Where Do Poems Come From?
You MIGHT ask that question from time to time: where do poets and authors get the ideas/inspiration for their work? And every poet or student of poetry will tell you that just about any situation, emotion, or circumstance might wake the Muse and make her tell you to SIDDOWN, SHADDUP, and put pen to paper. The “places” from which poems come from are almost as numerous as the number of poems out there (I say almost because every teenage angst poem pretty much comes from the same place).
I thought it’d be interesting to share with you the etiology of one of my poems. It’s called ‘Create Me Again’, and here’s where it came from:
Strangely, I came up with the title first. You see, I used to pass time when I was bored in class coming up with what I thought were cool titles for songs that didn’t exist. I never wrote an actual song, but I organized the track listings for a whole lotta albums released by imaginary bands. You laugh. Whatever.
Anyway, several of those titles to songs which didn’t exist actually resonated with me; they were bits of poetry in and of themselves - wordplays that, were they expanded on successfully, might have meant something. ‘Create Me Again’ was one such title. Think about it: it has a fairly resonating implication to it, doesn’t it?
Then, sometime in the early to mid nineties, I had a crisis of faith - I didn’t so much begin to wonder if God existed (I don’t think THAT happened until I was in my 30s) as I began to wonder if God had died or gone on vacation or written us off as unsalvageable and gone off to reinvent Moses as a four-armed blue-skinned alien on some faraway planet in a different galaxy. So, with that I had the theme of a poem which I wanted to express. All I needed was something to solidly tie it all together and give me the solid ground I needed to build from.
And then, somewhere in there, I recalled the story in the book of Daniel about Nebudchadnezzar’s dream of the statue made of precious metals with feet of clay.
Everything clicked, and I had a poem. One day I wrote the whole thing in a single sitting, and several years later the Snake Nation Review published it. At the center of it is that multi-metalled statue, standing as a symbol of… what? Me? The nation? The planet?
However you want to apply it, you can. That’s what poetry’s for, if you ask me.
Finally, here’s the poem in question. Thanks for reading:
Create Me Again
The little multi-metalled statue
With baby soft clay feet
Stood on his tiny pedestal
And cried:
“Create me again
Oh Lord
In the likeness of another image
For if what I am is what you are
Then one of us is falling short
Of every expectation.”
A tear ran down his golden cheek
Along his silver belly
Splashed erosively in a hole
That was forming in the clay.
(Image from http://blackinkdesigns.com/diagrams.htm)
Blog Sale! Some Assembly Required Magazine
I’ve been reticent about writing this particular post for some time. Two reasons why:
1) I don’t want to use this forum to sell stuff to people. I’m not Billy Mays shouting at you about Oxyclean or cool screwdrivers. I may promote my friends’ and colleagues’ work, and the whole idea of this blog is to increase my exposure, but I don’t like the idea of selling actual products.
Still, people sell products online everyday, so I guess I need to get over that. I promise you, though, that I won’t do this sort of shameless hard sell often – I don’t even foresee having another “product” available for a long time. It’s just this one thing.
2) The bigger reason for my hesitation, though, is that every time I start to write this, or even think about it, it just gets soooo long. I needed to sit down and narrow it down to its most salient points, despite the fact that this thing means so much to me, and needs – I feel – a lot of explanation.
But I think I’ve got it now.
THIS POST is my attempt to sell you an issue of a literary magazine that I published and contributed to 3 years ago. The following is a description of the magazine – called Some Assembly Required – and what I intended it to do, presented in as few words as possible.
What it is. SAR is a magazine published 3 years ago with contributions and help – a little time, money, heart, and soul – from several of my friends, including the contributing writers, the cover artist, the masthead designer, and my technical support. Definitely a labor of love.
What it was meant to be. There’s a brief essay at the front of the book that describes my intent in greater detail (I may publish that essay in a future post), but here’s the gist: SAR was my attempt to open a niche in the community of literary magazines and crack that shell by publishing a magazine that, rather than publishing individuals the way most magazines do, would publish entire literary groups – MFA classes, critique groups, etc. They could contribute as a whole and I would dedicate each issue to their group.
Seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.
What it turned out to be. I’m not the most successful writer in the world, but I don’t have a lot of things that I’d count as outright failures. This, however, would be one.
This magazine never saw a second issue. Ironically, the magazine sold enough issues to mostly pay for itself, so I was encouraged in that regard, and would have happily gone through the whole process – the investment of time and money – to publish a subsequent issue. But you can’t publish a magazine without content and you can’t have content without contributors, and simply put – I got no submissions.
I believe that the reasons for not receiving submissions are twofold.
First, I guess I miscalculated how hard it might be to get a group to come to a consensus on something like this, especially with no one to guide them through the process the way I did the group that I DID publish. (BTW, if there’s anyone out there who was part of group that saw this opportunity and ended up passing on it, I’d love for you to e-mail me and tell me why you didn’t submit. I’d appreciate the feedback. All I got back then was silence.)
Another reason is that I didn’t anticipate potential resistance from the literary community (at least as it was 3 years ago when social media wasn’t making the inroads it is today). Suffice it to say that I found the literary magazine community resistant to change, ambivalent to newcomers who didn’t jump through the same hoops as they did, and outright hostile to anyone who might encroach on their (diminishing) audience. I might be wrong on this point – it is just my perception – but I don’t think so.
