GHOUL WORLD, GHOUL WORLD, GHOUL WORLD

Me behind reflections on my glasses with crooked smile as I begin the unknown number of another rewrite of my science fiction novel Ghoul World. You know? I believe in this novel. I knew it was a good idea when it first struck me in the head a decade or so back. Agents are dumb things, looking for I don't know what, but they are sure missing a good book with a potential to be turned into a sci-fi movie.
 

SILENT BEAT BOOMER SUBMITS AT LAST

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Outside this River Maiden espresso joint in Vancouver Washington, a leaf blower is swooshing wet leaves into mountains of golden red. A blue sky peeks between brilliant white clouds above. The sun at the moment is hidden. Last night, I sent off Ghoul World to DAW Publishing. Happily, I was able to use Submittable. Last time I checked, DAW wanted hard copy. I'm glad I checked one last time before I got the ms printed and shipped off. It would have cost me less than 100 dollars to get it printed and shipped. I could have printed it myself too, but the task felt daunting, so I planned to act wealthy and get it done for me. Instead, DAW accepted the ms for free, not even a nominal Submittable fee. They'll report in less than 3 months.

Truthfully? I feel little hope Ghoul World will be accepted. It's well written, but I don't think it's modern enough for young tastes. It's a science fiction film noir with a private investigator. I had in mind Blade Runner, the movie when I began. Perhaps not enough action. The last three chapters are purely expository, as a character called Urthana explains the utopian world of Alteregoia where Charley Manning finds himself at novel's end.

AUTO WRECK BOOMERANG WRECKS SILENT BOOMER P.O.M.

It's been a damn long time since I made an entry here. Hate that, but first I had a lot of things to attend to, insurance and what not, about Mertie's wrecked Echo. So I was strung out as long gaps in time interrupt the flow of writing, and my memory also fails to recall all that went before in the plot. Lots of work to get back up to running speed. I haven't yet gotten back to sending out query letters, and for a spell I considered suspending any more writing and going back to doing algebra in the mornings. I worked algebra problems and monitored algebra classes for free in Washington university system during the first years after retirement, but, at last, I'm back to scribbling on my sci fi screen play which still is working out nicely. Still nameless too. No working title even. Hope to get more regular now that the insurance is all worked out...about 400 dollar increase in our premium, but I went down this morning and cut back on some of the Cadillac auto insurance I'd been conned into by a fast talking auto insurance man. I'm a sucker at heart, I fear. 

e.e. cummings AND BEATNIK BOOMER FEEL A LOT

Today is a disturbing day. A day of dizziness, and I can't get started on my science fiction screenplay, plus fecal incontinence threatens. Instead of sturm und drang, I'm suffering from shite and stress. Ah, well, it's a good excuse to put this writing day in the can (double meaning there) and unwind, maybe finish reading Craig Lesley's Winterkill. He lives in Portland, you know, just across the river from where I type this. He was born in 1945 and is 8 years younger than me. Makes him 70 or approaching 70 or leaving 70 for 71, depending upon the month.  

Plotting my science fiction movie has been giving me fits. I want certain things to happen and certain feelings to be aroused, but I can't quite focus on the necessary steps. I'm trying to imagine, instead of writing toward (as in fiction) certain frightening moments, but I can't grasp them imaginatively. A blank. It's old age and a failing imagination, or a case of plain old writer's block. 

Speaking of feelings, a friend of mine put the e.e. Cummings' photo and screed on my Facebook page, and I'm sharing it here. Feelings are wonderful. Younger, I suffered for many years with the near absence of emotions. Severe depression. A cold dead sensation. Without emotional guidance, a man makes awful mistakes, tries to make decisions based on rational premises. Only sociopaths are successful at that.

IN EVERY OLD SILENT BOOMER IS A CHILD

Art about imagination found here:

If I don't improve on the number of entries I put up here, I may lose potential readers of this writer's blog. I notice all the single visits or the odd two visits as readers check in to see if I've put up new material. Actually, nothing much is cooking except my hopes arise anew as I think of new ways to improve the four books I'm rewriting currently. For example, I'm considering changing Programming Frank Singletary to a third person narrator rather than the first person, Frank, who now narrates the fiction. As far as rejection letters or acceptances? Still no new events. I've decided to put Chapter One back into Ghoul World. The chapter goes a long way toward informing the reader of how the Rotting Plague works on human biology. Odd, that I read something into one rejection letter and IMAGINED that removing Chapter One would answer the complaint I IMAGINED was being made. Tonight, my wife and I were watching a science fiction movie, and I noticed the writer made a mistake I continually am learning to avoid...extra words and illogical reality. The piece of dialogue went, "I felt almost like I was drowning." If the character "almost" felt like he was drowning, then he couldn't have felt as if he was drowning. He either felt like he was drowning or he didn't. I told Mertie the line should read, "He felt like he was drowning." She suggested, even more forcibly, "He was drowning." The character was not describing an actual near-drowning event. The remark was a psychological remark. Another word I overuse is "just" as in "I just wanted to get your opinion." Wouldn't, "I wanted to get your opinion" work just as well. Granted...I do see occasions where "just" is justified, just between you and I [me].  

IT'S GOT LEGS! RUN BEATNIK ON YOUR SILENT LEGS! GO BUCKEYES!

Wrote five straight hours this morning and early afternoon. Now 2 pm. On my feet the entire time, leaning over my laptop at a tall table in Brewed Awakening, a coffee shop on 164th Avenue not far from home. I like that clever name, one of the better ones. Makes me think of film noir.  Raining out, and I'm less than 20 pages from finishing this sci fi novel, soon to be a movie, appearing at your neighborhood theater. What? No more neighborhood theaters like the one in Belmont, in Dayton, Ohio, where I saw "Attack Of the 50 Foot Woman"? No single screen venues where first run movies appear? So you'll have to go to a movie complex in a mall to view it when it becomes a movie. I believe it has the legs for it, the sex appeal of a mystery combined with all sorts of mysterious characters. Go see it as soon as it comes out. Mertie and I will invite you to our Portland condo for a celebration if you do and can go to the movie.

Why, you might ask was I on my feet the whole time? I came across a television show in which it was demonstrated that staying off your ass causes our fat burning equipment to increase its potential by 500% ... or some such huge factor. No exercise required. Just don't sit your lazy ass down all day. Oh, my aching feet!