Aquaman #0 with artwork by... Peter David?

 Probably the most treasured comic book in my entire collection

Aquaman #0 from 1994, part of Peter David's fantastic run on the title.  This issue was the gateway drug that led to thirty years of comic book collecting.

I'd been a fan of Aquaman from the day my parents dressed in a pair of Aquaman Underoos and sat me down in front of the television on Saturday mornings to watch Super Friends.  Dude lived underwater and could talk to fish.  That sounded great to me.  But I never branched out from there, never actually read any of the comic books.  

I was also a huge fan of the Incredible Hulk.  A bit frightened, but very thrilled by Lou Ferrigno television show, a lover of the Stan Lee narrated cartoons, and I even took meals on an Incredible Hulk TV tray.  I love the color green.  And Hulk was green!  But again, I never actually bought any of the comic books.

Over the years I would hear stories about what had happened to certain movie or cartoon characters in their comics.  Did you know that Robin died?  It's true.  The Joker killed him.  What?  Or in the Lost Boys there’s that discussion about comic book continuity.  Red Kryptonite?  What’s that?  I found these bits of information intriguing and often wondered what other cool stuff was happening in the comics.  But I never went out and bought any books.

Then one day my older brother, Mark, said something like, "You ever read any comics?  They're kind of cool.  Did you know that Aquaman got his hand chopped off and he jammed a spear in the stump?  He's got long hair and beard now, too."  And that did it.  I had to see this for myself.  Aquaman lost his hand?  And he replaced it with a harpoon?  What?  And the issue number was ZERO?  Off I went to the nearest Hastings to check their newsstand. 

The cover of issue #0 was even better than what I'd pictured in my head.  That image by Marty Egeland was so cool.  I bought the comic book.  I read it.  And I loved it.  Then I tracked down all the Aquaman books I could.  When that was done, I thought I'd check out my other favorite character, The Incredible Hulk.  And guess what!  The same guy who wrote Aquaman had been writing the Hulk title for years.  So I tracked all of those down.  To this day, I'm still buying comic books.

My Aquaman #0 is now signed by Peter David.  My younger brother, Ric, who followed me into comic collecting, tracked down Mr. David at the San Diego Comic Con and got the autograph for me.  But the signature is not the reason this is my most specialest of comic books.  No.  Ric had heard a story about a fan who’d approached Peter David for a signature, was confused about writers versus artists, and insisted that Peter David drew the X-Men comic book and wanted a drawing of Professor X.  After several attempts to explain to the fan that he was the writer, not the artist, Peter David finally relented, drew a circle with two dots for eyes, put an X on the forehead, and handed it back.  Once this story got out, Peter received many more requests to draw Professor X.

When handing my copy of Aquaman #0 over to Peter David, Ric said, "So I hear you draw a pretty mean Professor X."  According to Ric, Peter seemed like he was a little tired of being asked to draw the professor, his demeanor shifting into an “uggh, not this again” mode.  My brother finished with, "I was wondering if you'd like to try your hand at Aquaman."  Ric’s use of the word "hand" in this sentence was very intentional.  Peter David is a known lover of word play, and grinned, body language now indicating that he was intrigued.  Possibly delighted.  He drew this on a backer board:

And this backer board is bagged with my signed copy of Aquaman #0.  This is why it is the most cherished comic book in my collection.  I have never posted this image anywhere.  I didn't want Peter David to get sick of being asked to draw it over and over again.  And maybe I liked the idea of being the only one with a Peter David drawn Aquaman.  I did toy with the idea of coloring it, maybe with crayon, and send it to Peter.  Not the original of course.  A nice color copy, maybe.  But I never got around to it.  After buying the Aquaman by Peter David Omnibus recently, I told my daughter the story, and sent her a picture of the backerboard.  She sent me back this:

And that’s about as perfect as it can get.

The Last Blanca Story

Blanca the dragon perched on a short stone wall.  Sunlight glinted off her white scales casting tiny shimmering rainbows through the air and across the ground.  She stretched her small wings and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Naranja asked. 

Blanca shook her head and continued to stare off into the distance.  “Just waiting for Hazel.”

Naranja sat next to his daughter and put his arm around her.  His orange scales cast a warm peach glow across her neck and face.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Blanca said.   After a pause she added, “Why doesn’t she come to play anymore?”

“Well… What do you think?”

“I think maybe she’s busy.  Or she found out I was imaginary.  Does she know I’m imaginary, Dad?”

“You sure you want to talk about this?”

“Yes.  I want to know.”

