Baseball is so enjoyable that even the off season provides entertainment. Baseball fans across America and the world are already rubbing their hands together, anxiously waiting for the "Hot Stove" to heat up even before the World Series is over.
Such is the passion of a baseball fan, and such is the goldmine that baseball offers the fiction writer.
Baseball offers intense drama within each game. There's the pitcher's duel, the running game, small ball, and the long ball, each aspect of the game is based on the skill of the players involved. The speedy runner is called upon to steal the base, the heavy hitter drives the ball, the "not so great" hitter will be told to bunt, and the pitcher is needed to keep the bats of the opposing team quiet. This drama can be incorporated into your fiction. Your character can watch the game with either excitement or fear, depending on who is winning. Or, your character can be the pitcher who is throwing a perfect game into the ninth...while nursing a potentially career ending injury. Or maybe, the guy meets the girl while seated next to each other in the stands and they fall in love. Yes, there's plenty of drama to be created both on and off the field.
So much of American life revolves around baseball that it remains within easy reach of even those who don't consider themselves fans. Who among us never passed by a park and watched as kids in colorful, little league shirts scrambled for the ball as a young batter ran awkwardly around the base pads with a helmet blocking his vision? Also, who hasn't smelled hot dogs at the stadium and absolutely had to have one? Many summer memories include splashing all day at the beach with someone's A.M. radio broadcasting a game in the background. For the non-fan of baseball, there are many cultural aspects to the game which aren't easily avoided. Any mention of a "ground ball", "home run", or even "grand slam" has meaning for even the completely uninitiated. Because baseball is so ingrained into our memories and our lives, using the game or aspects of it, in your fiction is universally appealing.
When writing fiction involving baseball, there's so much to build on that in spite of the many baseball stories already out there, the writer can still swing away with an original idea and maybe tug a few heart strings in the process. Your characters don't have to be players, but fans of the game. They can be a child on a little league team, a player's wife, a never was, a has-been, or someone who's last wish is to meet a baseball legend. The material this game provides the author is rich enough to extend outside the stadium and into the lives of even those character's vaguely connected to the game.
In my own stories, although I've yet to write about a player, or give an account of a game, I'll often allow my characters to be fans of a particular team, attend a game, or anticipate going to one. This offers the reader familiarity which transcends the plot of the story. Mostly, it's because I love baseball.
In a week or two, I'll begin plotting another novel. Once again, it will have nothing to do with baseball. Yet, in the frigid months of winter, with the hot stove roaring in the background, one of my characters is going to put on a baseball cap before getting shot at.
October 26, 2006
October 25, 2006
I’ll Ask The Mailman Instead
You know what I’ve learned over the twenty or so years I’ve been writing? I’ve learned that writers make terrible critics. By terrible, I mean…they can be mean. Every time I give a short story, novel length manuscript, column or other piece I’ve written to a writer to read, out come the gratuitously negative criticisms.
It doesn’t matter if the piece is completed, or that I don’t want a review, or that the work may already be published, the writer feels it is his or her duty to note a few complaints.
This is why I never joined a writer’s group. I feel that many writers’ complaints about other writers (unless the author is a newbie who can’t spell, plot a story, etc) are petty, imagined, and center mostly on thematic elements or style. It is also my opinion that many writers feel a tinge of jealousy while reading other writers’ work and then unleash criticism to balance against their own imagined “talent inequity”. I’ve felt the urge to do that myself, but I’ve bitten my tongue.
Criticism, when asked for, can be painful, honest and necessary. When a writer evaluates another’s works without consent, it can be downright rude. To all of the freelance critics out there who are guilty of unsolicited analysis, take the advice of a wise person I know who often applies this phrase: “Take your own inventory.” Critique that.
It doesn’t matter if the piece is completed, or that I don’t want a review, or that the work may already be published, the writer feels it is his or her duty to note a few complaints.
This is why I never joined a writer’s group. I feel that many writers’ complaints about other writers (unless the author is a newbie who can’t spell, plot a story, etc) are petty, imagined, and center mostly on thematic elements or style. It is also my opinion that many writers feel a tinge of jealousy while reading other writers’ work and then unleash criticism to balance against their own imagined “talent inequity”. I’ve felt the urge to do that myself, but I’ve bitten my tongue.
Criticism, when asked for, can be painful, honest and necessary. When a writer evaluates another’s works without consent, it can be downright rude. To all of the freelance critics out there who are guilty of unsolicited analysis, take the advice of a wise person I know who often applies this phrase: “Take your own inventory.” Critique that.
