Christmas Present Miracle

 

It’s that time of the year again, when I head over to the home of the Old Man on the Porch for a Christmas Story.

 

“Hey, Old Man, I sure would like to hear one of your famous Christmas Stories.”

“I reckon I could tell you one, ‘cause I be knowing you won’t leave until I do,” he stated with a slight smile.

 

The Old Man took a deep breath, exhaled, and then commenced, . . .

 

Many years ago, there was this young boy, who went to the grocery store every day after school, rain, or shine. He would stand by the door and ask folks for the pennies in their pockets or coin purses.

Some folks obliged, others did not. On a good day he would collect between five and ten pennies. Occasionally, a person would ask him what he wanted to buy with the pennies. The boy always answered, “I want to buy my sister a present for Christmas.”

Most folks thought he was lying to con them into giving him more money, but a few would give him an extra nickel or dime.

Now, I know you’re wondering why the boy was so committed to the task of buying his sister a Christmas present. Well, truth be told, the boy, along with his mother and father live in an old two room house on the edge of town. His father worked in the coal mines and barely made enough money to feed the family. The boy’s sister, Mary, was diagnosed with incurable cancer and was in the hospital-and there was a strong chance she would not live to see another Christmas.

The Love Bear

When Mary and her brother used to walk to and from school each day, they always walk by the drug store, because in the display window, there was a large, stuffed pink bear. Mary loved seeing the bear and every day, her brother told Mary that he would buy it for her someday. Mary knew he couldn’t, but she liked imaging that he could.

Summer came and gone and Christmas was fast approaching. The boy, as he had done every day after asking for pennies at the grocery store, went by the drug store window to make sure the bear was still there, before visiting his sister.

He always told Mary he saw the bear, knowing it would make her smile.

On the day before Christmas Eve, the boy counted all the money he had collected and when he was done, he smiled – finally, he had enough to buy the bear! He hurried to the store and bought the bear.

Christmas morning, the boy, anxious to give the bear to his sister, woke up early and rushed to the hospital. When he arrived, he was surprised to see his father and mother were already there. His mother was crying and his father was talking to a priest. Mary, . . .

Now, I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking Mary died. Quite the contrary. She was alive and sitting up in the bed, with a big smile on her face. The reason why she was smiling was because the doctor had just told her the cancer in her body was completely gone, and she was looking at her brother, Thomas, who was holding the Large Pink Bear.

I reckon some folks will tell you Mary’s amazing recovery was a Miracle, but I prefer to believe it was a brother’s love for his sister that cured her.

 

“Isn’t your name, Thomas?” I asked the Old Man.

“It is,” he replied with a smile.

 

Merry Christmas!

Love is the best present you can give.

j/k

 

  

Here Today - Gone Tomorrow

A jolly good time was had by all. 

The elderly man eased his weary body into his old, worn-out chair, as he had done many times over the years after a long day. 

His tired eyes glanced left and right through the room that a few days ago was filled with laughter and joy. 

The memories of his six grandchildren on Christmas morning were fresh on his mind, and how they hurried around the tree, eager for their name to be called and handed the present they hoped was the one they wished for the night before Christmas  

The old man thought back to the days of his youth and Christmas morning, and how quickly the years had passed. 

But now, the room was empty of sound and outside flurries of snow filled the air. Here today, gone tomorrow, the passing of time never sleeps nor pauses. 

He closed his eyes and prayed for all to have a safe return - then a smile appeared upon his face; the reason, . . .

he saw there was one Christmas cookie on a plate on the lamp table next to his chair with a note written by his granddaughter - Merry Christmas Grand Pa.

And May God Bless All

j/k

Previously posted Dec. 29 2023

Mysterious Santa and the Christmas Miracle

Nickel Novel

Title: The Santa Mailman

By: James L. K.

 

A Rock & Rye whiskey bottle jutted out from the pocket of the man dressed like Santa Claus, though he didn’t look anything like a traditional Santa Claus; to thin, to short, to feeble – and he was wearing sunglasses. He certainly wasn't jolly either and frequently coughed. 

