Who Am I?Posted on April 4, 2014 by billyraychitwood1


                      Who Am I?

Who am I?

Not a terribly original question, perhaps one that is often asked over the course of one’s life. What got me to thinking about the question are the genres in which I write my books – mystery (some inspired by true events), romance, bio/memoir, political thought. So much of my writing deals with the underbelly of life, the bad elements in our society, the really evil and ugly people who live among us – fictionally or in fact. It must be my admission that at times it bothers me that I focus my writing so much on a salacious news report about someone being sexually assaulted, people being horribly murdered, an awful pedophile hurting or killing our children, or some dark and greedy enterprise. Another aspect relative to the question is my concern that the books I have written are not necessarily going viral.

Don’t mind me. I feel that much of my life has been spent in introspection, analyzing myself as I lie awake in the night, as I drive the open road, as I view television or a sad movie, even in the middle of a conversation. It’s my way of trying to piece together another part that is unknown to me. Maybe in some sort of loose and nebulous nexus I’m creating everyman, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The way I’m built, the crazy DNA I carry inside, does cause me concern. So much emotion and mobility in my early building stages account for the calculus here. I’ve always been drawn to the action, crime, drama, mystery, and suspense of the big screen or tube. My wife loves comedies and musicals, the ‘Hallmark Movies’, and neatly trimmed family adventures. I started out loving cowboy movies, then graduated to the more fast-paced ‘True Lies’ and ‘Jesse Stone’ types. That’s all okay for different likes and dislikes. There’s a spiritual part of me that nudges me now and then to write something wholesome, like a strong Christian story with an uplifting theme for all ages… Hopefully, one day I shall satisfy that nudge.

If you had not noticed, I’m rambling and trying to figure an apt finish to this post.

Here it is.

I’m doing all this word vacillation when it comes down really to this. There is a lot of me in what I write, in the characters I create, and in the plots. There is fun in the penning of my tales, and I experiment with my writing. There are times when I organize a book – in my fashion – and there are times when I simply allow the characters to take me where it is they want to go… This is likely to make a ‘writing purist’ cringe. For me, the process of writing can take any form a person wishes. The readers ultimately will decide whether or not our writing efforts are worthy.

That brings me to the final point of this post.

Writing is enough for me, the process itself…most of the time. Believing I’m under no delusions of grandeur, I truly feel my words are strung together well and tell compelling stories. I get some 5-Star reviews here and there which make me jubilant. Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn are used daily and perhaps for some, ad nauseam. I admit to a certain ineptness in this digital world, but I’m doing so many things to get people to read my books. Apparently, I’m not doing nor am I capable of doing some of the things I need to be doing. An old man (me) dusted off some manuscripts, rewrote, edited them, wrote several new books along the way, and self-published them. My first ‘Bailey Crane Mystery’ (“Probable Cause”) was picked up by a publisher, eventually went out of print – that book is now “An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery” Book One. There are five ‘Bailey Crane’ books in the series – the original book two manuscript (“Stranger Abduction”) was done on a StarWriter word processor and the manuscript was lost during one of my mobility moments…still not found. Thus, there are five ‘Bailey Crane’ books in lieu of six.

The final point is taking longer than expected.

The mistake was made, I believe, in coming out with so many books in such a short period of time. There were no ‘launching parties’ for the books, no book tours, and there was very little internet plugging. Add to that, I’m no longer a young man who can keep the pace of author book signings, events of one kind or another, or other vital networking avenues. So, the end point is this: my books are good, and I would like to see them in the hands of readers. Yes, writing is enough for me most of the rime, but I do get hungry for reader reaction. Like most authors, I hope for some gratification. My books are bought too infrequently, and I am at a loss to find some magic buttons to push… Of course, I could turn the books over to someone specializing in all phases of marketing, but that of course is costly.

I just finished a KDP giveaway of five of my books for five days (likely, should have been one book instead of five). It looks like some seven hundred total all books were given away during that time, with much tweeting, much Facebook activity, much Goodreads and LinkedIn activity, with my weekly blog announcing the giveaway.

Baring one’s soul is perhaps foolhardy and senseless, but there it is.

What you need to do, kind followers of my blog, other than commiserating, is to start a viral situation with my books…having not the foggiest idea of how you will do that. Do not worry if you fall short of doing either, the commiserating or the viral thing, you will still have me doing a weekly blog, valuing you – and still writing my books, flash fiction, poems, songs, and short stories.

Incidentally, if you have any idea of ‘who I am’ please let me know in the ‘comment’ section.

