Can You Spell Hiatus?

H-i-a-t-u-s.

In this reference, it is a euphemism for being out of routine, distracted, otherwise occupied, and downright lazy. Yet again I must apologize for my failure to write with regularity.

Excuses. However inadequate they might be, here they are:

Out of routine. We went through what was supposed to be a six-week remodel of our kitchen and ended up taking a lot longer. Contractors, especially good ones with lots of jobs, never guess right when it comes to time frames. The project necessitated setting up a cooking and dining outpost in our family room. It also included annexation of our patio. Grilling there was familiar, but heating water in a tub in the microwave in order to wash dishes on our patio table was too much like camping. My idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel that doesn't have a coffeemaker and minibar in every room. The half bath off our kitchen provides our only facilities of the type on our first floor, and it was out of commission for the duration. Upstairs and downstairs are words that should not be associated with that many trips to the head.

Distractions. First ventures into large processes and projects with new bosses fry the brain. Most often, my brain is involved with my writing. Ergo stuff at work impeded writing progress for a while.

Otherwise occupied. Lots of spare time was used getting in shape for a bicycling weekend in Rocheport, Missouri. Riding the Katy Trail as it traced the Missouri River was a delightful experience. In addition to simply gorgeous scenery, we also saw prehistoric pictographs on the side of the bluffs and caves formerly used by the Katy railroad for storage of explosives. Riding our bikes through the Katy's only rail tunnel was interesting, too. Having one of my stepdaughters and her husband along for the adventure simply amplified the fun.

Our stay at the School House Bed & Breakfast there was pure pleasure. The accommodations and the victuals were top notch.

We also savored the offerings of Le Bourgeois Vineyards and their Blufftop Bistro and Winegarden. The view of the Mighty Mo from the restaurant's perch is spectacular. When I mentioned that one of the menu items, an appetizer called arancini, reminded me of the wonderful Sicilian dish served under the same name by deservedly famous Gino's Restaurant operated by Marino family in my hometown of Baton Rouge, the chef sent a complimentary serving of his version to our table for sampling.

The folks at the Trailside Cafe & Bike Shop at the Rocheport Trailhead provided invaluable information about the trail, scrumptious food, and even got our address on the sly from my stepdaughter and mailed me their recipe for seven-layer salad.

Rocheport is a great venue for antique shopping. We enjoyed simply looking at most of the places. Several items made it impossible for us to get out of Richard Saunders, Inc., located in the historic 170 year old Wilcox House, without parting with some of our money.

What nice people we found in the little river town. Relaxation, indulgence, and fun abound there.

We punctuated the middle of our Rocheport weekend with a 15 mile jaunt (by car) to Columbia for the Saturday night session of the Roots ’N’ Blues ’N’ BBQ Festival. My favorite blues artist, Taj Mahal, was the headliner of the evening. I thought that seemed to fit perfectly, since one of my favorite Taj songs is "She Caught the Katy (and Left Me a Mule to Ride)."

Otherwise occupied even more. We also went to Estes Park to attend the nuptials of the daughter of dear friends. A really nice cabin at the YMCA Camp shared with three other couples of dear friends provided a place to rest our heads for the weekend of the wedding. The event was both touching and beautiful. An exceptional suite at Mary's Lake Lodge was an excellent home base for the extra few days we stayed. It was fortuitous that we were in Estes for the Elk Festival. The good townsfolk actually close a golf course for two weeks to allow large numbers of elk to graze and mate. Even Mr. Spock would have found it fascinating.


Otherwise occupied more than more. Another trip to Tulsa for a visit with my other stepdaughter and her husband was fun and relaxing. It afforded a rare opportunity for a round of golf. This son-in-law is quite proficient on the links and yet so kind and patient to share the fairways and greens with this unpracticed duffer. Years ago I worried about my scores. Though I now play less often, I relish the opportunity to commune with nature on a beautiful course. The way I play, I commune with parts of nature unknown to most folks. The kids made our stay relaxing and fun.

Otherwise occupied even more than that. It was fun to visit Big BR on the weekend of the LSU-Florida football game. Watching a Tiger game with folks from Red Stick (the English translation of Baton Rouge, for those of you who haven't figured it out) is a rare pleasure for a bayou boy transplanted in Kansas. I watched it with my mom and twin daughters. One daughter is a sports aficionado of the highest degree, while the other could care less. The contest was so exciting that the could-care-less daughter was, possibly for the first time ever, watching a pigskin contest with bated breath. How about them Tigers, huh?