He sat on a large, red throne, making him look even smaller, as he waited for the next child to sit on his lap – which was me. The pathetic looking Santa looked more like my Uncle Joe when he came to visit – dazed and slurring every word.

Santa glanced at me briefly, then motioned with a wave of his hand for me to come forward. Instantly, a cold shiver went up and down my spine. I walked towards him. He coughed. The smell of his breath was vile. In a croaky and cheerless voice, he said and asked, “Merrrry Christmas, kid. What’s your name?”

Whatcha want kid?

I answered, Carrie, and reluctantly sat on his lap. Being up close to him, I noticed an old scar on his forehead that stretched beneath his dark glasses. My eyes were rudely fixated on it when he asked, "Whatcha want, kid - for Christmas." 

I hesitated for a moment, and then in one breath, I quickly and at length, systematically, like an auctioneer, rambled off the thirty things I wanted. 

He half-heartedly chuckled and replied, “Sure kid, no problem.”

I jumped off his lap and scampered back to my mother. But that scar, that scar, I thought shaking my head. It jostled a frightful memory – something that happened two years ago.

Suddenly, I remembered. The mailman! The brave mailman, who saved me. It happened when I was walking home from school, on the road near the dried-up creek bed, the place my mother told me to avoid.

From the dense tree line, a wolf came running towards me. I was so overwhelmed with fear, my legs wouldn't move. I did the only thing my fear allowed - I screamed! 

Lucky for me, at that very moment, the mailman was driving down the road and saw what was happening. He smartly drove in between me and the wolf and jumped out, waving his arms and yelling at the wolf. Then, I heard the mailman bellow an agonizing cry of pain. I couldn't see what had happened and could only assume the worst. 

I managed to regain my legs and ran as fast as I could. After going a short distance, I looked back and saw the wolf running away. The mailman was hunched over, but thankfully still alive. I should have gone back and thanked him; I regretted that I didn't. At the time, I thought I'd surely see him again someday - I never did, until now. 

I was certain Santa Claus was the mailman who saved me, and now was my chance to finally thank him. I turned around and ran back. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank You, Mailman - I mean, Santa Claus!” I joyously said.

He raised his arm and from around his neck, pulled over his head a leather string. Attached to it was a large claw. "I took care of that pesky wolf. Merry Christmas, kid." as he and handed to me.

Then with a half-smile, he responded, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays a courier from the swift completion of their appointed rounds . . . not even a wolf.”

-jk-

Be thankful for every moment, because it might be your last.

Previously Posted Dec. 19th 2022

Mid-Winter Miracle - 9024 B.C.

 

Christmas Eve, 9024 B.C., before Christmas Eve was Christmas Eve.

Gurga was a ten-year-old boy, living in a cave with twenty-seven other relatives.

It was a bitterly cold night and near mid-dark when Gurga was roused from his slumber by an unusual sound. He arose and walked toward the cave entrance. He gazed out at the rocky landscape, covered in a thick layer of snow, wondering what the sound was that had awaken him.

It had been a particularly difficult winter for the clan – there was only enough food to feed a few, and definitely not twenty-seven. Much like any growing boy, Gurga was always hungry, but he was a kind boy and always shared some of his portions with Murga, his favorite elder.

Murga regularly told Gurga marvelous stories. He truly enjoyed them all, especially the one about when Murga was a young boy. Gurga didn’t entirely believe the story was true, but he liked it the best of all the stories Murga had told.  

Gurga, shivering, as the winter wind swept over his bare feet, was thinking about Murga’s story. It was about a man, Slava Clusa, who traveled all over the world, riding on the back of a huge, red cave bear, and would secretly deliver meat and furs to every clan in need on the eve of mid-winter without ever being seen.

Murga, when he told the story, said that he had seen Slava Clusa once. Gurga always smiled, never letting-on that he doubted Murga.  

