TALKING ABOUT THE NOVEL YOU'RE WORKING ON

Hi folks!

Sometimes, the obvious is so much in plain sight—right in front of our eyes, so close that we can reach out and touch it—that we fail to see it. That’s happened to me more times than I can count, and I’ll bet it’s happened to you as well.

One of those times this happened to me was the day I realized I was “talking” my novel and not writing it. It happened when I was sick with the flu and had to take a couple of days off work. Best illness I ever had!

At the time, I was a hair designer. Had a very successful salon called “Bold Strokes” that my wife Mary and I owned. We were booked solid weeks in advance. Each day, I saw an average of fifteen clients. I was writing at the time and it was a topic of conversation with just about every person who sat in my chair. I loved talking about my writing and they at least claimed they loved hearing about it.

“What’re you working on now, Les?” was a familiar question. Or, “How’s the novel going? What’s happened since the last time (she was in)?”

And, off I’d go. I’d regale my captive audience with what my characters were doing, what I planned to have them do. Watch their faces as I described the twist I was planning. Seeing their surprise and hearing their words of praise just felt good. Better than being hit in the eye with a short stick, anyway.

And discovered that more and more, my daily output was diminishing. And not by a little. By a lot.

I thought maybe it was all over. That the well had run dry. That it was probably a good thing that I had a trade and was good at it.

Actually, I’m glossing over what I actually felt. What I actually felt was… suicidal. If I couldn’t write any longer, what was the point? It was my life—the important part, anyway. My wife sensed my despair and began cutting up my meat before she served it and hid all the sharp instruments.

And, then, I got sick. Really sick, hurling chunks sick.

Had to go home. For two days.

Best thing that ever happened to me.

Why?

Well, because during that first midmorning, I felt good enough to get up and sit down in front of my typewriter. (For those of you too young to remember, a “typewriter” was a medieval machine used to create letters and stuff like that. Novels. Kidnap notes. It looked something like a computer keyboard does, but without the screen and the Internet. No porn available with it. If you ever get to a museum, chances are they’ll have one on display back with the arrowheads from the Nez Pierce. Look at it carefully and try to imagine writing on something without a Delete key… Now you know why it’s okay to laugh whenever somebody talks about the “good old days.”)

For months before my illness, I’d struggle mightily to write a page or two of my novel each night. This particular morning, I ripped off ten pages before I even had my first cup of coffee. Ended up with over twenty pages for the day. The next day, I did even better. Wrote almost thirty pages. For you non-writers, that’s a lot. Got fifty pages written in two days! I was back! I was a writer again!

I went back to work the next day and couldn’t wait to get back to my typewriter at the end of the day. And didn’t end up with as much as a single page, even though I’d sat in front of it for over two hours. Two stinkin’ paragraphs. Lousy paragraphs that I would have crumpled up and thrown away if it wasn’t all I had to show for my time.

WTF! (Translated, that means, “What the heck!”)

What was happening? Were the previous two days some kind of evil trick God was playing on me? Had those two Jehovah Witnesses who had stopped by placed a curse on me for telling them I believed in reincarnation and was coming back as Cheryl Tiegs' favorite bra? (I’m dating myself here, aren’t I…)

I have to tell you I honestly felt despair. It was like watching someone going crazy and then realizing you were looking into a mirror.

What’d I do? What any intelligent person does when they face a problem of this magnitude. I went home and opened a bottle of Jack and began knocking it back. What? You thought I was going to say I went to church and a minister talked to me and I had my “come to Jesus” moment? Nah… Just cracked open some Jack and tried to think. For those who say alcohol never solves any problems, well… all I can say is he’s never been to my church and heard my preacher…

It probably wasn’t the Jack, to be honest, but I did some serious thinking and realized something. What was different about the days off. The difference was I hadn’t talked about my novel to a single person.

That was it! I had my eureka moment. (Thank you, Mr. Daniels…) The lightbulb went off and I saw clearly what my almost nonexistent writing output was all about.

I was talking it all out before I got to the typewriter. I’d actually been “writing” all day when I was regaling my clients. By the time I got home in the evening, I’d already been “writing” for 12 hours. There was just nothing left. I was simply spent by the time I got home.

Do you supposed I quit talking to my clients about whatever I was working on and began to produce prodigious quantities of pages nightly? Well, as a matter of fact, I did. That’s exactly what happened. And I haven’t stopped. I mean, jeez, I’m not the smartest guy in the world, but this was pretty obvious, even to me.

