The American Writer

Think of Me as Cal-Trans

Tom Eubanks — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 17:16:39 GMT

                                                             (Still)

        Three weeks ago today, I wrote that I needed one to three weeks to get the new WordPress blog designed and up. Well, it's still under construction, because it's more complicated than I thought it would be, and I've gotten a whole bunch of real work in over the last three weeks.
        My crew and I are doing our best to get this project finished so I can get back to blogging again. Tommy-boy and Thomas tend to stand around between brief moments of industriousness, while Fat Tom does what he does best, and then there's me--Tom--doing all the work. Picture Cal-Trans: one guy working; the others doing everything but.
        When we finally get this project done, it's going to be better than before, but I'll need some more time. Thanks for your patience.

Under Construction/Destruction

Tom Eubanks — Sat, 21 May 2011 21:27:51 GMT

        I didn't post on Friday, because I didn't feel like it. This blog is under construction . . . possibly destruction . . . haven't decided yet. I'm moving the blog from GoDaddy's pathetically inflexible and Robotically Spammed to Death platform to Wordpress. I'll be able to move all my old posts over, too, which was my biggest concern.   Give me a week or two or three . . . .
        In the meantime, there are a couple hundred posts going back to December 24, 2009, most of which nobody or few have read. This will give those of you reading the blog a chance to simply explore the entertaining, enlightening and educational posts from the past.
        Enjoy.

        Onward.

So?

Tom Eubanks — Thu, 19 May 2011 04:02:00 GMT

           So last week I wrote the 500-word piece for No Cover Magazine about a Chicago band called Company of Thieves. I interviewed the frontwoman (she's 22), Genevieve Schatz. It was fun doing the research, listening to their music, reading about them and the interview.   Altogether, I spent about 4 hours in research, interviewing and writing the piece. But it only pays $10 and a by-line. Whoopee.
        So I wrote and directed my play, American Right, and it was produced at The Elite Theatre Company in April, 2010--which only happened because I'm the Artistic Director and I have the job of picking the plays. Over a year later, I'm only half-way through reformatting it. You see, I wrote it in a format that's not compatible with what the big play publishers will accept. This should've taken me a month at most. It's boring work, but I can't get it published until I finish the formatting, write a synopsis, package it with a cover letter and send it out to about a half-dozen publishers.
        So I finished my second novel, The Plunge . . . a long time ago . . . and finished what I hoped would be a final draft almost two years ago . . . and then a year ago I began posting the first 40 chapters of the novel. I hoped to get some feedback. I got some criticism on the first chapter from one person and that's it.
        So I finished posting the 40 chapters of The Plunge and spent some time getting PayPal and re-working my Web site to sell the last ten chapters as a PDF for a nominal fee. No one has bought the last ten chapters. Not my mother, my brother, my cousin or my best friend.
        So I self-published my novel Worlds Apart. I sold eight copies at a reading in February, 2010, right after it came out; a few copies were bought by a couple people through iUniverse.com; and I sold about 6 copies to people who just wanted me to leave them alone about it. I think I've sold a total of about 15 copies. No one has bought a copy by reading my Web site--at least as far as I know--and that's why I started the Web site and The American Writer blog.
        So I sent out five queries to agents for Worlds Apart, knowing full well I need to send out dozens and knowing full well that they all see a self-published book as a whore with STDs, and got back two Up Yours and three No Response.
        So I sent two of my best short stories to three online fiction magazines. Two have rejected; one I haven't heard from.
        So I started writing this blog nearly 17 months ago and I'm being attacked by Robot Spam so bad that I'm having to upgrade (spend more money I don't have) and move to Wordpress, because I can't tell if anyone is actually reading it.
        So I get this brilliant idea to get contributors involved, and, after begging and coercing, I get five writers to contribute--two of them on two occasions--and then nothing more.
        So I get this second brilliant idea to open the 2011 year with a week-long series of pieces by the five contributors, and, after begging and coercing them, I manage to get the five "not-easy" pieces, and I tell them all to keep sending me something to post . . . but nothing comes.
        So I get this third brilliant idea to have a contest and arrange to have my childhood friend, Robert, to give me his great images to use as inspiration for short stories, and for the first contest, I get . . . two submissions. I post the winner and give out the prize, thinking, "This will build."
        So I put up the second American Pixels contest (probably too soon, but what the heck) and I get . . . none. That's right. So I wrote one myself called Into Sacrifice--probably one of the best short stories I've written in a long time--and post it using the pseudonym of Kai Garcia and congratulate Kai (the winner) by posting the story and making up this grand prize of two tickets to Disneyland valued at $151.  And I didn't hear from anyone about the story, about the prize, nothing. Total silence.
        So I used to get comments and occasional feedback on the blog, but now I rarely get anything and I'm beginning to think I'm actually writing for maybe 5 people who look at one or two pieces--pieces I often spend 2-4 hours researching and writing--three or four times a month.
        So I buy the upgrade and download the Wordpress to get rid of the Robot Spam, but I can't figure out a few things about transferring my blog from Quick Blogcast to Wordpress.
        So I let it sit.
        So I call the GoDaddy online technical support and learn what I'm doing wrong: nothing. I just didn't know I couldn't do it myself.
        So I finally get the Wordpress downloaded and I'm ready to work on it. And that was several days ago. I can't get myself to start learning it. I dread it, in fact.
        So I started re-writing the few chapters I'd written of a novel called Cherry Road, asking for feedback, and other than a little on the first chapter from one person, there's been nothing. And besides that, the story creeps me out and I don't know if I want to write it--again.
        So I finished my second play, Perfect Quiet Place.  I don't have to get anyone's permission to do the play at The Elite Theatre Company, so I'm including it in next year's season, but I want someone else to direct it, but before I do, I have to reformat it and re-write it. It's been on my schedule every day for the last month to work on it and I never get to it.
        So . . . I'm obviously not doing too much right. I'm obviously not focusing. I'm obviously not putting in enough work. I'm obviously expecting more for doing less.
        So . . . I'll feel sorry for myself tonight. Get up. And figure out what to do next.
        So . . . what?

