A Wanderlust Brief!

I'm off again! Leaving the Sea of Cortez for the hills of Tennessee --- it's a rather common anomaly, this wanderlust thing that courses through the veins along with the blood. My wife, sweet Julie Anne, would still be content in that first house of many we've had, but she is such a patient and understanding person --- either that or she is a loon to put up with me and my nomadic impulses.

Thomas Wolfe wrote a novel, "You Can't Go Home Again," and I'm testing his long ago thesis. I was born in East Tennessee near the Kentucky border, back when the times were emotionally charged and the economy was a highfalutin word at which most of us good hill folks just squinted our eyes and kept on plowing the fields and digging up the taters and turnips.

Dianne Gray wrote a book of short stories ("Manslaughter And Other Tears" - they're on amazon now and the Kindle book is FREE. as I write this), one of which really caught my attention... The story is titled, "Corrugated Dreaming" and it's filled with some unbelievably good writing, great analogies, and some kind of human conditions with which I can identify. The Lady Gray is just too good and original, and, if you haven't read her many books, hop to it. Dianne is most certainly one of the best writers of our time.

But I digress!

It's true, all that emotional soup I ate during those Appalachian days must have made for poor digestion all these years --- the family disconnect, the mobility, the tears and the stains. With the books I've written, I suspect I've been trying to find those pieces of me I never could find back in those days. They're there in my books, in the simple characters and plots I build, on and between the lines. I'm quite sure most authors/writers do the same thing. Some are just too darned good, too original, and should be topping everyone's reading charts. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing my books my way --- there are a few in my reading audience and it's growing.

Well, here's the thing, why the move back to Tennessee where some old memories just might cause some soul demolition?

The short answer I've given --- that wanderlust thing!

The longer answer is a bit more complicated, all mixed up in the genes and memories, some gray areas of regret and remorse, some faint idea that maybe I can reconcile some of my life back there where it all started.

It's likely a 'fool's journey' but my commitment is made. Onward to Tennessee! Julie won't be surprised if I'm ready to move again in a couple of years - if that long!

If anyone is reading this and gives a 'hoot and holler,' my e-mail, my blogs, and all my social networking sites will be the same.

One last thing, if anybody can recommend a pill for getting rid of wanderlust. please let me know. I'm really getting too old for these moves. :-)

Please follow me on twitter.com (@brchitwood)
 
My main website/blog is: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com
 
My Wordpress blog: http://thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com

Short bio sketch on: http://www.about.me/brchitwood
 
My nine books (soon to be ten) are at: http://goo.gl/fuxUA 
 
My books are also on amazon.com: http://goo.gl/vYTfR
 
My books are also on amazon.co.uk: http://goo.gl/ScJ1q


                  

I’ve been honored with a nomination for the ‘Very Inspiring Blogger Award’ by Mr. Francis Baraan IV (@MrFrancisBaraan on Twitter) for which I would like to most sincerely thank him. it’s always a pleasure to receive these award nominees but it’s also a bit tedious and time-consuming in fulfilling the requirements that are attached to them. I have been honored with a few of these awards, and, while it takes some time away from my writing and/or maintenance chores of the social networks, it is always gratifying. An ‘Award’ nomination makes one feel validated in some sense for her/his blog observations, for her/his writing in general, makes one feel that there is in her/his possession some talent that is recognized by others. In fact, it might come to a person that this nomination may be the only recognition they will ever get in their writing. If I appear somewhat ‘tongue in cheek,’ forgive me, for it truly is an honor to receive such an award.

Mr. Francis Baraan has a truly lovely blog site and he was also awarded the ‘Very Inspiring Blogger Award.’ It’s my hope that you will visit http://mrfrancisbaraanivblog.wordpress.com. (Please note that the lovely library room in the background of this site is already spoken for by me.) There is a most noble title to this post: THE BIBLIOPHILE CHRONICLES: MOSTLY A LITERARY BLOG — FRANCIS BARAAN ON BOOKS, READING, WRITING, WRITERS, AUTHORS, AND LA DOLCE VITA. Please visit this most worthy wordpress blog and prepare to be impressed. That was my experience, and I’m sure it will be yours.

As with most awards there are some mechanics that go with with acceptance of the nomination. The nominee is to acknowledge the nominator in the most kindest of words, momentarily forgetting the possible disdain he or she is feeling at having to navigate through the laundry list of chores. The nominee is to enumerate seven facts about herself/himself heretofore not necessarily known by the social network community, perhaps even the world. The nominee is also to nominate fifteen other people for the award — again, understanding that any friendships developed with those nominees over the preceding years are likely to go through some sort of purgatorial-like status before amity can return.

I would like to state that my dear friend, Jhobell Kristyl, also nominated me sometime back for this and two other awards, ‘The Reality Blog Award’ and “One Lovely Blog Award.” So, I hope I’m not stepping on the protocols but I’ll handle these generous and wonderful awards together. Please let this be okay with my friends, Francis and JK. I sincerely thank them both for the Award(s).

Also, relative to protocols, I’m changing my nominees format. Since I’m doing the nominating, it seems only proper that I set the requirements. HERE ARE THE REQUIREMENTS FOR MY FIFTEEN NOMINEES: 1) You may or may not acknowledge and thank me for the nomination; 2) You do need in accepting to show the award on your blog; 3) You must reveal seven things about yourselves that heretofore have not seen daylight; 4) THAT’S IT! You may if you wish nominate others for the award (in any number) but it is not mandatory. To recap, thank me if you like, show the Award on your blogs, and reveal in a specific post seven things about yourselves that have not heretofore been known. Simple enough?

Here are the seven revelations about myself, some shameful, some which never should have been revealed:

1) I’m an emotional cripple…not necessarily big news to the people who know me: I cry at heart-rending, death-disease-pending, and maltreated animal books and movies; ergo, I try to stay away from these books and movies. What makes this confession rather ridiculous is that, in some of the books I write (nay, all the books that I write), there are sections where I cried while writing them – and I cry when I re-read them. Guess it stands to reason that an emotional cripple will cry when he’s writing emotional scenes. Know what? That’s not embarrassing to me. In fact, I’m thankful for it. And, instead of blaming my age, I can say that it has always been that way for me.

2) In some ways I’m a Jekyl/Hyde kind of guy – particularly when it comes to the internet and the functions I must perform on it. First of all, an anachronism like me perhaps should not be on the internet. There are so many things I do not know, that HTML stuff, all the widgets, settings, and interneteze. I’m basically a humble guy with a tender heart (as you already know) but there are times when I rage, rant, rave, and come fairly close at times to throwing this laptop into my beautiful Canterra fireplace in front of which I sit posing as a author… Mostly, though, you can rely on my being a sweet, decent, law-abiding human being. (My wife is now looking over my shoulder and laughing full-throttle – at a safe distance, of course!). 

