The How's and Why's of the Craft

The topic comes up time and again: where did you get the ideas for your books?  Each time I'm asked this, honesty forces the answer from my mouth like raw beef through a meat grinder--"Man, I have no idea."

Ironically, no one ever asks some of the more pressing questions like, "How did you develop your writing style?" or "What drives you to write?"  The second question is a little easier to answer, the first not so much.

Writing for me is simply a creative outlet in a life surrounded by normalcy and ordinary.  That's not to say I don't live an exciting life; on a certain level I do, and am fortunate to have a beautifully funny family that keeps me on my toes.  What does it mean, however, to wont for a creative outlet?  Let me take you back to my high school years for a possible answer, or in the least, some insight...

I grew up in the eighties, a decade of decadence filled with big hair, heavy metal, space shuttles, a Cold War, Miami Vice, sports, and girls.  Yeah, man, it was the eighties and we were strangely happy, undivided, and morally curious.  As teenagers we questioned authority, but rarely defied it.  On a subconscious level my generation needed and appreciated the structure those in authority provided; after all, we were the product of the Baby Boomer generation and didn't want to repeat their mistakes.

As for me, I was a jock--an athlete.  Sports afforded me the opportunity to take out my aggressions (I was an inwardly and outwardly aggressive youth) in a controlled, legal manner.  Did I get in trouble from time-to-time?  Oh yeah.  But for the most part I think I was a relatively good kid.*

On the flip side, I had a creative urge-a need to build something from nothing, to make something pleasing to the eye or ear.  I couldn't sing, so my desire to be the lead singer in a band was out.  Art class it was, then.  You read that correctly...art class.  My ability to draw was never something that was going to pay the bills, but it gave me focus, and with a lot of direction, positive reinforcement, and constructive feedback from Mr. Freeman (my art teacher), I managed to put together a few pieces that I was proud of (one piece, as far as I know, still hangs in my old high school library). 

Now, for those who don't know me, this may not sound as though it's a big deal--yeah, yeah, a kid can draw a stick man.  Keep in mind any seventeen year old male with enough mental fortitude to remain focused long enough to sketch out a desert montage without allowing his thoughts to drift to what color panties his girlfriend might be wearing that day is a win by most people's standards!  Yes, I'm Back in Black!

I haven't picked up a pencil in years, but that tickling in the back of my mind to create never subsided.  It wouldn't go away--it gnawed at me like that strange parasite nibbling away on a person's retina, never full, always hungry, and forever unsatisfied.

In the 90's, I wrote a few martial arts related articles and submitted them to magazines.  You can't imagine how excited I was to not only see them in print, but to be paid for them.  The first article garnered me fifty bucks and the second a whopping one hundred twenty-five.  Don't get me wrong, money was not the driving factor when it came to my writing.  On the contrary, it (writing) became for me a winding avenue paved years earlier by a pencil and paper.

As far as question two is concerned--practice, my brothers and sisters.  Find your rhythm like Brett Michaels did in Unskinny Bop.....Bop, Bop.  If you want to write, write, man.  Go with the feel, with the flow.  Write baby, write.

Writing style is developed over time.  Use of the language comes with practice, patience, and an eye for things that strike a nerve or culminate some emotion from the reader, but more importantly, writing should fulfill an emptiness the writer can't shake.

I tell people to practice the craft, not only when the mood strikes or the time is at hand, but when they don't feel like writing at all.  Sometimes the words come naturally, like a swift moving river spilling into a welcoming reservoir.  Other times there is a struggle, as though you were a quadriplegic attempting to play basketball on the edge of a steep cliff.** 

You must decide what message you want to convey then work diligently at crafting those words so as to entertain, inform, and engage.  If it feels good, write it.

*Hey, everything is relative, right?
**Sometimes, you'll write something others deem offensive, but you can't please everyone all the time.

Meeting You-February 27th!

Ah, writing.  The process of developing, creating, writing, re-writing, editing, and finally watching a work come to fruition is a beautiful thing.  Attempting to bring to life images that roll through your head and effectively infecting your computer with the virus of your mind is the only way a cure for this thing we call creativity can be administered.

