Writer Wednesday: Stephen Black

Why I Write

Air Supply are a couple of Australian men who have written some very popular songs. On youtube they smile and/or look forlorn as they sing about being “all out of love.” For their “Making love out of nothing at all” music video they show us a painful romantic breakup, windblown 70's hair and a private jet!

The logo of Air Supply looks like Coke's.

I never drink Coke.

Air Supply is being displayed on the mobile phone on the table in front of me. The table is covered with roasted beans, Thai food and Tiger beer bottles. Buckley is using Bluetooth to wirelessly transfer Air Supply songs to another guy’s phone. This makes me smile.

I'm smiling because Buckley's job is building underwater oil rigs. His life depends on long hoses filled with gases. Buckley’s air supply is a collection of pumps, canisters and gauges, all banged up and in the hands of recently hired strangers who try to communicate in English. Buckley and his team work in storms and they work when it’s dark. A good day is when the hoses don’t tangle, the jellyfish stay away, the current's weak, the pumps work and the waves are predictable. A good day is like winning the lottery.

Buckley sees me looking at the two words glowing on his phone. He breaks into a big smile.

“You like Air Supply! Great! Karaoke! Let's go sing Air Supply!”

Buckley stands up on his stool and starts singing “Lonely is the Night.”

These “Air Supply Moments” might be the reason I write.

A pudgy diver in an orange jumpsuit terribly crooning Air Supply songs in a crowded Singaporean food court on a Saturday night- I need to record this. I cannot be Spinoza, Paul Aster, Mishima, Henry Miller nor Margaret Atwood. But I can use words to freeze the flow of life around me.

I melt these frozen stacks of words, then freeze them again. Stack them again, melt them again. Stack, melt, freeze, stack, melt, freeze.

Shapeless.

Hopeless, as I wait for a drop of knowledge. I'm beyond hopeless as a previsioned frail stream of story ideas disappears, leaving only the sights and sounds of this room.

A man is being given a tour of writers' hell. Everywhere,writers are suffering in the great heat. Some pound their heads in frustration,some stare at blank pieces of paper. They look at their words as though they are reading their own death sentences. They are together, yet the writers are all alone. They do not speak, but the room is filled with screams of Agony.

The man is next taken to writers' heaven. He thinks a mistake has been made, for he sees nearly the same tortuous scenario that he saw in writers' hell. He questions his guide. “No sir, this is definitely writers' heaven,” the guide explains, “but these writers get published.”

So, why do I write?

One reason may be to 'make conceptual, postmodern text-based art' of the very small intersections that exist between 'words' ,what 'words' actually are, and what 'words' represent. Another reason could be that I am simply “too lazy to work, too chicken to steal.”

My father was a book salesman and this could be another reason. But I really don't think that I am writing to please him. If I wanted to please my family- and other people, I would think of a better way of earning money.

The truth is I write without thinking about why I write.

Writing happens to me.

If I were a clever, well-educated writer, I would now conclude with some sort of witty wordplay (possibly Shakespearean) comparing my need to write with a diver's need of an air supply.

But I am not a clever writer. I'm just a guy who fails to understand life. I spend days and nights rearranging words to disguise this tragedy, suffocating as I try to make it pretty to read.

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Thank you Stephen for being my guest this week and thanks to all of you who have taken time out of your day to stop by my blog. You can also find Stephen on line at the following places...

-on Facebook: stephen black/blacksteps

-on twitter: mrblacksteps

-Book Merah ( a division of Blacksteps) has a number of publications on scribd and Kindlewww.blacksteps.tv (soon to be updated)

-history/photo samples at www.obamajalanjalan.com

If you would like more info about this series, or would like to be a guest please follow this link Writer Wednesdays: The Intro .

Thanks,

Kristin : )

Writer Wednesday: Mike Jensen

Sixty Minute Writer

“It’s almost 5:30; must hurry!” Talking to myself, I dry off from the shower, get dressed as if going to work, including socks but minus shoes. “This is just as important as your real job.”

I choke down a piece of toast, maybe a bowl of cereal. Only 5 minutes left.
Firing up the laptop, I take my position on the couch: the far right side, turned sideways back leaned against the side arm, legs stretched out across the cushions and crossed at the ankles. The laptop lies across my lap.

“Hey it really is a laptop!” I occasionally muse. With one of the throw pillows propped underneath the lower edge, the laptop becomes properly leveled. “I would hate to put too much slant in my writing too early in my writing career.” I make that joke to myself way too many times.