And more. At least this flavor of otherwise "occupiedness" is productive from a writing perspective. The short story I mentioned in my long ago last post is finally in progress. It is an effort to get some publishing cred. I'm shooting for something between 7,500 to 10,000 words, but as I have gotten into it, I could easily see expanding it out to novel length if I decide to do so later. Visions of Billy Bob Thornton's 25-minute short, Some Folks Call It a Sling Blade, and full-length Sling Blade cross my mind.

Downright lazy. All Southern boys can do this. Though we don't do it often, it is considered a survival tactic on hot and humid days in Dixie.

As mentioned earlier, I regret that I haven't written with greater regularity. In my defense, I have to mention that there are many products on the market that make the claim that they insure regularity, but I have yet to find one that at all affects the frequency of my writing.

If there is anyone still out there who checks this blog, thanks for continuing to stop by. I promise to spill a few words here more often from now on.

Cobwebs and Creaking Hinges

It has been so long since I have written here that I could swear I felt that tickly feeling you get when you walk through the whispery wisps of webbing left by the cobs who adorn our unoccupied spaces. Yeah, I know these networks of silky threads really come from spiders, but I’d rather think that the creaking of hinges caused by my first-in-a-while post is disturbing a cob rather than angering a spider.

I suppose part of my withdrawal from spilling words here stems from the disappointment of not hearing from a Pennsylvania agent of bestsellers. She was the fourth agent to ask for my full manuscript. Having often read that only one in 200 queries results in such requests, I am always filled with promise and anticipation when someone wants to see By the Light in its entirety. This agent’s handwritten note of request had warmth and personality, so naturally I assumed that she would be the one who would guide me to the Promised Land. That she intimated that it would be three or four months before I would hear from her did not dampen my parade. Now that nearly double that amount of time has passed without a note, a call, or the return of my story in the free-ride envelope I provided, my parade seems awash in New Orleanian proportions of the wet stuff.

Well, let me tell you about a cure for the potholes and mountains situated between first-time novelists and “the dream.” My wife and I just spent a week in a 1930s cottage recently restored by Jane Coslick and complete with its own pool on Tybee Island, Georgia. We discovered two days before we arrived that it was featured in the May-June issue of “Cottage Living,” but as good as the spread in the magazine is, the real deal is way better. I have been in over half of the states and on a Caribbean island, and this little piece of heaven is the most peaceful and relaxing place I have ever experienced. The America I knew as a kid still exists there today. They have a saying there about “living on Tybee time.” It’s an attitude. The locals, lucky devils that they are, exude it. Visitors needn’t try to resist adjusting to the pace.

Rolling out of bed and into the pool in the morning was invigorating. Bicycling for hours on the beach and through the neighborhoods of quaint cottages and venerable beach houses was awesome. More than half of our baths were taken in our outside shower. Talk about liberation.

Shrimp and grits with scrambled eggs at the Breakfast Club, source of the victuals at the late junior John Kennedy’s Cumberland Island wedding party, was a treat had on two separate mornings. A.J.’s Dockside Restaurant, approachable by land or by sea, serves great seafood within its walls or on deck over the water. That the address printed on their hats, like the one I bought there two years ago, is stated in latitude and longitude rather than as a street number tells you a lot about this place. Then there's the Sundae Café. It might sound like an ice cream joint, but rest assured, they serve serious and memorable cuisine there. A class act they are.

Dinner at The Lady and Sons, where Paula Dean dishes out the best that Savannah has to offer, was indescribably delicious. My wife, a salmon aficionado, says they serve the best. Hey, I’m Louisiana born and bred, and I sort of cotton to her particular version of shrimp and grits. On another night, Churchill’s Pub provided a delectable diversion from the seafood in the form of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Dining on their rooftop was quite a delight.