Like I said at the beginning of this—sometimes the obvious is in plain sight. Once you see it, it’s probably a good idea not to forget it. And I haven’t. These days, I don’t talk much about whatever I’m working on at all. I may talk about something I’ve already written, but there’s no way I’m going to talk to anyone about the work I’m planning on doing. I do that and it’s already written. Only it’s not yet on paper. I don’t see any advantage in that at all.

I don’t even tell my wife Mary what I’m working on any more. To her credit (or perhaps good sense or good taste), she doesn’t ask or care. She knows she’ll get to read it once it’s published. That’s good enough for her. I’m not even sure she reads it then, although she’s got the good grace to pay for her own copy and I can’t ask for more than that.

If you find yourself at the coffee shop or at work or wherever and talking to friends about what you’re working on, ask yourself if you’re not doing what I did—writing it before you get to your typewriter. Although… you probably have a computer…

If you think you are, there’s a simple solution.

Quit doing that.

The fee for this priceless information should you feel morally obligated to remit it is the price of a bottle of Jack.

Next week, I’ll talk about how laying on the couch and staring into space is the writer working. This one will be aimed at spouses…

Blue skies,

me

 Talking philosophy here, not novels... Seriously...

Post my agent just sent me that I'm reposting here-Caveat-Strong (and funny) language

(Just click on the link below)
No, Seriously, I’m Not Fucking Around, You Really Don’t Want To Be A Writer

A bit of my own writing...

Hi folks,

Thought I’d post some writing stuff today. The following is an excerpt from one of the two memoirs I’m working on. It covers about a three-year period and is focused on the baseball adventures my son Mike and I enjoyed. These were some of the best years of my life.

Hope you like it!

FOUR-SEAM GRIP

(From an as-yet unpublished memoir, working title: MIKE AND ME)

            I look out over the ball diamond at the Country Estates Mobile Home Park at the six boys lined up on the third-base line and another row of six along the first-to-second basepath as they toss baseballs to their partners and I see another ballfield in my past. A diamond nestled in the corner of the recreation yard at Pendleton Reformatory, eighty-seven miles south of where I am today. And thirty years in the distance.

            I'd been required to take a 2-5 year timeout from life for various crimes against society, mostly burglaries. Eighty-two of them, to be precise. Eighty-two second-degree burglaries were the "official" ones, the ones the authorities were aware of. There were possibly more…

            There are no fourteen-foot-thick gray walls around this field. Just the mobile homes behind us, a community center to our right and a woods where left and center field end. Beyond right field is the access road to the park, which leads in from the highway.

            The bubble-gum-chewing eleven- and twelve-year-olds hurling the horsehide before me on this day are the members of my Wallen youth baseball team. I am their coach. We're an AABC team. This is my first year at Wallen. For the past five years I coached in Little League at St. Joe, over in the northeast part of town where I lived. None of these boys know my past, nor do their parents. If they did, I'd be their ex-coach, I think. I'm pretty sure at least some of the moms and dads would be demanding my resignation should they learn I served two years in prison for burglary once upon a time.

            Although, one boy does know. My son, Mike. He's the tall one on the end, throwing lasers to the tough little guy who usually catches him in games, Steve Tipton, the son of my assistant coach, Steve, Sr. I know I can trust Mike not to divulge the information he has about his dad to his teammates. I can trust Mike with anything. We're best friends and we talked about his father's past a long time ago in one of our nightly "guy talks" we have each evening just before he shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep. It's our secret. We have a couple-three secrets, us two guys.

            Sometimes, after he falls asleep, I sit on the edge of his bed and simply stare at him. Sometimes, we hold hands as we talk and he falls asleep that way. I don't want to take my hand away, so I'll sit there until his unclenches and then I'll leave. Not before I bend over and kiss his slightly damp forehead, the sweet smell of his little-boy hair filling my nostrils. And my heart.

            "Four-seam grips!" I shout at my team. "Remember. Always four-seam grips."

            Our first drill at each practice begins the same. We warm up in these lines and work on our receiving and throwing mechanics. Once they're warmed up, we'll hold the competition they're all waiting for. Keep extending the distance between the lines until there's only one pair left who haven't dropped the ball or underthrown it.

They know to be in an athletic, "linebacker" position, glove extended, knees, waist and elbows bent, withdraw the glove slightly as the ball arrives. Use both hands to catch the ball. Get the ball out of the glove fast, get the four-seam grip and pivot, glove extended in front, throwing arm back, knees bent, fingers on top of the ball, hand slightly above the shoulder. The wrist is also bent. Every possible joint on the body is bent except the neck and the neck is turned toward the left if the thrower is right-handed, to the right if he's a southpaw. Bring the glove hand to your heart as you pivot toward your target and throw.

