"Signs"

...I penned the following roughly a year ago under a different name. It's a piece I sometimes refer to whenever in need of inspiration. With revisions nearly complete, a simple idea growing wings and preparing for launch, I felt it appropriate to re-publish something near and dear...something I'll never forget.

Enjoy...

Throughout the daily grind of time cards and babysitters, of pointless production meetings and forced overtime, we are surrounded by signs.



Small hints suggesting of a better life, floating about at eye level, or sometimes just out of the corner of one's peripheral vision, waiting to be discovered...yearning to be grasped by it's beneficiary...and boasting of the power to change everything.



Maybe it's the eery silhouette formed from that shock of sunlight through the passenger window upon the dashboard during a morning commute.



Perhaps it's a word spoken from the mouth of a complete stranger during lunch hour at a nearby table.


Something small. Something inadvertent. Something no one else would notice. For that's the beauty of it. Signs are only to be recognized for what they are by those who can see them. For those who can focus their attention at just the right moment...and see the sign. A sliver of light piercing through that somber tunnel of indifference.


Signs. They're out there. All around us. Waiting...



During the final leg of our family vacation to the Gulf Coast, we made a stop at my Great-Aunt's home a few miles north of Sarasota. I'd promised her nearly twenty years earlier that if I ever found myself aimlessly wondering the southern coasts, I'd make a point to drop by. A wife and three kids later...I kept my promise.


A short visit became an early dinner as we gathered around her dining room table and spoke of days long past. My "favorite aunt" carries with her a youthful spunk for her age, which I've always admired. And much like my late grandfather of the same family, when she speaks, people listen.


At some point during the afternoon I found myself rummaging through her collection of novels on a book shelf in her living room. Call it a nosy habit. I take interest in seeing what people are reading.


Not realizing that my aunt was standing next to me, I gave a start when she leaned in and pulled a book from the shelf just under my line of sight. She placed it into my hands and said, "See what you think of this one."


"Levi's Will," I mumbled. I studied the cover...two Amish boys walking toward a distant sunset. At first glance it didn't appear to be something I'd normally take an interest in. Then my aunt, in that calm tone of voice I'd grown accustomed to hearing over the years, mentioned something that caused me to catch my breath.


"It's a pretty good read," she said. "And we're related to the writer."


"What?" I stammered.


Noticing my sudden interest, she smiled and continued. "It's about two Amish boys who run away from home. One comes back..." She hesitated for a moment, then said, "But one never does. Not for a very long time anyway."


"W. Dale Cramer," I read the author's name aloud. "Is it a true story?"


"Kind of," my aunt said. "I can still remember when it happened. Quite a few years ago. You'll have to read it and see what you think."


I made it a priority and read "Levi's Will" as soon as we returned home.


It wasn't the type of novel I normally read. And yet, it turned out to be one of the best stories I'd come across in a long time.


Based on the life of Will Mullett, an Amish teenager who decides to run away from home, or more appropriately, the iron-fisted lifestyle of his father, Levi. His younger brother Tobe accompanies him as far south as Florida, before eventually returning home. Will Mullet never does.


The story, based on true events, chronicles the life of an Amish boy from Apple Creek, Ohio, who finds himself starting a new life practically a million miles from anything resembling his kind of normalcy.


Places like Carr Road, Millersburg, and even Winesburg become major backdrops to the plot when, after many years away, and having made a new life for himself, Will finds that he's yearning to return home.



A chill ran up my spine as I read of a scene which takes place in a restaurant in Winesburg, Ohio between Will and his son towards the end of the story. The small town of Winesburg only had one restaurant back in those days. The funny thing is, as a boy I spent a good deal of time in that very diner. In the kitchen to be exact. I'd become good friends with the owner's son, a boy of my own age, and together we'd take it upon ourselves to sneak into the kitchen after school and loot the shelves for french fries and sodas. To read of that very restaurant out of the pages of a book written by someone distantly related to me was quite the experience.


Upon finishing the novel, I found Mr. Cramer's website and on a glimmer of hope, decided to write him a letter. I really wasn't sure what I was expecting in return for my efforts. I've corresponded with other writers over the years...Steve Alten, J.D. Rhoades, Tess Gerritsen to name a few, and some have been most gracious in responding. Others however, have decided that personally responding to their fan mail is far beneath them, despite the fact that we're the reason why they've found success in the first place.

