Friday, March 20, 2009


As you may or may not be aware, I am currently working on my second book. This time, it isn't quite as autobiographical as my first, Not Only Am I With The Band... I should hope not considering the fact that it deals with a serial killer. Yep, and we aren't talking Dexter here folks. Cold, calculating, quite insane... fun stuff, nes't pas?

Which isn't to say that there isn't some of me and my experiences in this new novel; how could that ever be. Authors of fiction that say there is not some semblance of themselves, their experiences in their novels is lying. It is all just a matter of degrees. Sometimes there is alot of the author in the work, sometimes not so much so.

In the case of Dire Tides (catchy title, eh?) there are a number of elements from past experiences included. Rhonda and I met and honeymooned on Cape Cod the locale for most of this book. We spent a goodly number of hours in Provincetown ; the specific locale for most of this book. On holiday on the Cape I sang karaoke at the Governor Bradford in downtown P'Town which does in fact have karaoke seven days a week ("Drag Karaoke" no less).

The characters that frequent the karaoke bar at the Gov'nor are based in any number of ways on the real life people that I sing with on a weekly basis; on shared experiences (thank you Alina, I forgot all about the paper clip progression but you can bet your ass it is going to be integrated into the novel).

This is a work in progress folks. I have set myself a deadline for the end of May to have the first draft of this puppy all wrapped up. No deadlines from editors or publishers mind. Just something that I can shoot for. The amount of editing and draft revisions required afterwards are a black hole for me at the moment. With my first novel my editor said there weren't alot of edits required outside of grammer, spelling and some small breaches of continuety. But then again I had spent the better part of two years writing, reviewing and editing it before it ever reached his inbox.

Considering the fact that my first book was based in large part on personal experience, the task of writing a novel "from scratch" has been challenging; but in a fun and completely infecious way. I'm having a blast folks. I will continue to provide occasional updates and samples here as I believe are warrented.


If you are on Facebook, please come join my group there; http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=53141012680&ref=ts. While there you might consider joining my group for Not Only Am I With The Band... at http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=26129315315&ref=ts. Either way, please stay tuned. Here is a little taste, the first chapter of Dire Tides in it's current form. Hope you enjoy... comments most definately welcomed.

Chapter 1

Oh shit, it was dark. And damp. It was bloody damp. Brady could feel the sweat pouring off his scalp and down the neck of his tattered and stained shirt. Even if his hands were not currently trussed up behind his back, Brady sincerely doubted he would be able to see his hand right in front of his own face. Still he got the impression that the walls were ominously narrow; the ceiling unforgiving and low.

“A breath,” Brady’s mind capered, “Just take a breath. Slow and steady. Count to ten. Do anything that it might take to get me the hell out of this situation.”


But that didn’t seem to help at all. The ceiling still felt as though its raison d’ĂȘtre was to slowly squash the life out of him. Why was he still here? Why couldn’t he see? Why had no one missed him and come looking?

“I always thought Karaoke was perfectly safe,” he croaked out loud and chuckled.

“Guess I did one too many Bob Dylan songs,” his mind babbled.

He tried hard to focus on where he was. He tried to open his eyes but they seemed stuck shut.

He tried to settle his racing heart the better to hear ambient sound.

Listening, Brady could hear waves lapping against a wall somewhere very nearby. The rope by which he was trussed up squeaked in a gentle rhythm; swaying him gently back and forth. The lack of any other sounds forced him to the realization that no one would be around to hear his dying screams. He rightly concluded that he was on the waves; but too what end...

Just as he was contemplating these things Brady became aware that he was not alone.

“Hello,” he enquired.

A whimper greeted his entreaties.

“Who is that,” he hissed fervently.

Still no response; save another whimper.

“Do you know where we are?”

Silence.

“For God sake man,” he bellowed, “speak up!”

The volume of his own voice startled him into silence.

