The Glamorous Writing Life

I am more than three-fifths done with the first editing pass through the new Markhat novel.

Which means I'll probably start my second pass this weekend, and if that goes well, I'll ship it out the next week.  The snow days have certainly helped speed up the process.

And what a process it is.  It's not enough to just read the manuscript.  You have to focus on every character, every mark of punctuation, every page break, every spelling of every word.  All while simultaneously reading the events for timing and continuity errors.

And of course, your inner editor must be busy asking the same question of every word, every line, and every scene -- "Does this move the book along?  Does it make sense in the context of each character and their motivations?  Is it any good?  Is everyone about to discover what a failure you are?  HAHAHAHAHA yes they are!"

My inner editor has issues.

But even so I have to turn them loose, and listen carefully to each and every muttered criticism.

I'd much rather be writing something new.  But re-reading and editing and tweaking is a vital part of the process, no matter how much I'd rather fire up "Fallout: New Vegas" instead.

The good news is that I love this book.  It's so good I'm not entirely sure I wrote the thing.  Maybe Lou Ann, Associate Canine Editor and Chief of Security,

fires up the PC after I go to bed and taps away with her little doggy paws and turns my own miserable prose into what I've spent the last week reading.

If so, good dog.

What's different about this Marhat adventure?

A lot of changes for our hero.  Without giving too much away, I will hint that the peace may be ending.  Too, Darla's patience with Markhat's reluctance to formalize things may be wearing thin.  Readers will finally learn what drove Gertriss out of Pot Lockney, and get a glimpse into Mama's past as well.

It's been a lot of fun.  Setting it back in Rannit was a welcome change too.  Rannit isn't a place I'd want to live, but it's a great town to set stories in.

So wish me luck on the remaining two-fifths.  Barring any major 'Oh no' moments, I'll be cranking away on a new book in a matter of a few weeks!

The Obligatory Snow Blog

I live in the Deep South.  Mississippi, specifically, and it doesn't get much deeper South than that.

Snow is a rarity here.  Snow that accumulates in sufficient depth to actually cover the ground is almost unheard of.

Six to eight inches of snow is the kind of thing we'll look back on in August, when the temperature in the shade is 108 degrees, with utter disbelief.

But it's here, and I've got the photographs to prove it.

So settle back and enjoy a virtual tour of scenic Yocona, Mississippi, where for a while at least the heat and humidity have given way to ice and snow.

That's Karen, my wife.  She's happy to be out in it!

I know, I know, pics of snow-coated winter limbs are cliche, but we haqrdly ever get this stuff, so humor me.

What, now snow-covered barns are cliche too?  Okay, pokay, moving right along...

And he won't stand still, either.

Petey takes a hard stance against all things white and fluffy.

Finally, a snowman!

Okay -- now will someone please clear the roads?

Movie Review: Country Strong

Sometimes, I see a movie.

If I'm lucky, the movie has the word 'zombie' in the title.  Juvenile?  Tasteless?  Crass?

Maybe, but I like what I like.

I like movies to scare me.  In fact, I dare them to try.  Go ahead, movie -- be scarier than the IRS or this economy or my rapid approach toward full-fledged codger-hood.  You think you've got what it takes to scare me?  Me, who recently had a colonoscopy?

Ha.  Fill yer fists, movie. Hit me with your best shot.

The last movie that truly frightened me was 'On the Beach.'  The 1960s version.  That was the bleakest, scariest thing I've seen in a long time.  I won't ever watch it again.  No zombies, either.  Just quiet, inescapable doom.

With zombies, you at least get a dash of fun.  Zombies stumble.  They're easy to shoot and run over.  They can't figure out doorknobs.  They're a lot like the people you see waddling around every day in Wal-Mart, aside of course from the craving for warm human flesh.  But there are an awful lot of them, and like bills from AT&T, zombies just keep coming...

Which brings us, oddly enough, to "Country Strong," which features not one zombie, unless you count the various living dead subplots stumbling around in search of something to bite.

Let's be fair, though.  A movie set against the backdrop of the country music scene is not one I'm likely to praise.  Twangy guitars and honky tonks and endless repetitions of Waylon and Willie is just not my cup of hemlock.