What this magazine could be to you. I think everybody out there would get a kick out of at least one of the 7 stories contained in it. The variety of content is high, mostly because of the diversity among the members of the group I published – the variety in tastes, styles, and world outlooks translated into a lot of different stories and voices. Some will no doubt appeal to you, and some won’t.
Also, the artwork is sublime, the magazine is well put together, and regardless of the success or failure of it, I still think the premise - the idea behind it - is pretty fucking cool.
So, all that said at last, I’d like to sell you a copy of the magazine.
Here’s how we’ll go about it: you set the price you want to pay, and I’ll send you an issue. You have to pay the minimum shipping, which is $1.65, but beyond that, I don’t care. You pay a penny + shipping, you get an issue. You pay full cover ($14.95) + shipping, you get an issue. You pay anything in between (or above, heh heh), you get an issue.
Just send the amount you’re willing to spend to my Paypal account at kenyon7@mindspring.com or in the mail to:
SAR
P.O. Box 904
Fort Gaines, GA 39851
and I’ll send you an issue.
Hell, it worked for Radiohead. It probably won’t work as well as for me, but even if it works a little, I can start moving this project over from the failure category to the success category.
In return, you’ll get a pretty decent magazine that’ll entertain you, even if just a little. You get to see a little bit more of what I’m all about. And who knows? The magazine might be an inspiration to a writer or literary magazine that YOU know, to show them what is possible.
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 19
Years have passed since I first wrote this chapter, and as I was reading over it in preparation of recording it for this podcast, I noticed Raymond Bernardt’s long speech about the Reverend Fowler, which you’ll see below. Toot, toot, toot my own horn, but I think his speech is one of the most vibrantly authorative things I’ve ever written. He’s right, you know….
Also, Oz Pizza really does exist, and it proved perfect as a tie-in to all my Wizard of Oz allusions here. They make really excellent pizza, too - just FYI. No wizards involved.
A War Between States Part 19:
Nate couldn’t speak immediately, only blink, open-mouthed, as the man made his little speech. And as Raymond Bernhardt talked, Nate had the impression that the man was singing and dancing a happy jig at the same time — a kind of musical number like in the elaborate Gene Kelly movies that sometimes aired on Turner.
“You had a run-in with a bastard of a man,” Bernhardt continued, “whose been a thorn in my side for going on twenty years. The Reverend Kenneth Fowler is and has been the pastor of the church where my family — and me by default — chose to attend. I go there now. My daddy and my mama went there before they passed. I go there now. And if I had children — which I most likely won’t — they would go there until they were old enough to choose otherwise. Evangeline Baptist is a good place, full of kind people. And most times, Fowler is a decent man. But over the years, he and I have come to… disapprove of each other. I don’t like his politics — don’t like the fact that he has more than a passing interest in politics at all. There’s a reason God gave the kingship of Israel to Judah and the priesthood to the tribe of Levi, and a reason our founding fathers made so much of the separation of church and state. The pulpit ain’t the place to bash Democrats from, and the church’s influence should not be used to interfere with the affairs of men like you. Fowler had no right to do what he did to you. No right at all.”
Nate blinked again. He thought he saw an after-image surrounding the man’s penny-loafered feet — like sparkles kicking up from dancing feet. Like the glint of glitter on Dorothy’s red shoes.
“Did you come here by coincidence and decide to talk to me on the spur of the moment?” Nate asked. “Or were you on your way to see me all along?”
“The latter.” Bernhardt cracked a conspiratorial smile. “Nate, I know your plight. In fact, most of the folks I hang around with in East Point and Midtown know your plight. And so I’ve come to introduce myself and make you an offer.”
“Come again?”
Bernhardt laughed again, a giddy, resounding chuckle that made Nate grin despite himself.
“C’mon, Nathan Wells. Let’s step into Oz Pizza and I’ll buy you a soda — or a beer if you like. Even a slice. You got time on your hands, I know. And I know you’re just dyin’ to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“You’ve said quite a lot already,” Nate replied.
Bernhardt only chuckled softly and stepped past Nate on his way to Oz. Nate followed, looking down at the sidewalk as he went, searching for yellow bricks.
A song by The Clash was playing inside the pizzeria. Pieces of art hung on the walls, along with a bulletin board full of real estate posts and business cards. The room smelled deliciously of garlic and baking bread.
Raymond Bernhardt sidled up to the counter and ordered a glass of wine. Nate decided what the hell and ordered a beer. When he did, Bernhardt nodded approvingly. They sat at a table in a relatively quiet side room and sipped their drinks for a couple of minutes in silence.
Finally, Nate spoke. “You said you had an offer.”
Bernhardt put his glass of red wine down and leaned back in his plastic chair. “I told you that Fowler doesn’t approve of me,” he said. “You wanna know why?”
“I’m dying to.”
“Because I am two things which Fowler can’t abide, both of which start with the letters G and A.”
Nate took a sip of his beer to mask whatever look was on his face. He didn’t want to offend the man if his guess was wrong as to what one of those things was.
“I’m a professional gambler,” Bernhardt said — that was the one Nate probably couldn’t have guessed. “And I’m gay.”