Our last night in the Low Country was spent in Forsyth Park listening to the Neville Brothers and Ziggy Marley at an outdoor concert staged by the Savannah College of Art and Design to honor their new alumni on the eve of their commencement. Corporate citizens rarely contribute as much to a community’s ambiance and culture as SCAD does to Savannah. Having attended a lot of open-air musical events, I’ve seen some outstanding grazing and quaffing techniques, especially in my native state of Louisiana. From chilled microbrews and tailgate food to wine, brie, and fresh fruit, that diverse crowd of Savannahians and guests proved that they’ve got it honed to a genteel art.

Weather on Tybee from Saturday to Friday was as if it had been ordered from the deluxe section of a catalog. Not so for our Saturday of departure. We were awakened that morning by the sound of raindrops on our roof. It was fueled by a tropical depression coming up from the waters off of Florida, so things deteriorated as the day progressed. Not to be denied, we proceeded with our participation in the Tybee Tour of Homes. Opening the umbrellas, dashing from car to house, pulling blue disposable footies over our shoes, and reversing the process to drive to the next stop. The homes were fabulous and provided a bright ray of sunshine on a wet and cloudy day.

Rejuvenated, I can now endure waiting to see what happens, if anything, with the lady from the Keystone State. I’ve also started work on Tit for Tat, as short story of suspense with a villain every bit as twisted as the bad boy in By the Light. If there is a tarot card that represents a determination to not be denied, the seer might as well plop that sucker down right in front of me.

As for Tybee time, we have decided that it will come around for us every other year. The years in between will afford opportunities to see new and different places. Our long term plan is to have a place of our own on Tybee for whiling away a third to a half of each year of our retirement. Once our own hinges get creaky, it will be the place where we can relax to a speed that might put us in jeopardy of being webbed by cobs.

Enriched

In the About Me graph of this blog, it is mentioned that the seed that grew within me to attempt writing a novel was planted in childhood by a slightly older cousin. Blessed with intellect and maturity beyond his years, he was at that early age endeavoring to pen a sequel to L. Frank Baum’s Oz series. I know not what became of that effort. Such a project would never have crossed my mind even by the time I completed the three more years of life experience he had on me. Yet, he made it sound fun, exciting, and most importantly, doable.

That Rich dealt with the ravages of polio in his earliest years and was left with a slight limp and some muscular diminishment probably had something to do with his finding a niche in scholarship as opposed to boyish mischief or athletic pursuits. Truly a superior student with academic honors in his wake and innumerable possibilities in his future, my cousin chose a ministerial path. It is a blessing that he chose to journey through existence next to his Lord, for life would unfold into greater challenges.

After he married, Rich’s wife, Susan, would bear two daughters. The second child would have neurological problems at birth that would leave her intellectually and physically challenged for the rest of her life. She would need a constant caregiver. As it later turned out, Susan, who suffers from significant bipolar impairment and later became reliant on a wheelchair as a result of an automobile accident, would require substantial care, as well. Yet, the smallish and frail guy who had battled polio as a child proved equal to the task and more. Even in the face of burdens and obstacles, the elder daughter, Genevieve, was raised, educated, married, and now provides nursing care to those in need.

When I completed my novel, cognizance ran deep that By the Light would not exist had it not been for Rich. Consequently, I obtained his e-mail address and sent a message to let him know that I appreciated his provision of its genesis. It also expressed my hope that he would read the story and, since I valued his opinion, that he might comment on it. I never got a response and assumed either that he never got my message or that he simply had a lot on his plate.

I was shocked and pained to receive a call from my mom in Louisiana two days ago. She called to tell me that Rich and his challenged daughter, Sophia, had died in a house fire in Virginia. In our conversation she told me that my aunt had intimated that Rich had at some point mentioned my e-mail message. He'd told her that he was flattered that I’d thought of him and that I valued his opinion.

Rich had made his last visit to our hometown of Baton Rouge a while back, and my mom told me how wonderful he was with Sophia, by then an adult. More important than the thoughts I conveyed to him about my writing and his inspiration of it, I shared mom’s observation of what a good caregiver he was. She would know. My younger sister suffered encephalitis at 14 months of age and lived for almost 38 more years in a persistent vegetative state under Mom’s loving home care. I knew that, given the source, he would recognize her comment as high and knowledgeable praise indeed.

If I’m able to find an agent to represent me and actually get my novel sold and published, what a ride it will be. Rich will be with me in spirit for every inch of it, just as he always will be whenever I sit down to write.