On that cold winter night, however, Gurga sincerely hoped the story was true, because it had been a difficult winter for the clan, and he knew some of the older clan members would not survive – including Murga.

Gurga, as he stood silent outside the cave, once again he heard the unusual sound that had awakened him.

Suddenly, from around the corner, a giant of a man mysteriously appeared, riding on the back of huge, red cave bear. He smiled and jumped down. 

The Dude is Real!

A massive swirl of snow sprang up when the man’s feet hit the ground. His cosmic, silver cloak glistened like the stars in the night sky. 

Stunned and surprised, Gurga stood motionless and silent.  

The huge man grabbed a large bundle of furs and an large leather sack full of meat and fruits off the bear’s back and set them down next to Gurga. He then raised his massive hand up to his face and put an index finger to his lips and winked. He leaped back onto the bear and then in one swift move, they dashed off as quickly as they had appeared.

After they were gone, Gurga, with eyes and mouth wide open, felt surprisingly warm from head to toe.

Murga quietly walked up behind Gurga and whispered, “I see Slava Clusa has come.”

Gurga turn and looked at his old friend and excitedly replied, “I saw him!”

“Indeed, you did,” answered Murga.

“I never believed you, but I do now! I’m sorry, I doubted you,” said Gurga looking at Murga.

“No need to apologize. I tell all sorts of stories, and most of them, I just make up. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you the story about the wheel and maybe about microwave ovens.”

“Huh?” said Gurga scratching his head.

“Um, never mind, a, let’s go tell the clan of their good fortune,” suggested Murga.

“They’ll never believe us.”

“We’ll just say it was a mid-winter, MIRACLE!”

“What’s a miracle?” asked Gurga

“It’s similar to, shit happens.”

“Ah, I understand, now.”

 

Merry Christmas!

-jk-

There are those who have seen and believe, there are those who have not seen and believe, and then there are those who never believe even after it slaps them in the face. 

Faith brings hope for the world.

previously posted Dec. 23 2024

World Greatest Malted Milk Shake Recipe

My Uncle Phil lived in Chicago (southside-1964), and when we went to visit him, he would make us malted milk shakes.

Today, I am going to share with you my secret Uncle Phil recipe. 

Yippee!

 

Basic Ingredients:

You need a regular size blender

Gallon of ice cream – Vanilla, Chocolate, etc. etc.

2 tbsp. Malted Powder or 1 box of Malted chocolate balls

2 egg whites – or if you’re lazy, throw it all in.

½ tbsp. Vanilla extract or Almond extract

1 cup of cream – optional if you use whole milk.

½ Gallon of milk – whole milk is preferred

 

Any malted powder will do. This is what I use.

Before you get started, put your serving glasses in the freezer.

(Milk shakes are more better when served in an ice-cold glass.)

 

Step 1: place in blender, 2 tbsp. Malted Powder – or 1 box of Chocolate Malted Balls,      2 egg whites, ½ tbsp. Vanilla extract, 1 cup of cream, and 1 cup of milk.

Step2: Mix ingredients for 10-20 seconds. Don’t over do it. You just want the ingredients mixed up really well before you start adding Ice Cream and more milk.

Step 3: Add a couple scopes of ice cream and a splash of milk – then blend. Continue until you get the desired thickness for you. Add- blend, add blend. (I add a lot more Ice Cream than milk)

I like really, thick shakes – thick enough for the spoon to stand on its own.

And there you have it –A Good Milk Shake.

 

Blue Blue - The G.O.A.T. of Ice Creams.

World’s Greatest Milk Shake

If’n you want to step up your game and make the W. G. M. S., well, you’re gonna need BLUE BELL Ice Cream, for sure! Pick the flavor you like and go for it.

I like cookies and cream and use whole milk. I typically make 4 full glasses. Eat one, freeze the others. Frozen Milk Shake is gooooood.