Yep, Nate thought. Would have got that one right.
“Unfortunately for Fowler,” Bernhardt continued, “I’m also outspokenly Christian. I just don’t think some of the things Fowler preaches are so absolute.” He took a sip of wine as if to emphasize his point. “And I’m rich. The first creates countless compromises for me to deal with. The latter presents a few for Fowler. You see, he likes my tithes to his church.” Bernhardt laughed again, and Nate couldn’t help but join him. It was a sublime bit of irony, something Nate would have loved to written a story about — if he ever got the chance again.
“Now I can’t really influence Fowler,” Bernhardt said. Then he drained his glass and leaned forward, folding his hands together — Nate noticed the man had a ring on nearly every finger. “As generous as I am to his church, I am an abomination…. But I can undo what he’s done to you. And it would give me great pleasure to.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Bernhardt?”
“Oh, come now. Ray. You must call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray. What do you mean?”
“How much money would it take to get you out of the financial straits you’re in?”
“Well,” Nate said, thinking hard, his excitement building, “I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“That’s fine,” Bernhardt said, standing. “Think about it while I fetch myself another glass of the vino.”
After he left, Nate sat and thought about the little man’s implied offer. He stared into his beer and did a quick tally so that he could at least give Bernhardt an estimate. Did the man really mean to imply that he would spot Nate — a man he didn’t even know, regardless of his “education” — cash to get out of debt? What was the catch? Was Bernhardt the Wizard at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, or was he just a Munchkin? He kind of looked like a Munchkin. Or was he worse than a Munchkin — was he a Rumpelstiltskin type, and this some sort of Faustian plot?
Suddenly Bernhardt was sitting down in front of him, swirling wine in a glass. “Well?” the little man asked.
Nate raised his eyes from his beer. “Thirty grand,” he said.
Bernhardt’s grin nearly split his face in two. “Is that all?” he said. “Thirty large will get the Atlanta Scribe afloat again? All the way?”
“Well, that’s just the debt. If we reopened, we’d immediately start plunging into the red again, since we’ve got holes in our advertising revenue, thanks to Reverend Fowler.”
“Bah,” Bernhardt said and waved one bejeweled hand at Nate dismissively. “You can use the extra space for additional editorial.” Nate noticed that the man’s second glass of wine had just about disappeared. “Nathan Wells, I would like to offer you a loan in the amount of SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND dollars, to pay your debt and keep you operating until the Fowler tempest blows over.”
“I — I could never pay that back,” Nate stammered.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll put no time limit on it, and I won’t charge any interest. Bible says not to charge your brother interest.”
“But —”
“We’ll call it a sponsorship.”
“But… why?”
Bernhardt finished his wine again and raised the empty glass in the gesture of a toast. “The Atlanta Scribe was a fair voice in an unfair world. It gave equitable coverage to the gay community, the Christian community, the you-name-it community. Few publications can claim that level of non-bias. It would a shame to see it go. But besides that, I told you, Nate Wells: it would give me great pleasure to be a thorn in Fowler’s side. And, like I said, I am a gambler.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay ‘Hot Thang’ Elgin
- Raymond Bernhardt - Jeff Jarvis, Sorceror’s Apprentice
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 18
It’s been since before the holidays that I posted a podcast of the novel I’m podcasting. But don’t worry - I haven’t forgotten it, just neglected it! Still, here’s a new installation, which will be followed later this week by another installation. In this one, we return to Nate Wells, now after the closing of his magazine. Here Nate meets a mysterious stranger, and hopefully you’ll soon be wondering the same thing Nate is….
A War Between States Part 18:
Chapter 10, Part One: Campaign: Nate
August 20, 2003
Deanna was the last one to leave. She walked across the tiled floors of the office with a cardboard box cradled in her arms. From its top protruded the peak of the goofy alarm clock/art piece she’d bought at the Lakewood Antique show — the goofy alarm clock/art piece her girlfriend wouldn’t let her keep in their apartment. It looked like a flamingo, with long yellow legs holding up a blue cuckoo clock house from which the flamingo’s elongated pink neck thrust, and from which an orange pendulum hung like a silly neck tie.
The peak of the blue house caught Nate’s eye as Deanna bustled by. She’d already said good-bye, so she didn’t say anything else to him as she left, only stared straight ahead, jaw clenched and blue eyes shiny with tears. Nate didn’t blame her — they’d both nearly burst into crying when they’d met in his office three hours ago to exchange future contact information and say farewell. Deanna wanted to hang around and help Nate finalize his plans for the business, but the bankruptcy lawyers and accountants insisted that they needed no help.
Nate watched her open the front door with extended fingers, watched her thrust her foot in to open it further, and watched her bump through the opening with her hips. Sunshine outlined her briefly and then she was gone. The door closed behind her.
Nate sat at a desk in the rear of the main office and gazed out across the room. He realized that, without its tell-tale decorations and desktop knick-knacks, he couldn’t remember whose desk this had been. All of the desks were void of computers. Nate had already purged their memories, downloaded all the stored articles and copies of the Scribe to CD. He’d already sold them all to subsidize the final paychecks for his former employees — a move the bankruptcy lawyers had balked at when they found out he’d done it. Still, Nate stood by his decision.