Naranja pulled Blanca closer and said, “When humans are little they don’t separate reality from fantasy.  Everything is real to them.  Everything is magical.  When they grow up though…  They lose that.  The magic, the unrestrained possibility of every strange idea, every enchanted landscape, every mystical creature... becomes unlikely, then improbable, and finally impossible.  After that, things are either real or fake to them.”

Blanca nodded and took a deep breath.  Her snout started to quiver and the sparkle in her gemlike eyes rippled.  A series of hitching sobs racked her body.  “Hazel thinks I’m fake?”

“Oh sweetie,” Naranja said.  Blanca clawed her way onto his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his scaly chest.  Hot tears streaked down his torso as she continued to convulse and wail.  He held her tight and rocked her.

When the wail became a whimper he said, “She will always remember you.  You were a huge part of her life.  A special, magical friend.”

Blanca howled again.  “But she won’t come and play with me anymore.”

The crying continued for a long time.  Naranja did not try to console her with words.  He simply wrapped his wings around his daughter, rocked her, and stroked his clawed fingers across her pearl-white scales; from her forehead to the nape of her neck.  His own tears ran unhindered down face

“Dragon parents dread this moment,” he finally said.  “Human toddlers wander into dragon lands, befriend dragon children, and they become nearly inseparable friends.  This continues for years.  We know that one day the humans will vanish from our children’s lives.  We understood the inevitable hurt that follows.”

“Then why do you let it happen at all?”  Blanca asked, her voice wavering on the verge of tears once again.

Naranja sighed.  “That’s a good question.  And we ask it of ourselves constantly.  Do all those years of fun and adventure balance out the looming pain?  I don’t know.  I hope so.  It warmed my heart to watch you two play together.”

Blanca was silent, except for a slight sniffle and occasional deep breath. 

“Maybe she’ll still come play with me?

Maybe.  From time to time.  Most dragon children cling to that hope.  And sometimes the human children do return.”

“Will Hazel come back?”

“She might.”  He said kissing her forehead.  “It will be different though.  She might be drawing a picture of you and find herself here.”

“Or maybe writing a story,” Blanca added, her face lighting up.

“Right.  Or she might be asleep and dream about you.  Or maybe even playing pretend in her room, or exploring outside, and find her way back here.  But that’s what it will be now.  Pretend.  The utter belief, that magical confidence, won’t be there.”

Blanca nodded and smiled.  “That’s okay.  As long as I still get to see her.”

“I think you will.”

“Good.  Because I love her so much, Daddy.”

Naranja hugged her and said, “She loves you too, sweetie.” 

Party Line Battleline (part 2)

              

(Please see previous post for part 1)

  

                David has a gun but no bullets.  It’s been several weeks since he acquired the firearm and he’s spent several rounds on various Reds in that time.  He should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.  They started it.  They’re the gun nuts.  What was he supposed to do? Suffer their attacks and not fight back?

                And it felt good to take a few of their guys down.  Still, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that aspect of his recent business, or then the guilt would surely come.

                The violence has continuously escalated, both parties bringing every weapon they have to bear against their opposition.  They champion their candidates with an ideological fury that borders on madness.  As David skulks through ordinance-scarred streets he feels an urge to enter a house and open fire on the occupants simply because the car parked in their driveway has a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s support of that crooked bastard Jack Fielding.

                Jack says Blue Boys bleeding hearts will bleed this country dry!

                This infuriates David.  If only he had bullets.  And it’s so untrue.  If anyone was bleeding this country dry it was those damned Reds with their “support the rich” mentality.  Their obsessive need to put their right to own assault rifles above another’s right to food or medical care.

                He needs bullets.  He needs bombs.  He needs a frickin’ flame thrower.

                David hesitates outside a gun shop.  Bullets in there.  But someone inside will surely peg him as a liberal the moment he crosses the threshold.  He can’t just walk in there cavalierly and not expect hostility.  Then he realizes that that’s exactly how he needs to enter their domain.  With some swagger.  Some arrogance.  Some god-damn-it-all-it’s-my-right-to-be-here.

                And he does.

                Strolls right through the door.  Gun in hand because that seemed the boldest move.

                “Help you?” the man behind the counter asks.

                Quelling panic, hoping those few semesters of theater class all those years ago will benefit here, he says, “Got jumped.  Blue Boys took all my gear.  But they didn’t get this!”

                He holds up the pistol.  Grins.  And says, “From my cold dead hands.”

                The man behind the counter smiles wide and a couple of the browsing customers cheer him.