October 24, 2006
You Don't Need No Stinkin' Agent
I just finished writing yet another "soon to remain unpublished for good" novel. Once again, my manuscript will be submitted simultaneously to both agents and publishers in the hopes of getting the story published and making me a wealthy man. I couldn't care less what any agent or publisher says about simultaneous submissions. Essentially, they want to read your work exclusively, while they take their time getting back to you while wasting your incredibly valuable time. That brings me to the thrust of this article. An agent needs you, and not the other way around. You go ahead and do whatever you have to do to get published. Don't cater to any whiny agent's demands.
In the past, two agents represented works I've completed. One never bothered to honor the entire term of our contract leaving me little or no recourse to get them to fulfill our agreement, and the other agent apparently made a living exclusively by charging authors excessive fees for photocopying and postage. Now, needless to say I am in the hunt for a new agent.
Agents are business people who actually believe that their clients need them and not the other way around. I've read rude comments on the websites of certain author representatives who write complex rules on submissions up to and including how to place the manuscript in the envelope. The vast majority of them will banish your manuscript to the trash bin if you ever dare to call them (for fear that their children will answer the phone and you'll discover that they are working out of their basement) and most will simply write "not interested" on the front of the manuscript which you paid to have photocopied instead of wasting one of their own precious pieces of paper to write a professional letter of rejection.
Because agents can be picky, rude, unscrupulous, unprofessional, and dismissive, I believe that if an agent seems to have bad traits even before I contact them, then I will avoid them all together. If they become annoying at any point during the contact, read, send more, and the "maybe I'll represent you" phase, then I'll look somewhere else.
The decision comes easy to me because I already have a job, a very good one, and I'm willing to bet that I make a whole lot more money that some of these "agents" who need to realize that without writer's they wouldn’t have careers. And if any agent is reading this, I'm only kidding (not).
In the past, two agents represented works I've completed. One never bothered to honor the entire term of our contract leaving me little or no recourse to get them to fulfill our agreement, and the other agent apparently made a living exclusively by charging authors excessive fees for photocopying and postage. Now, needless to say I am in the hunt for a new agent.
Agents are business people who actually believe that their clients need them and not the other way around. I've read rude comments on the websites of certain author representatives who write complex rules on submissions up to and including how to place the manuscript in the envelope. The vast majority of them will banish your manuscript to the trash bin if you ever dare to call them (for fear that their children will answer the phone and you'll discover that they are working out of their basement) and most will simply write "not interested" on the front of the manuscript which you paid to have photocopied instead of wasting one of their own precious pieces of paper to write a professional letter of rejection.
Because agents can be picky, rude, unscrupulous, unprofessional, and dismissive, I believe that if an agent seems to have bad traits even before I contact them, then I will avoid them all together. If they become annoying at any point during the contact, read, send more, and the "maybe I'll represent you" phase, then I'll look somewhere else.
The decision comes easy to me because I already have a job, a very good one, and I'm willing to bet that I make a whole lot more money that some of these "agents" who need to realize that without writer's they wouldn’t have careers. And if any agent is reading this, I'm only kidding (not).
October 22, 2006
I've Got Your Theme Right Here
A buddy of mine read my new blog with considerable disinterest. Hey, I'm not John Steinbeck, Edward R. Murrow, or any other famous journalist or novelist. However, I do like to write about things I see in the news or compose works of fiction. Having a blog makes it easy for me to post my views to the zero number of people interested in reading what I have to say. My buddy, who is well intentioned thinks I need a theme...and he's right.
You must understand that I am struggling here. I'm not that creative. To make myself stand out among the millions of blogs out there would mean I would have to do something so completely original and extraordinary that I would practically be inventing a whole new form. Who has that kind of time and energy?
Well, after considerable time away from this entry, I've decided to conclude like this: my theme is writing. Yes, this will be yet another writer's blog. But, I won't write simply about the craft of writing, I will treat this like a newspaper column. One of my favorite columnists, Ellis Henican (http://henican.com/) has been inspirational for me. He can be funny (I'm working on that), informative (that too), and he's a pretty smart guy (don't ask). His topics range from the political, topical, and personal. I can do that. Don't expect to be spellbound, I'll just try to be pretty good. Later, I'll be amazing. But hey, I've got a theme now, right?