I know, too, that his spirit will live on in the hearts of Susan and Genevieve, as well as in the hearts of his mom, Be Be to me, and his sister, Diane. May God bless them in this time of sorrow.

Ricochets

After receiving a comment from Rob Brooks, who blogs about the ongoing process of writing his first novel at Work in Progress, I decided to take a look at some of his posts. It became obvious to me that he and I approach our writing in different ways. I was inspired to leave a comment on Rob’s doorstep in this regard. Provided below, with some bracketed commentary from both Rob and me, is the gist of my comment on his page. It just goes to show there are more paths than one between points “a” and “b.”

When I started my completed manuscript, I had neither an idea how long it should be nor an inkling of what the story would be other than an intention to write about a serial killer. There was no outline. I simply wrote until I had a sufficiently long trail of blood, made my good guys adequately likable and inspiring, and revealed a villain both pitiable and worthy of hate. I ended up stopping at a bit over 72,000 words. I did some research that told me that novels fell between 50,000 and 100,000 words. It seemed I was right in the cozy middle, so I simply polished and tidied up. As you might have seen in some of my posts, I have since discovered that I might be a bit word-stingy for my genre, though James Patterson writes at about that count or less and seems to be prospering. One misconception, at least for me, revealed early in my writing process was that a keyboard would be the tool of creation. My experience with composing for business purposes was that the edit-on-the-fly capability provided by a computer was a good thing. I quickly found in writing my manuscript that I got too involved in editing and formatting and lost my creativity. In my case, story flowed much better from a pen. Granted, I wasn’t too happy about having to transcribe, but it really is all about creativity, characters, and story.

[Rob responded that his creativity flows right into his keyboard from his fingertips.]

My writing sessions were compartmentalized in the form of lunch hours spent up a spiral iron staircase in a loft windowed to overlook the main floor of a coffeehouse. Being in that environment came to mean putting my creativity in gear. The ability to observe the other patrons helped in writing people stuff, especially one scene that actually played out in a fictional coffeehouse. The story revealed itself to me in session after session, and I was excited each day to see where it would go.

I’d love to know the percentage of novelists who keyboard versus pen their works or who are outliners as opposed to spontaneous writers. It would be nice to know this in the overall, as well as segmented by authors categorized as the bestselling, the published, the middling, the struggling, and the unpublished. Another view might be by genre.

[Rob said, “I'd like to know, too. I know I would love to be a spontaneous writer. Stephen King claims to be, says he doesn't outline. I don't know how that could be, though, because there are so many things going on in his books, and they all tie together so nicely. He must change a lot in the edits.”]

[Red Stick Writer: I think sheer genius is the explanation for King. Simply in terms of subject matter, I’m not crazy about all of his stories, but they are told masterfully. Others of his stories, The Stand for instance, are among the best I’ve ever read. I would probably not have read it, but a friend strenuously recommended it. I’ll be forever grateful. Though I only saw the movie, The Shawshank Redemption, based on a King novella, was a great tale, too. His On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft is one of the best books about writing to be found.]

Watching My Peeves and Queues

I’m still waiting to hear from the agent who has my complete manuscript. I queried her on September 13, 2006, and her request for the full story arrived on September 23. She asked if I could increase my word count, so I reread By the Light in order to answer. My response and the manuscript were sent for her consideration on October 4.

She had indicated that it would be three or four months before I would hear from her. The wait was on. I basked in the glory of having my whole manuscript in the hands of an agent for about a month.

Not wanting to bask in excess, I started tinkering with expansion ideas. That’s when I was horrified to discover that the first page of the manuscript contained a sentence fragment. I had apparently gotten distracted when making a minor modification before mailing to the agent. Rather than let my potential agent-to-be and beacon of hope think that I don’t know the difference between sentences and fragments, I sent a follow-up letter on November 7. I explained and apologized for the error and provided a replacement first page. Hopefully, dressing the message up with a touch of self-deprecating humor will work in a manner similar to wrapping Fideaux’s pill in a piece of cheese.

It is now a tad beyond the four months originally indicated as necessary for consideration of my baby. I am a perpetual optimist about these things. It is not my practice to give up on an agent until I receive their correspondence announcing that a plump female vocalist has unleashed a terminal aria. Rather than think negatively, I would rather believe that the literary expert so loves my novel as to require a second reading in order to compose words adequate to express the intensity of their desire to represent my work.