3) I love ‘thin’ milkshakes, not the thick stuff that you need a spoon to drink it (make that, eat it!). However, the milkshake has to have a slow-moving texture, thick enough to know there is ice cream within the ice. What kind, you ask? Thin, Chocolate milkshakes I crave most earnestly in the hot months particularly – made with vanilla ice cream (home-made if possible) and Hershey syrup. (At this point, as she reads these words, I’m giving Julie, my wife, that over my shoulder boyish smile with flickering eye countenance, and she’s not looking too pleased as she goes to the kitchen to pull the blender from the cupboard.)

4) Okay, Julie is not looking over the shoulder at the moment, so I can write this (Oh, sure, I’ll get her ire later!), but here’s the thing: even here in Twilight, a pretty lady, bursting out all over in that itsy bitsy teeny weeny polka dot bikini can still get the old motor running. Now, it’s of course a totally different kind of experience from the ‘young buck’ days – if you get my drift… Naturally, I love to pieces this lovely wife of mine, but, gee whiz, some of the damsels out there in the world today! Whooee! Please understand that this is only a thought process!

5) I’m basically a shy guy but get me around a group of fun-oriented people and I sorta have to show off! It might take a heavily laced drink to get me started (one is about all I can handle these days), but look out, I just might put on a one-man show: sing a few songs I’ve written, dramatize a few moments from the pages of my books… It’s all okay. I might overdo it once in a while, but, usually, the performance is in front of friends who know anyway that I’m going to make an ass out of myself. You see, it’s just me crying for attention! And, I get the attention, but the next day brings some remorse… The way I figure it, like, if I’m lying on the soiled and overused leather sofa of the shrink, I’m getting rid of some junk piled up there in this ego of mine… No real harm done, I’m thinking.

6) I was once a woman-chaser of the worst kind… You will find all of this if you read my memoirs. It’s all rather shameful, I suppose, but I’ve made it this far and just might as well lay it all out so people can decide to hate me, love me, maybe, at least, read me – that is, read my books. Hell, that’s why I wrote them, trying to find pieces of myself that could make some sense of me. The truth is the truth and it’s not going to set me free, but it helps me live a lot better within myself. Women-chasing is frowned upon, but I gotta tell you, I had me some times back in the day… (Oops! Julie’s back with my chocolate milkshake and I gotta get it from her before she pours it all over this graying head of mine!) Love that woman, and I didn’t spill a drop! She loves me. That’s the most warming thought this old mind and body needs to have.

7) This one is not so pretty but might as well put it out there. My mortality is something that lingers a spell now and then. It’s not so much I fear death. Hell, there are times when I would almost welcome it, particularly when this or that body part is not working or at some point has needed to be replaced. It’s the ‘legacy’ thing more than anything. I would like the people I’ve loved, my Mom, my wife, my kids, grand kids, greats, grandparents, my good friends, even my Dad and including some of those women I chased once upon a time, that they really were loved and they meant a lot to me. There was no cheapness in my love affairs. They all had worth. There were mountains I could have, should have, climbed and did not. There was so much more I could have given the world. There was much too much selfishness in my living, not enough giving of myself, not enough accomplishments that would match whatever talents I was supposed to have… So there it is. It all did not get done. BUT, there are nine books, a tenth being written (very slowly, he says), and maybe they will count for something. Maybe someone can benefit from them. MAYBE I can see me better with the books I have written. SO, mortality, death, does not scare me… I just wish that I could have given the world more and maybe not taken so much from it… It was likely all ordained, so it is what it is! I continue to enjoy life. I have family who love me, friends who care about me. GUESS when I think about it, I have a pretty good legacy as it is… AND,a big plus! I have my faith! It has undergone some altering since my Appalachian days of youth, but it is there. Yes, God, it is there! After all these orbits, You await…

Okay, that’s over!

Here are my fifteen nominees for ‘The Very Inspiring Blogger Award.’ You are all beautiful in your blogs and deserve this award. I’m just hopeful you won’t send me ‘hate mail’ and become too unruly over all of this.  Actually, it’s good to network… You just might find a viral track for a book or two.  Although it is not incumbent on you to list fifteen people for the Award (you can list any number, or, none at all), I am listing here fifteen deserving people, and, again, all they need to do is display the Award on their blogs and reveal seven things about themselves in a post — acknowledge me in your post if you like. Just remember, I’m an emotional ‘dude’ and would appreciate your mention of me.

1) John Dolan - @JohnDolanAuthor (Twitter) –http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com

2) James McCallister - @jumeirajames (Twitter) – http://i-nation.me

3) Linda Howard Urbach - @LindaUrbach (Twitter) –http://www.madamebovarysdaugher.com

4) Eden Baylee - @edenbaylee (Twitter) – http://edenbaylee.com

5) Diane Strong - @DianeIStrong (Twitter) – http://dianestrong.wordpress.com

6) Cameron Garriepy - @camerongarriepy (Twitter) –http://camerondgarriepy.com

7) Dianne Gray - @Zigotide (Twitter) – http://diannegray.au.com

8) Mary Meddlemore - @MaryMeddlemore (Twitter) – http://marymeddlemore1.wordpress.com

9) Rick Mallery - @RickMallery (Twitter) – http://rickmallery.wordpress.com

10) Sheris Bessi (Eternally Me) – @sherisbessi (Twitter) – http://theothersideofugly.com

11) Seumas Gallacher - @seumasgallacher (Twitter) – http://seumasgallacher.wordpress.com

12) Dianne Harman - @DianneDHarman (Twitter) –http://DianneHarmon.com

13) Katherine L. Logan - @KathyLLogan (Twitter) –http://katherinellogan.com

14) Virginia Lee - @dagonsblood (Twitter) – https//dagonsblood.wordpress.com

15) Arthur Crandon - @arthurcrandon (Twitter) – http://www.bit.ly/TfzLl2

If you would like to know more about me, here are some links:

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA

http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com

http://www.facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

http://www.amazon.com (billy ray chitwood)

http://www.amazon.co.uk (billy ray chitwood)

      A lucky man I have been. A lucky man I am. I get to be old now and watch the rest of the world in a blur of uncertainty, unrest, unified, and not unified. With all my mistakes upon this spiraling speck of universe, with all my unfulfilled dreams and wishes, with all the modest achievements, I can bring no ultimate wisdom and leave no notable legacy. But, here is what I believe has sustained me along all the orbits made on this magical place we call Earth. Luck has of course sustained me, but the most exquisite and precious gift of sustenance has come from Love.

"The Bible" Spectacular just concluded on television recently. The 'Special' was watched by millions and it was ignored by millions. Raised in an area of the United States often referred to as the Bible Belt, Appalachia, Hillbilly Country, and other names that could easily be determined unflattering by many, I watched "The Bible" with special interest. All through my early years of lower class mobility and family separation, there was a bewilderment that only a child can know and have difficulty in expressing, the anxious feelings, the fear, the frustration, the great unknowable elements that controlled his life. There are two indelible memories that have remained in my mind with some relative clarity for all the years and have convinced me of their subtle manipulations of my life, my wanderings, and to the ultimate conclusion that Love must be the most precious gift.

