The latest in the ongoing series of The Bookstore is one that booksellers everywhere will relate to. With the advent and ease of print-on-demand publishing, bookstores are hit repeatedly by that customer who want to have their book displayed in the store. These customers are not only persistent, they refuse to understand why booksellers don’t want to stock their title(s). Usually it has quite a lot more to do with the lack of editing and skill in the work than it does that the majority of these titles are deemed un-returnable, should they not sell in-store. So, they’re stuck with a crap book with a crap cover that no one will buy for a dollar. But worse than that customer is the one who has come to believe that booksellers–because they are so entrenched in the industry–have lead-ins to publishers that may be exploited at a moment’s desire. And that’s where we find Eddie today. Face to face with a customer who believes himself to be a writer, and is determined to make use of Eddie’s contacts and/or complete and utter understanding of what publishers want.
zachary steele
Offering a Word to the ‘Smiths.
On March 2nd, 2009, the first few whispers reached the blogs that Wordsmiths Books was closed. No big farewell, no sell-down to a final closing date, nothing more than a note in the window baring a simple message:
I’ve pondered how to start this, but this is the best I can come up with. There is no great way to begin the end of a dream, and there is no gentle way to state that finality is upon you. That said, I regret to announce that, as of Monday, March 2nd, 2009, Wordsmiths Books will close its doors for good. I don’t do this willingly, and I would love to say that there were avenues of exploration yet to wander, possibilities that could avert this outcome, but that would be untruthful. I have explored every possibility open to me, but the sheer magnitude of the decline in sales alone (on the heels of our efforts to right the boat) from our current economic downturn has long since evaporated the fumes. Frankly put, there’s nothing left to make the engine go, and sitting on the side of the road with a thumb out doesn’t seem to earn you much grace as a business…
It’s been two years since I walked away from that store, and it still feels like a lost loved one. Sure, pieces of it remain. I have the wonderful family of booksellers who worked for me, who remain in contact still; there are reminders fairly frequently from our customers who miss our events; there’s the clever little ghost that houses itself in Foursquare’s platform (I don’t know who did it, but thanks, and everyone else, do feel free to check in when your on the Square); and, of course, there exists a mountain of photos that remind me daily of the days spent toiling for my dream.
- Photos Like This
It’s a mixture of sadness, and gratitude. A blend of emptiness and completion. I look at those pictures, and I wish Wordsmiths Books was still there, and I wish my family was still intact, and yet, we’ve all moved on to bigger and better things. It has often struck me that we were brought together for a reason, and for a short time were allowed to share in this experience and carry it forward. Then again, that could just be me. I couldn’t have been blessed with a better group of people to spend my time with, and I remain thankful every day that they were in my life. I’ve spent the past few days on Facebook thanking each of them individually, and I still feel I haven’t done it justice.
There are scores of others who were involved, in one way or another, with Wordsmiths, and I know that any attempt to thank them all would be futile, due to the fact that I am purely incapable of remembering what I had for breakfast, much less such a lengthy list of names. So, naturally, I’ll do it any way, with apologies to anyone I forget. To Collin Kelley (for his fab poetry events), Laurel Snyder (finalist for the E.B White Read Aloud Award!!!!), Wayne Fishell & Big Peaches (who gave us our soul Debby Harry style), Julia Carrol & Amy Lashley (for being the best cheerleaders/folk duo we could have asked for), Chris Warner (for his awesome sign), David L. Robbins (for his many contributions that stand as tall as he is, as well as for being a loyal and dedicated friend), Jim & Jessie Mundy (for the signed, framed, Wordsmiths Bag, from opening night), to The Georgia Center for the Book (for your support and trust), to Jennifer Brett (for your unbiased, fact-based story on the store’s closing), and to the many, many people who shopped our store, attended our events, and extended their hand when we called out for help, thank you. There is no measure of words that truly sums up my gratitude.
If you’re up for browsing through it, here’s the original blog for Wordsmiths, during the 6-month run-up to the opening in June 2007.