The air hung hot and humid all around. After the roar of his own blood subsided from his ears

Brady screwed up his courage enough to try and make contact yet again. Hanging there he had heard the occasional whimper coming from his unseen companion, the gentle lap of waves against the walls of the room which he was in and, worse, the sound of tiny feet scurrying around below him.

Actually, the approaching sound of heavy footsteps was worse. Brady was just ready to yell out when some primeval voice hissed for him to remain quiet. In this world of utter darkness how was one to tell friends from foes.

So he waited; waited and listened.

The footsteps grew inexorably closer. The perpetrator of these steps was in no hurry; savouring each and every footfall. Suddenly, the steps stopped; the ensuing silence unbearable.

Brady’s companion whimpered miserably.

“Shut up,” he hissed, “do you want them to hear us?”

From off to his right a low chuckle started, cutting through the darkness like a low voltage current through a sock full of marbles. The chuckle continued for a minute or two, playing counter point to the pathetic simpering of the unseen other.

“Ah yes, the new one.”

The voice; equally soothing and menacing, cold as a long abandoned graveyard at midnight, nearly ripped a scream from Brady’s throat. His roommate had no such self restraint.

“Now Leo,” this new voice reprimanded, “you are making Brady here uncomfortable.”

Upon hearing his own name Brady recoiled as though physically struck.

But at this rebuke Leo did shut up. Not even a whimper.

“There now, that’s much better. Isn’t that better Brady?”

Brady remained quiet, paralyzed with a terror as old as time itself.

“Yes? No? No worries, we will have plenty of time to get better acquainted later. In the meantime, you don’t mind if Leo and I play some more?”

At this Leo started to scream again. And when Leo’s voice finally gave out, Brady could hear the insistent chuckles, punctuated by the sound of ripping and of wet things hitting the floor with a sickening plop.Then the screaming started once more. It took Brady a couple of minutes to realize that, this time, it was him doing the screaming

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Have you ever been depressed? And I don't mean feeling blue because you had a bad day at work kind of depressed.

Have you ever been diagnosed as being severely depressed? By an actual practising physician no less.

If you haven’t, all I can say is keep up the good work. You may now go back to your regularly scheduled web surfing activities.

Last year, 2008, should have been one of the happiest years of my life. I celebrated my 23rd wedding anniversary, had a good job, had any number of very dear friends, and had a wonderful vacation just outside of Estes Park, Colorado. What more could a body hope for?

Oh yeah, my first book had been published to excellent reviews... So why shouldn’t I be as happy as a hive of bees with a whole field of flowers. (I bet you thought I was going to say as happy as a pig in shit, didn’t you?)

I should have been, if not on top of the world, at least on top of my world.

But depression doesn’t work like that. Depression for me is like being buried under 100 feet of cold tapioca pudding. Have I mentioned that I hate tapioca pudding, warm or not? Being depressed is like being buried deeply under sludge like material, in a place where you can see nothing but blackness around you and not be able to move side to side let alone worry about just how far up it is that you have to travel before your head can break the surface.

Depression is one of those terrible diseases where you know, instinctually if no other way, pretty much what it is that you need to do to find a cure but have a brutally hard time trying to follow your own advice.

Friends and loved ones of someone who is depressed are in a very tenuous position. They want to help but have no idea exactly how it is that they can do so. Telling a depressed person that they need to exercise, get out into the community more, get some focus in their life, take up an old hobby... just about anything really doesn’t work, despite the good intentions. But for people who are depressed, well, o.k., for me anyways that was one of the worst things.

Being told about all the stuff that I should be doing, stuff that I pretty much knew that I should be doing, only served to remind me of the fact that I was unable to do so. After a while, my own realizations of my failures coupled with the reminders of those who loved me were devastating. I dreaded my wife Rhonda's return from work and the inevitable question about what I did that day. Some days, as I started attempting to draw back from the abyss I actually did accomplish things. On those days I was only too happy to share my accomplishments with her.

