Lost & Found

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I see it when the world stops. I feel it when my heartbeat goes through the floor. There’s a resonance to it and an underlying pulse.

When it morphs, my breath catches, the breathing stops and the rhythm of it all falls into place.

There’s a tragicness, a solemn regret to the meaning of it. A distant path of neglect. It’s a scurrilous falsity. It comes and goes with the way the world turns. It’s tragic in its breath. It’s undeterred in the space it occupies and yet it is there. In runs the gamut of emotions. It finds its hope among the rotting and the refuse of the left behind parts. The phantom life. The perilous thing that wants to be, but can’t.

It runs across the floor and yet…we don’t see it, not yet. It rolls across. It fumbles the mechanics of it all and when it does, we don’t feel the push. We don’t understand its rhythm.

We’re lost in the heartbeat. We’ve sold our souls to find our place and within the strategems of willing it to continue.

In the last heartbeat, we’ll see the distant underlying pulse, the resonance, and when the breathing stops, we stop.

It’s coming together.

The Devil Takes You Home, Review

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I wrote a review for this once, and it was terrible, the review, not the book.

I finished it a few weeks ago, and it still resides in my head. I’ve thought about it daily. When it crosses my brain stream, I think of all that it is, and it’s a fantastic book.

If you need proof, I’ve had trouble reading anything since. I believe my Goodreads has me reading four books right now.

The opening is heartbreaking, but Mario, the main character, needs to get going. It’s what the story needs. I can’t think of this story without that heartwrenching opening that pulls you and wants you to follow the main character.

He takes job after job, trying to make things work to get back to his wife. When he feels like he’s nearly there, a job lands in his lap that could fix it all.

The strange trip that follows goes dark. We see things as they are in the world he lives in. They’re not pretty things, but we are witnesses to them.

As the trip progresses, more darkness arrives in shadows, caves, and in the form of gators. We see a small glimpse of the underworld Marcio, the main character, lives in. He may not know it’s there, but he finds out about it soon enough. All the dark things come to roost, and with them, a sense of a man fighting to do right by his wife and daughter.

The ride didn’t end the way I thought or hoped it would, but if you’ve read anything else of Gabino’s, you knew what may be coming. He doesn’t hold back the darkness swirling around Mario. He lets it out. This makes the book so good and shows Gabino’s talent with the subject.

I had to write this better review. I wrote the other one a day after I finished it. I shouldn’t have done that. It was too raw. I’ve read Gabino’s Coyote Songs and started on Zero Saints.

He’s one of my favorite writers, and he’s helped me a lot with my own writing.

It’s a great book, and I hope you read it.

Sea of Illusion

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We often find ourselves lost on a sea of illusion. We see the world around us, at least it’s composition according our little corner, and we may think that’s all there is or could be.

We remove people who’ve done damage to the people we care about most, and we’re better for losing those people.

It’s our way of fighting the delusion of self. The perfection of who believe ourself to be and on that sea we may find the waves smashing against the hull of self. We plum the depths of who we are, never sure of that belief.

There are moments upon the swells or in the squall that sometimes persist where we narrow our focus upon one thing. It’s this isolation of focus where our greatest work may come from. It’s the isolation, and maybe the desertion of self and all the pesky things we associate with it that holds us back.

Upon the sea of illusion rests an island of discovery. It’s this island where we write, paint, perform, and as with every artist of one form or another, it’s our passion place. Our isolated little hole in our mind. It’s where we go to break free from the randomness and to absorb what we’ve been through.

Finding our way out and into the island is sometimes difficult, but it’s the enjoyment of this one thing that gives us the most satisfaction.

Travel the sea of illusion. Find the island of discovery and stay within its confines. There’s magic in that sand.

Gained A Level, or a few.

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I sat down the other day and wrote out all the projects I’ve written in the seven years since my family moved from Las Vegas to Ogden, Utah.

I have 10 projects either done, outlines, or ready to be written.

Four thrillers in the military/political/espionage realm and six in the horror genre.

I’ve been hard as hell on myself for the last few months. Writing these down feels like I’ve gained a level in my writing.

I’m a big gamer, and I have been since the ’80s. Looking at all this feels like I gained a level in one of my games. The fear of rejection and the fraud police will always be on my mind, but I have a date for my military/political thriller novel, November 1st. Here is the link.

But I want to thank everyone who commented on my posts over the last few months. I’m working through some things personally, and all of your support has been amazing.

I have a whiteboard above my desk, and I have all of the books I’ll be publishing until 2024 listed. There are seven with dates. I have one of the 10 I listed above out on submission. As soon as I get a reply on that, I’ll add it to the queue.

I write horror and military/political/espionage thrillers. I grew up watching horror and reading thrillers. Tom Clancy will always be my favorite in the genre, but Mark Greaney, Jack Carr, David Baldacci, Brad Thor, and Brad Taylor are my favorites right now.

Here‘s my list of what I’m currently reading.

I hope you have a good rest of your week.

Not sure where this is going.

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Over the last few weeks, I’ve thought about where I’m going with my writing. What am I doing right? What am I doing wrong?

I don’t have answers to either of those questions. I feel I put in enough time editing than I used to. I feel I’ve worked hard to overcome many of my crutch issues.

I submit when I see a call that a story will fit with. I work on my craft by reading books on writing and reading all genres of books. I’m thinking of stepping away to work on something else. Myself.

I have a novella out on submission and a thriller novel that I’ll be submitting in August, but after writing 13 novels and novellas, I’m not enjoying this. I write daily because that’s the deal my wife and I made when we left Las Vegas.

I would write and bartend a few days to make ends meet.

Anymore, I wonder if I’m helping her out enough. If I’m helping my kids enough.

Am I doing everything I can to make them happy?

There’s one thing about this I haven’t put forward often. Am I doing enough to make myself happy?

I don’t usually think about this. I used to put myself before anyone. That came from having the biological father I did. He always put himself first. I did that for years. I’ve worked hard to not be that way, but I think something was lost.

I think more about making others happy and not myself. I worry about whether others are getting what they need. I never consider what I need. It just doesn’t feel like I’m as important as everyone else. Maybe that has to do with my childhood, I’m not sure. I know this mentality has screwed up how I view my writing life.

I’m leaning towards getting the thriller submitted and seeing how it goes. Afterward, I’ll reevaluate my writing and whether I’ll write to submit, which is what I’ve done for the last seven years.

I have my story collection on Amazon and wish it would do well, but it hasn’t. After two years on Amazon and other places, I may pull it after it goes through its cycle on KU.

Today I finished a story, and it’s brutal and destructive. I don’t know what I’ll do with it right now. Probably keep it with the rest of my stories on my hard drive. I’ve worked hard on these stories. I’d like someone else to enjoy them.

I’m beginning to think I missed the turnoff somewhere. I don’t know where to go from here.