“They stuck with me through it all,” he told the stern-faced lawyers — one bald, droopy-cheeked man, the other a younger, swarthy-looking man who blatantly ignored Brylcreem’s insistence that ‘a little dab’ll do ya.’ “I can’t give them a decent severance package. The least I can do is give them the money I owe them for putting out our last issue.”
The computers were gone, and with Deanna’s departure, all the decorations — the posters, the toys, the shelves of books — were gone as well. Nate’s own Lego robot and his North By Northwest poster were in the back of his Blazer, which was itself newly restored and still not paid for.
And so the white-washed walls appeared starkly white-washed, except for the tiny tack holes which the building management’s work crew would start to spackle that week. The tiled floor seemed so much brighter now under the flourescents, even with the office furniture still intact. There was a slight echo throughout the few rooms.
“It looks so empty,” he said out loud to test the echo again, and wondered how empty it would look when the office furniture rental guys came and took all the desks and filing cabinets away.
He sighed and stood, went to his office for one last look — one final check to make sure that he’d gotten everything.
He stared at the empty, dusty corners of his tiny office and sighed again. For six years, ever since he’d started the Scribe, he’d happily come to this office and did what he was most passionate about: he’d bathed in information, in facts and conjectures, in opinions and statistics.
In words.
Every day, immersed in words.
“All struck a finishing blow by one ignorant man’s whimsy,” he said to the dust.
The dust gave no reply.
So Nate spun on his loafered heel and headed the way Deanna had gone — out the front door. He switched off the flourescents, stood in the dark a moment, then opened the front door and stepped into the morning sunlight.
Outside, the street was mostly empty. Deanna’s Civic was gone, and someone in a pickup truck was pulling into her spot in front of the building. A man in Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt was walking toward him on the sidewalk. A line of people in vehicles waited to use the automated teller at the bank across the street. The air around all of them was hot and oppressive — the sun too bright, the Atlanta smog noticeably thick. The atmosphere reminded him of Marionville.
Then he heard a bird chirp in the maple tree to his left and he smiled. It was so hot in Marionville during August, even the birds didn’t chirp.
“Well, hell,” he said, “at least I’m not there.”
“Not where?” a voice asked in reply, and Nate started.
He whipped his head around to see that the man who’d been approaching on the sidewalk was standing beside him, smiling, a pencil-thin mustache perched under his small, sharp nose.
“Oh, nowhere,” he said to the man and smiled automatically — a friendly I-don’t-know-you-but-how-are-you-have-a-nice-day smile.
The man smiled back. He was a good head shorter than Nate and he beamed up at him with genuine — could it have been? — affection. Nate was tall, but the man was diminutive, only coming up to the bottom of Nate’s chest.
“Marionville,” the man said through his smile. His uneven but ultra white teeth flashed in the sun.
Nate turned to face the man full on. He gaped down, even as the man gazed up. The man rocked back on his penny loafers and chuckled softly.
“How did you know that?” Nate asked.
The man licked his thin, pale lips. “You’re Nathan Wells, the editor and publisher of the Atlanta Scribe. I recognize you from your headshot in the paper.”
Nate nodded, a little flattered but unsurprised. He wasn’t famous really, but people recognized him now and then. That still didn’t explain how the man knew he was thinking about Marionville just then.
“I remember a little editorial you wrote about how you grew up,” the small, smiling man continued. “First in Marionville, Georgia, then in Opelika, Alabama. Although the piece was a bit nostalgic, you didn’t paint the prettiest picture of Marionville. So, I figured if you were glad you weren’t somewhere, there was a fair chance that there was Marionville.”
Nate frowned and furrowed his eyebrows at the man. “Good guess,” he said.
Now the man laughed out loud. “Actually, it was an educated guess, and I should hope it was good — making good, educated guesses is what I do for a living.” The man shuffled back a step so that he could offer his hand to Nate and perform a little bow. “My name is Raymond Bernhardt. And now you’re wondering why I’m educated — even in the slightest — about Nathan Wells and his recently, dearly departed Atlanta Scribe.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
- Raymond Benrhardt - Jeff Jarvis
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Just Because It’s Cold, Doesn’t Mean It’s Not Getting Warmer
One thing most of us in the U.S. can agree on: it’s cold outside. While we’re all freezing our collective asses off, though, some of us are taking the extra step to use the unusually low temperatures to debunk the reality of global warming.
“Oh shit,” some of you are saying now, “Will’s gonna give us an earful about how we need to save the environment. He’s gonna transform into Al Gore and preach to us about our responsibility to the planet.”
Well, I’m not. Not quite. Because it’s probably pointless to try and argue facts vs. “facts” with most non-believers. It’s kind of like a person who believes in God arguing with a devout athiest – regardless of how well either side presents his argument, in the end only stubbornness wins.
To the extent that I feel I need to defend the facts, I’ll only cite three things. The first is a quote lifted directly from the web site of the Environmental Defense Fund: “Furthermore, a single year of cold weather in one region of the globe is not an indication of a trend in the global climate, which refers to a long-term average over the entire planet.”
Let’s say you have a desert. And one summer it rains in that desert for a week, when ordinarily it’s dry as a bone. That doesn’t mean the place is no longer a desert – you just have an isolated weather phenomenon that flies in the face of the overall conditions. Same with this cold snap and global warming. I don’t think that’s hard to understand, but some people seem to have a problem grasping the concept.