            Give a good target, I say. I say this quite often. Hands up. Chest-high. Get the ball out quick.

            Expect a bad throw, I repeat.

            This is like life, I tell them, my attempt to weave a bit of philosophy into what we're doing. Give folks a good target and expect a bad throw. Be happy when you get a good throw and prepared if you don't.

            How do you catch the ball? I ask.

            With your feet, they yell out, in unison. Move to the ball. Don't "arm" it. They're well-rehearsed. Good kids, these. They pay attention.

            Coach Steve and I stop the kids occasionally and walk up and down the lines, checking on their grips. I'm a preacher and the four-seam grip is my sermon topic.

            I quiz 'em.

            "Why do we always want to use a four-seam grip?" I want to know.

            By this, the second week of practice, twelve hands shoot up. They all know by now.

            "Because," says the other Mike on our team, diminutive Mike Rish, when I point to him. His dad sponsors the team. Rish Construction. "If you use another grip, the ball may sail or curve or sink." It's important Rish knows this. He's going to be our second baseman. I don't think "sail" was a word in his vocabulary before joining this team, but it is now. Probably "sink" wasn't either, at least not in this context. Mike Rish wants to be a pitcher - ten of the twelve players on this team do - so curve was a word familiar to him. They all want to throw curves but we don't let 'em. They throw 'em anyway.

            You can only do so much and then you have to realize they have minds of their own.

            I point to another boy who still waves his hand frantically. He has knowledge to share. They all have the same knowledge, but Ian Tipton is anxious to show his coach he's been paying attention. Coach Tipton and I have Ian slotted for third base and maybe do some catching. He's a hard-nosed kid, lives here in the trailer park. It's Jeff, his dad, who arranged for us to use their field for practice. Ian is Coach Steve's nephew. Jeff helps us coach.

            "The ball may slip and you'll get a wild throw," Ian says, in a voice that's already changing, hitting those high and low tones during the same sentence, sometimes in the same word. "You gotta use the seams." Ian knows this now, but during the season, during a bang-bang play, he'll forget. I'll get ticked off for a second and then remember he's only twelve. I'm in my fifties and I forget lots more than that and most times my own memory lapses don't come during the pressure of bang-bang plays.

            Bang-bang plays are kind of what got me into trouble all those years back. I was kind of a bang-bang guy. Guy with a million-dollar arm and a ten-cent head, kind of like the character Ebby Calvin (Nuke) LaLoosh in the movie Bull Durham…but with more serious consequences than Nuke suffered. Instead of nearly getting cut from a baseball team, I ended up close to getting cut by life. Like Nuke, I got lucky and was able to make a comeback.

            To a large degree because of that kid out there.        

            "Four-seam grips!" I yell out at the boys.

            It's my mantra.

 Mike playing first base at a Perfect Game Showcase when he was a freshman.

 And, here he is for his eighth-grade basketball team.

Here, Mike's pitching for his Snider H.S. team. 

Not baseball! Mike's sitting on his Uncle Neil's bike and begging him to give the bike to him!

And last... Mike and I getting our "makeup" before our appearance (twice!) on MSNBC-News for the book we co-authored, a spoof on Little League baseball titled "Surviving Little League."

Which is this book. We had a wonderful time writing it together and the best thing was we got to go on TV and were also interviewed on over 40 radio shows from all over the country from Pittsburgh to San Francisco. Best experience of my life was writing this book with Mike (it was his idea) and appearing on all the shows. (He was 12 when we wrote it.)

HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND SILLY-ASS PCISM

I was going to post a lengthy rant on the insidiousness of PCism and how it is nothing but outright censorship and does nothing but deteriorate our rights to free speech, but ran across this cartoon and I couldn't have expressed it any better.

Sometimes humor is the best way to fight bullies and other forms of morons... Although, it's not certain that PC advocates are capable of seeing themselves for what they are...

Blue skies,
Les

SNOW IN INDIANA!

