Pour little me

It's raining tonight, really hard. An unexpected rain. I live in an area that's had below-average rainfall for several years now, so whenever it does rain -- no matter how frequently -- it's welcomed. I hope it keeps raining until after I go to bed. Is there anything better than falling asleep to the sound of rain?

I'm 66K into my horror novel. I feel like I've got about 20K to go to wrap it up. It's scary and sexy and wild. It'll be fun when it's finally finished. Maybe this one will hit it big -- and then carry The Death Wizard Chronicles along with it.

I just got back from a wonderful vacation in the mountains. It rained there too.

I so envy the people who can afford to just write.

Horns!

I'm 120 pages into the ghost story. I can't seem to keep the sex out of it. What's wrong with me?

Back in the saddle

I've begun work on a horror novel that I'm going to call The Bathroom Window. It's going to be a full-blown, sexy, supernatural ghost story that will be R-rated and really scary (at least I hope).

Right now, I'm 60 pages in -- and writing at a much slower pace than I did when I wrote The Death Wizard Chronicles. Back then, I was averaging about 45,000 words a month, and it's taken me a month to write 17,000. But heck, it feels good anyway.

I can't seem to get away from working some sex into my stories. DW has it too. I'm not sure how readers feel about this. "Sex sells" doesn't seem to apply as much to books as it does to movies -- unless an author is writing erotica. So I'm not sure if this is a strike against me or not.

I do have an idea for a young adult fantasy standalone, but can I write young adult for 500 pages? That remains to be seen.

Ants in my pants

My house recently was invaded by these annoying little black ants. Under the baseboard they came. Up the side of the kitchen cabinet. All over the granite countertop, dining room table, cat food, etc. My equally black cat was especially annoyed. He'd find a squadron of them marching along my wood floor and swat away.

My wife doesn't like to kill anything. It upsets her to pull a carrot from the ground. She'll catch wasps, roaches and anything else that has found its way into our house in cups and cans and release them outside. Problem is, you can't do that with an army of tiny black ants, each about a fifth the size of a grain of rice.

Enter, me. Husband. A k a Ant Killer!

Okay, so she made me use an organic ant spray, which I squirted along the baseboard. Problem solved.

Nope.

A few feet down the baseboard, here they came again. Sprayed there. Half a day of relief. More ants. Sprayed again. Again. Again. Finally sprayed all along the outside of the house. Finally, no more ants.

How many did I kill/murder/slaughter? How many did I send to a writhing, hideous death? Many hundreds, at least. I am the Ant Killer!

Tonight, I was sitting out on my back deck. And what did I see? Little black ants crawling on the wooden planks. My right index finger -- the spray finger -- began to twitch. But I held off. For now.

Instead, I sat and watched the hummingbirds feed. Luxuriated in the warm breeze on my face. Drank a cold Corona with a lime. Admired my black cat as he bathed himself.

But the ants ... I watched them too. I see them. Do you?

My finger twitches even now.

Weighty issues

I was very skinny when I was young. Between May when I graduated from ninth grade and September when I entered 10th, I grew 5 full inches in height -- from 5-7 to 6-0. Yet I didn't gain a pound of weight. At that point, I was 6-0 and weighed about 130 pounds. My pants were 27 waist, 34 inseam. I didn't surpass 150 pounds until my early 30s. And didn't surpass 170 until my early 40s.

I most certainly was one of those types who could eat anything and any amount at any time of day or night. The act of sucking on a straw caused me to lose weight as I drank a 1,000-calorie milkshake. My stomach was as big around as the straw.

However ...........................................................................................................

Metabolism finally caught up to me. Now I'm 190 and battling not to get bigger. My arms and legs are still relatively thin, but my stomach is no longer cooperating. Over the past 10 years ago, I finally have had to watch what I eat. And watch and watch.

And my pants are now 36 waist, 30 inseam. I understand the waist growing, but I don't quite get the inseam shrinking.

Now, 6-0 and 190 doesn't exactly make me a porker. But guys like me who gain weight only in their stomachs also end up gaining things like cholesterol and blood pressure and blood sugar.

So, we exercise. And we don't eat after dinner. And, my gawd, we don't get within a mile of a milkshake.

Colonoscopy: wanna talk?

I'm 52.

I had a colonoscopy yesterday, just to make sure everything's okay. The day-before purging wasn't so much fun, but the actual event wasn't bad at all. Great drugs, at least. And pretty nurses (who winked at me afterward and handed me phone numbers crumpled up on scraps of paper).

One thing that amazed me about the entire thing was how many people I know who also have had the procedure. They came to me in droves, sharing all kinds of amazing stories about loopiness and toilet seats and polyps. (The more you say that word, the cooler it sounds.) It's almost like a cult! There are the Colonoscopers and the ... others.

My group is fascinating! The others? Well, they're just kind of b-o-r-i-n-g.

Any other Colonoscopers out there?

The one talent

I recently was reading a poem by Steven Erikson (see post below) that had a simple yet provocative theme:

The painter must be mute
The sculptor deaf
Talents are passed out
Singly
As everyone knows
Oh let them dabble
We smile our indulgence
No end to our talent
For allowances
But talents are passed out
Singly
We permit you one
Worth lauding
The rest may do service
In servicable fashion
But greatness?
That is a title passed out
Singly
Don't be greedy
Over trying our indulgence
Permission
Belongs to us
Behind the makeshift wall --
The bricks of our
Reasonable scepticism.

This poem spoke to me. Each and every one of us is born with one talent that supercedes all of our other talents.

That's not to say that there aren't people out there who are multitalented. We see that all the time. Tiger Woods is multitalented. Cough.

Sorry, couldn't pass that up.

Anyway, when I really explored deeply into this concept, I found it to be fascinating. My guess is that some of us never truly uncover this superlative skill. It could be the woman who sounds so great singing in the shower could have bested Mariah Carey, had the cards fallen right for her. Or the dad who blew by all the neighbor kids in the race from the garbage can to the mailbox might have been able to blow by Usain Bolt.

For me, this is very clear. By far my best talent is writing epic fantasy. Nothing else comes close. I'm an average singer at best. I can't dance a lick (though I wish I could). There are third-graders who can outdraw me. And my best athletic endeavor ever has been bowling, though gawd knows I wish I could have been better at golf.

But I can do the epic fantasy thing. And you know what? I'd prefer to be a best-selling writer of epic fantasy than an actor, rock star, politician, sports great or anything else. Heck, I'd rather be a best-selling writer of epic fantasy than a pro golfer, and that's saying something.

I have the one talent.

But I also have enough talent left to dream.