For further edification, here’s a second citation – I’ll simply refer you to the Voice of America article titled “Meteorologists: Global Warming and Cold Weather Go Hand-In Hand.” The title says it all, but you should still take the time to read it.
Finally, I’ll cite this quote, also lifted from the EDF web site: “The most respected scientific bodies have stated unequivocally that global warming is occurring, and people are causing it by burning fossil fuels (like coal, oil and natural gas) and cutting down forests. The U.S. National Academy of Sciences, which in 2005 the White House called ‘the gold standard of objective scientific assessment,’ issued a joint statement with 10 other National Academies of Science saying “the scientific understanding of climate change is now sufficiently clear to justify nations taking prompt action.”
The only debate in the science community about global warming is about how much and how fast warming will continue as a result of heat-trapping emissions. Scientists have given a clear warning about global warming, and we have more than enough facts — about causes and fixes — to implement solutions right now.”
Given all that, I think I’d rather spend my time here ruminating over WHY someone would deny something that I think’s undeniable. I have three theories, all or none of which might pertain to “non-believers” out there. I invite you to bring forth other theories – if they’re viable and interesting, I’ll certainly post them.
Oh, and I’m not talking about those scientists, politicians, policy-makers, and pundits who are actively debunking global warming. I KNOW why they’re doing it. Money. They’re getting paid, re-elected, or whatever, to say the words put into their mouths by those who see the changes that need to be made as a threat to the bottom line.
I’m talking about the average person who, for whatever reason, chooses to disbelieve the truth.
OK. Here we go with theory one:
Some people hop on the anti-global warming bandwagon because of its nonconformist appeal. For some, because of the dogma they USUALLY have to adhere to in their workaday, do-what-you’re-supposed-to-or-God’s-gonna-get-you lives, it’s cool to FINALLY be able to cling to a “rebellious” notion, one that flies in the face of long-accepted facts and established trends. Disbelieving the facts of global warming is a way for them to “buck the system.”
Theory two:
Others feel the need to toe the party line – if it’s what their favorite pundit or their Sunday preacher says, then it must be true. Ironically, it bears pointing out that the scientific community mentioned in the EDF quote above was lauded by the Bush Administration, and that the VOA article I linked to emanated from the Bush White House – the same Administration and White House which rejected the Kyoto Protocol and had a notorious reputation for being pro-industry and anti-environmental. So, if THAT administration is unwilling to dispute facts, well….
The sad thing to me is that the threat of global warming OUGHT to transcend party politics. Alas, though, for some that’s all there is….
Theory three:
Finally, I think it’s a way for some people to alleviate the guilt they feel for “contributing” to global warming by driving, cooking with gas, spraying aerosols, and farting. If it’s not real, then they’re not guilty of anything, right?
Well, I have another solution for their guilt.
In New York there’s a famous “National Debt Clock” which continually ticks off the increasing amount of money our government owes. I don’t know if the subsection of the clock is still active which displayed the amount each individual family owed; it was still there when I left the city.
I remember that every time I passed the clock, I’d see how much I personally “owed” and I’d laugh. Sure, no doubt I owned some of that debt, being a beneficiary of a variety of government programs, but I always felt that my portion had to be significantly lower than the posted average.
That may or may not be true, but what IS true is that you and I, average individuals who go about our daily lives just like most average individuals, do not “own” a relatively significant portion of the global warming “debt.” There are a vast array of other entities who are MUCH higher contributors to global warming – your morning commute is NOTHING compared to them.
There. Feel better?
You see, you really don’t need to change your behavior that much. All you have to do is BELIEVE. I think that if enough people begin to accept the facts that have been in front of them for a long, long time, then eventually that belief will insinuate itself into politics and industry leaders, who are the ones who can REALLY affect change. And then they, in turn, will act on their beliefs.
Now, there are those who think that this sort of slow evolution is too slow – that we need to ACT NOW to save the planet. They may be right – evidence does point to the possibility that climate change is a ticking time bomb.
And it IS a given, too, that if people would take the time and energy they waste arguing against the facts, and instead use that time and energy to do the little-bitty things they COULD do to help slow the effects of global warming, then they’d discover yet another way to alleviate their guilt.
We gotta start somewhere, and believing is a start. Change your attitude. Save the world.
Almost Finished With…
At this point, I consider myself a qualified success.
I make money by writing. I write every day. I’ve published short stories, poems, articles, and complete fodder in a number of national and international magazines. I maintain this blog, which is growing slightly in popularity every week. Toot, toot, toot my own horn.
Well….
I’ve never published a novel, which would probably be the largest achievement I could hope to muster at this point in my career. And it’s not that I haven’t WRITTEN any novels - I have, as you’ll soon learn - I just haven’t PUBLISHED one. And who knows IF I’ll publish one. All I know is that either later this week or early next, I will finish another one, and I think this one is the most publishable one I’ve written yet.