But, to my surprise, the music in the movie was actually good.  Which saved the thing from being a total loss,  because the characters reminded me of characters in a game of "Clue."  Draw a card, do something random.  He is sleeping with her, who is married to him, who is looking for an affair with her, who winds up sleeping with him, round and round we go, do I care, the answer is no.

Here's my summary of the film.  It contains spoilers, so if you plan to see the movie, stop reading now.

We're drunk.  We're sober.  We're going back onstage.  We're drunk.  We crash and burn.  We're sober.  We get another shot.  Oh my, is that vodka?  We're drunk.  We don't even make it onto the stage.  We're sober.  We get one more shot.  We perform brilliantly.  We commit suicide.  Various other characters either stay in show business, or do not.  Roll credits.

They pulled the suicide bit out of thin air.  She was self-destructive, sure.  But not suicidal, not then, not there. I think someone rolled a 20 sided die and called out 'You fail your roll against dying.'

Now, let's consider how much better that same film would have been -- with zombies:

We're drunk.  Zombies attack.  We're sober, and how.  The band plays on while the zombies are mowed down.  Zombie Willie Nelson shows up, reeking of cannabis, and the zombies catch a contact high and all gather around a vending machine giggling.  The band sneaks out and travels across a post-apocalyptic wasteland, fighting zombies here, playing shows there.  Heroine sings triumphantly while crowd goes wild.  Even zombies cheer.  Roll credits.

I fully expect to see my version featured on the Saturday night SyFy channel movie of the week very soon.

So I can only give 'Country Strong' a single decapitated zombie head on my six-head scoring system.  By comparison, 'True Grit' gets a solid six, yes six, heads because that movie rocked in every conceivable way.

Wherein I Storm the World of Rock

Last night, I learned to play a D (or is it D chord?) on the my guitar, which by the way needs a name.  I hear 'Lucille' is already taken.

A quick check of the series of tubes that comprise the Interwebs revealed a nearly infinite number of 'Learn to Play Guitar' videos available on YouTube.  A helpful hint from a FaceBook friend (thanks Blair!) led me to http://www.justinguitar.com/ which features a great Beginner's Course.  Justin goes nice and slow, and shows you where to put your fingers, one finger at a time.  For someone like me, whose control over his digits is marginal at best, this is vital.

So I'll be learning to rock out with Jason.  I'll keep you guys updated along the way.  And one of these days, much to the chagrin of my wife, I'm going to post a video of me playing my guitar.

Which needs a name!  If you've got any suggestions please let me know them by emailing me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com.

In other news, the editing of 'The Bonnie Bell' is going much faster than I imagined.  I'm now at page 130, and so far I've corrected a few tying errors and filled in a few ****s with the names of minor characters and fixed one egregious standing/sittting continuity error and that's been the bulk of it.  I hope to have it off to the publishers for the blessed Yea or the dread Nay in a matter of a week or two at the most.

I really like this book.  I keep catching myself just reading it, and enjoying it, rather than inspecting it for problems.  That's a good sign.

And I've already gotten the next one titled and (sort of) plotted out.  It's going to be called Brown River Queen, it will be set on a paddle-wheeled gambling boat, and there will be murder most foul. 


That's all the news I have today!

Keep rocking, fellow babies!

Guitar, Man

There are things I don’t need, but would like to have anyway.  Rocket launchers, for instance.  A solid red F-18 fighter jet.  Germany.

But, fortunately for my neighbors and the Germans, I’ll never have any of those things.

And then there are things I don’t need but got anyway.  The motorcycle, for instance.  My ghost-hunting gear.  A small particle accelerator.  All these things give me pleasure because they are, in a word, cool.  Especially when you try to use them all at once, and wind up trapping a pair of poltergeists while riding down the Natchez Trace in a cloud of just-created baryons.  Word to the wise, though – ghosts get really grumpy if you shove them in a saddlebag that already contains dangerous amounts of ionizing radiation.  I’m just saying.

Lately, though, I realized something has been lacking in my life.  There’s been an empty spot I needed to fill.

But what was the nature of this void, and how to fill it?