Number one memory, there were the family disconnects, the broken home, the terrifying and ugly fights of Mom and Dad when they were together (all too brutally one-sided against my Mom). The memory is so clear, sitting, paralyzed by my fear, too small, too scared and stupefied to make any kind of difference, so smothered by the invisible walls that surrounded me. My sister was there in her own little hellish enclosure during these fight scenes but I was totally immersed in this electrified frenzy within me. The facts would later settle within me that these fights were the result of the times, the Appalachian poverty, no jobs, the economy, health conditions... My sister and I would spend time in state institutions until the times got better. In these institutions we would see the good, the bad, and further bewilderment. It is perhaps impossible to quantify the effects this number one memory brought to my later life.

Number two memory, there were my Southern Baptist church experiences that came during those times when my Mom would make another attempt to reunite us as a family. There were the loud sermons that conveyed to me all the many sins that would keep me out of heaven if I did not repent from my evil ways (it seemed that the preacher man was talking directly to me although there were hundreds seated in the big congregation). There was not the paralysis that overtook me during the ugly fight scenes, but there was a heavy emotional magnet pulling me to the front of the church at altar call time. "Just As I Am" and "Let's All Gather At The River" and other beautiful hymns were sung by the choir and by the congregation throughout the big church, and there went I, this elementary schoolboy, down the aisle with tears on my cheeks to confess to sins I knew little about... I just somehow knew that I must go and be saved. Memory number two would contribute to the enormous sense of guilt my later life would carry

These two memories have in so many ways shaped my life, have driven me to find love and family. What do these simple memories say about 'matching and mixing' and about a world anomaly? What do they have to do with the TV Spectacular, "The Bible"?

My memories are not so unique... The world offers up so many memories like my own, some much more terrible and laced with the darkest edges of evil. "The Bible" TV Spectacular reminds me that the world has been fighting since the recording of it started in our oral and written histories. The world has known poverty and family disconnects by the millions. Church leaders still sermonize about the wicked ways of man. Today, we have more sophistication to go with our wars and with our family fighting and feuding. What is relevant today and through the ages is the incapacity of people to find peace within themselves and among the nations... Pretty tough when you think about it: different languages, different cultures, different skin colors. There is so much mistrust, envy, and hate to be found in any city, town, village, and country. AND, there is Love...

Love! Faith! Hope! Love is the greatest gift of all, but it won't come to everyone in the right proportions during anyone's lifetime...that is, with all of our differences, how could it be otherwise?

When I look back on my Southern Baptist experiences and my family disconnects, somehow I know that Love and Faith have to become something that each individual finds on her/his own. My God-view has been altered since my childhood, but I still have my faith, fragile though it has been. I believe the Bible has truth and that different interpretations can be drawn from its pages. I believe in Jesus, that He lived, that He performed the acts attributed to Him, that He died for our sins, that He was resurrected, that all who believe in Him will live again after death. My early experiences in the Southern Baptist environment does not portray my God of today, nor does it make me feel cheated. Forgive the truism but we all do not believe the same. My faith was not destroyed by my childhood. My childhood experiences and my life up to now have simply clarified my faith for me. I cannot look at the orderly turn of each orbit of our Earth, at the Sun, the Moon, the planets and stars, and make a choice as to the 'chicken/egg' conundrum of our existence. I cannot look at the precision of a nine-month birth cycle and determine that we exist because of a 'big bang.' No, I have Faith that we exist for a reason other than just living, making our marks, and dying. Yes, we must exist in a matched and mixed world of happy and sad, good and evil, confusion and doubt, but, up to the very last mortal breath that escapes us, even in that last fleeting second, we can see the eternal light of God.

I believe that Love and God are somehow synonymous, and that tug at the soul that brings a tear of sadness at a sad book and movie is a tender reminder of Love at a most spiritual level. My search for Faith and Love took many turns, right and wrong. I was lucky to find Faith and Love a number of times, only to misplace Them. But that search has led me to this point in the world anomaly. This post is not about corrupting anyone's belief system, not about converting anyone to Faith, Love, and God. You are superfluously allowed your own turns, right and wrong, in life. It's just my hope that we all keep steering our lives toward Faith and Love. In that striving may we find our peace.

http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (IAN)

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://twitter.com/brchitwood (@brchitwood)

http://facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

http://goo.gl/BNbAM (Goodreads page)

http://www.goo.gl/tdRZD (amazon.com - USA)

http://www.goo.gl/pG2Fr (amazon.co.uk)

The title represents an intriguing question. Obviously it is a question posed by an incurable romantic, a question that can occupy many minutes and hours of the day. The context in which the question is posed has to do with those of us who live our lives not so much by genetic and environmental formulae but by the seat of our pants, those of us who have some insatiable nomadic quality that pushes us over the next mountain, over the next body of water, or over the next arid desert. The context has to do with that indefinable impulse within us that makes us ‘moths to light’ or ‘creatures of instinct and passion.’ I’m really a simple man but somehow I seem to be making this sound complicated…

Here’s the deal! I’m sharing me with you. I’m currently living a lovely life in a penthouse on the beautiful Sea of Cortez. Now, as I write, I look out my big windows at the beach and cobalt brilliance of ’Cortez.’ The sun is slowly making its western arc thanks to our spinning orb. There are sail boats out there, jet skis, occasional yachts, and people adorn the sands dreaming whatever dreams within them. I’m living here near three years now and I’m restless, somehow needing and wanting a new venue, perhaps going backward in time to the state where I was born – Tennessee. What! Give up this sea, this constant sun, and return to the hills of my youth? Am I nuts? No, not nuts, just some inner wiring that makes me long and yearn for where I’ve been and/or what I’ve had – that nomadic thing, that ’wisp in the wind’ thing, that ‘moth to light’ thing.

Maybe it’s because that opportunity is there. I can move to the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee, exchanging what I have here for the four acres of hardwood trees, a canyon, and a big lovely three-story log house. It’s compelling. The urge is strong…to be going back to the state where it all began for me, and not necessarily in the best ways. The property is near the most exquisite Sequatchie Valley, a long and narrow valley that stretches far and parallels the Cumberland Plateau of the Appalachian Mountains. That current within me that sends these strong romantic impulses cannot be quelled. What do I do? But, that begs the question to which the answer is already likely known. If the promises are met by the Tennessee person involved, it will in all likelihood become a reality.

So it becomes a reality. I leave the sea for Tennessee and the Cumberland Plateau. What then? The ’what then’ is rather predictable for an incurable romantic, is it not? The romantic will come to miss his Sea of Cortez, the constant sun, and the far distant southern horizon. He will feel new wanderlust urges in his senses. It is the way of a romantic.

An incurable romantic knows not about the ways of practicality! 