To breath deeply of a lonely forest rife with decomposing boughs and rotting leaves from the previous year's Fall, aptly described by someone hoping to share with you the sights and scents a writer, tucked away in the confines of his office, experience, or thought he experienced, or one he wants to experience, is a glorious thing when written with words (but seen in the mind's imaginary pictures). 

As an example I give you this little gem from the recesses of my mind:

"Rex, an eleven pound minature greyhound, was a happy-go-lucky rescue that found enjoyment at throwing pieces of dried dog food from his bowl then chasing the piece around the kitchen floor.  Not long after filling his little belly with a protein enhanced diet, Rex would spend time grooming himself, primarily by licking his butt, and an empty area that once contained his doggy masculinity.  A short time later he would hop in his owners lap then lick his owner's face--one laughing and happy to have such a wonderful animal in his house, the other seeking retribution for allowing someone else to emasculate him."

Describing a scene, as morbidly funny as it may be, in hopes that a reader can somehow relate is the ultimate goal of the writer.  When you, the reader sends emails or messages telling the author how much you enjoyed what was written in a particular passage, a large smile will pass across his face (his, generally speaking my female author friends).

February 27th from 9:00AM-2:00PM, I will be sipping some glorious coffee at JaMoka's Coffee Shop in Boaz, Alabama.  Access is easy, the ambiance perfect.  The environment is cozy, a little tiki-ish, warm, and inviting.  While I sip coffee, I'll be signing my books for you, the constant reader. 

This is a time we can sit and discuss our dreams, our creativity, and our desire to relate to someone we've never met but share some strange cosmic commonality.  Come see me, grab a book...and let's chat. 

Celebrating My 100th Blog Post--I Laugh and Laugh!

Just over four years ago I wrote my first blog.  I had no idea about what subjects I would discuss or write about, nor was there a clear indication of direction that my writing would take.  My blog was an open slate on which I would share my thoughts, wants, opinions, desires, tirades, political rants, tell stories, discuss future projects and goals--it would simply serve as an outlet for my mind that sometimes runs at 200 MPH. 

As I scrolled through the hodge-podge of posts since November 2011, I realized there is still no direction here, and more importantly I like it that way.  Some will engage with a particular post, others with and entirely different one.  What excites me most about That Reminds Me of a Time is that some love my writing, others hate it, some enjoy my rambling witticisms, while others consider me a hack.  Regardless of your opinion of me and what I share, I enjoy hearing from each of you--all of you!  For you are what drives me to write, consider the world, constantly evaluate my own self-worth (or lack thereof), and share what little I know of each.

In a world gone awry and in a country that has lost its moral way, I have chosen to embark upon any subject I find interesting or funny--no matter the topic.  Sports, politics, religion, spirituality, science, sexuality, and gender: all of these topics are within my grasp when I write.  Deep down I think most folks want to engage in many of these subjects, but most fear some retribution from a "friend" who thinks differently.  What separates me from many is that I don't mind if folks get upset over something I've written.  My opinion is just that--mine AND and an opinion.  It isn't intended to insult necessarily, but what I write is intended to make you think, laugh, or roll your eyes.  Perhaps I'll even illicit a combination of the aforementioned.

With this 100th post, an overly simplistic milestone, but a milestone nonetheless, I want to thank you, each of you, who take the time to read my drivel.  And for those of you who occasionally smile when I write something you find funny, I appreciate that the most!

Have fun, love lots, live much, and for God's sake--don't take yourself so seriously.  :)

What Color Is Your Soul? A Birthday Request

The last few years in American history have been interesting and unsettling to watch develop and unfold.  It's not uncommon for people, generally, to point to race, gender, ethnicity, financial class, desires, motivations, or country of origin as reasons for their own malfeasances or caustic personal situations.  This is human nature, right, wrong, or somewhere in between.  Typically, in my opinion, most people will move beyond these rash generalizations and become more rational as they calm down and think. 

My opinions about our current political leadership notwithstanding, or the copious injustices perpetrated against us by those sworn to eliminate our very way of life, I call into question our own perspective of what lies within each of us and what color we are once we shed the tissue by which we judge others.