Cherry Road - Chapter Five

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 17 May 2011 04:40:00 GMT

Chapter Five

“Can I watch it?” Arlie says as she follows Denny and Bobbie into the house. Closing the door, Denny stops, takes his eyes from Bobbie’s tight behind.

“Up to him,” Bobbie says offhandedly. “It’s his house.”

Stunned, a strange weakness creeps down his legs, and he sits on the arm of the couch and looks at Bobbie, who is inspecting the beautiful walnut paneled living room. He wants to say something, to tell them that he is very uncomfortable with this arrangement, for them to take the hundred bucks and just go.

Arlie’s eyebrows rise. “Well? Can I? It’s been awhile.”

He is unable to speak for a moment as the image sweeps across his eyes: he lowers his nude body down onto and into this bawdy stranger, feels the sensual gaze of her young daughter watching them from the chair in the corner.

Denny finds his voice. “I’m not . . . I’m not sure I can go through with this.” He can't help but look at his hands.

“Hey, look,” Bobbie says, “you offered. If you don’t wanna, fine, just say so, but don’t play games with us, okay? We’ve seen enough shit this century.”

Denny raises his eyes. She stands over him with her hands on her hips, and he drops his eyes slowly, following her shape. He thinks of Kay, their dinner, what might follow his inexperience; the idea of the first time being special steps aside for the obvious logic: to be with a woman before he tries to make real love to one.

Arlie sighs. “Make up your mind, mister.”

“Don’t be rude,” Bobbie snaps at her, and then turns back to Denny. “Do we stay or go?”

Denny glances at Arlie, back to Bobbie. Both have their arms crossed.

“Okay,” he says. “You, you can stay. But I don’t want her to watch. Okay?”

Arlie grunts in adolescent astonishment, shaking her head, and says: “What is the big deal?” She gestures to the TV. “It’s just a little electricity, mister—take it out of the hundred bucks. Jeez!”

Confused, Denny doesn’t reply. He peers around her at the TV. Arlie plops in his recliner.

Bobbie says, “So what do you want me to do for the hundred?”

He hardly hears her words, because he suddenly understands that Arlie only wants to watch TV and not him and her mother in bed.

“I . . . I was, I was just kidding,” he says. “You can watch TV.”

“Cool.” She smiles, finds the remote on the table next to the recliner and clicks it on.

“What do you say?” Bobbie says.

“Some joke,” Arlie says. She notes her mother’s stern look. “Thank you, Mr. Bringleson, for allowing me to watch your television set,” she says with sarcrastic articulation.

“You’re welcome.”

Impatiently, Bobbie says, “What do I do?”

The urge to make the money a gift wells up in him again. He recognizes the urge. Insecurity. She will know he is inexperienced, and she will wonder why a 28-year-old man is still . . . still a virgin. Maybe not. Maybe she will find it distinctive. Unusual. Maybe she’ll be attracted to him as a man.

Do it, he tells himself. Do it.

Bobbie breaks the silence. “Well?”

“Okay. Let’s do it.” He leads her up the stairs to the bedroom and closes the door behind her. She looks around the clean, orderly room. The blue comforter trimmed in red is neatly spread over the bed. She frowns, backing away.

“What the fuck is this?”

“My bedroom.”

“No shit. It’s immaculate. What’s to clean?” She realizes something and looks back over her shoulder. “Why’s the door closed?”

Denny awkwardly sidesteps towards the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, perplexed at her testy tone of voice.

“If you want, we can leave it open. I just thought—”

“Get away from it!”

“—you might want some privacy.”

“Privacy? What are you talking about? Why would . . . ?” The rinse of fear on her face suddenly dries up and her eyes widen, filling with an unmistakable expression of understanding. She points at him. “You thought”—a derisive chuckle—“you thought I was going to fuck you? For money? Ah, Jesus! I don’t believe this! You think I’m a goddamn whore!”

Denny says nothing—his embarrassment so great he can only stand there while she falls back on his bed, laughing hysterically, pointing at him, slapping the bed. Heat rises from his neck, washes over his face, burning so hot, he breaks out in a sweat. He can’t look at her. He wants to run from the room but can’t seem to get himself to move. She continues to laugh, finally coughing, which stops her, and she sits up, panting, her face pinched from anger and hurt.

In silence, Denny looks at her, finding the words. Finally, he straightens his back and shoulders and says, “I apologize. For my ignorance. I didn’t . . . I meant no disrespect, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrow, piercing through him, surgically exploring the character of the man behind the words.

“I’d knock the shit out of you,” she says calmly, “but . . . I don’t know—how can someone be so . . . ?

“I apologized. What do you want from me? Everything sounded like you were . . . you know.”

“Wow.”

“I didn’t even want to do it really.”

“I kind of got the opposite idea,” she says.

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Please,” he says, “accept my apology, take your daughter and the hundred dollars and . . . go away. Please.”

Denny walks to his dresser, glances over his shoulder, hesitates, and then opens the center drawer. Blocking her view, he takes five twenties from an envelope, opens the bedroom door, and, standing to the side like a doorman, offers Bobbie the money.

She looks at it. Then she snatches the money and runs down the stairs. He closes the door and leans against it. The front door slams.

***

It is cool for a summer evening. Sitting on the side of the house on an old oak stump, Denny watches the moon rise over Ventana Valley. A tide of loneliness pulls him deeper inside himself. Denny watches his parents through a memory, a memory of ritual exchanges they had with each other. His mother complains about some minor foible in his father. His father hums a tune he makes up as he goes. They are together, alive, comfortable, still in love. Lovers and lunatics, Denny thinks. Lunatic lovers. A man and a woman so much in love, having worked so hard to make life together, parents of a son who loved them more than himself.