Hi folks, My mother lives an hour north of me in South Bend, Indiana. She just called me a few minutes ago to give me the weather report. She's 88, so I get almost daily weather reports. She doesn't realize there's an invention called "television" that also reports on the weather fairly regularly. I don't tell her because what else would we talk about? Electricity? Even though South Bend is only an hour north of us here in Ft. Wayne, they get an entirely different kind of weather. Lying just south of Lake Michigan, they get the full brunt of the "lake effect" where snow comes over Lake Michigan from Canada and waits until the snow clouds sight land and then dumps it. On South Bend and the general area from Michigan City over. By the time the clouds reach Ft. Wayne, they're pretty much depleted and that's the way I like it. She had a great report today. She said they already had 24 inches of snow and it was still snowing and was supposed to all day. It made me feel so good! Why? Because we had half an inch and it's pretty well melted off... I laughed so hard at her news that I had to hang up. I called her back and gave her one of those "little white lies" you give your mother. I told her there was this hysterically funny show on TV that I was watching and that's why I broke up laughing. She asked me what a TV was and I had to explain that and then  we hung up. I await an update tomorrow. Did I mention I hate snow? I didn't see any until I was 12 years old, growing up in Freeport, Texas which isn't noted much for its blizzards. Once I saw some, I was over it. Never wanted to see any ever again. In fact, I don't like that "changing of the seasons" people go fruity over. In my perfect world, it would always be 95 degrees with 100% humidity for 364 days of the year. On one day a year, we would have winter, which would be a day when the temp went down to 75 and the tips of the palm tree fronds would turn brown. But, for only one day! A few minutes after talking to Mom, I received an email from some good friends of mine, John and Angie Felabom, and they sent me the following. I wish I knew the author so I could give him or her proper credit and if I find out who it was, I'll include it. John and Angie live in South Bend, so they were experiencing the same weather as Mom. I wish them the best...               Diary of a Demented INDIANA-ER   December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow! December 9     We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had!  Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life! December 12 The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas.  No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor. December 14 Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20.  The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life!   The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so. December 15 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all. December 16 Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel. December 17 Still below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room. December 20 Electricity is back on, but had another 14 inches of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying. December 22 Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again. I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob who has a plow on his truck for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the asshole is lying. December 23 Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!!  Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she did but I think she's lying. December 24 6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, I broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow. December 25 Merry Christmas! 20 more inches of the damn slop tonight - Snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a  fricking idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to stuff her into the microwave. December 26 Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves. December 27 Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $1,400 to replace all my pipes. December 28 Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. The BITCH is driving me crazy!!! December 29 Snowed again. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am? December 30 Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only for the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his ass.  The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted. December 31 I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling. January 8 Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

 South Bend just after they dug out from the last snow...

Perfect weather and the perfect Christmas tree!

Cort McMeel and his novel SHORT

Hi Folks,

A bit of a departure--I want to give a shout-out to my writer buddy, Cort McMeel and his just-released novel, Short, which is climbing up the bestseller lists and deservedly so.

Cort just emailed me to tell me he'd just given me a shout-out in an interview with Jenny Shank he just did for New West and I wanted to share it with you. In it, he said in part:

Western Writers

An Interview with Cortright McMeel

"Short" is a funny, talented debut novel by a Denver's Cortright McMeel.

By Jenny Shank, 1-03-11

	Cortright McMeel, photographed by Sam Holden.

Denver’s Cortright McMeel works for Rainbow Energy, teaches at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop, founded Murdaland, a crime fiction literary magazine, and writes accomplished short stories and novels.  His thirteen years of experience as an energy trader provided the source material for Short (Thomas Dunne Books, 304 pages, $24.99), a talented and funny debut novel of duplicitous and morally bankrupt traders and brokers.  In Jess Walter’s review of Short for The Washington Post, he noted that McMeel “revels in juicy descriptions and office anecdotes, which have the unmistakable feel of insider lore.” I recently interviewed McMeel via email about Short.  We discussed why he originally thought of his novel as a “trader Western,” another novel he’s working on about Doc Holliday, and his trademark “Dad who has two kids under six writing technique.” Cortright McMeel will discuss Short at the Tattered Cover (Colfax) on Wednesday, January 5 at 7:30 p.m.
 