I spoke of our possibly being related, with a brief history from my side of the family. Of my roots from Carr Road, and my passion to one day make a living as a writer, like he's already achieved.


It took him one day to respond.


W. Dale Cramer lives in Georgia. He successfully published his first novel after completing an online writer's course and realizing that he may have discovered something about himself.


He never went to college. He instead married his highschool sweetheart and together are currently raising their children. He spent many years as a common laborer before at last realizing his dream of becoming a novelist.



The letter he sent me corroborated my aunt's claim. In his home in Georgia he has a geneology book of his family dating back many generations. He not only found my family's branch, he found my father, born in 1953, and he found me, a dangling twig somewhere on the far reaches of the ever thickening tree.


He revealed the names of several of the actual family members who later inspired
the making of "Levi's Will." And he also admitted that Will, the story's main character, is based on his father.


Dale Cramer ended the letter with a few words of support. "If it's a story based on the Amish cultures in Holmes and Wayne Counties...and you can get it finished...you've got a great shot at getting it published."


I've saved the letter in my email.


...had I not nosed around in my aunt's book shelf that day, I may have never known that I was actually related to a well-known writer.


...had my wonderful aunt not placed "Levi's Will" into my hands on that balmy afternoon in Florida, I never would've later written a letter to W.Dale Cramer.


...had I not read of Mr. Cramer's own struggles, only to later reach his dream, along with his final inspirational passage, my own impatience at achieving success may have one day gotten the better of me.

Signs...

Okay...I can take a hint.

I'll keep typing...

Double-Dipping

...was caught working on revisions at the day job. Its not the first time. Head-hunters with nothing better to do than sneaking around the facility, digital camera in hand, in hopes of catching a disgruntled employee conducting some form of foul play. Someone huffing on a cigarette in the break room, or sneaking a conversation with loved ones on the cell while on the company's dime. Such fiends we are.

My troublesome acts have always come from a literary form of rebellion. Reading a book on the clock, or jotting down a few lines I've dreamed up while simulating a hamster in its cage...running like hell and getting nowhere fast.

Yesterday was different. Not only was I caught red-handed working on revisions, but my captor just happened to be one of the company's biggest sharks, a fellow I'll call Al...as in Al Sphincter. The "Big A" for short.

"What are you doing?" he asks, hands clasped behind his back, his upper body leaned slightly forward...the almighty A.

Knowing I'm already busted, I say, "Working on some revisions while my part's being checked. Behind me, enclosed in its protective glass housing, a robotic arm was dancing about, touching a crystal-shaped prong to the outer diameter of a torque converter shell, cataloging every detail of an auto part soon to be jammed full with piston plates, hydraulic fluid and the like.

"Revisions," he mumbles. "For a book?"

"For a book."

"You're a writer?"

"I'd like to think so."

He grows quiet, considering his dilemma. Yes, I'm double-dipping, working on something I love, while thoroughly going through the motions with something I've learned to hate. Extra-curricular foolishness on company property. And yet...

"Wanna read it?" I ask, figuring if nothing else, I've found myself an unbiased reader.

He holds out his hand. I offer him what I've been working on...pencil scratches on fax paper.

He reads.

I watch his brow lift, and wonder if that's a good thing. I'm about to be written up, but may have just sold my first book. Good trade.

"You wrote this just now?" he asks.

"With this very pencil."

"Huh."

I can see the wheels turning..."Oh my stars, a commoner with a brain. What is this world coming to?"

Al returns the paper, and says, "You can't be doing this while on the job. This is your verbal warning."

"Okay."

He turns to leave, then stops. "I only read nonfiction...but yours is okay."

"Thank you."

I watch him turn the corner, make sure he's gone, and start shoving more lead across my paper.

...the following is what Al Sphincter declared, "Okay." I hope you agree:)

...a bead of sweat traveled from my scalp down the side of my face, where for a moment it lingered, tickling my chin before accepting its perilous fate. Bent over, hands balanced upon my knees, I watched it fall to the dust, nearly evaporating on impact.

"Coach Hummel, gimme a minute with him."

I studied the dust between my cleats. Nothing more than packed sludge, maybe a scoop of sand mixed in for good measure.

"If you leave him in, you'll ruin him. He'll never pitch again."

"Well I guess that'll keep all those precious records of yours safe, now won't it?"