You must understand that I am struggling here. I'm not that creative. To make myself stand out among the millions of blogs out there would mean I would have to do something so completely original and extraordinary that I would practically be inventing a whole new form. Who has that kind of time and energy?
Well, after considerable time away from this entry, I've decided to conclude like this: my theme is writing. Yes, this will be yet another writer's blog. But, I won't write simply about the craft of writing, I will treat this like a newspaper column. One of my favorite columnists, Ellis Henican (http://henican.com/) has been inspirational for me. He can be funny (I'm working on that), informative (that too), and he's a pretty smart guy (don't ask). His topics range from the political, topical, and personal. I can do that. Don't expect to be spellbound, I'll just try to be pretty good. Later, I'll be amazing. But hey, I've got a theme now, right?
October 18, 2006
When Tragedy Misses
Driving to work at my new job is a lot easier than when I used to commute fifty miles each way to the city. I don't have to pay tolls, cross bridges, and worry about traffic. No, my new drive is a breezy twenty minute jaunt which includes a stop at my local 7-11 for coffee and a newspaper. But it turns out the danger for getting killed remains the same.
Yesterday I turned my car onto the main highway to begin the first leg of my relatively short journey. I had the radio on, my brain was warming up, and I took notice of the clear sky and warm weather. The traffic light up ahead turned yellow and I slowed my car and stopped when the light turned red. Only, the guy in the pickup truck behind me had a different plan. He didn't brake at all until he was dangerously close to me. His pickup skidded, making a frightening skreetching sound, and he had to cut the wheel and continue jamming on the brakes along the shoulder of the road and into the intersection where he almost collided with another car.
In that brief moment when I stopped, looked in my rearview mirror and watched helplessly as a giant pickup truck nearly knocked my baby Honda across town like a golf ball, it dawned on me just how disposable I was. If he did indeed hit me, I'd have been roasted in a fiery conflagration. Pieces of my charred remains would have rained all over the inersection, and all before I had my coffee.
Needless to say, I was shaken up. The pickup driver pulled his truck over and probably checkd his underwear, and I rolled past him like nothing happened.
My morning ride seemed to take longer. Every turn of the wheel was a risky maneuver, the speed limit became a dare, and why the hell did everyone have to drive so damn fast? The rest of the day went fine and I forgot about my near accident with the inattentive pickup driver. That is until I got home and saw my kids. Like any other day I traipsed in through the front door like Robert Young and my wonderful children clamored around me anxious to tell me about school. I paused, took a deep breath, and stiffened at the sound of squealing tires echoing in my ears.
Yesterday I turned my car onto the main highway to begin the first leg of my relatively short journey. I had the radio on, my brain was warming up, and I took notice of the clear sky and warm weather. The traffic light up ahead turned yellow and I slowed my car and stopped when the light turned red. Only, the guy in the pickup truck behind me had a different plan. He didn't brake at all until he was dangerously close to me. His pickup skidded, making a frightening skreetching sound, and he had to cut the wheel and continue jamming on the brakes along the shoulder of the road and into the intersection where he almost collided with another car.
In that brief moment when I stopped, looked in my rearview mirror and watched helplessly as a giant pickup truck nearly knocked my baby Honda across town like a golf ball, it dawned on me just how disposable I was. If he did indeed hit me, I'd have been roasted in a fiery conflagration. Pieces of my charred remains would have rained all over the inersection, and all before I had my coffee.
Needless to say, I was shaken up. The pickup driver pulled his truck over and probably checkd his underwear, and I rolled past him like nothing happened.
My morning ride seemed to take longer. Every turn of the wheel was a risky maneuver, the speed limit became a dare, and why the hell did everyone have to drive so damn fast? The rest of the day went fine and I forgot about my near accident with the inattentive pickup driver. That is until I got home and saw my kids. Like any other day I traipsed in through the front door like Robert Young and my wonderful children clamored around me anxious to tell me about school. I paused, took a deep breath, and stiffened at the sound of squealing tires echoing in my ears.
Miss Mass For The Right Reasons
Recently, I had a conversation with a man I know and respect who is a former seminarian. He could have been a priest, but the whole celibacy thing was too much of a commitment. Anyway, the subject of religion came up and I began to talk about taking my dad to church the day before. It was during that conversation I informed him that I never wanted to attend mass again.