 

When the grandkids come over, I get a Gallon of Vanilla, 

add 2 tbsp. of Malt Powder and all the other ingredients, but then 

I let them add any flavor they want – chocolate cookies or 

strawberries; basically, whatever their weird little minds think of – they like to throw in a couple of their favorite candy bars.

The Grandkids also like it when I put whipped cream and sprinkles on top.

It’s a great dessert for any occasion – reading a book, watching a movie, or just cuz.

 

Wishing you all a World’s Greatest Milk Shake Thanksgiving!

 

j/k

Reviews - Yes or No?

Full disclosure: I barely passed High School, got bad grades in English classes, and therefore it disqualifies me to legitimately critique anybody’s book.

 

I have, however, read a lot books – when I was a young lad, I read a couple of Jules Verne books and sports books (football- baseball); classics and D&D books in my 30’s; pirate and adventure books in my 40’s; I started writing a trilogy in my 50’s and only read specific styles of writing; and currently piles of indie books.

 

If I knew what I was doing, I wouldn't be doing it wrong.

Reviews:

Everybody wants a review – electricians, plumbers, car repair people, stores, and writers. A review for a waiter/ waitress is determined by the size of the tip you leave them.

Are they important?  Depends. 

If an electrician did their job in a timely manner and everything works, I write a review, so other people know that the person can be trusted or not. I believe that's important.

I have written 100’s of reviews for people who have provided a service and I am a super generous tipper.

On the other hand, I believe my current number for writing an indie book review is three. I do rate all the ones I have read, 1-5 stars.

Why?

Indie writers are an extremely delicate class of people. One wrong word and there is a strong possibility they may never write again or worse. But there are some who can handle constructive criticism.

The are 3 main points I focus on when reading a book – pace, readability, and imagination. Readability is grammar and punctuation, and I fully expect there to be errors, but if there is an excessive amount, I might stop reading the book. Thus far I have never not finished a book. I’ve come close.

The biggest difference, I have noticed, between an indie book and a traditionally published book is pace. Indie writers are generally horrible at pace. I think the reason is because they try to hard and over think the basics.

Recently, (last night) I was reading an indie book, and I was literally screaming in my head, . . . JUST TALK TO ME! If it’s not important, why did you write it. Page filler? If you feel compelled to write page filler material, please make it interesting.

I give up, today, but tomorrow is another day.

Writers are their own worst critic – me included.

I have officially completed six books, published three, and working on a seventh. I cringe when I reread parts of my books and pat myself on the back when I think a particular passage is good.

Of course, writers are trying their best to write a readable book.

Sadly, there are some books that are truly awesome, but will never get the notice they deserve.

 

In the beginning, I intentionally skipped what I was doing in my 20’s. I’ll spare you the details – we have four children.

 

To the people who write reviews – Thank You!  Don’t stop.

 

Have a great day reading and writing fellow book people.

 

j/k

A Halloween Story

 

Mathias Prickler was a recluse and a former grave digger, who lived in a dilapidated shack, surrounded by the forest near the old Oakdale Civil War cemetery.

Home-grown gossip at Ralph’s Diner, about what happened in October, 1957, is always plentiful and a bit far-fetched. Though, the gossip has diminished some over the years, but every now and then, especially near Halloween, the stories about Mathias Prickler are reborn. Trouble is, every year those stories have become a little more inflated.

But don’t you worry none, I’ll be tellin’ you the truth about what really happened, as it was told to me. But I’ll get to that at the end.

It was early in the morning of 30 October 1957. Helen, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Mayor Ben Thomas, while playing hide-in-seek with Mary, her nine-year-old sister, unintentionally wandered near the cemetery. Upon seeing all the tombstones, Helen, a fearless girl, decided to hide behind the largest one.

I'm Scared!

Mary was relentlessly trying to find her sister but could not and was about to give up, until she too came upon the cemetery. Mary was an intelligent and clever girl for her age and immediately suspected Helen was hiding somewhere in the cemetery. “Helen! I know you’re here! I’m going to find you!” she shouted, in a mocking, melodramatic tone.