5:30 arrives and the fingers begin to find their way to the keys in a flurry of hunt and peck motions that would awe many if ever seen. I become a writer for the next hour. Nearly everyday, for a few years now, this morning hour has become my world of fantasy and I disappear into it. It is a world where I get to dictate whether it rains or shines, who gets to say what to whom, and, sometimes even who lives and dies. It is mine.

All others in the household sleep and leave me to my solitary hour. Occasionally someone will get up and make the mistake of trying to keep me company in my office that for the other twenty-three hours serves as a living room for our family of seven, but they are usually rebuked. Not verbally, but visually and ignoringly.

That hour, that room, that couch, and that ritual are how I maintain sanity with all the ideas and voices and stories and characters that roam inside my head. I reflect on aspects of them all the time but that hour is the only time they are allowed to gain their corporal form within the words upon a screen. At the stroke of 6:30, the real world of job, kids’ school and bus schedules will again take center stage and the writer and his stories must go dormant once again.

In my efforts of sixty minutes a day, I have completed two works. One, the first, is too big and yucky for anyone to seriously be able to publish. Not even self-publish, (that was a joke). My second attempt might be something. It’s on a sub-mission, as I call it, right now. With luck, it’ll return with some good news soon.

Why do I do this? Because I want to. No other real reason. Do I hope one day that a story sells so much I can do this for more than an hour? Sure. I would love to eventually not go to a day job. But who doesn’t? I also, however, don’t know what “more” means. Two hours a day? Four hours? Sixteen hours? I might have to get a more comfortable couch.

I admit that wafting within the keystrokes and misspelled words with their cute red swigglies underneath them; I do find slivers of time to wonder if one day I will actually be a sixty-minute author. I like to think one day I will. Maybe I can get a desk. Maybe a home office. Maybe… Until that problem arises, I’ll just worry about my world as it is.

If not. It’s OK. I’ll still be on the couch the next morning. Awake, showered, dressed for work and plugging away at a new story. It’s what I do. It’s has become an important facet to who I am. It is now something I would miss if I stopped. I mean, what else would I do with that hour? Sleep? Sleep is for wimps.

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Thanks Mike for sharing your morning ritual and sense of humor with us. Thanks to all of you for stopping by today. You can find more about Mike through his blog Miked Up! and follow him on Twitter @mmj5170 .

If you would like more info about this series, or would like to be a guest please follow this link Writer Wednesdays: The Intro .

Kristin : )

Memoir Monday: Mini Memoir of Scotty the Man Hater

For this week's Memoir Monday I am trying something different. I will be sharing a personal story, kind of like a mini memoir of my own. This is one of those stories our kids ask to hear every few years and it still makes me laugh. I hope you enjoy.


In the early years of our marriage my husband wanted to get a bird, not just any bird, he wanted a cockatiel or a parrot. He was convinced it would be easier to care for and more entertaining than a dog or cat. We looked into buying a baby cockatiel or parrot. They were very expensive. The idea was put on the back burner when we found out I was expecting our second child. A few months later I ran into a friend from school. She invited me and my son to her daughter's 1st birthday at her parent's home. Turns out her parents had a cockatiel and they were looking for a good home for it because they were moving to Florida and couldn't take it with them. They wanted very little money, as they were more concerned about the bird living out his last few years in a good home. Scotty was his name, and according to my friend's parents, he was already 12 years old.

Looking back I should have known something was up when they led me down a dark hallway to a large cage covered in a sheet. Beneath it you could hear strange grumbling sounds and hissing. The sheet was lifted only enough for me to be sure it was actually a bird in the cage and not a snake, or some horrible mutant animal. They were quick to explain that Scotty didn't like crowds. We would have to keep him covered when we had a lot of company or he would become too stressed. Ok, I thought, we could do that.

I left for home that day with a cockatiel, a beautiful big cage, and two separate raised platforms that looked like mini playgrounds. I was told how much he loved to be out of his cage, although they didn't dare remove the bread ties that held the cage doors shut.


My son and I arrive home to surprise my husband with Scotty. He happily helped make room for the huge cage in the living room and then we set up the bird playgrounds on opposite ends of the the first floor of our apartment. One by the front window and the other beside the sliding glass doors. Scotty loved the sit and look out the window, we were told. When everything was set up, and the last swinging bell hung, we untied the cage door to let Scotty out in his new home.

He didn't move. My husband reached in to help his bird out. Scotty squawked, bit his finger, and shrank back into the corner of the cage hissing. We assumed he was scared and left him alone for a while. My son, not yet 2 stayed at the cage. I was afraid the bird would bite, but it calmed right down. Before we knew it Scotty was making soft whistling sounds and saying, "Pretty Bird." My son was giggling, all was good.

