It case you’ve been wondering what I’ve been working on the day few days. The anniversary is July 4th and 5th, so I thought it’d be a good time to finish this article. Enjoy
Independence Day in New York City is a time for high spirits, popping off the fire plug (at least during my childhood), and fireworks. But In 1857, the holiday turned bloody in one of the largest r…
Source: The Dead Rabbits Riot
I went for an echocardiogram yesterday for my heart issues. They also hooked me up with an 24 hour take home ekg machine. I hate this thing, the wires keep snagging, and I can’t shower 😦
But there’s a bright side. I looked in the mirror this morning and saw all the wires and electrodes attached to me. The first thing I thought was “this looks awful.” The second thing:
This look would make a great story character.
Boom.
BTW: In honor of summer and summertime reading, I have lowered the price of The Watchmage of Old New York to 99 cents. This is only until July first, so hop on the watchtrain (there is no actual watchtrain, but it’s still a purdy damn book. Awards and shit.
Happy Friday. Get your wiggle on.
Ok, you all know that despite not being a dad, I am a purveyor and connoisseur of dad jokes. I’ve posted jokes with the laughing dog meme before, even the Rick Grimes meme. Lately I’ve been obsessed with the “family groaning at a restaurant while dad laughs” meme. I’ve decided to bless you all with some of my favorites.
You’re welcome 😀
Or, you can hate me forever. Either way, credit goes to @IFindItFunny2. This is some exquisite punishment.
I’ve decided that it’s time to look for an agent again.
When I first looked for one back in 2012 (for Song of Simon) I got a few bites and requests for more. Mostly what I got was disappointment. Of course, SoS eventually got picked up by a publisher, so I thought that I didn’t need an agent anyway.
I was wrong. After immersion into the publishing industry, I realized that I had no idea what I’m doing. I rewrote and self published The Watchmage of Old New York after its long, popular stint at JukepopSerials. I’m proud of it. It’s a great story, and I plan on spending many years writing sequels (The second is in beta mode, and I’m plotting the 3rd right now).
The thing is: I can’t make a career out of self publishing. I’m not so prolific that I can write a book every three months (my planning, writing, and editing routine is purposefully long and arduous. A good book takes time). If I want to make this a real career, I need someone that knows what they’re doing, someone that knows the business. I was arrogant to believe that I can do this alone.
I have confidence that I can attract an agent for Watchmage, but I know that everyone says that. More to the point, I have confidence that this is what I need.
The downside is that I will probably have to take Watchmage off of the market if I get an agent, but it’s worth it in the long run.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a health post. Although I’m still worried about the heart issues, I don’t think i’m gonna croak any time soon.
Ever since college, I’ve been keeping a journal. That’s pretty common, a lot of people do. Not many people keep it in the bathroom.
Yes, I have a bathroom journal. No, I do not log my shit in there. I just find that the bathroom is a good place to write. I was originally inspired by my friends in college, who kept one. It was a communal book, and they all wrote in it. Sometimes they had conversations through it, other times just random entries about their lives. I did the same with my roommates, and anyone that graced the porcelain god in my apartment was encouraged to do the same. What i ended up with was a record of mine and my friends lives from college on.
We finished the first book my last year in college (it’s in my bookcase), and I started a second, thicker book. Since I lived alone for most of my adult life, it was mostly me that wrote in it. These days it can be weeks or months between entries. But i love it. Sometimes I’ll look back and see snapshots of my life, remembering all that happened, and where I came from.
And so we come to the end.
I am on my last pages of the journal. By the end of the month, it will be filled. Of course I’ll start another one, but I’ve been using this one for 15 years. 15 years of my life, my loves, my failures, the roller coaster of my crazy life, now archived in my bookcase. Maybe some day I’ll take it out to read again, but I don’t do that with the first book. Maybe when I die, someone will find the books and think “why is this guy writing while he shits?” I’ll have no answer (cause I’ll be dead).
The journal is dead. Long live the journal.
Well, since I got my article on the NYC Police Riot of 1857 up before the anniversary date (6/16), I should start on the consequences. Next month would be the Dead Rabbits Riot. Better get on that soon.
Super secret writing project is coming along well and should be out this fall. I need to edit a couple more stories.
That’s it. Carry on.
Because of my recent medical troubles, I’ve been stuck at home. It’s killing me. Usually I love to be at home. I do my writing and editing here. It’s comfortable. My easy chair fits my ass perfectly. I have all the coffee I could want. Yet, it’s still killing me.
Normally I go out in the morning, either to the gym or too the park. I also walk dogs and do some obedience training at the local shelter, or just pick up trash along the road (I have a grabber, I don’t use my hands). But I can’t do that until I find out what is wrong with my heart. The doctor doesn’t want me doing anything strenuous, especially in the heat. Did I mention that something is killing me.
My heart has been acting all wonky. It starts out fine, but by early afternoon, my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it in my fingertips. My blood pressure shoots up (usually 140/90, with a rapid pulse). I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like having a panic attack without the panic.
I have a fear of death. I think most people do. My fear comes from worrying that I will die before I finish all of my stories, though I know that I inevitably will. With every story I write, a new one brews in my head. A day will come where I die without that story finished. It’s terrifying. Like all writers, I am an egomaniac. I feel that I have something important to say, even though I realize that my words are no more important than anyone else’s. Yet I keep typing away, and that fear of death before completion haunts me.
I like to think that my heart, my metaphorical heart, is good. But the real one isn’t. I was morbidly obese for many years. I’m on a ton of medicines, and more medicines to fight those side effects, leading to more side effects, etc. And I am not happy. I am not calm. I am nothing more than a morbid bit of flesh, and when I die, I will leave behind a few stories, a grave stone, and a pine box.
Being homebound isn’t just killing me, it’s making me think about death against my will. I want to be outside. I want to help at the shelter. I want to pick up trash. I want to do my service to the community, to repay all that they do for me. It seems that the universe has other plans.
There’s a Yiddish proverb: Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht. Man plans and God laughs. Maybe a better quote is from Robert Burns. The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, / Gang aft agley. That’s exactly how I feel. I am the man. I am the house. A house mouse.
Sorry I haven’t been posting lately. I’ve been having some pretty serious heart issues that have kept me off the computer. I’m ok for now, but i’ll need more tests.
On the bright side, the 99 cent sale went well. I’m glad. The extra money will help pay for these bills.
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