The racial divide, or at least the attempt to create a mortal chasm between us by a disgusting media and questionable political machine, is further fueled by a populace unwilling to accept an exisential truism--beneath the epidural layer, our sinewy and blood-coursing being is only separated by our height and clouded misjudgments. 

Throw your religious beliefs, or lack thereof, to the side for a moment and stare inward and introspectively for a reflective amount of time, then consider this: how different are we, truly? 

Today, on my birthday, I would only want folks to love each other--if only for a few seconds.  Oh, and bring me presents.  I like presents. 

Helping Those in Need

We live in strange and dangerous times.  Political unease has drifted into different countries around the world, engulf various neighborhoods, and threatens to disenfranchise an entire generation of youth.  Our fingers point to those we believe shoulder the blame for the turmoil, and somewhere between the back-and-forth of fault placing lives people who are nothing more than shadows to most.  The poor, the destitute, the needy. 

I was raised to offer a hand to those who require it; this isn't charity--this is humanity.  Helping others doesn't necessarily have to be about the giving of funds.  Maybe it means giving someone less fortunate a hot meal or some clothes you no longer wear.  Perhaps it means just sitting down and listening to a person talk about the hard times they're currently facing.

Whatever you do to lend a helping hand, do it out of compassion and empathy, not out of self-gratification, nor to receive accolades from those who might see your "giving spirit."  This isn't a lecture, just a word of caution.  There is little humanity and love when satisfying your own ego!

A giving person isn't political--they are happy, living well (not rich, just well), realize there are those less fortunate, and understand that many who need help would never, ever ask for it. 

It's Christmas time, but soon the holidays will be gone.  People needing a little help won't be gone, however, so keep them at the front of your mind and in your heart, rather than in a little spot at the back of your head for future reference. 

Be well and Merry Christmas!

My Next Book Project--Something Different, Helpful, and Filled with Hope

I enjoy writing fictional action/adventure.  Military history, conspiracy theory, suspense all nuzzled in a blanket of current events is where I find my happy place.  Weaving stories from thin air (mostly) and watching the characters come to life in my mind and on my computer's monitor helps keep me centered.  "I write," as I've told many people, "so I can see how the story ends."

Over the past several months, I've been faced with a new reality--not one I've advertised and whined about--losing a lucrative job to corporate downsizing and finding myself in a lesser paying job (but hey, I'm thankful to be working).  As most who follow me know, my first two novels, Of Blood and Stone: A Bill Evers Novel and Occam's Razor: A Bill Evers Novel are both available in print.  I've been blessed and fortunate through a curious and wild twist of life events, despite that minor setback a few months ago.  My nose-to-the-grindstone work ethic instilled by my mother and father is something I lean heavily upon and am thankful to have.

Shortly after I was laid-off, I elected to attempt a different genre of writing: a non-fiction, reality based book rife with tales of personal turmoil and the ability to overcome.  Without giving too much away, my next book will be one that will bring you to tears, fill you with joy, make you think about your own situation and where you are in life, and hopefully make you thankful for what you have, rather than sad about what you don't.

I suspect this project will take some time to compile and be brought to life in print and digital media, but when it finally happens, I think it will be my proudest moment.  Not because it's my work, but because it's about you, the faithful reader.  These will be your stories, your tales, your tribulations, your good times and bad.  This is about and for you!

Occam's Razor--My Second Novel (and an excerpt)!

The level of excitement that goes into seeing all your hard work finally brought to print is beyond explanation.  Before I get too far down that path, however, I want to first thank all my faithful readers who continue to support my work, put up with my indescribably demented mind on social media, deal with my smack talk about my favorite sports team (if you know me, you know THE team about which I speak), and my generally strange sense of humor.  Without you, writing is an empty endeavor--for you make the journey worthwhile and meaningful!

Now, to say that I'm less excited about book two finally being available in print would be inaccurate.  In fact, not only am I much more excited about Occam's Razor being in print, I'm doubly nervous.  After all, when Of Blood and Stone was published, it was my first work, and I was naive and just happy to hold in my hands the fruit of my labor.  Book two, though, must live up to certain expectations and further develop characters that were introduced in its predecessor.