Denny restrains the memory of their end. An end that remains always the same, because it is true, because it happened. But the end will not be inhibited, and he recalls their end came on a summer night much like this night, with the moon dispatching its craziness over the Earth. He looks up. The lunar mountains make the Man-in-the-Moon look like he has a five-o’clock shadow—like his father’s, at the end of that day last summer. He recalls tiny button-sized puddles of blood leading across the Linoleum, his paralyzing panic; he feels the insane chill in the hot kitchen, where he finds his father sitting in the breakfast nook with his head flopped back over the chair, slashes in his throat gushing, pulsing blood like gills on a dying fish.

The horror, the inhumanity of it revives, and Denny rises to stare back at the moon, to take its brightness and blur the memory. But it won’t go away. He runs into the orchard, faster and faster, until he cannot evade the cherry branches in his path. He closes his eyes, still racing recklessly through the trees, anticipating the blow.

A low, looping bough punches him square on the chin, throwing him back off his feet. The horrible nightmare fades peacefully to black.

***

Consciousness returns like a refreshing, early-morning dream. Denny rolls to his side. The smell of cherries rises from the dirt around him. He touches the blood in the split in his chin. He stands, woozy.

“Oh, I gotta do that again, real soon,” he says. He holds his watch up to the moonlight. He’s been out for only fifteen minutes. Looking through the trees, his head throbbing, he starts back towards the remaining darkness of his home.

Back in the kitchen, Denny drops ice cubes into a sandwich bag, gently presses it to his chin and carefully walks upstairs to his bedroom.

He moves through the darkness like a blind man accustomed to the surroundings and stops beside his bed. He reaches under the lamp on the night stand and fumbles for the little black knob to turn it on, when a voice says:

“Leave it off and come to bed.”

Staged Readings: Polishing the Play

Tom Eubanks — Thu, 12 May 2011 04:09:00 GMT

        Besides novels, screenplays and short stories, I also write plays.   I started writing my play American Right, a political mystery, in late 2008. There were several drafts. In August, 2009, I staged a reading at Besant Hill School's excellent theater in Ojai, where the invited audience heard the play read by actors in character. This is called a "staged reading," and they happen all the time in theaters across America.
        Generally, there's no "business" or very much movement. Usually the actors sit on stage in chairs or stools with a music stand or table for their script and just read their part in character. Some directors will have the actors move from one place of reading to another, from a couch to a stool, but nothing close to production level.
        A staged reading is very entertaining; it's a different form of theater. Reader's theater applies the same "reading" of the script, but the actors have polished their performances with pacing, character development and sometimes even props. A staged reading is the baby sister of reader's theater, which is the middle sister between a staged reading and a full-blown performance.
        Where reader's theater is presented for the benefit of an audience, a staged reading is presented to an audience for the benefit of the playwright. The playwright has the opportunity to hear the play interpreted by actors, an important element in finding the rhythm, pacing, and beats. Nothing brings out forced characterization and unbelievable dialogue as well as hearing the play read by good actors.
        Before beginning a few rehearsals for the staged reading of American Right, I have to admit that I believed my script was 80% (not dull but tarnished). I directed the staged reading. In rehearsals, the actors were able to illuminate the dialogue where it worked well. That's just as important as finding the flaws. For me, there's nothing more tragic than changing dialogue, plot or characterization that would have worked. Also, during rehearsals, we discovered awkward dialogue, details that needed to be clearer (this was a mystery and needed precise construction for it to work), and inconsistent character traits. So after rehearsals, I believed my script was about 90% (clean with bright spots). I predicted that after the one-night performance and the written feedback, like some good old-fashioned elbow grease, I'd have the insight to do the hardest labor on a final draft. I was confident I could polish the script to a beautiful 100% sheen.
        Over thirty members of the audience filled out the feedback form. And many of the comments were repeated, which encouraged me to really look at what it was they were telling me and to re-write it. What the comments did most was focus my attention on the weak areas of the script that were keeping excellence at bay. So I invited honesty from everyone and got it. It paid off more than I expected.
        After my final draft, I felt it was close to 100% but needed more work. The play was slated for the second slot of The Elite Theatre Company's 2010 season. Rather than work the poor thing to death, though, I knew that, as director, I would be able to make more changes during the six-week rehearsal period. And I did. Once we began blocking and working the scenes (polish, polish, polish), cracks in the script appeared. None were catastrophic. In fact, the work I put into the script after the staged reading was the best work, because it came not just from my own head but from the heads of several actors and an audience.
        It was my first experience with a staged reading. I'm sold on the value of this method for repairing and polishing a script.
        Tomorrow night at The Elite Theatre Company, Kimberly Demmary, a fellow actor (in fact, she played a lead in American Right) and playwright, will present a staged reading of her play at my theater. This time I get to be an audience member. I told her I would bring the big old cloth if she'd bring the Turtle Wax . . . . Okay, I never said that. But I should have.

500 Miles . . . and Counting?

Tom Eubanks — Fri, 06 May 2011 21:32:00 GMT

        I began writing  The American Writer on December 24, 2009. Five-hundred days later--tomorrow--I'm still writing it. These 500 days have felt like walking 500 miles. Sometimes; not always. One of the things that encouraged me to keep writing three days a week was the statistical information provided me by my blog host.
         But over the last few months, I've begun to receive so many robotic comments--literally, computer-generated--which are also forwarded to my e-mail, that I began researching how to stop it. Getting over a hundred "comments"--all with business or corporate origins--every day became so time-consuming and frustrating that I contacted my host to find out what to do about it.
        My host told me I needed to "filter"; to do that I needed to upgrade. They told me the service I bought wasn't enough. What they meant was that if I want something to work the way a normal person would expect it to work, I have to pay for it special. I get it. I should have known that filtering out SPAM, which is included in the service, doesn't mean most of it. It means a little bit of it. So if I want to have it work against most of it, I'll have to pay for the privilege. So I did.
        Except . . . I arranged to move my platform from Quick Blog Cast to Wordpress. It will include the "filtering" and will allow me more choices and flexibility in producing this blog. And I'll have more accurate statistics for determining what blogs work and which ones do not, and to know how many hits I'm getting on the blog.  I used to see the graph line go up, wanting to believe that the blog was taking on new readers, yet still suspecting that many of those "hits" were robots invading me with comments.
        As I write this I realize that maybe filtering is a mistake. Do I really want to know there's only three of you?