                “Holster and some ammo,” David says, suspecting the man behind the counter will know exactly what kind of bullets the gun needs from the glimpse he got of the pistol.  David fears the man might simply point in the direction of the holsters or the bullets so he adds, “I’ll be over here… rearming.”

                And David walks toward the largest, most irritatingly male, guns in the shop.

                He tries to keep an eye on the shop owner, straining the capabilities of his peripherals, but soon finds the lure of the assault weapons far too enticing.

                All these strange features.  Flash and sound suppressors, folding combat stocks, infrared illuminators, night vision scopes, rail interface systems.  A grenade launcher mount.  He’ll have to restructure his budget for the next few months.  Give up some front row tickets, do his best to avoid downtown eateries, stay clear of bookstores and electronics websites.

                He limits himself to two, admittedly bad-assed looking rifles.  Then three when the shop owner helpfully points out that David hadn’t selected anything fully automatic.  Of course he’d have to get something full auto.  To maintain his cover.

                The damage to his credit card is severe, including ammunition and other necessaries.  Of which he is forced to take the owner’s word on.

                “Wait,” David says.  “Isn’t there a bunch of paperwork?  A waiting period?”

                The owner and several patrons laugh.

                “If you want,” the owner says.

                “Better have him do it,” a loitering customer says.  “This time of year the bleeding hearts will be demanding random checks.”

                “They do that?” David asks, never having demanded an audit of gun store paperwork.  He can’t recall spending much time thinking about gun shops, much less demanding scrutiny of their records.

                The form is sparse.  Address information and some weird questions about gun models and bullet calibers.  A quiz.  Favorite hunting spot?  He hands the form back, incomplete.

                “Got all the important stuff,” David says.

                “What about this box?” says the owner, tapping the form.  “Party affiliation.”

                David had noticed that part but couldn’t bring himself to circle the “R,” knowing full well that the “D” would bring violence.

                “Thought that was a joke,” David says.  “I mean, what do they think?  Right?”

                The owner laughs and marks something on the paper.

                A few moments later, pistol holstered in a shoulder mount, armed with plenty of ammo, David leaves the store.  A pleasant, dirty feeling scampering beneath his skin.

                Roger sits in the hospital waiting room.  Blood seeps through improvised bandages on his left arm and right leg.  He wouldn’t have bothered with this place if not for Ed.  Ed took one in the gut.  Had to get him in.  Not sure if Ed has medical insurance.  He lost his job last year but is still supporting a repeal of that blasted Obamacare.

                Roger looks around.  These people.  Half of them are probably Medicaid leeches.  Feeding off the system.  He’d shoot a couple of them but they’d just end up in one of the rooms upstairs, his taxes paying for their treatment.

                He closes his eyes.  Elections are right around the corner.  Gotta keep up the fight.  Take these Blue Boys down.  That’s all that matters.  Getting back the Presidency so those Democrats can’t force through any more of their fruity little laws.  Always taking money and guns from hard working Americans.  Giving jobs to Mexicans and other illegals.  Doing everything they can to ruin the U.S. of A.

                Roger crosses his legs and stifles a scream as he accidentally aggravates his wound.

                Blue Boy bastards!  Sneaky, conniving, unpatriotic commies is what they are.  Ambushing like that!  No honor in at all.  Roger and his boys had been eating lunch in the park after a busy morning spreading pamphlets in neighborhoods with blue-hued demographics.  Assumably, the pamphlets contained demeaning, but factual, information about the Democratic candidates.  Info that those Blue Boys conveniently ignore.  Some of them must have gotten pissed and then Pearl Harbored Roger and his men. 

                A real travesty.

                And what is taking so long?

                All this Obamacare bureaucracy.  Never had to wait like this before.  A bleeding man could walk right into an exam room back in the good ole days.  No waiting.  Plenty of nurses and doctors ready to attend and treat.  So many cutbacks now.  Obama!

                Roger stands up and walks out of the waiting room.  He’ll treat his own wounds.  Fix himself up at home.  No one tries to stop him.  That wouldn’t have happened before Obama and his socialized medicine.  Someone, an orderly or med student, would have detained him, offered immediate assistance.  Look where this country was now?  What was this?  Canada?

                They had to take the elections.  Had to put more Republicans in office.  Hold those seats at all costs.

Party Line Battleline

(the way Tom sees campaign season) 

Shrapnel pings against the underside of the overturned Prius.  Dirt and other bits of debris rain down on the vehicle, dusting the inside through broken windows, and chipping at designer, sea-mist green paint that once glossed the exterior.