In Occam's Razor, Bill Evers is forced to confront a foe who is insistant upon reducing the world's population by a significant amount.  For years, left wing fanatics have made unfounded claims that the planet is overpopulated and is consuming natural resources faster than nature can replace them.  Although much of this talk is mere speculation and pseudo-science, there are those who take it as the gospel. 

When weaponized SARS and Ebola are purposefully released into the global population, Evers is in a race against time to keep further attacks from happening.  On top of the weaponized super-viruses, mass shootings on par with that of Nazi Germany are taking place in Argentina, as well as dirty bomb detonations in India, and attacks on nuclear facilities in France.  Finally, the reader quickly learns that the leader of the uber-left wing group is being led by the nose from an otherworldly leader whose level of evil and hatred are unprecedented.

From the novel--

 

“So, Mr…Abaddon, I fail to understand why you insisted that we meet.”

     A greasy smile spread over the man’s face. His blonde hair was slicked back and his ice-blue eyes pierced Trowton’s from behind squared spectacles. Abaddon sported a navy blue herring-bone suit that he wore without a tie and the top button left open. The suit accentuated a slender but obviously muscular frame, the frame of someone who paid special attention to his body and what went into it. Trowton noticed something odd about the man’s facial features, but couldn’t quite figure out what the oddity was.

     Trowton’s eyes fell to Abaddon’s hand, which quietly thrummed a black, ragged cover encasing a well-used and handled book. It took him just a second to process what the book was, the King James’s version of The Holy Bible. He watched as Abaddon picked up the Book and opened it toward the back.

     “I prefer this abridged version of The Word, Mr. Trowton,” he all but whispered. “The good king pared down the repetitious verses the Catholics prefer, as a result of the Council of Nicaea, but it’s mostly the same.”

     Trowton’s eyes fell to the opened book and saw the dog-eared pages. He noticed an underlined passage, Chapter one, verse three.

     Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things that are written therein: for the time is at hand.

     “Yes, Mr. Trowton. The Book of the Revelation is the only book in The Bible that promises its reader a blessing for having read it and remaining beholden to its words. I read it often,” Abaddon hissed.

     “I’m afraid I don’t believe anything written in that ancient book, Mr. Abaddon. It’s largely inaccurate prose, a poor record of historical accounts, and serves as little more than a means to control an uneducated public,” Trowton replied as he put the glass of Moscato to his lips.

     “And that’s where you and other academics get it wrong, sir. Make no mistake, this dusty book was written by those who experienced the very events described within it. No matter your nebulous opinion to the contrary, this Book is inspired and is mostly correct, with the exception of the ending. John’s dream and prophetic Revelation are nothing more than an attempt at a happy ending for those who would deny the truth, Mr. Trowton,” replied Abaddon.

     He continued, “As an example, ‘The Devil who had led them astray was thrown into the pool of fire and sulfur, where the beast and the false prophet were. There they will be tormented day and night forever and ever.’

     “Tell me, Mr. Trowton, how do you presume to believe the God of gods would banish his most treasonous of angels to a lake of fire, a burning bastion of pain and torment beyond human imagination then assume throwing him into that same lake would somehow torture him for an eternity?  If that lake were to become the Fallen’s domain, don’t you believe that God would have made the angel impervious to it? Does that make sense to you, sir?” the man finished cryptically.

The left wing group heading this evil plot truly exists.  This compilation of the most powerful individuals in the world are known collectively as "The Bilderbergers."  Right leaning politicians have attended their meetings, but it is believed that super-left wing world policies are born in these meetings and put into action.  Unfortunately for the likes of us, the meetings are not public, nor are members of the media allowed into them.

Yes, I'm so happy to bring this newest novel to you, Mr. and Mrs. Reader.  Let it be known that it is a work of fiction with legs left dangling in the lake of reality.  This tale will entertain you, perhaps scare you, but hopefully, it will entice you to research further some of the ideas and concepts revealed in the pages.

Occam's Razor is available for immediate purchase on Amazon.com (paperback and Kindle), or available for pre-orders from my site, howardupton.com 

I sign each book ordered from howardupton.com, so if you are interested in a personalized copy, please go there to purchase it.

Much love to you all!