Please check me and my nine books out on: http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and http://www.about.me/brchitwood

Please follow me on twitter.com (@brchitwood) and at http://www.facebook.com/billyray.chitwood

There are some things we feel, instinctively know, that we hold dear and very few counter positions can sway those special holdings. I'm talking about the feelings we have about the books we read, our children, our faith, family values, friendships, movies, political views, television shows, and other venues of thought that generally fall under the 'subjective' heading. These are things shaped by the merging of our childhood and adult hemispheres, feelings and thoughts that are inveterate, solidified, and otherwise likely not to undergo major alterations during our lives. Yes, there will be room for modification to these basic parts of us but, in most instances, they will speak of who we are to those people who might care to know us.

No big startling revelations in the foregoing paragraph. You know of what I write here. These determining factors bring us our world communities, our caste systems, our classes that define supposedly where we belong in the hierarchy of groups. Some of us are not as lucky as others, perhaps born into poverty, wealth, or somewhere in between. Some of us don't get the luck of the draw on that intelligence quotient chart. It is all well and good that each of us has our very own unique DNA network, but we will find our ways into the groups in which we apparently belong. Sure, there are those in the poverty group who are blessed with a promising IQ and have a burning desire to move into another group. There are those in the wealthy group who do not get an accompanying IQ that is promising, but they are less likely to go to another group. There are those in all the groups who are handicapped in some way. Some are skinny and stay skinny. Some have a propensity for weight gain and with some exceptions, stay overweight. There is some universally unwritten codex for determining who among us is cute, handsome, pretty, and who is not so. Funny, the way this programming came, the evolution from ape to man or the intelligent creation that places us where we are. We are born as equals perhaps but we don't stay that way.

When I hear, read, and/or see something spectacular that I don't understand like space/time continuum theories, galaxies, universes, black holes, splitting atoms, generally the mathematical and scientific stuff, I'm really out of my league - or, my group. I'm dumbfounded and fascinated by the world of cyberspace and all the technological advances, by quantum physics, by the rapid doubling of knowledge, by parallel worlds, by the 'Star War' movies, by the digitally enhanced Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarentino films, and by some of the marvelous books that envision worlds that I might or might not want to inhabit... Aah, the things I don't know! We truly do have geniuses who give our lives adventure, excitement, and new knowledge. But, gee, it is also truly staggering the things I don't know.

I guess maybe it comes down to this. In all that programming by God (I'm in that group!), it's like He gives us this big rock of knowledge and each of us chip off a bit of this huge boulder and that becomes our main interest in life. Einstein with his chip gives us that theory of relativity thing. The Greek, Euclides, with his chip gives us his Mathematical theories. Michelangelo takes a large chunk of that rock and gives us Art with his Italian Renaissance brilliance - like, the man does it all as an architect, an engineer, a painter, a poet, a sculptor! Bill Gates and Steve Jobs (recently departed) with their chips off the rock of knowledge add so much to our devilishly exciting world of the internet.

With my chip, what am I giving? I write blog posts, books, poetry, and songs. Poverty is where I begin my journey. Along my way, there are many mistakes. There is membership in that aforementioned Middle group, and I don't quite make it to that Wealthy status. It is my belief that God did give me a gift, much of it frittered away over time in gin mills and romantic pursuits, and I'm now trying to make up for the lost time. Whether my humble writing appeals to the hungry readers of our E-world day remains to be seen. My books are simple reads without a lot of complicated and convoluted plots, but I do promise the reader that pieces of me are there on and between the lines.

It is truly remarkable this new digital world in which I find myself, and I'm planning to stay awhile. I'm slowly adapting to the internet world, immersing myself in the merry madness of it all. I'm even giving away free books on amazon, one at a time. This next five days my first fictional memoir is FREE at amazon - fictional but over ninety percent accurate. The title: "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son." The true non-fictional brother to this book is just recently out (shamefully, 100% true): "What Happens Next? A Life's True Tale." These two books have seven more of my fictional books as company on amazon. For the next few weeks (for five days on amazon each week) my plan is to give away a free book.

It's my observation that this is a great time for readers. It is also a great time for authors and writers of all genres. Possibilities are unlimited. What amazes me is the incredible talent that is among us. What utterly confounds me in my reading is discovering the things that I don't know.

Please follow me on twitter (@brchitwood), check me out and scroll the 'home' page on my main website/blog at http://www.goo.gl/TeQpP. There's a quick bio sketch and a number of links at http://www.about.me/brchitwood. I belong to the following author groups: ASMSG, IAN, AHA, and TBSU. You can browse my books at http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA or scroll down the 'home' page of my main website/blog (above).

Charles Wells, Wellston Publishing, a good southern writer and twitter friend of mine, has given me permission to post a little story for you. It’s a story that hopefully you will enjoy and appreciate the homespun humor of it all. Charles and I are from the south, with me a bit more ancient than Charles, but his story here rattled my rib cage and I wanted to share it. Born and bred in Appalachia many years ago, I love the people, the purity, the simplicity of life in my native south.

We people in the south get a lot of teasing about the way we talk, our drawls and our ‘you all’s.’ A lot of  jokes have been created at our expense — we’re right up there with the Polish folks! It’s all okay for people to laugh at us southerners. We laugh at ourselves. Our gentility is fairly well known world-wide and gets its share of teasing. But most of the fun-poking goes to our hill people, to our rural folks who eschew formal education to work hard and play hard, who plow their fields and harvest some of the finest food for our breakfast, lunch, and dinner tables, who strum their guitars, ukuleles, banjos, fiddles, and ‘juice harps’ for a mix of music that comes straight from their hearts and souls. Maybe some of these good people get a little push from the home-brewed ‘white lightning’ and the beer they drink.

Now, the following ‘scholarly essay’ from my buddy, Charles, deals with the more colorful of our southern brothers and sisters. It’s my hope that it doesn’t offend anyone because surely we can laugh at each other. It's what makes this big country of ours such a wonderful place. We have freedom here. We can poke a little fun at college professors, CEOs, Presidents, Vice Presidents, government workers, people from the East, West, Midwest, North, and South. They're likely getting few and far between, but I'm betting we still open doors for the ladies down south. That doesn't necessarily mean that we don't believe in equality for women. It just means that's the way most of us were raised in that part of the country. Today, though, we're poking a little fun at my people, the southern 'rednecks.'

Sit back, take a swig of the suds, and read Charles Wells' account of “Billy Joe’s Night Out.”

                                                     They Call It Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer and Baptist Church
                     
      
There's a small town about 15 miles from where I live in Georgia. I'm not certain if it has a legal name of incorporation or not but I am sure the people who live there, all 119 of them, could care less what you call it. After all, it's their community and they love it. For writing about it, I'm going to call the town by the name most everyone around these parts uses, and that's simply, "Bubba's" but that's the short name. The full one is "Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer, and Baptist Church".