Popularly Confusable Words - Part Three

Tom Eubanks — Thu, 05 May 2011 02:30:00 GMT

Adapt, Adopt; Allusion, Illusion; Averse, Adverse. These were the words I discussed in Part Two back on April 25. So here are a few more words that have become popularly confused:

        Among, Between

        Among is used when there are three or more people or things; between is used when there are two people or things. Both mean "in the middle of."

        Among the throng of demonstrators holding placards celebrating Ben & Jerry's sat a lone man churning homemade ice cream.  The lone man had placed his own placard between himself and the throng, which read: "Down with Big Ice Cream."

        In using "the throng," it would appear that I didn't follow the rule of using between for two people or things, because a throng is made up of several individuals. But in this case, the throng is a singular thing, so using between is correct.

        Compliment, Complement

        I used to confuse these two words all the time, so I created a way to remember which is which. I give a compliment to someone for good performance or how they look. This word has an "i"--as in "I give a compliment." Complement--with an "e"--means something that completes or makes perfect. "Completes" or "makes perfect." I just remember the "i" and the "e."

        The three-inch thick, New York-style cheesecake crowned with fresh strawberries complemented the six-course meal.  I complimented the host for closing the meal with a rich jewel of flavor.

        The adjective form of these two words are complimentary and complementary. There is no such word as complimentory or complementory with an "o." Just remember, "O! What a mistake!"

        Counsel, Council

        These two words are famously confused. Counsel means advise or guide in the correct direction or judgment. It's used primarily as a verb but is also a noun.

        My attorney counseled (verb) me never to churn homemade ice cream in the middle of a demonstration, unless I was willing to accept my just desserts.

        I ignored my attorney's counsel (noun) and now I'm serving ten days for churning without a permit and attempted loitering.

        Council is always a noun meaning a body of people governing something.

        The Council on Reasonable American Patriots (CRAP) came to the defense of Big Ice Cream, once again finding a way to knock the little guy down . . .well, little in the philosophical sense.

        Coming next: Popularly Confusable Words - Part Four.

Affect, Effect        Comprise, Compose       Abjure, Adjure

Favorite Words: Capacious

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 03 May 2011 03:34:00 GMT

        I'm terribly behind in these "monthly" favorite words. I posted "expurgate" in January, and then I posted February's Favorite Word in March ("fecundity") and did not write one for March or April, so this one is for March and I'll have a couple more this month to catch up to May.

                                    capacious

    "Capacious" is an adjective from the Latin capax from the Latin capere meaning to take.  It means capable of holding much; roomy; spacious.

    Albert Einstein's capacious mind left little doubt that he was a genius.

    She carried a capacious handbag full of nothing but intuition and potential.

    By knocking down two walls, we transformed our living room into a more capacious space, but now all the neighbors can watch us playing Wii in our underwear.

    On Word!

The Big Picture: Writing Outside My Generation

Tom Eubanks — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 03:31:00 GMT

        My middle daughter, who by 24 owned her own company supplying clubs with dancers (not strippers), told me one day to go to Craigslist ® for writing jobs. She had seen eight sub-headings under the heading of "gigs, " and one of them was "writing."
        In mid-March, I put in my own listing for writing services on Craigslist and went to "gigs" to see what writing jobs I could find there. Most of the offers for "work" were either vague, short-term, or woefully technical. Except one. It was for what I thought was a new magazine called No Cover Magazine, a music and action sports lifestyle publication. All I saw was that I got tickets to attend concerts and sporting events and then was to write a 500-word review or something (it was vague about what I would be writing). Well I can write a 500-word anything during the course of eating a bowl of McConnell's Chocolate Almond ice cream.  But it only paid $5-10 an article. That was an insult. But I sucked it in and looked at the bigger picture. There wasn't one. It was just this tiny little picture: me, sitting with a bunch of loud, stoned 20-somethings or younger listening to too-loud music, void of melody, with lyrics built around one-syllable words.
        So I applied.
        I really thought they wouldn't care to take a 58-year-old private eye/theatrical director/writer/grandpa who really dreams of being a professional golfer and listens primarily to classical and classic rock.  I don't think they really cared about those things. I guess they just need writers.
        I was notified that I was accepted into their throng of "staff writers." Mind you, I'm one of the most skeptical guys you'd ever meet. I live by the rule that if it's too easy it's not real. In the editor's e-mail, I was given a long list of bands from which to choose my top three. I was to give the editor the names of my top three bands from the list so that I could write about them. His e-mail said he'd get back to me with the concert information and, in the meantime, if I wasn't familiar with the bands, I should do my research. I found out this magazine is legitimate and has been a viable publication since 1997.
        So I spent three hours finding the Web site or other music sites where I could learn more about the band and, more importantly, listen to their music. And I was pleasantly surprised that out of the twelve bands, I liked eight of them. In fact, I had a hard time picking my top three. But I did.  Here's what their Web site says about why the magazine started in 1997:

        "We focus on new and upcoming bands and athletes. It all started from an idea discussed over lunch in February 1997 with some friends at Chicago Pizza in West Los Angeles. By April of the same year we had a plan and layout of our 1st issue but no cover and no name for our publication. Our mission was to provide a lifestyle resource to cover the Los Angeles music, pop culture and club scene. Plus highlighting and give recognition to unsigned bands of all genres since all other publications at the time turned away unsigned music artists and only covered artists signed to major labels."

