I’m not a big fan of motivational posters. For one thing, they are rarely motivating. For another, the messages tend to be dumb. I’m reminded of one I saw years ago depicting eagles soaring high over a mountaintop. The caption read, “They can because they think they can.”

That’s not technically true. They can because they’re birds. I knew a guy in college who thought he could. (I believe some type of hallucinogen was involved.) He came very close to proving my point.

The reason I mention this is because I finally saw a poster that makes sense. It was hand-lettered and hung crookedly in a client’s break room. What it lacked in artistic flair, it made up for in sheer brilliance. Here’s what it said:

• Commit
• Focus
• Work Hard
• Bounce Back

If there was ever a formula for success in business (and in life), this is it. Six words that, might possibly, hold the key to everything. Let’s take a look at each.

Commit – I know plenty of folks who flit from project to project, idea to idea. It’s tempting because the next thing on the horizon is always more enticing than the one you’re currently working on. It’s a trap, of course. Once you decide on a course of action, you’ve got to throw yourself into it 100 percent. (Not 110 percent. I’m no math whiz, but I don’t think that’s even possible.) As Goethe may or may not have said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. … Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”

Focus – There’s a great line in the recent “Karate Kid” remake, in which the Jackie Chan character tells his young charge, “Your focus needs more focus.” That could be true of all of us. I’ve noticed that when I focus on one thing at a time, I accomplish all kinds of cool stuff.  Multi-tasking may be my natural inclination but focus is where the real work gets done.

Work Hard – Like Columbus searching for the New World, I’ve spent my whole life seeking a shortcut for hard work. Sadly, I’ve come up empty. Malcolm Gladwell is right; it takes a minimum of 10,000 hours to achieve proficiency at anything. And that’s just the beginning. On the other hand, it’s nice to know that increasing the amount of effort is something completely under our control. Like a basketball player in a shooting slump, we can still dive for every ball. And, over time, we’ll come up with our share.

Bounce Back – Here’s one you rarely hear about. But I believe it’s the most important of all. I happen to come from a very resilient family. As Chris Berman says on Sports Center, “You can’t stop them; you can only hope to contain them.” Through some combination of nature and nurture, I’m like that punching bag clown that keeps coming back for more (although not necessarily sporting that dopey grin). The main lesson here is to expect setbacks. Nobody skates through life unscathed. The math is basic; you just have to get up one more time than you get knocked down.

That’s it. Great lessons learned from a home-made sign. On the other wall, the client had posted another that said, “Be nice or leave.”

Maybe I’ll write about that next time.

Birthday gift card burning a hole in my pocket, I wandered into Barnes & Noble yesterday in search of  . . . who knows what. Half the appeal is having no idea what you’re interested in and waiting for something to jump off the shelves. As usual, I checked out the remainder and bargain displays first before moving on to my old standbys: Business, Self-Help and, of course, Writing.  There, the slimmest of volumes caught my eye: “Ten Rules of Writing” by Elmore Leonard.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’m a sucker for Top Ten lists.  And I’m a bigger sucker for Leonard, one of my favorite go-to authors for many years. If you’re not familiar with him, he’s a master of realistic dialogue, quirky characters and sudden, unexpected violence. A Leonard character can be engaged in casual conversation one moment and dead the next. Much like real life.

Leonard started out writing Western novels back in the 50s, then branched out into mysteries. A number of his books have been adapted into successful movies, notably “Hud,” “Hombre,” “3:10 to Yuma”  (twice), “Get Shorty,” “Out of Sight” (an under-appreciated flick starring George Clooney and J-Lo), and Tarantino’s “Jackie Brown.” At 86, he’s still prolific, serving as executive producer for “Justified,” a modern-day Western about a trigger-happy U.S. Marshal transferred to his hometown of Harlan, Kentucky, as punishment for his misdeeds. The third season starts this week on FX, and if you’re not a fan yet, I urge you to give it a try.

But back to the “Ten Rules.” The list price is $17.00, which probably breaks down to ten cents a word. If you judge it on length alone, you’ll pass it right by. But if you judge it on writing wisdom, you’ll run, not walk, to the checkout lane. After all, what is a lifetime of hard-won advice really worth?

Some of Leonard’s rules are unbelievably simple. Such as his admonition to never use the word “suddenly” or rely on exclamation points. Or use regional dialect sparingly. Or go easy on boring details like weather, scenery and character descriptions.

I especially like Rule #3: The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. Thus, ‘said’ is far less intrusive than ‘grumbled,’ ‘gasped,’ or ‘cautioned.’

Leonard is not a fan of “hooptedoodle,” a word coined by Steinbeck for pretty words that get between the reader and the story.

The remaining rules are more complex and require judgment and experience on the part of the writer. Things like “If proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go.” In other words, you have to know the rules to break the rules.

Rule #10 sums up a lot of what goes before. “Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip. Thick paragraphs of prose that have too many words. I’ll bet you don’t skip dialogue.” Very Hemingway-esque.

In Leonard’s world, it (hard)boils down to a bonus eleventh rule. The writer must remain invisible. I agree with that. You want the story to seem like it’s telling itself.

Or, as Leonard says, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”

I haven’t held a real (as in corporate) job since 1987. That’s when a series of lunatic bosses drove me into self-employment. They did me a favor; while being an entrepreneur is one of the hardest things I’ve ever tackled (especially the last four years), it’s also one of the most satisfying. Working without a net is tricky. But it sure forces you to focus.

My career path, if you can call it that, has always involved some sort of writing. I may not be the most gifted guy out there, but I’m certainly versatile. I can, and have, written everything from TV and radio commercials to novels and screenplays. And everything in between. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I’ve been able to earn a living doing the only thing I’m really good at.

The main problem with the entrepreneurial lifestyle is that it affords little time for reflection. Actually, it may be less a matter of time and more of mindset. A business consultant I once worked with was fond of saying that entrepreneurs always keep their eyes on the horizon. Of course, he would add, the horizon is an unattainable destination. Which is why we’re usually just a bit (okay, more than a bit) dissatisfied. No matter how hard we work or how much we accomplish, that damned horizon is still out there, just beyond our grasp. Mocking us. Definitely not a formula for contentment.

So, as 2011 comes to a close (and not a moment too soon), I urge my entrepreneurial friends and associates to stop and savor all of the wins and losses, the ups and downs, the highs and lows. Take a few moments to look back before charging ahead. You may be pleasantly surprised at what you find.

I hear a couple of cold ones calling my name. Catch you next year.

Recently, I had a conversation with someone (I can’t remember who) about the movie “The Help.” Despite my better judgment, which isn’t all that good, I let my wife drag me to see it and I actually enjoyed it (except for the antagonist, who I found disturbingly cardboard and one-dimensional). The person in question (I still can’t remember who) told me that he or she enjoyed the movie but it wasn’t as good as the book. I’ve never read the book, but the observation doesn’t surprise me. We’ve all heard it and experienced it. Most movies are a pale imitation of their source material.
 

Partly it’s because films and books are two completely different mediums (or should that be media? I seriously could use a good editor). Films by their very nature are forced to rely on the visual aspects of storytelling. Sure, they sometimes use voiceover techniques, but unless it’s some kind of noir, that can get old fast. Same with flashbacks. Novels, on the other hand, enable the writer to tell a more fleshed-out story, delving into characters, plot, motivation, theme, subtext and the like at a much deeper level. The novelist has more freedom than the filmmaker. That can be a help or a hindrance, depending on the talent of the individual. But mostly it makes for a better tale.
 

Really, we shouldn’t compare books and movies at all. It’s a true apples and oranges exercise. Still, I’ve been racking my brain to come up with a few examples of films that were every bit the equal of the book (and sometimes even better). It’s a short list but here you go:
 

“The Big Sleep” – I had to reach way back for this one. 1946 to be exact. That’s for the movie; the book by Raymond Chandler is even older. I first read Chandler’s mystery in college as part of a “History of the American Novel” or some such class. Although stylish and ground-breaking, the novel’s plot is a mess. So is the film. I’ve seen it a dozen times and I defy anyone to explain what the hell happens. But the movie has something the book doesn’t: Bogie and Bacall. Talk about chemistry. I guess it was real because they had already tied the knot in real life. Regardless, it definitely shows up on screen. Whenever those two are together, sparks fly. Which, for me, makes the movie better than the book.
 

“To Kill a Mockingbird” – I know, I know. Harper Lee’s novel is one of the greatest of all time. And I’m not saying the movie is better. But it’s a close call. My parents took me to see it when it came out in 1962. I was seven. Not exactly a Disney flick. And it was black and white to boot. But I remember being riveted. Maybe it’s because of the little girl, Scout. Or maybe I thought Gregory Peck looked like my dad. (They both sported black slick-backed hair and thick glasses). Years later, when I read the book (possibly in that same college course), I couldn’t stop picturing the actors. I’ve revisited the movie and novel in subsequent years and found both to be powerful, yet different, experiences. No matter which side of the argument you fall on, one thing’s for sure. The film is a worthy companion to an American classic.
 

“The Bridges of Madison County” –An execrable novel. Or novella. I don’t even know what to call it. Every now and then, a piece of crap like this captures the public’s fancy. I have no idea why. It happened with “Love Story” and “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” too. At any rate, the book set the bar so low that the movie had to be an improvement. And it was, by a wide margin. Again, chemistry plays a major part. Streep and Eastwood are perfectly cast and they just click. Once again she proves why she’s the finest actress of her generation. The movie taps into the wellspring of regret we all hide just beneath the surface. I’ve only seen it once, but I remember it packing a solid punch.
 

“The Accidental Tourist” – I frequently refer to this book as damn near perfect. Ann Tyler’s characters and situations couldn’t be better drawn. You care about her people. And she does such a masterful job of keeping you guessing that you’re not sure what’s going to happen until the final paragraph of the final page. As our main characters, Macon Leary and Muriel Pritchett, rush headlong into a life-changing decision, you realize that both options are so plausible you don’t even know what to hope for. Either way could be equally satisfying and bittersweet. So the film adaptation has big shoes to fill. And it rises to the occasion because of, you guessed it, the actors. William Hurt, a much under-appreciated talent, and Geena Davis (at her quirky best), fully inhabit their challenging characters. Hurt’s scene on Davis’s doorstep, where he explains why he can’t have dinner with her, is gut-wrenching. The book is still better by a nose. But it’s a photo finish.
 

I’m sure there are plenty more examples. I’d enjoy hearing from you. Please weigh in and I’ll discuss your suggestions in a future blog.

My father, Morris Rouff, was the original inventor of Formula 409. He and his brothers owned a chemical plant in Detroit in the 1950s and serviced a number of accounts (mainly mortuaries and Chinese restaurants) that couldn’t cut through the grease and glop with any commercial product then on the market. (A nice visual, don’t you think?)
 

409 was formulated for that purpose; available exclusively as a heavy-duty industrial solvent and delivered to customers in 40-gallon drums. If you accidentally spilled some on your hand, a trip to the ER was not out of the question.
 

The reason I’m not rich is that my dad sold the company in 1960 to a company called Chemsol, which in turn sold it to Wilson Harrell, who sold it to Clorox in the mid-60s. While my dad walked away with a decent chunk of change (allowing us to move to California), it was by no means life-changing money. When I asked him about it in later years, he told me that it looked like a big score at the time and he was getting too old for the Michigan winters.
 

I mention all this because of the way the Clorox website tells the 409 story:
 

“Formula 409 didn’t get its name from the area code where it was developed. And it’s not the birth date of the creator’s daughter. Formula 409 got its name from perseverance. From the desire of two young scientists in Detroit to create the ultimate cleaner. A cleaner powerful enough to dissolve through grease and dirt on contact.
 

“A cleaner like that doesn’t get created on the first try. And in the eyes of these two persistent scientists, it doesn’t get created on the 101^st, 201^st, 301^st or 401^st try either. Only when they had created their 409^th formula were these two young men satisfied they had created the ultimate cleaner.”
 

A nice yarn. Except it’s pure marketing bullshit. The only part they got right is the Detroit reference. Formula 409 got its name because my mother Ruth was born on April 9. As in 4/09. That’s the truth, as Lily Tomlin used to say. The Clorox folks weren’t there. I was.
 

Yet, when I try to fix the entry on Wikipedia, someone keeps changing it back. And they use the Clorox website as proof.
 

I give up. The myth has officially become reality. History is written by the winners; in this case, a multinational corporation gets the final word. Let that be an object lesson for all of us. I’m pretty sure that everything we see, hear and read is wrong.
 

It’s going to take more than a cleaning product to set the record straight.

When I was a kid, Halloween was for kids. The total extent of my parents' involvement was helping me with my costume (as in going to the store and picking one out), and telling me what time I had to be home from trick or treating. Somehwere along the way, it became as much an adult holiday as a childrens' one. Maybe it's because our generation and the one after never actually grew up.

Personally, I have no desire to dress like a vampire and attend a gathering of similarly-clad grownups. But I do enjoy the various monster-fest and Halloweekend (what a great name!) offerings oozing out of my TV, especially lesser known (but no less scary) low budget flicks like "Near Dark," "Tremors," "Dog Soldiers," and "They Live," starring Rowdy Roddy Piper of all people. Some mix chills and laughs, others simply pile up the body parts. But for reasons better left unexamined, I find them irresistable.

And yet, the scariest work I've ever encountered isn't a movie at all. It's a short story by southern gothic horror writer Robert McCammon, with the disarmingly deceptive title of  "Pin." In a nutshell, "Pin" takes us into the mind of a lunatic who believes he will see God if he sticks a pin deep enough into his eye. That's it. But in the hands of a master like McCammon, it's more than enough. I had to put the book down at least three times to wipe the sweat from my forehead and step outside for a few deep, cleansing breaths. I forced myself to get through it because I considered it a personal challenge. And, of course, I needed to know what happened.

McCammon has had a successful career, but nothing like King, Koontz or Straub. And yet, for my money, he's a better writer. If you want to check him out, I suggest novels like "Gone South" or "Boys Life." But start with "Pin." I dare you.

I’ve made no secret that I find talent shows like “American Idol,” “The Voice,” and now “X Factor” endlessly fascinating. Part of it is the delusional nature of many of the contestants. A larger part is the time-honored theme of regular people chasing their dreams. It’s the stuff books and movies are made of. I’m not sold on “X Factor” by any means. It’s too derivative. But I like the idea that it gives older folks what may be their final shot. (I guess it hits close to home. Ya think?)

That being said, I recognize the flaws in the formats. Tops on my list is how the judges and producers seek the safest, most homogenized winners. I maintain that the more interesting, even daring, performers never make it into the top 12 (or 24 or 100) at all.

I’m sure I’m not the first one to say this, but I believe some of the most iconic performers in the history of show biz would have been laughed off the stage. The exchanges might have gone like this:

Simon: Mr. Zimmerman is it?

Zimmerman: Yeah.

Simon: What did your father do with the money?

Zimmerman: What money?

Simon: The money he saved on singing lessons. (Audience laughs)

Zimmerman: Screw you, man.

Simon: There you go. You have a terrible attitude. You need a complete makeover. And you look like you smell. You might be the worst singer in the history of this competition.

 

Paula: What was your name again?

Vedder (looking at shoes):  Eddie.

Paula: Eddie, a word of advice. You seem like a nice person. But you can’t perform with your back to the audience. I’m not feeling any kind of emotional connection. And your voice is very pitchy.

Vedder:  Whatever.

Paula:  You’re not ready for this show. Work on your stage presence and try again next year.

Randy: Did you say you’re some kind of doctor?

John:  Dr. John.
 

Randy: What’s your specialty?
 

John: Music and love. And gumbo.
 

Randy (rolling his eyes): Yo dawg, you’re not in it to win it. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

You can add Joe Cocker, Rod Stewart, Leon Russell, Louis Armstrong, Leonard Cohen, Stevie Nicks, John Hiatt, Bonnie Raitt and, of course, Tom Waits to the list, along with dozens of others. All original, all authentic, all drawing from a deep well of life experiences. Give me a good rasp (and a great lyric) over Josh Groban and Michael Buble any day.  

“People are lazy and times are strange,
I’m locked in tight, I’m outta range,
I used to care, but things have changed.” – Dylan

This year, for the first time since 1994, I stopped playing fantasy football. Just quit cold. The thought of preparing for the draft and keeping up with the stats every week made me tired. I’m a competitive guy, so I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d react once the season started. After three weeks of NFL action, I can report that I don’t miss it a bit. I simply stopped caring, which made it easy to walk away without a hint of regret.

That experience has caused me to reflect on other things that used to be important to me but no longer matter. When I was a kid, I cared about the Oscars, Emmys and Grammys. I’d park myself in front of the TV and root for my favorite actors and singers, most of whom never won. I kept at it until sometime in my twenties, when I realized that:

* The shows are long and boring.
*   The most deserving individuals rarely get the nod.
*  Awards are stupid.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have tuned in to the Academy Awards to check out certain hosts, primarily John Stewart and David Letterman, both of whom I thought were hilarious. (And both of whom were skewered in the press.)

For many years, I’d listen to Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40” every weekend, hoping that my favorite song would eventually climb all the way to number one. I quit doing that long before Casey hung up his microphone for good, partly because I stopped recognizing most of the songs and artists, but mainly because the outcome had absolutely no bearing on my life. Last time I looked, nobody was sending me a royalty check or performance bonus. Same with movie box office numbers. What difference does it make to me if a film exceeds expectations or underperforms in its opening weekend?

Speaking of movies, I stopped reading reviews in the mid-90s because I recognized that I was out of step with most critics. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to a movie that received glowing reviews, only to leave scratching my head. Similarly, I’ve enjoyed many films that received one star and two thumbs down. There’s nothing more subjective than personal taste, so reviews are, to a certain extent, irrelevant. Unless you can find a critic who thinks like you do.

While I still care a little about basketball and baseball (I would like to see the Tigers win the World Series, mainly because it would be good for Detroit – if you disregard those pesky post-win celebratory riots), I’m no longer a rabid fan. The height of my insanity was 1988, when my wife and I left the kids with a babysitter and checked into a motel so we could watch the seventh game of the NBA Finals (Lakers vs. Pistons) in peace.

Other things I don’t give a flying fig about:
 

·         The MDA Telethon
 

·         The Miss America/Universe Pageant
 

·         The Forbes 500 list
 

·         Time magazine’s “Person of the Year” issue
 

·         Being the first on my block to try or do anything

Maybe this is simply a function of getting older. That's okay.  I don’t care very much about that either.

When I was a kid, no older than seven, my dad was friendly with a guy named Earl Nightingale. What I remember about Mr. Nightingale, besides his interesting last name and the deepest voice I’d ever heard, is that he gave my dad a series of LPs (vinyl albums for you young ‘uns) entitled “The Strangest Secret,” which I listened to religiously for many months. Nightingale, as it turned out, became the wildly successful predecessor to today’s self-help gurus, a bridge between Napoleon Hill (“Think and Grow Rich”) and Dr. Wayne Dyer (“Your Erroneous Zones”). His primary theme was that thoughts are things, and we become what we think about. Sound familiar? It was commandeered years later by the creators of “The Secret,” right down to the rip-off title.

I say this not to give you a brief history of today’s self-improvement movement, but to establish my credentials as a qualified commentator.  Over the ensuing decades, I’ve dipped my toes, if not both feet, into the visualization waters repeatedly. Know what I’ve figured out? It doesn’t work.

Let me rephrase that. It doesn’t work consistently, any more than would be predicted by random chance. So how do we account for all the success stories documented in the scores of books, CDs and DVDs that have flooded the market? Simple. We only hear from the winners. A certain percentage of people visualize an outcome and it comes true for them. The “Secret” works! How about the rest? They don’t get interviewed for the book. It’s no different than the distasteful email chains that promise untold riches to those who will forward to eight or 12 or 20 of their closest friends. Don’t ask what happens to the unfortunate souls who break the chain. In all likelihood, they’re already dead and burning in hell for all eternity.

Recently, I helped ghost write a memoir for an extremely wealthy old man. When I asked him the secrets of his success, he said without hesitation, “Luck and connections. “ Later, he added “positive attitude” and “hard work.” But luck came first.

I’ve arrived at a similar conclusion. You can take two equally talented writers with identical attributes, tangible and intangible. One lives on the best seller list, the other toils away in obscurity. The only difference is luck. One caught a break; the other didn’t. Happens every second of every day. Luck rules our lives from the moment of conception to our final slip on the banana peel.  My hat is off to the individuals who keep punching, who keep swinging for the fences, no matter how many times they get knocked down or whiff at strike three. It takes a rare person indeed who gets off the mat and comes back for more. And so, to the list above, I add “persistence.” Because the only way to have a shot is to stay in the game. Or, in the words of the unknown carnival barker, “You cannot win if you do not play.”

That’s the real secret.

I took my 10-year-old grandson to see “Rise of the Planet of the Apes” yesterday. He enjoyed it, although he had two problems with the title. “Why do all the new movies start with ‘Rise of’" he asked me? An astute question and one I had no answer for. He also took issue with two “of the’s” in the same title. “It sounds stupid,” he said, and I couldn’t argue the point.

While he liked the movie primarily for the action scenes and the cool special effects, I got a kick out of the subtle (and not so subtle) tributes to the original 1968 classic that launched the entire series (for good and for bad).

Here are a few of the most obvious ones:

About a third of the way in, we see newscast footage of the first manned space ship to Mars, led by astronaut George Taylor. That was the name of Charleston Heston's character in the first movie. Later, we learn that the ship has vanished without a trace. Of course, we old-timers know what that means.

The name of the orangutan who befriends leading chimp Caesar is “Maurice.” The orangutan in the original film was played by actor Maurice Evans.

We see ape-phobic handler Dodge watching a movie on TV starring Heston. I think it’s “The Agony and the Ecstasy,” but I’m not sure.

In one of the pivotal scenes, after the apes break out of prison, Dodge screams at Caesar, “Take your stinkin’ paw off me you damned dirty ape.” About half the audience (those over 50) cheered.

Before Caesar comes to the rescue of John Lithgow’s character, we see him building a model of the Statue of Liberty.

I’m sure there are plenty more homage scenes, but I’d have to watch the film again with the sole purpose of documenting them. (Sort of like repeated viewings of “The Sixth Sense” to discover if M. Night slipped up anywhere.) The movie is lots of fun on its own, although a little soft in the middle. But for aficionados of the original, it takes on a larger meaning. And in this one, we root for the apes.

I recently finished a book called “Drive,” by Daniel Pink. No, it’s not about putting the pedal to the metal or going on a road trip. The subtitle explains it better than I can: “The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.”

As it turns out, the traditional business world has gotten that particular subject wrong since at least the 1950s. (Not exactly a shocker; they’ve gotten most things wrong). According to Pink, the old “if-then” method of motivating employees, AKA the carrot and stick, is limited at best and often counterproductive. If an employee’s basic needs (fair salary, health benefits, no public hangings) are met, the old-fashioned bonus and incentive programs only work in the short run. Long term, they teach the worker to expect a reward for doing his or her work. It’s similar to when restaurants mail out too many coupons; after a while, you feel entitled to them and won’t visit that establishment unless they give you a deal.  