Systematically, Mary looked behind each tombstone and when she came to the largest one, she assumed that’s where her sneaky sister was hiding. Mary paused, and then flamboyantly jumped to the backside of the tombstone and screamed, “I found y-you, . . .”

Mary was instantly scared stiff. Staring. Speechless. Chills of fear raced up and down her spine. There, on the ground, behind the tombstone, . . . grass splattered with blood and a bloody arm in the midst, bearing a bracelet on the wrist. Helen’s bracelet!

When her mind and body unfettered from the catatonic state, Mary began to comprehended what her eyes were seeing. Fearing the worst, she screamed hysterically! Panic-stricken, she looked in every direction until she noticed a blood trail leading towards the forest. Her eyes followed the trail. When she looked up, Mary was struck with absolute terror. There, standing before her, was a tall, thin man holding an axe.

Mary fainted.

Thenceforward, when the girls were reported missing, a search was conducted, headed by Police Chief George Thompson. Being that Oakdale was a small town, many of the local folks pitched into help. The day passed, but the girls were nowhere to be found.

The search continued the next day.

Chief Thompson decided to pay Mathias a visit, hoping he might have seen the girls. He knew very little about Mathias and that was from his grandfather, who was the pastor of the church, next to the cemetery, before it burned down; and he warned George never to bother the old grave digger. A warning he had forgotten.

The dirt road to Mathias’ place was just wide enough for one car. When the Chief arrived, it was near dark. The smell in the air was horrific. Tattered clothes, large and small blood-soaked bones, and numerous planks of wood were scattered everywhere around the shack.

The Chief shouted, “Mathias!”

Silence, nary even a bird could be heard chirping.

He shouted again, “Mathias!”

Swish!

Chief Thompson’s head fell to the ground, followed by his body.

Later that night, six local teenagers, three boys and three girls, ventured into the cemetery to drink and tell ghost stories. After a few stories, they paired off to be alone. What transpired next was extremely gruesome. Only one of the teenagers made it back home that night – Darla. She was covered in blood when the two Oakdale deputies found her wandering aimlessly in the middle of main street. Darla was so traumatized by what happened, she was unable to speak. But shortly before she died at the age 87, she finally managed to utter a single word, and then she passed away. The word was – Beast.

Several years later, two state troopers came upon the dirt road leading to Mathias Prickler’s shack. Neither of them knew where or what it led to and decided to check it out. What they discovered was completely unexpected.

On the porch, in an old rocking chair was a skeleton, but oddly different than a distinguishable human skeleton. The skull had two small horns jutting out, the legs were longer than any normal human, and one of the long arms was missing; there was also a large axe leaning against the chair. But the strangest thing about the skeleton; it didn’t have any teeth.

Next to the skeleton were two other skeletons. They appeared to be the remains of very large dogs with ragged leather collars around their necks, and both had a bone lodged in their jaws; the troopers determined it was a human arm bone.

One of the troopers, Fred, said he was going inside the shack to investigate and told his partner, Samuel, to inform the dispatcher about what they had found and their location.

Samuel tried to make the call, but they were out of range. Samuel shouted out to Fred let him know, but he didn’t answer. He shouted again. Silence. Worried about his partner, Samuel grabbed his revolver and headed inside. What he saw was incredible and unbelievable!  

In the back of the shack was a large, swirling black hole.

Samuel, trembling, slowly took one step back, and nervously asked, “Fred, where are you?” But suddenly a long, huge claw emerged from the black hole and grabbed Samuel tightly and pulled him into the hole.

Yes, another search party was conducted, and like before, nary a hint of the two troopers whereabouts were ever found, not even their car.

Now, I suspect you might be wondering how I know all the intricate details of those tragic events. Fate or luck, I reckon.