Give a closer look, it wasn't really sand at all, but countless pebbles rolling about on a field of clay. Their colors, some black, others beige, blended together, providing the locals a baseball diamond similar in shade to any other. But the torn seam in the left thigh of my uniform pants whispered otherwise.

"Son, if you don't straighten up and look me in the eye this instant, you'll be making this decision a whole lot easier for me."

I did as I was told, still wary of my equilibrium. Gathering my senses, I recognized Coach Hummel leaving the ball field, head down, shoulders slumped. Then I looked at Coach Stutzman, and he looked at me.

Under the curious scope of several hundred baseball fans, my coach and I studied each other's expression from atop the pitcher's mound, before at last he spoke.

"Ya know, my youngest son, a few years older than you, he's got the athletic ability of a sloth. That boy could sprain his wrist playin checkers. But his brain's a different story. Sharp enough to leave bite marks. Gets it from his mom, I'm sure."

As he spoke, the home plate umpire's looming shadow lengthened with his approach.

"So he comes to me one day and says he wants to be a doctor, and asks if I have any advice for him. I look him straight in the eye and tell him that no matter what he does, to always keep throwin from the heart."

Hands on his hips, the umpire had joined us on the mound, his brow lowered. Stutzman ignored him.

"When he says I've flipped my lid, I tell him about a pitcher on my ball team. A skinny thing, no bigger than any other kid his age, but with a fastball like nothing I've ever seen before. And all that power, it don't come from his arm. Not his legs neither. That fastball's thrown from the strongest muscle that boy's got."

With a crooked forefinger, he reached out and began tapping my chest, a smirk curling his chapped lips. "Whatever's happened to you, its got you all bent outta shape. Got your heart pumpin like an angry drum. And out here, this is how your dealin with it. Shootin bullets at punks."

"Coach, you're outta time," the umpire stepped forward. "Gotta make a decision."

"Not up to me," Stutzman said. He stood back, folding his arms over a moistened ball shirt. "Got anything left, son?"

...35 chapters in. "Time to keep on keepin on."

Thanks for reading:)

The Tabby's Return

...The cat's sudden appearance under the breezeway startled me, jarring my windup into an awkward stumble over a divot in the sod.

I'd been throwing the tennis ball into the brick fascia for the bulk of the afternoon, negotiating a positive outlook over playing for Walnut Creek next summer. The attempt was pointless.

With every pitch my anger intensified. It stewed in my chest like boiling water. I imagined billowing steam being absorbed into the muscles of my throwing arm. Could almost taste the vapor seeping from every available pore. Pop, bounce, breath.

Berlin was my home. My friends were here. My team. My school. And yet, with the ease of flipping a light switch, my parents were about to take it away, changing the very landscape they themselves provided for me only a few years earlier. And all for another attempt at making things right. Even if it felt so very wrong.

None of us had seen the cat since returning from Washington. We'd thought perhaps he'd moved on in our absence. Yet there he was, poised on weary haunches, considering my emotional state with calm reserve. I hadn't noticed him sitting there until that moment, never sensed his presence nearby.

Feeling the muscles in my arm growing stiff, I turned my back to the tabby and threw another pitch. Then another. Pop, bounce, breath.

Now I did feel the cat's gaze. Ageless golden gems piercing holes into my back. I offered him a glance, then threw. Pop, bounce, breath.

I'd always thought cats tended to follow movement. An insatiable desire to stalk anything considered a possible threat, or their next meal. But with every pitch, the tabby never once took interest in the ball's trajectory, choosing to focus its attention on me instead.

Unnerved, I finally turned and answered his stare with one of my own. A boy and a cat, caught up in a moment of solace. His face revealed no purpose driving its behavior. With the exception of an occasional twitch from a partially mangled ear, his expression was vacant.

My breathing slowed. My anger grew tolerant. The question left my mouth with little thought in advance. "Well, what am I supposed to do?"

Unblinking, he tilted his head as if to say, "Come on kid, be reasonable. I'm a cat."

When at last he sauntered off, I half expected him to do so on two legs, hunched over an ancient cane crafted from a downed hickory...

...the results of some late night doodling while sweating through revisions and re-writes. A ten year old boy with a problem, and an ageless tom with an apparent answer...but so far he's not talking.

Thanks for reading:)

...thrown a curve

...contrary to what has become a popular rumor floating about, my unexpected hiatus is not the result of revision burnout, choosing instead to commit myself fully to the dreaded day job. No sir, not in this lifetime...or the next. The following is an account of the past week...I'd personally classify it in the mental/drama genre, but that's from a biased perspective.