Luckily, science has come to the rescue. Studies show that a “now-that” system of rewards is far more productive. With this, you create a work environment that fosters what people really want from their jobs:

·         Autonomy
 

·         Mastery
 

·         Purpose

 

Then, from time to time, you supplement these elements with more tangible rewards, which might be monetary but can just as easily be a day off, praise in front of the entire team, or any number of other meaningful surprises. In this way, the incentive is after-the-fact and doesn’t become the focal point of the project. It’s icing on the cake. (By the way, Pink applies these principles to education and parenting with equally positive results.)

The reason this works is that most people are intrinsically, not extrinsically, motivated. (Again, we can thank science for that insight.) In other words, if autonomy (a feeling of control), mastery (a feeling of accomplishment; the whole “Outliers” 10,000 hour thing), and purpose (a reason larger than ourselves) are present, the work becomes its own reward. That’s where we get into the concept of “Flow,” which just happens to be a classic book by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly (you should see what that does to my spellcheck).

As a writer, I’ve always chased after “Flow,” only to find it elusive. It’s like the Supreme Court’s definition of porn; we know it when we see it (or, in this case, experience it). But one thing’s for sure; when it does show up, there’s no better feeling in the world. Four hours seem like four minutes. The story writes itself. The endorphins are pumping, the fish are jumping and the cotton is high. If that’s not the greatest motivator in existence, I don’t know what is. And, to tie back to “Drive,” it’s all internal. I wish it would happen more often. It probably would if I stopped “chasing” and started “being.”

A number of my creative friends and colleagues won’t be satisfied until they achieve all of the external trappings of success, whether it’s a five-book deal with a major publishing house, a blockbuster movie script, or your everyday run-of-the-mill fame and fortune. I get it. I’m not judging (well, maybe a little). Surely, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at that book deal. But I wonder if they’re over-valuing the external rewards and under-valuing the internal ones. I think writers have to write, singers gotta sing, comedians need to piss everyone off (the good ones, anyway), no matter what. It’s why I write this blog. Even though I spend my days creating stuff for other people (to keep that wolf from the door), sometimes there’s an itch I just have to scratch. Even at 4 in the morning. Even if nobody reads it. Because, as Nathan once said on “Six Feet Under,” it’s all about the flow.

Television has changed a lot since I was a kid. (Insert “duh” here.) And I’m not just talking about the 7 VHF stations and 1 UHF station I grew up watching in L.A. on a Zenith color console. (Which was a big improvement over the 4 black and white stations in my hometown of Detroit.)

No, I mean the shows themselves. In the 60s and early 70s, most TV dramas were self-contained. Each week, they introduced a dramatic problem and neatly wrapped it up in an hour, minus 12 minutes for words from our sponsors. (Commercials have changed a lot, too. But that’s a subject for a future blog. Remind me I said that.)

There were exceptions to the rule, such as “The Fugitive,” in which wrongly-convicted escaped con Dr. Richard Kimble (played by David Janssen) spent the entire series trying to track down the mysterious one-armed man who murdered his wife. The final episode may have been the top-rated show of its day, not to be supplanted until the final episode of “Mash.” But most programs were like “The Streets of San Francisco” (featuring a young Michael Douglas and an old Karl Malden), with its formulaic 4 parts and epilogue that did little to challenge the viewer.

This began to change in 1976 with the advent of the “mini-series.” The first one I became aware of was “Rich Man, Poor Man,” based on the Irwin Shaw best-seller, followed in short order by “Captains and the Kings,” and the blockbuster “Roots.” These were truly television events, with viewer shares unequaled in today’s ratings world except for the Super Bowl.

By 1981, the mini-series mentality had begun to pervade network television, with the arrival of Steven Bochco’s “Hill Street Blues” and his follow-up series, “L.A. Law,” both of which carried major story arcs throughout their seasons (and sometimes for the entire life of the series).

When I think back on my all-time favorite shows, I realize that most of them owe a debt of gratitude to these earlier series. “Sopranos,” “Six Feet Under,” the much-lamented “Deadwood” (euthanized while still in its prime because creator David Milch just had to get “John From Cincinnati” out of his system), “Mad Men,” “Breaking Bad,” and “Justified” (the latter three very much alive and well) all represent high points in TV drama. Coincidentally, or not, none of them ever set foot on network television. Cable, particularly HBO, Showtime, FX and AMC, is a superior breeding ground for intelligent, engaging programming.

While every one of these series deserves its own blog post (remind me I said that), I’ve saved the best for last: “The Shield,” especially Season 5, which I believe is the finest individual season in the history of television. From the very first minutes of the pilot episode, when we witness Det. Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) gun down his own man in cold blood during a gang bust, you knew this was going to be a different kind of show. That incident established Vic as a very bad man, playing both sides of the law, willing to do anything to save his own skin. And yet, more often than not, I found myself rooting for him. Which means I’m a sociopath. Or the writers are brilliant. Or both. (Hey, I rooted for Tony Soprano, too. Creator David Kelly explained once that, in a story where everyone’s bad, you relate to the guy who’s least bad.)

But that doesn’t explain Mackey. Plenty of the show’s characters, while complex, could be characterized as good guys and gals. Not Vic. And in Season 5, when the writers brought in Forest Whitaker as an Internal Affairs Lt. with a Javert-like vendetta, you’d think I’d be pulling for him to bring down Mackey once and for all. But it’s fascinating how quickly Whitaker, as Jon Kavanaugh, goes from playing cat-and-mouse games with Mackey to planting evidence, bullying witnesses and even making choices that cause him to lose his own wife. At the end, Kavanaugh has crossed over to the dark side, so much so that he and Vic have become one and the same. The writers do such an expert job of ratcheting up the tension that Kavanaugh’s Capt. Queeg-style breakdown comes as a relief. Maybe you want someone, sometime, to nail Mackey. But not this guy.

The only downside is that the series, for me, peaked then and there. While still way above average, it never recaptured that special, perhaps once-in-a-lifetime, chemistry (despite a nifty series-ending scene dripping with irony and closure).  Nevertheless, “The Shield” is my gold standard for what TV drama can and should be. (And thanks to my friend Wolfgang Muchow, who recommended it to me in the first place.)

Last weekend, my wife and I celebrated our anniversary by going to see Garth Brooks at the Wynn Encore Theater here in Las Vegas. She’s a big fan; me, not so much. The tickets set me back more than some vacations, but I felt it was important to honor the occasion (a milestone number) and to stay out of the doghouse. Also, we had heard the show was special. As it turns out, we heard right.

Garth is one of those performers who is now instantly recognizable by his first name. (Along with Elvis, Cher, Bono, Penn & Teller, and Lassie – okay, maybe it’s not such a big deal.) The Encore is an ideal venue; intimate by Vegas standards – just 1,500 seats – with a clear line-of-sight no matter where you’re sitting. The sound system rivals any I’ve ever heard, right up there with the Beatle’s “Love.” The only downside were the seats themselves, more cramped than even the crappiest bargain airline. I’m not a large guy and I felt hemmed in. I can just imagine how big and tall people felt, especially because the Wynn security team went out of its way to discourage fans from standing.  Two enthusiastically inebriated (maybe the two go hand-in-hand) young female fans were given a warning for dancing, then unceremoniously ejected from the theater. I get it. When you pay this kind of money, you don’t want anyone blocking your view. Maybe it’s just my normal anti-authority bent, but the guards did seem to take particular pleasure in throwing their weight around.

But enough nitpicking. This might be the most entertaining performance I’ve ever experienced. That’s saying a lot. McCartney was more historic, especially because the 1993 “New World Tour” was the first time he could legally perform Beatles songs with Wings. Simon and Garfunkel’s 1983 “Summer Evening” concert at Dodger Stadium was tantamount to a religious experience. But Garth put on a show.  It was like sitting in a really big living room and having this talented, fun-loving guy entertain 1,500 of his best friends.  Garth might be today’s hardest working man in show business.

Here’s what I expected: Garth singing and playing his hits. Here’s what I got: A funny, engaging, self-effacing musical, pop-cultural, and personal history lesson, encompassing a five-decade span from the 60s to the present. Just Garth and his guitar, prowling the stage like a big cat, paying homage to his musical influences (everyone from Waylon Jennings and George Jones – his father’s holy duo – to James Taylor, Cat Stevens and even Bob Seger). He’d play a few licks from a song, sounding remarkably like his idol, and then demonstrate how that tune influenced one of his hits. For example, you can draw a straight musical line from Seger’s “Turn the Page” to his own “Thunder Rolls.” Damn. Entertaining and educational to boot.  

About halfway through the show, Trisha Yearwood joined her husband onstage to perform “In Another’s Eyes” and “She’s in Love With the Boy,” two of her big hits. I understand it’s not an every-show occurrence. We got lucky. Garth pretended that his feelings were hurt when Trisha got a bigger standing ovation than he did. After she departed the stage, he forced us all to stand and pay him his proper respect. The security team looked disappointed that they couldn’t toss everyone out on their collective ears.

After more than two hours, Garth explained that he wasn’t going to do the normal “encore” thing. Instead of leaving and forcing us to clap and whistle and stomp our feet, we were to pretend that he had just returned from that now-cliché exercise. That’s when he launched into “The Dance.” Except he mistakenly gave us the first few bars of “Tomorrow Never Comes” (which he had played earlier in the evening).  In mid-note, he stopped, shook his head, laughed at himself, and started again. It was a final genuine moment in a performance that seemed authentic from beginning to end. Either Garth was having the time of his life, or he’s a darned fine actor. Either way, he’s worth whatever they’re paying him.

On the way out, we overheard a couple of hardcore Garth fans complaining that he didn’t do enough of his own songs. Maybe they have a point. But for the rest of us, the concert was near perfect. He certainly made a believer out of me.

One of the best things about working with young people is they keep you on your toes. If it weren’t for all the twenty-and-thirty somethings at my day job, I doubt if I would have jumped into social media with one foot, let alone two. First I stuck my toe in the My Space waters, only to find it too cold (are you tired of this analogy yet? I’ll stop now.) By the time I figured it out, they convinced me to try Face Book. 

This was more than two years ago and I’ve been hooked ever since. Like millions of other folks (I heard a stat that if Face Book were its own country, it would be the third largest in the world), I’ve reconnected with old friends, made new friends, learned a lot of interesting  stuff and even enjoyed the occasional belly laugh. In the immortal words of Elwood Blues, “What do you want for nothin’? A rubber biscuit?” 

A couple of months ago, these same coworkers talked me into opening a Twitter account. In a relatively short amount of time, I’ve amassed a small but loyal following (I joke that they’ve all sworn to die for me), and learned a thing or two about the unique Twitter lingo and culture. (Speaking of lingo, if we were all in a coma for five years and woke up hearing about Tweets and hash tags, we’d go back to sleep.) As a writer, I’m challenged to stay within the constraints of 140 characters. (Anyone know how they came up with that number? I’m guessing it’s a technology thing.) Once I hit the number right on the nose and was inexplicably proud of myself. Must have been a slow news day.  

I’m still a Twitter neophyte. (Twitterphyte?) Hell, I’m not even using Face Book to its fullest extent. But I have learned some lessons.  Here are the most important ones so far: 

·         I strive to be entertaining, amusing and informative. (But not all at the same time.) No matter the medium, you’ve got to grab people’s attention and hold their interest. Nobody wants to read an endless series of ads. In fact, those are the Tweeters I unfollow in a hurry.
 

·         Reciprocity equals courtesy. If someone is nice enough to follow me, I follow them back. At least until I decide if they meet the standard of bullet point one. I don’t need to be inundated with marketing messages; I get enough of that on my drive to the office.
 

·         For me, the most important consideration is building a personal brand. The only thing you’ll find me promoting via social media is my blog. Or occasionally other people’s stuff. I don’t want to appear to be too self-serving, even though I’m a huckster at heart.
 

·         Focus is good. A business acquaintance predicted that I’ll run out of things to say in less than a year. He obviously doesn’t know me very well. Between personal experiences and observations, pop culture, the ever-present news, and life its own self, I can’t imagine the well running dry (I hope that’s not part of the above analogy). In mining material for social media, I can no longer be a passive observer. The old notepad is getting quite a workout these days. And that’s a positive development for any writer.
 

·         Balance is good, too. I can see where social media can lead to addiction. It’s easy to say to yourself, “Just five more minutes.” I have enough productivity drains as it is. So I’ve decided to use it as a reward. I only allow myself to check on Face Book posts and Twitter retweets after I’ve finished a project or assignment. It gives me something to look forward to besides lunch. 

I’m sure I’ll come up with more lessons in the upcoming months. In the meantime, I’m done with today’s blog. Time to see if Norm McDonald has responded to my brilliant reply.

Welcome to the third installment of “Real Men of Genius,” the semi-semi-regular feature that celebrates creative artists who, while successful, have been largely under-appreciated by the general public (with apologies to Bud Light for letting me rip off their commercial theme…so far).

Today’s nominee is Mr. John Prine. Ever since Robert Zimmerman burst on the scene as Bob Dylan (fresh from his field trip to the Crossroads), fans and critics alike have been seeking “the next Dylan.” For awhile, Prine was that guy. I first became aware of him in 1974, when a girl friend (as opposed to a girlfriend), handed me a cassette tape packed with Prine songs. (For my younger readers, a cassette was the bridge between reel-to-reel and CDs, with a side trip to 8-track land.)

I have to admit, it took me a few rewinds to begin to appreciate the songs. Prine’s voice is country-twangy, although his subject matter is anything but. (Strange that he hails from Maywood, Illinois, spitting distance from Chicago. But Springsteen sounds like he’s an Okie from Muskogee, and last I checked, he was born and raised in Long Branch, New Jersey. In music, as in other creative disciplines, reinvention seems to be the name of the game.)

With Prine, it’s the writing that counts. Story songs about losers and drifters and old folks. Social commentary. Humorous ditties. And that dying American art form (sadly), the protest song. Simple melodies married to complex ideas. Entire lives summed up in four minutes with nothing lost. You’ve probably heard many of his best-known songs covered by other, more famous singers like Bonnie Raitt, Johnny Cash, George Strait, Bette Midler and Dave Mathews.

In “Sam Stone,” the heart wrenching tale of a Vietnam vet who returns home with no prospects and a nasty drug habit, he writes:

“And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime. 
And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin' other peoples' clothes...”

No preaching. Just telling a story that still makes me want to cry. And speaking of crying, listen to Prine’s ode to the elderly in “Hello in There.”

“Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, ‘Hello in there, hello.’"

Of course, not all Prine lyrics make you want to guzzle a fifth of bourbon. Some are merely bittersweet, like “Souvenirs.”

“All the snow has turned to water
Christmas days have come and gone
Broken toys and faded colors
Are all that's left to linger on
I hate graveyards and old pawn shops
For they always bring me tears
I can't forgive the way they rob me
Of my childhood souvenirs.”

And others, such as “Illegal Smile,” are downright whimsical (in keeping with the subject matter).

“But fortunately I have the key to escape reality
And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile
It don't cost very much, but it lasts a long while
Won't you please tell the man I didn't kill anyone
No I'm just tryin' to have me some fun.”

I could go on and on. Let’s end with a passage from Prine’s best-known, and arguably most poignant, song, “Angel from Montgomery.”

“Make me an angel that flies from Montgom'ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go.”

Prine has written and performed hundreds of songs throughout his long career. A great intro would be the “John Prine Live” double album from 1988. I’ve never actually seen him live, but he’s on the short list. Prine is such an established creative force that people stopped comparing him to Dylan years ago. Now folks are looking for the next John Prine. (Hint: His name is Todd Snider.)

For his clear song-writing vision and artistic integrity spanning five decades, John Prine is the winner of this blog’s third “Real Men of Genius” award. I hope it’s not the highlight of his career.

There are good movies and there are bad movies. And then there are bad movies that are way too much fun to turn off. Guilty pleasures. Movies that, no matter how quickly I’m channel surfing, I just have to stop and watch. Here’s my top three: 

“Road House” – Between “Dirty Dancing” and “Ghost” lies “Road House.” Patrick Swayze (who my wife still mourns) plays Dalton, a celebrated bouncer who bounces from tough bar to tougher bar, keeping the peace with his sidekick, Garrett (Sam Elliott, who does “grizzled” better than anybody). Pluses: The aforementioned Elliott. Old time actor Ben Gazzara chewing up the scenery as bad guy Wesley, who runs the town with a Snidely Whiplash sneer. Blind blues legend Jeff Healey as front man for the house band. Lines like, “I thought you’d be bigger” (used as a running gag), and Dalton’s instructions to his staff, “I want you to be nice. Until it’s time not to be nice.” Minuses: Everything else.

“The Quick and the Dead” – Full disclosure: I love Westerns. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. They don’t make enough of them. “The Quick and the Dead” makes “Road House” look like an Oscar-winner. It stars Sharon Stone, arguably the most wooden actress of her generation, looking hot in black hat and matching chaps. This is a one-note film, with Stone as gunslinger Ellen, out for revenge in a dingy backwater prairie town, squaring off in an endless series of quick-draw duels with the dregs of humanity. Pluses: Old time actor Gene Hackman chewing up the scenery as bad guy Herod, who runs the town with a Snidely Whiplash sneer. (Do you see a pattern here?) Famous actors Russell Crowe, Leonardo DiCaprio and Gary Sinise before they were famous. Director Sam Raimi’s affectionate, extreme close-up tribute to Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. Minuses: Everything else.

“Starship Troopers” – Part sci-fi war movie, part heavy-handed social satire, “Starship Troopers” is beyond stupid. Based on the book by Robert A. Heinlein (probably turning over in his grave), it features the most photogenic cast in recent memory – Denise Richards, Dina Meyer and Caspar Van Dien, among others – exactly the type of soldiers you’d expect to see in a protracted space battle with giant alien insects. The film’s fatal flaw is the premise itself. In a futuristic world where space travel is a reality, why on earth would you send troops down onto hostile planets to face certain death? Why not just vaporize the planets from high above? Of course, if they took my advice, the movie would last five minutes. Pluses: Denise Richards in her prime. Fantastic special effects, especially the Alamo-like last stand on a forgotten outpost planet. The shower scene (see “fantastic special effects” above.) Always reliable sci-fi stalwart Michael Ironside (“Scanners,” “Total Recall”). Minuses: Everything else.

So I'm in the middle of a writing project, taking an idea that someone else came up with and fleshing (not "flushing") it out in the form of a treatment. As I get closer to the end of the first draft, I'm finding myself going over and over what I've written so far, making little tweaks and adjustments here and there. I've been at this game long enough to know what this means. I'm procrastinating. It's not quite the same as watching the entire first four seasons of "Breaking Bad" (which I highly recommend, by the way) before sitting down to type your first word. But the point is, I'm no closer to wrapping this baby up than I was three hours ago. I'm not overly concerned; I have no doubt that I'll make my deadline. I'm just recognizing this particular bit of inertia as a public service for myself and my readers.

Come to think of it, today's blog is yet another way I've chosen to procrastinate. And now, lo and behold, it's lunchtime. Think I'll see if the lines have died down at the new "5 Guys" hamburgers down the street. At least I'll have something to show for today's lack of effort.

Last weekend’s memoir conference, sponsored by the Writers of Southern Nevada, drew more than 160 attendees to listen to five speakers covering all aspects of the memoir writing process. I learned at least one new thing from each speaker. Here are some kernels of wisdom:

Linda Joy Myers – Author of “The Power of Memoir”

“Memoir writers are often the black sheep of the family.”

“This isn’t autobiography. Your truth is your truth.”

“In writing our memoirs, we become witnesses to ourselves.”

Jack Sheehan – Best-selling author, biographer, interviewer

The art of the interview:

1. Know your subject, do your research
2. Choose a comfortable, quiet place (the subject’s home is ideal)
3. Always ask softball questions early
4. Avoid putting the tape recorder in the subject's clear line of sight
5. Always get permission to follow-up with additional questions by phone or e-mail
6. Establish a deadline you know you can beat
7. It’s not an “interview,” it’s an “engaging conversation”
8. Set time parameters 
 

BJ Robbins - Literary agent

What do lit agents look for above all else? The writing.

Market your memoir like you would fiction.

Agents and publishers want you to have a “platform,” a unique way of positioning, marketing and selling your books.

Oksana Marafioti” – Author of “American Gypsy”

“The things you don’t want to talk about are the things you should put in your book.”

“Dialogue and active verbs are the musculature of your narrative.”

Mary-Ann Tirone Smith – Best-selling author and memoirist

“A memoir is a remembered life.”

“The reader should get a sense that everything is happening now with no guarantee of a desired outcome.”

“Reading a memoir allows you to try on someone else’s life.”

“As a memoir writer, your fingerprints should be all over the manuscript but not visible.”

“Strive for a compelling narrative voice and brilliant visual detail.”

Good stuff. Easily worth the price of admission. And lunch wasn’t bad either.

Everybody's doing it. Writing their memoirs. Whether to leave a lasting legacy for their families, or with visions of  "New York Times" best-seller status dancing in their heads, these would-be authors can use all the help they can get. Heck, I've been involved as a ghostwriter in half a dozen memoir projects and I've still got a lot to learn.

That's why I'm looking forward to the day long workshop "Telling Your Story: The Craft & Business of Memoir Writing," on Saturday, March 5 at the Gold Coast Casino here in Las Vegas. The organizers are bringing in five industry heavyweights, including writers, journalists and a lit agent, to reveal their trade secrets and give the rest of us mortals a fighting chance.  

Here's a blurb I've stolen from their website:

I’ve been thinking a lot about archetypes lately. (Hey, you’ve got your hobbies, I’ve got mine). Not to get all academic on your asses, but the theory of archetypes says that there are only so many basic story structures, most of which go back, back, back to the Bible, the Odyssey, and Gilgamesh (among others). It might have something to do with the way our brains are hardwired. The idea has been handed off from ancient guys like Aristotle (not Onassis) to Jung to Campbell to Christopher Vogler in his fascinating book, “The Writer’s Journey.” Vogler makes the idea really accessible by providing plenty of examples from contemporary books and movies. There’s nothing like a good example to bring things into focus.   

“Seven” seems to be the number of archetypal plots that many folks agree on. (Seven may itself be an archetypal number. See “Dwarves,” “Seas,” and “Up.”) Here’s as good a list as any:

            The Quest

            Voyage and Return

            Rebirth

            Comedy

            Tragedy

            Overcoming the Monster

            Rags to Riches

Your mileage may vary. Many works of fiction combine two or more elements. The boundaries are fluid (especially when dealing with sagas like “The Great Flood.” It doesn’t get much more fluid than that.)

In thinking about my favorite stories, I realize I’m partial to “rebirth.” One of the reasons we love the training scenes in the original “Rocky” is because we get to see the Italian Stallion re-create himself before our eyes. Many viewers are hard pressed to recall that Rocky started out as a real bum, a dumb lug shaking down losers for a small time hood in Philly.

Similarly, Paul Newman’s Frank Galvin character in “The Verdict” is a hopeless drunk who gets one last shot at a big case with everything on the line. Newman actually played this archetypal character many times. As an over-the-hill “Fast Eddie” Felson in “The Color of Money,” Scorsese’s sequel to “The Hustler,” we witness a Rocky-esque training sequence tailored for the pool hall, not the boxing ring.

A few weeks ago, I watched the Coen Brother’s reimagining of “True Grit.” It’s, well, grittier than the original, with some distinctive Coen touches. Jeff Bridges might be my favorite actor these days. He brings a character actor’s sensibility to his leading man roles. “True Grit” is a classic blend of Quest (for Mattie Ross) and Rebirth (for old Rooster). For me, tales like that never get old.