In the fall of 2017, five days before Halloween, I was fishing on the banks of the Lazy River near Oakdale when, much to my surprise, I spotted an old woman, with one arm, wearing a frayed dress, walking straight towards me. When she got within speaking distance, she said, in a gravelly voice, “My sister ain’t found me yet, and I can’t find the bracelet my mother gave me for my birthday.”

After several prodding questions, she began telling me everything that happened to her and everything she had seen. Of course, I struggled to believe her, but I thought why would she lie about such horrible things. After she finished, I turned to grab my cell phone to call the police, but when I turned back around, she was gone. Vanished. I shouted out to her and searched the area. Nothing.

Afterwards, I sat down and wondered if I had dozed off and dreamt the whole thing. Sad part about it was, I never asked, and she never told me her name, which I inadvertently said aloud. Then, a light breeze arose and with it, an eerie whispering voice - my name is Helen.

The ghost of Helen still roams the Oakdale cemetery, waiting and hoping that someday Mary will find her.

-jk-

 

 

 

Truth about Boomers

I’m a Boomer, so I know the truth.

 

I’ve heard all stories about Baby Boomers bragging endlessly on how they used to roam the streets without a care in the world; playing in the park, swimming in the lake, riding their bikes, staying out till dark, or until the street lights came on.

Yes, we all remember the good old days, but now that I’m old enough to know what really was going on, I do have a greater appreciation for the Moms and Dads of that era.  

Kids in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s did frolic carelessly back then, but unbeknownst to them, a formidable team of Super Moms were constantly watching.

Even Santa was a Spy! I'm the kid he's holding.

If a kid walked a block down the road, Mom (A) called Mom (B) to report she was tracking little Johnny or Mary. Walk two more blocks and Mom (C) continued the surveillance. No matter where a kid went, a Mom was tracking them. They had party phones back then too; today it’s known as a conference call.

Dads were on the super team too.

That out of place Dad on the basketball court – SPY!

Dad Showing the kids how to throw a football – Spy!

Dad fishing on the banks of the lake – SPY!

Dad sitting in the ice cream shop drinking coffee all day - SPY!

Dad walking the dog in the park – SPY!

The suspicious looking Dad on the pay phone – Spy!

 

Mailman – Spy! Moms talked to the mailman, and they reported what they saw.

 

Kids had no idea they were being watched from the moment they left the house until the moment they returned. And Moms were super sly too.

Mom – “Jimmy, did you have fun at Billy’s today?”

Me – “How did you know I was at Billy’s?”

Mom – “He IS your best friend isn’t he; I just figured that’s where you were at.”

I never gave any of my Mom’s sneaky questions a second thought, until I became a parent.

 

Moms never panicked or blew their cover either. If they were watching kids play and someone got hurt, they’d wait to see if it was serious or not. Kid banged his knee, cried, threw some dirt on it, and went back to playing. No Problem. Kid stayed on the ground too long, crying and screaming – BOOM, a Mom miraculously appeared out of nowhere.

Some crafty Mom probably even saw your first kiss.

Fred’s Mom sees Joey kissing Sally. No big deal, as long as that’s all he was doing! And Fred’s Mom would report the news back to all the other Moms. For Joey’s birthday, his Mom would cunningly ask, “Are you going to invite Sally to your Birthday party?” To which little Joey replied, “Aw, Mom, do I have to?”

Moms back then knew everything.

Church on Sunday’s was where all the Moms met to discuss – who’s going to be home and on which days, who’s checking the parks, playgrounds, which Dad was on Spy duty, train new Moms, and make sure there weren't any holes in their Super Spy Network   

It is true, when I was only 6 years old, that on any day in the summer, except Sunday, I could go over to Bob’s house, walk in the back door, because it was never locked, and I’d see his Mom cooking breakfast – bacon, eggs, and pancakes. She’d say, “Hi, Jimmy. Go wake Bob up, breakfast is almost ready.”

 

For those who were lucky enough to live in such a neighborhood, it truly was an amazing and peaceful time. Carefree and without worry.

 

It's 10pm - do you know where your kids are?