I finished my “first” novel in 2000. Some of you have read it. It was called The King of Karma, and it had a great premise and some moments of potential genius that I intend to recycle (Cat’s on fire…, the shit dream.) but I’ve looked at it with the jaded eyes of ten additional years of experience and I don’t think it’s ready for the world. It MIGHT be salvageable, but that would take a lot of work - work I’m not willing to give it right now. And frankly, I’m kind of sick of it. I edited the shit out of it for years and I don’t want to edit it anymore.
I chalk it up now to experience: writing Karma taught me how to write a novel, how to carry a narrative over 70,000 words, over 30 chapters, over 400 pages.
My “second” novel, The Survivor of San Guillermo (Get it? Saint William?) has just gotten out of hand. At first it was a shortish book - 55,000 words tops. But it’s a time travel novel, and different aspects of my version of time travel - the what ifs and why nots - planted seeds that made the novel start growing. At this point it’s 60,000 words + and has spilled into another book. I think it MIGHT become a trilogy or more - and I just don’t want it to dominate my life at this point. Publishing a trilogy is attractive, though, and the novel’s pretty good, so I won’t abandon it. But for now, there’s other fish to fry.
For instance, my “third” novel, the first quarter of which many of you have already read or listened to: A War Between States. This novel isn’t even finished - it’s a little over half done - but since I’m podcasting it, I feel compelled to finish it in the future. It looms large on the horizon. (BTW, expect a new podcast next week, after I get my buddy Jeff over to read the part of the leprechaun.)
Yes. I said leprechaun.
Anyway, all of this is just lead-in to what the main point of this post is: that I’m one chapter, two or three sittings, a handful of days away from finishing my ultimate achievement. My “fourth” novel idea, my third completed novel. And like I implied earlier - I am waaaaay enthusiastic at the prospects of this book.
On the phone with my friend Stephanie, and to my wife and mother, I have confessed something that I am certain was true: if I didn’t finish this book, tentatively titled Hood, I don’t think I would have ever attempted a novel again. This one has been a hard road, one I started in 2004, and unless I succeeded on finding the end of that road, I don’t think I’d have had the wherewithal to start the trek another time. But HEY!!! One more chapter and it’s done!
Already, I’ve started thinking about the query letter for the book - that’s how confident I am about finishing it (blogging about it this morning instead of working on it might also be an indication of my hubris). You should know that query letters are fucking hard to write - they have to be perfect, and it’s soooo hard to be perfect. But I’m actually looking forward to writing this one, because I know EXACTLY what I’m gonna say.
And now you’re wondering what this book’s about. Or at least I hope you are.
MAYBE I’ll publish the query letter here once I finish it. We’ll see. For now, here’s a quick soundbite:
The novel tentatively titled Hood tells the story of a group of graffiti artists in south Atlanta, one of whom discovers that his murals, drawings, and tags are coming to life - and that he’s part of a small group of people in the world who have similar abilities and who can travel “between worlds.”
Enough. I’m done. It’s 9 in the morning and I have to take my son to school. When I get back, I’ll put pen to paper and get a little closer to finishing….
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from Willkenyon.com!
For several years, my wife and I managed - just like many of you - to send out a whole host of Christmas cards (as well as generic Happy Holiday cards for our many Jewish, Muslim, and atheist friends). For a couple of years though, we’ve kinda NOT done it. I mean, there’s a whole lotta you guys out there that we love (especially you of course!) and time goes by really quickly and by the time we think of it, it’s too late.
But this time! This time, I thought, why not? I’ve got a forum that many, many, many of our friends pay some moderate attention to at least, so why not send a sort of holiday greeting to you via it?
So here it is. And yeah, it’s a Merry Christmas for us and from us, but here’s hoping you non-Christmas celebrators had a great Hannukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever you atheist folks celebrate.
It’s a picture of Madeleine and Eli. We’ve received a lot of kiddie pics from a lot of you guys, so we’ll join the bandwagon. You really don’t want to see my ugly mug anyway.
Happy Holidays, all. We love you.
What I’m Thinking, 4th Edition
Just in time for your holiday jingles, here are some of my most recent ponderings. They’re no beatitudes, but then again, it’s not my birthday coming up. Anyway… enjoy!
- If living well is the best revenge, then TAKE THAT, sucka!
- Even now, people vote against their best interests because of the color of a candidate’s skin. You say you know that already? Then why do we let it happen?
- I’m glad I discovered boardgaming AFTER I graduated from college. Otherwise, I might not have graduated….
- I genuinely thank God every night that nothing terrible has randomly happened to my family. I wake up every morning terrified that it will.
- You can’t blame Neal Boortz. I think that if I had no shred of moral fiber and someone paid me enough money to be a mouthpiece, I’d do it, too.
- Whoever left me that heartfelt message in the frost of my windshield the other morning - passive aggression suits you well. Naturally, this means you are a coward and a douche.
- No amount of money dumped into education can change the fact that some kids are really stupid.
- Apparently, Nathan Fillion’s penis is shaped like a hammer. As this could prove problematic to one’s love life, I am grateful that mine is not.
- At some point every day, I must drop what I’m doing to help Eli go potty.
- Some haiku 4 U: The Titans cycle || Meanwhile, the cycles tighten || Less time ev’ry time
- Political correctness and showing general consideration for your fellow man, though related, are NOT the same. For starters, one’s political….
- Hey! Just because pedestrians in the crosswalk have the right away, it doesn’t mean you should TAKE YOUR TIME.
