Month: May 2013

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More potential cover art

I keep looking through Tumblr for artwork that puts me in various states of mind as I work my way through Princesses II: Back to Rydell High (not the actual title). Here are a few recent instances of such.

The one up there with the blimps — I’m not writing a steampunk, by any means, but there’s a feeling there that’s kind of like what I’m writing, even though the tech is well advanced beyond dirigibles.
Anyway, onward and upward — the other day, I passed the 100,000 word mark, which is cool because on May 1 the book stood at just over 59,000 words. My May goal was to get to 90K words, so I more than exceeded the goal. Now my goal is to finish this draft by the end of July and then move on to a horror/thriller book I’ve been kicking around while I let Princess II: ET Returns to Elliott (not the actual title) rest for a while before editing this fall.
And after the horror/thriller, I think I’ll be ready at last to take another whack at The Adventures of a Boy and the Lighthouse That Loved Him (which is really not the actual title).
Zap! Pow!

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You’re not a special snowflake, Buffalo.

One thing I’ve been thinking of late, with regard to Buffalo’s eternal quest to reinvigorate itself (or just stop the bleeding), is that folks in this area are too convinced of Buffalo’s inherent unique and wonderful nature, and that all we need to do is keep shining the already-existing facets of our little diamond and one day the rest of the world will see how shiny we are.

This seems to me…complete nonsense.

Buffalo has loads of notable architecture. But what city doesn’t?

Buffalo has a vibrant arts scene. But what city doesn’t?

Buffalo has potential for waterfront development. But what city doesn’t?

Buffalo has lots of local colleges turning out fine students. But what city doesn’t?

Buffalo has a long industrial tradition. But what city doesn’t?

About the only thing that Buffalo has that is genuinely unique among American cities — minus a handful — is its proximity to an international border. But Detroit has one, too, and it’s not really helping there, either.

There are a lot of cities in America. Quite a few of them are doing very well, and some, like Buffalo, are not. If all the things we always cite as reasons we should be doing better aren’t getting it done, what does that tell us?

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Their last full measure of devotion

Tomb of Unknown Soldier


Know, all who see these lines,
That this man, by his appetite for honor,
By his steadfastness,
By his love for his country,
By his courage,
Was one of the miracles of the God.

— Guy Gavriel Kay

“The Green Field of France”, by Eric Bogle

Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile ‘neath the warm summer sun,
I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the great fallen in 1916,
I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that faithful heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enshrined then, forever, behind a glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that’s still No Man’s Land
The countless white crosses in stand mute in the sand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And I can’t help but wonder, no Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did they really believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying, was all done in vain,
For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

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Tired writer is tired….


Thinking hard, originally uploaded by Jaquandor.

Every so often — a couple of times, every six weeks or so — I have a really early work start at The Store. This is to do PM* work on refrigeration cases that is best done when the respective departments aren’t yet open for the day’s business. The tasks are enjoyable, and in truth, the atmosphere of The Store in the wee hours is kind of nice: not too many people are there, the place is being worked by the Night Crew (which is a group of folks I rarely get to interact with), and there’s a kind-of perverse sense of satisfaction that comes with having a pretty important job done before the rest of the world is waking up.

The problem with the 3:50 am waking time, though, is that later on the day, when I try to write, my brain is pretty much shifting into “Me no put words in pretty strings” mode. This is inconvenient, because I refuse to set aside my quota or my general mission in life of Never a day without a line. So I spend a writing session doing a lot of staring thoughtfully at the computer screen, often rubbing my forehead because that’s what we Humans do when we’re trying to think up stuff.

I got just shy of 700 words done yesterday. Not great, but at least I didn’t goose-egg it, either. Today, I’m operating on a full-night’s sleep, two cups of coffee, and I’ll do some other routine-breaking stuff that always helps get the juices flowing. Back to SPACE!!!

Zap! Pow!!

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