This year has been tough. Two friends lost to cancer, another move, albeit a short one, and unbelievable work stress. Sometimes I ask myself if it's all worth it--you know, life, the universe, and everything. Then I remember Douglass Adams was brilliant and already answered my question. Did I mention Mr. Adams was my age when he checked out with a massive heart attack?
I digress....
I have alluded to my current writing project a couple of times. It promises to be a work of hope and inspiration; my first ever attempt at non-fiction. Here's what I didn't tell you: this is the hardest thing I have ever written. In.My.Life
When you are attempting to capture the human spirit in the written form, it's difficult. Pulling this off while coupled with the stories of those who have overcome insurmountable odds is beyond the pale. In other words, I find myself immersed in their words, their stories, the bravery they faced against odds many of us can't begin to imagine.
Sometimes this work leaves me depressed without compare. My own maladies fall by the wayside and my emotions run hot. This is life--something we are forced to face when we move away from youth and into a more mature state. Some of our friends pass away, others wish they had passed away when a loved one died. Others, still, press on in the face of adversity--a middle finger salute to karmic gods who attempted with great futility to repress and slay them.
This is your story, this thing I am writing. It is about you, your neighbor, your spouse, your parent, or your child. On more than one occasion I've wiped away a tear as I have read the compilation given to me in trust. We never know what our neighbors have faced until we develop a particular level of intimacy with them.
The writing comes in spurts. There are times when I cannot force myself to the keyboard because I know other's demons await me. Still, there is that need, that push, to tell the tale--an albatross of sorts, I suppose--because I have collected their stories and promised to publish them in hopes that others will draw a certain strength from them.
Understand Bill Evers fans--Bill will return in time. His adventures have not ended, at least until my time on earth is finished. But there is something larger than Bill that must be told in the interim, and soon I will get to share it with you.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Project Rejuvination
I was on a roll--a book a year was being written and published by my wonderful publisher Kaizen Quest Publishing. Then it happened...life took a strange twist and my passion was forced into the passenger's seat.
Last year I embarked on another writing journey, one that challenged me mentally and emotionally. I love writing fictional novels with an admittedly strange enhancement of out there, or beyond reason. That form of creativity fulfills me and makes me happy, which is why I was shocked at my own desire to attempt something a little different.
A particular setback in life catapulted me into the world of non-fiction, and forced me to look inward to the real Howard. Who was this guy, and could he sustain something he felt momentously catastrophic? Things were shaky at best, and downright scary at worst.
It was then that a thought crept into my mind and a curious desire to understand emotional catastrophe. This self imposed inquisition has lead me down the path on a project that I believe is so important, so relevant, and poignant that I honestly feel unworthy to partake in it.
Without giving much away, let me say this: this book is the hardest thing I've ever written, but not in the contextual sense of the word. Grammatically, it isn't challenging, nor does it push me from a creative perspective. What it does do is gut check me every time I sit down to write. Emotionally, this project is draining. Let me say this--when I finish this book, it will be my proudest moment. To bring you a work of monumental strife, hope, and faith will make me the happiest man ever.
This is going to touch you......that I promise.
Last year I embarked on another writing journey, one that challenged me mentally and emotionally. I love writing fictional novels with an admittedly strange enhancement of out there, or beyond reason. That form of creativity fulfills me and makes me happy, which is why I was shocked at my own desire to attempt something a little different.
A particular setback in life catapulted me into the world of non-fiction, and forced me to look inward to the real Howard. Who was this guy, and could he sustain something he felt momentously catastrophic? Things were shaky at best, and downright scary at worst.
It was then that a thought crept into my mind and a curious desire to understand emotional catastrophe. This self imposed inquisition has lead me down the path on a project that I believe is so important, so relevant, and poignant that I honestly feel unworthy to partake in it.
Without giving much away, let me say this: this book is the hardest thing I've ever written, but not in the contextual sense of the word. Grammatically, it isn't challenging, nor does it push me from a creative perspective. What it does do is gut check me every time I sit down to write. Emotionally, this project is draining. Let me say this--when I finish this book, it will be my proudest moment. To bring you a work of monumental strife, hope, and faith will make me the happiest man ever.
This is going to touch you......that I promise.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
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.
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.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
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. :)
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. :)
Sunday, January 3, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
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!
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!
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