And speaking of never getting old, I’m a sucker for VH1’s “Behind the Music” for exactly the same reason. Whether we’re watching KISS, Meatloaf or the Partridge Family, the story arch is essentially the same. Band (or singer) struggles, band gets big break, band enjoys great success, band can’t handle great success, band breaks up, band struggles, band gets back together, band makes comeback. It doesn’t matter that I know the story by heart. I can’t stop watching. Life imitating art imitating life. Which, I guess, is the point after all.

I'm sure I've mentioned in previous posts that my wife and I rarely agree on movies. Her tastes lean toward Hollywood love stories, indie love stories, and light comedies (with love as the central theme). I like anything with karate and the undead. So I'm sure I surprised her when I jumped at her suggestion to see "Black Swan."

It's certainly not for the ballet. I've never been to the ballet in my life. I don't get it. The same goes for mime, most musicals, and all opera.

No, I decided to go for the shallowest of reasons. Female readers may want to exit now.

* This particular theater serves Nathan's hot dogs and drenches the popcorn with ungodly amounts of real butter.

* Natalie Portman is blessed with great bone structure. Although she should mix in an occasional sandwich.

* Natalie spends much of the film learning how to touch herself in pursuit of her art.

* She and another hot actress (the older sister from "Zombieland," I believe) make out.

I've always been fascinated by psychological thrillers in which the main character experiences a shocking slide into mental illness. "Repulsion" still sets the standard for this type of cinema. And it featured Catherine Deneuve in her prime (see great bone structure above).

Gentlemen, if you want to score major points by watching "Black Swan" with your significant other, please note. . . you could do a lot worse. Just make sure you get real butter.

Recently, as I dozed through 20 minutes of commercials at my local Cineplex, I awoke in time to watch a promo for a newly re-mastered, digitally-enhanced, one-night-only showing of “The Sound of Music.” (I believe the “Do-Re-Mi” song roused me out of my slumber; it scores the same on the annoyance scale as “It’s a Small World.”) 

When I mentioned to my wife that I’ve never seen that particular movie, her jaw dropped. According to her, I might be the only person in the world never to have experienced the joys of the Von Trapp family. I won’t be viewing it this time around either. But it did lead to an interesting discussion about the other classics I’ve managed to avoid (either on purpose or by happenstance) over the years. Here’s a partial list:

“Lawrence of Arabia”

“Dr. Zhivago”

“Barry Lyndon”

“Reds”

“Ghandi”

“Out of Africa”

“El Cid”

“Schindler’s List”

“Cleopatra” (all of them)

“Ryan’s Daughter”

That’s just off the top of my head. I’m sure there are plenty of others. I believe the one thing they have in common is a running time of more than three hours. Of course, I’ve enjoyed lots of long movies, including the “Godfather” trilogy, “Gone With the Wind,” and most of the Scorsese oeuvre. So that’s not a good excuse. Maybe it’s because I get the feeling they’re depressing; I’m depressed enough already. Or perhaps the extreme temperatures have me spooked. In any event, I feel it’s my duty to expose myself (not in the Pee Wee Herman sense) to some or all of them before I head to that giant OMNIMAX in the sky.

In the meantime, I’d like to know which classic films you’ve missed. I think it will lead to an interesting conversation.

I just finished up a big rewriting assignment for a first-time author. While his manuscript was excellent for a novice, I spent most of my time dealing with the same seven basic issues. I thought it would be helpful to share those with you now: 

·        “When in doubt, leave it out” – I learned this in my first high school journalism class. Put another way, shorter is usually better, whether we’re talking about fewer adverbs or the tendency to say the same thing three times in one paragraph. Trust me, the majority of your readers will get your point the first time (and hitting them over the head with it will just piss them off). As for the others, forget about them. If they’re too stupid to understand it the first time, repetition won’t help.

·        Choose active verbs – Which sentence reads better: “In 1989, I was promoted to assistant manager.” Or “In 1989, my boss promoted me to assistant manager.” On the surface, it doesn’t look like much of a difference. But believe me, paragraph after paragraph of “was” and “is” and “has” will put a reader to sleep faster than Michael Jackson’s anesthesiologist.

·        Specifics win every time – Writing is about choices. Why choose a generic word like “walk,” when you’ve got “trudge,” “stumble,” “glide,” “limp,” “amble,” and a whole Thesaurus worth of alternatives at your fingertips. Picking the right word for every occasion makes your writing pop (or sing or dance or sizzle or…)

·        Exorcise wiggle words – Words like “somewhat,” “rather” and “a bit” do nothing for your writing except water it down. Boldly banish them to the cutting room floor.

·        Speaking of “banish,” please remove these phrases from your writing tool kit: “Due to the fact that” and “In order to.” You can confidently start your sentence with whatever word follows.

·        To paraphrase comedian Stephen Wright, “Watch out for identical duplicates.” - For some reason, my brain picks the same words out of a crowd, especially if they’re on the same page (or even worse, in the same paragraph). There’s no reason to describe three different items as “large” or “great” or “amazing.” Even if you’ve opted for the perfect word or phrase, using it multiple times makes it less, er, perfect.

·        Contractions help – In everyday conversation, most folks use “can’t” and “won’t,” not “cannot” and “will not.” Using contractions is the best way to “unstilt” your dialogue.

By following these simple rules, you’ll improve your writing at least one grade level (even if you haven’t stepped foot in a classroom in forty years).

Here's a great quote from writer extraordinaire T.C. Boyle, who delivered the opening keynote address at the recently-concluded Vegas Valley Book Festival:

"We live in a random universe . . . and it's all bad. When I write, I am God. And my characters are going to suffer."

Well, not really. That's just something craps dealers say to entice you to belly up to the table.

But we do have our three winners (one first place, one tie for second) in the Vegas Valley Book Festival's Flash! Fiction Contest. (I blogged about it a few weeks back.)

Our friends at Las Vegas CityLife magazine have graciously printed the winning entries in this week's issue. Here's a link:

http://www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/2010/10/28/news/local_news/iq_39226630.txt

Keep in mind, the contest rules forced our writers to complete these stories in less than 90 minutes (and fewer than 500 words). The participants also needed to adhere to the theme, "Las Vegas: City of Second Chances." But there could be no references to casinos or gambling. Time and pressure constraints notwithstanding, I think you'll agree these stories represent quality work in their own right. (Or "own write," as John Lennon once said.)

Enjoy!

Quick, grab a pen. I'll wait. Okay, jot this down: November 3 - 7. That's when the Vegas Valley Book Festival will take over the Historic Fifth Street School (actually located on 4th Street) and the Clark County Library (actually located in Clark County), among other venues. Now in its ninth year, the festival has become one of the biggest book events in the West. This year's keynote speakers are T.C. Boyle and Dennis Lehane, a couple of guys with serious writing chops. The festival also features panel discussions, writers' workshops, a comic book display, author readings, film screenings and lots of family-friendly stuff.

I'll be hanging around (or as my co-workers like to call it, "lurking") all five days. On Saturday morning from 10:00 - 11:15, I'm co-presenting a memoir workshop with Carolyn Uber, publisher of Stephens Press. Then at 1:30, I'm going to make some friends by handing out awards to the winners of the Flash Fiction contest. (I'll post the three winning stories on my next blog.)

As we say in the ad biz, admission is absolutely free. Ample parking in rear (and in front). And if you act now, we'll throw in a cheese straightener at no additional charge. The deluxe model, too. (That last part's a lie. I lifted it from an old George Carlin routine.)

For more info and a complete schedule of events, go to www.vegasvalleybookfestival.org. I look forward to bumping into you there. But not in the parking lot.

One of my best writing decisions had nothing to do with writing at all. It involved listing my e-mail address in the back of my books. I wanted to make it easy for Steven Spielberg or Martin Scorsese to acquire the movie rights for an ungodly sum.

Neither of those gentlemen has contacted me yet. But, as a nice unintended consequence, I’ve developed a network of pen pals from all over the world. Somehow, my books have accumulated more frequent flyer miles than I have. At various times, I’ve corresponded with readers from Italy, Germany and Japan (and that’s just the former Axis powers). I also have a standing invitation to visit an e-friend who lives on a vineyard in Australia. I haven’t taken him up on it yet because it’s too far to go for a long weekend.

But my favorite e-mail buddy by far is George Bergin. George, who happens to be a Las Vegas ex-pat, lives in a village about 40 clicks (that sounds cool, although I have no idea what a “click” is) from Cabo San Lucas on the Baja Peninsula. I never knew George when he lived here, but a mutual friend sent him a copy of “Dice Angel” back in 2002, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. I came very close to meeting him once, when my wife and I took a cruise to Cabo. But I screwed up our meeting place and we never connected in person. George, gracious guy that he is, instantly forgave me (which made me feel even worse).

George has lived in Mexico long enough to change the spelling of his name to “Jorge.” One of the reasons we get along so well is that he’s a terrific writer. He’s way too modest to say it, but he could be the John Steinbeck of Baja if he were so inclined.

I asked him to send me a short bio and here’s what he wrote:

“Both my wife and I had insurance jobs in Las Vegas. Fifteen years ago, we quit and retired to a small Mexican fishing village. We love to fish, love the tropics and opted for early retirement. Mexico was close and friendly and cheap. It all worked out for us just as we had planned. I was 58, Lynda was 52, so we still had the strength and youth and energy we needed to start fresh in a brand new place with a new lifestyle. You can’t fish everyday, so after awhile I taught myself to write fiction as a hobby. It was fun and frustrating, but in the end I now have a considerable body of work; more than 200 short stories and essays, two books. I haven’t tried to publish the manuscripts (about Mexico), but I have sold many of the stories to magazine and E-zines.

Here, reprinted with Jorge’s permission, is one of them:

Quizás

Yesterday the beach was a miniature war zone. Squadrons of dragonflies, wave after wave of tiny helicopters, strafed the beach, making a million sorties as though they followed some unseen leader with orders to move west but stay between the shore and the palms. The mission: find and eat every small bug.

While I was pretending to be a heroic war correspondent risking my neck to give the world real time sights and sounds of the action along the beachhead, two Mexican fishing boats roared through the surf and up onto the beach. Pepe and his brothers said their hellos. Pepe said the sigarones, the dragonflies, signaled rain. When I asked him when we could expect the rain, he answered with his grinning-pirate look which said it pleased him to be vague.

His brother Juan said they come out after a rain. Juan had the look and demeanor of a Mexican Archie Bunker. Whom should I believe? If we throw out the miserly constraints of time, they were both right.

This is how I spend my time in Mexico—having to choose between two or more answers to every question. The land may be mostly implacable granite and prickly cactus, but it is pure quicksand for anyone looking for a hard-and-fast answer to anything.

To better communicate, I have forced myself to be a better listener.  I have not learned enough. I use the words siempre and nunca, always and never, as the conversation dictates. These words are rarely spoken in this pueblo—perhaps used little in all of Mexico. In a land where nothing is what it appears to be, I should expect to hear probables and posibles, a vezes, quisás mañana. (probably, possibly, at times, perhaps tomorrow) The language demonstrates the basic fatalistic view of the Mexican people. Fatalism defines the culture, pervades every sector of society.

The bending and warping of time is not culturally unique, but it stands out like a cockroach on a wedding cake when compared to the atomic clock exactitudes we Americans are so proud of—the “seventeen jewels that dictate the rules.”

The western world misinterprets the Mexican time view and world view, and therefore sees the Mexican people as non-productive and lazy. Time, taken in the abstract, the Mexican way, offsets the Judeo/Christian stigma of guilt. Time-bending allows Mexicans to enjoy the leisure and forgiveness of a mas or menos¸ more or less attitude about how they run their daily lives. Being a day early or three days late does not call for a trip to the confessional, a single mea culpa. When two compadres joke with one another, the word lazy, flojo, is often used, but it evokes laughter, not scorn.

Only now, after spending a few years in Mexico, am I beginning to understand and appreciate the subtlety of these quirks of culture. One day I may reap some of the benefits myself. I won’t bore you with a long list of wonderful side effects, but we can both feel the obvious orgullo de patria, country pride, a Mexican worker must feel, arriving a week late for work, upon learning that his whole crew was laid off several days ago.

I sit on the organizing committee for the Vegas Valley Book Festival, the largest literary event in Southern Nevada (and one of the largest in the western United States). As a Las Vegas-based author, my job on the committee is to represent the interests of the local writing community. In the past, the festival has focused on bringing authors and readers together in a variety of venues and formats. This year, we wanted to create a new pre-festival event that would engage writers in a more hands-on, interactive way. And so the Flash! Fiction Contest was born. 

I’ve written about flash fiction before (and even tried my hand in a previous blog). Flash is a form of short, short story, usually between 50 and 1,000 words. For the purposes of this contest, we chose a maximum of 500 words. We loosely based the concept on the “48-Hour Film Project,” which gives participants a theme and 48 hours to turn in a finished movie. Our contest had fewer moving parts, but still involved a tight deadline. Entrants had 90 minutes to write a flash story based on the theme, “Las Vegas: City of Second Chances.” But it wasn’t that simple. We also threw them a curve; their stories could not revolve around casinos or gambling. In essence, we forced them to take a deeper look at the city they call home.

Last Saturday afternoon, laptops in hand, sixteen brave souls assembled in the auditorium of the Historic Fifth Street School (yes, that’s the official name) in downtown Las Vegas. This was a demographically-diverse group with one thing in common: the love of writing. As coordinator of the event, I spent the first half hour going over the ground rules and answering questions before delivering the secret theme (previously held in a security vault in an undisclosed location guarded by Dick Cheney). At that point, as they say at the NFL draft, the writers were “on the clock.”

Writing is challenging enough under ideal circumstances. Mix in a tight but not impossible time constraint and the occasional crash of workmen preparing for an evening event, and you’ve got a pressure-cooker situation on your hands. Let’s just say I was relieved to be coordinating the contest rather than writing in it.

And yet, the writers acquitted themselves admirably. (Later, when I apologized for the noise, many of them said it was quieter than their work environments.) I could almost see their right-brain wheels whirring away as they went about their tasks, the clacking of keyboards echoing through the auditorium.

I’ve had a chance to read the finished stories and I’m glad I’m not a judge. (We are fortunate to have four highly-qualified volunteer judges who work as journalists, editors and writing instructors). The top three writers will receive cash prizes generously provided by the City of Las Vegas. More importantly (from my perspective, at least), the winning entries will be published in “Las Vegas CityLife” and on the Book Festival website at www.vegasvalleybookfestival.org. The writers will also have an opportunity to read their stories at the Book Festival, which takes place November 3 – 7.

The feedback from this event has been overwhelmingly positive. My thanks to everyone who helped make it a success, especially the writers. I admire each and every one of them.

PS If you want to know how long (or short) 500 words really are, this blog is 569 words.

Welcome to the second installment of “Real Men of Genius,” the semi-semi-regular feature that celebrates creative artists who, while successful, have been largely under-appreciated by the general public (with apologies to Bud Light for letting me rip off their commercial theme…so far).

Today’s nominee is Mr. Albert Brooks. Brooks, like many of his contemporaries, started his career as a stand-up comedian. I picked up his first album, “Comedy Minus One,” in 1973. Side one is notable for the now-classic routine, “Rewriting the National Anthem.” Brooks’ premise is that the anthem is tough to sing, the words are hard to remember and it’s badly in need of an overhaul. So he decides to hold open auditions to choose the next likely candidate. When a series of well-meaning losers, senile old folks and pissed-off minorities heed the casting call, hilarity --as they say in the biz -- ensues. My favorites include a man who sings (to the tune of the real anthem), “As we stand here waiting for the ballgame to start…” and a radical African-American who shouts, “You jail all your Blacks…” before they cut the power to his microphone. I’ve listened to this routine dozens of times over the years and it’s as fresh today as it was nearly four decades ago.

Side 2 is dominated by the title track, “Comedy Minus One.” In this innovative, two-part bit, Brooks serves as the straight man while You deliver the punch lines provided in the enclosed script. Brooks generously lets his comedy partner (You) get the lion’s share of the laughs. There’s even a special guest appearance by legendary old-time comedian George Jessel. Geek that I was (and still am), I recorded the whole thing to make it sound like I was part of the act. As evidenced by the response of the laugh track, I’ve never been funnier.

Soon after, Brooks branched out into films, first creating a handful of shorts for the fledgling “Saturday Night Live,” as well as another subculture gem, “The Famous Comedians School,” a satire of late night trade school advertising memorable for its “spit-take” scene.

From there, he began writing and directing Hollywood feature films. My favorite is 1985’s “Lost in America,” which preceded the “cashing out” trend by a few of years. In the movie, Brooks and his wife (played by “Airplane’s” Julie Hagarty) quit their corporate jobs, withdraw their life savings and buy an RV to find the real America. Soon after, their plans get derailed in Las Vegas when his wife loses everything at roulette. Her infamous “We’re still down” scene invokes laughter and angst simultaneously. So does the film’s signature piece, in which Brooks vainly attempts to convince the CEO of the Desert Inn (writer/director Garry Marshall in top deadpan form) to return his money as part of a brilliant promotional campaign. Both cringe-worthy and hilarious (heralding “The Office” –style humor by two decades), that scene holds particular meaning for those of us who call Las Vegas home.

Brooks’ well-developed comic persona, kvetchier than Steve Martin and less neurotic than Woody Allen, is on display in an assortment of other movies, including the excellent “Defending Your Life” (holding his own opposite Meryl Streep, no less), “Mother” (Debbie Reynolds possibly playing a version of herself in the title role), “The Scout” and “The Muse.” The latter two ran out of gas somewhere in their third acts, but are still worth checking out. In all of them, Brooks never hesitates to allow himself to look like a sad sack and a schmuck, albeit an intelligent one trying desperately to hold on to a last shred of dignity.

Like all good performers, Brooks makes his roles look easy. In 1987, the Motion Picture Academy recognized him with a supporting actor nomination for his role in “Broadcast News.” More recently, he has lent his vocal talents to a number of high profile animated features, including “Finding Nemo” and “The Simpsons.”

For his clear comedic vision and artistic integrity spanning forty-plus years, Albert Brooks is the winner of this blog’s second “Real Men of Genius” award. I only have one trophy (sort of like a low-rent Stanley Cup), so he’ll have to go get it from Randy Newman.

In its endless quest for the next “sure thing,” Hollywood seems to offer the following types of movies: 

·        Sequels

·        Sequels of sequels

·        Prequels

·        Adaptations of TV shows

·        Adaptations of comic books

·        Remakes

Many of these films still wind up tanking because, in the immortal words of screenwriter William Goldman, “Nobody knows anything.” You would think that the occasional breakthrough original screenplay (“Juno,” “Little Miss Sunshine,” “Up in the Air”) would encourage similar high quality fare, but it hasn’t happened yet. Studios continue to rip off material from other media.

That’s why I’m surprised we don’t see more movies based on songs. The only ones I can think of are crappy movies based on crappy country tunes: “Convoy,” “Ode to Billy Joe,” and “Harper Valley PTA.”

On the rock side, plenty of classic songs are like little movies unto themselves. Here are a few that come to mind:

“Maggie May” – It’s getting harder and harder to remember that Rod Stewart was once a legitimate artist. But back in the early 70s, nobody wrote better story songs. To this day, “Maggie May” is one I never tire of. The (probably) biographical chronicle of a young rock and roller in a love/hate relationship with an older woman would make an entertaining indie flick. Honorable mention goes to another Stewart saga, “Every Picture Tells a Story.” I can see Lucy Liu as Shanghai Lil.

“Tangled Up in Blue” – If you are a regular reader of my blog, I’m sure you’re tired of me mentioning this Dylan classic. To me, it represents the highest form of the song-writing art. In six minutes, Mr. Zimmerman disregards time, space and logic to weave a fascinating tale that manages to sound both fresh and eternal. I’ve probably listened a thousand times and always hear something different. I still can’t figure out if the point of view is that of Dylan, a fictional character (some folks would maintain that Dylan is a fictional character) or even multiple narrators. But an imaginary film strip always runs through my mind. Turning this song into a movie would present a major challenge; it needs the steady hand of an innovative filmmaker to do it justice. Christopher Nolan, are you listening?

“Brown-Eyed Girl” – As seemingly-simple as “Tangled” is complex, Van Morrison’s coming-of-age story always leaves me with a bittersweet sepia-toned smile. The escapades of our randy young Irish lovers, frolicking in the old mine, all along the waterfall, in the green grass behind the stadium (and anywhere else they can think of)… well, it’s just made for the big screen.

“Rosalita” – Sure, any of Springsteen’s mean-streets-of-Jersey adventures would work just fine. But “Rosalita,” a rocker’s attempt to win the hand and heart of his beautiful senorita, exudes a pure joyousness rarely heard on vinyl (or whatever the hell CDs are made of). When we learn that our hero just got a big record company advance, enabling him to give Rosalita the life she deserves (while telling her mama and daddy to f-off), the audience in my brain stands up and cheers. Besides, I wouldn’t mind visiting them at their pretty little place in Southern California down San Diego Way.

“American Pie” – Oops, too late. It’s called “The Buddy Holly Story.”

Here's a quick story illustrating the weirdness of grass roots book marketing. A few years ago, I was hawking my wares in a book festival booth at a park in Boulder City, Nevada. A pleasant middle-aged woman picked up a copy of "Dice Angel" and began peppering me with questions. "What's the book about?" "Where do you get your ideas?" "When do you do your writing?" "Do you think I would enjoy this book?" And a dozen more.

After ten minutes or so, I saw an opening and asked if she'd like to buy a copy. I told her I could offer a special book festival price of $10.00.

She reached in her purse for the money. But before we could conclude the transaction, she asked in an uncertain voice, "What day is today?"

"Tuesday," I said.

Her eyes grew wide. "Oh," she gulped. "I don't buy books on Tuesday."

She disappeared into the crowd before I could find out why.

In my lifetime, I’ve only cried at the deaths of two public figures: John Lennon and George Carlin. (The Kennedy’s made me sad, but I was probably too young to really understand what was going on.) 

Lennon requires no explanation. For those of a certain age, his assassination signaled the end of an era and the irrevocable loss of our youth. My grief might have been as much about me as it was about him. (I’m self-absorbed that way.)

Carlin, as anyone who knows me will attest, was my comedy god, a comforting thread whose influence has run through almost my entire life. I first caught him in the mid-60s on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Back then, he sported short hair, a business suit and ribbon tie, and favored us with bits like “Wonderful WINO Radio” and “Al Sleet, the hippie-dippie weatherman.” (Typical vintage Carlin: “Tonight’s forecast – Dark. Continued dark throughout most of the evening, with some widely-scattered light towards morning.") That kind of wordplay, a Carlin trademark, hooked me from the very beginning.

I lost track of George for a few years until he resurfaced as a long-haired, bearded, tie-dyed genuine counter-culture spokesman in the early 70s. His reinvention coincided with my teenage years and contributed mightily to my nascent rebellious streak. Listening to classic routines like “The Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” (late at night on my GE portable record player) from the albums “FM & AM” and “Class Clown,” opened my eyes and ears to a completely different kind of comedy. These weren’t traditional setup/punch line jokes in the Bob Hope vein. George and other burgeoning comedy legends like Richard Pryor and the Smothers Brothers had more on their minds as they fearlessly took on all taboos, including politics, religion, American culture, racism, and the sad state of the human race. (George came to believe that we’re a failed species, stuck in an evolutionary dead end.) Nothing was off limits. 