To all the Moms and Dads, who made sure we were safe, THANK YOU!

 

-jk-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Drama of Finding a Publishing Agent

The joy of typing 'the end' is just the beginning of an author’s nightmare.

 

The mean streets of publishing; it's where everyone shoots from the hip, and it's fast and furious. Today, you have a hot story that begs to be read. Tomorrow, your words are meaningless. Buckle up Cowboy, your story is a dime a dozen.

Back when I jumped into the deep end of the literary world without a life preserver, I discovered there were many quirks and peculiarities about traditional publishing that were baffling. Publishing agents were definitely at the top of the list of people who befuddled me the most.

I needed someone to publish my awesome story, though poorly written, and did what most first-time neurotic writers probably do, I browsed through the list of publishing agents. Here is a small sample of what I found.

 

~Would love to see some contemporary and fantasy pieces hit my inbox!

~We are actively seeking upmarket and commercial Fiction, Magic Realism, Science Fiction, and Fantasy.

~Looking for science fiction, fantasy, paranormal/urban fantasy!

~YA fantasy, killer world building, complicated characters, unique settings.

 

The last one seemed perfect for the novel I wrote. However, as I read how to submit a manuscript, weird thoughts raced through my mind. It felt like I was about to make a drug deal and the publishing agents were high powered drug lords, who occasionally visited back alleys in search of some new exotic drug to sell. At the time, I thought to myself, wow this is perfect! I had a drug (manuscript), and I am looking for a buyer (publishing agent). I found out quickly, peddling my drug to the highest bidder was not how the system worked.

The drug lords weren’t stupid. They wanted the good stuff – a drug that had marketable street cred, but I had no idea how good my drug was, and thus the reason why I was seeking a professional agent.

To make matters worse, the drug lords (agents) wanted a query letter via email, no attachments, 2–3-page synopsis, and include 5-10 pages of the manuscript in the body of the email. Do not query more than one drug lord at the agency (syndicate) simultaneously. Due to the high volume of submissions, agents (mobsters, thugs, gangsters) will reach out to you directly if interested. The typical time range for consideration is 6-8 weeks. (Some said 1-6 months) DAM! What in the hell should I do while I wait? And what if my drug (manuscript) gets rejected after I waited all that time? (Insert curse words here.)

 

This type of system is brutal!

 

Yes, it is mentally exhausting!

 

When you're alone, you're the boss of you.

How do I feel now, well, the thought of seeking out an agent still makes me feel like a two-bit drug dealer. I got crates of words (manuscripts), and I’d happily sell them all in a garage sale for pennies. 

 

With that being said, I do have sympathy for all the publishing agents. We now live in a world where everyone wants to be heard. (That was me, 13 years ago) Thankfully or not, the internet and social media has given the ‘would-be-future-authors’ an outlet to share their every thought to the world, and they overwhelm the publishing agents. (Insert music – Sympathy for the Devil, by the Rolling Stones)

 

On the other hand, the crazy, unfair traditional publishing system did give birth to independent publishing, which now runs rampant and there is no stopping it – it is the current lottery ticket to fame and fortune if you have the means and the know-how.

 

Indie Authors becoming a NY Times Best Seller is a 1 in a billion chance, but it is a chance.

 

Tip of the Day: Fiction is always about the story, but find someone who has the ability to make your story readable, perhaps, an editor? (I really dislike editors, but they are a necessary evil.)

 

 -jk-

Bucket List

Bucket List: a list of things a person wants to achieve or experience before they reach a certain age.

Everyone’s bucket list is different, and I suspect they are significantly distinct from generation to generation. 

The older you become, the Bucket List changes with each passing year, and they are things that are usually impossible.

Traveling, acquiring money, meeting someone famous, or becoming famous is probably on a lot of lists. *yawn*

My list is short, and not because I have done a great many things in my life, but now it's more about the unattainable. Besides, anything on the list, short of impossible, would simply be pointless at my age. Essentially, my bucket list is sort of like a regret list; stuff I should have done or thought to do when I was younger. If any item on my list happens, I hope it happens before I am too old to appreciate it.