        My younger brother started the band The Never Never and my older daughter is a member of the band as well, so this excited me. I've come to appreciate the challenges new bands (like new writers) have to meet to have a real break-through, and part of that process is getting their name out there. I liked the idea and suddenly writing for this magazine had a different purpose for me.  I'm going to accept the little picture and let the big picture fall from the sky.
        I have this idea that I'm not really the kind of writer this magazine is looking for, but I know I'm the kind of writer they need. So I'll write . . .undercover for No Cover. Hopefully, they won't look at my Facebook page and see who I really am.
        After listening to hours of some of the most inventive and talented new bands, knowing that most of my generation wouldn't bother, I wondered if I wasn't being a fool. But isn't that what the Big Picture is? Self-realization? How can I find out all that I am as a writer if I think I'm just the man I see in the mirror each morning.
        Here I come, kiddies!

Moreover, Did You Hear the Story about the Conjunctive Adverbs?

Tom Eubanks — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 04:10:00 GMT

Finally, I get to attempt something few would try. Make writing about conjunctive adverbs amusing . . . even fun.
So . . . .

        Once upon a time, in a place far, far away, there was Mr. Connect and Ms. Idea. Indeed, each was single, searching for a marriage of intimacy and independence; however, the Big Writer-in-the-Sky never came calling on them.  Mr. Connect was first and foremost a Conjunction from out West and needed, nevertheless, to meet Ms. Idea, a dyed-in-the-wool Adverb from the South. Mr. Connect and Ms. Idea were nowhere near to each other. Nonetheless, they wanted the other--badly.
        They prayed to the BW-in-the-Sky every time he sat down to write.  BW-in-the-Sky didn't hear their prayers; therefore, the marriage was suspended until the next time he'd sit down to write. But each time it was the same. Big Writer just wouldn't listen.
        Something unexpected happened, however. An intercession . . . .

        A blogging fool
        named Tommy O'Toole
        rode into town riding a mule.

        (Wasn't that unexpected? The rhyme. Not that Tommy rode a mule.)

        He lit down in the town,
        in a pew of a church,
        to confess to Big Writer he was in quite a lurch.
        BW-in-the-Sky
        with diamonds for eyes,
        couldn't help be distracted by Tommy's loud cries.

        He cries for intimacy,
        and independence, too;
        subsequently, BW thought, "Tommy got through!"

       Looking down from the sky,
        gouging diamonds from his eyes,
        guess who Big Writer spies--Connect/Idea, likewise.
        BW calls to Tommy,
        "Hear you loud and clear! Connection and relationships, ya hear?"

        Subsequently, meanwhile and therefore, the Big Writer-in-the-Sky came down to Earth to toil in the soil (sorry, didn't mean for that one to happen) to mine only for a very special gem: conjunctive adverbs.  And BW took Mr. Connect and he married them to one another--two as one--and instantly they had offspring which formed a vein filled with accordingly, however, nonetheless, also, indeed, otherwise, besides, instead, similarly, consequently, likewise, still, conversely, meanwhile, subsequently, finally, moreover, then, furthermore, nevertheless, therefore, hence, next, thus . . .the mother lode.
        And he saw that it was good. The end. Whew.

        Having fun? I'm having fun. You didn't know conjunctive adverbs could be such fun. Now I realize that, in the story, BW is omniscient and all-powerful, so it makes sense that he understood everything about conjunctive adverbs instantly upon hearing Tommy's prayers. But Earth-bound writers need to know a few things about how to use them:

        Conjunctions have one job: to connect.  I use them to join words, phrases and clauses to clarify what I am saying. Just their presence gives my writing smooth transitions from one idea to another. When I use an adverb to make the connections, it's called a conjunctive adverb, what a surprise.

        You may wonder what the heck it does. Not the surprise, the conjunctive adverb.  It joins, introduces, interrupts or concludes. Did you know it could do all that? Well, it can. (Can you tell I'm really high on these conjunctive adverbs?)
        When joining, a semi-colon precedes and a comma (usually) follows the conjunction; from the above story and verse:

        Indeed, each was single, searching for a marriage of intimacy and independence; however, the Big Writer-in-the-Sky never came calling on them.

        BW-in-the-Sky didn't hear their prayers; therefore, the marriage was suspended until the next time he'd sit down to write.

        He cried for intimacy,
        and independence, too;
        subsequently, BW thought, "Tommy got through!"

    When introducing, interrupting or concluding, a comma (sometimes not) is used to punctuate the sentence:

        Nonetheless, they wanted the other--badly.

       Mr. Connect was first and foremost a Conjunction from out West and needed, nevertheless, to meet Ms. Idea, a dyed-in-the-wool Adverb from the South.

        Something unexpected happened, however.

        Conjunctive adverbs make it possible for me to join two main clauses, connect two complete ideas, and, when used to introduce, interrupt or conclude, they show relationships between ideas within an independent clause. Without this gem, I'd write only in simple sentences, one thought leaping to another thought like a, oh, let's say a kangaroo, leaping over transitions in a single bound. Without this gem, I'd write like Hemingway. Oh, wait. I mean his style, not his success.
        Finally, similarly, accordingly, conjunctive adverbs add rhythm to my writing.

        Ana-one, ana-two, ana-three!

Popularly Confusable Words - Part Two

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 04:17:00 GMT

Ability/Capacity; Accept/Except; Advise/Advice. These were the words I discussed in Part One back on April 8. So here are a few more words that have become popularly confused:

        Adapt, Adopt

        Adapt is used to mean preparing for a situation; adopt has the double-meaning of accepting a child not biologically your own and raising him or to choose to use a particular plan.