The first time I saw Carlin live was with a group of friends at Cal State Northridge in the San Fernando Valley, circa 1975. We sat on the floor of the gym for what must have been three hours (George was like the Springsteen of comedy). I can remember pounding the floor as the tears streamed down my cheeks, my breaths coming in short gasps and my stomach spasming from the sheer force of unrelenting laughter. By the end of the show, there was nothing left of me. But I still wanted him to go on.

A few years later, Carlin hosted a comedy workshop at the Sherwood Oaks Experimental College in Hollywood. For the grand sum of $50, you could actually sit in a classroom with 60 or 70 other fans and get tips from the master. During the Q & A session, I managed to croak out a question, possibly something about his comedic influences. I have no idea what he said because the blood was pounding too loudly in my head. But I know he answered graciously. Can you imagine a top comedian doing something even remotely like that today?

In the ensuing years, I kept up with George through his 14 HBO specials (he was unbelievably prolific; most comics are lucky to have a couple hours’ worth of material), as well as his best-selling books “Brain Droppings,” “Napalm & Silly Putty,” and “When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?” – the cover of which shows George Photo-shopped into the Last Supper clutching a knife and fork. I almost didn’t mind watching “Thomas the Train” with my grandson because George did the voiceover narration. On a subsequent interview, he explained it was an easy way to pay back his IRS debt.

As he grew older, Carlin became ever-more bitter. (Typical later Carlin: “The wrong two Beatles are dead.” It doesn’t get any darker than that. Or more spot on.) But, unlike political observers such as Mort Sahl, he never lost his sense of humor. Even when there were dry stretches during a particularly-long rant, George was always interesting. He could hold your attention and make you think between the laughs.

I think of George often, especially when I watch the news. He would have had a field day with BP and the Tea Party and the Great Recession. We need a guy like him now more than ever. Recently, I was gratified to hear that he had finished his memoirs just before he died (that seems to happen a lot.) George, a consummate wordsmith to the end, called it a “sortabiography.” I’ve ordered “Last Words” from Amazon. George never believed in an afterlife, but, for me, this is a little gift from the great beyond.

Sometimes, on a rare lazy Sunday afternoon, my wife and I will try to go to the movies. “Try” is the operative word, because more often than not, we can’t find anything that makes us want to leave the house (and spend forty bucks for two matinee tickets, two drinks and a medium popcorn). 

I understand that Hollywood isn’t making movies with me in mind. Movies are a business whose target demographic is teenage boys. That’s why we’re subjected to mostly action flicks, action sequels and dumb comedies (with plenty of bodily function action). If you’ve read my blogs, or my books, you know I’m no elitist. When I’m in the right mood, I get just as much entertainment value from “Iron Man 2” or “Hot Tub Time Machine” as the next emotionally-stunted middle-aged male.

But every now and then, I want something different. Something like “Five Easy Pieces,” “The Last Detail,” “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” or “Chinatown.”

(Quick digression: A few years ago, I ventured into my local Hollywood Video and asked if they had “Chinatown” in stock. The teenage girl, eager to help, disappeared into the back, emerged five minutes later and triumphantly handed me “Big Trouble in Little China.” That’s when I joined Netflix.)

In any event, those films have a couple of things in common. First, they starred Jack Nicholson in his prime, back when he was full of that wild-eyed crazy-ass intensity, when he still had something to prove. (Not like now, going through the motions in-between trotting out his well-worn shtick.) Second, none of them could get produced by a major studio today. They’d have to go the indie route, assuming they could find investors at all.

Here’s the strange part. When Jack and his films were considered mainstream (along with Pacino, Hoffman, Hackman and the like), my friends and I were in our late teens and early twenties. We were the target audience. Those guys were our role models. I took my vocabulary to a new level after watching “The Last Detail.” I grew my first beard after watching “Serpico.” I learned all about “Poughkeepsie” and pork pie hats after watching “The French Connection.” Those movies had lots of action. But they also had lots of smarts. We got entertained and learned some cool stuff in the process.

Today’s fare is just plain dumber. And I know what that makes me: a curmudgeon. It happens. My personal theory is it’s life’s way of preparing you to die. At some point, if you live long enough, you get sick of everything and taking that long nap doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’m not there yet, hopefully not even close. But I can see where this is heading.  

That’s not to say that I’m one of those guys who thinks everything was better in the good old days. Whether we’re talking about books, movies, music or sports, every era had its share of stinkers. (Don’t believe me? Listen to replays of Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40.”) It just seems like there’s more of them now. It might have something to do with the corporatization of America, the unwillingness of studios and publishers to bet on anything except a sure thing.

The irony, of course, is there’s no such thing as a sure thing. Bubbles burst, trends end and you can’t time the market. So, as creative people, you may as well write something you like. That’s the only sure thing I know of.

Folks under the age of say, 35, might be vaguely familiar with singer-songwriter Randy Newman for his catchy little tune “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” which played under the closing credits of “Toy Story.” They might even associate Newman with one of his only true hits, “I Love L.A.,” especially if they happen to be Dodger or Lakers fans. 

I love that song. Is there a better rock lyric than this?

“Rollin’ down Imperial Highway

With a big nasty redhead by my side

Santa Ana wind blowin’ hot from the north

And we was born to ride.

Roll down the window, put down the top

Crank up the Beach Boys, baby

Don’t let the music stop

We’re gonna ride it till we just can’t ride it no more.”

I grew up in L.A. and Newman captures the singular blend of La-La Land fantasy and reality perfectly. But he’s not content to stop there. The song oozes irony, Newman’s stock in trade, because L.A. is like a beautiful, impetuous, high-maintenance woman.  

Oh, and the music kicks ass.

But if you’re not familiar with the rest of Newman’s work, it’s well worth checking out. His only other real hit, “Short People,” managed to piss off a lot of folks (especially short ones) who didn’t understand the subtext. Newman has spent much of his career as a social commentator, writing songs from the point of view of his characters. Racism and prejudice have been frequent targets. So when he sings…

“They got little hands

And little eyes

And they walk around

Tellin’ great big lies

They got little noses

And tiny little teeth

They wear platform shoes

On their nasty little feet.

Well, I don’t want no short people

‘round here...”

…he’s showing us how idiotic it is to hate anyone based on physical attributes. (Personally, I choose to hate people based on stupidity, which I find perfectly valid.) But many listeners missed the point. Still, the song rose to number two on the Billboard Hot 100, the biggest commercial breakthrough of Newman’s career.

If you think that song raised a ruckus, wait’ll you hear “Rednecks,” in which he dons the persona of a racist Southern cracker. In today’s politically-correct environment, I guarantee that song hasn’t seen the radio light of day for many a year. Here’s why…

“We’re rednecks, we’re rednecks

We don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground

We’re rednecks, we’re rednecks

Keepin’ the n-word down.”

See, I can’t even repeat the actual lyric in this blog because I’m running scared. Again, if you give the song a surface listen, you might think Newman is advocating racism. But when you realize he’s making fun of these Deliverance-types, it takes on a whole new satirical meaning. Sort of like “All in the Family,” which people understood in 1971 (but would never get aired on network television in 2010). In a lot of ways, we’ve regressed as a culture. (And I use that word loosely.)

One more knock at racism before moving on to other topics: “Sail Away.” Newman himself has said it’s a recruiting song for slavery. Our 18^th century narrator extols the virtues of coming to America:

“Ain’t no lions or tigers

Ain’t no mamba snake

Just the sweet watermelon

And the buckwheat cake

Everybody as happy as a man can be

Climb aboard, little wog

Sail away with me.”

There’s more on Newman’s mind than racism. In “Political Science,” his alter-ego offers this simple solution to the complex issue of foreign relations:

“No one likes us, I don’t know why

We may not be perfect, but heaven knows we try

But all around, even our old friends put us down

Let’s drop the big one and see what happens.

We give them money but are they grateful?

No, they’re spiteful and they’re hateful

They don’t respect us so let’s surprise them

We’ll drop the big one and pulverize them.”

I can think of a couple recent presidents who are nodding their heads in agreement right now.

Finally, here’s Newman’s take on capitalism, from the song “It’s Money that Matters:

“Of all of the people that I used to know

Most never adjusted to the great big world

I see them lurking in book stores

Working for the Public Radio

Carrying their babies around in a sack on their back

Moving careful and slow.

All of these people are much brighter than I

In any fair system they would flourish and thrive

But they barely survive…

It’s money that matters

Hear what I say

It’s money that matters

In the USA.”

Agree or disagree, love him or hate him, Randy Newman has been a songwriter at the top of his craft for more than three decades. That’s why I’m nominating him for my first “Real Men of Genius” award, in the coveted “Underappreciated” category.

I doubt he’ll show up for the ceremony.  

I love the Bud Light “Real Men of Genius” campaign that’s been running for years. You know the one I mean; the announcer salutes “Mr. Cargo Pants Designer” or “Mr. Beach Metal Detector Guy” while the over-the-top 80s hair band singer wails in the background. (Sidebar for future “Jeopardy” contestants: that voice belongs to Dave Bickler, former lead singer for Survivor.) They’ve produced hundreds of them with no end in sight, which may annoy the hell out of some people but makes me strangely happy. (As usual, the commercials are better than the beer, but that’s a topic for another day.) 

In addition to the sheer entertainment value, the campaign got me thinking about what makes a real man (or woman) of genius. “Genius” is a term that gets thrown around a lot these days, probably so much so that it’s lost any meaning. Sure, it still applies to guys like Newton and Einstein and Hawking. But when we go beyond the hard sciences, we’re on shakier ground.

Never ducking the hard questions, I’ve decided to tackle the issue head on. I foresee this as an intermittent series of articles, but who knows? By the time I finish this one, I might be bored with the whole subject. We’ll see.

In the meantime, let’s start with music. I think most of us would agree that a Mount Rushmore of modern-era musical geniuses would feature Dylan, Lennon and McCartney (on a good day), and…who? Ray Charles? His nickname was “the Genius,” so maybe that’s a no-brainer. You could certainly make a case for Paul Simon. Or Michael Jackson. (Does it help to be nuts?) Or Brian Wilson. (Ditto.) Or, if you wanted to go back farther, Chuck Berry, who might have invented rock ‘n’ roll. Looks like we need to add another mountain. One thing's for sure, the standards have to be pretty darned high. It's like the difference between getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame and every other hall of fame.

So I guess we’re getting into criteria. What exactly makes a genius? Popularity? It helps, but look at all the minor talents who’ve somehow managed to captivate the public. Madonna comes to mind. What about staying power and its twin, influence? Buddy Holly’s brief, meteoric career echoes to this day. And then there’s innovation. Dylan and the Beatles never settled for the status quo, constantly evolving and experimenting, even at the cost of alienating some fans. I suppose we’d better add courage to the mix.

And where does pure talent come into play, the ability to craft a song in a way that makes people laugh or cry or feel wistful or want to jump around and bang their heads against the wall. Can you be a genius if you don’t write your own material? I’ve never heard a better singer than Aretha Franklin, but she didn’t write her own stuff. Is it possible to be a singing genius? I’m just asking.

Speaking of women, why can’t I think of any to add to my list? Is it me, or is rock that much of a boy’s club. I admire Joni Mitchell, Carole King and Carly Simon. But do they fit the criteria? Will we be humming their tunes a hundred years from now? (I won’t, but it has nothing to do with them.) As you can tell, I have lots of questions, but very few answers. I’m counting on you to help.

And how about all the underappreciated geniuses?  In my next column (see, I’m not bored yet), I’ll write about Randy Newman. Kids, go ahead and Google him right now. Then we’ll talk. 

I’ve been under the weather lately, so I used it as an excuse to stay home and watch the final six episodes of “24.” It was just what the doctor ordered.

Over the past eight seasons, the show has been one of my guilty pleasures. I knew I shouldn’t watch it for a dozen reasons, but at the start of each season, I’d come back for “just one more.” (Like every other addict.)

And yet it was an honest love affair. I was a fan despite the program’s many faults. It could be maddeningly inconsistent, brilliant one week, downright stupid the next. Sometimes I’d get the feeling that the writers were literally one week ahead, feverishly turning in their scripts at the eleventh (or twenty-third) hour. My standing joke was that they should rename it “12,” because they only had enough material for half a day. (For those who’ve never seen “24,” the gimmick was that all events took place in real time during one really bad sleep-and-bathroom-deprived 24-hour period. Of course, the writers would fudge a bit, as in letting a character travel from downtown L.A. to the San Fernando Valley in four minutes. Now that’s fiction.)

Whole seasons could go off the rails in a hurry, starting out with great promise before lapsing into talky placeholder episodes or worse. About halfway through each season, we would be subjected to an “unexpected” plot twist that ultimately became predictable and formulaic.

So why did I stick with it? In two words, “Jack Bauer.” The baddest badass on television.  (Although “Justified’s” Timothy Olyphant is waiting in the wings.) Kiefer Sutherland brought an intensity and danger to the character that made me a true believer. (I’ve heard he’s nuts in real life, which certainly helps. Maybe he can move in to all those twisted Dennis Hopper roles now that there’s an opening.) To paraphrase ESPN’s Sports Center, you couldn’t control Bauer, you could only hope to contain him. This season, even that possibility flew out a bullet-shattered window after Jack’s only real love interest, FBI special agent Renee Walker, met her fate at the business end of a Russian sniper’s rifle. (Something you should know. If you were an FOJ – Friend of Jack’s – you weren’t long for this world.)

So this time, as the posters say, it’s personal. Jack Bauer on a rampage is something to behold, an unstoppable avenging angel of death, off the grid and out of his mind, determined to mete out his personal brand of justice one heinous set piece at a time. Gruesome, disturbing, and oh so satisfying. He could teach Sarah Palin a thing or two about going rogue.

Sure, you can lecture me on the decay of modern society and sending the wrong message and blah, blah, blah. I know all that. That’s why I would never let my kids watch a show like this. But last time I checked, I’m an adult (marginally). I actually know the difference between fiction and nonfiction, right and wrong. I understand why we can’t have Jack Bauers running around in real life playing judge, jury and executioner. Maybe that’s why I can enjoy the vicarious righteous retribution even more. Be honest. Hasn’t there been at least one person in your life you wanted to hang by a meat hook and gut like a fish? I’ll bet you didn’t do it. Neither did I. Jack did it for us. I think that’s healthy. And a lot less messy.

Most season finales are big letdowns. (“Seinfeld” and “Sopranos” come to mind, although I like them both a lot better in retrospect.) But “24” let Jack Bauer go out with a bang, not a whimper. It was time to put him out to pasture and they made the most of it before Jack’s true blue colleague, Chloe O’Brian, uttered the fitting final line, “Shut it down.”

I’ll miss that ticking clock.

I just finished reading a book called "Free" by Chris Anderson. (Ironically, it retails for $15.99.)

As usual, I digress. The main premise of "Free" is that the Internet has made it feasible to give away intellectual and creative content because the cost of doing so is close to zero. This is a radical concept to many, especially the old school folks who feel they should be compensated for their ideas.

While I'm chronologically old school, I like to think I'm open to new concepts from time to time. This one intrigues me because the book explains how to leverage the increased traffic and enhanced reputation that are natural by-products of free. In other words, the free book, CD, video or other creative content becomes a platform to launch paid complementary services, whether public speaking, consulting, live performances, etc. As Paulo Coelho, author of "The Alchemist," said, "The ultimate goal of a writer is to be read. Money comes later."

In the spirit of experimentation, I'm offering my Las Vegas novels, "Dice Angel" and "Money Shot," as free e-books until further notice. You can still buy the hard copies, of course. But if  you don't mind printing out pages or reading from your screen, just go back to my home page and click on the garish button that prominently displays the word "Free." It will ask for your name and e-mail info, but I promise not to bother you or sell your name to a broker, scrupulous or otherwise. It's just a way for me to keep score.

I do ask a favor or two. If you like either or both books, please tell some folks. (If you don't like them, please keep it under your hat.) Let's get some buzz going. And if you're in any way connected to the film industry and are looking for an excuse to make a cool Vegas movie, I know just where to find good source material.

There may be no such thing as a free lunch. But there are free books. Enjoy.

Years ago, I worked at a crappy radio station with a guy who had a great voice and knew more about 1950s and 1960s rock 'n' roll than anyone I've ever met. Had he possessed an ounce of ambition, he could have been the next Wolfman Jack or Casey Kasem. Instead, he was perfectly happy to live in his Jim Rockford-style mobile home, eating pizza, drinking beer and banging younger women.

You guessed it; I'm jealous. But that's not the point. (At least not in this posting.) My point is, nothing annoys me more than unrealized potential. This fellow had a real gift and he squandered it. Combine his talent and knowledge with my motivation, and, well, I'd be living in a much nicer mobile home.

That's why I get bummed by movies that start out with so much promise, only to go horribly wrong. More unrealized potential. I'd much rather watch a move that stinks from beginning to end. At least it's not setting me up for a big letdown. Maybe I need to be more like Jack Nicholson in "Chinatown," who says, "I never expect anything and I'm still disappointed."

At any rate, here's my partial list of films that fall apart in the second half:

"Joe vs. the Volcano" - Okay, this is one of my favorite movies. It's the exception that proves the rule. The first half is so brilliant, it makes up for the second half. How can you not love a movie starring a bloated, pasty Tom Hanks, toiling away in a soul-draining nightmare of a factory when he's diagnosed (by Dr. Robert Stack, no less) with a "brain cloud" and given mere months to live. Mix in a tour de force triple-threat performance by Meg Ryan at her cutest, and Ossie Davis doing Morgan Freeman before we knew there was a Morgan Freeman, and you've got my kind of flick. Once they reach the island of Waponi Woo, the movie sinks into the blue Pacific, but I'm willing to forgive it (although I do pine away for what might have been). Not so these other disappointments, which just piss me off...

"From Dusk Till Dawn" - There's no middle ground with Tarantino. He's either really good or really bad. Here he's both. The movie starts out with a bang when preacher Harvey Keitel and his family are kidnapped by the twisted Gecko brothers, played by a young George Clooney and an irritating Tarantino (who needs to get out of his own way). As they escape deep into Mexico, the psychological and emotional tension escalates via Tarantino's trademark dialogue. But once they reach the vampire-infested cantina, the film devolves into just another comic book gorefest. Don't get me wrong; I usually love comic book gorefests. But Tarantino misses an opportunity to explore the nature of evil by comparing and contrasting (as they say in college) the evil bad guys with the really evil dead bad guys. Still, Salma Hayek looks great living or dead. Sigh.

"The Descent" - And speaking of hot babes, here we've got the makings of a taut psychological thriller when five stunning twenty-something women decide to get down and dirty in a previously-unexplored cavern somewhere in the Appalachian mountains. The claustrophobic early scenes literally made me break out in a cold sweat. And the corner-of-the-eye hint of mutant menace ratchets up the suspense. But once we see these humanoid goobers in all their glory, we realize they've been borrowed from a dozen other horror flicks. And the over-the-top shredding can't hold a candle to what we've already seen in our mind's eye. When will writers and directors learn that less is usually more? Don't answer that; I already know.

"Collateral" - Tom Cruise actually does something interesting as a frenetic, emotionally-damaged hitman who takes cabdriver Jamie Foxx on an unscheduled trip through nightime Los Angeles. There's genuine chemistry and crackling dialogue between the two stars as they play their cat-and-mouse games. That is, until an unbelievable coincidence sends the cab (and the film) careening out of control down the path of "Die Hard" dumbness. Again, don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of the "Die Hard" franchise. But it never claims to be something it's not. "Collateral" set me up for a smart, snappy joy ride, only to screw me over with the old bait and switch. No tips for these guys.

I've got plenty more examples, but I'd rather hear from you. Please weigh in with your most disappointing setups and non-payoffs. I'm looking forward to adding to my collection.

My new best friend, business writer and original thinker Seth Godin, has precisely captured my current views on writing and publishing. And he's accomplished this in just a few simple sentences. My only regret is that I didn't come up with it first:

Publishing books to make money...

is a little like hanging out in a singles bar if you want to get married.

It might work, but there are way better ways to accomplish your goal.

If you love writing or making music or blogging or any sort of performing art, then do it. Do it with everything you've got. Just don't plan on using it as a shortcut to making a living.

The only people who should plan on making money from writing a book are people who made money on their last book. Everyone else should either be in it for passion, trust, referrals, speaking, consulting, change-making, tenure, connections or joy.

A young woman I work with uses the word “random” a lot, often in the context, “Here’s a random question.” What I think she means is “unexpected” or “out of left field.” Technically, not “random” but close enough for government (or even marketing) work. 

I thought of this as I was reading “The Drunkard’s Walk,” by Leonard Mlodinow. The book’s subtitle is “How Randomness Rules Our Lives,” and its premise is that randomness plays a much larger role than most of us realize. The title comes from the completely random movement of water molecules which resemble, in many ways, the disjointed path of a drunk trying to make his way home from the corner tavern.

Because of the hard wiring of our brains, human beings have a difficult time understanding truly random events. We have a propensity to recognize patterns where they don’t exist, attach too much significance to statistical aberrations (such as a gambler’s hot streak), and ascribe meaning to proceedings after the fact. Mlodinow makes his case in an accessible, breezy style (breezy for a scientist, that is), weaving together far-flung examples from ancient history, Las Vegas, Wall Street, pop culture and everyday life. He shows us the power of probability and chance (read “luck”) and how it is often the ultimate difference-maker.

Take, for instance, the story of a struggling New Jersey bartender, an aspiring actor making the casting call rounds in his spare time. One day he meets an up-and-coming Hollywood actress. She invites him out to the west coast and, on a whim, he takes her up on her offer. While there, he accompanies her on some auditions and gets offered a guest shot on “Miami Vice.” This leads to a tryout for the lead on a new detective show, where he implausibly lands the role against stiff competition. Maybe you’ve heard of the guy. His name is Bruce Willis.

One of those incredibly lucky breaks we here about from time to time? Mlodinow thinks so. When I mentioned this story to my wife, a believer in destiny, she said, “Of course. It was meant to be.” In other words, it simply reaffirmed her world view. But is this another example of the human mind trying to make something out of nothing? Or our ability to bend any theory to fit our belief system? My existential answer is: who the heck knows?

I bring this up because, as a writer, I’ve always harbored a secret hope that the cream will eventually rise to the top; that talented creative types (not unlike myself) are bound to break through. But, as we’ve discussed in these posts before, there are plenty of hacks who routinely sit atop the best seller lists. And I’ve personally read manuscripts from writers who absolutely deserve to be discovered. So what’s the difference? Maybe it really just boils down to luck. (Or lack thereof. Always remember, there are two kinds of luck.)

On the one hand, this is a depressing thought. On the other, it’s empowering. Because, as Mlodinow points out toward the end of his book, you can increase your chances by increasing your number of at-bats. In other words, as the carnival barker likes to remind us, “You cannot win if you do not play.” That’s why I’m staying in the game (even if it is rigged).

More on this next time.

Last weekend, I attended Jami Carpenter’s editing workshop at the Clark County Library on Flamingo. Jami’s a good friend and a professional editor for Stephens Press, one of our only credible local publishers. Her presentation reminded me (and the other fifty or so folks in the audience) why writers should never go it alone.  