It wasn’t ever easy, but when is owning a business ever? I made mistakes in the process of opening that eventually haunted the store. I made the decision in August 2008 to ask the public for help, for a business that had not even been open two years, and scores of people responded. It was an emotional time, and to this day I still get choked up thinking about the overwhelming support we received. The link to the blog above, the one detailing the store’s closing, is littered with comments that I didn’t read until last year’s anniversary that detail the belief that I did this knowing that the store was going to close (an opinion shared my by ex-mother-in-law, I regretfully recall now. Joy, there.). That I willingly, and deceitfully, took money in order to simply buy me time. There’s no point in arguing with fools, but I would like to say that I do not quit on anything unless it is beaten and dead (and even then I do it reluctantly), and I do not look someone in the eye and willingly lie in order to spare myself. Wordsmiths was not dead (beaten maybe) until the economy bottomed out in October of that same year. At that point we were turning in the right direction, slowly, like a ship turning against the storm. But when people stopped shopping (in general) and put a cap on Christmas for 2008, we were toast. And we weren’t alone. Closing Wordsmiths remains one of the hardest things I have ever done. Saying goodbye to my family was excruciating. The image of walking away, turning the key one last time, and driving off (albeit in a very beautiful snowfall that I will always link with a sign of cleansing, and a new beginning) is forever imprinted on my mind. The fact that the year following left me in a state of financial hardship like I’ve never known, had me contemplating my life’s choices, and ultimately contributed to the end of a marriage, does nothing at all to reduce the power and wonder of the Wordsmiths experience. I would do it all again in a heartbeat.
And maybe someday, I will.
Wordsmiths Books was nearly everything I dreamed it to be, and I still believe that it lives and breathes in the memories of those who shared in it. And on March 2nd of every year that I am blessed enough to live, I will raise a glass to its memory, to all that it offered me, and salute. R.I.P to my little bookstore child.
The Bookstore, Episode 6
Here’s the latest in The Bookstore series. This one is called French Stuff is Hot, and is a step further in the evolution of the characters. I’m just happy that Stacy isn’t bashing Anointed. I don’t know what I’d do if she didn’t like it. Kill her I suppose, but even for a God that’s a pretty harsh reaction. Anyway, and stuff, Jericho doesn’t know French. He just knows it’s pretty hot.
The Bookstore, Episode 2
Here’s the second in The Bookstore series, in which Eddie talks with (at?) Jericho about Snooki’s piece of “literature”.
Back to The Bookstore
The most recent episode of The Bookstore is a fair bit of a self-indulgence. But this is my universe, so I’ll construct it as I like, thank you. Actually, the true point of these videos is simply to entertain and tell a story, and it is my great hope that do exactly that. But I would be remiss in not utilizing it to also promote myself, so why not have Eddie profess me to be one of the greatest writers ever? I was rather touched by his sentiment, even if he’s just doing so in a vain attempt to bait me into doing an event at The Bookstore.
I’ve upgraded to Xtranormal’s new movie-making program, which they call State. It allows for more than 2 characters–which I’ve utilized here–and the ability to move characters around. There’s a nifty voice over thingy that I will ultimately have to give a try, but for now…baby steps.
As with every project I ever undertake, I’m open to comments, thoughts, and ideas. Additionally, I’m very (I think I mean to say VERY) open to you sharing these videos on Facebook, Twitter, or anywhere you socially congregate. As well, you can visit the videos on my You Tube page, and add comments, likes, and so forth. Don’t underestimate how much it helps. Same with my books on Amazon. It’s a public forum in which people who have never heard of me (like Stacy in the video) have the opportunity to read what other people are saying.
Ok, enough promoting. Here’s the fourth video in The Bookstore series, Going Viral.
Being a Non-Christian Means I Get Your Pet, Right?
So, fueling off of yesterday’s blog regarding the End of the World proclamations of the folks at wecanknow.com, it has been brought to my attention–by the ever vigilant, yet slightly askew Kimberly Kennedy–that I neglected to cover a very critical aspect of the forthcoming Rapture: What to do with your pet.
We’ll call this section of the blog, “So, You’re Being Raptured, Section 2, sub-section 43a: What to do with your pet.”
