Let Them Eat Flu ...

Okay,

I don't like to get political, or socio-economic, as the case may be, but I'm about to throw a mantrum.

Just for the record, I thought the bailout was a bad idea. I may have been wrong, but my reasoning turned out to be dead on.

"At least fifty percent of that money is going to go directly to ultrarich people," I said in my self-righteous way. "Not in some sort of indirect, voodoo-economics sort of way, but directly into their bank accounts."

I think we can all agree that that's pretty much what happened. I mean, yes, maybe the bailout helped, but let me feel good about my righteous indignation at least. The money went to bonuses and spa trips. Multimillion dollar ad campaigns, and booze, and hookers, and yachts, and hookers with booze on yachts.

So, the AIG bonuses and the financial company executives making more money after bankrupting the country doesn't come as a surprise. I saw that insult coming a long way off. Even though I am in a single-income home raising twins on ramen noodles and rainwater, I just quietly simmer. Even though my employer just cut my pay by 18 percent, I take deep breaths and move on.

"We also got congress to send out a guy who will cock-punch 

everyone  in the country not making more than $500,000 a year."

But this new atrocity. This new wedgie from the financial titans is almost too much too bear. I rail against this with every ounce of bitterness and anger I can muster. This hits me not only in the self-rigtheous bone, but in the parent bone.

Goldman Sachs executives apparently got themselves a huge stockpile of H1N1 vaccine before most everyone else in the country. Yes, that's right, before most schools. Before most hospitals. They got their vaccine before my children had a chance to. I'm glad someone realizes how important those Goldman-Sachs guys are.

I know, it's just another in a long series of insults. But this sense of entitlement, this in-your-face decadence is becoming more than I can handle.

I imagine the people of France felt like this when Marie Antoinette was having her girls-gone-wild party. The tiny fraction of the ultra-rich that keep taking and taking should be careful -- I'm sure there are people out there sharpening guillotines. I'm just sayin'.

Writing a Novel ...

... is like juggling ten things in the air at once, only, they're not real things. They're placeholders. And as you juggle them, you have to look around and find things to replace the objects you are throwing around, things that feel better. But as you do this, you realize that the new objects don't feel right either, so you have to replace those, too.

Each time you replace the objects in your hand, you think, "Awesome! That's the last time I'll have to replace that thing!" Of course it's not, but it feels good to think it. And all the while, as you keep replacing those objects, you need to keep everything moving through the air smoothly. And random people walk by and throw shoes and jars of peanut butter and pencils at you. And a midget rides by on a Saint Bernard, shouting "Long Live El Heffe!" And scantily clad women dance in the background. And monkeys. Lots of monkeys.

... midgets are heavy.

That's pretty much it. That's what writing a novel is all about.

Group Sects (My Critique Circle)

Dream Sequence: Last night's dreams had a hundred different story lines, but the most vivid one involved a neighbor's yard. Apparently there were bodies buried there, with actual gravemarkers and such (as opposed to the bodies buried in my yard, which have no markers and several pounds of lye on them). The newest grave belonged to someone I sort of knew. I looked around and noticed some orange flowers growing on the other side of the lawn, so I picked a few of them to place on his grave. The man's wife, an older woman, approached me and asked if I had come to pay respects. I said yes, and showed her the flowers, but they had all withered and died. The dream left me feeling icky. 


Join a writer's group. Go. Now. Do it. Don't make me yell.

There's nothing in this world that can help a writer more than joining a writer's group. And it's not just the critiques (although the critiques are probably the most quantifiable goodness of the group). A writer's group is like a hot bath for your creativity; healing, soothing, revitalizing, cleansing, squishy, wavy, fun and dangerous if you fall asleep. Okay, maybe not squishy. And wavy is a little abstract. But everything else applies.

My writer's group (G.D. Scribes, Repra'sent!) is the monkey's banana. The best bunch of people you could meet, and an even better bunch of people to write with. No one has had a bigger impact on my novel than these people. And there's no one in the world who understands what I am trying to do better than these folks. Even if they don't understand that 'hammer' lowercase, is a rank in my novel, and Hammer (capitalized) is a nickname. Bastards, all of you.

... and leave this guy out of it.

So, if you don't have a writer's group, get one (I think there's a sale at Target). And if you live near Fairfield County, Connecticut, let me know. I'll let you into mine. There's only three requirements: 1. You are serious about your writing.  2. You are not an asshole.  3. You understand that hammer, lowercase, is a rank in my novel and Hammer, uppercase, is a nickname.