Hello dear, I did the dishes, cleaned the litter box, spent time trying to straighten the storage room out and I even managed to get out of bed before noon. All the while I felt like an over zealous Cocker Spaniel pup trying to earn his next dog biscuit.

But the days that I just couldn't rouse myself to do anything? They just tore my soul apart. Another day that had slipped by without me making any kind of progress; the disappointment that I felt in myself; the fear I had for having to admit as much to the person that I loved. Even when Rhonda was supportive, as she mostly was, on the days when I accomplished a big fat goose egg, her eyes belied the pain; the disappointment that she felt.

And, in a very real way the disappointment that I felt in myself, for whatever reason, seems to have been the key to the length of my depression.

During this lost period my folks moved from their home of 40+ years into a 1,000 square foot apartment. It was time. My Father had well and truly shovelled more than his fair share of driveways over the years and my Mother had tended to their Home and Garden worthy backyard lovingly long enough that they were both due a respite.

As is usually the case when someone is moving, my folks had to unload some of their flotsam and jetsam. Forty years worth of ballast to be sure; and their first instinct was to give that which they felt strongly about but knew that they could not hold on to, to people they knew would appreciate those self same things.

A couch, two recliners (one of them a rocker), a rocking chair and a WONDERFULL hardwood kitchen table later Rhonda and I had been truly blessed. But there were the small things, those things that are the threads that tie a lifetime together.

My Mother, as many mothers do, kept all of my report cards. Why? As best as I can figure, because she was my mother.

We all grow up differently, don’t we; with pros along one avenue and cons along another. Those pros and cons go a long way towards defining who it is that we are going to eventually become.

I never truly had any real focused vision of myself as a youngster; only what it is that I heard and what it is that I wanted to hear. I never believed myself to be a diminutive Einstein, Descartes, or Solzhenitsyn.

One of the things that my folks bestowed upon me for which I shall be forever grateful, were my report cards, all the way from Kindergarten right the way through Junior High.

For whatever reason I had come to believe that every shortcoming in my person, my actions, and my soul were a direct affront to all the promise that I had showed in my early years. After all, I had been a genius growing up, under appreciated, unsung, hadn’t I?

As it turns out, not so much so.

I have been blessed with two of the best parents that anyone could ever possibly hope to be blessed with. They supported me at the right times, chastised me at the right times (but never, EVER to harshly). I fell DEEPLY in love with music and they went along with it. I decided to pursue Journalism as a career; and they supported it. I decided that Journalism had run its course (more for health reason than actual intellectual reasons) and they supported it.

After a while it became easier to see myself through their eyes rather than the cold, discerning eyes of those who are well and truly impartial.

Reading through my report cards from kindergarten onward I came to recognize those things in myself now which were, apparently, self evident way back when. Creative, good with words, imaginative, not so good with mathematics, not so good with practical science, even though he understands the theory. Loves music; loves theatre; loves all the artistic disciplines to the eternal detriment of all the practical ones.

Having read those reports, semester after semester, year after year had a profound effect on me. Any self loathing or disappointment that I had ever had for myself was, to a very large extent, self defeating. As surprising as it may be, today, as I sit here, I am pretty much the person that my grades kindergarten through grade six teachers originally had pegged me to be.

How fucked up is that.

But it has been a very liberating experience. Flagellating myself for ideals that would always and forever be outside my ability to reach are well and truly dead.

That I am a flawed human being has never escaped me. Hell, it has never even bothered me. To think of one self perfect and pristine is the worst kind of “sin”.

To my eternal shame I have managed over the past year to loose track of certain people who, always were well and truly worthy of being deemed friends. Stef, I love you my friend. Congrats to you and Christina on the birth of your first born. I know and truly appreciate what that must mean to you after all your trials and tribulations.

Depression is real, and it is as debilitating as any virulent disease, if not quite as terminal as some. Fortunately I managed to avoid the razor blades.

I'm not sure if my head has broken the surface yet, but I can certainly see the light.

And for today, that is just fine.