I received an urgent text from my wife last Thursday which stated something to the effect of..."washer has blown up and is flooding the downstairs!"

Stuck serving my ten hour sentencing at the day job, I had no choice but to offer my heartfelt condolences until my work release later that evening. (that's how I view the day job...prison with health care benefits:)

Hours later, upon inspecting the damage, it was apparent that a full load of laundry had been rolling about when the washer's pump decided on an early retirement. Despite my wife shutting off the water valve, a considerable trickle continued to bleed through our first floor laundry room, to our finished basement where I stood next to my daughter's cat for several minutes, the two of us watching in awe as the weight of the flood had managed to ruin an impressive amount of ceiling tiles, and was now pooling onto the floor in front of the downstairs fridge.

Fast forward to Saturday, following hours of sopping up and the continual usage of a dehumidifier, wife and I found ourselves at the appliance store, doing our best at low-balling a salesman for an energy star washer reminiscent of something out of The Terminator series. (Top load washers no longer have agitators...who would've thunk it?)

As we were closing the deal, my oldest son was at home, on the computer, wandering about somewhere in the Web's seedy underbelly. No not porn...but from what I could later determine, hop-skip-linking from one low-budget youtube skit to another, laughing at other's stupidity and feeling cool...and not realizing that he was being tailed by a virus, until the damage had already been done.

Spyware seized the culprit, but not before it had infiltrated into our hard-drive, and like a tick on a stray mutt, embedded itself somewhere way down deep into the folds of our Dell.

On to Monday, where, upon dropping off the computer at the Geek Squad for repair, I stopped at Wal-Mart for some of this, a little of that, and as always, ventured into the book section...a magnetism with the kind of pull I'm powerless to defend.

While studying this week's new releases, I spotted the latest Karin Slaughter novel, and found myself in need of the cart for added support. Her ongoing investigative thriller series featuring Special Agent Will Trent, a fellow she's described as a Jeff Goldblum look-a-like, and his partner, Faith Mitchell. Slaughter can pen a juicy mystery with the best of 'em, but it was the title of her newest addition that drew my angst.

"Broken."

My title. It had been my title for the better half of a decade. And while I'd spent a good deal of time researching other novels with the simple one-word name-tag, it was pleasing to discover that for the most part, Broken was usually included in a title phrase. Broken This or Broken That. Only a scant few were simply named "Broken," and none by anyone I recognized from the best-seller list.

But Slaughter's an established carnivore in shark infested waters. At the present time, I'm a guppy.

So I called David, who said, "Slaughter's a nationwide treat. You're gonna be a local hotshot for a time until that day when your ticket's punched. I think it'll be all right. Go drink a beer and chill out."

Okay. A week spent hunched over revisions, corrections now made with lead and eraser instead of a backspace button, and a plump bill soon to be arriving from the appliance store, with my checkbook already listed in critical condition.

The computer's back. The funds are low. But our floors are now dry and our clothes are clean once again.

Even without an agitator:)

Tagged...

...a short time ago, give or take a few days amidst the current tailspin I've found myself wallowing in, Christine Danek, a fellow blogger/writer who's work is deserving of a spot on every reader's shelf, awarded me The Versatile Blogger badge, to which I'm grateful. With the honor comes the understanding of stirring up a post featuring 7 points of interest about myself, which hopefully won't bore anyone to tears. Sorry it took so long, Christine:)

And we're off...

1. My wife and I have been blessed with three kids, currently one foster child and if the phone starts ringing at a late hour, sometimes more, two dogs, and I forget how many cats, (the number tends to fluctuate according to my daughter's preferences:)

2. A twenty minute drive from my home, with mapquest's cooperation, drops you onto the doorstep of the long abandoned penitentiary where "Shawshank Redemption" was filmed. (Arguably one of the best movies of our time.)

3. I once wrote an essay for a friend of mine that ultimately got him accepted to the college of his preference, where last I heard, he was well on his way to an aspiring career. Perhaps not my finest decision, but a wonderful conversation piece.

4. Mindless comedies, featuring light-weighted plots too ignorant to dwell upon in fear of jeopardizing one's I.Q., are the most hilarious movies ever created. "Blind Date," starring Bruce Willis, "The Chase," with Charlie Sheen, "The Big Lebowski," and of course, "The Hangover," stand at the top of their class.