Here are various links to my books and me.

http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (My books on IAN – Independent Author Network)

http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com (My main website/blog and my books w/some reviews)

Follow me on http://twitter.com/brchitwood (@brchitwood)

http://facebook.com/billyray.chitwood andhttp://facebook.com/billyrayscorner (‘fan’ and ‘like’ page w/updates)

https://www.linkedin.com/nhome/

http://thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com (The origination blog site of all my posts)

Please leave a comment if so inclined.

        

Some Notes On My Writing Posted on March 29, 2014 by billyraychitwood1

                                  Some Notes on My Writing

Words have always fascinated me, individually and the way they can be strung together. For me there’s a certain magic that takes place when I write something that brings echoes from the soul, brings tears or makes me laugh. Writing a blog or a book is an incredible adventure of fingers tapping keys on a blank screen page. From where do the words come, these signals from the heart and the mind?

Quite often I open the blank whiteness of ‘Word’ and only have some simple words to tap on the screen. For example, I dabbled during my more youthful days in acting, stage, and did some television commercials. In a recent blog, I thought the words, ‘Action! Camera!’ Without yet a title for the blog, I allowed the two words to take me on a short ‘flash fiction’ ride, creating the story as I went along. The title in the end became ‘Love and Consequence’. In reading the piece several times I was surprised to find that multiple summations could be made about the post relative to life and its many crossroads.

Again, from where do the words come?

This might not astound or surprise anyone who reads my blogs, but I believe that some of us are endowed with a special talent for creating strings of words that arouse the soul to deliver a moving story, to amuse, anger, bewilder, entertain, inspire, intimidate, terrify. Are we thus endowed by virtue of our life sources, our environment, our genetic programming? Is it as Alfred Lord Tennyson conveyed in ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ – “Theirs not to reply / Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die…”? We are all, of course, marching into the valley of death! But, let’s delay that event and thought for as long as our lives’ purposes allow.

Words and writing are marvelous gifts. Some authors distinguish themselves for their moments in the bright light are timely and their words find an eager audience. Other authors are anguished by rejection slips and their moments come late or not at all. While a jovial and sane person I perhaps would not honor my words, my blogs, my books with Tennyson, Tolstoy, Grisham, Hemingway type praise, but they are good words, good blogs, good books, and worthy of reading. Even I will pick up one of my books on occasion, try to divorce my authorship, read it and find enjoyment from that reading. Sure, I might perchance find a typo or some minor error missed in editing, but it does not dismiss the book’s validity. Sure, add to that a bit of ego and pride… I’m not immune.

If it is folly and I fool myself, so be it…there is immense joy in the penning process. It is enough for me that readers and authors I respect find my stories good enough to earn their 5-Stars. With the positive reviews or without them I am officially a slave to the pecking of laptop keys and will continue until there are no pecks left. However, there is no hiding the fact that an author wishes to be recognized.

My writing is a necessary ingredient in my life these days. Age at times bids me quit my trifling typing on the laptop keys, but I say nay and fill my days with writing. At times there are songs, poetry, flash fiction, short stories, and full-length books. There, in that lofty solitude, I stay young and vibrant. My heroes and heroines fight their good fights, and there is musing on and between the lines of what I write…particularly with my five ‘Bailey Crane Mysteries’, several of which were inspired by true life events. (In fact, as a side note, there were to be six ‘Bailey Crane Mysteries’ — “A Stranger Abduction” is missing — but, with all my moving about, the second manuscript was lost and has not been found. While each book can be read independently it grieves me that some of Bailey’s musings and life situations are not included in the series, enough, however, that your picture of the man will be quite clear.) So be it! As I was saying, I try to capture in my books that vitality and youth, once mine for real, on the blank screens of ‘Word’, present the finished product to an audience I hope might forget for those moments of reading the trivial pursuits of a man in Twilight.

One area of my neglect has been in marketing my books… After all, like any author, I wish to be read. I’ve admittedly been rather inept in this digital world, trying to figure ways to promote myself, making many mistakes. Basically, I’ve been a Tweeter/Re-tweeter fool, have likely not availed myself of the proper use of Facebook, LinkedIn, other no doubt valuable platforms and tools. I’m afraid no one would consider labeling me a ‘Renaissance Man’. It is indeed time that I ask of my blog followers/friends and cyberspace in general for help in promoting my books.