The reason everyone calls it Bubba's is probably because nobody has ever given this little area of God's earth an official title of any kind. Bubba's has been around about as long as Budweiser beer and the name sort of just blended on over to the location.      

Bubba's is located on a two lane gravel top County maintained road and has the worldly reputation as the origination of the old joke about "don't blink or you'll miss it". Every place is famous for something and that is Bubba's eruption to fame in that joke.

Bubba's main street is about as long as a four lane interstate highway is wide. There are no city services beyond volunteer fire and county sheriff but the unspoken reputation of the area protects these people well enough. The last fire that happened was one night when Billy Joe got drunk and then got hungry so he went on home from Bubba's Bar. Now don't get all fussy about drinking and driving because Billy Joe took a cab, which really pissed off Carlton the man who owned it, but that's another story for another time.

Anyhow, old Billy Joe got home and left the cab in the driveway with the motor and the meter running, then went inside his double wide trailer at 2 AM and proceeded to fry up a mess of catfish. His wife, June Ann, was sound asleep. She'd been up late watching a Honey Boo Boo marathon on TV so she didn't hear him come in. Billy Joe got the fish grease nice and hot then dropped in three cats he'd caught the day before at the river. What he did next is where the fire came from. He passed out cold on the floor in front of the stove and that hog lard grease got so hot it finally caught fire.

Fortunately, June Ann woke up smelling the smoke and realized the trailer was on fire. She grabbed her two children and some of their clothes, and then took them outside near the road to safety. She pointed a finger at them and snapped, "Now ya'll stay right here and don't move or I'll set your britches on fire, you hear me?"

When the kids nodded, she went running back inside the smoke filled house where she gathered up and saved her two cats and a parakeet from sure fire death. She got them outside with the children and then back into the trailer she went again. With much great physical effort and power, she managed to drag and roll her mama's old sewing machine out the front door, into the yard, and safely away from the burning structure.

By that time, the volunteer fire department arrived and told her to stay put and don't go no place. They'd do the rest. June Ann yelled at them, "Just make sure you run down the hall to my bedroom and get my daddy's old shotgun out of there before it burns up".

One fireman asked, "Well where your husband, Billy Joe and what's Carlton's Cab doing parked here in the yard with the motor running?"

Waving one hand toward the mobile home, June Ann said, "Hell I don’t know but I think I saw him lyin' on the floor near the stove but don't bother waking him up. He gets pretty mean after he's been drinking all night."

The fireman nodded then raced into the house. One of them found Billy Joe passed out near the stove and carried him outside to safety. June Ann told him to go put him back since that seemed to be where he wanted to be but they refused. Fact is Billy Joe owed Andy (the fireman) ten bucks and he wasn't about to let that slip past.

About five minutes and a living room sofa in flames later, a medic showed up and gave Billy Joe some oxygen out of a bottle. Pretty soon, Billy Joe coughed, gagged, spit out a pile of black soot and most of the last hours worth of Budweiser. Then he looked up at his home and asked with tears in his eyes, "Can they save the tires at least? They almost brand new."

The last crime that happened anywhere near Bubba's was the night Carlton's cab got stolen right out from in front of the Bar where he parked it most days. I don't really see no need to describe that incident to the readers though. I mean, ya'll have been paying attention so far, ain't you? 

So that's the story behind Bubba's Bait, Tackle, Beer, and Baptist Church. Maybe next time I write about it I'll go over some of the finer points of the neighborhood. Might even talk about the world famous Redneck Games held a few miles away from there. It's interesting I promise you.


Catch up with Charles on twitter @Charles_E_Wells or email at chasw@wellston.org


                                                                    Charles E. Wells - Wellston Publishing

Remembering that a picture is worth a thousand words, I offer this excerpt from Book 1 of 'The Bailey Crane Series'. There are five books in the series:

Book 1: "An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1)

Book 2: "Satan's Song - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 2)

Book 3: "The Brutus Gate - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 3)

Book 4: "Murder In Pueblo Del Mar ' A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 4)

Book 5: "A Soul Defiled - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 5)

"An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1) is rather close to my heart as it was inspired by the brutal death of a personal friend. The book is fictional but some of the crime data was taken from newspaper accounts of the day... the two principal murders (one in Phoenix, AZ and the other in Washington, DC) actually happened. The story, my words and plot lines
are from my imagination, are not intended to cast aspersions on anyone as to guilt, are simply my way of paying homage to a young mother and actress who was taken so horribly from her family and friends.

Here is the excerpt from "An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1):


                                                           Six

                                            Monday, September 4


Roy Martin's private office on the twentieth floor of Arizona Bank Building
afforded a panoramic northern view of Phoenix, west to east. The great sweep of
space beckoned the eye to see forever, awakening the senses.

Remembering the green lush mountains of my native Tennessee and its own
special beauty, my mind made its comparative notes: the incredible mountain
trails of the Great Smokies, the great gorges and verdant valleys of that hill
country with this spacious land of sun and desolate desert. There had been in
Tennessee those chronic cloudy days to dampen a mood and marvelous sunny days
that brought a multitude of fun activities. Here in the desert, there was a
consistent pattern of sunny days and that spatial quality that overwhelmed my
senses … made me wonder what psychological messages might be hidden in my
obsessive love affair with the desert.

It was time to put the comparative thoughts away, to concentrate on the work
at hand.

Spread across Roy's small conference table were several documents, some
bills, a check book, and a cup of coffee. Roy wanted me to familiarize myself
with the Cooper estate, pay the bills as they came in, and catch any seeming
inconsistencies that might appear. The court had approved my executor role in
the estate, and I was a bit nonplussed in the sense that, here I sat, with the
ability to manage a deceased man's assets, to have legal authority to write
checks, even, made out to myself. It was all rather new for me, and, in some
respects, a bit daunting.

At the moment I was scanning a limited partnership printout, a real estate
transaction that involved some land west of Phoenix. My eyes stopped abruptly
when they encountered the name of Steve Langford. He was listed on the document
as a general partner. There was that annoying, tantalizing thought again. Just a
coincidence perhaps, but one that sent a mild shock wave through me. All the
thought given to Cathy's murder and Steve Langford, and there in front of me is
his name on the Cooper document. It had to be no big deal. No fateful nonsense.
It was just a stupid coincidence.

The discovery had most definitely gotten my attention, and, because I knew
nothing about the technical aspects of a real estate limited partnership, I made
a note to ask Roy for an explanation. At the moment he was in Lenny's private
office. This could wait.

There were some bills which needed to be paid, so I wrote out the checks,
signed them, and put them in the proper envelopes along with the billing. There
were some sizable funds also to be deposited to the estate. The deposit slips
were prepared. Then, I turned my attention to other papers relative to the
estate. There was nothing unusual, nothing that appeared inconsistent to me. In
fact, I was impressed with the wise scope of the Cooper portfolio, even envied
the magnitude of the estate and the sound management that had been given.