        I would like to adapt to being a conservative in the People's Republic of California, but if it means driving a Volvo forget it.

        I decided to adopt the child, but the child would not adapt to eating breakfast for dinner and dessert first, so I gave him back.

        I adopted a weight-loss plan, but the weigh-loss plan would not adapt to my eating breakfast for dinner and dessert first, so I got my money back.

        Allusion, Illusion

        Allusion is a verb (from allude) meaning a reference to something; illusion is a noun: a magical appearance.

        I alluded to the magician's disemboweling illusion in my treatise, "Do You Have the Guts to do Magic?"

        The professor's allusion to my treatise about being a magician as being superficial was his own narrow-minded illusion of magic as an art form.

        Averse, Adverse

        Averse simply means I don't like something; adverse means harmful.

        Adverse is more often used with things than humans.

        I am averse to smoking in public, since it's adverse to my image as a man without vices.

        I am averse to phony images, since it's adverse to being honest.

        That's all for now.  Watch for Popularly Confusable Words - Part Three:

        Among, Between        Compliment, Complement        Counsel, Council

        On Word!

American Pixels: Photo-to-Story Contest #2

Tom Eubanks — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 22:11:00 GMT

        Contest #2

Remember the guidelines:

        1.    View and study the Robert X. Jones image.
        2.    Use the image as the visual impetus to write a short story.
        3.    Write a short story between 500 and 1500 words.
        4.    E-mail story to tom@tomeubanks.com by 11:59 p.m. May 6, 2011. (Don't forget to put your title and by-line at the top of the story.)
        5.    I will choose the first place story for publication in The American Writer.
        6.    The winning story will be published in The American Writer and I will send the winner a special prize.

    Here's the official Robert X. Jones photo:



Onward.

Cherry Road - Chapter Four

Tom Eubanks — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 00:52:00 GMT

Chapter Four

Five o’clock that evening, the sun still radiant over the tops of the western rows of his orchard, Denny lounges in his Lazy-Boy recliner in the living room and, using the special green button on his remote, scrolls through a canon of programming. De trop reality TV is dominated only by mindless sports and slothfully written sitcoms.

He decides to drive into Ventana Springs to rent a movie. And to stop by Bayler’s Market for a new package of Oreo cookies. He showers, dresses in a fresh green sport shirt and tan Docker’s shorts, evaluates himself too long in the mirror, changes out of the shirt and shorts, slides through the clothing in his closet, and puts back on the same green shirt and tan shorts; this time, though, he’s pleased with his good luck: he inherited his parents’ hardy handsomeness. There are his father’s penetrating blue eyes, the broad flat forehead, the angular physique; his mother’s straight nose, wavy blond hair, full lips. Perhaps too effeminate for lips on a man, but he catches some women looking at them longer than ordinary interest.

He backs the Oldsmobile Delta 88 from the garage and heads down the mountain. At the highway, he notices the station wagon is still parked under the trees. Shadows darken the interior. His confrontation with the girl finds the regret he felt before when she left without the food. He wants to apologize, but he is afraid it will only encourage her to return. He drives away, passing the station wagon without another glance.

***

Since Bayler’s closes at six on Sundays, he stops there first and buys Oreos, another jar of Skippy and a loaf of whole grain bread. Kay works the register. He doesn’t know what to say. The words he recited during the drive to town jumble like Scrabble tiles.

“Sorry about Sam,” she says, dragging the bread across the bar-code reader.

He plays ignorant. “Sorry for what?”

“Dumping your cherries in the trash.”

All he can think to say is: “I won’t send a bill.”

“No, no,” she says, “please, that’s not what I mean. God, he can be such a pain in the ass. If I get like him at his age, I hope somebody shoots me in the head—you know, to put everyone else out of their misery.”

Denny laughs. And words fall into a straight line. “Guess what. You’ve never, uh, been up to my house before. You know. I invite you to dinner. Before you leave.”

Her face freezes in surprise, and then melts to a warm smile. “Well, sure. Love to, Denny. That’s very nice of you.”

“Tuesday? Seven?”

“I can’t get out of here until after seven; can we make it eight?”

“Eight. Fine, good. Eight’s better, yeah.”

“All right,” she says, dragging the Oreos across the bar-code reader. “Tuesday. Thank you.”

“Eight. You’re welcome. Great.”

Excitement overwhelms him. He drives out of town and remembers that he came to rent a movie, chuckles to himself. No, you didn’t. You came to ask Kay to dinner.

On the drive home, he plans for Tuesday night. What will he cook? Lasagna. And some garlic bread. A white wine—a Chardonnay. Before he realizes, he’s arrived at Cherry Road.

Sitting behind his fruit stand in the big red chair is a woman in her thirties with short, scruffy black hair, a face strangely attractive—in a trashy way—hard featured, slits for eyes. She watches him turn up the road. He stops the car, feeling secure that he knows the right thing to do. He attributes a change of heart to his date with Kay. Leaving the engine running, he takes the bag of food and walks to the woman—who doesn’t move—and sees she wears a stained, light blue t-shirt with Bodega Bay written across the front over a background of the ocean, sea gulls flying. Her blue jeans are torn at the knees—on purpose perhaps to be in style—and she’s barefoot. He introduces himself. She nods. He hands her the bag of food. Taking it, she looks inside, folds it up and thanks him.

“If you still need gas,” he says directly, “I have a gallon up in the barn.”

She gestures to her car and replies, “That’ll get that thing about ten miles.”

“It’ll get you to a gas station.”

“Need money to buy gas,” she says, head rocking side to side incredulously. Denny doesn’t like the way she says it.

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“I said it like it’s the truth,” she says. “It ain’t your fault.”

“Did Sharon help you out any?”

“Who’s Sharon?” He points to the Sturtevant house. “Yeah. Can of tuna, some Wheat Thins, couple tomatoes.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

The woman nods with open disinterest. Denny glances around, stepping to the side to look over at her car. “Where’s your daughter?”