The energy required for such positive thinking comes at a price. It makes me cranky. Just ask my wife. One has a tendency to become peevish when in queue. If that happens, it helps to vent. In that vein, I am taking this opportunity to highlight a few things that make me even crazier than awaiting a literary verdict.

First up is why so many people, the Prez included, insist on saying “nuke-you-lar” instead of uttering a nuanced “new-clear” ever so much more like the spelling. Being the Prez is no indicator of one’s mastery of pronunciation. Take, for example, Gerald Ford’s manner of saying “judg-uh-ment” as if perhaps the word was spelled j-u-d-g-e-m-e-n-t and that first e was not silent. Someone eventually got to him, as he quit doing it prior to the end of his Presidency. I have been told by one friend who graduated from law school that one of his professors told his classes that he would fail them if they ever spelled judgment with that extra e. I could talk about JFK getting cigars from Castro’s C-u-b-e-r, but I believe I’ve made my point.

Next, what is the deal with the inability of some people to pronounce pundit, which is correctly uttered exactly as it is spelled. Most notable among those who make this mistake are pundits themselves. For some reason, they seem to think they are instead something that sounds like it is spelled p-u-n-d-a-n-t. Merriam-Webster says that a pundit is a person who gives opinions in an authoritative manner usually through the mass media. It could be that the talking heads that keep popping up on our TV screens are simply something else that ends in a-n-t. Pundits who call themselves “pun-dants” seem somehow similar to a mathematician who says, “Pi(e) are not square, pi(e) are round.”

Then there is that I-me thing that teachers have drilled so deeply into formative minds over all these years. It is a matter of subjective versus objective pronoun usage. An example of the subjective case is: Bob and I explained our position to the boss. An objective usage is: The boss asked Bob and me to explain our position. Speaking or writing the sentences with out “Bob and” makes the correct pronoun obvious. Either the teachers have overemphasized “I”, or the students failed to hear the argument for “me.” Whatever the case, it seems that the use of I occurs in objective instances more often than does me, and that ain’t write.

That’s enough with the words. What’s wrong with the huge number of people who insist on turning on their parking lights instead of their headlights when driving at dusk (or dawn)? Not only do they do it, but they seemingly do it smugly, as if they know something we don’t know. Perhaps someone should inform them that dusk, already a very dangerous driving period, is not a good time for them to fool other drivers into believing they are parked. Besides, when does that precise moment occur at which you recognize dusk’s end and switch to the headlights, assuming you both remember and have not been in an accident.

Thanks for listening. Please forgive my peevishness. I feel better.

Fiction No Stranger than Truth

During the course of writing By the Light, I thought it would be interesting to shine some light on abusive priests. The man of the collar was killed by a murderer whom he had abused in youth. To maintain my serial killer’s custom, I had to pick a lighthouse at which he would tell his story through the staging of bodies. My choices were to set the scene at a light in the Deep South near the site of the priest’s demise or at a light in Baltimore near the District of Columbia turf where he intended to select his next victim from the perennial bumper crop of philandering politicians. I ultimately chose to have him dispose of the body at a nautical beacon in my home state of Louisiana.

I wrote that sequence of events on my lunch hour in the cozy loft at the City Market Coffeehouse in Kansas City. On my way across the state line to my abode in Kansas that evening, I was listening to the radio news when a story was related about a victim in Baltimore who shot and wounded the priest who abused him years before. The newscaster said it was the first incident in which a victim had resorted to violence against his un-priestly abuser. The near intersection of fiction and reality almost caused me to steer off the road.

Why the Light?

You might be wondering why I have featured a picture of a lighthouse on this blog page. The fundamental and easy answer is simply that I like them. In my last post, I listed some of the most aesthetically pleasing places on the planet. These venerable and regrettably disappearing nautical landmarks and the locales in which they reside richly deserve inclusion in that company. Why the light? By the Light is the name of my yet-to-be-agented novel. So you will understand the title’s meaning, here’s the initial or hook paragraph that I generally use in my agent queries:

My completed 72,000-word manuscript, By the Light, is a fabric of suspense highlighted with threads of romance. A man and woman are drawn into the pursuit of a serial killer that leaves two nude corpses at the foot of the Biloxi Light. The man is a profiler who has resigned from the FBI and returned to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to care for his Alzheimer’s-stricken father. The woman is an Atlanta crime reporter and award-winning author whose curiosity is piqued when she spots a wire report of the double homicide in her hometown. They have a past. As they discover couple by couple at lighthouse after lighthouse, so does a murderer that eliminates practitioners of infidelity and by signature comes to be known as Rose.