New West: What brought you to Denver?
Cortright McMeel: My wife has always wanted to live here near the mountains so we could ski more. I got a look at an energy trading firm out here three years ago and we took the shot. It’s been excellent, especially for the kids, and we’ve never looked back.
NW: Your first novel, Short is set mainly on the east coast—have you set anything you’ve written in Colorado?
CM: As soon as I arrived, I found out that Doc Holliday died in Glenwood Springs. I took a trip to visit his grave. Ever since I have been doing research on a novel about his final stint in Leadville. One chapter is written, and the project is one that is very personal to me and one that I am excited about.
NW: You earned an MFA at Columbia before entering the fields of advertising and then trading.  Was it always your plan to study writing, and then find a job that it was easier to make a living at afterward?
CM: “Plan” is a strong word to apply to anything I do. I was going to go to the Marines but this woman I was in love with (my now wife) was going to be in New York City. I lucked out and got into Columbia. After Columbia I was too lazy to be a waiter and had too flimsy a grasp of the truth to be a journalist. Advertising was the perfect fit.
NW: Tell me about Murdaland, the crime fiction literary magazine you founded.  How did that come about?
CM: Murdaland is something I’m very proud of. This is the only good idea I ever came up with while sitting at a bar. I was on a crime fiction kick, reading Jim Thompson, [Georges] Simenon, and George V. Higgins’ The Friends of Eddie Coyle, and I was like, “Man, this stuff is literature!” I’d had three failed, rejected novels, and I thought “Well, if I can’t be a writer, I love literature in general, and so I’ll be a publisher.” I wasn’t rich from trading but I had a few pennies to rub together to fund a modest literary magazine. The idea I had was I wanted a dark crime magazine with literary sensibilities. I wanted Jim Thompson and David Goodis versus bestseller type stuff. Discovering American Dostoyevskys was the experiment. We were fortunate enough to get some incredible talent like Daniel Woodrell, Mary Gaitskill, Jayne Ann Phillips, Tom Franklin and Richard Bausch, as well as a David Goodis classic reprint and some amazing fresh talent, especially standouts like Les Edgerton, who is about to break big in 2011. That first issue was something special. After the second issue we shut it down but just the two issues were enough for Murdaland to garner respect, an award or two, and a small, but hardcore, following.
NW: Your author photo is great, with you staring intensely forward as you holding a copy of Fat City by Leonard Gardner and The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway– did you do that to show that those books are your influences?
CM: The photo with the books was totally a happenstance. Being a book nerd, I’m always carrying books around, more than one. I happened to have those two books on me and the photographer created that photo. I was worried it would seem pretentious or something. But it came out great. In real life I look like Shrek. (Aside: Yes, both those books are huge influences for me.)
NW: How did the idea for Short come to you?  Did it start with characters or a plot idea?
CM: It came while reading Ian Flemming’s Goldfinger, a spy novel about a bad guy trying to corner another commodity market…gold. I was like…I could do this but with electricity trading.

For the rest of the (fascinating!) interview, go to:

http://www.newwest.net/topic/article/an_interview_with_cortright_mcmeel/C39/L39/

This is where Cort and I first met (Murdaland). I still don't know how he found about me, but he contacted me when putting together the first issue, and asked if I had any short stories I could send him for consideration. Well, I didn't--I quit writing short stories years ago (no money in 'em), but I cannibalized a part of a novel I hadn't sent out. Cort loved it and asked if I had anything else. I ended up sending him two more cannibalizations of other novels and he ended up taking all three. Not only that, he paid me for all three, even though he combined them into one story. Now... that's a nice guy in my book! An editor who pays more than he has to!

Ever since then, our friendship has broadened and deepened and he's become my chief advocate with publishers on behalf of my work. We also have a mutual dream. Cort wants to found a literary press and he asked me a long time ago for a novel for it when he launches it and if it happens, I'd be honored beyond belief to have him as my publisher and editor. He's simply brilliant.

Cort also received a wonderful review for Short in the Washington Post you can check out at:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/12/27/AR2010122704135.html

And, then there's the review on Short I wrote for Amazon which is on a post a week or so ago here. It's just an amazing novel and Cort is destined to become a major novelist. I just want to do my part in helping him get the attention he deserves.

Hope you folks get his novel and like it as much as I did. He's going to give me an interview for the blog as soon as his life settles down a bit. He's doing readings and signings all over the place right now. In fact, I think this week  he'll be doing a signing at the famous Tattered Cover Bookstore in Denver on Wednesday, January 5. If any of y'all are in the area, don't miss it! If you go, tell him "I sentcha."

Blue skies,

Les

Happy New Year!

Hi folks,

Another year gone! I’ve been reading lots of blogs and newsletters this week and it seems like everybody is running highlights and lowlights of the past year, so I figured I better get with the program. Without further ado, here’s my take on the past year.

Notable events

1. There were 365 days during the past year.

2. There were some good days and there were some bad days.

There you have it!

Forecast for 2011

1. Unless an unforeseen circumstance occurs, there will be 365 days during the coming year.

2. Some of those days will be good and some will be bad.

Just call me Nostradamus!

Hope everybody has a great year!

Blue skies,

Les

 And, the Giants won the World Series, which gives credence that the Mayan calendar is perhaps right on the money--the end is near!

And...

Notre Dame won a bowl game, which provides further proof that the end is near!

Both events made me a happy camper even knowing the Mayans maybe got it right.

 I'll be waiting...

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY!