The Ultimate Question...

...its an ongoing debate we storytellers scratch our heads and ponder on, beg for advice and inevitably lose more hours of sleep than any of us are willing to admit.


Whether or not to sacrifice one's time sending countless queries on their way to a multitude of slushpiles, in hopes of one day earning that big ticket...


or going for the quick fix, self-publishing one's pride and joy for a shot at instant gratification.  And if the moons properly align, well...


For some the decision is simple, for others, its an uphill climb through a blizzard.  


Having once traveled along both paths a time or two, experiencing my share of outcroppings and detours in either direction, the only advice worthy of sharing goes as follows...


Whatever you do, never send your work to the fellow in this video ;)


Keep writing, dear friends.


El

...Drumming Along ;)

...there are times when a blank page yearns to stay that way.  As a basketball coach, I consider it similar to those forgettable days when regardless of the effort, an invisible lid has been placed upon the rim, allowing the act of scoring a bucket to be an impossible feat. 


Love it when that happens...


There are two sides to every coin however, and during those moments of literary bliss, when one's digits simply can not prod the keyboard fast enough, sacrifices are not only to be considered, but should be expected. (As long as the family can make do, that is ;)


Long story short, the latest project is running on all cylinders.  Therefore, I'll be burning the midnight oil until the juices sputter and run dry.  (For those of you in the know, I'm sure you get it.) 


Upcoming, I'll be posting another excerpt from "The Fall," and have been stirring up something special in celebration of hitting the big 300. (Thanks everyone!)


In the meantime, please take a moment to enjoy my son's latest musical achievement.  As it seems, while I've been hard at it, penning "The Fall," my son, (on guitar,) and his pal, (pounding the percussion,) have been working on their game as well.  


Anyone ever hear of Seven Nation Army?  You will now ;)


Enjoy!


El

"Throwin' From the Heart"

...this is so cool.

As I've done every day for the past month, my journey home from the dayjob requires a quick stop at the high school in order to pick up my oldest son from track practice.

Upon exiting the front door, his head angled downward, hiding an exhausted face shaded in pink, he trudged by the varsity baseball team, paying them little regard.

His best friend, the team's first baseman, noticed my son's lumbering departure, reached out his arm, and offered him a shoulder squeeze. My son glanced up, returned the gesture with a grin, huffed out a comment to be held between pals, and continued on.

That's when my son's friend noticed me in the car.

"Hey El!"

I smirked. "Hey what?"

"Don't forget to always throw from the heart!"

At this point, not only the entire baseball team, but every other teenager, teacher and coach who happened to be standing nearby, heard the comment, and awaited my response.

Finding myself speechless, I could only nod, my grin widening.

My son's best friend is one helluva kid...

The following excerpt is what he was referring to.

...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 ground, 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?"

Given 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 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. 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 joined us on the mound, his brow lowered. He didn't look much older than a high school graduate. Making a few extra bucks over the summer. Stutzman ignore 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 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 tapped on 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?"

My arm was numb. I had to glance down to make sure it was still attached to my shoulder. Despite that, there was never a decision to make. "Let's play ball."

Stutzman nodded, then squared his shoulders at the umpire. "You heard the boy. But son, if you don't put a stop to these shenanigans they're pullin, they'll have to get Cal Beechy's tow truck to pull me off you when the dust settles."

With a huff, the umpire left us, his finger twirling in the air as he hollered, "Play ball!"

"South of Charm"

http://www.amazon.com/South-Charm-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B005DJ945A/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1332298464&sr=1-1

...yep, that son 'o mine, he's got some cool friends ;)

Thanks for reading,

El

Excerpt from "The Fall"

...this past weekend the boys bid farewell to another season of basketball, following a valiant push into the semi-finals before stumbling a bit short of our goal. Oh well, those boys are young, their journey still hardly under way. They'll figure things out ;)

As for me, well...

Please enjoy the following excerpt from "The Fall."

...the embrace of night softens its grip as Jessica rounds a silent street corner, spying the towering beacons of the Cooper River Bridge in the distance. Using the fog as her ally, she'd sped barefoot upon Charleston's cobbled streets. Dodging mature Sabals, like sentries protecting their city. Palm fronds in the shape of daggers, rustling in the breeze, warding off any trespassers tempting fate. A burst of neon from an aging pool hall, staining the sidewalk in magenta. Past the local night life, the homeless and the drunkards, mumbling obscenities from long forgotten alleys.

Most of them don't see her. Those who do, think perhaps they'd seen a ghost. A young girl, not a day over sixteen, slipping through the mist, a moistened pale nightshirt clinging to her shoulders, and nothing more. An exhale of breath, a flash of hair the color of bourbon, and gone with the salty breeze.

Having spent the majority of the night on her feet, watching her town pass by in a blur, a set of weary lungs has limited her breathing to periodic gasps. Yet with the sight of the bridge looming before her, renewed vigor quickens her pace.

Ancient alleyways shrouded in mist, give way to beaming overhead halogens, the road now a steady incline to the awaiting bridge. And with muscles that scream, the flesh on her heals now callused and raw, Jessica begins the final leg of her journey...

Short and sweet, but we're getting there...

I hope to knock this one out by summer's end, give or take a month or three for the trials of editing ;)

Fellow writers and friends of Blogland, you've been dearly missed. Barring any unforeseen mishaps on the home front, I'll be paying you all a visit over the next few days.