The lighthouse pictured here was built on the Mighty Mississippi at Hannibal, Missouri, to commemorate the hundredth birthday of Mark Twain. It was originally illuminated from the Oval Office by FDR. Years later after needed refurbishment, it was again illuminated from the White House by JFK. More recently after further restoration, it was relit from the Oval once more by Bill Clinton. Since the villain in my story kills couples involved in extramarital carnality and enjoys taunting his pursuers, it was a natural that he leave the remains of a philandering televangelist and his squeeze du jour by this light with storied connections to three presidents between whom infidelity is an additional common thread.

If these peeks at By the Light intrigue you, please tell the most effective literary agent on your Christmas card list about it. Ask them to light a fire under a suspense/thriller-needy publisher on their Christmas card list. Cranking up a bucket brigade here might help my story earn its dustcover. Thank you for your support. My apologies to Bartles and Jaymes are sincere.

Virginal No More

Thanks to Nathan Bransford, literary agent in the Frisco office of the NY agency, Curtis Brown Ltd., for christening Red Stick Writer’s blog with its first comment. The names of both agent and agency sounded familiar, and it took only a quick glance at my agent database to confirm that I e-mailed a query to Nathan on August 6. He sent back an e-response the same day indicating that he was declining the opportunity to represent me in the literary marketplace. I don’t know if he thought my query had something in common with a Hoover vacuum cleaner, my hook was barbless, he simply wasn’t looking for a suspense/thriller novel at the time, or whatever. That he commented on my last post could indicate that he was so taken by the allure of my words that he couldn’t help himself.

In the tradition of Sophia Petrillo, I digress. Golf is one of the pastimes by which my life has been enriched. It plays me more than I play it, which is why I gave up on trying to master the game. I realized that golf courses, along with most college campuses and some cemeteries are among the prettiest places in the world. Given that, golf is simply one of the ways I commune with nature. I have seen in my pursuit of high-compression, dimpled balls bearing names such as Titleist parts of nature most humans haven’t even imagined, many of them involving briars, brambles, and sometimes even gators. All of this is mentioned to enable me to say that, as invited by blog comment and under the guise of a mulligan, I might again send e-correspondence to Mr. Bransford.

The reason I say “might” is that I have a full manuscript currently under consideration by a lady who agents from Pennsylvania. From comments I’ve read from her clients and from independent journalists, I will indeed be a lucky fellow if she chooses to hawk my story and guide my writing career. When I went to the post office to mail my entire manuscript to her, I asked the postal clerk to put some good juju on the package. She told me that she didn’t think she had that power but was certain that things would go well. I took two steps away, glanced at the coins and currency I received from her, and returned to her window to express my sincere and superstitious appreciation for the Keystone State quarter she had by chance included in my change. That omen’s failure, God forbid, would be one of the circumstances that might precipitate my return as a bad penny to Nathan Bransford’s e-mailbox.

I stumbled into Nathan’s My Space world while following a thread of information regarding another agent. Discovering him occurred in exactly the manner I described in my previous post, chasing one thing and happening upon a myriad of other interesting things. That’s how I came to send him a query in the first place. I was impressed with his writing and the comments of his friends back then. After receiving his comment on my last post, I read all of the entries at his relatively new blog page, Nathan Bransford Literary Agent. I still like the way he writes and intend to continue reading his interesting and informative blog, make comments there, and take advantage of the Q&A opportunity he offers.

Thanks again, Nathan. Red Stick Writer is virginal no more.

O Roam-eo, Roam-eo! Wherefore Art Thou, Roam-eo?

The response to this blog has been overwhelming. Yes, disappointment can come to that degree. I’m not attempting here to use lyrical prose as kindling with which to set the world afire. It was my hope that someone would happen by; perhaps make a comment or two; maybe provide interesting examples of writing, agent-seeking, or allied literary personal experiences; comment on the weather; give a political view; share an anecdote; express a pearl of wisdom; or otherwise contribute words to the cause.

