I DON’T DRINK ENOUGH TO BE A WRITER

Been listening to Kenny Chesney’s new album a lot lately. It is a very melancholy album and I love it. There are two upbeat songs because everybody wants radio hits, but still, it is enjoyable.

This song gets me a lot. And it does make me feel like I don’t drink enough to be a writer. I never get depressed. But I know many writers do. One of my hero’s Robert E Howard committed suicide very young and apparently wrestled with mental demons most of his life. The man could write though. To this day he is one of those scribes I read and shake my head at his turn of phrase. There is a power there that I envy. So I wonder does my lack of misery, hell my lack of emotion make me a worse writer? I have no conscience. Not to speak of. I do not get depressed or sad. I do not have a deep well of anger bubbling inside from a troubled childhood. I miss my kids when they are not around. I love my wife. That is about it. I walk through life, not dead inside, that would be a wrong statement. I love life.

I just happen to be extremely happy and content in that life.

I do think I have great ideas for stories and a knack for characters. So I am probably fine.

Philosophically, I will take a wonderful life with a hit on my writing ability over being a maestro of language with a suffering to match my talent.

Back to the original thought. Seriously, if you haven’t heard this song, go listen to on Itunes or wherever you get your music.

And BTW 1,049 words on the new WIP The Excalibur Key.

HEMINGWAY’S WHISKEY

Hemingway’s whiskey, warm and smooth and mean
Even when it burns, it’ll always finish clean
He didn’t like it watered down, he took it straight up and neat
If it was bad enough for him, you know it’s bad enough for me

Hemingway’s whiskey

Ah, it’s tough out there, a good muse is hard to find
Living one word to the next, one line at a time
There’s more to life than whiskey, there’s more to words than rhyme
Sometimes nothing works, sometimes nothing shines

Like Hemingway’s whiskey

Sail away, sail away, three sheets to the wind
Live hard, die hard, this one’s for him

Hemingway’s whiskey, warm and smooth and mean
Even when it burns, it’ll always finish clean
He didn’t like it watered down, he took it straight up and neat
If it was bad enough for him, you know it’s bad enough for me

Hemingway’s whiskey
Hemingway’s whiskey
Hemingway’s whiskey

ASS + CHAIR (or bed) = WRITING or how I stopped outlining and learned to love the laptop.

600 words.

Doesn’t sound like much does it?

Unless you are a writer.

No it is not a personal best. I have clocked in around 3000 words in some of the marathon sessions on the First Novel. However, these 600 words poured out like a fine wine. They were oil slick smooth as they filled the pages.

And it was the beginning of the NEW book, the “thank-you-very-much-Brangwaine-for-your-suggestion” now named THE EXCALIBUR KEY, book. I am happy with the portrayal of the heroine. She is exactly as I want her, bored and timid having had no chance to blossom into her own power.

Now I was writing last night on the Crap Laptop. This thing is dedicated to just writing, has almost no programs other than word on it, and still runs like ballsack. It was given to me by my friend Jessie. So it works great for free, but that is hard to remember at 2am when you are still waiting for it to begin working after you turned it on at 1:30 am. However, free.

Then I was in the bedroom so I would not disturb the family. I do not have a lapdesk, so I made one out of a cardboard box. It works ok, but because I am 6’4 I have a lot of leg to fold inside the box, so the whole thing sits at an angle making my mouse dangle off the edge if I am not using it and threatening to send the Craptop flying if I so much as sneeze. However, free.

Then I have my dog in bed with me. Cash is a 100 pound American Bulldog. I love him to death, but he is a Cashole. Firstly, he has the worst gas ever. So I am sitting there, typing away and being assbombed by this dog who has a moldering corpse inside his intestines. And he is a bed hog. He continually shifts and slides closer and closer to me, making me slip ever so slightly on the slick sheets. Eventually I am typing with one ass cheek on the bed, and one on the nightstand.

Do you know how hard it is to get up when you are ass straddling the bed and the nightstand, on slick sheets, with your legs shoved into a cardboard box like a Chinese girl’s foot in binding slippers, trying to balance a free Craptop, with an American Bulldog bearing down on you inexorably like a frakkin glacier?

Let me tell you, it is like a frakkin comedy show.

Three Stooges meets Sealy Posturpedic.

But I got the words in.

WELL THAT TOOK A MINUTE…… or what James is up to now that a year has passed.

Ok, I suck. It has been too long since I posted here. But I am back. If you remember from before I am a Professional Tattoo Artist with my own shop. The winter is my slow time and that is where I spend my creative juices on things that are not related to tattooing.

Two winters ago I wrote my first novel. Since then I have polished it, rewrote the beginning, and re-queried it. I got much more attention this go round, but still no offers of representation.

I began writing book two in the series, but that seemed a bit silly since book one is unsold.

So now I am beginning a new book. New story, new characters, new concepts.

An immortal Druid warrior named Cormac Morriganson seeks to restore The Pendragon which will bring about the second coming of King Arthur to save the world. He meets Branwyn Corvidae, a woman bored with her life, who he discovers is a Grail, a source of magic energy. Drawn to her he cannot resist sweeping her into his fight against Morganna Le Fey for control of Excalibur, the first key to unlocking The Pendragon. Ancient enemies collide and new loves and lusts blossom in a struggle for the fate of mankind.

Or some shit like that. Set in the modern world. I plan to have Percival raised as a zombie killer knight too.

I am trying something new with this one.

An outline.

Yep, I am not just wandering around aimlessly in this story. I actually have a map and a destination. I know my characters motives, I know the twists for them to come, I know the outcome. I know all of this and I still have room for the story to surprise me, which I am sure it will.

Now to conceive of a title. Something with the word Excaliber in it I think.