“Why?”

“We, uh, didn’t hit it off very well.”

“She’s a little young for you.”

“I don’t mean—what are you—I mean, well, we sort of had a little . . . spat.”

She grimaces. “A spat. Arlie doesn’t have spats.”

“Well—”

“What’d she say?”

“It wasn’t her. It was me. I was tired and she surprised me. I could’ve been nicer, but, uh . . . .” He doesn’t finish.

“You were an asshole?”

Her blunt accusation rallies a platoon of defensiveness. His impulse to get angry, tell her she’s an ungrateful bitch, kick her off his chair, off his property, call the Sheriff fritters away to “Yeah.”

“She told me.”

A car door slams. Arlie, her hair still in the ponytail, strolls over as if she’s on a nature walk, eyes in the trees and sky.

“Hi,” Denny says too brightly. “I’m Denny Bringleson.”

“I’m Arlie.”

He turns to her mother. She says, “Bobbie. Roberta, actually.”

He points to the bag in her lap and says to Arlie, “I brought you more food. Sorry about this afternoon. I wasn’t very neighborly.” He glances at Bobbie, back at Arlie. “An asshole, I guess. I don’t use that word, but I guess that’s what I was—good word today. Yeah.”

Arlie stuffs her hands in her back pockets and says, “We aren’t neighbors, but you’re definitely an asshole.”

“Arlie,” her mother says, chuckling, scraping mud from the cuticles of her nails with her thumb. “Looks like we might be neighbors for a time, though, if we don’t get enough gas money.”

Denny senses she’s saying something for his benefit. It wouldn’t hurt him to give them twenty bucks so they could get home. But maybe twenty bucks isn’t enough.

“Where do you live?” It’s Arlie’s snorts back. “What? Am I missing something?” Bobbie points to her car.

“That’s home.”

“Where you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Bobbie answers. “L.A., maybe Phoenix. Maybe right here in—what’s the name of this place?”

“Ventana Springs.” He envisions them staking camp right on his property under the pines, littering, mooching, maybe stealing. He’d resort to locking his windows and doors when he left, something he never does now. “How much do you need to get where you want to go?”

Bobbie looks up at him. “Two hundred.”

Arlie adds, “But three would be better.” A glance at her mother. “Think so, mom?”

Denny nods, already telling himself there’s no way he’s going to give two total strangers who think he’s an asshole that much charity. “I can . . . I’ll give you a hundred.”

Bobbie glances at Arlie. “Okay. I have to feed my girl. It’ll sure help.”

“I’ll go get it.”

“Wait, though,” Bobbie says. “I’m not taking any charity.”

“I thought you—”

She stands. “I earn it.”

He starts to ask how, hesitates, fearing her answer might embarrass him. She isn’t unattractive. And there’s nothing repugnant about her, except her gruff, blunt way of talking. Still, he doesn’t want what he thinks she’s offering. It isn’t a lack for wanting it, it’s . . . it’s that he doesn’t want the first time to be like this. He can’t think of how to turn her down. He’s never had this kind of offer.

She needs the money.

He admits to that voice that her openness, the offering of herself for and in front of Arlie excites him.

The woman—Bobbie—still carrying the bag of food, and the girl named Arlie walk to the Oldsmobile. He follows silently, wondering if he has things right. They get in the car. Arlie slides over between Bobbie and Denny. He drives up Cherry Road, feeling Arlie’s stare like something hot and stinging and glances past her to her mother. Calmly, Bobbie pulls a half-smoked cigarette from her shirt pocket, lights it, and inspects the hazy, August sunset.

American Pixels Winner: Lisa Snider

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 00:34:00 GMT

        The American Writer is proud to announce LISA SNIDER as the winner of the first American Pixels Photo-Story competition. Congratulations, Lisa! And thank you to all who submitted. There were some interesting stories told.
       I chose Lisa's because she thought outside the box and approached the story from a perspective that included the image as an integral part of the story. Her story is published here today. She also wins a $25 Gift Card to Barnes & Noble, which she will receive in the next day or two.
        And now. Without further introduction:

Lonely Motel

By Lisa Snider

        Is it a woman’s story or a man’s story? It’s not a dog’s story. Well, it could be a dog’s story. It most certainly is not a cat’s story.
        I think the photographer who took that picture wanted us to know he was sad. This is a dark lonely place without color or laughter. Someone cared enough to plant a blooming vine on that trellis, but they never gave it water. The lights are on but nobody’s home. That’s not a statement about anyone’s intellect. That’s a fact. All these lights spinning the electric meter around, but no one there except the photographer to see his way through the parking lot. That would make me mad. And leery. What kind of place has all these lights on and an empty parking lot? Heck, I’d park my car right next to my motel room door, too, with the car facing out. Just in case someone came along and wanted to pick a fight. Just trying to get some shut eye and some thug comes along wanting to empty my pockets or something. No sir, I can get right in my car and drive off. Leave this place all alone just like I found it. You can have it.
        Yeah, you’re right, that makes no sense. That’s not his car. Bank took his car back. He’s not trying to get some shut eye; he’s trying to get some tail. She parked that way because more than once she’s had to get out of a tough situation. Fast. Grab the money and run. Drunks, meth-addicts, weird fetishes. Try putting a car in reverse when some lunatic without pants is coming after you with a switch blade. “I told you to paint your toes red,” he screamed while sliding across the hood of her car and tearing off her windshield wipers. Never again, she said. Park facing out. Every time. Red toe nail polish? Who has time for pedicures? Not me, she thinks. Got to pay the bills. Got to get enough cash together to put a first and last on my own place. Sick of shacking up with those losers. Leave their dishes in the sink till they stink. Drink all my milk.
        But this guy’s not so bad, she thinks. He even lit a smoke for me. As long as he keeps that camera off of me and doesn’t ask me to talk baby talk to him. He’s not that kind of guy, though. Nope, this one’s easy money. He said I was pretty. I believe that about as much as I believe he’s Richard Gere, she thinks.
        So he had his way with her and while she’s in the shower he decides to take his camera out for a walk. He goes out the door and scares an alley cat off the hood of her car. Stupid cat, he thinks. What’s he hanging around here for? No one’s here, no one’s going to feed him. He walks across the parking lot thinking he’ll get a shot of this alley cat. But it’s gone.
        Maybe it is a cat’s story.