What sparked that declaration was that during the portion of the mass where the priest directs everyone to "offer each other the sign of peace" I meekly shook the hand of the woman in front of me, gave my father a hug, and continued to mind my own business. You see, my mother died only two weeks before and both me and my dad were having a hard time getting through the mass. My father is deeply religious and he honestly believed he was in the right place at the right time to send some sort of spiritual radio signal to his wife, and I was simply having a hard time dealing with the image I had in my mind of her coffin in front of the alter.
That's when the woman directly behind me stated in a loud voice to the other lady next to her and everyone within ear shot "That man didn't give me peace!" The headline in the paper the next morning should have read "Local Woman Drowned In Holy Water", but I restrained myself.
There were other things about this mass that had me alarmed. I noticed that people like to raise their hands in the air when the pray now, that they actually sing the words to the songs, they pray a little too loudly, and every single person who is able to, receives communion. When I refused to get on line for a wafer (bless me Father for I have sinned, it's been 22 years since my last confession) a woman enthusiastically waved me ahead of her, and she looked disappointed when I told her I wasn't going to receive. I was the only one to put just a dollar into the collection basket while everyone else placed numbered envelopes inside. But, the huge finale was when everyone clapped at the end of the service. Yes, I am not kidding, exaggerating, or making any portion of this up. They clapped. I was dumbfounded.
Since when did Catholics become such holy rollers?
I told the former almost priest that I didn't like going to church because I can't stand dealing with zealots, I didn't like the "charismatic" aspect of modern day Catholicism, don't even mention the pedophile scandals, and I can't stand the fact that the church always has it's hand out for more money because whatever you give is never enough. There are plenty of good reasons why I should go to hell and I don't want it to be because I short changed the collection plate.
After listening patiently, he emphatically stated "That's not the reason to stop going to mass". I had no comeback. For a few long minutes I sat and pondered what he said, not because it was profound, but because it wasn't what I expected him to say, and I didn't think he'd be so passionate about my remarks. He actually cared about my spiritual well being. Because I'm a smart aleck, I asked him what would be a good reason to go to church, and without missing a beat he said "to pray to God." Or, something like that. A plane flew overhead and I really didn't hear him. Still, no matter what he actually said, he made his point.
You don't go to church because you're a fan of priests, you don't get angry at God because people can be rude, greedy, or lose their way morally, spiritually, or criminally. You go to church to be with God. It's that simple.
Since that conversation a few weeks ago, I've had no religious conversion which made me bounce out of bed on Sunday mornings to be the first in line at the church door. I haven't been a particularly nice person, and my problems with the church remain. Yet, I feel something within me which asks why I can't rediscover the unbridled religious fervor I had as a kid before I entered my rebellious, arrogant "I'm an atheist" teenaged years. I'm middle aged, afraid of death, and want to hang onto the notion of an afterlife. Even baking in hell is better than losing everything to nothingness in death.
There has to be a God, there must be a heaven. One day soon I may find my way back to mass. When I'm there, maybe, just maybe, I'll turn around and shake someone's hand.
What sparked that declaration was that during the portion of the mass where the priest directs everyone to "offer each other the sign of peace" I meekly shook the hand of the woman in front of me, gave my father a hug, and continued to mind my own business. You see, my mother died only two weeks before and both me and my dad were having a hard time getting through the mass. My father is deeply religious and he honestly believed he was in the right place at the right time to send some sort of spiritual radio signal to his wife, and I was simply having a hard time dealing with the image I had in my mind of her coffin in front of the alter.
That's when the woman directly behind me stated in a loud voice to the other lady next to her and everyone within ear shot "That man didn't give me peace!" The headline in the paper the next morning should have read "Local Woman Drowned In Holy Water", but I restrained myself.
There were other things about this mass that had me alarmed. I noticed that people like to raise their hands in the air when the pray now, that they actually sing the words to the songs, they pray a little too loudly, and every single person who is able to, receives communion. When I refused to get on line for a wafer (bless me Father for I have sinned, it's been 22 years since my last confession) a woman enthusiastically waved me ahead of her, and she looked disappointed when I told her I wasn't going to receive. I was the only one to put just a dollar into the collection basket while everyone else placed numbered envelopes inside. But, the huge finale was when everyone clapped at the end of the service. Yes, I am not kidding, exaggerating, or making any portion of this up. They clapped. I was dumbfounded.
Since when did Catholics become such holy rollers?