I pondered many things.  Perhaps my fading youth requires me to grow a ponytail, I thought.  Or get a tattoo.  Or don a cape and fight crime by night.

No, I decided one night while piloting a burning hang-glider into a gasoline storage facility.  These are all fine and noble things, but I look goofy with long hair, I can’t find anyone to give me a UNIX ROX tat, and until criminals start getting much smaller and much weaker, I’ll leave the crime-fighting to the convenience store clerks.

But, amid the explosions, it suddenly hit me – what I need, my friends, is a good solid dose of Rock and Roll.

And not the kind you get by nailing a pair of Sennheisers to your skull and cranking up the stereo.  No, for once, I want to be on the creative side of things.

I want to be the guy playing the guitar.

Quiet down, quiet down.  Seriously.  I expected some laughter, sure, but – look, get that guy a paper bag to breathe in, won’t you?  He’s hyperventilating.

Okay.  I admit it.  I have the musical skills of a sack of rivets.  Maybe not even that.

And I’m not exactly young anymore.  I’m 47.  That’s not the preferred time to set about learning complex new motor skills.

And I’m busy.  I’ve got a full-time day job.  I write at night.  I also build ghost hunting gear and various other gadgets, take care of six needy dogs, and of course there’s the whole piloting burning hang-glider gig, which frankly is turning out to be a bit of a drag in terms of time and medical bills.

So, arguably, this is not a good time to pick up a demanding new pastime.

That‘s good advice.  Usually, I follow good advice.  When people tell me ‘Stop sticking your head in that fan’ or ‘There’s a train coming, get off the tracks,’ I usually heed their advice.

But not this time.

There won’t ever be a good time.  There’s not going to come a time in my life at which I can say ‘Wow, I’ve got six extra hours a day for the rest of my life.’

That’s not how House Arrest works.

So today, I bought an electric guitar.  No amp yet – that will come shortly.  But I got the guitar.  It’s a Raven six-string, made in 2001.  It’s used, but in great shape.  I’d tell you all about it, but first I’ll have to learn the terms.  Right now all I can do is describe the knobby things as knobby and the strings as, um, stringy.

In fact, I’ll sum up here everything I know about playing a guitar:

GUITAR PLAYING 101

1) A guitar works by sending the vibrations of the strings into the guitar body and then out to record company executives, who then steal most of the money from the actual musician and leave them the lunch tab.

2) The guitar is played by using those bendy bits on the ‘hands’ to move the strings in certain specific ways.  IMPORTANT NOTE – The phrase ‘Playing by ear’ is NOT to be interpreted literally, because the bleeding takes hours to stop.

3) The neck of the guitar is divided into frets, shires, wetlands, and Indian-head nickels.  The fret you should be fingering is always a good half a meter from wherever your stupid fingers actually are.  That’s why the neck is divided into visible frets, otherwise real guitar players would have difficulty judging just how woefully unskilled you actually are.

4) There are eleven million, eight hundred thousand, four hundred and sixteen major chords, and two minor ones.  Don’t be discouraged; in order to play “Stairway to Heaven,” one must only master all the major chords and either of the minor ones (which, sadly, require eight fingers each).

5) Employing a monkey trained in the savage use of a ball-peen hammer is an effective way to learn proper fingering technique OUCH but remember to OUCH set clear schedules MAN THAT HURTS with the monkey OUCH at the beginning STOP IT OMAR CRAP!

6) There is a huge difference between the stage presence required to write novels and that expected of musicians, so always tie the belt on your natty old bathrobe when performing.

7) Always judge your own guitar technique to that of David Gilmour of Pink Floyd fame.

8) Expect to take some time to learn the guitar.  Some players report the process took them hours, even days.  Don’t be discouraged if, after your first practice session, the finer points of Spanish flamenco sessions are slightly less than perfect.  Given another week, you’ll be headlining at the Orpheum – unless you just suck.  And if you do, well, there’s no excuse for you, loser.

So wish me luck, one and all.  Call it a mid-life crisis.  Call it just another ill-advised foray into realms better left uncharted.

Just don’t call me Shirley…

First New Blog Post!

Just testing, gang...