A few days later we try again. I open the cage and this time Scotty hops right on my hand. My husband turns to say something from the kitchen, Scotty's feathers bunch up on the back of his neck like a cat ready to fight, he suddenly flies straight for my husband. He ducks, I scream, my son is giggling, and Scotty is flying around in a complete panic. With visions of Alfred Hitchcock's movie The Birds in my head I run to protect my son's eyes. Scotty takes another swoop at my husband, squawks, and crashes into the sliding glass door. He falls to the floor. The apartment is silent. I'm still holding my hands over my son's eyes and my husband and I can only look at each other in utter shock over what had just happened.

My son breaks us from our trance with a one word query, "birdie?" I give a look to my husband that sends him to investigate. He looks back at us and says, "he's moving." My son and I go closer as my husband bends down to pick up Scotty. The bird hops to his feet and starts hissing, angrily, and running at my husband in some crazy bird warrior pose.

We finally did get Scotty back into his cage and, after similar scenes played out over the next few months, we called the previous owners. They admitted that he had not actually been out of his cage for a long time. They also admitted that Scotty, the bird I got FOR my husband, might have some slight issues with men. The irony of this still makes me laugh. We were told to give him time, he would get used to my husband.

Over the years my husband was diligent with Scotty. He kept his cage clean, fed him, and changed his drinking and his bath water daily, but Scotty remained staunch with his dislike of him. He hissed and spit every time my husband got within a foot of the cage. And if my husband were so bold as to lie on the floor with me or my son to watch television, Scotty would open the cage, drop silently to the floor, and sneak up like a bird ninja to my husband's feet and snip at a toe. Or sometimes he would sneak up and just hiss at his feet, which I found hilarious because my husband would just about hit the ceiling every time. Imagine looking down as the feathery head dress pokes over the top of my husband's foot and beedy little accusing eyes stare at us.

It became clear that my friend's parents were less than honest on a few things. They never did move to Florida, Scotty never came around to like my husband, and he lived much longer than anyone ever expected. When we got him he was around 12 years old, he lived another 12 years. Also, there was nothing slight about his issues. He may have been suffering from a bird form of schizophrenia. Turns out cockatiels are very intellectual birds and can suffer from depression, bipolar, and schizophrenia.

Scotty is still missed by us all, even my husband. Thankfully, he kept his hatred focused only on him. My three boys, he would sing to and talk sweetly. He even learned how to say my oldest son's name. To my daughter and I, he was always a gentleman/bird. He would whistle when ever we walked by, the sexy whistle, and say' "Hello." To my husband, he remained a full blown man hater until the sad day his angry little claws pointed toward the sky.

Thanks for stopping by and sharing in our almost fond memories with Scotty.

Kristin : )

Review: Ways To Live Forever by Sally Nicholls

I came across this novel, or I should say, I was intrigued by the summary my 12 year old son gave about it. He was doing a report for school and was explaining Sam's story. Later that night, after the report was finished and my kids had gone to sleep, I picked up the book. I knew it was sad and I honestly had no intentions of reading it. I was just kind of curious.

First page starts with Sam's list about himself.

1. My name is Sam.
2. I am eleven years old.
3. I collect stories and fantastic facts.
4. I have leukemia.
5. By the time you read this, I will probably be dead.

I did not put the book down until 1:00 AM, and only did then because I had finished it. This book moved me, it made me smile at times, and cry at many other times. I knew I had to do a review, both to share this story with others and to put words to all of the emotions it touched in me.

Ways To Live Forever is written from Sam's point of view. This also makes it all the more heartbreaking. He knows what his fate is, as do his parents, but the way we know this is through his observations. His father trying to avoid all talk and act like everything will be OK. His mother, nervous and overwhelmed with it all. His little sister tormenting one second and clinging to him the next. The time frame is just a few months, but the writing allows you see glimpses into their past and future of this family. You forget they're fictional.

What I liked:

The story was told by Sam, a child. It's done so well that we know and can feel what almost everyone around him was thinking and feeling just by the ways they acted around him.

What I disliked:

The one character that I wanted to know more about was Sam's tutor, Mrs. Willis. I thought she was one of most important characters. Without her Sam would not have started his book and his family would have slowly died along with him, all stuck in their solitary ways of dealing or avoiding his illness. She allowed him to ask anything and then, instead of answering, prompted him to find the answers for himself.

Some other reviews of Ways To Live Forever:

Livemint.com

keris.typepad.com

Ways To Live Forever by Sally Nicholls was published in September 2008 by Authur A. Levine Books. It is listed for readers ages 9 - 12, although I think older kids would get a lot out of this story also.

Thanks for stopping by. I'd love to hear your opinions on this book.

Kristin : )