Thus, I come to the really good part of this blog. Beginning on March 30, 2014 and running through April 3, 2014, five of my eleven books are free on Amazon.Hopefully, with fingers crossed and a pitiful pose, those who get free copies will be kind and give me an Amazon and/or Goodreads review. Following are the books and the Amazon sites for getting your free copies:

“The Reluctant Savage” – http://www.goo.gl/nTvwNo (mystery, suspense, romance)

“Mama’s Madness” – http://www.goo.gl/nnTjbX (suspense, evil, inspired by truth)

“Butterflies and Jellybeans – A Love Story” – http://www.goo.gl/tvaJmv(romance + twists)

“The Cracked Mirror – Reflections of an Appalachian Son” –http://www.goo.gl/0Ln6Mc  (bio)

“Joe Public’s Political Perspective” – http://www.goo.gl/g9bzxK (musings about our nation and its leaders)

Should you like what you read, perhaps you will consider as well my five ‘Bailey Crane Mystery’ titles. All of my books are available through Amazon in paperback and Kindle format. If you wish, please follow me on:

http://www.twitter.com/brchitwood

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

http://www.goo.gl/x7j7wD

All my books can be previewed at my IAN site, with Amazon links:  http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA

Please leave a comment if so inclined. Thank you and my very best wishes.

        

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).

"The Snow Bench"

      In viewing its cold bitter beauty, that could be my body buried under the snow on that lonely bench. In a warmer June I sat  with a young nose-freckled, fresh-faced lass, held her hand, and told her that I loved her. Her smile that responded to my words is etched forever in my heart, along with a sweet silky blonde tress that fell across her left cheek. We embraced there on that bench for long moments, kissing as lovers do, not with a burning passion but with some mystical deep awareness of something that promised an eternal bonding.
     Our lunch hour over, we rose from the bench. Her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight with her smile. She hurried away from me to return to her office. Standing there, I watched her gaily gait, her delightfully bouncy bottom, and thought myself the luckiest man in the world. My lips were fixed in sublime capitulation to our love. When she waved one last time, I turned, walked in the opposite direction, humming a love song from 'My Fair Lady.' It did not matter that I felt like a silly school boy. My heart was held by another. Another's heart was held by me.
     This park with all the snow and particularly that bench is a place I now often visit. That could be my body buried under the snow on that bench. I was never to see Susannah again. Death took her from me soon after that June day of so much promise. I'm told to get on with my life... Words signifying nothing. My life is now the drear and the cold of this park scene. My memory can persuade the snow to leave momentarily for a June day of promise, but my heart cannot hold back its never-ending grief.


     Viewing the picture of the 'the snow bench' and the wintry park (much larger than seen here), there came a challenge to write a poem, a song, a story that could be no longer than three hundred words. For some inexplicable reason my mind settled quickly on a fanciful story, and, in fifteen minutes, the narrative was complete. Obviously, my poem, my song, my story (as was my choice) could have had a happier theme on which to focus. There was something about the bench, the way the snow had settled there, the rather dreary scene winter often brings, that brought me so quickly to this short poignant piece. Sadness comes all through the year but winter has come by its extreme nature to be the season for dying. All of us have lost loved ones. "The Snow Bench" somehow brought me to write about a fragile acknowledgement that some of us had need to accept.
 
Billy Ray           http://www.about.me/brchitwood

This is a 'Don't Miss' combo for you: an interview with a quality author and a partial review of his 5-Star book, "Everyone Burns." If you have not had the pleasure of reading John Dolan you've
missed a great experience from a writer extraordinaire. JD is truly a wordsmith for his times. He is also the man who introduced me and countless others to the word, 'Galericulate' --- that's the name of his website/blog. (See end of interview/review.) He's the man hidden under the hat and he's roaming around some continent or another. At last report, he was in Amsterdam. Meet John Dolan. 

'Burning' John Dolan, writer extraordinaire - An Interview (Sort of!)

(Billy Ray = BR) (John Dolan=JD)
 
BR: Okay, Filbert, take off the blindfold!
 
JD: Hey, not so rough! You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?
 
BR: Why should I? You can leave us now, Filbert, and take Salome with you.

JD: You kidding me? 'Salome!' 'Filbert!' They're 'junkies...'
 
BR: Had no money...they grabbed you for the 'grass.'
 
JD: Are you mocking me? Are you stealing my interview ideas?
 
BR: Show me a legal document!
 
JD: At least my chair is comfortable, and my straps are pure leather, not this cord crap!
 
BR: You left me no choice, JD, you broke your promise to take my books viral and...
 
JD: Correction! I said your books were vile and pretentious...
 
BR: Okay, okay, I understand you're a bit angry...just some tit for tat, that's all. I really like your book, "Everyone Burns," and I'm thinking 'movie,' 'TV series,' something really big. Can we just relax and talk about the book?
 