This whole business made me do some wishful thinking. Maybe one day my own
estate would be of such size and worth. There were now only a few bucks in
savings, a little raw land, and an annuity. My spending was too spontaneous and
reckless, too much devoted to living the good life. This Cooper guy knew what he
was doing. He was big time wealthy. My financial situation was okay and would
get better, but Mr. Cooper did impress me with his business acumen.

Hey, I thought, that's why they make 'thirty-one flavors.' Some people were
successful as bankers, financiers, entrepreneurs, and workaholics. Some were
like me: didn't overdo the 'work thing;' left some time, lots of time, for fun
and frivolity; worked just enough to make those ends meet. People like me did a
considerable amount of procrastination, and we did a lot of daydreaming. Perhaps
it was a phase people like me went through. One day, there would likely be some
second guessing: why, oh, why didn't I do this or that? Hopefully, not. Some of
us have to smell those flowers.

There was always a price paid for what one did ... someone very important
must have said that. The corporate CEO works sixteen hours a day for twenty
years to be on top of the heap, then discovers his kids are grown and he has an
all of a sudden urge to do things that would have been better done twenty years
ago. Perspective must not uniquely mean a mental view that fits all sizes.
Perspective must be relative to a person's time and place, the DNA, environment …
oh, Bailey-boy, my alter ego speaks, please, stop with the philosophical
digression, already!

The Cooper estate business had me thinking too much. Knowing myself, twenty
years from now, I'll still be full of my bible belt guilt, second guessing my
choices, and still making a goodly share of goofs. Just what flavor is that?
Vanilla? Strawberry? Pistachio? It is what it is!

The office door opened and closed. Roy sat next to me at the conference table
and asked how I was doing.

"Doing fine. This is all just a little new to me … makes me think too much.
Did have a little shock a moment ago when I saw Steve Langford's name on one of
these real estate limited partnership documents. Been doing so much thinking
about Cathy and Steve, it was just a strange coincidence."

"Well, that's his business," Roy responded. "He does land deals and other
kinds of syndication. He's really a wheeler dealer, an operator."

Roy may not have intended it, but his last comment came across as
disparaging. So, I asked: "Operator? As in scam, or, just a good honest hustling
entrepreneur?"

Roy chuckled. "More, the latter. So far as I know, Steve's all legal. But any
guy who hustles as aggressively as Steve will sometimes be on the fringe of
legality. It's funny but I remember Cooper raising some questions about a
particular land deal. He had heard something, just general, not specific, that
led him to believe there could be some impropriety. I gave him my honest
appraisal, told him these deals were being done in Arizona all the time and most
were in step with current statutes. Of course, I told him that things like
physical description of land, legal definitions as to numbers of partners and so
on had to be within the purview of those statutes. There was some changes made
to Cooper's satisfaction and the deal went through." Roy retrieved an ashtray
from the desk and lit a cigarette.

"Well, I know precious little about these things It just gave me pause to see
his name there. My problem, Roy, is that I don't somehow trust that guy. He
seems nice enough when I run into him during the business day, but when he's had
several drinks he changes. Hell, for that matter, I guess we all change when
we're drinking. It's just that Pam remembers some bad occasions when she and
Cathy lived together, and it got me to thinking and analyzing too much." The
coffee had gotten cold, and I declined a refill.

Roy said, "Cathy probably got very unlucky and was at the wrong place at the
wrong time. There was probably some drug-crazed hippie-type hanging out around
the school. Or, maybe someone from the apartment complex had been keeping an eye
on her. Did you see Willis this morning?"

"No, heading there after leaving you." It occurred to me that no one called
Willis by his first name, Herman ... on reflection, guess I would prefer Willis
to Herman, as well.

"By now," Roy went on, "Willis ought to have a thick file on Cathy's murder.
Maybe he's got something solid by now. Seems to me Steve has too much smarts to
kill someone, but who the hell knows, with the way things are these days? Hey,
I've an appointment coming in. You pretty much through with Cooper's stuff for
now?"

"All done. I'm out of here. See you later."

The way things are these days!

Going down in the elevator, I thought about that phrase. How were things these days?
Much different than ten or twenty years ago? Much different than ten or
twenty years from now? Did our lives really change all that much? Or, did we
just get bigger and more visible? More visible because of technology? We can get
from one end of the country to the other end so fast these days. People are
moving more frequently, mixing up the 'salad bowl' ingredients with anxieties
and frustrations. Mass media blasts are assaulting us. 'Right' and 'wrong' was
still 'right' and 'wrong' in any time, in any generation. The genes and
chromosomes are still there. The mix! Was that the difference? If there was a
difference.

Ugly and brutal murders happened in other areas. Richard Speck! Jack, the
Ripper! Bluebeard! The mad Chicago doctor who had his own special torture
chamber for his grisly meetings with young women!

"Whoa! Stop the thought machine," yelling at myself as I drove out of the
underground garage on my way to see Herman Willis. He was a fellow police
officer and a friend for whom I had a great deal of respect. My tendency was to
over think things … really! Moi?


END OF EXCERPT...   Go to http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and scroll down the 'Home' page and preview my books. The buying spots are listed after a short preview of each book. Click on the blog section on the 'Home' page if you would like to read my recent posts.

Further links: http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com

http://www.twitter.com/brchitwood

http://www.goodreads.com

For an author interview by author John Dolan, visit GALERICULATE at http://ow.ly/fVZIF

“What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale” (An excerpt)
Posted on December 10, 2012 by  billyraychitwood1      
      
Like a picture that is worth a thousand words, it’s my thinking that an excerpt from an author’s book can reveal enough pro and/or con for a reader to determine whether or not he/she wants to read further. So, here’s an excerpt from my newest book, “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale,” a non-fiction sketch of my life. It is a relatively short book which covers my Southern Baptist roots, the state of my faith, and some not so savory confessions of how I have lived my life. The book might very well be deserving of any label one wishes to put on it, but it is disgustingly honest and true.

Here is an excerpt from the Early Adult section of the book… 

The couple resides in a second floor apartment on a lovely tree-lined
street in Williamsport. It is Sunday afternoon, and Steven Ray is sleeping in
his crib just off the living room. The wife is ironing. The husband is listening
to classical music and day dreaming, idly chatting time to time with his wife.
It is a soft afternoon somewhere between bliss and boredom.

Somehow, the conversation turns to the first month of their marriage when
the wife left Washington, D. C. for Williamsport to await her husband’s Navy
discharge. The wife is telling him about an affair she had with an old high
school boyfriend during that month she was away. It is an attempt to purge
herself of the guilt of that not so long ago tryst. The wife is wrought with the
pain of the revelation but she must be done with her guilt.

The man’s world suddenly caves in on him and he is lost in the frenzied
twittering quake of his neuronal wiring. The man is immobilized by the wife’s
confession, hardly able to move and speak. He is mindful that the time frame of
his wife’s unfaithfulness happens to coincide with the birth date of Steven Ray
and this fact adds to the anxious frenzy within his mind.

