretty sight. Oh, the humanity! Oh, the carnage!

The second event is a college football game taking place in Pasadena, California tonight. The University of Alabama Crimson Tide football team is taking on the University of Texas Longhorns for the college football national championship.

I live in a place where college football is everyone's second religion, if not their first. For one of our state's teams to play for the national title is big beyond comprehension.

My wife Teri teaches at the university and the first three days of classes this term were called off so that students could go to the game. A few grumpy professors have groused that calling off that much class time for a mere football game sends the wrong message about the importance of education, but they are largely dismissed as quaint eccentrics.

Tonight the streets will be deserted as the entire state gathers around their televisions to watch the game. But, while everyone here will be watching with interest, not all will be cheering for the University of Alabama. In this state we have not one, but two large universities with vaunted football programs--Auburn and Alabama.

The fans of the two schools are bitter rivals. We're talking North vs. South in the American Civil War bitter. We're talking Catholic vs. Protestant in Northern Ireland bitter. We're talking Tiger vs. Elin bitter. We're talking ... sorry, I was beginning to get carried away in all the excitement.

Teri teaches at 'Bama, but she earned her degrees at Auburn. It took her three years before she could bring herself to root even halfheartedly for the institution that pays her salary. And when Auburn and 'Bama play each other, as they do every year, she and her students taunt each other for days before the game.

But tonight Teri and I will gather around the TV and root for 'Bama with all our hearts.

"Rammer jammer yellowhammer, give 'em hell Alabama!"

Hey, I just looked out the window and the first flakes are falling. Time to break out the bread and milk.

Box of wonders

For those of you who may have heard me tell the story and thought I was making it all up, here's the proof.

Yesterday I went digging around in a big cardboard box stashed in a corner of the basement. I hadn't opened this box in a couple of decades. I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did find this picture and a lot of other things inside.

My high school diploma was in there. My university diploma was lost in an apartment flood many years ago and I never bothered to replace it.

Also inside the box was my old Miami-Dade police crime scene press ID and my ID card from when I interned at the governor of Georgia's office. I looked so young and so serious.

There was a 1981 Sugar Bowl program. That was Georgia's only national championship in football (so far) and it happened my senior year. How sweet.

I found the abortive first bit of a manuscript I started, abandoned and then forgot. From the bit of it I read last night, it was about a pro basketball team that was about to be sold. I'm not sure when I wrote it or where the story was going, but the couple of pages I glanced at were atrocious.

There were two Sigma Pi fraternity paddles.

There were hundreds of my old clippings from my days as a newspaper reporter. They were yellowed and brittle after all these years and made the whole box smell a little funky.

I opened an album of wedding pictures from my first marriage, and that put a damper on the proceedings for a minute or two.

There were several pieces of hate mail from my newspaper days that I had saved for some reason. This was back in the days when people had to type or hand write their mail. It was a lot more work than firing off an e-mail, and I was surprised at how much trouble people went through to tell me how much they detested me. You guys hardly ever send me hate messages and I kind of miss them.

I found a letter informing me about a journalism award I had won. I didn't remember that particular award, so it was like winning it all over again. Yay me! It's kind of funny that I had forgotten the award--it's not like I had a pile of them to remember.

There was a chunk of old lead type that was obsolete before I began my newspaper days but I liberated from a forgotten closet at the newspaper. This chunk of type was a comic strip.

There were plenty of other things in that box of wonders, but I won't bore you with a full inventory.

Cool stuff. I wonder what I'll think of the collection when I open the box again twenty years from now.

We were brothers once . . . and young

Will you carry the words of love with you?
Will you ride the great white bird into heaven?
And though you want to last forever, you know you never will.
And the goodbye makes the journey harder still.
—Yusuf Islam, “Oh Very Young”

This is life before you know who you’re gonna be.
—Taylor Swift, “Fifteen”

We were brothers once . . . and young.