                                            THE END

And thank you Robert X. Jones for the amazing shot that inspired this story. The next American Pixels competition will be held in a couple of weeks. I'll post the Robert X. Jones photograph this week on Friday, April 22.

Until then. . .onward.

Death & Taxes

Tom Eubanks — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 03:47:00 GMT

        On the way up to see my mother-in-law in the skilled nursing home where she was under the care of hospice, I posted my tax return with a check at the post office.
        When I arrived at a skilled nursing home, the woman I've known and loved for 38 years had passed away ten minutes before I arrived.
        My wife's mother, Eunice Zukowski, will be remembered for her willingness never to given in and unwillingness to reject. We had many differences. But, in the end, they didn't matter. All that mattered were three things:  1) our common love for each other; 2) our love for her daughter; and 3) knowing where she would be for eternity.
        The only two things we have to do in life happened today.
        Onward.

Good Intentions

Tom Eubanks — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 22:18:00 GMT

        It's Wednesday and time for writing something for The American Writer.   But the good intentions I bestowed upon the readers were not enough to veer me away from Priorities. Notice how I capitalized that word. Because these aren't just my everyday priorities (lower case "p"). These are my Every-second Priorities. This is about family. A woman I've known and loved for 38 years--my wife's mother--is very ill and may not survive.
        I intend to write something on Friday.
      Onward, Eunice.

Family Business

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 16:29:00 GMT

        Life got in the way of my posting anything yesterday and, as I begin my morning, Life is still taking me away from my computer. If I can get back in tonight, I'll post Monday's today; otherwise, look for something on Wednesday, as usual.

        This is what's coming:

        1. Conjunctive Adverbs (exciting!)
        2. More Popularly Confused Words
        3. Chapter Three of Cherry Road

        And next week, I'll announce the winner(s) of the American Pixels Short Story contest. Don't forget: deadline for submissions to tom@tomeubanks.com is this Friday, April 15 at 11:59 p.m.

Popularly Confusable Words - Part One

Tom Eubanks — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 23:51:00 GMT

        At times I mistakenly use the wrong word and don't even know it. Some words simply find new meanings merely due to popular wrong use. Using the incorrect words affects my writing style, because there are readers out there who know the difference. So when I use the incorrect word, I'm confusing my reader and tainting my style.
        Here are a few words commonly misused:

        Ability, Capacity

        Ability is the skill to do something; capacity is the volume of a space.

        I showed great ability to fill my stomach to its capacity.

        I can use capacity to mean ability (it's not incorrect), but to be precise, they are different words with different meanings.

        I have the capacity to eat too much.  Which means I have a stomach with enough room to eat too much.  But if I mean I have the ability to put more food in my stomach than there's really room for, I probably want to write: I have the ability to each too much.  I have to consider what I'm really trying to say before I choose the correct word.

        Accept, Except

        Accept is a verb meaning to agree to receive something; except is a word that means letting alone or separating out.

        John accepted her proposal for marriage. Everyone except John showed up for the wedding.

        Advise, Advice

        I confuse these two all the time, mainly because they both mean the same.  I try to remember the se and ce rule: se is a verb; ce is a noun. They are not interchangable.

        I advised my proctologist to take my advice and stop trying to find my head up there.

        That's all for now. There will be more. . .so watch for Popularly Confusable Words - Part Two.

        On Word!

American Pixels: Photo-to-Story Contest #1

Tom Eubanks — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 20:03:00 GMT

        Here's the first of what I hope to be many American Pixels photo-to-story contests. Remember the guidelines:

        1.    View and study the Robert X. Jones image.
        2.    Use the image as the visual impetus to write a short story.
        3.    Write a short story between 500 and 1500 words.
        4.    E-mail story to tom@tomeubanks.com by 11:59 p.m. April 15, 2011. (Don't forget to put your title and by-line at the top of the story.)
        5.    I will choose the first place story for publication in The American Writer.
        6.    The winning story will be published in The American Writer and I will send the winner a special prize.

    Here's the official Robert X. Jones photo:

                                                  Photo by Robert X. Jones

American Pixels

Tom Eubanks — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 05:40:00 GMT

        Robert X. Jones's photographic blogs Pixels of Fury and Fundamental Jelly are my favorite places to visit for a quick visual pop, like a caffeine surge to the brain. He makes me appreciate photo-imagery; his images ensconce my desire for a flash of artistry; his photographic eye is blurred with humor and enigmatical contrasts. He has a unique way of forcing your eye to see the prosaic in a new way.
        For over a year, I've been viewing his images. They usually compelled me to storytelling. But I didn't dare. Until now.
        This week, one of his images will be chosen for The American Writer to present as the prompt for a short story. Here's the plan for American Pixels:

        1.    American Writer readers view the Robert X. Jones image.
        2.    American Writer readers use the image as the visual impetus to write a short story.
        3.    American Writer readers write a short story between 500 and 1500 words.
        4.    American Writer readers e-mail story to tom@tomeubanks.com by April 15, 2011.
        5.    American Writer (me) will choose the first place story for publication in The American Writer.
        6.    American Writer (me) will send the winner a special prize.

        Got it? That's right. It's a contest. If I get a whole bunch of stories, then there might be second and third place winners who'll also get prizes.   Sound like a plan?

        Check back on Wednesday for the image! And thanks, Robert!

        Onward.