Stay safe out there,
Dorian

P.S. For a great offer, visit MethodWriters.com website today!

In case you missed part 1 of my little saga, you can read it here: Pinch Hitter. Good—now you’re all caught up.

So far I’ve got nothing on this Herman character. No skeletons in his closet—just bones in his garden. He’s 82 and lost his wife of 56 years to cancer last May. She was cremated, so the bones can’t be hers. He’s a vet and received the Purple Heart from an injury received during the Korean War. Never been charged or convicted of a crime. Can’t even find record of a single driving citation for him. Plus, he’s an elder and an usher for his church.

Sometimes if a person looks too clean, it’s because they’ve worked pretty damn hard to pull off that illusion. So people would never think twice about them being capable of such evil deeds. Fortunately for you, the Kenny Blacks of the world are here to sift through that bullshit.

I need to get a little closer to my subject matter, so on this gray, drizzly day, I step on his creaky wooden porch and ring the doorbell. A feeble “Just a minute” filters through the metal door. Herman eases the door open and offers a gentle smile. “Can I help you?” he asks. His fine white hair is thin and slicked straight back.

“Hi, I’m Kenny—your neighbor from across the street.”

“Oh, yes—I thought I’d seen you before. Forgive me, I’m old.”

I chuckle at his comment; how else does one react when the elderly make fun of themselves? “We’ve never officially met, so I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Kenny. What took you so long?” he asks with a wink and a grin.

Funny, he didn’t offer me his name back, but some people are like that. “No, you’re right. I should’ve come by sooner. I’ve been wanting to start a garden in my back yard. The other day I saw you out back working in yours, so I thought you may be able to give me some gardening tips.”

“I’d love to. Won’t you please come in?”

I wonder if leading with the garden was a mistake. He didn’t seem to have a reaction. But if he’s smarter and craftier than he looks, he may be on to me. And if that’s the case, I may be walking into a trap.

I follow Herman inside anyway.

~Kenny Black

A hundred words for love:

Attachment, kindness, tenderness, sensual, sacrifice, selfless, joy, sadness, together, food, stable, apart, wanting, ache, calm, hug, selfish, plead, touch, search, happy, heart, chocolate, listen, learn, fluid, complex, hunger, nuzzle, connection, beg, quench, amore, child, open, vulnerable, gentle, eager, risk, flower, unexpected, care, warm, light, laughter, tears, there, mother, playful, parting, volatile, allow, support, dog, sex, cry, motivation, thirst, confusing, kinship, affection, admiration, devotion, beloved, passion, similar, power, whisper, kisses,  thirst, rich, understand, strong, relax, sigh, give, receive, with, grow, change, pulse, long, allow, forgive, surprise, hold, cuddle, honest, pain, voice, defend, betwixt, butterflies, nerve, adore, smile, bind, change, yearn, family.

Only 900 more to go….

What is really neat, is that one can learn SO much from listening. Like a child hearing his own words read to him; or a friend  venting after a stressful day and needing to be heard, what we hear, we learn from.

I think the world would be in better shape if we all spent more time listening. To nature, to what’s right in our hearts, to each other. And I mean, really, REALLY listen. Not listen just to have the right thing to say when the speaker is done talking, but to hear every word, every emotion, every fear, every joy. To be truly present to every word. A writer who notices all the pauses, nuances, inflections, dialects will write the most awesome dialog ever written.

I put the word “LISTEN” on a sticky note and fastened it to my computer monitor to remind myself to stop and listen for all I was worth at every opportunity.

On Sunday I sat back to give some thought to what I’d learned by changing how I listen to the world around me and realized my week had been richer, brighter, more powerful than before. I heard an owl calling to a mate on Monday night when I stood on the back porch for a few minutes before going to bed. I heard the pain and fear in a friend’s voice when she called to tell me her mother needed brain surgery; I felt the joy of a coworker when she spoke words of forgiveness and surrender about an ugly work situation. In a subtle, yet powerful way, my world shifted. It feels a little more balanced, somehow.

And, I heard the delight in my grandson’s words when he called to tell me how much he enjoyed the “talking” book sent to him for Christmas.

Yes, Bridget, I’m with you.  There is magic in them, there words…..

Nancy Q.

