Category: Tom

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In sring one hun derds

Ga ther up on the white leaves

why tom why not Yup

As an author you can’t forget where you came from. I came from emigrants so dead set on become Americans they chucked all of their European culture for … and that is the dead silence at the end of the question what is the American Prize? In terms of my Germany lineage there is that Hun/nazi thing. In terms of my Irish lineage one had to overcome that Irish and blacks need not apply. My grandparents bought my parents respectably and my parents bought a home in the suburbs. I come from a place on the edge of the city I don’t belong anywhere.

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When you write enough 100 word stories you start to notice a pattern. I think its because their small you get a larger data set to work with. For the most part they are funny stories set in the somewhat mythical land of my youth peppered with lost Germanic roots. They are reflections seen in Kid-vision. They seems to speak of a longing for justice and fairness that I guess must be lacking in the world I see around me. They are simpler and revel in immediate gratification, no deferred satisfaction. Then they’re the stories with zombies, much better stuff.

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The must dangerous demon to the creative process is self-editing. Not the processes of selection and refinement. I’m talk about discount it because it not good enough, its been done before, its childish, not literary enough, people with laugh, my mom with shack her head at her idiot son. It creeps in when you find your smiling at the words in front of you. It definitely has a voice like your fifth grade English teacher. Sister Mary Retribution, “ Mr. Marquette this is not an appropriate topic.” I use to listen to that voice but now I listen to another, mine.

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Sometime a story lives wholly in the moment. It never gets to paper. Stories for baby Laura were of this natural. She demanded they be made-up on the spot and never repeat. This was the bed time ritual between me and my sister well into her teens. I was allowed to use the same character, but not in the same setting. Her favorite stories were the ones about the butch fairies. A group on tiny lesbian warriors who used double head axes to harvest public hair to make bungie cords. They live in the small forest in North America

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If you rub to pencils together it will make a story. I saw it at the county fair. A guy with a microphone was hawking them to a small crowd of retired teachers who seem satisfied with the product and were buying it like hotcakes. It was called the Word-O-Matic. But as I said all it real was was two number 2 pencils connect to a hydrogen fuel cell. I gave them a try and sure enough I got 100 words on the quality of mercy. Layed down my 20 and put them in the bag with the magic beans.

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Now I lay me down to bed I pray the lord a story in my head. If I should die before I wake give my agent 10% that’s his take. Amen. I go to bed with one more story on the screen. I am too tired to write. It will be waiting for me in the morning to be clever or funny or sad. More that likely it with be just 100 words. A wise guy once said all we are doing to rearranging the same words. As if we got something new to say. I’ll just say good night.

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My person muse is named Fred. He lives in my computer. Fred helps me write stories. He is much better at spelling then I am. A pretty reasonable muse on the whole, too bad about the human scarifies thing. I started off with bodies from the morgue, but he said that wasn’t playing fair. I went to work at hospice, said he didn’t like that either. Ok so what would make you happy? I asked. He said: a banjo playing midget. Hell with that I set the compute on fire. I got a new muse she called Irene likes donuts.

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I’ve taken to writing stories underwater I got a big old blackboard and grease pen. When I started out I could only do about sentence a drive, but now I’m up to whole 100 words. Too keep my edge I have a school of thrasher sharks in one corner. My wife dumps gasoline on the surface and light it when I hit the bottom. I’ve learn how to pick the padlocks with my teeth and untie the ropes with my feet. Thinking of going salt water in the fall. Manta rays make good muses.

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Writing is a lot like spending a year in a Turkish prison. Boy Howdy don’t want to do that again. Though I must admit I miss the nights in the latrine with Omar reading the Rube Yata. Yes writing is a prison and your only friend is Bubba. If you embrace your own private Bubba chances are you will be a better writer that Steven King. Bet he never had a Bubba moment. Prisoners to the word waiting for an easily parole. It’s like being strip search by your muse writing is like doing hard time, working on the chaingang.