You see, I thought there were plenty of folks out there like me, other search nuts, so to speak. My endeavor to find a literary agent is simply the most recent iteration of my wanderings. It all started when I was in elementary school. I’d look up a word in the dictionary and invariably discover twenty other interesting words before arriving at my word of original destination. I credit my reasonably decent vocabulary to these travels. I enjoyed similar pleasures when journeying through the encyclopedia in pursuit of particular articles. Naturally, I assumed somebody of a similarly squirrelly nature would arrive here by means of some keyword, tell thousands of cousins of Bullwinkle J. Moose’s housemate in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota, and I’d be purchasing one of those take-a-number gizmos that you see at Basket Robbins. Yeah, it’s the place with 31 flavors, I just call it that in deference to my twin daughters, Erin the Teacher and Artist and Regan the Nurse and Sports Authority.

Maybe a drive-by comment will happen soon. Right now, I am ever so reminded of that burning question: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?

Once a Southerner, Always a Southerner

You might ask, “If you love the South so much, why don’t you return?” The sweat factor is definitely right at the top of the list. When my employer moved me to KC in 1992, a number of my cohorts were transplanted at the same time. After we had been here for a couple of months, one of them who had been a coworker and golf partner for a number of years said, “Until I moved here, I didn't know you weren't supposed to need a shower right after you take a shower.”

Another reason for my extended absence is my wife. She has a huge network of really great friends, and I think she would wilt like a shade flower in a sunny garden without them. Our answer is to have a second home in the South when we retire. Being an avid gardener, she will love having two growing seasons.

We make it a practice to visit interesting Southern locations when we can so as to be appropriately informed when the permanent coffee break becomes a reality. So far, we view Charleston and Savannah favorably. Though the natives of the former are as welcoming, gracious, and mannered as anyone you’ll ever meet, they suffer from what I’ll call "locus-focus." In other words, if you weren't born there, you’re from “away.” Savannah, on the other hand, is a gumbo as mysterious as my Louisiana. I’d say they’re blessed with a heaping cupful of hocus-pocus.

An additional aspect of loving the South from afar is that you don’t realize how wonderful it is until you are away. I guess it’s like a lot of things. You just take it for granted. People from other parts of the land don’t quite understand it. There are those of us, though, that fully realize what it means to be American by birth and Southern by the grace of God.

Many aspects of the culture are openly shared. Other things are kept under the radar. A good example, especially in Louisiana, is restaurants. The world knows there is good food in Bayou Country, and they flock to the well-known establishments to get a taste. What they don’t know is that we keep some of the best ones a secret. It’s sort of like the Louisiana flag. On it is pictured a mother pelican in a nest with her young, and under them is a ribbon bearing the state motto: Union Justice and Confidence. What most folks don’t realize is that the ribbon is simply Velcro-attached over the real motto: Laissez les bon temps rouler. (Let the good times roll.)

There is also an amusing little secret involving the wild life of Bourbon Street. Folks travel from the world around to that fabled byway to imbibe, pass a good time, and people watch. They are amazed at how crazy the Louisianans act there. What we know and they have yet to figure out is that the people acting crazy on Rue Bourbon are from everywhere else. Yeah, well, I guess that’s only partially true.

First-time Blog from First-time Novelist

Most of what you see in this first installment is my excess from the About Me section. I knew that limit of 1,200 characters was going to be tough.

Writing my first, and so far only, novel took about two years. Most of it was written on my lunch hours in a cozy loft up a spiral flight of iron stairs in the City Market Coffeehouse in Kansas City. It is a story about a serial killer and the cop and journalist who are pursuing him. As time went by, some of the patrons of the java joint got to know me and what I was doing. When they would ask in passing how the murder business was going, it was always interesting to watch the unknowing quickly finish their bean beverage and depart.

I thought the hard work was done when I put the finishing touches on the story. That was before I began researching the publishing industry and how I was to find literary representation.

The impetus behind this blog is my desire to comment on the experience of writing a novel and the ongoing process of connecting with an agent to make the journey to publication with me. Oh, yeah. It will also, praise Jesus, give me a chance to write something other than query letters. Being multidimensional, I might stray into commentary on issues or even nonsense of the day.

Comments are encouraged. Advice is welcomed.