                David huddles against the car, sheltered on the side opposite the blast.  Though he owns a Prius, this one is not his.  Some other unlucky citizen would mourn the damage, should that person survive the tumult.  Likewise, the gun in David’s hand is not his.  David owns no firearms.  He borrowed this one off some Red who wouldn’t ever need it again.  Pried it out of his cold dead hands.  David doesn’t laugh at the irony.  He’s too busy trying not to die. 

                The next blast is closer.  They are aware of his position. 

                He needs to move.

                David rolls out from behind the Prius, his movements masked by the dust from the explosion.  Sand and slivers of concrete still patter all around him.  Muscles, fitness-center honed, execute the maneuver with ease and the low crouch he ends up in is confident and solid.  The gun is held out in front of him, like in all the action movies.  David aims it at his attackers and squeezes the trigger. 

                Nothing happens.

                He’s saved by his reflexes, which quickly engage his legs and launch him aside as a hail of bullets rip up the asphalt and adjacent lawn where he perched only seconds before.

                He ends up behind a hedge and scuttle-crawls behind a stone wall onto a well kempt flower bed.

                Safety!  Where’s the safety?

                His fingers fumble to find the switch and he curses himself for being so dismissive of firearms training courses.  Bullets continue to lance through the hedge and divot the weedless lawn.  For a moment he considers seeking sanctuary at this property’s house, but he dismisses the idea when he spots the ReElect Jack Fielding, sign in the yard.  If he didn’t already know who Jack Fielding was, the REP on the sign tells him that he will find no aid in that residence.  He also notes that his attackers have not allowed a single bullet to hit the sign. 

                The firing ceases momentarily and he knows his enemies are on the move.  David pulls himself up behind a large oak.  He catches a glimpse of a man jogging across the street in the reflection of the house’s front window. 

                The man is carrying some sort of assault rifle.

                Figures.

                David slips out from behind the tree, pulls the trigger on his borrowed gun, and fires two shots.  The first goes wide and shatters the windshield of a car parked across the street.  The second shot catches the man in the shoulder.  He stumbles back and topples.  David ducks behind the tree but receives no return fire.

                He needs to get out of here.  Fast.  Reds never travel solo, they always roam in packs.  David’s about to make his move when he sees the sign for Congressman Fielding again.  He shakes his head, the fires a round, leaving a small hole in Jack’s cheek.  A veritable wall of bullets explode in response.  The hedge, the rock wall, and the tree all suffer violence.  When the clamor dies down, David is two houses away, climbing a backyard fence into an adjoining property.  He feels a slight pang of guilt over the trespass, but the necessity of the situation keeps him moving.

                The engine of the Ford truck revs and a blast of hot diesel exhaust smothers his neighbor’s roses with the scent of Americana.

                Roger plants a sturdy work boot on the truck’s rear tire and launches himself up into the open bed.  There’s some extra effort involved in the move these days, but he can still pull it off confidently, despite the extra decade and twenty additional pounds.  It leaves him panting, though.  Okay, so maybe it’s thirty-five pounds.  Who cares?  He can still do it.

                He sits on the edge of the pickup bed and stretches an arm out, fingers splayed wide.  A rifle slaps against his palm and he grips it tight.  The barrel never points at another person during the exchange.  Only practice and proper training can produce such an automatic action.  He checks the safety, even though he knows it will be engaged.  He checks the chamber to verify it’s empty, equally confident that he will find it so.  Still, you always check.  Adhere to your procedures.

                “What’s our objective?” he asks.  There are three others in the truck with him.  All armed.  Assault rifles and shoulder holstered pistols.  And, he assumes, other weaponry of personal preferences concealed on their persons.

                “Demonstration outside City Hall,” one of the others says, “to bear arms.  A Second Amendment job.”

                “After that?”

                “Political maneuvers.”

                “Implementation of Second Amendment rights,” a man with a moustache says. They all laugh and unconsciously stroke their weapons more intently.

                When they arrive at City Hall they drop the tailgate and deploy like marines on a hostile beach.  Two men exit the truck’s cab and take up cover positions for the boys in the truck bed.  Each has to fight the urge to lay down suppression fire.

                Within minutes they have taken the stairs and secured positions outside the front doors.  Guns are prominently displayed.  Within a few more minutes they’ve grown antsy and unsure.  They have no signs, no clever slogans to shoulder, no militaristic choreography worked out that will impressively display their firearms.

                Boredom quickly sets in.

                “Anyone bring beer?” one of them asks.

                Unanimously they shake their heads.

                “Chips?  Or something to eat?”

                Nope.