Remember the adage, “A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client?” The same could be said of authors and editing. Recently, a fellow told me that he’s polished his manuscript “five or six times.” I’ll bet it’s still rife with errors. (If I were a bookie, I’d place the over/under at one hundred.) The human eye tends to skip over small mistakes and little omissions, especially when we’re so close to our own material.

But there’s a lot more to editing than just catching spelling and grammatical slip-ups – even though that’s challenging enough. (And, as Jami cautions, don’t rely solely on Spell Check. Or is that SpellCheck? Either way, it can’t deal with context. That’s why it will approve this phrase: “Slowly the cross-eyed bear” – a blunder of biblical proportions).

A good editor will delve into plot, theme, characterization, dialogue, point of view, flow (as Nate once said on Six Feet Under while in the midst of an unintentional ecstasy rush, “It’s all about the flow”), and dozens of other elements, including my personal bugaboo, continuity. Have you ever read a book where one of the children ages four years in four weeks? Or inexplicably changes names? Nothing will pull a reader out of his or her suspension of disbelief faster than a dumb mistake. And if that reader happens to be in the acquisitions department of a major publishing house, you’ve lost that golden ticket for good. That’s why, in the immortal words of my buddy Jay MacLarty, your manuscript needs to be “pristine.”

Deke Castleman, my own editor on “Dice Angel” and “Money Shot,” likes to do things the old fashioned way. He marks up page after hard-copy page in pencil, sometimes using every inch of the back to make his case for fine-tuning a character’s motivation or switching up chapters five and thirteen. Sometimes a simple “Ha!” in the margin will keep me going for days. It also helps that he flat out knows a lot of stuff. In “Dice Angel,” he had me change “deep fryer” to “Fryolator,” the more specific restaurant industry term. Little things like that really add flavor to your story. Working with Deke is like getting an MFA without all the parking tickets (students at UNLV and colleges everywhere will know what I mean). Editors like Deke don’t come cheap, but you get what you pay for.

Yes, writing is a solitary discipline. We sit alone in front of a white screen, the cursor mocking us with every blink. Some days inspiration strikes and we can’t type fast enough. Mostly we grind it out. Either way, writing should also be a collaborative effort. Take the time to find the best professional editor money can rent. Beyond mere expertise, put someone on your team who “gets you.” It’s always nice when you’re both on the same page.

I overbooked myself and scheduled two appearances this weekend.

The first one is 11 a.m. Saturday, April 10 at the Clark County Library (known to locals as "the Flamingo Library"), 1401 E. Flamingo. As part of the "Write On" lecture series, I'll be discussing the pros and cons of the most popular publishing options, including traditional, print on demand, and indie press. Mainly, I'll help you avoid the same costly and time-wasting mistakes I made.

After I'm done, stick around for Jami Carpenter's presentation, "The ABC's of Editing." (I don't know if I put the apostrophe in the right place; I'm sure Jami will clue me in.)

Then, on Sunday, April 11 from 2 - 4 p.m., co-author Constance Ford and I will talk about our participation in the Las Vegas collaborative serial mystery novel, "Restless City." I'm certain we'll be hawking our wares, too. I always tell readers that if I autograph their books, they can get 25 cents more for them on e-Bay. This all happens at the Sun City MacDonald Ranch Community Center, 2020 Horizon Ridge Parkway in Henderson.

Please stop by, say "hello," and help support some fine, upstanding members of the local writing community.

My very first book signing took place at a Borders book store here in Las Vegas in 2002. I was geeked because, to my way of thinking, a real store signing made me a real author. That lasted all of three minutes, when a woman approached my little table near the front door and asked me to direct her to the restroom

 The second woman actually showed an interest in my book, “Dice Angel.”

            “What’s it about?” she asked.

             I had my elevator speech locked and loaded. "It's a mystery novel that gives readers a behind-the-scenes look at the real Las Vegas."

            She considered my answer for a moment, then followed up with, "Is it a fiction novel?"

Lesson learned. I rarely use the word “novel” anymore because people have no idea what it means. And, to this day, whenever my wife asks me what I’m writing or reading, I’ll tell her, “A fiction novel.”

Not too long ago, during a conversation with a business associate, he happened to mention that he never reads fiction. He said it proudly, as if all these made up stories are beneath him, a waste of his time. A younger version of me would have argued with him. But an older, wiser (and more tired) me just nodded. I’ve given up trying to change the world.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t blog about it. So here goes. When I think about the books that have changed my life, they’re all fiction. From my boyhood favorites, “Phantom Toll Booth” and “A Wrinkle in Time,” to my teenage fascination with the Travis Mcgee mysteries, through my counter-culture heroes Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Robbins, to my present-day admiration for Michael Chabon, the books that made a lasting impression are all novels. Fiction novels at that.

I’ll go a step further. These books changed me in a way that no other form of communication ever has. Even more than movies and music (which is saying a lot).

Certainly nonfiction has played a large role in my development (or lack thereof). Biographies, self-help, history, philosophy and the like. But the difference is in the emotional connection. Written fiction draws you in, makes you an active co-conspirator in the creative process. Nonfiction is more of a surface experience (unless it’s written like fiction, which is a whole ‘nother subject).

I guess it boils down to this: Nonfiction gives you the facts. Fiction gives you the truth.

Take that, my fiction-avoiding acquaintance. Of course, he’ll never see this. He’s too busy reading, “Who Moved My Cheese.”

Over the years, I’ve picked up nuggets of writing wisdom from various sources, some of whom I can actually remember. I thought this might be a good time to share them. I’m sure you’ve seen some (if not all) of these kernels before (which brings up the question: what’s better – a nugget or a kernel?). But it sure can’t hurt to revisit them again (which is not the most redundant phrase I’ve ever encountered. That honor goes to a sportscaster, possibly the late Curt Gowdy, who uttered the immortal line, “The Orioles have won twelve straight consecutive games in a row.”) 

At any rate, memory permitting, I’ll try to give credit where credit is due:

“When in doubt, leave it out.” – Max Berkowitz, my 11^th grade journalism teacher. I’m sure this was a shopworn cliché even back in 1970, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Mr. Berkowitz was also known to declare, “Even a moron can do this, and you all qualify.” Simpler times. Today, irate parents would picket the school in the shadow of the Action News team.

“K.I.S.S. or Keep it Simple Stupid” – Possibly from Strunk and White’s “Elements of Style.” In other words, never use a big word where a little word will suffice. (Get it?)

“I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” – That old quote machine, Mark Twain. Goes hand-in-hand with the rules above. It’s always more challenging to get your point across in the fewest number of words. Don’t believe me? Try writing a song. Or a haiku.

“Never use a preposition to end a sentence with.” – The always-popular Anonymous. See how awkward that sentence is? It’s a good rule to follow unless it makes the sentence even more awkward. A real judgment call (as is most writing).

“Try to avoid passive verbs like ‘be,’ ‘is,’ or ‘have.’” – I first heard this at a presentation by Chuck Palahniuk, author of “Fight Club” and “Choke.” Without overdoing it and lapsing into gimmickry, eliminating nonessential passive verbs makes your writing crisper and more dynamic (especially dialogue).

“Sprinkle.” – My writer friend, Bob. Resist the urge to vomit up huge chunks of back-story or description at any one time. (Nice visual, huh?) Instead, keep moving forward by scattering relevant information throughout. This will let your readers participate in the discovery process.

“Get rid of ‘weasel words’” – Anonymous (again). Words like “some,” “kind of,” and “rather” turn your writing to mush.

“Show, don’t tell” – My editor, Deke Castleman. Which sentence is more compelling: “John was very nervous.” Or “John’s stomach did back-flips.” The first tells, the second shows. Try to make your writing visual whenever possible. (See “vomit” reference above).

“The villain thinks he’s right.” – John Hill, noted screenwriting curmudgeon. Unless you’re writing one-dimensional melodrama or second-rate comic books, the bad guy is your most compelling character. Which means he (or she) needs to be multi-dimensional. One of the best ways to accomplish this is by creating a villain who thinks he’s the hero.

“Get into your scene late, get out early.” – Thomas Sawyer, author of “Fiction Writing Demystified.” If you watch any old movie, you’ll notice the characters spend inordinate amounts of time getting to and from places. Today’s scenes are much speedier (for today’s short attention spans). Try to join your characters in progress, then get out early and let the next scene carry the story. “Friends” was famous for this, almost to the point of irritation.

“Writing is rewriting.” – Every good writer I ever met. Get that shitty first draft down on paper and out of your system. Then go back and polish as many times as necessary. When you’re so sick of it you can’t type another stroke, that means it’s getting good.

“Minor characters count.” – Me. I’m sure I’m not the first (or even millionth) person to say this, but I’m taking credit anyway. If you’re going to introduce a minor character, make him or her more than a plot device. Some of fiction’s most memorable folks weren’t onstage that long. I’m reminded of the victim in Dennis Lehane’s “Mystic River.” She’s around for 13 pages or so. Yet when she dies, we feel a horrible sense of loss. Now that’s writing.

My friends at CityLife Books have released their second offering, “Blue Vegas,” a collection of short stories by P Moss. (Note to readers: This isn’t a typo. Moss doesn’t use punctuation.)

Moss is the semi-legendary owner of the Double Down Saloon, arguably the coolest, most authentic drinking establishment in Las Vegas. Moss has obviously been paying attention; the stories in this collection capture the “real” Vegas (assuming there is such a place). You can almost smell the darkness and desperation. Moss writes in an assured, economical style that gets to the point fast.

And yet, I have a bone to pick with Mr. Moss. In CityLife’s initial press release announcing Moss’s signing last July, he was quoted as saying, “No quality Las Vegas fiction has ever been written. The soul of the city has never been captured on the printed page…I believe I have done a good job of reversing this trend.”

A bold statement. And he’s mostly right. I certainly have railed against carpet-bagging writers who swoop into town for a few weeks and think they’ve got us figured out. I’m going on my fourth decade here and I’m still surprised by the complexity and contradictions that make up the core of our identity.

But Moss certainly isn’t the only local writer who “gets us.” Submitted for your approval (as Rod Serling used to say), Mr. H. Lee Barnes.  Barnes, the most recent inductee into the Nevada Writer’s Hall of Fame (bet you didn’t know we had one), has a long and credible literary track record. I urge P (we’re on a first initial basis) to dip into “Candescent,” the best story in Barnes’ collection, “Talk to Me, James Dean.” It’s easily as good as anything in “Blue Vegas.”

Barnes isn’t the only one. Check out “Bring Your Legs with You” by Darrell Spencer, “Beautiful Children” by Charles Bock, or anything by Las Vegas ex-pat Tod Goldberg. And then there’s Vu Tran, winner of the prestigious Whiting Award and possibly the future of Vegas lit (no pressure or anything, Vu).  Don’t believe me? Get your hands on CityLife’s first book, “Restless City,” and prepare to be impressed by Tran’s wrap-up chapter.  I’m looking forward to the novel he’s working on.

If Moss is running around making outrageous statements because he thinks it’s a good marketing tactic, I understand. I’m a marketer myself. But if he truly believes he alone is the messiah of Las Vegas fiction, he’s been sampling too much of the Double Down’s famous ass juice.

I hope Moss vehemently disagrees and we start one of those literary feuds I’ve heard so much about.  It’s good for business.

My colleague, Megan Lane, is obsessed with business writer Seth Godin. Or, as we say at the office, she’s “ob-sethed.” Recently, she turned me on to one of Godin’s books, “The Dip.” After reading this short but powerful tome, I’m beginning to understand why Megan is so enamored of Godin’s brain (not a bad name for a sci-fi flick, by the way).

Godin is an original thinker and a contrarian, a combination not much in evidence these days. In “The Dip,” he sets one of our culture’s most-treasured maxims on its ear:

“Winners never quit and quitters never win. – Attributed to Vince Lombardi (and my Mom)

“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence.” – Calvin Coolidge

“Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.” –Jim Valvano

I’m sure there are hundreds more, but you get the idea.

The subtitle of “The Dip” spells out Godin’s different-drummer premise: “A Little Book That Teaches You When to Quit and When to Stick.”

Sounds simple enough. But as with most things, “Easier said than done.” – The Essex (# 1 Billboard Hot 100, 1963)

According to Godin, quitting can sometimes be the smartest strategic move. You just have to know when. The key is to understand “The Dip,” which he describes as “the long slog between starting and mastery.”

So how do you know when it’s time to throw in the towel? When you determine you can’t be “the best in the world.”

I know what you’re thinking (because I thought it too). There can only be one best in the world. Does that mean we should all give up right now and crawl back under the covers until 2012 (the end of the world as we know it, or so say the Mayans). As appealing as that sounds, the answer is a resounding “no.”

Because here’s the good part. We get to define our own world. Of course, not everyone can be Eric Clapton or LeBron James or Meryl Streep (arguably the best in the world in their respective fields). But you can decide to be the best in your home town, your market niche or your own family. It’s up to you. And that’s quite empowering in my book.

Speaking of books, this is a positive message for those of us who write for a living. Way back when I thought I wanted to be a stand-up comedian (before I actually tried it and hated it), I had a hard time watching professional comics. Some of them we so good, they left me depressed. I’ve had similar feelings when reading truly great authors, knowing I’ll never reach that level. But I’m okay with that now. I’ve narrowed my world to “me.” (I know, it sounds really self-absorbed. Tough shit.) My goal is to be the best writer I’m capable of becoming. (Cue the Army theme song.) And if I can establish a reputation as the best author of quirky insider Vegas stuff in the process, that’s a nice bonus. But not absolutely necessary.

In the meantime, if you think working harder will save your career in the typewriter industry or the VCR factory (or even the traditional publishing biz), check out “The Dip.” Or just read the writing on the wall.

I’ve noticed that novice (and sometimes not-so-novice) writers spend an inordinate amount of time and energy explaining the story’s theme or moral. In the writing biz, this is known as “on the nose.” It’s not a compliment.

Sometimes it involves the writer explaining the same thing a dozen different ways. (Note: More is not a good thing. Pick one and go with it.) Other times, the writer will give one of the main characters a speech or will create a scene that points to the message with a metaphorical flashing neon sign. (In other words, he will make it overly-obvious. What I mean to say is, the writer wants to make sure we get it. Are you following me? Is this pissing you off? Good.)

A couple of things are going on here. The writer doesn’t trust her own ability. And she doesn’t trust the audience. By underestimating the audience’s intelligence, she’s actually taking away the joy of discovery that makes reading or viewing so compelling. Think of your own experiences. Don’t you enjoy trying to stay one step ahead of the story? It makes you feel smart and involved. Sometimes we like to be taken by surprise (ala the “Sixth Sense,” in which five hundred of us let out a big gasp all at once) and other times it’s fun to figure things out first (ala every “Scooby-Doo” mystery ever written. My eight-year-old grandson explained to me that it’s all about the mask). Either way, we become part of the process of creation. (Makes me feel rather God-like just writing that.)

One of the reasons I detested the “Last Samurai” (besides my wife schlepping me to see another stinking Tom Cruise movie), was how often the writer used flashbacks to show us why Tom’s character was such a tortured soul. I got it the first time. Honest. And I’m not the sharpest butt in the seat.

So give your audience some credit. Maybe even leave things a little ambiguous. Not to the point where your story dumps them in an emotionally-unsatisfying abyss. But let them draw a conclusion or two. In other words…oh, never mind.

Back in 1999, when I first started my fiction-writing adventure, a wise person told me, “A bad agent is worse than no agent.” What he failed to mention is that most agents are bad agents. In fact, it’s a redundant phrase. 

Agents are like insurance companies. They only want you if you don’t need them. They’re masters at plucking low-hanging fruit; after all, why should they have to do any actual work?

As you delve into the thousand-plus pages of “Writer’s Market,” you’ll see that most big publishers won’t talk directly to an “unagented” author. I get that. Agents serve as quality control screeners to protect acquisition editors from the 99% of manuscripts that qualify as schlock. Certainly there are good agents who perform this function admirably. I just haven’t run into too many of them.

My first agent was located in Southern California. I was thrilled that anyone in the business believed my manuscript was worthy of publication. She pursued me like a lover, sending flattering e-mails and leaving cute voicemail messages day and night. It all changed the minute I signed the agreement. That’s when she told me I needed to rewrite my manuscript. Not a little renovation, mind you, but a complete overhaul. And, of course, she was going to roll up her sleeves and help me do it. Lesson number one: Many agents are frustrated writers. She and I couldn’t part ways fast enough.

I also learned that an agent needs to be in New York, the hub of the publishing universe. Not surprisingly, deals get done over drinks and meals. It’s a relationship business; access is key. My second agent was indeed a bona fide New Yorker, one of those fast-talking sharpies right out of central casting. He convinced me he already had a deal lined up – all I had to do was sign on the dotted line. Three weeks later, when the deal failed to materialize, he fired me (in a form letter, no less). Lesson number two: Many agents will bail at the first sign of difficulty. It’s a numbers game to them and they’re always looking for greener pastures. I’ve heard similar stories from dozens of writers (some involving the same guy).

My third agent promised the moon and delivered nothing but invoices for copies, faxes and long distance phone calls (marked up the wazoo). She even tried to put me on a retainer, at which point I headed for the hills. Remember, any legit agent works solely on commish (although they are entitled to reimbursement for approved expenses).

I’ve got other stories, but you get the idea. I’m interested in hearing yours. Feel free to vent. It feels so good. 

Another talented writer friend, Christine McKellar, has reached an unfortunate but understandable crossroads as she heads into the new year. She has given me permission to repost her blog here. I'm sure her words will resonate with anyone fighting that uphill battle to build a career as a fiction writer. I applaud her honesty and hope that her decision will turn out to be a hiatus, not a final destination.

Five years ago I began a new career. Last night I ended it. The result of my five-year career is three published fiction novels (a fourth is half complete), a short crime story, a short science fiction story, no profit whatsoever, and a tremendous amount of money down the drain. When I received yet another invoice from the printing company last night that I had sold over two-hundred-fifty-dollars in books yet my compensation was twenty-one dollars and some change, I threw in the towel and cancelled my contract. My suspense fiction novel, The Devil’s Valet, is no longer available online or in book stores. 

Along with countless other authors, with each of my three novels, I emailed and snail-mailed literally hundreds of literary agents with queries, synopsis and bios. Take The Devil’s Valet for example: I got probably a one percent hit. The majority of agents wanted exclusive rights to simply review either the first three chapters or the manuscript. This translates into having your manuscript put into limbo for six months to a year (all agents moan about the massive amount of submissions they get on a weekly basis). One San Diego agent held onto The Devil’s Valet for NINE MONTHS before rejecting it. That was it for me at the time. Being your typical Aries, I had my manuscript published within a month. I published it. I created my own publishing company, Philia Publishing. At the May 2009 launch at Borders, I sold all but three of forty copies of The Devil’s Valet.  

Although Nora Roberts once told me personally never to write to trend, I had certain agents along the way who admired my work but had their own advice. I was guaranteed to be on the bestseller list within a year with my first novel, A Port of No Return, if I would make my protagonist, Quinn Carrigan, a lesbian. 2006 was a hot year for gay and lesbian rights and outings. The problem is, Quinn simply is not a lesbian. She’s survived shark-infested waters, taboo love, hurricanes and drug smuggling. She is what she was from the beginning and there is no way I or anyone else is going to change her. The critics hailed this debut novel as “a sexy, thrilling ride.” The second novel in the series, The Shadows of the Sea, received an equally  favorable review.  

Timing has a lot to do with everything, and two years ago when I finished The Devil’s Valet, vampires and werewolves became the rage. Even armed with this Kirkus review, “McKellar has created a strong, empathetic heroine, and she renders the world she moves in in convincing detail. Worthy of a Lifetime movie,” The Devil’s Valet was doomed, it appears, from the get go. I wrote press releases. I scheduled book events, printed hundred-dollar posters, book marks, business cards and other collateral material. I invested in a website and blog. I literally went into debt with my novels. I refinanced my house to support my “craft.” The bottom line is I have made a tidy sum for two publishing houses and one print house.  

I must concur with a fellow author who wrote, “Unless I was a brand name, 99% of publishers/agents would never give me the time of day.” Case in point, my former-niece-by-marriage, Danica McKellar, starred as Winnie along with Fred Savage in the fabulously popular 1988 sitcom, Wonder Years. She’s published several books on math for young readers. Not to detract from Danica, who I know personally to be a talented, brilliant and creative woman, I have no doubt publishers saw how marketable her film resume made her. I haven’t read the books, but I believe the critics and I commend the niche in which she chose to express even more of her talent.  

Writing, to me, isn’t at all about “the money.” I couldn't care less about fame—I actually wish to avoid that. It’s about “the look” in readers’ eyes. I’ve been blessed countless times since publishing my first book with seeing that look. And equally with hearing, “I was up so late last night because I couldn’t put your book down!”  I’ve had moments at my keyboard where the hair on my arms and even my head stood up as a plot took off. I’ve paced my back patio in a total frenzy, talking to myself or scolding my characters. I’ve cried real tears over a plot twist in The Shadows of the Sea. The imagination is a living thing and it cannot be stifled. Like a shark, if I don’t write, then the imagination and I, too, shall die.  

Yet, authors must eat and pay mortgages. And, there is something diminishing about working your ass off seven days a week, day in and day out, and not receiving any compensation. No one in their right mind would put in the magnitude of hours of solitude, of research, of proofreading, of editing that a writer does without any expectation of return. One can’t eat accolades. One can’t survive on less than ten percent return. Therefore, I’ve turned my eyes, my mind and my talent to nonfiction writing. To a world where at least I get paid by the word: those words that so command me, and that I love so much. 



A couple weeks ago, my wife and I saw the “Blind Side,” the football biopic starring Sandra Bullock. The film has a couple of things going for it. It’s based on a true story and, while this in and of itself doesn’t make a movie or book interesting, the events are so improbable that they force you to stay engaged. The journey of left tackle Michael Oher from society castoff to NFL draft pick is compelling enough to keep the film’s creative team from dropping the ball (so to speak).

The movie also boasts a winning performance from Bullock, something I never thought I’d write. For me, she’s always been a one-note actress. If you’re a casting director looking for perky, she’s your gal. (Especially now that Meg Ryan resembles the Joker and can’t move her mouth.) Bullock brings a grit and reality to her role of the well-to-do southern family matriarch inexplicably drawn to Oher and his plight. At times, I forgot I was watching an A-lister. (Stay for the closing credits, by the way, when you’ll see how closely the actors match their real-life counterparts.) She might actually make that leap from leading lady to character actress, something most stars find impossible.

As a writer, part of me maintained an awareness of how emotionally-manipulative the film became. But at some point, if you’re going to have a satisfying experience, you just have to make a conscious decision to go with it. That’s part of the “willing suspension of disbelief” we hear so much about. My wife and I both left the theater feeling uplifted, which means the movie did its job. Even better, I got to watch the real Oher play later that evening on TV with a newfound appreciation of his accomplishments.

Contrast this with “Up in the Air,” the latest George Clooney film. I admire Clooney. Like Johnny Depp, he could easily make ten million or more a film and phone in his roles. Instead, in between his “Ocean’s” walk-throughs, he chooses interesting, meaningful material – “Good Night and Good Luck,” “Syriana,” “Michael Clayton,” and “Brother Where Art Thou” come to mind – that probably would never get produced without his star power. “Up in the Air” is that kind of film, a major studio flick with an indie feel. The dialogue alone is worth the price of admission; it crackles with authenticity and ideas. Then there’s the chemistry between Clooney and his two female costars, which never falters.