JD: Can you at least put a cushion on this orange crate? You're not helping my hemmies.
 
BR: How's that? Better? Good...Now tell me about "Everyone Burns" and how you came to write it.
 
JD: Guess I got no choice, but you gotta promise me you're not going to make a habit of this kind of interview. This is my idea, not yours. Do we have a deal?
 
BR: Yes, we have a deal...Hell, I thought you would be pleased!
 
JD: Well, I am, sort of, but this is intellectual property, not something you mess with, BR. Plus I only get one original idea per decade.
 
BR: Okay, no more kidnaps for interviews! Got it! Can we proceed?
 
JD: The events in "Everyone Burns" take place over seventeen days while Thailand is still numb from the giant tsunami of December, 2004. Like everyone of sane mind this great catastrophe made my emotions run wild, made me think of life like I had never really thought about it. "Everyone Burns" gave me some escape from the reality all around me.
 
BR: Really?
 
JD: No, not really. I wrote it for the money and the groupies.
 
BR: And how's that working out?
 
JD: Probably about as well as it's working out for you, I'd guess. Well ... looking at you, probably slightly better with the groupies.
 
BR: Here's a quote from 'Everyone Burns, just after a bar fracas: "To summarise, my life is one of split personality. I am in two minds about it myself. Nevertheless, down these narrow streets a man must walk, even if it is in flip-flops. But I am no Philip Marlowe, and Koh Samui is not film-noir USA. There is nothing of Hollywood's black and white morality on this most colourful
of Thailand's Islands. And long overcoats just make you sweat in the sun. Here The Postman Never Rings Twice, simply because he never rings at all. He has better things to do. Lamai's and Chaweng's adventurers generally pack a condom, not a gun."

You open the book with a broken cue stick inflicting injury to your protagonist and it's like the excitement and action just never stops after that. I picked this quote because it's one of my favorites but also because it gives the reader a sample of your splendid writing...Do you have any disagreement with my assessment here, JD?
 
JD: Take these cords off and I'll kiss you. The passage is also a favorite of mine. Aside from the style thing in my writing, it is just basically who I am. But I'm NOT David Braddock, by the way. I want to make that clear in case my wife Fiona is reading this! A book of this genre for me has to move at a rapid pace, the action mostly non-stop. A lot of what I write about in "Everyone Burns" has some factual similarities, the people, the places, the time certainly. And, of course, you know my English is rather precise, proper, as it was intended to be! WHY are you smiling and shaking your head?
 
BR: Never mind, just me being me! It's a great book, JD. Wish we had more time because I'd like to mention "People With Real Lives Don't Need Landscapes," a book of poetry you wrote in 2003. You certainly have a way with words, JD, and
I happen to love poetry. As Amazon puts it, "This big bouncy collection of contemporary poetry draws on both popular and high culture. The poems have energy, imagination, humor, and lively speech rhythms. They are light, weighty, topical, intellectual, gory, sad, wild, and tender all at once."
 
JD: I didn't write that.
 
BR: What?
 
JD: I didn't write that collection of poetry. That was a different John Dolan.
 
BR: Are you sure?
 
JD: What do you mean, "Am I sure"? I'm not likely to forget a thing like that, am I? Sheesh! It's scary how your brain can live in such a small space.

BR: I'm fragile, JD... Well,regardless, I loved your book "Everyone Burns" and can't wait for the sequel. People should really take a long look at you, my friend...
 
JD: 'My friend!' My butt is sore here, BR!

BR: Filbert and Salome are napping right now. I'll untie  you, but, please, no fracas here. Tit for tat, remember? Be gentle. 


NOTE: Please follow John Dolan on twitter - @JohnDolanAuthor

Visit his website/blog ('Galericulate') at: http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com/search/label/Home (You don't want to miss his posts.)

Also visit his amazon site: http://goo.gl/nElP1 (amazon)


 

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!

The Restless Spirit
Posted on October 30, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1

Under a pale blue morning sky a long plume of white misty cloud softly touches the Sea of Cortez, and I ponder the spirit of the restless.

In fact, it is my own restless spirit that dictates this post, given energy by the ghosts from an Appalachian youth of mobility and uncertainty, by my own selfish need to describe the nature of my beast. This restless spirit is not something that embarrasses me or shames me in my eyes. It is a constant companion which I have nourished all my life with impulsive, spontaneous acts. It is something I accept as I do the color of my hair, my skin, the whole DNA networking inside my body walls. It is likely not so distinctive as one might expect. This restless spirit, this wanderlust component, must reside in legions of us.