- On that note, maybe if you moved a little faster you wouldn’t be such a fat ass.
- I think I should report my kids’ car seats to the CDC.
- Hey buddy, I told you to back up. When someone wielding a large metal object - be it a hammer, a gun, a sword, or a car - tells you to back up, you really should.
- I’m old enough to remember when being a douchebag DIDN’T help you get elected to office.
- If people who shouldn’t be afraid of you ARE, and people who should be AREN’T, then it’s time to change your approach to both sets of people.
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 17
Here’s a bit more before the holidays. That’s me doing the voice of Williams - with my mouth full of Goldfish crackers. I just didn’t feel right asking any of my black male friends to read for Williams, because he’s such a caricature, so just like the earlier character of redneck shop owner Bill Wells, who is also a caricature, I just did it myself. Hopefully, it’s amusing and a little disturbing at the same time….
A War Between States Part 17:
Chapter 9, Part Two: Campaign: Tommy
July 24, 2003
Fran shook her head and turned back to Williams. Sergeant Brooks smirked. Williams only focused on the one-way glass, his lip protruding so far out that Tommy thought it might thump onto the table at any moment.
“Sorry,” Gerald said to Mick.
Mick bit his own lip and shrugged. “S’okay. Tommy’s right. You didn’t mean anything by it. It just gets to me sometimes, you know?”
“I’ll be more careful with what I say,” Gerald said.
“That’s cool. Thanks.”
Inside the interrogation room, Williams was quietly repeating, “Anomara, anomara,” and working his massive jaw. He moved his curly-haired head back and forth, back and forth, like an enormous grazing cow, chewing cud and mooing across the pasture. “Anomara,” he said, “Anomara.”
“Mr. Williams,” Fran said, “we caught you and the other three in the back room of the club. No one else was there, just you four men. In the same room as you, there was an entire one-pound brick of cocaine wrapped in plastci wrap and a small bag containing several ounces of heroine. There was also a Tupperware full of marijuana and a lockbox containing roughly seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Anomara.”
“You had the key to the lockbox on your person.”
“Anomara.”
“So we can only assume that the money belongs to you. Also, all of you registered positive to the drug test we administered to you.”
“Anomara.”
“The Underground Club where we found you was filled with teenagers, most of whom were intoxicated.”
“Anomara.”
“Some of whom were also high on marijuana and cocaine.”
“Anomara.”
“The Underground Club is owned by a Mr. Tony West. But Mr. West rents the club to you. We’ve already arrested Mr. West, and he’s agreed to testify that he rents the club to you, and that he has nothing to do with what goes on there.”
“Anomara.”
“From where I’m standing, it appears that you, Mr. Williams, are in a world of shit. Wouldn’t it be better just to fess up and tell us what we want? You don’t need your lawyer for that.” Fran ran her pale hand through her red hair and pursed her thin lips.
“Be careful, Fran. Don’t push it,” Tommy whispered from behind the glass, and both Gerald and Mick clicked their tongues against the roofs of their mouths in agreement.
“Anomara,” was all Williams said.
As if she had heard Tommy, Fran suddenly took another tack. She sat across from Williams and folded her hands pleadingly in front of her. “Mr. Williams,” she said, “I’ll tell you what. I understand that you may not want to say anything that might incriminate you further. So we’ll wait until your lawyer is present before we begin questioning you. But we’re holding Terminius Green, and he’s only a juvenile. Is there anything you can say to help us help him? To help him get out and get home to his mother?”
Tommy saw Williams’s eyes go wide, saw his lip distend even further, saw his jaw freeze. Slowly, the giant of a man began to shake his broad, flat face back and forth again, and slowly a grin spread across it. Tommy noted how big and flat and yellow the man’s teeth were.
“Oo cain lehim go,” Williams said. “Ee dawon done didi awl.” Saliva dripped from the man’s lips and splashed onto the table.
“What?” Fran asked, also shaking her head.
“Ee da main sellin sa shit.”
“He’s the seller?”
“Ee dawon. Ain me.”
Fran scowled. “You don’t have anything to do with this? You’re telling me that a seventeen-year-old boy who still goes to high school and still lives with his mother is the head of the drug-trafficking ring that’s centered on Marionville? Even though the key to the lockbox full of cash was on your person? Even though the club where we found all of this is — and you — is rented under your name?”
“Ee dawon. Ain me,” Williams repeated. Then he crossed two thick arms across his chest. The muscles in his shoulders rippled and strained against his tight white shirt. “Now, ahain a say no mo wiffow matorny. An Wutang B. Epinema no mo.”
In the observation room, Tommy shook his head. “Wutang B. Epinema? What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind of reference we ain’t gonna understand?”
Beside him, Mick chuckled. Inside the interrogation room, Fran sat and glared at Williams for several long minutes. Tommy thought to himself that had it been him under that glare, he would have begun sweating, maybe even confessing to everything he could think of — drug trafficking, paying off politicians, Kennedy’s assassination — but Williams sat unruffled across from her, only returned her glare.
Finally, Fran sighed, and began to pack her paperwork. Sergeant Brooks and one of his men made Williams stand and led him out of the room.
“That was quick,” Gerald remarked.