 But the movie has more on its mind. The script is as contemporary as today’s headlines, delving into the psyche of a man who shuns all connections while making his living as a corporate headhunter in reverse. You think you’d detest a character like that but you’d be wrong. The writers pull off a delicate balancing act, letting you root for the man while hating what he does. Watching his character slowly change his long-held sensibilities is a master course in understatement, especially when the tables begin to turn. Without giving too much away, the script stays true to itself from start to finish, never settling for those typical Hollywood feel-good moments. What we’re left with is a man who spends so much time avoiding getting locked in, he ultimately finds himself locked out. From a writing standpoint, the ending is every bit as satisfying as the “Blind Side,” albeit for different reasons. One film works because of the inspiration of its source material. The other works because it reveals larger truths.    

In a previous post, I talked about the disadvantages of POD (print on demand) publishing. To summarize: 

            Inferior product

            Loss of control/rights

            Miniscule royalties

So, if traditional publishing is the longest of shots and POD is a bad deal, what’s left? For me, the choice was relatively easy. I started my own publishing company, Hardway Press. (I like the name because of the Las Vegas dice connection – as in “four the hardway” – and also because it symbolizes all the work that goes into producing a high-quality book.)

Ever since the advent of competitively-priced short run digital printing, there’s almost nothing I can’t do on my own. I get to hire the graphic artist, the interior layout person, the editor and the printer. For a control freak like me, that’s a dream come true. And the proof is in the product. I believe my books compare favorably to anything coming out of the big publishing houses.

While it’s true that the upfront costs are higher than POD (roughly $6,000 out-the-door for the first 1,000 copies), I make up for it quickly by retaining half the retail price. And I get to keep all rights, should Hollywood come a-knocking. (Actually, they’ve knocked a couple of times but never stayed for dinner.)

I can hear you asking, “What about distribution?” It’s true that small indie presses don’t get the major chain store coverage the big guys do. But that’s not as important as it used to be. For one thing, traditional publishing is a consignment business. That means retailers like Barnes & Noble can ship back your books anytime they want to. You have about 90 days to prove you can move product, almost impossible without an extensive (and expensive) book tour. Then, when you get those books back – slightly used, no less – what the heck do you do with them?

Here’s a statistic you might find heartening: more than half of all book sales take place out of stores. In other words, retailers are becoming less relevant. (Just ask Borders, which has one foot on the banana peel.) That’s certainly true in my case. Most of my sales have come from the Internet, personal appearances and special promotions.

Alternative distribution channels are becoming less alternative all the time. My favorite story involves Robert Kiyosaki, who self-published the original “Rich Dad, Poor Dad.” As sales languished, a friend took pity on him and offered to feature the book in the boutique area of his car wash. Not exactly primo book-selling territory (competing with those little smelly pine tree air fresheners). But it proved to be just the exposure he needed. Nine zillion sales later (give or take), the book has become legendary (offering solace to those of us trying to crack our first zillion).

Self-publishing isn’t for everyone. It’s a tremendous amount of work. But it does offer a logical alternative. And there’s a certain kind of magic in getting your work out there. Until you do, one thing’s for sure. Nothing’s gonna happen.

I read an article a few years ago that went something like this:

If you woke up this morning with a roof over your head and you were able to walk to the kitchen and make breakfast, then get in your car and drive to work, you're better off than 95% of the world.

That's good to keep in mind as we finish up this challenging year. Like most of us, I'm happy to see 2009 in the rear view mirror. But I'm also heartened (and maybe a little surprised) to find myself still standing with my life and business largely intact. Sort of like Vin Scully describing the Dodgers as "bloody but unbowed."

When our younger daughter was little, she had a life-threatening illness. (She's fine now.) In our family, we all agree that it was a terrible time, one we hope to never go through again. But in a strange way, it also made us stronger and brought us closer together. This year reminds me of that to a certain extent. I hope we all remember its lessons as we head into the new decade with what I like to call "realistic optimism." To paraphrase the Hyundai campaign (possibly my favorite TV commercials of all time), "We're all in this together and we're getting through this together."

During this holiday season and beyond, I wish you all health, happiness, success and the love of family and friends. (And a good night's sleep wouldn't hurt, either.)

Some of my previous blogs have taken a jaundiced view of the traditional publishing model. And rightly so. But that doesn't mean self-publishing is the magic bullet. I met a nice woman last week who published her historical novel through one of those print-on-demand services. In talking to her, I believe she got a raw deal.

Part of the appeal of POD is the low up-front cost. The only item she had to pay for was editing. Sounds like a great arrangement, right? Not so fast. The book is a hard cover that retails for $31.95 plus shipping. That's a hefty price tag for an unknown author; definitely not an impulse buy. In today's economy, I'm sure potential readers are reluctant to part with that kind of money, especially when they can purchase a "name brand" author for $19.95 or less.

Worse still, she has to pay half price for every book. That's a big problem. One of the best ways to market a new book is by giving away free copies to anyone in a position to spread the word:  reviewers, book club moderators, journalists, opinion leaders, the checker at the supermarket who talks to everyone. It's a tried and true way to prime the pump. I've personally handed out hundreds of free copies of "Dice Angel" and "Money Shot." To me, it's just part of the cost of marketing. But had I paid $16.00 apiece, I'd need some pretty deep pockets to pursue that strategy.

Here's the real kicker: She doesn't own the rights to her own material. Which means she can't even offer free excerpts on her own website. Her marketing opportunities are truly limited. The only one making a dime off this arrangement is the publisher and that's probably all they're making. A dime. I hope she can sell enough books to buy back the rights at some point, assuming that's even an option.

I post this as a cautionary tale. Look into all the pluses and minuses of self-publishing before diving in. There are other models to consider, which I'll discuss in my next post.

I just watched the original "Star Wars" with my eight-year-old grandson. By original, I mean the one with Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia and Han Solo. It's been years since I've seen the whole thing, and it reminded me why I liked it so much in the first place (and why the new series left such a bad taste in my mouth.)

I remember sitting with my friends in the balcony of Grauman's Chinese Theater in 1977 as the opening crawl rolled across the screen (telling us about a galaxy "far, far away"). When the massive Star Destroyer made its first appearance, the audience burst into spontaneous applause. For those of us raised on the cheesy sci-fi films of the 50s and 60s (the ones where you could see the string holding up the flying saucer), we'd never experienced anything like it.

The film only got better from there, deftly blending all the fun of my favorite comic books with everything the latest technical imagery had to offer. It featured classic good guys and bad guys, universal themes and epic battles, with no less than the fate of entire planetary systems hanging in the balance. The nicest surprise was the chemistry between the then largely-unknown cast. I had never heard of Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher or Harrison Ford. (I had seen Ford as Bob Falfa, the drag-racing cowboy in "American Graffiti," but didn't make the connection at the time). I'm sure I wore a goofy grin on my face from start to finish.

Fast forward 25 years to the eagerly-awaited new trilogy, everything the first installments were not: Heavy on dialogue, short on action, no chemistry between the well-known but wooden actors. And zero fun. I subjected myself to all three, hoping against hope that Lucas would be able to recapture the old magic. But the dead space between the few sparkling set pieces was like wandering through the Tatooine desert with no water. The only way I've been able to deal with the disappointment is to pretend these movies don't exist.

So what went wrong? My guess is that George Lucas got older and more serious. Whether consciously or unconsciously, he decided that entertainment needed to take a back seat to "message." That's a formula for failure. And although the digital imagery vastly outpaced the original special effects, it couldn't come close to carrying the added weight.

I'm frequently amazed by the creative output of young people and how it tends to deteriorate over time. Lucas's best work was "a long time ago." John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote their greatest songs before they hit 30. As much as I admire Sir Paul, he's been essentially coasting since Wings. "Let 'Em In" might be the most insipid hit song ever. (My personal theory is that he wrote it on a napkin as a bar bet with some of his Liverpool mates.) The artists who've managed to stay relevant across their entire careers is a small list indeed. In music, I can only think of Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and John Prine. And the Stones, maybe. (At least they can still kick ass. Is it possible heroin really is good for you?) I'm sure there are others, but I can't think of them at the moment. Please feel free to weigh in.

In movies, I'm thinking Scorsese and Goldman (director and writer, respectively). Again, I'm positive there are plenty of others but I'm drawing a blank. In comedy, my list begins and ends with Carlin, bitter and hilarious to the end.

Personally, I might be an exception to the rule. In my humble opinion, the stuff I've written as a middle-aged man is much better than my production as a "kid." My life experiences have surely helped. My writer friend Bob has a theory that quality work has less to do with age and more to do with a finite period of time. He says the average person has ten good years of productivity. If that's the case, I've got a couple of years left.

My friend from Tennessee, Gretchen Smith, is the best unpublished author I know. She writes Southern gambling fiction with wit and insight and her characters jump off the pages. My last blog hit a nerve because she responded with this "love letter" to the traditional publishing industry. She expresses her feelings better than I ever could. I'm sure many of us feel her pain. I deleted a couple of F-bombs for the benefit of our younger readers; feel free to insert them anywhere you choose. Enjoy:

Here's my comment: Publishing sucks. And on that note, I read an AOL thingy the other day about movie critics. There were two movies, but I only remember one, the "Twilight" one, that the critics tore to pieces across the board. Nothing whatsoever good to say; in fact, they ripped both of these movies in question completely apart down to the foley guy. (That's so funny in the credits, the foley guy. What the hell is a foley guy?) One of the horrible movies in question grossed 100 million the first weekend and the other maybe, I don't remember, 80.

The author's point was-- these people have NO idea what they're talking about, we don't care what they like or don't, and we don't listen to a freaking word they say. Who made them boss? THAT'S what's wrong with publishing! The wrong people are the bosses! The WRONG people are allowed to pick what we read. It's all the wrong work for all the wrong reasons.

Is publishing such a dying art? Brian, I still crack open a new book and (seriously) smell the ink and the paper. I will always love books, but I feel so alone; that there's no hope whatsoever that things will change? We don't have the platform that movies do, other than self-pub, which doesn't come with a big screen. Why does Oprah get to choose what we read? She's so morbid. I've never been so glad to hear someone was retiring in my LIFE. Agents and publishers are so out of touch with what we want to read and it's spiraling, spiraling, spiraling down the drain. Make that a sewer drain.

I can barely look at the bestseller lists. Danielle Steele. Garbage. James Patterson. Garbage. Sandra Brown. Garbage. Jodi Pucollt. Garbage. And here I sit in the middle of what I complain about. My agent had me, through two rewrites, anestheticize my manuscript all the way to the color beige, and for one reason-- that's her job. To take beige to the publishers so they can put beige on the shelves. And then you get into the "It's too beige" and "It's the wrong shade of beige." Publishing sucks. Agents and editors, with their eye on the bottom line only, need to get the hell out of the way. The vicious cycle of agent-editor choosing what we read is the very thing that's run publishing into the ground.

A couple years ago, I heard author Mitch Albom speak as part of the annual One Book Henderson event, in which our entire community is encouraged to read and discuss one book, in this case, “The Five People you Meet in Heaven.” 

Albom, who still works as a sports columnist for the “Detroit Free Press,” is one of the best-selling authors of all time. His memoir, “Tuesdays with Morrie,” has sold more than 14 million copies and was made into a movie starring the late Jack Lemon.

During his presentation, Albom walked us through his remarkable writing journey. After completing the touching, life-affirming manuscript for “Morrie,” Albom’s agent shopped it around to all the major publishing houses. All of them told him essentially the same thing: “Albom is known as a sports writer. This book has very limited potential.”

That was pigeonhole number one. Eventually, Random House decided to take a chance and produced a relatively modest first-run of 20,000 copies. After a brief guest spot on “Oprah,” the book really took off, spending years atop the “New York Times” bestseller list.

Encouraged, Albom decided to try his hand at fiction. At this point, you’d think he’d be able to write his own ticket. You’d be wrong. The same publishers told him, “You’re known as a nonfiction writer. This book has very limited potential.”

Pigeonhole number two. Even with an enviable track record, Albom couldn’t break out of the box the traditional publishers wanted to stuff him in. The manuscript for “Heaven” finally found a home at Hyperion and went on to sell more than 10 million copies.

The moral of the story? Even for successful authors like Mitch Albom, publishing is a rigged game. What hope is there for the rest of us?

Fortunately, plenty. Big publishing is a dying industry. In the “old days,” (ten years ago), distribution was their ace-in-the-hole. You needed them to get onto the bookstore shelves. Today, more than half of all book sales take place outside of stores. I’ve sold the bulk of my books via the Internet, personal appearances and through special promotions (hooking up with marketing partners with similar target audiences).

This should be heartening news for any writer with a decent product and the will to tirelessly promote it. Society is experiencing a similar paradigm shift in all areas of creative endeavor: music, movies, magazines, etc. Emerging artists are using new channels to go directly to the public. Older artists are buying back their intellectual property rights and doing the same thing. To me, this represents unlimited opportunity. That sound you hear is the death knell of  publishing as we know it.

Good riddance. As they say in those late night infomercials, “We’ve eliminated the middleman and passed the savings on to you.” Sounds like a good idea to me.

Or, to paraphrase the great John Lennon, “Power to the people. Write on.”

Recently, the Indie Reader website asked me to post an article describing my journey as an independent publisher. Here's what I sent them:

Although I’ve written advertising and marketing materials my entire professional life, I didn’t start writing fiction until my mid-forties. I joked that it was how I handled my midlife crisis: safer than a Harley and cheaper than a divorce. I found it much more personally satisfying than creating a brochure or radio commercial.

As a long-time Las Vegas local, I wanted to write books that accurately depicted an insider’s view of our town in all its quirkiness, told with a dash of humor. The idea for my fist novel, “Dice Angel,” came from a classified ad in the back of one of our alternative weekly newspapers. “Call Julie,” it said. “I will bring you luck at dice.” Typical Vegas, I thought. Soon, I was off and running.

My first goal was modest – Just see if I could finish a manuscript. I had never written anything longer than a 20-page report in college and the idea of an 80,000 word novel seemed daunting. I carved out writing time in the early morning hours, chipping away Monday through Saturday, sometimes working up a full head of steam but just as often grinding out the words. After eight months (I’m slow) I completed my first draft.

My next step was to rewrite and polish until I felt comfortable sending the material to an editor. (Kind of like cleaning the house before the maids drop by.) I was fortunate to find an outstanding editor who appreciated my offbeat approach and odd sensibilities. Good writing, I learned, is a collaborative affair. My editor was a stern taskmaster and forced me to step up my game.

With completed manuscript in hand, I embarked on an 18-month traditional publishing "adventure." First stop, “Writer’s Market,” to identify publishers willing to consider an “unagented” author. I sent out more than 60 packages, each one customized to suit the publisher’s individual requirements, and waited. And waited. Mostly, if I heard from the publishing houses at all, I received form rejection letters. A few acquisition editors sent hand-written notes. Some were encouraging; others basically told me to get out of the business

Over time, I got five bites I’d consider semi-legitimate. (I also heard from a couple of vanity presses that essentially wanted me to mortgage my house for a boxcar full of hard cover books.) Three of the houses wanted me to make major changes to my story, changes that would have made it unrecognizable. I stubbornly decided to take a pass. Another offered me a deal, and then rescinded it before I could sign on the bottom line. Something about a merger, if memory serves.

At the end of the 18 months, I had nothing to show for my efforts except a wealth of new experiences. Not a bad tradeoff but I felt time was not on my side. Fortunately, I ran into a fellow hawking his science fiction novel outside my bank one day and he told me all about self-publishing. This was back in 2001 when short-run printing and the Internet made it economically feasible for guys like me to test the waters. He gave me the names of all his connections. Within a couple of months, I had started my own small publishing company, Hardway Press (because I’m doing it the hard way).

I’ve been extremely pleased with my self-publishing journey. Through grass roots marketing (lots of personal appearances), the Web and special promotions with Las Vegas-related businesses, I’ve sold almost 35,000 copies of my novels “Dice Angel” and “Money Shot.” I’ve never worked harder (book promotion is like running for office, except there’s never an election), and most of the revenues get plowed back into books and marketing. But it’s opened up a whole new world of opportunities for me. And I’ve met a bunch of nice people, readers and other authors alike.

The books need to be as good as the ones coming out of traditional publishing houses. But if you can “hang,” as my kids say, it’s worth rolling up your sleeves and taking the plunge.

I've been involved in all eight Vegas Valley Book Festivals and this was by far the best. Large, energetic crowds, lots of families checking out the children's book fair, plenty of interesting panel discussions, a chance to catch up with old friends I only see once a year.

The highlights for me:

Indian author Indu Sundaresen reading a passage from "In the Convent of Little Flowers," her new collection of short stories, in a soft, lilting voice that left the audience mesmerized.

Participating in a panel discussion with H. Lee Barnes, Vu Tran, John L. Smith and the other authors of the Las Vegas serial mystery novel "Restless City," before a packed auditorium in the Historic Fifth Street School. Moderator Geoff Schumacher, who also served as editor of this inaugural project from CityLife Books, did an excellent job of keeping the conversation moving and fielding questions from the fully-engaged crowd (many in their 20s and 30s, a sign of optimism that the printed word may have a future after all). 

Afterwards, we all stuck around and signed each other's books, acting like the fans we truly are. Kudos to Stephens Press (CityLife's parent company) for publishing the book and for the outstanding cover design. I'm honored to have been a part of this project. Also, big props to Vu Tran, who did a masterful job of wrapping up the final chapter in an emotionally-satisfying way. I'm thankful I didn't have to bat cleanup.

John L. Smith and daughter Amelia speaking at the Clark County Library about her five-year battle with cancer, chronicled in their book, "Amelia's Long Journey." Amelia, now confined to a wheelchair, might be the bravest person I know. The love and support between father and daughter is palpable, and something that profoundly touched every member of the audience. It's an experience none of us will soon forget.

And speaking of unforgettable experiences, E. L. Doctorow, possibly the greatest living American writer, delivering a gentle, self-effacing and altogether riveting closing keynote address. Doctorow spent much of the time exploring the sense of discovery that is the most mytical part of the writing process, interspersed with humorous autobiographical stories that made the evening come alive.

One quick example: Doctorow's first novel, "Welcome to Hard Times," took place in the old west, even though he had never ventured beyond Ohio. After publication, one Texas reader took exception to a scene in which a character cooked up and ate a prairie dog haunch. 

"Young man," she wrote, "when you said Jenks enjoyed the roasted haunch of a praire dog, I knew you'd never been west of the Hudson. Because the haunch of a prairie dog wouldn't fill a teaspoon."

"She had me," Doctorow said with a sly grin. "I'd never seen a prairie dog. So I did the only thing I could do. I wrote back and said, 'That's true of prairie dogs today, but in the 1870's...'"

A big, appreciative laugh from the audience, one of many elicited by this master storyteller. A most fitting end to a wonderful five-day celebration of the written word.

It seems like not too long ago that I sat in an audience of more than 1,000 people at the Green Valley Ranch Station and listened to author Tom Robbins, looking cool and mysterious in his Wayfarer shades, as he valiantly tried to explain how he catches lightning in a bottle. He couldn't do it, of course. None of us can. I could tell that the woman who asked the question left feeling vaguely disappointed. The rest of us left energized and grateful for the opportunity to rub elbows with a true literary legend.

That was the first Vegas Valley Book Festival, an annual celebration of the written, spoken and illustrated word, that single-handedly demolishes the myth that Las Vegas lacks culture. In the ensuing years, the Festival has brought in such noted authors as John Irving, Walter Mosley, Chuck Palahniuk, Neil Gaiman and Michael Chabon. Now, eight years later, we're gearing up for the next one, which takes place this week from November 4 through November 8, and features Poet Laureate of the United States Kay Ryan, as well as E.L. Doctorow, one of America's most accomplished and acclaimed living writers. Most of the events will take place at downtown's historic Fifth Street School.

On Saturday at 11:15, I will be moderating a panel of three nationally-known authors who have been chosen as favorites by local Las Vegas book clubs. Then at 4:00, I'll join my fellow scribes for a discussion of our collaborative serial mystery novel, "Restless City," the signature project of this year's Festival. Among the panelists will be H. Lee Barnes, the newest member of the Nevada Writers Hall of Fame, and Vu Tran, a recent winner of the prestigious (and lucrative) Whiting Award for "exceptional talent and promise in early career. "

Please stop by if you have a chance. I always look forward to getting caught up with old friends and maybe even making a few new ones.

I haven't taken many formal writing courses. (This may come as no surprise to people who don't like my stuff.) As a journalism minor in college, I learned how to write concisely and get to the point fast. I also enrolled in a few extension screenwriting classes and a comedy writing class. That's about it.

Over the years, I've joined a number of writer's groups but dropped them just as fast. I didn't find the feedback valuable. Most of it seemed arbitrary and not well thought-out. Maybe I don't take criticism well.

Part of my informal writing education comes from attending author presentations. Through the Vegas Valley Book Festival, One Book Henderson, and the Clark County Library District, I've seen Tom Robbins, Chuck Palahniuk, Walter Mosley, Michael Chabon, Mitch Albom and Dave Barry, among others. I've picked up kernels of brilliance from all of them. Palahniuk tries to avoid passive verbs at all costs, Mosley writes every day (even on vacation) and Barry's favorite word is "booger." You're just not gonna get that kind of information in a traditional writing class.

The rest of my writing education, such as it is, comes from books on writing. Like most authors, I have my favorites. Some, like "Bird by Bird" by Anne LaMott and "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg, are more philosophical essays than how-to manuals. Others, such as Christopher Vogler's "The Writer's Journey," deal with archetypal characters and stories. For nuts and bolts, I haven't found anything better than "Fiction Writing Demystified" by Thomas Sawyer. Stephen King's "On Writing" is revealing, not so much from a writing perspective, but because it's the closest you'll come to an actual King autobiography. Plus, he tells you the best way to become a good writer is to be an avid reader. I second that motion. You can learn a lot by reading great authors. And you can learn a lot more by reading hack authors. (By the way, try not to get depressed when you read something by a brilliant writer. The goal is not to emulate his or her style, but to understand why it's brilliant.)

I also highly recommend "Seven Steps on the Writer's Path" by Nancy Pickard and Lynn Lott. The path is cyclical and no matter where you are at any given time, the authors explain how to deal with it. It's an essential roadmap, especially if you're feeling unmotivated or just plain stuck.

On the screenwriting side, the two bibles are "Screenplay" by Syd Fields, and "Story" by Robert McKee (played with a nod and wink by Brian Cox in the movie "Adaptation"). McKee is a little too structured for my taste, but as someone once said, "You have to know the rules to break the rules." Another excellent book on screenwriting is "Adventures in the Screen Trade" by William Goldman ("Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Marathon Man," "The Princess Bride"), featuring my favorite quote of all time: "Nobody knows anything."

Finally, there's Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way." Cameron's "morning pages," sort of a free form writing meditation, are a sure-fire way to tap into your subconscious. 

These are the books that have helped me. If you've got others to add to the list, please drop me a line. I'll be happy to mention them in future posts.