This post began with a description of the beautiful sea that displays its gaudy deep green beauty outside my windows. This sea, this constant sun, this life style is the stuff of dreams. How could anyone be restless watching the sail boats, the ski jets, the parasailers high above the crystalline water, the people frolicking along the long stretch of sandy beach? Grab a Corona, a
Tequila Sunrise, and live your dream, right? Well, that great big sea reaches out to a far horizon, and, after a few Coronas and Tequila Sunrises, the restless spirit can start its gnawing litany of thought… What’s beyond that horizon? Where have I not yet been? What have I not yet done? I’ve been here for a few years now. Is it not time to go? Even Paradise has its limits!

Okay, here’s the deal! I buy a new car. In a year I tire of the car and want another make and model. The same with living quarters! After a few years I want new quarters. It does not matter to the restless spirit that it is contemplating giving up ‘heaven,’ its life style of which other people can only dream. In this case, it is a stunning, luxurious two-level penthouse where the host of the restless spirit has come to retire, where the only really pressing decisions to make daily are food selections, social media caretaking, and the book-writing periods. There are people who live in the same house in the same town in the same state all their lives. Not me! In the past thirty years, I’ve lived in twelve different places. You do the math! I’ve probably lost count.

Yes, I’ve still got a lovely wife who is a polar opposite. She is calm, patient, puts up with me, would have been happy to live our lives out in that first place thirty years back. Guess she loves me to keep uprooting her the way I do. Is this crazy, or, what?!

So, anyone interested in a 3600 square foot penthouse? I’ll buy yours. You buy mine. I’ll be fair, even leave all the furniture, utensils, everything, totally turnkey — just bring your clothes and a toothbrush. You will have constant sun, constant sea, constant beauty. The only catch is, you need to have something equally as nice, something that turns on my restless spirit, and your place has to be free and clear like my place. Any takers?

Worried about Mexico and all the media hype? Been coming here from Arizona for over forty years. I’ve felt safer here than any place I’ve ever lived. The people of Mexico are friendly, helpful, kind, and appreciative of our US dollars. Crime, drug cartels? I’m sure they’re around somewhere in the country, killing off themselves, mostly. One could be reminded that my great country, the US, has its share of drug cartels and crime…

But back to this restless spirit thing… Do I wish that it was not there? 'Yes’ is the honest answer, but there is an honest qualifier. The books I’ve written, the poems, the songs, the posts, all the penning? Are they worthy? Of course, I think so, but the true judges are the readers and the lovers of poetry and song. But ‘worthy’ is not the point I’m making here. The point is, maybe all my words would not have been out there in print and Cyberspace had I not had the restless spirit — not that one cannot write without it. But, me, could I have ‘done all that’ in ‘my way’ without that restless spirit.

I’m just saying…

“Portrait In Time”
Posted on October 25, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1

“Portrait In Time”

Young man, do you not see me as once I might have been?


Is it the wrinkle, the sagging skin Time laid upon me that you see?

Once I stood, perhaps like you, with noble thoughts and dreams

A new bright morning might bring.


 
                                                      Time wore me down with its ceaseless ubiquitous ways and subtle promises.
             
                                                      Time taunted and tempted me with its guile and deceptions,

                                                      With its beauty beads of love.


 
                                                      Time gave me its reins to run wild with the wind toward sunrise and sunset.


  
                                                      Time now leaves me here along the sea, better to have had its moments of joy;

                                                      Sad to have you see the frail and broken parts of me.


  
                                                      Young man, can you not see me as once I might have been?


 
(An ending poem in a book by Billy Ray Chitwood, “The Cracked Mirror – Reflections Of An Appalachian Son”)

“Mirror Images”
Posted on October 24, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1

“Mirror Images”


  I once looked at men like you,
     old men, frail and haunted…
  That was when youth declared
      that I woiuld live forever.
   How hard it was to see then…
                                                                                how easy it is to see now.
                                                                              Life was moonlight and promises…
                                                                                So soon came ecstasy and joy.

                                                                              When did it get this late?
                                                                                When did the tree sap harden?
                                                                              Where is the gold I sought?
                                                                                Where is the key I held?
                                                                              Why is the day no longer long?
                                                                                Why does morning come so late?
                                                                              What is the mystery to solve?
                                                                                What day the reckoning?


(A poem by Billy Ray Chitwood, taken from his book, “The Cracked Mirror –
Reflections From An Appalachian Son”)