I’ve been given the opportunity to watch my niece and nephew for ten days while their mother and father sail the British Virgin Islands. During the first night of homework my nephew asked me to read his writing assignment (loved writing assignments in school). This particular assignment was asking the student to give pros and cons regarding energy drinks. I read the first line and stopped. Before I pointed out my nephew’s mistake, I asked him to read out loud what he had written. His mouth got half way through the first sentence and he realized his mistake. Oh joy!

This past week I had the opportunity to listen to an extraordinary writer read his work at Interlochen Arts Academy. Jack Driscoll, recipient of the Pushcart Press Editor’s Book award, read one of his short stories titled, That Story. His writing and character development is masterful. What’s just as amazing is his ability to read his work. He turns his words into melodic pros, leaving his audience spellbound. And I, I was stunned. This is a talent I have yet to hone.

Encourage yourself to read out loud. Have your kids read out loud. Read to your lover in bed and when given the chance, listen to a writer read their work.

Bridget

As I had mentioned before, I’m not a writer–I’m a retired hitman turned vigilante, looking to right my wrongs and bring some justice to this sick world. But in this day and age, where the hell does one begin? You look out a window or peek around a corner and you’re liable to stumble across some sleazy crime, some dark secret.

Take my current mark. My neighbor, Herman, who lives across the street. An older gent. Retired. Quiet. A seemingly nice and polite man. Never has any visitors and never receives any complaints from his neighbors. He just keeps to himself, probably watching old movies and doing crossword puzzles. Sometimes I see him working in his garden during daylight hours.

To be honest with you, I never would’ve given him a second thought. But one day I was watching David’s dog, Kaybee, and that fuzzy shithead got loose and ran about the neighborhood. Well I caught him digging in old man Herman’s garden, and I yelled at him to come back or else. Kaybee listened, but he carried a good-sized bone in his mouth. I got ahold of it, and I realized it wasn’t an ordinary dog bone. No, no, this was one of the human variety.

Late that night, I crept into Herman’s back yard with a flashlight and hand shovel and did a little digging of my own. Guess what I found–yep, more bones. Even part of a human skull.

That alone does not prove Herman’s guilt, of course, so I’ve been watching him very closely. One of my connections is even checking into Herman’s past.

Hopefully I’ll get to the bottom of this little mystery by next week, and assuming that Jeff and David will still need my help with the blog, I’ll share with you what I’ve found out.

Until then,

Kenny Black

One of my duties this week is to nab a pic that relates to the short stories I penned for the upcoming book, Fictitious Fiction. These searches can be time consuming. For some reason, I cannot locate the pic I really want. Believe it or not, I need a provocative pic of a hot babe posing on the hood of a red convertible.

Yeah, somehow I’ve pigeon-holed myself as the fictitious writer most likely to wax on a sex-related subject. It’s just a phase. Nonetheless, my search has fallen into disarray. I found the perfect model to depict one of the characters in one of the stories, but having that red convertible would be icing on hood, so to speak.

Here she is. Quite the attractive lady, eh? In the story, she’s a blond who lives in Texas near the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a scorching hot day. But hey, I don’t want to give away the story line, now do I?

When coming up with the idea for the story line, I thought it would be cool to take a song lyric and make it into a full-fledged story. I used an old Bobby Goldsboro tune. In the end, I think it came out really well.

I’ll keep looking for that convertible though. After all, I have until Ground Hog’s Day to have my final choice. Picking out pics for a book cover is a critical chore. Actually, I don’t look at it so much as a chore, but the search does gobble up the time. The pic must possess some outstanding appeal.

In our society today, for good or ill, attractive models grab attention. This most likely will not change anytime soon. But you can’t just go grab the first shot you see and slap it on the cover of a book. There needs to be a tie-in to what’s written inside.

In Fictitious Fiction, this lady needed to be blond, attractive, near the Gulf (or some body of water) and it would help if she was out on a sweltering hot day clad in a peasant top or halter. Looking over all those pics of attractive women sure was a tough job, but hey, I take my work seriously, right?

I’m wondering how Dorian, Georgie Mae, and David are doing in their quest for character pics. I can only hope they glean as much enjoyment out of the process as I. The Fictitious Rogues work hard, probably harder than the Real Rogues. We should all be able to enjoy these small but important aspects of putting a book together.

