...I found myself enjoying a little "me" time over the holiday weekend, and managed to pump out the final touches on a project that's been keeping my fingers in tune with the Piano Man for the past three months.  


My novella, a story I've hesitantly titled, "The Fall," (odds are weighing heavily on a name change prior to signing on the dotted line ;) is finished, with edits soon to follow, which, come to think of it, I'm looking forward to.


Edits are indeed a necessary evil.  They soak up available writing time in the same manner that my lab can lick her water bowl clean during these blazing temps.  Looking back on past trials, the endless months that were sacrificed fine-tuning "South of Charm," brought me close enough to my characters to smell the flavor of chewing gum balled up under Danny Kaufman's tongue.  Simply put, the art and challenge of an awe inspired edit, is where a story's soul is created.  It's that important.


...and so I celebrated this weekend, sharing a toast with the wife, a movie with the little ones, a game of H-O-R-S-E with my hoopster-crazed son, and roasting 'smores over a late night bonfire.  


Good times.


...and then I felt the urge for some quality reading material, and thought of my friends.


A click or two of the mouse led me to Amazon, and a few seconds later I secured "Slipstream," by fellow Blogger Michael Offutt.  
  http://www.amazon.com/Slipstream-ebook/dp/B007R5DN8W/ref=la_B0083CCEE2_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338427705&sr=1-1


From there I skipped about until finding Wendy Tyler Ryan's "Fire's Daughter," one that was long overdue for purchase ;)
 http://www.amazon.com/Fires-Daughter-Fire-Through-Time/dp/0986946605/ref=la_B00514KNSE_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338427802&sr=1-1

I visited fellow 80's pal, Nicki Elson's seller page, and bounced away with her novel, "Three Daves."
http://www.amazon.com/Three-Daves-Nicki-Elson/dp/1936305097/ref=la_B003WRZY2C_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338428034&sr=1-1

Then I stumbled upon Nicki's shorty, "Sway," and couldn't resist ;)
http://www.amazon.com/Sway-ebook/dp/B007C4JFS0/ref=la_B003WRZY2C_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1338428208&sr=1-3

Two clicks later and I found Robynne Rand's "Remembering You."  Sorry Hon, but try as you might, you'll always be Anne to me ;)
http://www.amazon.com/Remembering-You-a-novel-ebook/dp/B0083IDAU8/ref=la_B0083WSJGY_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338428472&sr=1-1

And not to be outdone, I couldn't go shopping without paying a visit to my pal from the bayou, Roland Yeomans.
http://www.amazon.com/THE-LEGEND-VICTOR-STANDISH-ebook/dp/B005NCUTAG/ref=la_B0086O40BM_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1338428635&sr=1-3

http://www.amazon.com/THE-RIVAL-chapter-STANDISH-ebook/dp/B007JOUJ60/ref=pd_sim_kstore_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

http://www.amazon.com/END-OF-DAYS-ebook/dp/B0082ZJD08/ref=la_B0086O40BM_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1338428635&sr=1-2

I've got some reading to catch up on, and looking forward to it...


El

Johnny's Run...

...since the first of the year, I've been drumming on a project, something a bit different from the usual sports-themed, Mitch Albom type of stories that I most enjoy penning.


Some time ago, a critique partner suggested I consider writing a little something in the romance genre.  I scoffed at the notion, considering my masculinity at stake.  


"Okay, whatever," was her response.  "But like it or not, you're a sensitive writer.  I think you'd do well."


"Well, maybe," I grumbled, setting aside the idea for later consideration.  "It'll leave me something to think about on a rainy day."


...that rainy day arrived, and from it, "The Fall" was born.


A month ago, give or take, I introduced Jessica.  I do believe it's now Johnny's turn to say hello...


It's still in infancy, but regardless, feel free to offer your thoughts... ;)

...5:45 p.m.


A groan rises from his throat.  It leaves his mouth only to be quashed by the sounds of impending road rage festering from either side.


How could this be happening?  He absolutely had to be there by six.  He'd promised.


The drone of a nearby horn, this one from a semi, returned his attention to the bedlam stretched out before him.  Cars and trucks of various sizes, lined up and boxed in, clogging both lanes of the road, engines humming, others grumbling, a few elderly models spewing clouds of smog into the air.


And rising in the distance, ribbons of soot, like oily snakes, etching black creases through an otherwise cloudless afternoon.


Leaning out the window, Johnny figures the wreckage to be strewn about along the mouth of the Cooper River Bridge.  Most likely sightseers, too busy admiring the massive structure to pay any attention to their neighboring driver.  A common occurrence.  