When I allow myself to dream about my ideal life, I envision a funky two-story house on the beach, an upstairs book-lined office and a large picture window. I get up every morning and go for a run (okay, more like a slow jog) with my dog (I’m between dogs at the moment, but I’m sure it will be some kind of retriever), stumble home, enjoy a nice breakfast with my wife, then settle in for three to four hours of writing before knocking off for good just before noon. I can support this lifestyle because I’m a fabulously-successful author and the royalty checks keep piling up in the mailbox. The money’s nice, of course, but mainly it lets me do what I want to do. 

My real life, although not bad, comes nowhere close to approaching this flight of fantasy. When I published my first Las Vegas novel, “Dice Angel,” in 2002, my advertising career was winding down (or so I thought) and I threw myself into book promotion full-time. For more than 18 months, I did it all:  book store signings, appearances at libraries and reading groups and book fairs, web forums, radio and TV interviews, basically anything to increase my visibility and help me build my new career. All the while, I worked on my second novel, “Money Shot.” Don’t ask me when I slept. (According to some reviewers, it happened while I wrote.)

I also found myself seduced by the siren call of the movies, making quite a few trips to L.A. for meetings with producers and other show biz-types who showed an interest in “Dice Angel.” Until I discovered that Hollywood makes Las Vegas seem like a bastion of honesty and sensibility, I rode the emotional roller coaster of “notes” and endless rewrites, all on the if-come. Ultimately, my screenplay adaptation of “Dice Angel” won the 2004 Nevada Screenwriters Competition, but nothing ever came of it. I did learn some valuable lessons, though. Primarily, not to get my hopes up until the check clears.

When “Money Shot” came out in 2004, I did it all over again. Meanwhile, an opportunity fell in my lap to merge my small ad agency with the up-and-coming Imagine Marketing, something too good to pass up. So I jumped back into the ad game with both feet, while still trying to carve out time to write. Although I consider myself a moderately successful novelist (I’ve sold around 35,000 copies and have developed a small but enthusiastic cult following), it was never enough to maintain a lifestyle that included eating. I must admit that I’m jealous of authors who’ve been able to make the leap to full-time. I don’t begrudge them their success; I would simply like to join their ranks at some point.  

My output since 2005 has been, shall we say, inconsistent. A couple of other screenplays, one-third of a novel, a few dozen freelance articles in local publications and websites, three short stories, and a chapter in a collaborative serial novel called “Restless City” (even though it’s only 5,000 words, I think it’s some of my best work). And, of course, this blog.

This is all by way of explanation to alert readers (as Dave Barry likes to call them) who ask, “When is your next book coming out?” I appreciate the question because it shows they still care. But the short answer is, “I don’t know.” I’m plugging away. I have at least three books I need to write before I die. My current manuscript mocks me every day I don’t have a chance to work on it.

I hope this doesn’t come off as whining. Life ain’t bad. I have much to be grateful for. I just wouldn’t mind being even more grateful at the beach.

In keeping with my recent predilection for end-of-the-world stories, I visited "Zombieland" Friday night. It was a fun trip, the best time I've had at the movies this year (although "Star Trek" and "Inglourious Basterds" would give it a run for its money).

The movie stars Jesse Eisenberg (who could be Michael Cera's brother) as Columbus (all of the characters go by the names of their hometowns), an obsessive compulsive loaner whose lack of family connections and adherence to 30-plus rules ("Cardio" to outrun the undead; "Double Tap," two shots to the head to make sure the suckers stay down; and "Beware of Bathrooms," sort of self-explanatory in terms of vulnerability) have made him an unlikely survivor. Despite his better judgment, he joins forces with Tallahassee, played with gusto by Woody Harrelson, a none-too-bright muscle-bound redneck with a chip on his shoulder and a flair for dispatching zombies in creative ways.

On the road, they hook up with two con-artist sisters, appealingly played by Emma Stone ("Superbad") and Abigail Breslin ("Little Miss Sunshine"). Eventually, after coming to terms with some major trust issues, the foursome decides to embark on a harrowing cross-country trek to Pacific Playland, a California amusement park rumored to be a zombie-free zone.

These are not your father's (or even George Romero's) zombies. Fast on their feet and perpetually pissed off, they are cut more from the "28 Days Later" cloth, although with a higher incidence of digestive problems. No aimless shuffling for these creatures. They know what they want and how to get it.

"Zombieland" features some of the funniest one-liners in recent memory. It's fast, smart, and surprising (I won't give away the hilarious mid-film cameo appearance by one of my favorite actors), with more than its share of genuine jump-out-of-your-seat moments. It's not easy to make people laugh and scare the crap out of them at the same time. "Zombieland" pulls this balancing act off nicely. You care about the characters and hope they can somehow become the "family" they're meant to be. The movie deserves to take its place in the zombie pantheon of "Shawn of the Dead" and the original "Living Dead" trilogy.

My advice: Run (don't shamble or shuffle) to "Zombieland." Or as Tallahassee would say, "Time to nut up or shut up."

Lately, I've been drawn to end-of-the-world stories. "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy and "Swan Song" by Robert McCammen are the most recent entries. "The Road" is the more literary of the two; spare, poetic, unrelenting.  It stayed with me long after I finished the last page. "Swan Song" is typical McCammen (a good thing), almost 1,000 pages of gothic horror, kids with magical abilities, and some seriously twisted bad guys. It's somewhat derivative of King's "The Stand," in terms of the epic battle of good vs. evil, but it certainly packs its own wallop. (I read "The Stand" more than 30 years ago when I was stuck at home with the flu. I'm sure my 102 degree fever greatly enhanced my reading experience.)

In a similar vein, I'm very much looking forward to the new flick, "Zombieland" with Woody Harrelson. I haven't read a single review (and won't, because I want to be surprised), but the previews look hysterical and I've never seen a zombie film without some redeeming value. I hear the novel "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" is a lot of fun, too, but it may be too highbrow for me. I'll let you know.

I was also transfixed by a program on the History or Discovery or SyFy Channel (they're all a blur in my mind) about the Mayan predictions for the end of the world in 2012. My personal theory is that they simply ran out of ink (or patience). That, however, won't sustain a 2-hour show. I've heard quite a few end times scenarios in my life, so I'm not taking this too seriously. Still, I may stock up on a few extra cans of tuna to get over those first few wobbly days when the earth shifts its axis. (I'll worry about mercury poisoning at a later date.)

So, what's up with this fascination with death and destruction? I think it has something to do with the rough economic times we're muddling through. For one thing, a little recesssion doesn't seem so bad when you're staring a nuclear holocaust or flesh-eating virus in the face. For another, misery loves company, especially when the company is even more miserable than us. Our heroes in these books and movies are in much worse shape than you and me. It's kind of like going to group therapy and thinking," Hey, I'm the most normal guy in the room."

We went through something similar in the 50s, when all the World War III and Joe McCarthy anxiety led to classic cheeseball movies about giant critters running amok. It also inspired some very good films like the original "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." With the film version of "The Road" on tap, we may be heading for a similar renaissance. If we live to tell about it.

People continue to send me manuscripts. (My wife accuses me of being too nice a guy. She says I need to practice looking and sounding meaner.)

Typically, curiosity gets the better of me and I'll read anywhere from one to fifty pages. Every now and then, I'll get a good one and I'll read the whole darned thing. (I think this has happened five times.) Most are bad beyond belief. Pedestrian language, stilted dialogue, uneven tone, unrealistic plot developments. Still, I feel obligated to respond with some kind of constructive comment, even if it's just, "Keep writing." I figure it keeps them off the streets (where they could be really dangerous).

Upon hearing even a hint of negativity, many writers reply, "But it's based on a true story." As if that makes everything okay. Here's what I've decided: Truth, in and of itself, is not inherently interesting. I could tell you all about my day today and it would put you to sleep in less than a minute. Hitchcock (or possibly Mencken) said that art is "life with the boring parts taken out." The manuscripts I'm referring to leave the boring parts in.

I'm not saying that true stories can't be the basis for some really good fiction. Many of my characters and situations are based on real people (or composites of real people) and things that happened to me or someone I know. Jimmy Delaney, our hero in "Dice Angel," is actually Johnny McGinty, a good friend who owns a bar and grill in Henderson. Pete, the homeless guy, started out as a real homeless guy who gave me a stock tip. (He claimed to be an ex-broker before his life went horribly wrong. I promptly ignored his advice and watched his recommended stock go from three to eighty and split twice. I'm still kicking myself.) The idea for the "Dice Angel" herself came from a classified ad in the back of our alternative weekly, "City Life." And practically everyone in "Money Shot" is patterned on people I know, including friends and family. But I still had to leave out the boring parts (and embellish the hell out of the rest).

In real life, I'm in the advertising business. Gurus in our profession learned long ago that consumers will read a long ad or direct mail letter if the material interests them. As you know from my previous blog, I'm a fantasy football geek. (Please don't ask me how my teams did this weekend.) I've been known to read a 16-page fantasy e-mail because I thought the information could help me win. The ad copy was also extremely well-written. That's the secret: Know your target market, give them something interesting and useful to read, and present it in a compelling manner. That's it.

I can't think of better advice for all the writers who send me their stuff. (Sure, my advice is unsolicited. But so is their stuff.)

I've been a fantasy football geek since 1994. That's the year the Los Angeles Rams hightailed it out of L.A. for St. Louis. My buddies and I, huge Rams fans all, were traumatized. I guess we felt a little like Brooklynites when the original Dodgers pulled the same stunt. (If you were to tell me that L.A. would still be without a pro football team 15 years later, I'd have said you were nuts.) I tried becoming a Raiders fan for a brief period, but it wasn't a good fit. I was always afraid I'd catch a stray bullet.

Without a team, we turned to fantasy football for solace. Many of us play to this day. So do some of our kids, which is very cool. It's touching when you pass along important values to the younger generation.

Like all hobbies, it's only interesting if you're actually doing it. (There's nothing more boring than someone else's hobby.) I try to keep that in mind so I won't be tempted to subject non-fantasy folks to my foolishness. Years ago, a friend of mine became obsessed with racing model boats. He kept trying to get me to come out to Sunset Park to watch the races, but I couldn't have cared less. The only thing that would have motivated me to leave the house was if the boats fired live ammo.

I'm sure you're asking, "What's the point?" I don't blame you. For me, fantasy football is a metaphor for life. (What isn't?) You take an essentially meaningless exercise, agree to some rather arbitrary rules (our "reality"), invest money to up the ante (tangible reward), add bragging rights (ego), and voila, it somehow all matters. When I was younger, a tough loss would ruin my whole week. Now that I'm older and more mature, I'm over it by Wednesday.

As writers, we also create our own reality. I'm sure that's part of the appeal. In day-to-day existence, I'm not all that interested in playing God (or even President), although there are times I wouldn't mind smiting some idiot in traffic. But in fiction, everything's fair game. It can be cathartic, a healthy release. Who knows, it might even keep us from acting on our worst impulses. That's fortunate for the lady driving 45 in the fast lane.

Wish me luck tonight. I need a big game from Jason Witten.

When reality TV first reared its ugly head a number of years back, I sampled all the shows. "Survivor," "Amazing Race," "Big Brother," and "American Idol." While I actually enjoyed some (Dr. Will on "Big Brother" is the greatest pathological liar in the history of television), the only one I've stuck with is Idol.

Every season, I tell myself that I'm done. Then my wife starts watching those hokey audition shows and, before I know it, I find myself sucked right back in. Many times I've wondered, "Why is this so compelling?" After all, it's just a glorified talent show. Sure, Paula babbles incoherently (I'll miss her, for sure) and Simon is his usual insufferable but honest self. But I've finally come to the conclusion that the show strikes a nerve because it's about the American dream.

First, as we all know, the vast majority of contestants have absolutely no business being there. It's part of the fun but also part of the dramatic tension. Other than the ones doing it for a goof, most really believe they're good, that they deserve to be the next American Idol. In a word, they're delusional. When Simon tells them how horrible they are, they stare at him in disbelief. He's trying to do them a favor and, of course, they don't believe him for a moment.

As a writer, I've had similar experiences. Other writers send me their stuff all the time. Years ago, my editor told me he can tell if someone can write by reading one paragraph. At the time, I just figured he was jaded. Now I know he's right. Just like the Idol contestants, these folks think they're the next big thing. When they solicit my feedback, I don't do a Simon Cowell number on them; I always try to let them down gently. But some of them still get pissed off.

Why do I continue to put myself in this position? Because every now and then, I'm pleasantly surprised. Over the years, I've met a couple of very good writers who have become very good friends. Nothing wrong with that. Plus, if you've read my work, you know I'm a believer in Karma.

As my editor also likes to say, "Publishing is a rigged game." With the economy in the toilet, that's true now more than ever. The few big houses that remain rarely take a flyer on unknown authors. They stick with the tried and true brand names. I'm sure there are parallels in the music industry, which is why Idol provides a decent alternate route for those with real talent. I don't always agree with the judges' selections. (It seems like the singer who gets bounced in the last three or four weeks is always more deserving.) But there's still an emotional appeal seeing someone work hard and ultimately get their shot. It's all any of us can hope for.

My friend Gretchen, the best unpublished author I know, just got unceremoniously dumped by her longtime agent. Agents are some of the worst people in the world. (To paraphrase Albert Brooks, "That's not my opinion. It's a medical fact.") Their reputations are well-deserved. They make lawyers look like Mother Theresa. To help Gretchen (and anyone who's ever received that agent Dear John letter) land on her feet, here are a few of my favorite agent jokes. Enjoy!

A screenwriter returns home after a long evening's work of waiting tables, only to find his house a pile of smoldering rubble. Policemen and firemen poke grimly through the remains. The writer leaps out of his car and runs over to a detective. "Oh God! My house! What happened? Where are my wife and children?"

The cop says, "I'm sorry sir. I'm afraid your agent came to your house, slaughtered your family, burned your home to the ground, and then danced on the rubble in hobnailed boots."

The writer looks at the detective, excited, and says, "My agent came to my house?"

How many agents does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Sorry, we're not screwing in any new light bulbs anymore. But have you considered turning your light bulb into maybe... a candle?

The crusty old literary agent finally passed away, but his agency kept getting calls asking to speak with him. "I'm sorry, he's dead," was the standard answer. Finally, the receptionist who
fielded the calls began to realize it was always the same voice, so she asked who it was and why he kept calling.

The reply: "I was one of his screenwriters, and I just like to hear you say it."


 

My wife and I agree on most things. But not movies. She leans toward chick flicks and sensitive dramas. (Her all-time favorites are "Ghost" and "Officer and a Gentleman.") I'm drawn to mindless entertainment. We've even been known to go to the same multiplex to watch different films. Years ago, she checked out some love story while I enjoyed "Pulp Fiction." One problem: Her movie ended an hour before mine. That's when she snuck into my theater and settled in next to me just as the notorious "bring in the gimp" scene went into full swing (so to speak). As I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat, she leaned in and whispered, "What the hell are you watching?"

So you can imagine my surprise when she suggested we attend the opening weekend of Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds." Surprise, that is, until I realized the movie stars Brad Pitt. Pitt is on the short list of men she'd leave me for (along with Johnny Depp and Steven Tyler.) I made a half-hearted attempt to warn her about excessive bloodshed but it didn't seem to phase her. "I'll just shut my eyes," she said.

I'm pleased to say a great time was had by all, albeit for different reasons. I always approach Tarantino with caution because he's capable of tremendous artistry or absolute crap. He pisses me off more than any other writer/director. "From Dusk till Dawn" and "Kill Bill, Volume I" sucked me in and held me spellbound until they degenerated into cartoon bloodfests. (Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against bloodfests. But I have everything against ridiculous mood swings halfway through what started out as good movies.) For me, in books, films and other forms of story-telling, uneven tone and unrealized potential are the biggest sins of all.

The best Tarantino films, like "Pulp Fiction" and "Kill Bill, Volume 2," show a measure of restraint. "Inglourious Basterds" is like that. Once you buy into the premise of an alternative World War II universe, the story is compelling from start to finish. Nobody creates tension and subtext like our boy Quentin. The opening scene where two characters spend a good ten minutes talking across a simple kitchen table is agonizingly suspenseful. Two additional scenes later in the film are virtually unwatchable (in a good way) for the same reason. And his dialogue is always spot on. When he wants to be, there's nobody better.

So my wife and I shared a date night we could both enjoy. I have no doubt she fell asleep thinking of Brad Pitt. (By the way, it's obvious he had a grand time making this movie. He's hilarious).

As for me, I envisioned Nazi heads used for batting practice. I think we both got a pretty good deal.

Over the years, I've gone to quite a few classes and read numerous books on the craft of writing. Most, if not all, recommend creating a detailed outline before beginning work on the actual book. On the surface, it makes sense. After all, you can't build a house without a blueprint, right? (Not that I would know. My wife has taken away all my tools because I'm a danger to myself and others.)

So, before starting "Dice Angel," I compiled all the scraps of paper I'd accumulated and earnestly jumped into my outline. You know what? I hated it. For one thing, it reminded me of school. For another, I felt stifled creatively. So, after days of dread, I tossed the whole thing and just started writing. I'm not recommending this for everyone, but it worked great for me. The freedom to go wherever I wanted made all the difference. Knowing that I could change anything at any time took a big weight off my shoulders. I believe that the best parts of that book (and all my other stuff) came from somewhere unpredictable, somewhere I never could have foreseen in an outline.

In some cases, minor characters turned into major characters. In others, a plot complication or a complete turnaround just showed up unannounced and I had to see where it took me.  You just have to learn to trust the process. Or as Nate once said in Six Feet Under, "It's all about the flow."

Here's the scary part:  In both "Dice Angel" and "Money Shot," I had no idea how the books would end until roughly two-thirds of the way through. In "Dice Angel," the ending came to me while I was out walking my dog. I dragged the poor creature all the way home so I could feverishly jot down my notes. In "Money Shot," it happened during my morning shower. Showers and bathrooms in general are fertile areas for ideas. So are cars. It might have something to do with the solitude.

Obviously, my subconscious had been working overtime on the solutions. I'm happy (and relieved) to say that it has never let me down. The whole magical, mysterious process has turned me into a believer in the power of the mind. The main trick is to get out of your own way.

It also makes for a better, more satisfying conclusion. The material my subconscious came up with genuinely surprised me. I never saw it coming. If that can happen, maybe my readers will be surprised, too.

Deus ex machina: Latin for "God in the machine." And I don't mean slot machine.

Are you impressed by my linguistic ability? Don't be; that and "e pluribus unum" just about exhaust my dead language repertoire. (Although I've often thought that "Ad Infinitum " would make a good name for an advertising agency. Certainly better than "Ad Nauseum.")

I bring the phrase up because of a recent lukewarm review I received for my Las Vegas novel, "Dice Angel." (Yes, I still read reviews. And some of them bother me, although I'm a lot less thin-skinned than I used to be. The ones that bother me are those that just don't get it.  I have no problem with intelligent criticism.)

This particular reviewer took issue with what he called my use of the deus ex machina plot device at the end of the book. The device, in which something happens from out of the blue to save the day (think Calvary riding to the rescue in the old cowboy and Indian flicks), has long gotten a bad critical rap. Critics, reviewers and educators feel that it's a cheap, easy way out. And sometimes they're right.

But in this case, I believe the reviewer missed the point. "Dice Angel," after all, is about the laws of karma and luck. I don't know about you, but I've been the recipient of more than a few lucky breaks during my lifetime. Some of them saved my life; others simply opened doors of opportunity or made me a couple of bucks the easy way. Regardless, it's part of the nature of existence. And if literature (or even my stuff) holds up a mirror to human reality, why shouldn't things sometimes break the right way for the protagonist?

Here's something I've been known to say when readers accuse me of not following the rules or, conversely, following the rules too closely: "I may make mistakes, but I do them on purpose." Or, as the Dice Angel herself comments, "You have to know the rules to break the rules."

An erstwhile friend and I have had long, occasionally heated discussions about the value of commercial viability. He was a successful screenplay writer in the late 70s and early 80s; now he's retired here in Las Vegas. He hates my writing. In "Dice Angel," for example, he got on my case because I didn't make Amaris 27-years-old and have her fall in love with our hero, Jimmy Delaney. You know what? I've read that book and seen that movie a hundred times. Doesn't interest me anymore. And, as I've said before in one of these very blogs, I'm basically an audience of one. I'd much rather stick to my creative vision, for what it's worth, than follow some formula in the hope that I'll rake in the big bucks. Of course, my friend has tasted the big time and I haven't. So maybe I'm the fool here after all.

This is an issue that endlessly fascinates me. I welcome your comments.

Have you ever revisited a favorite book or movie, only to discover it's not as good as you remember? That's been my experience recently and it's left me feeling uneasy. It started when a writer friend mentioned that "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" is actually boring. That's certainly not the way I remembered it, so I decided to see for myself.

He's right. Except for two memorable scenes, one at the beginning where Butch kicks  Harvey Logan in the groin, and another where Butch and Sundance jump off the cliff: --

Butch: "What's the matter with you?"

Sundance: "I can't swim."

Butch: "Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill you."

Sundance (jumping): Shit!!!

...except for those scenes and a lot of colorful dialogue (which certainly helps), nothing much happens. Most of the movie involves Butch and Sundance running from the super posse ("Who are those guys?") all the way to Bolivia, with that odd interlude where they ride bicycles with Etta to the strains of "Raindrops keep fallin' on my head," which has nothing to do with anything but was sandwiched in so Burt Bacharach could win an Oscar for best song.

So I'm sorry I watched it after all these years, because it was better in my mind; most things are. I'm sure it's a matter of context. The film seems dull because modern movies and books are generally fast-paced, with quick cuts and short build-ups. One of the cardinal rules of writing these days is "get into the scene late, get out early." If you watch just about any classic movie, they take an inordinate amount of time showing people driving, getting out of the car, walking up a driveway, knocking on the door, waiting, lighting a cigarette, etc. We just don't have the patience for that now.

One exception to the rule is "Chinatown." It holds up remarkably well, maybe because the cynicism rampant in the movie is more relevant today than ever. And it's just damned stylish, with Nicholson playing everyone's favorite jaded PI to the hilt. Jack took a lot of chances back then. What other major star would let himself be filmed for half the film with his nose slit open?

Quick story: A year ago, I realized my wife had never seen "Chinatown," so I made a trip to Hollywood video to remedy that injustice. Not finding it on the shelves, I asked the teenage girl behind the counter for help. She looked it up on the computer and disappeared into the bowels of the store for a few minutes. When she emerged, she triumphantly handed me a DVD. "Big Trouble in Little China" with Kurt Russell. Not quite the same thing. That's when I  decided to subscribe to Netflix.

Lesson learned: Most things, no matter how popular, are lost in one generation. No need for sadness and hand-wringing; it's just the natural order of things. Here's a good one: My 33-year-old son-in-law never heard of Steve McQueen. I'd give him a copy of "Bullitt" but I'm sure he'd be disappointed. I probably would, too.

I'm up. Chapter 3 of the Las Vegas Writes collaborative serial novel, now officially titled "Restless City," just posted on the CityLife link. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.

http://www.lasvegascitylife.com/promotions/las-vegas-writes.php#chapter-3

Okay, here are some examples (good ones) of dialogue from some of my favorite writers. First up, Elmore "Dutch" Leonard from his novel, "Unknown Man #89."

     "What do you call what you do?"

     Mr. Perez was coming back with his whiskey over ice, taking his time.

     "My title? Well, my card says I'm an investment consultant. How's that sound?" Mr. Perez smiled easily.

