And The $50,000 goes to...

the fastest texter in the country.

I intended to write a lengthy post on the state of society, and texting, and kids, and members of society giving money to kids for texting, but then became so depressed about the topic that I popped a couple of aspirin and went to bed.

So, the texting thing is old news by now.

I also entertained the idea of starting to train for next year's texting competition.  I don't text much.  Don't have an unlimited texting plan.  I think every time a friend sends me a text and I respond I get hit with a 20 cent fee.  I probably shouldn't own a Blackberry just for that reason.  It's overkill.  I check the Sox scores, scroll through email, use the calendar feature (barely), and once in a while place a call for pizza on the ride home.

I'm a digital immigrant.

So, texting...well, I'm up to nine words a minute.  It's really not a dexterity issue, I assure you.  It's more to do with repeatedly pausing to push my glasses back up on the bridge of my nose.  My eyes tend to water staring down at the tiny keys, fingers nimbly flying over the wrong letter.  I'm wearing out the backspace button.

I'm also trying to get the lingo down, too, to help expedite the texting process.

rofl:  rolling on floor laughing

lmao:  laughing my a$$ off

ttyl:  talk to you later

mctikm:  my carpal tunnel is killing me

Etc, etc, etc.

I wonder about our kids.

Between texting 13,000 messages a month, carrying backpacks that weigh 40 pounds, and sucking down Monster energy drinks, most members of our younger generation appear destined to become hyped-up cripples with lobster claws for hands.

Not a pretty picture at the old folks home.

Right now I'm pecking away (two-finger style) at my laptop.  No paper, no pen.  Just keys and a screen.

When I was a kid, I would sit in the backyard writing with a pen in a notebook.  I could spend hours writing stories and tales, incorporating the sights and sounds around me.

Do kids even know what that's like anymore?  Is it possible that in the not so distant future we may be looking at a generation that never holds a book?  Never composes a written piece on paper?  Never grips a pencil, licks the tip, and pours out their mind at a frenzied pace on a pile of white-lined paper, scrawling it out all in cursive replete with crossouts and arrows and circles?

Is that a bad thing?  A good thing?  Is it progress?

And if so, at what cost?  $50,000 for speed texting?  Really?  Give me a pen, a notebook, and slow cursive any time.

I think I'm going to take two aspirin and call it a night.

ttyl.  :)

*)%$#@! It's Almost September 1

I'm in a coma. At least that's my latest excuse.  From the end of June until now my body's gone through the motions, but the mind has been elsewhere, at least when it comes to fulfilling my self-imposed writing goals for the summer.

I hate when this happens.  I used to be so good about deadlines, you know?

September 1 was rewrite goal deadline.  Have the manuscript done by then so my agent could package it and resubmit to the guys and gals in NY.  Had all summer, but fell into that dangerous avoidance mode.

The question is why?

I know where I want the story to go.  The words just haven't been there.  The enthusiasm that embraced me when the original story poured out--poof.

I need to get back to the heart of things.  Kind of like when an aging Rocky returns to his "beginning" and starts running through the streets of Philadelphia and up the concrete steps to victory, clenched fists raised to the sky.  I'm not drinking the raw eggs, though.  Nope.  Gotta draw the line there, especially in light of the massive recall.

So, why the avoidance mode?  Maybe it's facing rejection again.  It's been three years.  Had some close calls (et tu, Little Brown), maybe it's the underlying fear of going through the waiting game all over again.  The market's rough.

A dear friend of mine passed along an interesting article from Newsweek about authors that have self-published.  One gentlemen uploaded his novel to Amazon Kindle, selling his book for $2.99 and the money came pouring in streams.  Publishing the traditional way usually nets an author 8-9%.  Self-publishing yields 70-80%.

Interesting.

But there's the marketing aspect to consider.  One needs to have a platform and build a base.  Not to mention the stigma still associated with self-publishing and the vanity press.  Though, it would appear to be diminishing as some self-published books have been picked up by major publishers after demonstrating success in the market.

So, one more push going the traditional route.  Then time to regroup, rethink.

Right now, I need to write.

I'd don some sweats and go for a run, but it's raining.

And guys in comas shouldn't exert themselves.  It's on WebMD.  Look it up.

Go Ahead, Make My Day

For five minutes, this past Tuesday, while innocently sitting in on job interviews for a position in the English department, I was wanted by the police.

That's right.  A fugitive.  Here's the story.  The names have not been changed to protect the guilty.

It began as an ordinary day.  We had already interviewed a couple prospective teachers, and were in the midst of questioning another, when I noticed my Blackberry (set to quiet, of course) jump to life.  The first time it went off, the number registered from home. No big deal, I thought, probably my wife, Beth, checking to see how things were going.  Within a minute of that call, the tiny screen flashed a second call, this time from Beth's cell.  Something was up.

So, between candidates, I ducked out in the hall and called.
She answered, breathless.

"Someone's in the house!"

"What?"

"I turned on my cell phone and there was a voice mail.  Some guy with a creepy voice saying he was in the house! I grabbed the dogs, jumped in the van and called my mom."

I stood in the dark hall dumbfounded. "Someone's in the house?"

"Yes!"

 It took a second for my wife's words to register, and being married to her for fourteen years I responded in a manner customary of someone married to another person that long.  I burst out laughing.

"What?!  It's not funny!"

I laughed so hard my eyes teared. As the kids would text:  LMAO.  ROFL.  It took several seconds to gather enough breath to respond.  "Beth, that's me."

"What?!"

"That's me on the voice mail."

"What?!" she repeated.

"Don't you remember at the restaurant yesterday?  We wanted to see if your phone was working okay?  I was sitting right across from you and called your cell, left a message on your voice mail:  'I'm in the house!'"

Pregnant pause.


"Oh my God," she finally said.

"Yeah, now do you remember?"

"I think so.  I wasn't really listening to you."

"Weren't listening to me?'

"Well, no, I mean, you know--  Oh no."

"What?"

"I called the state police.  They're on the way."

"You called the cops?"

"Yes, my mom told me to get out of the house and call the police!"

"Your mom told you to call the cops on me?"  Obviously the mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship had taken a turn for the worse.

"She didn't know it was you!"

"Yeah, but--"  The next candidate was entering the room.

"I gotta go," she said.  The connection went dead.

So, I returned to the room, smiling and shaking the candidate's hand, and I sat through the questioning while my head swirled with images of Dirty Harry bursting into the room, .44 Magnum drawn, staring me down.

Feeling lucky, punk?

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

Scalpel...Suture...Suction...Clamp

It's been a while since I've written here.

Truth be told, it's been a while since I've written anywhere.

To update the last couple months, my agent put me in touch with an independent editor that read the manuscript. I spent 45 minutes on the phone hearing his comments and suggestions, all the while playing back the other comments I received from the publishing houses.

All of the advice I have received is different.

I'm so confused where to take the novel.  It's been a down few months. The market is getting worse.  The publishing houses more selective than ever, and everyone is telling me to turn in a different direction.

So, I hung up the phone facing the task of rewriting the novel for the summer.

Since the phone call, I've spent hours poring through the manuscript seeing where to cut, where to add.

I've come to the realization that slight tweaks here and there aren't going to do it.

Surgery is needed.

Major surgery.

So, for the last few weeks I've been in a mental trance trying to summon some inspiration, some light to illuminate where I can unearth the real story behind my story.  Nothing. Nada.

Until the other morning.  I awoke with the words on the tip of my mind.  I had traveled to that magical place where writers sometimes go, the one between half-sleep, half-awake.  A new character was born.  Inserted in just the right spot of the storyline.  A new thread in the tapestry, yadda, cliche, yadda.

I'm letting the characters take control.  Letting them change the story.

So, suddenly, in the last few days I find that I'm through chapter five.

The Mist, redux.

We'll see where this goes.

~Ciao.





 

Truth is Stranger than Fiction, or Ice, Ice, Baby

My wife has told me on a number of occasions that I should consider putting aside my YA fiction for a while and write a book about life as a step-parent.  She usually makes this suggestion when I've walked into the house, head wagging side-to-side in utter dismay, disgust, confusion...(fill-in-the-blank to describe today's facial expression).  This head shaking is usually followed by a punctuated sigh. 

I'm a loud "sigher." Even the poodles, napping prone on the living room floor will lift their heads when I sigh.  It's kind of like the ominous clouds in the distance just before the first crack of thunder, or the sound of the phone chirping to life at 3AM.  You know what follows is not going to be good, and my wife, bless her heart, braces herself to play referee between my rants on the latest catastrophe and her explaining away the actions of our two older boys.  It's not always bad, mind you, just a bit of a mystery to me.

My tools, for instance, disappear on a regular basis.  I've filed many Missing Tool Reports at Sears.  You have to wait the required 72 hours, but there are forms you can fill out in the hopes that your tools will be recovered.  I'm on a first name basis with many of the Investigative Officers at Craftsman Headquarters, Missing Tools Division. All of my investigations are still ongoing, but I remain hopeful.  Sometimes, when I'm outside walking around the property or mowing the lawn, I'll come across a stray socket or screwdriver, usually rusted and worn away by the elements.  Cast offs left to fend for themselves, separated from their tool box or comfortable hook in the garage...they died horrible deaths, abandoned and alone.  I question the two older boys.  But they have no knowledge of how these tools could have ended up where they did.

Then there's the rake homicide that occurred yesterday, some time between 10:15 AM and 2:45 PM (according to the attending coroner).  The rake was found three feet away from the overturned wheel barrow.  Photos of the crime scene reveal extreme blunt trauma to the rake as illustrated by the eight inch crack across the plastic portion above the rake's tines.  In addition, the handle was completely severed in two.  Questioning of stepson number two, reported to be in the area during the estimated time of death, revealed no conclusive evidence of foul play.

 "It just broke," he said. 
"Just broke?" I repeated, holding the pieces in my hand.
 "Uh-huh." 
The homicide remains under investigation.

And finally, this brings us to the older boy.  He arrived for a visit with his new acquisition, a 1995 Ford Mustang.   He pulled into the driveway, jumped out of the car and popped the hood.  Still confused and rattled about the death of my rake, I hardly noticed as he walked by me toward the house muttering that he needed to get ice.  I went into the carriage shed to find my shovel so that I could bury the rake.  When I re-emerged into the light, the older boy was coming from the house, cradling three large ice packs.  My mouth dropped and I stood in a stupor as I watched him placing the ice on top of the car's engine (see picture below).

"What?" he asked me. 

I shook my head. 

"No, there's a reason I'm doing this, Pop." 

"I need to get a picture of this."

"Why?"

"For the blog.  I need evidence or no one will believe me."

"No, wait, there's an explanation.  See, the O2 sensor that controls the mixture--"

But his words trailed off...

After I buried the rake, I returned to take another picture, only to find the ice packs replaced with a Zip Lock bag of cubes.

I snapped the picture.

A few minutes later, Sears called.  Officer Marnier had a report of a discarded 3/8 socket wrench a jogger discovered off Route 12 in Plainfield.  The wrench was badly decomposed. He needed me to come down for a positive identification.

I sighed, loudly, clicked off the phone and went to get a drink.

We were out of ice.

Working Titles: Don't Eat The Dandelions or The School Nurse Dials Poison Control

The other day my wife, Beth, a teacher at a nearby high school, received that call that most parents dread.
A phone call from our son's school.

The text of the conversation went something like this:

Office Secretary: Beth, we have a phone call from the middle school nurse regarding your son, Adam.

Beth: Okay (deep breath, pulse rate jumps)

Clicking of transferred call.

School Nurse: Hello, Mrs. Anastasio? This is (insert name here) the school nurse at Adam's school.

Beth: Yes, is he okay? What's wrong?

School Nurse: Yes, it's not really serious.

Beth: What happened?

School Nurse: Well, there was an incident outside on the playground.

Beth: Okay.

School Nurse: Apparently, while running outside, Adam fell down and somehow when he was near the ground, he ingested a dandelion.

Beth: What?

School Nurse: He swallowed a dandelion.

Pause

School Nurse: Ate it.

Beth: (repeating in monotone manner) He ate a dandelion...

School Nurse: Yes.

Beth: Umm. (mind spinning with images of a slow motion, high definition replay of Adam tripping, background noise grinding into a drawn out groan. As his body nears the ground, his mouth opens and we see a close-up shot of the menacing dandelion zooming upward, center screen. Cut to Adam rolling over and sitting up, chewing slightly. He burps audibly, clutching his stomach. Teachers on duty rush to his side. One of them shouts above the schoolyard din, "Get a medic! Stat!" A WWII corpsman appears, mud spattered, med pack in hand. "What do we have?" he shouts. "Dandelion!" one haggard teacher replies. The corpsman's face blanches as he slowly shakes his head, the teacher bursts into tears--

School Nurse: Mrs. Anastasio?

Beth: (snapping out of trance) Yes, sorry...is he okay?

School Nurse: Oh yeah, bit of a stomach ache, but I called poison control. There's really no danger in swallowing a dandelion. Adam may experience some discomfort later on, some minor stomach cramps. But, he'll be fine.

Beth: Uh-huh.

School Nurse: Just wanted to let you know.



Kids... ya gotta love 'em.

Still "Wilder" Than Ever

This past Saturday, my sister and I traveled down to Stratford to attend the first annual Unicorn Writing Conference, organized and implemented by my agent, Jan Kardys.  The day was packed with informative workshops involving every angle of getting published, understanding contracts, developing characters, screenwriting, etc.  It was a worthwhile experience and I would heartily recommend it for anyone who writes (Jan is making it bigger and better next year, if that's possible).

For me, two events stick out from the day.

The first involved a visit from Gene Wilder.  I've been a fan of his work since I can remember, so I was obviously excited to hear him speak. To me, Gene Wilder is a cultural icon, even students I have now know his body of work, as evidenced by the number of responses I received on Facebook from jealous teenagers that wanted to be where I was at that very moment.  As one student wrote, "Gene Wilder is the man!"  I agree.  I even wrote and delivered a speech for an awards ceremony at Bacon Academy in "Gene Wilder- Willy Wonka" persona.  I mean, come on, who doesn't recogninze and appreciate the iconic actor, writer, and now water color artist.  In my mind I will always picture him donning his Willy Wonka top hat, or shucking and jiving in black face, boom box perched on his shoulder, Richard Pryor in tow. 
Soon, a murmur ensued in the room.  He had arrived, and our attention pivoted toward the door.  But the man who entered the room, hunching slightly, shuffling toward the easy chair was not the man entrenched in my mind... This man didn't spring into the room or duck into a somersault and leap upward to grand applause.  This man looked every bit the 76-year-old he should look.  Where was the Gene Wilder I remember?  He seemed lost...lost that is until he was seated and began to speak.  That unmistakable voice-- clear, steady, unique.  And with every question posed (all fresh and unrehearsed as he had insisted) the Gene Wilder in my mind's eye slowly evolved and took shape.

He spoke of his time with Gilda, of the loves in his life, his time spent acting and writing.  He spoke of meeting Mel Brooks for the first time, the origin of his stage name (his real name is Jerome Silberman), and how he almost didn't take the role of Willy Wonka unless one very important concession was agreed upon, a request for a scene change that altered the entire tenor of the film.  Soon, the entire room melted into his world and hung on his every word, much like little Charlie Bucket wandering aimlessly through the Chocolate Factory, we didn't want it to stop.

But, all too quickly the visit did end, and as Gene Wilder slowly made his way toward the exit, people descended around him seeking autographs and posing for pictures with the star.  My sister leaned in and asked if I wanted a snapshot with Gene. 

If she had asked me before he arrived, I probably would have said yes, but after hearing him speak, hearing him open up with persoanl stories and honest emotion, a photo opportunity seemed almost inappropriate, if that makes sense.

So, we sat and watched him pause with people he didn't know, camera flashes firing on and off like mini-indoor lightning storms, and soon after he was gone.

------------------------

The second significant event is a personal one.  Apparetly, my manuscript found its way into the hands of a movie producer and he had read it, and he also happened to be attending the conference.  My sister cajoled me into approaching him about it, and I did.

Our encounter was brief.  I introduced myself and explained that it was my understanding that he read my book.  He smiled and said, "Yes, it's almost there.  You're a terrific writer." 

After months of doubt and self-loathing about the manuscript and the rejections received, those words have reinfused me with hope.  Which is my point, I suppose.  If your goal is to one day see your work published, the roller coaster of emotions is part of the deal.  You can't give up.  You have to believe in the message of your work and roll with the highs and lows of ebbing confidence.

Of course, it helps to hear some encouraging words from outside of your own head, too.

So now, on the eve of some major re-writes to my work, the movie producer invited me to call him so that he may share his comments on my work.  "Nervous about what he might say?" you ask.  Not at all.

Wait a minute, strike that, reverse it.