The Lights are Going Out ...

I drive a turn-of-the-decade Jagualtima.

It has problems. Eccentricities, really.

Wildcard steering, for one. That's what I call it. Every once in a while the car decides to swerve wildly from side to side for no reason. It was kinda scary the first time, but I just smile when it happens now. It's like a game. I pretend I'm a space cowboy that's been hit by enemy fire. But really I'm just trying to stay in my lane.

Like this, only less mature

It also has a cranky CD player that only plays when the ride meets its ridiculously high standard of smoothness. It reminds me of an old girlfriend of mine. She annoyed me almost as much as the car.

There's an electrical issue that makes components stop working from time to time (It's only fair, I suppose, because I, myself, stop working a lot). This is probably the most interesting issue, since one of the things affected is the bell that goes off when you leave your lights on. I turn my lights on day or night, so this eccentricity is especially charming to me. Not that I don't like waiting two hours for a jump start from AAA. It gives me a chance to spend some quality time with the Jagualtima.

Recently, the interior lights have started to go out. The first to go were the lights around the automatic shifter. The lights that show you the different gears. Does anyone really use all those gears? I mean, I've got D and R on my faves bar, but who the hell uses L and 1 or 2? Anyway, I just guess usually instead of turning on the dome lights to see if I'm in the right gear. When I'm wrong, the engine just revs in N. Usually. Sometimes I fly backward in R, wondering why the trees around me are going the wrong way.

The next lights to go were a couple of the lights around the state-of-the-art climate control system. And the other day, the entire climate control bar started pulsing on and off as I drove. Sometimes it goes off completely.

I've got this weird premonition that these dying lights are touchstones marking the slow death of my car. When the last light goes off, the car will shudder, stall and let out one last, long blast of exhaust.

 I'll miss you, Jagualtima. God knows why, but I'll miss you.

Of Satyrs and Salets

Okay, something that bothers me fierce but could just be a touch of OCD. You're reading a story, a fantasy story, set in a medieval-England style make-believe world. One of the characters mentions a satyr. Or someone "falls to the earth." Or a siegemaster is bringing trebuchets to bear on a castle.

Do you see where I'm headed?

A satyr is a Greek word for a creature of decidedly Greek nature. How can someone "fall to the earth" if the make-believe world isn't called earth. Trebuchets and salet helmets, both French, don't bother me as much, but I ran out of examples, even though I know there are ten thousand examples that I can't remember right now because my muse is angry at me for saying I would make her my slave. ((breathe)).

The point is, does it bother you when an author uses a word that is alien to the world that they have created? I know, it's a little picky. Like I said, I ride the OCD Express when I write. But still. At least use the word Faun instead of Satyr. I think faun is more European.

"Je voudrais un casque du salet, s'il vous plait"

I know fantasy stories involve an understood translation of some sort, but shouldn't the translation be consistent? Am I the only one who is bothered by this? And what's the deal with dentistry? Isn't it time for a revolutionary development in dental technology? Something to replace the old drill-a-hole-in-your-teeth regime? Christ's sake, what's it been, like two hundred years? It's like a race for last place against the internal combustion engine.

Rise, blog, RISE!

Hello ... ((tap tap)) is this thing on? Hello? ((tap tap))

Ahem ... ah ... hello world. My name is Roberto and I'm addicted to writing. My life is hectic to the breaking point, and I was inspired by a blog I saw recently, so I decided to add one of my own, just to see if something snaps.

I've been a reporter, a magazine writer and a magazine editor, and I have written creatively for as long as I could string together words. I am on the sixth draft of a novel, which, at this rate, means only another ten drafts or so to go before victory. Victory, in this case, meaning it is finished and I'm not dead.

I've been chasing my muse for thirty years or so. And though she's been awful flirty lately, I am still no closer to understanding her than I have ever been.

Two muses. Better than one!

She's beautiful, my muse. But cruel. She loves me and mocks me. She's funny and brilliant and kind, but she has a habit of standing me up. Of leaving me when I need her most.

I'm convinced that one day I'll master her. I'll make her my bloodwife, forever at my side, whispering, her head on my shoulder. Subservient to my pen.

Um ... I ... ah ... didn't mean that. Just jokes, that's all, baby. Don't be like that. Come on. Wait ... come back. ((sigh))

I've, like, gotta go and stuff. Welcome to my blog.