I’d like to apologize to you in advance for what will follow. Usually when I sit down to write, I have a pretty good idea of where I’m going to take you. Not this time. Today I’m going to wander and trust that we will eventually find our way to the right place.

In case I get us both completely lost along the way, I’m going to tell you that today’s post has something to do with my fraternity brother Michael “Sparky” Bushaw who passed away last week at the age of fifty. Last week I attended Mike’s wake and his funeral, and I wanted to write a tribute to him, but this may end up someplace else. I don’t know yet.

Let me start by telling you that I’ve had a couple of songs and a book title stuck in my head since I learned of Mike’s passing.

The first song is “Oh Very Young” by Yusuf Islam (who you may know as Cat Stevens). It’s playing on my computer speakers as I write these words. I’m not sure what Mr. Islam meant by the lyrics in his beautiful song, but to me they perfectly fit the feeling of loss at an unexpected and early death. In this song, he compares a loss to a torn and faded pair of jeans, and he’s right when he tells us that life’s “patches make the goodbye harder still.”

Oddly, the second song stuck in my head is “Fifteen” by Taylor Swift. The song is about a still-young but increasingly wise woman looking back to her first days of high school. And it’s brilliant. I’ve never been a fifteen-year-girl and I’ve never been further from my high school experience than I am right now, but somehow Ms. Swift’s song captures the way I felt in that period of our lives that that Mike and I shared. Mike and I were brothers in that precious chunk of time just before we found out who we were gonna be.

The book title I ripped off and repurposed from Harold Moore’s book about Vietnam.

We were brothers once . . . and young.

Mike and I were part of a small group of young men and women who found each other at the University of Georgia in the late 70s. We were in a fraternity, but it was unlike any other on campus.

We were much smaller than any other Greek organization at UGA, and there were never more than a couple of dozen members of Sigma Pi at any given time. We weren’t an actual chapter—we were too small for that. Technically we were a colony of Sigma Pi fraternity. Since we didn’t have a charter, the members couldn’t be initiated as full brothers into the “secrets and mysteries” of Sigma Pi until we achieved chapter status, which finally happened my senior year.

Since we were denied the secret knowledge, we created our own, including our own handshakes, ceremonies, traditions, dances and even one Gregorian chant. I was disappointed during our eventual initiation to learn that the actual “secrets and mysteries” paled in comparison to the ones we improvised.

We lived together in a rambling and decaying Victorian house on the corner of Baxter and Milledge that had been abandoned by a respectable fraternity for larger and nicer quarters. The house was freezing cold in winter, the furniture was in tatters and nothing in the kitchen worked, but the house was my personal wonderland.

In the button-down and polo fraternity world of UGA in the late 70s, we mostly lived and dressed like a street gang composed entirely of geeks. The other fraternities and sororities on campus shunned us, but we didn’t care. Mike was one of the few members of Sigma Pi who ever conformed to the unwritten dress code for University of Georgia fraternity men.

We were also the smartest fraternity on campus by far. The geekiness came naturally to us. Every term the university released cumulative GPAs for each fraternity and every term we topped the list. When you consider that we usually had at least one member pull a 0.0 GPA in any given quarter, our record was even more remarkable.

In some ways we were a collection of happy misfits, but we were a spectacularly smart aggregation of misfits.

The sororities may not have wanted anything to do with the brothers of Sigma Pi, but a number of equally bright and capable women were attracted to us for some reason, and we had almost as many little sisters as brothers. These were attractive and accomplished young women. What did they see in us?

We never quite achieved my roommate Stuart’s hoped-for “golden ratio” of one little sister for each brother, but we came very close. Stuart eventually married a little sister who had been my girlfriend until we crashed and burned in our senior year. Stuart and Janie have been happily married for something close to twenty years now.

Stories. I have so many stories, but I won’t share any of them here today. Some I will even take with me to the grave, but I will treasure each of them in my heart.