Johnny follows the trail of steel cables rising to a peak, eyes squinting against the sun's late day grin.  Upon completion, the bridge had quickly become one of Charleston's most impressive attractions.  An engineering masterpiece connecting the outside world with Battery Street, Fort Sumter, and the historic cobbled streets of the Old South.


For Johnny, the Cooper River Bridge stands for something else entirely.  He chooses to avoid the route whenever possible.  And when forced into crossing Cooper's irritable current, he never looks down.


The urge to offer another scowl at the clock proves too difficult to avoid.


A trio of digital numbers smile in return.  5:44.


His patience waning, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, Johnny spots an approaching patrolmen, weaving through the logjam on foot.


Noticeably overweight, the police officer shimmies and slides between plastic bumpers and vibrating tailpipes, at times rising on tip toe to avoid making contact with countless vehicles sweltering in the heat.  He comes to a stop several car lengths from Johnny's late model four-door, arms spread, palms rising and falling in an attempt at quieting what had become a cursing ruckus.


"It's blocked both lanes, I'm afraid," the policeman explains, chest heaving as if recently taking part in the yearly 5K run.  "Glass and wreckage scattered half way to Summerville.  It's a mess, but if ya'll can remain patient, we'll get things squared away real soon."


A chorus of grumbling travelers prevents Johnny from hearing the one piece of information he'd been hoping for.  Sensing the minutes slipping through his fingers, he lunges forward, narrowly missing the swing of a nearby fist, a man sending a roundhouse right through the air in frustration.  


"Sir!"


The aging cop ducks his shoulders as if fearing an assault.  He turns, sees Johnny coming fast, and clutches the belt stretched across his waistband, fingers resting on the butt of his Taser.  


Johnny skids to a stop, sensing the man's reluctance, and lifts both hands into the air.  "Please sir, I just really need to know how long the clean-up's gonna take.  I'm supposed to be somewhere."


Trails of perspiration drain from the officer's neck as if he were standing under a shower head.  His cotton shirt, most likely white when he clocked in that morning, was now stained to a dingy gray.  He exhales a sigh, realizing Johnny's intent, and runs a thick forearm over his scalp.  Amid the chaos of screaming toddlers and flailing suits cursing into cell phones, the weary policeman studies the young man before him, considering his dilemma.  Perhaps noticing the sincerity etched into his brow.  Then he leans forward, a set of round shoulders slumping beneath the weight of moistened cotton and fatigue.


"I'm sorry, son.  But unless you can run for it, you won't be gettin there anytime soon."


Johnny's gaze lowers to the pavement.  He's about to turn back in the direction of his car, when he stops, repeating the cop's words under his breath.  "Run for..."


The policeman again places his hands upon his hips.  "You all right, son?"


Johnny opens his right hand, studying the car keys clutched inside.  Then he turns to the officer, whose expression had grown to one of irritable curiosity.


"It's the beige Honda sitting behind that red pickup truck," he says.


Before the policeman can answer, Johnny swings his hand through the air as if waving farewell to a departing ship, his fingers releasing their hold on the keys.  A flash of silver sails in an arc, over the roof of an idling Toyota.  They bounce off the cop's belly, and offer a jingle as they fall to the pavement...


Thanks for reading ;)


El

Finding Inspiration...

...the following passage was written by Paulo Coelho.


Enjoy ;)


"I remember receiving a letter from the American Publisher Harper Collins that said: 'Reading The Alchemist was like getting up at dawn and seeing the sun rise while the rest of the world still slept.'


I went outside, looked up at the sky, and thought to myself, 'So, the book is going to be published in English!'


At the time, I was struggling to establish myself as a writer and to follow my path despite all the voices telling me it was impossible.


And little by little, my dream was becoming reality.  Ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million copies sold in America.  


One day, a Brazilian journalist phoned to say that President Clinton had been photographed reading the book.  Some time later, when I was in Turkey, I opened the magazine Vanity Fair and there was Julia Roberts declaring that she adored the book.  Walking alone down a street in Miami, I heard a girl telling her mother, 'You must read The Alchemist!'


The book has translated into fifty-six languages, has sold more than twenty million copies, and people are beginning to ask, 'What's the secret behind such a huge success? 


The only honest response is, I don't know.  All I know is that, like Santiago the shepherd boy, we all need to be aware of our personal calling..."




...scheduling conflicts and the daily grind can often treat one's personal time in the same manner as a moist sponge held under a leaky sink.  If only enough quiet time remains for one great read over the summer months, choose wisely, and consider The Alchemist.  


You can thank me later ;)


...keep writing, my friends.


El

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