     "I suppose you're a lawyer, too?"

     "Why do you suppose that?" He lowered himself carefully, holding the lowball glass in front of him, and sank down in the chair.

     "I guess I just assumed you were."

     "You hire lawyers," Mr. Perez said. "You don't have to be one. Thank God."

     "Can I ask, how do you happen to know Jay Walt?"

     "I don't know him. Least I didn't," Mr. Perez said. "I used him once before, he was all right. You see, locating people, a very good way to find out about them is through their credit rating. So I generally use somebody in the business. I believe he was the first or second one in the Yellow Pages, Allied Credit something or other. Let me ask you, are you a friend of his?"

     "No," Ryan said.

     "You don't care too much for him either."

     Ryan didn't say anything.

     "I have kind of a negative feeling myself," Mr. Perez said. "Man talks out loud in elevators. I was thinking, there's not much reason to keep him around. That's if you've got something to tell me"

     "A few things," Ryan said. "But I don't know what I'm into yet. I don't know what's going on."

     Brian's commentary: Typical Leonard; nice, easy flow. Short sentences. Approximates actual language. This is a good sentence...

     "You see, locating people, a very good way to find out about them is through their credit rating."

     An ordinary writer would do it this way...

     "You see, when you're trying to locate people, a very good way to find out about them is through their credit rating."

     A subtle difference, but an important one. People don't speak in complete thoughts; most of what we say isn't grammatically correct. If we write dialogue the way they taught us in school, it sounds stilted, artificial.

     Something else: Try not to make all your characters sound alike. You can differentiate them by the way they speak; upper class, poorly-educated, ethnic (although this is tricky if overdone), whatever. I just finished a book of short stories called, "Take Your Legs With You." It's about a Las Vegas boxer, an ex-champ, on the comeback trail. While the writer, Darrell Spencer, is a fine craftsman, all of his characters sound exactly the same, as if they fell out of a Damon Runyan book and wound up here in Las Vegas. A small quibble on my part but one that got in the way of the story.

     Leonard also uses the word  "said" almost exclusively when identifying which character is speaking. No gimmicks here. Again, nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the novel.

     Next is a passage from Carl Hiaasen's "Stormy Weather":

     He found her sitting up, the covers pulled to her chin. She was gazing at the wall.

     "I thought it was a dream," she said.

     "Please don't be afraid."

     "Are they real?"

     "Friends send them to me," Augustine said. "From abroad, mostly. One was a Christmas present from a fishing guide in Islamorada." He wasn't sure what Bonnie Lamb thought of his hobby, so he apologized for the fright. "Some people collect coins. I'm into forensic artifacts."

     "Body parts."

     "Not fresh ones -- artifacts. Believe it or not, a good skull is hard to come by."

     This was the line that usually sent them bolting for the door. Bonnie Lamb didn't move.

     "Can I take a look?"

     Brian's commentary: Hiaasen, who also writes for the Miami Herald, is another author with a gift for making dialogue sound natural and effortless. "From abroad, mostly," helps the rhythm of Augustine's thought. As a journalist, Hiaasen has most likely conducted hundreds of interviews, which is reflected in his work. In the above exchange, Hiaasen also uses dialogue to set up and reveal a small mystery.

     Confession time. I've been known to read (and enjoy) Dean Koontz. One of my guilty pleasures. The man knows how to write a page-turner. His work is wildly uneven, but "Watchers" and "The Bad Place" are nicely done. With Koontz, though, you have to overlook some clunky dialogue. He tends to give his characters long speeches that sound just a little out of whack. Is it just me, or is this a bit artifical?

     "One way we're different but complimentary is our motivation. This line of work suits me because I get a kick out of helping people who're in trouble through no fault of their own. I like to see good triumph. Sounds like a comic book hero, but it's the way I feel. You, on the other hand, are primarily motivated by a desire to stomp the bad guys. Yeah, sure, I like to see the bad guys all crumpled and whimpering, too, but it's not as important to me as it is to you. And, of course, you're happy to help innocent people, but with you that's secondary to the stomping and crushing. Probably because yo're still working out your rage over the murder of your mother."

     Not terrible. I've certainly read much worse. In fact, I can't quite put my finger on the problem, but it seems wrong to me. Any thoughts? Feel free to weigh in. Also, if you send me some of your favorite examples (good and bad), I'll be sure to include them in future posts.

     Thanks for listening, er, reading.

A note to my readers: Please ignore this blog. It's just a formality so I can be accepted into Technorati, a blog directory service. (I know it sounds like some sort of cool secret organization, but it's not. Cool secret organizations don't typically accept my membership.)

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Dialogue. It's what I do best. I believe in playing to one's strengths and, for some mysterious reason, dialogue is easy for me. Strange, because there are some fantastic authors who write clunky dialogue. Unrealistic dialogue. Speeches that go on for paragraphs. Their strengths are narrative, plot, description. I've been known to struggle with description. I have a short attention span so I don't feel the need to spend half a page describing a room or a character. I'd rather do it in shorthand and move on. Maybe that's why my books are relatively brief. But I admire anyone who can paint a word picture and make me feel like I'm there. It's just not my strong suit.

When I create dialogue, I try to approximate real speech. But not real speech itself. If you've ever read any type of transcript, you realize that actual dialogue is incoherent. Lots of thoughts that trail off into nowhere. Most folks, even really smart ones, sound like idiots. If I wrote the way they speak, you'd zone out immediately.

But I try to capture that flavor. For example, people don't speak in complete sentences. They're not grammatically correct. They use contractions. There's a rhythm and flow to the back and forth exchange. I hear these voices in my head and pay attention to them. (Not like the other voices that tell me to perform all manner of heinous acts.) On a good writing day, I can hardly type fast enough. I really have no idea why or how this happens. Maybe it's because I watched so many movies as a kid. I also read a ton of books, good and bad. Stephen King says that voracious reading is a key to good writing. Somehow, styles and techniques just sink in. I believe you can learn just as much by reading poor material as you can from reading the good stuff. It's important to figure out what not to do.

Elmore Leonard is a master at dialogue. His crime/mystery novels rely heavily on dialogue to reveal character and move the plot along. Reading his books is like watching movies. No coincidence that some of his best work has translated nicely into film; "Get Shorty" and "Out of Sight" come to mind.

In the end, I believe that writing compelling, realistic-sounding dialogue is a gift, like a facility for music. I've played guitar for years but reached a certain level and never got any better. Eric Clapton himself could come to my house three times a week and give me personal lessons. (My wife would love that, by the way. He's on the short list of guys she'd leave me for.) Of course, I'd learn a few things. But I'll never be Eric. Similarly, as writers, we can (and should) continue to hone our craft. But dialogue may be one of those areas that you get or you don't. I'm fortunate and thankful that I get it.

As any writer will tell you, there's no shortage of writing advice out there. One of the best (and most challenging) pieces of wisdom I've encountered goes something like this: "Write like your parents are dead." I have no idea where I ran across this phrase and I can't seem to find its origin on the Web. But it rings true nonetheless.

To me, it means that we should never censor ourselves. Honesty really is the best policy. If we're worried about what our family or friends or fans will think, we've already lost the battle. The writing that really makes an emotional connection is that which comes from the heart.

Sometimes this is easier said than done. I actually ruined a friendship when the person thought he saw too much of himself in one of my books. (Funny how folks never complain when I write something positive.) True or not, the perception stuck and the friendship didn't. I've spoken to many other writers who've shared similar experiences. And yet, we'd all do it again. The work comes first. (Thank God my wife is a tolerant and forgiving soul or I'd be long divorced.)

Does this make us weird? Probably. But it also makes us better writers. When discussing essential writing traits, I'd have to put "fearlessness" near the top of the list.

This image courtesy of my friend Bob, a Hollywood writer for the last 25 years. One picture is worth a thousand words, give or take.

 Click here for a sample...

My friend and business partner, D.J. Allen, likes to go into an introductory meeting with a prospective client and launch a little humorous scud, just to get the lay of the land. If the client laughs, D.J. knows who he's dealing with. If the client just stares at him, well, that tells him something, too. Either way, he doesn't obsess over the outcome. Just puts it out there and lets the chips fall. As he likes to say, "I'm an audience of one."

I know how he feels. When I'm writing, my primary goal is to entertain myself. If something I've written brings a smile to my face, that's a home run. If I go back a few days later and read a chapter and catch myself thinking, "Hey, this guy's good," I've done my job.

This doesn't mean I don't care what the audience thinks. The greatest feeling is when someone drops me a line to say I've connected with them on some level. But that's not the reason I write. Rather, it's a positive, unintended consequence. I write for personal satisfaction. To communicate something I think is meaningful and to polish my craft. Sure, I'd love to sell a million copies. It would mean there are a million like-minded people out there. (It would also mean I could take a nice long vacation.) But whether I sell one book or a million is somewhat irrelevant, because the act of creating something from nothing is a reward in itself. I know I sound like Pollyanna here, and I know a lot of writers who disagree with me. But, hey, I'm an audience of one.

So, CityLife just posted Chapter 2 of the Las Vegas Writes collaborative novel to their website. This one is by Nevada Hall of Fame writer John Irsfeld and picks up where Lee Barnes' chapter left off. Go to http://www.lasvegascitylife.com/promotions/las-vegas-writes.php to check it out.

Enjoy.

PS I'm in the on-deck circle.

In 1999, when I contemplated writing my first novel, my goals were modest. Mainly, to see if I was even capable of producing a manuscript. Up to that time, I had written plenty of marketing materials, freelance magazine articles, even some comedy routines for established and aspiring comics. But the longest piece I had ever produced was a sociology term paper back in college. Maybe 30 pages, maybe plagiarized (or "borrowed") from multiple encyclopedias. (For you younger folks, an encyclopedia was...well, never mind.)

The prospect of cranking out 300+ manuscript pages was daunting. But I knew I had to try. The idea for the book that ultimately became "Dice Angel" kept eating away at me. Mocking me. So I blocked out two - three hours every morning (before the sun came up) and at least a full day of writing on the weekends to learn somethng about myself.

Here's what I found out:

I'm not the world's fastest writer, but I can create about a page an hour, which really adds up over time. Like the tortoise and the hare, slow and steady wins the race.

I greatly enjoyed the process. Some days came easy, some had all the excitement of digging a ditch (with a very small shovel). Either way, I experienced the "writer's high" often enough to become seriously addicted.

That being said, I hit the wall roughly halfway through the manuscript. My momentum fizzled, I had some sleepless nights where I wanted to chuck the whole thing. In talking to other writers, I've discovered this is a common phenomenon. Some give up. I hunkered down and gutted my way through. One of the best decisions I ever made.

I need to pay attention to those voices in my head.

When I'm writing, I need caffeine.

My wife is my best and toughest critic.

The last few pages proved difficult. I wasn't ready to give up those characters.

One of my best days ever was when I read the first draft from beginning to end. (One of the worst was reading it for the 17th time.)

As Yoda once said (before Lucas ruined the franchise), "Do or not do. There is no try. 

I'm proud to say I did.

This morning, on the way to work, I had a phenomenal run of radio luck. If you’re not familiar with the term, it was introduced by author Nicholson Baker in his 1992 novel, “Vox.” He explains it better than I can: 

“It seems to me that you really need the feeling of radio luck in listening to pop music . . . If you buy the record, or the tape, then you control when you can hear it, when what you want is for it to be like luck, and like fate, and to zoom up and down the dial, looking for the song you want, hoping some station will play it--and the joy when it finally rotates around is so intense.”

In other words, the song is more satisfying if you somehow stumble upon it (especially from the beginning), rather than cue it up on your own. Maybe you’ve experienced it. This morning, I was the recipient of a rare triple – three of my favorites in a row. (That happens much more on satellite than on terrestrial radio, because the playlists are so deep and targeted. I have to give my buds at Sirius/XM a free pop. It’s well worth the $12.95 a month they charge. And they could use the positive publicity. Sirius stock is currently trading somewhere around 30 cents a share.)

Anyway, the songs I’m referring to are “Just Us Kids” by James McMurtry, “Master of Disaster,” by John Hiatt, and Dylan’s classic, “Tangled up in Blue.” Almost 20 minutes of pure artistry set to music. By the time I got to my office, I was much less depressed than usual.

It occurs to me that the songs I’ve really connected with over the years have been story songs. Makes sense, because I’m essentially a story teller at heart. I very much admire and respect someone who can sum up a life in 5 minutes (and make it rhyme, no less). I don’t have that gift.

McMurtry certainly does. His father, Larry McMurty, wrote the Western novel, “Lonesome Dove.” So I guess James comes by his talent naturally. Which doesn’t  negate all the hard work that goes into his craft. Check out this slice of life captured in a few short lines:

“Ya know, we could realy have it all

Our kid’s gonna graduate next fall

I could take retirement in 10 years

It’s a damn short movie

How’d we ever get here?”

Gives me chills just reading it. I know exactly how he feels.

Many of Hiatt’s songs are autobiographical. He puts it out there, warts and all. In “Master of Disaster,” he addresses his struggles with addiction, a recurring theme with a kick-ass beat. 

Of course, nobody does it better than Dylan. Part of his genius, it seems to me, is in what he chooses to leave out. In songs like “Tangled up in Blue,” you don’t really know if it’s the narrator’s story, or a series of interwoven vignettes. Doesn’t matter. The listener fills in the blanks, becoming an active co-creator in the process.

Other great story songs:

“WOLD” by Harry Chapin. Anyone in the radio industry knows that guy. Or is that guy.

“The Man in the Bed” by Dave Alvin (formerly of The Blasters). – A gut-wrenching tale from the perspective of a dying old man.

“Angel from Montgomery” by John Prine. A similar story told from the point of view of an elderly woman. If Prine is still under your personal radar, I urge you to discover his impressive body of work.

“Maggie May” by Rod Stewart. Hard to believe that Stewart was once a legitimate artist. This narrative of a young man’s affair with an older woman is a classic, and deservedly so. I always thought it would make a great movie.

“Supersede” by Jackie Greene. A 10-minute epic about a young woman’s suicide and the emotional wreckage left in her wake. Greene could be the next Dylan.

Dozens of songs by Springsteen. Take your pick across Bruce’s 35-year career. He’s a master at inhabiting the skin of the working man.

Dozens of songs by Tom Waits. I’m not on solid ground here, but my colleague, Alex Raffi, tells me this guy’s incredible. If “My Old ‘55” (covered by the Eagles) is any indication, I believe him.

In my next lifetime, I might sign up to be a song writer. And, while I’m at it, I wouldn’t mind being able to play guitar like a mother. In the meantime, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing.

Sometimes I like to combine names just for fun. (It's not much of a hobby but it doesn't cost anything.) For awhile, I tried connecting different band names to form imaginary super-groups. Here are a few samples:

Third Eye Blind Melon

Sly & the Family Stone Temple Pilots

System of a Three Doors Down

Maroon 5 for Fighting

Beastie Boys II Men

Alternate: Beach Boys II Men

I was hoping it would catch on here at the office, but it never did. Please feel free to weigh in. I'm not ready to give up on this just yet.

It works with other things, too.

If Dr. Seuss and Shakespeare collaborated on a project: "Green Eggs and Hamlet"

This morning, I noticed a lube and oil place next to a fast food Chinese restaurant: "Panda Express Lube." They probably use the same oil.

I'm also sorry that the bands Asia, Boston, Chicago and Kansas never toured together. Not to mention, Puddle of Mud and Jars of Clay. Seems like a natural to me.

I always wanted to see groups made up of second bananas: Ridgley and Oates; Hatfield and Messina; England Dan and John Ford Coley (oh, never mind).

Finally, here's my dream movie: Minnie Driver and Winona Rider in "The Hitchhiker." Attention producers: I'll be waiting by the phone.

As a writer, I'm frequently the recipient of unsolicited advice. Whenever I venture out in public to hawk my wares, people freely offer up their opinions on how I should change the endings; make a particular character younger, older, sexier, scarier; or maybe I should simply get out of the business altogether (that's mainly from editors and agents).

So, of course, I'm going to do exactly the same thing to M. Night Shymalan. I'm eminently qualified to shower him with complimentary career counseling because his movies have grossed more than a billion (with a "b") dollars and mine, um, haven't (been produced, that is). So here goes.

Night, as his friends call him, hit the jackpot with "The Sixth Sense," a perfect little thriller with a famous surprise ending that few people saw coming. I remember sitting in a crowded theater and hearing the audience collectively gasp when we all figured out, at precisely the same moment, that Willis was dead.

After that, it was all downhill. "Unbreakable" had its moments, "Signs" had fewer. "The Village," "Lady in the Water," and "The Happening" are basically unwatchable, although Lord knows I've tried. I get the feeling Night is pressing; trying too hard to duplicate his early success.

The most famous example of this is Orson Welles who, at 26, created one of the greatest movies of all time, "Citizen Kane" -- a groundbreaking film that makes every best-of list year after year. Welles never quite reached that pinnacle again. I think it made him a little nuts. Towards the end, he was a bloated parody of himself, a TV commercial hack delivering the line, "We sell no wine before its time," like a hammy Shakespearean actor.

I don't want this to happen to my good friend Night. So here's my advice. Relax. Do something different, completely unexpected. You don't have to be Rod freaking Serling every time. Take a shot at a teen comedy, a chick flick, a biopic. Maybe let someone else direct or produce. Who needs all that pressure, anyway? The twist at the end will be that there's no twist at the end. Sounds liberating to me. You might even have fun.

A few blogs ago, I mentioned that ideas are important, but implementation is key. People constantly tell me, "I have a million dollar idea. I just need someone to write it." That's kind of like the tongue-in-cheek slogan for the screenwritng software program Final Draft ---"Just add words." Easier said than done.

If you've read Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell or Christopher Vogler, you know there are only so many basic plot lines and characters to work with, what they call "archetypes." How many books and films are based on the Bible, the Odyssey or Gilgamesh? George Lucas, before he got all full of himself and boring, often said the Star Wars series was an old-fashioned western set in space. Likewise, Gene Roddenberry commented that Star Trek was "Wagon Train to the stars." (If you're too young to remember Wagon Train, you could look it up.) Apocalypse Now was a reworking of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. And so it goes (in the immortal words of Kurt Vonnegut).

Personally, my writing style relies less on plot and more on characterization. I like to create characters who are quirky and flawed and three-dimensional, then start piling on the problems. It helps if the reader roots for them to succeed (or fail). Just as long as they're emotionally-engaged.

Some of my favorite stories involve a main character who is slightly less odd than the other characters; an anchor in a swirl of bizarre activity. Sam Malone in Cheers and Mary Richards in the Mary Tyler Moore show are good examples. Compared to Coach and Ted Baxter, they seemed almost normal. I believe we as viewers pulled for Tony Soprano because he was less despicable than the other mob bosses.

The Coen Brothers are masters at this type of writing. In most of their films, I defy you to find one redeeming character. For me, that's part of the fun. Burn After Reading is nobody's idea of a masterpiece (although lesser Coen fare is still better than almost everything else). But any movie that offs a goofy, grinning Brad Pitt in mid-film gets a big thumbs up in my book.

There's a category of short, short stories known as "flash fiction." Depending on who you talk to, it's a story that's less than 100 (or even 75) words. Despite that, the writer still needs a plot and a point, which makes it especially challenging. As we say in the biz, "it's harder to write short than to write long."

Anyway, here's one I've been toying with for a while:

"Let me get this straight. You say we'll be more popular than Jesus. But one of us will die by 60. And one by 40. Is that right?"

"Yes," said the elegantly-dressed man. "That is correct."

The lads conferred for a moment.

"We'll take it," said the one named John. "After all, 40 is a long way off."

Here's the link to Chapter 1 of the new collaborative serial novel I mentioned in my last post. This one is by the outstanding Las Vegas writer H. Lee Barnes. Looks like Las Vegas CityLife will be releasing one chapter every couple of weeks, all the way up to the Vegas Valley Book Festival in early November. Stay tuned.

http://www.lasvegascitylife.com/promotions/las-vegas-writes.php

I just finished Chapter 3 of a new collaborative serial novel that will kick off the "Las Vegas Writes" event at the Vegas Valley Book Festival in early November. It's the type of project in which each author contributes a chapter and passes it on to the next, who then picks up the story line and characters but writes it in his or her own style. It's been done in other markets before. "Naked Came the Manatee" comes to mind, a hoot of a book featuring South Florida writers like Dave Barry and Carl Hiaasen. But this is a first for Las Vegas.

I can't remember the last time I had so much fun (which may or may not be sad). I got lucky because the two writers before me, H. Lee Barnes and John Irsfeld, gave me plenty of cool noir material to work with. Believe me, these guys are good. I'm honored to be in their company. I ended my chapter on a cliff hanger, with a dead body and our hero in way over his head. I'm sure Leah Bailly, who writes Chapter 4, will enjoy the challenge. After that, it's John L. Smith (my favorite columnist), Constance Ford and Vu Tran, who gets to figure out the mystery and wrap everything up.

I can't wait to see how it ends.

Years ago, I taught a marketing class at our local community college. Students ranged from kids right out of high school to empty nesters re-entering the job force or looking to change careers. I based the lion's share of the grade on a term project in which each student came up with a unique idea for a business and designed a marketing plan to address pricing, product, distribution, target audiences, and the like.

After I spent the better part of our first class explaining how to identify a solid business concept and the step-by-step marketing plan process, a young man in the back raised his hand.

"Where do I get these ideas?" he asked. "Do I just think them up in my head?"

Welcome to higher education. The short answer, of course, is "yes." And today, whenever a reader asks me "where do you get your ideas," I'm tempted to answer, "I think them up in my head." I stop short, however, because I don't want to piss off a valued fan. And I certainly don't want to get beat up.

As a writer, it's often difficult to pin down exactly how the ideas get into my head. A lot of it has to do with observation and focus. Here in Las Vegas, I've seen and heard the most outrageous stuff. All I have to do is jot it down. If folks knew I was evesdropping, they'd be more careful about what they say in public.

Beyond that, there's a lifetime of information, large and small, tucked away in our subconscious minds, just waiting to be unleashed. I'm often astounded at what gets dredged up when I'm "in the zone." Snippets of conversation from 40 years ago, a trivial experience that suddenly applies to a particular situation, a fleeting memory or an aroma or a feeling. It's all there. You just have to learn to trust the process. 

Readers often start a conversation with me by saying, "I have a great idea for your next book." And sometimes they're right. What they don't realize is that I have a great idea for my next book, too. Actually, a file full of them. Probably more ideas than years left to write them. (That's a depressing thought.) Ideas are important. But the magic is in the implementation.

More on this soon.

Welcome to my newly-designed website and my first official blog post. As a writer, I'm a little behind the blogging curve (I'm a pretty old guy, after all) but I'm looking forward to sharing my views on a variety of topics. For now, I just want to say that I'm happy I started my little writing adventure at the beginning of the millenium. My novels, "Dice Angel" and "Money Shot," may not be great literature, but people have told me the books are fun and have given them a taste of the "real Las Vegas." Assuming such a place actually exists.

The best part of this for me is hearing from total strangers who have connected with my work. Folks from all over the world have taken the time to drop me a line, saying they were emotionally moved or laughed out loud or thought about something in a new way. For a writer, there's no better feeling. Everything else is just gravy.

I look forward to a continuing dialogue with you. After all, communication is a two-way street. Stay tuned.