It seems that you’re on the list to ride the G-train to Heaven, and when the Rapture comes, you’ll be making your way with millions of Christians, while the remainder of the heathens stay behind to be dominated and controlled by the Anti-Christ for the five months leading up to the End of the World. That takes care of that, right? I mean, naturally, there is sadness for those whom you may love, to some varying degree, that were not wise enough to embrace Jeebus, and make him their BFF (or would it be BFFE–Best Friend for Eternity?), but that’s the way the communion wafer floats in the grape juice, right? They had their chance. But–and this is a horrifying thought, I would think–what happens to your pet? What becomes of Fluffy the cat, or Bruiser the dog, Golden the goldfish, or Tyrus the turtle? They didn’t have their say. Nobody asked them if they wanted to accept Jeebus as their Lord Owner and Feeding Savior. What if they wanted to be Christian? Even Noah had to rescue the poor beasts of the Earth before the Great Flood, so what now? You can’t very well leave your pets with…with…non-believers, can you?
Well, don’t fret, because the good people (and aren’t they just the best for being so thoughtful, and willing to pitch in?) at After the Rapture Pet Care have your answer. Here’s a video to help out!
Lookit! Real testimony from the website!
It’s a real concern, and a legitimate concern. Our pets are given to us by God for us to care for. We are stewards of their lives. Should we simply forget them at the Rapture, allow them to starve or worse?
Real…and legitimate. Wow. Powerful words. Powerful.
But who are these Caretakers, and why should you trust them with your pets? Well, right there on the Home page is your answer:
Most Volunteer Pet Caretakers fit this description:
- They are atheist or another non-Christian religion.
- They love animals enough to register with us even though they do not believe there will be a Rapture (or are agnostic about it).
- They are not paid, so they are not signing up simply to make a quick buck. In fact, they’ve agreed to care for the pets they rescue as their own, including being financially responsible for them.
We match Volunteer Pet Caretakers by location and the types of pets they wish to care for. Some Volunteer Pet Caretakers will care for any type of pet, while others express interest in only caring for particular animals, such as only dogs or only cats. They have agreed to seek out other Volunteer Pet Caretakers to help them with our mission if the Rapture occurs. Each Volunteer Caretaker will be given access to our database of animal shelters and other animal rescue groups so they can quickly find other animal lovers to help rescue your pets.
Now, I’m not trying to suggest that God might require you to submit paperwork at the Pearly Gates, proving that you have made proper arrangements to have His Creatures cared for, but you might not want to take that chance. You might not want to be the one in line that gets dropped through a cloud like a trapdoor on a stage with the simple pull of St. Peter’s Magic Lever of Descent. You might–just might–want to avoid the spiritual embarrassment of nullifying an entire life (or five minutes, depending on how last minute you repented) of Jeebus Faith by taking a spare few minutes for the pets you love and adore, and ensuring that they will be cared for until the End of Time (or sooner, if they don’t survive the five months We Can predicts). Just sayin’. The Pope may not think too highly of condoms, but sometimes it’s better to be protected than to roll the dice on behalf of other lives.
Don’t wait. He who hesitates, hesitates. Your pet loves you, and will be very, very, very, very sad to see you go (unless you own a cat). So sad that you might want to take a few moments now and have a good cry, and plead to God to allow you to bring your pet along, and that they’ll be really good, and not pee on the clouds, and you’ll keep them in your corner of Heaven and He’ll never even know they’re there (which He will, but, hey, semantics, right?). But after you’ve cried long, and hard, and come to realize that every day between now and May 21st will be one in a series of Last Days You Spend With Your Beloved Pet, run to your computer, fall over it if you have to, but save these poor pets lives before they die of absolute, and utter, loneliness and despair. It’s your chance now. Your…last…chance.
Don’t fail your pets. Save them now, like they couldn’t be Saved while you were there. You can Ascend knowing they will be cared for. They will be loved. They will be fed. They will play, and find some sense of happiness in your departure.
For at least five months anyway. Then, like the rest of us, they’ll be dead.
A ducking good time
This is a guest post from Ducky Thomas®, duck extraordinaire. He likes to have adventures, loves even more so to talk about them, and hopes that, some day, he will be able to fly around the world all by himself. He’s a very excitable duck, so try to keep up.
Hi everybody! It’s hard to believe that it’s been two weeks since I wrote about going to the Richmond, but golly, time sure has, as Zach likes to say, ‘flown by.’ He says that some day I’ll be able to fly as fast as time, but I just don’t know. So far I can only fly off the bed, and I don’t make it very far. Most times, I just kind of fall. But I’m pretty sure that the last time I tried, I fell a lot slower! Maybe it won’t be too long now, and I’ll just be zooming all over the place!
Ha ha, Quack!
Sorry, I got a little carried away.
Well, anyway, I may not be able to fly just yet, but I have been very busy making new friends, and also going to something Zach called a, “Fall Festavil,” which I thought would be a very good place for a duck trying to learn how to fly to go to. It was in a great big park, with trees, and grass, and a playground too (but only the Big Ducks get to play there, Zach said, which made me sad, but I guess someday I’ll be a Big Duck, and then I can play all day long!), but not really too many places where a duck could learn to fly. It appeared, though, that by the time we got there, most of the people had already fallen, because they were all sitting on the grass listening to music. I don’t know what the music was, but I’m pretty sure it made everyone feel better about falling, because they all seemed pretty happy.
Oh! But I forgot to tell you the super duper best part! I got to go with my new friend, Henrietta! She’s a hippo, a really fun, and neat hippo, and pretty much my best friend in the whole wide world!
Henrietta and I got to ride together to the park. She sure is a silly hippo!
At first I wanted her to go, but I couldn’t find her anywhere, and I got really upset. But then, wouldn’t you know? That silly little hippo had asked Zach to hide her in our traveling bag as a really neat surprise, and I was so excited when I got there that I quacked for about five minutes! Boy was that embarrassing!
We didn’t go to the park right away, and had to wait in the car while Zach, and his friend Katie (boy she sure is quite pretty, but I’m too shy to tell her!), went to an ATM, I think, where he says all the money is kept, which I don’t know…it seemed kind of small. I guess money isn’t that big. Well, while we were waiting, Henrietta kept telling me that it would be really funny if I drove us away while Zach and Katie were gone, which seemed a little crazy to me, but she kept giggling so much that I started giggling too, and then, before I knew it, I had crawled out the bag and was pretending to drive! And let me tell you, it’s a lot harder to do than I thought!
VROOM VROOM!
I don't know what this thing is, but it sometimes makes the car bounce.
I couldn’t make the car go, but, honest as I can be, I didn’t want to. I like making Henrietta laugh, and boy did she, but I was more than ready to get back in the traveling bag and get the park, so I could fall with everyone. And, sure enough, we arrived just a few minutes later–though I guess it could have been longer, I don’t know. Henrietta snorted when I got back in the bag, because she said I made a really funny face, and then I quacked for so long that I don’t really know how much time passed. But it was so funny!
Well, as I said before, everyone had already fallen when we got there, and I didn’t see any other people falling, although there were some children playing with sticks, and one of them seemed to be really curious to me. I mean, I know I’m just a duck, but he sure danced silly with that stick. Zach said he looked like a Jedi with parking son’s disease. I don’t know what that is, but, as I said, I don’t know how to drive.
Anyway, the boy went away, and just in time too! Zach and Katie had food, and Henrietta and I got to try some! The first thing we tried was a hamburger, but I think it wasn’t made too good, because it didn’t taste like ham at all.
It tasted like ketchup.
But the really best thing we tried, that was so super good, I thought I really was going to fly. It was called a funner cake, and even though it didn’t look much like a cake at all, it sure was fun! It had some kind of white, powdery stuff on it–I think that was the funner part!–that made my head feel all happy, and caused Henrietta to snort for three straight minutes! I thought my beak was gonna explode from quacking so hard!
IT WAS SOOO GOOD!
After a while, it was time to go, which was okay with Henrietta and me because we were ready for a nap. And even though Henrietta and I aren’t Big enough to go to the playground, we did get to sit together on a bench for a little bit, and watch the other kids. I tell you, it sure looks like a lot of fun.
Henrietta is a super neat hippo.
It sure was a lot of fun, but boy was I tired. I was really happy that Henrietta got to go too, and that I got to eat some yummy food, and even though I didn’t fall at the park, I sure did when I got home!
This was the best fall I've ever made!
Cross Fudginating
My latest post on the Southern Author’s Blog, A Good Blog is Hard to Find:
“My biggest problem is my brother, Farley Drexel Hatcher. He’s two-and-a-half years old. Everybody calls him Fudge.”
That was all it took. Twenty words. Three sentences. And from that point on, I knew I wanted to have books in my life, and that someday I would write books that made people feel the way I felt at that moment. It wasn’t so much that Judy Blume had launched into the introduction of a character I would fall in love with, nor was it that I knew, right then and there, that no book would ever be as thoroughly awesome as Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Rather, it was that it took less than five seconds to accomplish it. It was that my life’s path could be so irrevocably altered in the span of a breath. I might have only been seven, but I knew that was a power I wanted to have. To have and to master. Jedi style.
This was my face when I read the line, as it happened. I began to pour through books, looking for more examples of this power to influence, this directional wind vane of literary might. I wanted to know if this was a gift that was solitary, handed but to the great mastery of Judy Blume, or if there was a community pool of creation that all authors could simply dip into when they were ready. When they reached that point in the book, wherever it might have been, where they could lean back in the chair, crack their knuckles, say, “This is about as good a spot as there can be!” and dip into that basin of beautiful phrasing, and monumental simplicity.
Turns out that doesn’t exist, just in case you were wondering. I looked. Ponce de Leon had nothing on that search.
Which meant, quite simply, that it was a matter of skill, rather than fortune. That was good. After all, I could learn skill. It’s much harder to learn fortune. Most often, you’re kind of left standing out in the open, your arms wide, waiting for something pleasant to hit you. Which is a funny thought, because I’ve never been hit by anything pleasantly. It usually hurts. Quite a lot. So, I snapped out a pencil, grabbed a notepad, threw away the broken bits of the pencil that didn’t care for the “fortunate” hit it took while waiting to be grabbed, gently picked up another pencil, and began writing. I wrote a story about a young boy, walking his way to a Little League baseball game. He was nervous, distracted, lost in thought about how the game would play out, and what his ultimate hand in it would be. He hoped his team won. It was the championship, after all. As luck would have it, though, he was so engrossed in thought, that he stepped in a hole, and twisted his ankle. It was tragic. It was catastrophic. It likely meant he would have to sit the game out, if he could even make it to the field. Somehow, our young hero found the strength to hobble his way, and then the courage to take the field late in the game, when his team needed a hero. He got the hit that won the game. All was well. My pencil, and I, were very happy with what we had created. I was a writer.
Of course, it didn’t have a Fudg-errific line, or series of lines, but it was mine. It was breathtaking. It was, well, it was horrible mostly, but it was the beginning of a great career, I was sure of it.
I discovered, some time later, that not only can this power be utilized in the story, but it can also kick you in the seat of the pants as soon as you open the book. Kate DiCamillio demonstrated this, as well as any writer can, in her book, Because of Winn Dixie. Behold:
“My name is India Opal Buloni, and last summer, my daddy, the preacher, sent me to the store for a box of macaroni-and-cheese, some white rice, and two tomatoes, and I came back with a dog.”
It was this opening that educated me fully on the power, and importance, of an opening sentence. In the beginning, just wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Hence, when the day finally arrived that some crazy person boldly decided to pay actual money to put my work into print, they did so even after I threw everything I had into my first sentence, and managed, in that moment, to completely miss the point. Instead I re-created the opening line of a rather old joke.
“When the Anti-Christ and Satan entered the bar, nobody took notice.”
That was it. There it was. My Fudgey Winn Dixie moment. It wasn’t horrible. But it wasn’t Judy Blume. It wasn’t anywhere in the pool of really cool things that authors write when their brains are on fire. It was…good, but not necessarily great. So, I kept at it. I keep at it still, I should say. And I continue to tell myself that I can do this. I can write that memorable, life-altering line. I can change lives with twenty words, and five seconds.
Or I could try stand-up.
You should always keep your options open. Just don’t stand out in the middle of everything and wait for them to hit you. That hurts.
A Haunting in God’s Office
A few days ago, I announced that Flutter: An Epic of Mass Distraction, had been given the release date of October 1, 2010. I also promised some material from that forthcoming work. So, today we’ll take a peek into one of the more bizarre, and unfocused, locations in the whole of the scope of Heaven: God’s Office. Yes, even God has an office. And he has a picture of you in it. Well, you, and another few billion people. Also, his office is haunted, though the spirit in question isn’t much of a menace. A whiny, moody, ghost, true, but not menacing. This scene also included the arch-angel of dreams, Morpheus, who has a lot to live up to, given that his identity was, in effect, swiped and utilized in the Matrix. So, anyway, here you go, with no further set up. Enjoy and feel free to comment!
God’s office was infinite.
This was as much a product of His love for a spacious workspace, something tolerable to His love for plastic plants, and pictures of loved ones—and there were billions of those—as it was a universal necessity. To say that a limited, defined, space would produce an undesirable amount of clutter on His desk would be a gross understatement. It would, in fact, produce nothing short of Armageddon.
The prospect of the utter obliteration of humanity aside, God also had a fascination with aesthetics. Further, He had a fascination with structure. And though He was still working to understand the finer nuances of Feng Shui, and how to best apply such principles to an infinite space, He was quite fond of His space, and had plopped in a few million bookcases, end tables, chairs, and trinkets for good measure.
It was good, as He might say.
With the exception of Morpheus, the only angel to have earned visitation rights, no spirit—human or angel—had ever stepped foot in God’s Office. The only company He kept, and the only soul that had ever occupied this luxurious space at the same time on a regular basis, was a fraction of His being—a splinter of Self created purely as a means to combat His galactic boredom—known as the Holy Ghost. This was as much a product of His affinity for the Holy Ghost, as it was that it simply could not go anywhere else. Ever. In a way, the Holy Ghost was God’s personal pet, imprisoned in an infinite office, bound to amuse its creator, and as complicated a being as a jello mold encased in a blanket, providing the jello was bitter and reeked of teenage angst.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
The Holy Ghost, contemplated God. “Woooo?” it asked.
God looked at Himself, and balled tiny fists. WHY SHOULDN’T I BE? MORPHEUS THINKS THIS BEST, AND I RATHER AGREE WITH HIM.
Though it lacked a defined shape, and form, to any degree, it did sparkle quite a lot, if only dully. And though any action in which it partook was typically not entirely visible to any eyes short of God’s unless it wore the Holy Sheet, the Holy Ghost shrugged. It liked to shrug. Being in God’s presence had cemented the need for a quality shrug. “Woo, wooo, wooo,” it replied.
PLEASE STOP THAT, said God. IT’S NOT VERY BECOMING. FRANKLY IT’S ENTIRLY UNECESSARY, AND MORPHEUS HAS NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Morpheus smiled dimly at the Holy Ghost. “I’ve no desire to be a bother. But, for the record, I think You look absolutely adorable. Though I do admit to simply being happy just to be able to see you, for a change.”
God stretched his tiny arms outward, eyebrows raised to the translucent specter in His seat. “SEE? ADORABLE.”
The Holy Ghost sighed somewhere from the depths of the fourth level of Heaven, and slumped further into the seat. “Fine. Whatever. I just don’t get why you can’t be the old man with the beard, and all, you know? It’s like you’re more You that way, and stuff,” it moaned.
I’VE BEEN THE OLD MAN WITH THE BEARD BEFORE. HUMANS DISREGARD ANYTHING THAT PLAYS TO A STEREOTYPE. THEY HAD ME COMMITTED. RUINED A PERFECTLY GOOD SABBATICAL. I’VE NEVER FELT SO SHORT-CHANGED.
“That’s what she said.”
WHAT?
“I believe,” Morpheus interjected, “that our transparent friend was curious as to how long you stayed, during that unfortunate time?”
The Holy Ghost shrugged. “Whatever.”
WELL, I LEFT IMMEDIATELY, OF COURSE. WHY DO YOU ASK?
“Well, it’s, like, you forget who you are, and all, when you’re there too long, you know?”
God snorted, allowing a simple laugh. I MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT FORGET WHO I WAS. I SIMPLY NEGLECTED TO REMEMBER EVERY FACET OF MY BEING. A CAVERNOUS DIFFERENCE OF INEVTIBLE RESULTS THERE. SUCH THINGS CAN HAPPEN WHEN YOU DABBLE IN HUMANITY. FILL AN EMPTY GLASS WITH WATER, AND SEE HOW LONG IT TAKES TO FORGET THAT IT WAS ONCE EMPTY. HUMANITY IS NO DIFFERENT. THE TRICK IS NOT TO STAY TOO LONG. OR TO FILL THE GLASS TOO MUCH. I’VE TRIED TO GET HUMANS TO UNDERSTAND THIS, BUT IT SEEMS THEY ARE FAR TOO BUSY DEBATING THE ORIGINS OF THE EGG TO SEE THAT THE CHICKEN WAS NEVER INTENDED TO BE SEPARATE FROM IT AT ALL. EITHER WAY, I’LL BE FINE. He nodded to Morpheus. I’LL BE FINE, he repeated.
“You’re so blind! You deserved to be accused of insanity! Jeez!” The Holy Ghost triumphantly crossed its arms, and, if possible, slumped further into the chair.
I DID NOT DESERVE TO BE ACCUSED OF INSANITY. IT WAS SIMPLY THE RESULT OF A POOR CHOICE IN WARDROBE, AND A LACK OF SELF-AWARENESS. THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT. YOU WILL SEE. THEY WILL NOT DENY A CHILD HIS VOICE.
The Holy Ghost rolled its eyes, and, being short on further, more visible, dramatics, offered a huffed, “Whatever.”
God considered the Holy Ghost, and placed His small hands on His small hips. DON’T SAY, ‘WHATEVER,’ TO ME. I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. THIS IS A VERY DELICATE SITUATION, AND IT REQUIRES A DELICATE VOICE. IT WILL ALL WORK OUT FINE, YOU’LL SEE. ONCE I’VE MET WITH IZZY, AND LOCATED OUR WAYWARD SOUL, I CAN RETURN AND DEAL WITH THE OTHER PROBLEMS AT HAND FROM HERE. IT’S SHORT WORK. MORPHEUS, YOU WILL CARE FOR THINGS WHILE I’M AWAY. Morpheus offered a dramatic bow. I WILL BE SET UP SOON ENOUGH TO MONITOR MATTERS FROM EARTH.
“That should be awesome for us all, I’m sure,” muttered the Holy Ghost.
THINGS WILL BE FINE, AND I’LL RETURN AS PLANNED. YOU’LL SEE. DON’T WORRY. I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.
“Of course you do,” replied Morpheus, remaining prostrate. “You are God. God knows all.”
In response, God simply nodded. He was not often prone to doubt, at least none that the universe at large could be made aware of, but He had to admit that this situation was a difficult one, and had already proven itself to be tricky to set in motion precisely the way He desired. INDEED I DO. NOW, He said to the Holy Ghost, YOU WILL REMEMBER TO DO YOUR JOB AS INSTRUCTED? IT IS VITAL THAT YOU DO.
The Holy Ghost shrugged. “Whatever.”
God raised His eyebrows.
“Yeah,” shot the Holy Ghost, “I said, ‘whatever,’ didn’t I? We’ve only been over it a bajillion times.”
After a moment, God nodded, raised a small hand, and waived a farewell to the Holy Ghost, and to the nearly doubled-over form of Morpheus, feeling slightly at odds with the feeling of physicality. It had been close to a hundred years since He had last taken a trip to earth. Even for God, that was a lengthy bit of rope. BE WELL, THE BOTH OF YOU. I SHALL RETURN WHEN TIME IS IN MY FAVOR.
In a physical sense, God turned to a nearby wall, stepped into an open tubular portal, and shot out of sight in a whoosh of air. In the infinite expanse of the quite unphysical realm of God’s Office, however, He simply vanished in a trickle of rippled light.
The Holy Ghost looked at the now empty space where God had stood, shrugged, and began a search through God’s desk for a crossword puzzle to keep it occupied.
“This is all very exciting. He left you a job, did He?”
“Yeah,” said the Holy Ghost. “Some letter I have to give to some angel when he gets here, or whatever.”
“Truly? How wonderful. A message of grand importance I gather?”
“Not really. Just a stupid message that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense at all. Typical. You wanna see it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t presume to corrupt the job left to you, but, maybe for the sheer fun of exploration, let’s give it a look, yes?” The Holy Ghost pulled a folded letter out of a top drawer, and slid it across the desk. “Well,” said Morpheus, reading the short note. “Now the fun truly begins, doesn’t it?”
“Whatever.”
Fluttering Your Way This October
I killed a man.
Well, actually I killed several people, but to keep to the point, I killed a man by the name of Timothy Webb. I thought this would be enough to keep him forever out of MY life, but, alas, I was mistaken. Apparently, God took quite a fancy to him, and his actions as Christ, and CEO, at The Christ Corporation, and decided to make him an angel. He gave Timothy his metaphorical wings, granted him the gift of a Key that supposedly held the power of Jesus, patted him on the back, and sent him on his way.
His first act was to show up on the doorstep of MY imagination, and demand that I do something about it. I just kind of stared at him, in terrible disbelief, and shrugged. This did nothing to satisfy him, so he invited himself in, began rambling about being ill-equipped to be an angel, and something about Natasha–the maligned angel known as Satan in our world–recovering well from her temporary bout of humanity. So, for the next few hours we sat, until it became apparent to ME that the only way I would get rid of Timothy would be to write another story for him. I proposed the idea, made up a completely fabricated storyline, waived him on, and then proceeded to forge onward with a plot that, in no way resembled the idea I had discussed with Timothy. From this was born, Flutter: An Epic of Mass Distraction.
It now has a release date: October 1, 2010.
What is Flutter? Well, it’s more devil fiction than Anointed, has significantly more explosions, plenty of characters who don’t survive to see the end, and an angelic system of social networking that is eerily familiar to Twitter. But that’s not much of a description. Kind of leaves you wanting, I admit. So, instead, I offer you a brief look at some of what I wrote for my publisher, when I turned over the reigns of my baby:
In my eyes, it carries the same voice, and some of the feel, but none of the story structure of Anointed. I wanted to write something, on the heels of a book that was philosophical, and, at times, rambling, with something a little more adventurous, a little more off the wall, and a lot more explodey (I really like that word all of a sudden)…I have included references, or creatures, as follows: Quantum Leap, Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Back to the Future, The Matrix, a dragon, a vampire (tee hee…I like him!), a bobsledding monkey, a wizard/piano duel , zombies, and a chocolate hot tub. Ok, the last may not be fantasy in terms of the genre, but you find me anybody who doesn’t like everything listed before it, that isn’t as fond of the hot tub, and I’ll quit writing. Oh, also, there’s a reference to swine flu, and to Google Buzz (which is mistakenly called Fuzz). That, along with Natasha in a bikini, a porch made of cheese (it’s Gouda than you think! Ugh…), a God who thinks he’s a child, a video game of explosive proportions, ugly angels, an escalator in the sky, a prison in Heaven, the rebirth of Jesus, and a very unfortunate moment for the masters of The Christ Corporation…there’s so much activity, and no break to sit in a restaurant to discuss the history of Satan, or in an office to discuss the history of Christ. What I hope I have created is a book that you really just can’t put down, and one that makes you both want to read its predecessor, and anxiously await what is to come.
I like that I can be a complete tard when I write to her. Granted, she published the first book, so it’s not like I’m going to fool her at this point. It’s not quite back copy material (that bit you might read on the back of a book that summarizes the story), but it covers most of what I consider to be cool about Flutter. I’ve been asked what this book is meant to lampoon, given the generalized lampoon of Christianity in Anointed, to which I say it’s predominantly a lampoon of social media, and how easily distracted the world has become by it, and to technology in general. I’d like to think that I can wield this tale like a weapon, and waggle it in the face of all those who have fallen prey to its mighty grip, but, well, I’m one of them. Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Goodreads, email, blogging, texting, computer games, anything and everything that occurs on the cell phone, and so forth–I’m there. Or, at least, mostly there. So are you, most likely. Be warned: The angels know, and they’re about to do something rash. Ish. Rash-ish. More in the vein of rash, but less rash than rash might be. Kind of, severe, in that, “Don’t make me come down there,” kind of way.
So, I’ll keep it at that for now. I hope to offer a few snippets in the coming weeks. The first will likely be a scene that takes place in God’s Office, as He prepares for a trip to Earth, with the ever-present moan of the Holy Ghost guiding the way.
Until then, I need to go lock the door. I’m sure Timothy wants to know what to do now.
I Have a Wrong Way to Go (until I find the right one) 