November is (among many other things) National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month.
Go Purple with a Purpose
Alzheimer’s is a cruel stealthy cat that lurks in the shadows. It leisurely pulls its prey into the darkness, steals their reasoning, their memories and eventually their life. The only kindness this disease provides is a cocoon that leaves the victim in a state of oblivion. However it shows no compassion to loved ones and caregivers left to witness the slow death and decay.
Let’s not give up on finding a cure.
If you know someone touched by Alzheimer’s take a moment to make a difference no matter how small. A hug, a helping hand or just acknowledging a caregiver’s struggle can mean so much.
Mad as in angry, insane, enthusiastic or in a swift manner.
I was driving 90 mph down the highway with my camera beside me and I snapped…
I was in a mad dash and mad in every sense of the word. (Some of that lunacy is revealed in the poetic memoir Getting Me Back.)
The above photo is not one I would usually keep in my collection; it is dark, out of focus and lopsided yet I like it. Why? Because it reminds me of the world as I saw it at that moment in time.
I will probably be the only one to ever appreciate this inferior blurred image but maybe it will spark something in a stubborn character you are trying to bring to life.
Maybe the character is hiding something from you; afraid to reveal their passion, their fury or the fact that they are bat-shit crazy.
Tell them it’s okay. Everyone… every living creature [even saints] have moments of madness at some point in their life. Heck, even Jesus got mad. Wasn’t he ticked-off/pissed/irate when he turned the tables over and cleared the temple? Damn right he was!
And what about the insanity so many of the great artists/creators in history suffered from? Think about that, eh?
Allow your characters the freedom of expression. Let them be mad.
For NaNoWriMo writers to average 50,000 words in 30 days they will need to write 1666.666 words per day. I can already hear some character gasp, “Six, six, six. It must be the work of the devil!”
Bwahahaha. I suppose it could be if you are into that sort of thing.
Hey, write what you would love to read.
Ten words a day or ten thousand, focus first on your story. That is my 2¢ worth but what do I know? I’m just sitting over here in the cheering section, waving my pom-poms and goading the contestants.
I am not much into writing under pressure these days but I do like to mentor and I encourage others to take the NaNoWriMo challenge, especially new writers. Do it even if this is the first thing you have ever written.
Don’t worry about failing the challenge; there is not a NaNoWriMo jail. (Pst. You can be a NaNoWriMo-er without registering. 😉 It’s like exercising at home.) And remember I am over here cheering you on. I’ll even try to post a picture/prompt/ mental exercise throughout the month of November.
That is not just a sailboat with a blimp above it. Describe. Describe. Describe. I.e. the color of the clouds/sky; the lake/ocean/water; the shape of the blimp; the shadows/silhouettes. What type of boat is it? Where is it going? Why? What data is the blimp collecting–who does it belong to?What is the spatial relation between the boat/the blimp/the land? What is just out of view in the treeline? How fast is the sailboat/blimp traveling? Describe… Readers want details and they are so fun to write.
Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush pile. The photos below show the cover from start to finish. Hold out your eyes and I’ll give you a little insight plus the beginning and the ending of Smoke Free.
Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)
I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.
Shall I cue the witch’s laugh again?
No!
Okay, here you go.
In the beginning…
Irwin marched down the stark white hallway with the impudence of a man on a mission. At the end of corridor, a glass door awaited with the words FREE YOUR SELF painted in large gold letters. He raised a curled fist to knock but decided against it. Easing the door open he called out, “Yoo-hoo. Is anyone home?” when no one responded he grudgingly entered the room and scanned its contents.
The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.
The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.
Smoking cessation.Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day. A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie. His wife was a non-smoker and she did not mind, she had never complained, but again, Evie never complained about anything. Evie was a saint. So what am I doing here? Peer pressure. That was the only logical explanation. All of his friends had stopped smoking months ago. There is nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker. Irwin’s mind zigzagged trying to connect the dots, the trail of crumbs that had lead him here to this place where he was expected to free himself.
Evenings at the local tavern were not the same, instead of cheers and jokes the gang sat around bellyaching about a handful of smokers in the far corner. It wasn’t fun anymore. Irwin thought as he strained to recall the last time he had hung out with any of them, the last time he had stopped by the saloon on the way home. He could not remember. A few of his buddies had dropped by the house for a beer once or twice a week but then…
It occurred to Irwin he had been isolated for some time; cut off from society. Who needs them? Not me, I don’t have time for chewing the fat. He dug his heels into the armrest, tensed his abdominal muscles and forced a few halfhearted sit-ups. I’m healthy, a hell of a lot healthier than those slobs. Heck, Frankcan’t see his ding-a-ling without a mirror. Irwin laughed aloud at the image of his friend groping for his penis. Poor bastard. He groaned, starring up at the flat alabaster ceiling, Frank’s a good guy. The kindest, most nonjudgmental man I have ever met… hey! Irwin bolted upright, Frank is my best friend.
When the sparkle abated from the realization, Irwin flopped back into a prone position and began a set of leg-lifts. Good ole Frank. Poor bastard. Dean and Will, now there is a couple of bonafide jerks! Irwin scoffed to himself, holding his un-embellished feet at heart level, Health fanatics! You can smell Dean a mile away— wreaking of curry and cumin. And Will, with his dead man farts –methane poison. Both of them—with their stained yellow skin.
Irwin snickered at the memory of Frank again, the last memory of the saloon he could clearly recall. Dean and Will who were frequently referred to as Mutt and Jeff, and the sight of their jaundiced eyes–unwavering. Long, lanky Dean slumped over his mug of warm Bud, squatty Will knocking back shots of cheap Vodka and the rank cloud of gas that always followed them. “Dang! What are you two eating?” Frank had asked. When neither answered he pressed on, “It smells like you’re on the verge of shittin’ a dead man. What are you little tree huggers eatin’? Are y’all eatin’ people?” Irwin recalled Frank’s hearty laugh at his own joke and smiled, until he remembered the response. Dean– shivering but never looking up. Will with that cocky glare, wriggling his thin eyebrows and slamming his glass down on the table for effect, grinning through pink jagged teeth. “No one under the age of eighteen.”
“Screw it.” Irwin said aloud as he swung himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the package of Camels from his shirt pocket. Despite the shaking, he managed to free a cigarette without breaking it. He tapped the filter against his palm a few times and gently set it between his lips. His right hand habitually swept the pocket of his 501 jeans to retrieve the Zippo. Irwin studied the chrome lighter, rubbing his thumb across the engraving. “I loved your heart too Evie.” He whispered. Within the sound of two clicks, a beautiful orange flame emerged. Irwin closed his eyes and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. The hissing crackle of dried tobacco had always eased his trembling. The feel of his Zippo, a gift from Evie, had always soothed his mind. I LOVE YOUR HEART was barely visible after years of stroking. He exhaled and imagined the writings of e.e. cummings. i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart). He fantasized about Evie, her soft white breasts against his back as she convinced him to be more accepting of lowercase letters and lower class people. Perfect breasts that now–
Just before The End…
Irwin and Evie spent their days and nights exploring endless trails. Time meant nothing to them now. Irwin was not sure how long he had been in this place, but it had been long enough to learn a few things. One, the sun never goes down. Two, there is no need for sleep and three; sometimes the boils come on slowly. He consoles himself with knowing Evie never minded his smoking.
The Real Janna Hill in 