Hardly able to breathe, the distressed man leaves the apartment and his
sobbing wife. He wanders to houses of in-laws and leaves abruptly, leaving them
to ponder his dazed, pained expressions. He moves mechanically as though willed
to robotic, mindless action. He drives aimlessly and finally sits on a bench in a park,
trying to get his brain to work, trying to figure out what he must do.

The thoughts tumble down to him: ‘Is he my son? Should there be a blood
test? Do I leave? Do I stay? Where do I go? What do I do?’ He finds himself
opening his memory pages to the feelings he has when his father beats his
mother. It is that same kind of feeling of helplessness and hopelessness.

The man feels lost like that little boy of yesterday.

He returns to the second floor apartment. His wife’s eyes are red and
swollen from her crying and she is so very sorry. For whatever reason, baby in
the crib, the honesty of her confession, her sobbing wish for forgiveness, or
the simple expediency of the moment, the man forgives his wife and stays. He
simply finds it easier to capitulate, to be done with it, than to continue with
the aberrations of his mind. It seems he is an emotional cripple, unable to
handle the traumatic matters that enter his space. It is his wont to place the
blame for his inability to handle stress on his mobile and uncertain past. Is it
time for the shrink’s sofa? No, he will not give in to that.

Strangely, life is fairly good for the couple until a Sunday afternoon
gathering at Lycoming Creek’s edge in Montoursville. It is a peaceful spot where
families gather, pull their cars to the water’s edge for washing, allow their
children to wade in the shallow waters, have their picnic lunches. It is a wide
creek, and the mother-in-law’s cabin sets among the trees some hundred yards
across from where the families, cars, and kids are gathered.

A beautiful day is about to get very ugly…

That dreadful ill fated Sunday afternoon begins with all the family
oriented activities the man would want. He drinks beer with his men in-laws. The
men are gathering, lounging outside on soft comfortable chairs, looking across
the creek at the families on the other side of the river. He listens to the men
tell of their different job experiences and participates with his occasional
anecdote laced with humor.

The sun shines in a near cloudless sky, and the women bring their plates
of goodies out and spread them on the picnic table for the men to prepare and
eat at their leisure. It is the sort of day the man has always factored into his
vision of family purpose and unity. He sits with baby Steven on his lap,
alternating his adult talk with baby talk.

The man’s wife sees across the creek a family she knows, takes baby
Steven from his lap, and walks through the shallow water to the other side. The
man watches as the wife sweetly engages a young couple in conversation there at
water’s edge. A peculiar sensation hits him and at once he somehow knows that
his wife is talking to the man who could be the father of his son.

The man sits, his mind filling with accusatory, hateful thoughts. He is
lost to all conversations around him. He is riveted to the moment and the
building storm within him.

The wife and Steven shortly return, and there is a confrontation. He
cannot deny his own disturbing thoughts and must know if he is correct in his
presumptions. His wife tells him the truth. It is the old boyfriend with whom
she had the previous January affair. She does not feel that her husband has a
right to question her innocent move to say hello and show off her son. She does
not give any priority to the husband’s own perception of yet another betrayal.
She feels she has done nothing wrong in saying hello to an old boyfriend and his
wife.

The words are cross, sharp, designed to hurt. There is no stifling
anxiety now for the man, just red-hot anger. The husband abruptly and with
little fanfare leaves the hillside retreat. He motors away from the family
gathering. He is not sure where he is going but he knows he must be away. The
harsh words between the couple and the quick revving engine of his car driving
away are not lost on the in-law family gathering. Except for baby Steven crying,
all is quiet on the hillside.

Clad in a white t-shirt, dungarees, and sock-less brown penny loafers, he
goes to a military club recently joined. It is a private drinking and eating
club for veterans situated in South Williamsport. There the sourly disposed man
drinks away the afternoon, gets rowdy, surly, becomes obnoxious with some
patrons, and is asked to leave. It is dusk. He is drunk. He is unsteady and
sorely without the faculties he needs to drive his car.

After he crosses the bridge into Williamsport and turns onto the street
where he lives, he drives into some parked cars along the curb, damaging three.
He is less than a block from home. He is still inebriated but stunned back to
some semblance of awareness.

He sits at the curb as police come and a crowd gathers. He fights with a
policeman when the latter tries to put him in a cruiser and take him to jail. He
is clubbed by the cop just above the right eye. Now, his t-shirt and pants are
covered with the dirt and blood of the scuffle.

He finds himself for the first time in his life in a jail cell, and as 
his sobriety slowly returns to him it might just as well be hell. His mind
begins with the scenarios. Some are woefully unclear in the focusing. He sits on
the hard cot in the small enclosure, his head throbbing with pain and
uncertainty. With his head bowed, he relives the hours of the Sunday afternoon,
the act by his wife he perceives as betrayal, the military club drinking as
plain stupid, and the ramming of the parked cars, the cop fight, as priceless in
‘Keystone Comic’ hilarity. He is not laughing, however. He is in a particular
black abyss of his own making.

The man mentally shovels on his guilt, plays the pity games, and
self-decrees that his life is over. He stands at the bars of his cell and weakly
yells at the jailer on night duty, pleads to be let out of his claustrophobic
nightmare. The jailer is kind to the man, tells him that morning will come soon,
that everything will eventually work out…

This ends the excerpt from “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale.” Should
you care to read the entire book, please visit amazon.com (US and UK) and/or my
website/blog and scroll down the ‘Home’ page to my books. There you will find
the links for purchasing the book — paperback, kindle and/or other e-book
formats. Here is the link to my Website/Blog: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

Guess I write quite a bit about my feelings, about my life and times. Thought I would allow a small portion from one of my books to do the 'talking' in this post... The following is a section from 'The Way Station' (a euphemism for a Care Facility) in my book, "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections From An Appalachian Son." Prentice Paul Hiller is recovering from a complicated hip surgery, meets and bonds with a former Clinical Psychologist, Greta Fogel. Over the weeks of teasing and mental jousting, Greta has encouraged Prentice to write about his life and times, suggesting that it might be not only good therapy for him but that the end product should be a great read...


EXCERPT - from "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" by Billy Ray Chitwood:


Having just settled in with my laptop, Greta came into the sun room. Without too much preamble, I moved the laptop to her lap, with the cursor set to start on the last two sections. "See what you think of these two sections," I said with a doubtful expression, "I'm ambivalent. Don't know if I went too overboard."

It took some time for her to read the sections. She paused time and again in very thoughtful poses.

When she was finished, she asked: "You want to talk now or later? Want me to leave you so you can write?"

"No, let's talk! First, Dorie seems really nice," I said.

"She's a really good lady. I'm very impressed. You're going to like her." She sat on the wicker chair near the window. Greta was wearing a lovely lavender sweater and beige pants outfit plus a new hairdo. Her eyes glowed with the combination.