In the meantime, I stumbled across an interesting site for anyone in the market for writing articles or advertisements for the corporate world as you await that thumbs up from your agent.

It's called E-Lance, a place for writers who are anxious to make a name for themselves, and companies in search of wordsmiths. Call it a financial supplement until one's ship rolls in ;)

Not sure if the protected link will behave, but its worth a look-see @ Elance.com

https://www.elance.com/q/home-1/?rid=1R0LP&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=Elance+Brand&utm_term=elance&ad=10002212178&gclid=CKbX_uWY5a4CFYNx4AodTU68vg

El

The Big Ticket...

...alas, basketball playoffs are upon us, rendering my time limited at best. On a positive note, however, the longer my absence, may in fact represent my young team's successful tourney run ;) After all, we're a feisty bunch!

Just a quick reminder that we are but a few short hours from the anticipated ticket release of The Hunger Games, the theatrical version.

Having devoured all three novels quite some time ago, I'm cautiously optimistic that Hollywood can pull off a success. And yes, like a feverish teen riding the vibes of a high school crush, I've agreed to accompany the kids and wife on opening night.

Therefore, in honor of Suzanne Collins's big night, I've attached a link to "Katnissss..." a short story I penned some time ago involving the young huntress from The Games, and a pair of "pale-skins" from the Pacific Northwest by the names of Bella and Edward, (perhaps you've heard of them ;)

Having read the Twilight series as well, a fair amount of time was sacrificed playing around with a simple thought, "so what would happen if those vamps were to be on the hunt one day and find themselves within aim of an Everdeen arrow?

When released, this one ran amuck on Facebook for about a month, give or take, and remains one of the funner stories I've hammered out in recent memory.

Enjoy ;)

http://elliot-grace.blogspot.com/2010/01/katnisssss.html

El

Game Day

...this is so cool.

Saturday afternoon. On the road. Game day.

Despite the sun's distant grin, the recent freeze has resulted in an ice-packed layer of crust holding firm to our corner of the world. But the roads are clear, the traffic steady, the car's heater keeping the frost at bay.

Aside from the purr of tires, the world has offered us a moment of peace.

Glancing into the rear view mirror, I spot my son in the back seat, head tilted, eyes focused on the passing scenery. But yet, not really.

His gaze seems to follow a row of naked elms as we cruise by, but if I were to ask him which one stood the tallest, he could offer me no more than a shrug. For while his eyes are aimed at the snow-covered landscape, his thoughts rest elsewhere.

Afterall, its game day.

I continue to watch him, an eleven year old now, a dusty blond, still wiry as a twig, but gifted with a burst that can't be taught. A set of thin fingers drum upon his thigh, as if feigning the play of an imaginary instrument. And if studied closely, one may catch the movement of his lips...thinking through the plays, the various scenarios he will surely face in less than an hour, when he steps onto the court.

I study his focus, the flush of his cheeks, and smile to the passing traffic, remembering my days in the game, so long ago.

The intensity of game day, of sweaty palms and twitching muscles. Pent up excitement, and those bursts of adrenaline. The magical sound of a leather ball slipping unscathed through an iron hoop. Swish!

Such fun that was, those days of competition. And yet, more than two decades later, the real fun is about to begin...

We pull into the parking lot. The engine settles to a hum. I twist around in my seat. "It's time, Son. You ready?"

A pair of eyes, green like the sea, lift their gaze from the pair of scuffed Reebok's on the floor, and offer me a twinkle.

"Let's do this."

El ;)

...Playing Field

...in a few short days, the world as we know it will come to a grinding halt. Ever-present worries and tedious affairs being cast aside for an evening, as a multitude of countless observers lay siege to family rooms and man caves spanning the globe, all channels tuned to Super Bowl Sunday.

We set our ovens ablaze with pizza and bowls of festering chili. We stuff our faces, share some laughs, and cheer on as two rival combatants partake in good-natured bloodshed.

For they are the final two, dueling for the right to be the last man standing. They've accomplished what their opposition stumbled upon...survival. And regardless of Sunday evening's eventual victor, both teams have experienced that feeling of confidence. Of falling into a groove.

As writers, it's an experience worth treasuring. When every word is perfect, the diaglogue as natural as a conversation on a street corner, a performance worthy of tears.

I've read of storytellers being unable to remember penning a particular scene, their minds too engrossed in the drama being played out to focus on words spattering across the monitor. Throbbing fingers hammering on keys, where only the seizing of cramps can slow one's pace. Where days grow somber, and the hours pass to a sun's rise before one ponders as to wherever the night has gone.

For only then will we make it onto that playing field. Where the likes of Gaiman and King, Sandford and Clark, come out to play. To wine and dance. Speaking of such tales as "Neverwhere," and "Salem's Lot." Of "Horns," "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell," and "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle," whispering of secrets that only those on the playing field have earned the right to hear.

Perhaps over time we'll get there. Perhaps not. I've heard them say however, those who've been there, whose creations have been deemed worthy, that we'll know it when it happens. When the story's ebb and flow is reminiscent of life itself, one built of extraordinary circumstance.

And when asked how to get there, how to reach that point of literary supremacy, the great ones, they all shrug and say, "Just keep writing."

Enjoy the game!

El