I told the former almost priest that I didn't like going to church because I can't stand dealing with zealots, I didn't like the "charismatic" aspect of modern day Catholicism, don't even mention the pedophile scandals, and I can't stand the fact that the church always has it's hand out for more money because whatever you give is never enough. There are plenty of good reasons why I should go to hell and I don't want it to be because I short changed the collection plate.
After listening patiently, he emphatically stated "That's not the reason to stop going to mass". I had no comeback. For a few long minutes I sat and pondered what he said, not because it was profound, but because it wasn't what I expected him to say, and I didn't think he'd be so passionate about my remarks. He actually cared about my spiritual well being. Because I'm a smart aleck, I asked him what would be a good reason to go to church, and without missing a beat he said "to pray to God." Or, something like that. A plane flew overhead and I really didn't hear him. Still, no matter what he actually said, he made his point.
You don't go to church because you're a fan of priests, you don't get angry at God because people can be rude, greedy, or lose their way morally, spiritually, or criminally. You go to church to be with God. It's that simple.
Since that conversation a few weeks ago, I've had no religious conversion which made me bounce out of bed on Sunday mornings to be the first in line at the church door. I haven't been a particularly nice person, and my problems with the church remain. Yet, I feel something within me which asks why I can't rediscover the unbridled religious fervor I had as a kid before I entered my rebellious, arrogant "I'm an atheist" teenaged years. I'm middle aged, afraid of death, and want to hang onto the notion of an afterlife. Even baking in hell is better than losing everything to nothingness in death.
There has to be a God, there must be a heaven. One day soon I may find my way back to mass. When I'm there, maybe, just maybe, I'll turn around and shake someone's hand.
October 17, 2006
Something Old, Something New & Expensive
Yahoo! News reports that an ancient meteorite was found in Kansas using new, ground penetrating radar. Yes, you read that right. Scientists went ahead and designed radar to penetrate the ground.
Now, if I didn't read any further, I would have walked away thinking that they needed this “Land-ar” (kind of like sonar, but for dirt) to be on the alert for giant, carnivorous moles that routinely terrorize the citizens of Kansas, and that would be a good thing. But no, this ground radar will be used on Mars. I have no idea what they are looking for up there, and I'm sure that scientists don't either. All I know is that my tax dollars were used to create this contraption and other useless machines like it to send to Mars because three quarters of the American population actually believes that there's a giant face carved in stone up there.
I'd be less annoyed if they continued to use that thing here on Earth to find more meteors, gold deposits, and loose change after the carnival leaves town. But hey, why am I complaining? Come to think of it, I want to see some up-close pictures of the giant face on Mars.
Now, if I didn't read any further, I would have walked away thinking that they needed this “Land-ar” (kind of like sonar, but for dirt) to be on the alert for giant, carnivorous moles that routinely terrorize the citizens of Kansas, and that would be a good thing. But no, this ground radar will be used on Mars. I have no idea what they are looking for up there, and I'm sure that scientists don't either. All I know is that my tax dollars were used to create this contraption and other useless machines like it to send to Mars because three quarters of the American population actually believes that there's a giant face carved in stone up there.
I'd be less annoyed if they continued to use that thing here on Earth to find more meteors, gold deposits, and loose change after the carnival leaves town. But hey, why am I complaining? Come to think of it, I want to see some up-close pictures of the giant face on Mars.
Modern Art & Microsoft Paint
Well you know, I think I have a new career. The colorful mess just beneath this post was a little something I cooked up using MS Paint. The other one is an image my young daughter made. I'll bet if I told someone they were real works of art from "artists", I'd get away with it. No one would think they were any good; but anyone told they were real pieces of modern art created by a new and upcoming artists would have no problem believing it.
For too long the art loving public has been duped into accepting "art" that is nothing more than crap, and some of it is actually made with...well...you know. Everything from graffiti to a crucifix in a jar of urine is given the stamp of legitimacy because they are labeled as art. Don’t you dare say otherwise or you’ll be labeled yourself. So, look at my "art" and learn to accept it because there's a whole lot more where that came from. Keep your eye on this site to see what I can do with the leftover mashed potatoes from tonight's dinner.
For too long the art loving public has been duped into accepting "art" that is nothing more than crap, and some of it is actually made with...well...you know. Everything from graffiti to a crucifix in a jar of urine is given the stamp of legitimacy because they are labeled as art. Don’t you dare say otherwise or you’ll be labeled yourself. So, look at my "art" and learn to accept it because there's a whole lot more where that came from. Keep your eye on this site to see what I can do with the leftover mashed potatoes from tonight's dinner.
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