"I already do. We had a chance to visit when she got here. She's a version of you, really!"

"Don't know about that, but I like her and I'm glad you do..." She paused for a second. "Shall we talk about these last two sections?"

"Really! You want to talk about the last two sections? Why do you think I shoved the laptop on your lap? Of course, sweet lady, let's talk about these sections...you read it and acted like you wanted to leave. You don't like the sections, do you?"

"Of course, I like the sections! You know I like your writing. You raised my eyebrows a bit, that's all. You surprised me!" She said with a slight nod and a wry smile.

"Bet I know why!" with a nod and smile of my own. "The 'Vickie' sex snapshot?"

"Well, certainly, that raised my eyebrows! And we won't dwell too long on that bit of memorabilia! However, it might surprise you to know that that kind of experience is not so uncommon, particularly when you consider the environment in which you lived, notwithstanding the criminal implications of Vickie's complicity in the seduction. No, it is not a pretty snapshot, and  it does surprise me somewhat that you would make it part of your 'reflections,' although your penchant for honesty and ridiculing yourself would preclude your leaving it out." She was about to say more when I interrupted.

"It was such a vivid recall, Greta, like the earlier sex encounter with my pre-puberty aunt. It was somehow important for me to put it in, even knowing that is was highlighting depraved behavior..."

"I understand, Prentice. You need not justify it to me. You want the writing to portray the ultimate true picture of who you were then. It couldn't be any other way for you." She paused again, then went on.

"The 'Vickie snapshot' is not necessarily what I meant by 'raising' my eyebrows."

"Of what then do you speak, dear lady?" using my chivalrous tongue.

"I speak of your 'isms' section, EST and 'Tao Te Ching,' and your political views' section to the larger extent. What raised my brows and surprised me a bit was the length to which you've gone to find yourself, your belief system as it relates to your political morality. In other words, you're a man who strives so hard to find integrity in yourself and in others. You fight in your mind the battles of our times, wanting desperately to find a Utopia which you know does not exist. In some ways, you are an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote chasing 'windmills' you think are giants to be slain. You know your sins, Prentice! You know your faults, your errant ways! Your missed opportunities! And you're trying to make up for it all with the pages of your book." She paused, eyed me carefully with a fondness she would not hide. "And, you're doing a damned good job!"

"Whoa, wait a minute! There's something else you want to say. 'A damned good job' doesn't quite say it all, Greta. Come on, I can take it. It might hurt, a lot, but I can take it. I might never speak to you again, but take it, I shall!" She could see the last bit as mock and tease.

"Yes, a damned good job! I say what I mean, Mr. Hiller. And, yes, Mr. Hiller, there is something else to say..." Again, she paused, looked out the window at the lovely blue sky day. "What you put down is well written. You would be aware that some of your reading audience might not share your views. That, I know you know! Incidentally, I'm not one of those 'really smart people' to whom you refer, but I am non-partisan. What you want, I believe most people want. You write about it passionately and sincerely. How could I fault you? The chivalrous battles you fight with your writing are noble, patriotic, and good..." She
paused yet again, then wistfully continued.

"Why, I'm not completely sure, but I'm thinking of those two great volumes of Spanish literature." She waited, pursed her lips in that cute little habitual way she had, and went on. "His neighbors thought him mad for all his dedicated reading of chivalry, but Alonso Quixano gave himself a new name, 'Don Quixote,' put on a suit of old armor and went off on his chivalrous quests with wild imaginings. He was at times beaten, ridiculed, and ultimately unintentionally betrayed by his dull-witted squire and neighbor, Sancho Panza. His quests, his imaginings, ended in a great melancholy. Alonso would put away his armor. The melancholy worsened with his age, and Sancho in the end tried to restore his faith. But Alonso Quixano died a broken man, and, with him, his alter ego, 'Don Quixote.'

"What does 'Don Quixote' have to do with what you're writing? The chivalry part, mostly. Though, at times, you do seem daft and wildly imaginative!" A pause for chuckles. "You write about many differnet things in yur life. You bemoan at times the sad states of your existence, your life style, your 'images' of the good life, your moods, your legacy. And, to repeat myself, you do a damned good job of it. If I have any concern, it comes from my fondness for you. I don't wish you to become 'melancholy and broken,' Prentice.

"Don't try so hard to make up for your life! This writing business, the process, is good for you. Use it for all the right reasons: the legacy thing, the self-ablution, as it were, the process itself. You are who you are. You will try too hard. You will continue to beat yourself. It's too late for the couch, not that you really ever needed it, but, if I could push but one button for you, it would be the button that makes you believe in yourself and makes you have more faith in the God who made you and accept whatever it is He intends for you. You are really a dear, dear man, and I don't wish to see you hurt so much." 

She stopped talking and looked again out the big window, her face creased with a sadness beyond the mere interpretations she had rendered on the sections of my book. That sadness held me for a moment. Then, I decided to revert to my easy tactic of light patter.

"Well, Greta, you've totally blind-sided me! What the hell am I supposed to do with Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and you?" smiling, with raised eyebrows. "Okay, methinks I get it. You're a sweetheart!" I closed the laptop and got up. "Come on, let's break out of this joint and find a Big Mac, fries, and coke."

Actually, 'Don Quixote' and I likely had a lot more in common than I might be willing to admit. Then, again, there might be more Sancho Panza in me than I might be willing to admit.

"Writing And Me"

Posted November 1, 2012 by Billy Ray Chitwood
 
Most people who write and those who wish to write likely know that the libraries of the world are comfortably stacked with the 'how to' of creative writing. Guess the thing for me is, I've got to do my own struggling, got to find my own way of saying things with these fingers that dance along the laptop keys. The question for me is not so much, how successful can I be financially with my writing? (Don't get me wrong, I would not mind at all cashing a lot of royalty checks!) More important for me at this juncture in my life is finding out about where I've been, all the bad things, all the good things, and getting a better idea of who I really am. My books have plots, such as they are, and they have characters. These plots and these characters serve me and give me a chance to 'muse and fuse,' to maybe discover some things about me I never knew.

Sure, I want my books interesting enough to be read, enjoyed, and to have people talking about them. The most important thing, though, for me, is being true to me, plumbing my depths, finding the music of my soul, and hoping I discover more of me. Ego? Maybe so. But it has got to be me finding out whether or not I'm any good at this business of writing. You know, I'm beginning to think maybe I am. It's not that I'm not willing to learn --- it's just, it better be there within me now, this style thing, this appeal to readers, because I'm not necessarily going to find it in the library.

I'm thinking we do it by 'doing it,' over and over again... if we're any good, we need to trust that little voice inside that says we are.

Everyone has to do her and his own thing. I'm old enough to think I'm just as right as some folks who write about writing and maybe too dumb and inflexible to realize I'm singing a song here with a guitar out of tune.

That's what I'm thinking!