Project Suicide will be out soon!

Well, I’m back after a long hiatus and will be posting regularly from now on. You know what they say about bad pennies. 😊

The big announcement is that my debut novel, Project Suicide, is set for general release May 1. Should be on Amazon at that time. You can order it in hardcover, paperback, or kindle version. So please check it out.

Don’t know the exact price yet, but it should be reasonable--especially the electronic version. But if price has you turned off, drop me a line and we’ll work something out.

Once you read it and like it, I’d reeeealy appreciate a review, at least on Amazon and maybe GoodReads if you’re of a mind.

Anyway, stay tuned.

Reading Papa is always a pleasure.

I’m currently reading Islands in the Stream, Ernest Hemmingway’s posthumously printed novel about Caribbean life before and during World War II.

I have always hesitated to read posthumous works, suspecting that they represent a way for relatives to cash in on a partially completed trunk draft. But I was intrigued to learn that this was a completed novel that was edited by his widow and Charles Scribner. The rough draft was smoothed, but nothing was added. So, I picked up a used copy online.

The book is divided into two parts of roughly equal length. The two are so different, that it is a wonder they did not create a series of two 200-page books. But evidently, that’s not what Ernest wanted, and they followed his wishes.

The first half is relatively close to the movie of the same name, which I rather enjoyed. This is the part featuring the joy that Thomas Hudson feels living on Bimini with his visiting sons. I’m only halfway through the second part, which describes life and sub-hunting activities off Cuba. But I have read enough to know that the second is the weaker of the two halves, focused more on circumstances than emotions. Even so, it is a joy to read.

The writing represents a mature Hemmingway who has fine-tuned his craft to its ultimate expression. The prose is so crisp it snaps. The emotional intensity brought tears to my eyes on more than one occasion. Love and loss are vividly felt through dialogue, with just enough exposition to paint a vivid picture.

As usual, reading him is a pleasure.

Theory of Everything and English Patient: Great movies or just great acting?

I watched The Theory of Everything the other evening. Actually, I watched half of it then went to bed. The acting was fantastic. But the story was so depressing and deliberately paced that I felt both bored and repelled. I got a similar feeling while watching The English Patient—great acting but such an actionless downer that it wasn’t worth the considerable time.

This reminds me of an old acting axiom. Make your characters and actions as realistic as possible. But never ever make them boring. For me, the same applies to movies – and writing.

There must be some out there who want to see the step-by-step progression of debilitating illness. I guess I’m not one of them.

They don't call him King for nothing.

Hemingway once said that some places were better for writing than others, or perhaps it was that he was a better writer when at those places. I feel similarly about reading-- some places demand certain types of books. Airplane travel requires a good thriller. Home in bed, it’s Elmore Leonard or military history. When I’m at our place in Tennessee, it’s Stephen King.

Last month in the Smokies, I reread The Body, the King novella that was turned into the movie Stand by me (recently aired on cable). I noticed a couple of things. First, the movie closely followed the book, although the relationship between Gordon and his brother was not as close as in the movie. The second thing I noticed was that Stephen King is even more prolific than I thought.

In the introduction, King states that this novella was written immediately after one of his gimongous novels (maybe The Stand?), adding that he usually has room in him for a novel plus something else before he takes a break. Are you freakin’ kidding me? If that wasn’t amazing enough, the novella itself includes two complete multi-thousand-word short stories, written in different styles. So that’s a large novel, novella, and two short stories during the time that most of us struggle to crank out half a mediocre first draft.

They don’t call him King for nothing.

Jeez, I hate novel revisions!

I just started reading Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the updated title for Jack Finney’s 1955 serialized novel, The Body Snatchers. I decided to read this more than sixty-year-old horror/scifi novel because I’m reading another old book, Stephen King’s Danse Macabre (1982). I was about two thirds of the way through DM, when King began discussing Body Snatchers as one of the classics in the genre. Well, since I’ve seen this movie a hundred times (at least), but never read the classic from which it sprung, I decided to avoid King’s spoilers and first read the Finney novel. The retitled paperback was available for cheap on Amazon (the original was much more expensive), so I plunked down my two bucks (plus $3.99 shipping) and had it in a few days. I’m just fifteen pages in, and almost wish I hadn’t bothered.

It’s not that I dislike the writing, Finney’s writing is pretty good. It’s also fun to revisit Dr. Miles Bennell, Becky Driscoll, and crew, after seeing them so many times on screen. The problem is that the title was updated in 1978, to coincide with the release of the remake. Unfortunately, an attempt was made to revise the text to fit within 1978 as well. Evidently, we poor, dumb readers couldn’t deal with ancient writing from twenty years ago (dum dum dee doh, Shazam! Golly Sgt. Carter!).

The problem with such revision is that fiction is a creature of the period in which it is written. There are hundreds of phrases, idioms, and historical aspects that flavor the writing, which is part of the fun. For each one you change, you miss a bunch. So you end up with dozens of anachronisms that pull the reader out of the narrative. It’s like seeing that fictional 555 area code they used to use in movies. You cease suspended disbelief and say, “Jeez!”