Time to run! I’m off for another half hour of scouring the internet for a tantalizing woman on the hood of a red convertible. It’s a rough life…

Why would anyone want to be President? To be a target? To expose self and family to the hardiest mud-slinging contest in the world? To be second-guessed and ridiculed and featured on Leno and Letterman’s Top 10 Baffoon lists?
I’ve got a good friend who is the woman I want to be when I grow up. She’s not perfect, but her integrity is solid and her commitment to God, family, friends, her students, and her community is so strong that she juggles church, husband and daughter, teaching full time and serving as a town council-woman seemingly without effort.
When she announced in a hoarse and exhausted voice this past summer that she was running for reelection, I should have said, “Good for you and good luck!” but instead, I said, “Why in the world are you doing that? Have you lost your mind? Your fellow committee persons have spread horrible rumors, told lies about you to the newspapers, sniped at you in and out of session and you still want to play in that cesspool?”  She chuckled a while and then simply replied, “There’s more to do.”

I want to protect her from the filth that I see in politics. She wants to contribute courage, morality, and integrity to a world that has a hard time supporting those things. She’s doing it for her daughter and all daughters. She’s doing it because she believes that every kindness, every compassionate decision, every chance to reach out and make things better is like a pebble in a pool; even a small splash creates a ripple that goes on and on until it has touched every blade of grass along the shore.
I think that the men who signed our Constitution of the United States had those qualities in mind for our leaders; people who, for a term or two, dedicate themselves to serving an entire body of people with a passion to make life better. Be it in a town, a county, a state, or Washington, D.C.
So, because this honorable woman who will never be Prime Minister of England or Secretary of State for the USA is in essence, a politician, I am willing to believe there are others like her. Some might even be in Congress or the Senate already.  And I’ll believe there must be a fine someone running for President who is humble, that has integrity, courage and the desire to serve the people for just a term or two.  After all, just like in a good novel, it’s all about the motivation.

Be well and don’t forget to exercise your right to vote! Your country needs you!

Dorian

Sure, when I was living in New York, things were different. I was editor for a big fashion magazine, had a fiancée who was a runway model, and I was never at a loss for something to do, an event to attend, high-rollers to hang with, and so on. The only problem with that lifestyle is that you lose yourself. You lose sight of what’s important to you. You’re just another face in a superficial crowd.

When Ma’s health began to fail, I finally realized what was important and where I needed to be. And it was not in NYC, it was back in Daytona to help care for my mother. Victoria exposed her true nature and decided that status was more important than love. Well, I guess it never really was true love, was it?

Yes, things have been difficult in my time back in Daytona, but I’m hopeful for the future. I’m excited about my new writing direction. And l’m thankful that returning to Daytona has found me a new family. My writing family, the Rogues Gallery Writers.

And 2012 will be our year!!!

~ David Haas

We’re into our final edits for The Method Writers. It’s proving to be an exercise in communication and patience to say the least. Having one writer out of the state has brought another challenging variable to the mix. I’ve always donned myself as the “newbie” when it comes to writing a book. I’ve never done it. Writing the book was the easy part. My eyes have been opened to how much work goes into editing and polishing the final product.

The whole process reminds me of shop class when I had to make a birdfeeder out of scraps of wood. I cut and glued the birdfeeder within the first two weeks of class.  The next eight weeks were spent on sanding and polishing the sucker. At first 40-grit sandpaper was used to saw down the rough edges. I compare this to our story line edits when we were writing The Method Writers. Then 80-grit sandpaper was used to remove small imperfections and marks from the birdfeeder’s surface. We used an 80-grit edit when the book was finished. When I began to stain the birdfeeder I used 240-grit sandpaper or, in other words, a “very fine” sandpaper to remove dust and particles. This is where we’re at right now with our edits; removing the dust and tiny particles that are within the pages of our novel.

When we’re done using the 240-grit edit, we’ll find a “superfine” editor to add luster and remove any tiny blemishes from our novel. And we’ll pay them very well! My birdfeeder found its way to the bottom of my locker. It was eventually brought home and hung from a shepherd’s hook in the back yard. I think this is where the analogy ends as the next challenge, the next adventure will be in marketing and selling The Method Writers. Which reminds me of an economics class……………..