We were brothers once . . . and young.

We really were brothers and sisters. We shared our lives and our passions with a ferocity I can’t imagine today. We loved and fought and learned our way through the best handful of years anyone could ever be granted. Those were special years and in a category of their own.

After college we went our separate ways to become what we were going to be. Stuart became a doctor, Roy is a college professor. Greg works for the Department of Labor. Butch, Brett, Alice and a bunch of the others are attorneys. Alan is a pilot who swears he's never crashed or even bent a plane. David teaches high school. I’ve lost touch with a bunch of us.

My days at UGA were the brightest of my life and were followed by a prolonged period of darkness that I finally emerged from on the day I met Teri.

Mike remained deeply involved with Sigma Pi for the rest of his life, routinely attending convocations and other national and local meetings. There’s a tribute page to him on Facebook, and hundreds of brothers from all over the country have signed their condolences. Here's a link to that page.

We all had nicknames at the Sigma Pi house when I was there, but somehow Mike got a new nickname a few years after graduation and became “Sparky” to everyone in the fraternity. I’ve heard the story behind the name and it’s fitting, but I’ll save that one for now too.

Even though it had been something like 20 years since I had last seen Mike and over a decade since I had seen any of the others, there was no question of my attending his funeral service when I heard the news.

I had to go.

I had to mourn Mike’s passing and pray for his soul.

I had to mourn the fact that it could have just as easily been me.

I had to say goodbye to something in me that was gone for good. My last particle of youth? My last shred of innocence? I don’t know. Something.

I had to take the first step toward making good on friendships left untended too long. It’s one of the first promises I made to myself for The Best Year Ever.

I cried and choked up as I tried to sing “Amazing Grace” at Mike’s funeral mass. I was crying for Mike and his family but just as much for me.

I’m crying now as I type this.

Goodbye Mike. Goodbye Sparky.

We were brothers once . . . and young.

Ashes to ashes

This is the first of two parts

"Are those Mike's ashes?" Brett asked glancing at an urn on a table in the front of the small chapel.

"Yeah, I suppose they are," I replied.

We were alone in the chapel following the saying of the Rosary. Everyone else had gone to a nearby room in the funeral home for the wake.

"You know, there's nothing to keep us from taking them," Brett mused out loud.

Nothing but strict laws against ghoulish behavior and the code of basic human decency, I thought. I wasn't sure where he was going with this, and he must have seen my growing look of alarm, so Brett quickly explained his thinking.

"Look, Mike was never married so there's no wife or children to keep his ashes. The two things he loved most in life were Sigma Pi and the Georgia Bulldogs. Wouldn't it be great if some of us met up and scattered his ashes at the fifty yard line of Samford Stadium in the dead of night? It would be the perfect tribute. He would love it."

That's how these things always started at the Sigma Pi house. Someone hatched a harebrained scheme. Then one thing led to another, and, the next thing you know, the police and fire department were on the way. Suddenly, I was twenty again.

I had to admit, Brett's idea was appealing, and we spent the next few minutes germinating a plan. First, we agreed that we'd approach the family with our idea when the time was right. Then we went to work on the details.

We've all come a long way in the nearly thirty years since we passed through the University of Georgia. Then we were a tiny collection of misfits. Until my senior year the national organization would only allow us to exist as a colony--our band was too small and a little too weird to be given full chapter status.

Today we're teachers, doctors, lawyers, businessmen, college professors, beaureaucrats and at least one writer. Brett is a prosecuting attorney somewhere in Georgia. Mike, the man whose mortal remains were in question, was a microbiologist before passing away at age 50 from a sudden heart attack on the day after Christmas.

I was all for a group of us breaking and entering the stadium in the dead of night and holding a small ceremony. The illicit plan felt "right" to me. Brett has a job where it is impolitic to risk arrest, so he had an alternate idea. He suggested going through channels to get the official blessing of the university. Brett's method would be easier. Mike left a chunk of his estate to the university, and those of us still living are connected enough or donate enough to the school that I'm sure UGA officials could be convinced to look the other way for a few minutes.

I continued to lobby for the burglary option. "I'll even do it myself," I said. "If a prosecuting attorney gets arrested that's a problem, but if I got arrested, it would be great new material for me," I enthused.

A few minutes later we rejoined the other mourners at the wake and Brett and I found ourselves talking to Mike's sisters Susan and Mary Beth.

"Hank and I have been talking about a great idea we have," Brett said, unable to contain himself and giving me undeserved credit for the plot.

"Which we agreed we would raise at the appropriate time," I interjected with a warning glance, before rapidly changing the subject.

"Okay, what's this all about?" Mary Beth asked me a while later after cornering me.

I took a deep breath and told her.

To my surprise, she was delighted with the idea and said that several family members had already thought of a virtually identical plan for a portion of Mike's remains. "My only request is that the family gets a video."

No problem.

Now what?

A fresh start

Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man.--Benjamin Franklin

Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.--Mark Twain

Teri tells me this forum has been getting more philosophical and thoughtful lately. To the extent that is true, I've warned her that the trend will only intensify over the next few days. But, just for today, let's keep it light as we ease our way into 2010.

We haven't had any shout-outs for a while: Hey there, Juneau--it must be really cold and dark in Alaska today if you're coming here for warmth and light. Good day, Canadians including those of you in Vancouver, British Columbia (so beautiful there, but you already knew that); Calgary, Alberta; and London and Brampton, Ontario. Howdy East Coast Megalopolis including, Philly, Haverstown, N.J., The Big Apple, Long Island and Easton, Connecticut. Finally, hello out there Iowa. There are a bunch of you all of a sudden. Algona, Knoxville, Des Moines, it's good to see you.

For whatever reason, December had by far the most traffic to this site since its inception, and I'm grateful for your attention. Don't worry, you're still a member of a tiny and exclusive club, Discerning Reader--the increase in traffic to the BYE blog is only relative.

Did Santa make it to your house this year? The jolly old dude stopped by the Bayberry Woods and unloaded his whole sack on us. My recently drowned iPod was replaced by a shiny new orange Nano (thanks again Mom!). I have just moved from a second generation to a fifth generation Nano and, like a cave man who has just discovered fire, I am digging all the new features. I'm having too much fun with the built-in video camera. Another great gift this year was a black t-shirt my brother Mike gave me with the word "writer" emblazoned on the chest in a very typewritery font (Courier New, I think). I'll proudly wear that shirt to tatters in no time.

My family's Christmas tradition of bizarre food gifts continued unabated this year. Somehow I ended up with two jars of pickled pigs feet on Christmas Day, when one per Christmas is generally more than enough to satisfy me for an entire year. I also received a lifetime supply of coconut milk, so we'll be making a lot of curry at our house for the next while.

Teri and I had an in-depth discussion of our resolutions for 2010 during a New Year's Eve drive to the home of friends.

"Do you have any resolutions this year?" I asked her.

"Just the usual. You?"

"The usual."

When you've been married close to twenty years, that verbal shorthand constitutes a deep conversation. Those few words cover a lot of ground and take in dozens of prior failures along with a handful of successes.

Today we're both dieting (again) and, after a soggy holiday season, have resolved to drink alcohol only one day a week at the most at least until our heads have cleared a little or Mardi Gras gets a little closer, whichever comes first.

My other specific resolution is to get the last draft of my stinking book finished for good in the next few weeks and try to get it sold. I'm anxious to move on to the next one. I missed my self-imposed Christmas deadline for completion and I'm really mad at myself for that. It turns out that books are a whole lot easier to start than they are to finish. Why is that?

I have some other resolutions for 2010, but they are way too philosophical for today's post since they involve things like being a better person, husband and friend.