5. I'm curious if there are others out there who read "The Elements of Style," and can't help but wonder if perhaps the book should be shelved in the COMEDY section at Barnes & Noble. "Nauseous. Nauseated. - The first means, sickening to contemplate; the second means sick at the stomach. Do not, therefore say - I feel nauseous, unless you are sure you have that effect on others." (See what I mean?)

6. I find beauty in all things sports related. The amount of descriptive detail which can be inspired from a last second foul shot with victory at stake leaves my tongue wagging like a parched mutt. It's not surprising that both novels I'm currently battling through, while not the focal point of the plot, have sports-related issues which inevitably tie into each story's theme. It's an admitted weakness, but without the lasting consequences of smoking.

7. "Broken," the third novel I've penned, has been accepted by David Wiesenberg, and is currently under round two of edits and revisions. Writing the thing was the easy part...making it pretty, well, that's a different story.

...I'll be sharing the love shortly, but for now, the hour's late and my pillow awaits:)

The Departed

WE ONCE BORE WITNESS TO SOMETHING PHENOMENAL

WE BELIEVED IN DESTINY

OUR TIME HAD FINALLY COME

OUR TIME...IS UP

I'VE COACHED MY KIDS INTO BELIEVING THAT THERE IS NO "I" IN TEAM.

ITS ALL ABOUT THE MINDSET, AND SETTING GOALS IN WHICH TO STRIVE FOR

ITS ABOUT LOYALTY

APPARENTLY "I" WAS MISTAKEN

The Procrastinator's Guide to Grillin Supremacy

...it happens, the coals are primed, the meat marinated, the beverages chilled, all's well. Then alas, you pick up that book, or a page of your WIP with revisions on the brain, and next thing you know, its been an hour, that foul odor entering your nostrils was supposed to be dinner, the family's hungry...and will remain that way until the pizza dude arrives. The dog gets to gnaw on the charred remains of what was once a chicken, and you've been relieved of grillin duties until further notice.

Yep, I've been there.

People who are not writers simply don't understand. When a spare minute presents itself, as in playing Emeril on the back patio while the meat simmers, the urge to work on one's project under the setting sun can be too persistent to ignore. And when not paid attention to...meat becomes smoked jerky, and wives forget about manners...even in front of dinner guests.

But that was then...

For writers, inventors, starving artists, procrastinator's and the like, grillin chicken has never been so easy,(and tasty:)

1. Grillin chicken works best with thighs, drumsticks, and of course, hotwings. And pass on those boneless skinless slabs of problematic dis-function.

2. Rinse the chicken under cool water and place into a roaster. Tossing raw chicken onto a flaming grill is like betting on a 3-legged horse at The Derby...no matter how you spin it, the outcome's not promising.

3. Once the bird is situated in the roaster, add either a half can of Coke, or the contents of a darker brewed beer. I personally lean toward Labatt Blue myself, but Coke does quite well.

4. Next, add a healthy supply of Worcestershire Sauce. Don't bother asking how much, just gauge the amount of meat in the roaster and go with it.

5. Sprinkle whatever spices you prefer upon the entire mess. Garlic salt, seasoned salt, pepper, something exotic from the Greek Islands, you get the idea.

6. Place the covered roaster on the grill, close the lid, find your favorite chair and that novel, do your best to hide that smirk as your loved ones eyeball the smoking grill pit fearfully, and relax. You've just earned yourself between 30-45 minutes of bliss, (depending on the size of your dinner,) while the contents in the roaster go to work.

7. Only when the meat starts to brown on the outside, do you even consider removing it from the roaster, but unfortunately, in time, it will.

8. Time to get serious. Remove each piece of chicken from the roaster and place them onto the grill with a dash of Worcestershire and your preferred barbecue sauce.

9. Allow to sizzle for no more than 5 minutes on either side, or all the work of roasting those important juices into the meat, will burn up like that novel idea you've been mentally pursuing for the past decade.

10. Roasting the meat preserves the taste, the five minute sizzle gives the skin that grilled texture we've all come to recognize as a perfectly charred specimen. It also "bakes" in the barbecue sauce, giving one the impression that you've been slaving over a hot grill for the past hour, when we all know better:)

...this technique also works with certain varieties of pork, but I'd advise against experimenting with that twenty dollar steak...something about tossing a steak into a roaster...it's just unethical.