 

Here is my list:

1. I would like to drive a fire truck just once. When I was in the military, I had a license to drive every vehicle they had, except one, a fire truck. (It could still happen.)

2. Speak at the UN to share my secret to the world. (Doubtful)

3. Have a backyard BBQ that lasts 2-3 weeks. (Maybe?)

4. Write something so ridiculously profound that current and future Artificial Intelligence would be incapable of defining. (You never know.)

5. Fly in a fighter jet. (We all have that one big dream.)

The first one is still doable, 2, 3, and 4 are unlikely, and 5 is a fantasy dream. The BBQ would be awesome if famous people I like attended and stayed the whole time. As for speaking at the UN, I doubt any change would come of it, but it sure would be entertaining to see everyone’s reaction.

That’s it for my list. I would have included winning the lottery, but money makes me crazy. Fame doesn’t excite me either nor does traveling around the world just to see stuff.

 

The genie in my lamp left and lives in a condo in Florida

Wisdom for the young: do what makes you happy, and it is better to act on your dreams instead of waiting for three wishes from a genie in a magic lamp.

 

Have Nice Day and be a Loving Red Cricket or a Humble Turquois Panther Next Week!

jk

Inspiring Quotes

 

How does a writer come up with an unforgettable phrase or quote?

 

I believe it must be relevant. Relevant to the character and to the story, but it also needs to sound spontaneous. If it comes across as forced or predictable, it’s doubtful most would remember it as something remarkable or significant.  

The bad guy ‘speech’ right before he tortures or attempts to kill the hero is generally a redundant spew of blah, blah, blah B.S., we have all heard a million times. But, when Clint Eastwood, as Harry Callahan, said, “Go ahead, make my day,” it was and still is, legendary.

Formulating an ‘etched in your mind forever’ quip, quote, or statement is no doubt a difficult task. I often wonder, while reading a book, what the writer was thinking when they wrote something exceptionally significant. Did they like it at first? Did they rewrite it a hundred times? Unfortunately, only the writer knows the answers to those questions.

I mentioned the Clint Eastwood quote because we now live in a world where movie excerpts dominate our social vernacular more so than any passage from a book. Yes, it is true many memorable movie lines come from books, but when was the last time you heard a group of teenagers talking about something they read in a book? Hardly ever, I suspect. Unless, they heard it on an Audio book, thus hearing it instead of reading it.

I used to be a big movie watcher, but as I grow older, the comfort of a good book, while sitting in my soft chair, late at night, when the house is deathly silent, entertains me more than watching a movie.

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,” said Alice, “because I am not myself, you see.”

Here are a few of my favorite lines. I could list a thousand more, but these 3 speak to me on a personal level. 

“Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

“You're bound to get idears if you go thinkin' about stuff” ― John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

“If one plan goes wrong there is need to make another, that is all. And, as for despair — there was no room for despair in Dodd’s make-up. The regiment had taught him that he must do his duty or die in the attempt; a simple enough religion fit for his simple mind. As long as there was breath in his body or a thought in his mind he must struggle on; as long as he went on trying there was no need to meditate on success or failure. The only reward for the doing of his duty would be the knowledge that his duty was being done.” ― C.S. Forester, Rifleman Dodd

 

The best I can offer in regards to the joy I feel when reading a book is, I am alone with the author and their imagination, which I believe is a wonderful place to be.

This summer - winter, visit a book store, library, or go on-line and get a mountain of books. Reacquaint yourself with your imagination; it’s a youthful experience you won’t want to miss!

 

“It seems strange to see adults encouraging the young to hurry through the delightful adventure of youth.”

“Those who die young will never experience the pain of regrettable mistakes and haunting yesterdays.”

“Ignorance and youth are the perfect couple: a nasty curse only time and death can dispel.”

 

 -jk-