For example, Miles describes the life of a young (he’s 28) doctor. But this description is for a mid-1950s doctor, not one in 1978. He talks about house calls and all-night answering services to wake him for emergency appendectomies, etc. By the late 1970s, hospitals and emergency rooms had sprung up throughout even rural America, so that the house call was a thing of the past. He describes his training as four years of med school and one year of internship, but by the late 1970s, a general practitioner would have at least a two-year residency in family medicine, with ‘GP’ designating older docs that only had a general internship.  Finney seems to realize some of this, so he adds expository narrative such as “Yes, I still make house calls.” But such padding detracts from the flow, waking the reader from the nightmare Finney’s weaving. After a while, you find yourself looking for these “Jeez!” moments, instead of immersed in the tale.

Well, enough bitching. Time for me to go back to reading Body Snatchers, hoping that the story is strong enough to withstand a revisionist flogging. At least it should be a nice walk down memory lane. Jeez!

Holiday movies are about Holiday memories.

I saw a post on Facebook that someone’s favorite holiday movie was Miracle on 34th Street – the 1990s version. 1990s! I scoffed and scolded, “Check out the original.” Or how about It’s a Wonderful Life, or Charlie Brown Christmas, or Holiday Inn? Peasant!

The reply was simple, sweet, and humbling.  

“I have never seen the original, but grew up with the 1990s version. That one holds my Holiday memories.”

And right she is! That’s what Christmas movies are about – Holiday memories. We revisit them each year like friends and family, warming our hearts in their company and fondly reminiscing about Christmases past.

So, whether your favorite is It’s a Wonderful Life, Scrooged, The Santa Clause, or Bell Book and Candle (A favorite of mine), I want to wish you warm reacquaintance and fond memories this Holiday season. As Tiny Tim opined – “Pass me a drumstick! Every one!”

Harry "Breaker" MOrant -- Bushman and Buccaneer.

 One of my favorite small-budget movies is Breaker Morant, the story of three Australians that were tried for murder during the Boer war (Circa 1901). Wandering through Amazon (the online bookstore, not the jungle), I came across a short book from 1903 about the life and verse of Harry “The Breaker” Morant (Frank Fox: Bushman and Buccaneer). The movie was based on this book, so I got a copy, looking more for the Breaker’s verses than his life story. But the latter proved interesting as well.

Both the author’s forward and a more modern one by his great grandson suggest that it is a myth that Morant, Hancock, and Whitten were railroaded by a kangaroo court. Yet, the “myth” has a ring of truth, knowing how the British army has historically closed ranks to hide their mistakes. And it is interesting to note that both author and great grandson are upper-crust British gentlemen.

Still, whether it is truth or myth, it’s a great story. So, if you haven't seen the movie starring Edward Woodward and Brian Brown, I highly recommend it. For now, I leave you with my favorite Morant poem, one not in the Fox book but highlighted in the movie. The dark blue eyes and silken hair in the later stanzas no doubt refer to Harry’s beloved Nell, left behind in Devon.

AT THE RIVER-CROSSING by Harry "Breaker" Morant

 Oh! the quiet river-crossing

 Where we twain were wont to ride,

 Where the wanton winds were to sing

 Willow branches o'er the tide.

 There the golden noon would find us

 Dallying through the summer day,

 All the weary world behind us -

 All it's tumult far away.

 Oh! Those rides across the crossing

 Where the shallow stream runs wide,

 When the sunset's beams were glossing

 Strips of sand on either side.

 We would cross the sparkling river

 On the brown horse and the bay;

 Watch the willows sway and shiver

 And their trembling shadows play.

 When the opal tints waxed duller

 And a gray crept o'er the skies

 Yet there stayed the blue sky's color

 In your dreamy dark-blue eyes.

 How the sun-god's bright caresses,

 When we rode at sunset there,

 Plaited among your braided tresses,

 Gleaming on your silky hair.

 When the last sunlight's glory

 Faded off the sandy bars,

 There we learnt the old, old story,

 Riding homeward 'neat the stars.

 'Tis a memory to be hoarded -

 Oh, the foolish tale and fond!

 Till another stream be forded -

 And we reach the Great Beyond.

"The trick is not minding that it hurts."

Watched some of Lawrence of Arabia recently, a film that is almost universally acclaimed as another masterpiece by the master director, Sir David Lean. While I do like much of the movie, as well as David Lean’s work in general (his Great Expectations and Bridge on the River Kwai are true masterpieces), I would dub Lawrence of Arabia almost a great film.

The first two hours are rousing entertainment, with epic action and great acting, especially by Peter O’Toole as the character of TE Lawrence. I say the character of Lawrence, because the actual Lawrence was quite a bit different from the one portrayed by O’Toole (For details, see Guerrilla Leader: TE Lawrence and the Arab Revolt; JJ Schneider). However, the last hour is about as exciting as watching a camel chew.

The post-war scenes with the Arabs floundering in their new independence is like sitting through a monthly meeting of a municipal zoning board. Although the scenes have an air of realism, I am reminded of cautionary words from both my acting and writing training: never confuse realism with drama. Drama should suggest realism, but not real life. Real life is boring. Drama should be a distillation of the interesting parts of real life, especially the conflict.

Lawrence of Arabia is notable for having some truly great writing. My favorite line comes from early in the film, and provides excellent insight into the hero’s character. While still in Cairo, young Lt. Lawrence performs a trick where he allows a match to burn down, extinguishing it with his fingers. An orderly tries the same thing, but yelps, “Ow! It bloody well hurts.” Lawrence replies, “Certainly it hurts.” So the orderly asks, “So what’s the trick.” To which Lawrence replies, “The trick is not minding that it hurts.”