“Yep,” Mick replied, a hint of disgust in his voice. “Looks like Williams’ lawyer won’t come until this afternoon.” He made to leave the little side room himself. “Fran thought she could get something out of him before then.”
“Apparently he was harder to crack than that,” Gerald observed.
“Apparently,” Mick agreed. “Anyway, there’s no sense in wasting time. Terminius Green made bail first thing this morning, so I gotta go oversee that. You boys have fun.”
“You’re not holding him?” Tommy asked.
“Naw. Whatever Williams says, Green’s just a pawn. We’ll watch him, but I don’t think he’s going anywhere. And his mama misses him.”
Mick opened the door and stepped into the hall, letting a beam of fluorescent light spill into the dimly lit observation room. Tommy squinted at the sudden white light — his eyes had just adjusted, and the fluorescents hurt. As Mick turned to leave, he shot a glance at Tommy and Gerald. “By the way, Williams was saying ‘You cain’t be keepin’ me here.’ Not ‘Wutang B. Epinema.’” With that, he chuckled again, and strolled down the hallway. Tommy and Gerald watched him go.
The Cast
- Tommy Krinshaw - Bret Wood
- Gerald Barnes - Jason Hodges
- Mick - Eddie Holley
- Fran - Aida Kenyon
- Williams, Narrator - Will Kenyon
My Favorite Bar, and Why
I know a lot of you are old enough to remember Cheers, and you remember the opening song, how it went:
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they’re always glad you came
You wanna be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows your name
You may also remember how, whenever Norm would walk in, he’d say, “Hey, everybody,” and everybody would say, “Norm!”
Well, Norm - even for the drunk that he was, even though he bemoaned his life and his relationship with his wife - was in truth a very lucky man, because he WAS the guy who had that place - that place where everybody knew his name.
I feel lucky as well, because I have a place like that. And even though there are bars in the ATL with better food and better beer selection, there is no place on Earth like my favorite bar: the East Point Corner Tavern.
It’s down the street from me, literally 5 blocks away - stumbling distance, as many would say (especially those who’ve seen me stumble home). And when I’m there, I feel as safe and welcome as I do in my own home - sometimes safer and more welcome. Plus, believe it or not, I usually don’t keep booze or beer in my house, and there’s ALWAYS booze and beer at the Tavern.
Get this: when I walk into the Tavern, usually in the mid-to-late afternoon, I usually walk in and say, “Hey, everybody!” and several people will always say, “Will/Bill!” (That’s my nickname, because of the confusion over what people call me, which is in fact… both.)
It’s a scene right out of a beloved and trendsetting sitcom.
If you’re visiting for the first time, then I suggest you eat there. Like I said, there are places that MIGHT have better food than the Tavern, but I have NEVER had a bad meal there, and it’s always consistently inventive and tasty. As a side note - although they have excellent “never been frozen” fries, I usually get a side of green beans or asparagus with my sandwiches and hamburgers. I don’t know what they do that makes said side dishes so fucking good, but it’s always reassuring that while I’m consuming something that’s so bad for me (alcohol) I’m at least eating my vegetables.
Of all the Corner Taverns, owned and operated by Mike Rabb, Jayson Da Luz and I THINK one other person, East Point’s establishment has in the past had the absolute WORST beer selection - but I know that this was because it’s a business, and the clientele inherent to East Point have not in the past been the most discerning of beer drinkers. Why stock beer that won’t sell, right?
Ah, but thanks to some small changes - and the awesome addition of an additional row of taps - I can now go in and drink some of my FAVORITE beers, like Dogfish Head’s 60 and 90 Minute ales, Victory’s Prima Pils, and Kona’s Pipeline Porter. And I bet that if I asked really nicely for Andrea Kruse to score my current favorites - Dale’s Pale, the Great Divide Yeti, and Moylan’s Hopsickle - she’d make every effort to have some waiting for me when I returned. It’s like that.
The idea for this blog post came to me a week or so after I stopped writing articles about Atlanta bars for Examiner.com (ask why I stopped and I’ll tell you, but it’s not something I should bring up in a loving, positive post like this one). While I worked for Examiner, I was limited to lauding only bars in Atlanta proper, and East Point Corner Tavern didn’t qualify. BUT IT’S MY FAVORITE BAR, hands down.
I finally started writing this post on Monday, and here it is Friday and I’m just now finishing it up. The point of telling you all that is because, coincidentally, today, THIS Friday, is the last day for Miss Starr Neel, one of my current favorite bartenders at the East Point Corner Tavern. The fact that she’s leaving and that I’ll miss her should give you some indication of how much I adore this bar. I don’t think a lot of people genuinely miss the people who serve them beer when those people go away and the beer is still flowing. It’s kind of like when Coach died on Cheers (although Starr isn’t dying, she’s just moving to Denver).
So yeah, I dig the booze and the food, but most of all, I dig the people who work there and most of the people who go there - at least the ones who are as regular as I am (the ones who recognize something great when they see it). I dig Mike and Jayson and Deb and Angelica and Amy and Anna and Heather and Andrea and Starr and Deedlebug and Tony and Candace and Chris and countless other people who’ve come and gone while I keep coming and going as well.
And speaking of going, I’m finished with this post, and I’m headed to guess where.