                Twenty minutes later they are ready to move on.  Go grab a burger. 

                But providence intervenes.

                A group of enemy protesters comes marching up the sidewalk, chanting about their rights, carrying signs.  There isn’t anything anti Gun Control on the signs, but that doesn’t matter.  Roger and his friends level their assault rifles at the small crowd and call out warnings and juvenile insults.

                The crowd responds with more cleverly crafted retorts and ups the ante with obscene gestures.

                Roger and his friends open fire.

                The crowd of protesters scatters like a rack of billiard balls after a vicious break.  As they flee, protest signs flutter to the ground as do the bodies of their companions who’ve taken hits.

                “Yeah!  Got me one!” a buddy of Roger’s shouts.

                “Got two!” brags another.  More gunfire.  “Make that three!”

                As the escaping protesters take cover in tree lined park areas, convenient downtown business doorways, and fortuitous alleyways, Roger’s team abandons its static positioning in favor of pursuit.

                It’s been a relatively inactive election year so far, Roger thinks as he provides cover for a companion entering the park.  Nearly October and these are his first shots fired.  Still, he bagged at least two Blue Boys back there and might get a couple more in the park before the day is through.  He grins, fires some more suppression, and advances.

(The preceding was the first two chapters of the story Party Line Battleline.  Watch this space for information of how to get the entire political-thriller-campaign-saga-vote-or-die-epic)

Letter to the Editor 2014

It has finally happened to me.  For some reason I was beginning to think it never would.  And then, on Saturday, June 28^th, it finally did.  Wow, this is harder to talk about than I thought it would be.  I guess I should just get it over with.  Just come right out and say it.

I…

I was edited. 

Hard to believe, yes I know.  I am well aware that this sort of thing happens all the time when you deal with periodicals and other such publications.  I am not naïve.  I didn’t make it to the eighteenth year of my twenties without a little bit of realistic perspective infecting my brain, and yet, I found myself surprised. 

The following portrays the piece I wrote as it appeared in the Idaho Statesman.

I know, I know, you are all complimenting me on my brevity and clarity, but you’re secretly thinking: what kind of jerk has Tom turned into?  Let me assure you, I am not that kind of jerk.  And the only reason it seems as though I am is because of the shoddy editing inflicted upon me by the Idaho Statesman.  The entire second half of my wonderfully crafted tribute to the Treasure Valley’s Best was completely cut out.  It’s disgraceful!

What follows… is what should have followed.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: In the Letters to the Editor section of the June 19^th, 2013 edition of the Idaho Statesman Tom kindly pointed out the absence of a Best Author category and humbly nominated himself for that honor.]

[Author’s Note: The editor did not actually write the editor’s note, but Tom felt it important to include if only to illustrate that your letters can, and do, make a difference]

You see?  Doesn’t that make more sense now?  The way the Statesman printed it demands that the reader remember an essay (brilliant though it was) that was printed over a year ago.  Well that seemed absurd to me.  And it made me mad.

I immediately set to work crafting a follow up letter to that editor.  Something scathing and vicious.  I would put the newspaper in its place.  Everyone in the valley would cringe as I humiliated them with my words.  And then, of course, I saw the gaping flaw in my plan.  What would stop the editor from executing a few of the more rebellious words and completely neuter my attack? 

There followed a bout of writerly depression.  Some heavy drinking.  On a subconscious level I thought this might prove useful, perhaps a brilliant manuscript would manifest itself as I traversed the dark.  But alas, no, that did not happen. 

Maybe I was being too hard on the Idaho Statesman.  They are allotted only so much space per page and with everyone vying to opine about the world’s ills, or vent about the irritating things that other people do, there may not have been room for something positive and humorous. Or perhaps I was being too critical of the Statesman’s readership.  It’s possible that they recall a vast majority of the letters printed and the newspaper felt it might be blatantly offensive to footnote something that ran a mere year ago.  Especially a piece as achingly brilliant as my Best Author letter.

After careful seconds of review I jettisoned the genius-level-readership hypothesis and moved onto a content-versus-allotted-space analysis.  There were four other letters printed that day.  Maybe their content was more deserving of the precious space.  I realized that an analysis of this sort would require that I read all the other letters.  This seemed tedious.  Besides, my letter was awarded the lead position so, to me, that was proof enough its value.  Still,  I did contemplate making a quick trip through the other letters with marker, blacking out any space hogging words that deserved, much more that I, the editor’s heavy handed attention. 

But what then?  Send this to the editor and demand some sort of retraction or apology?  No, that would not do.  Depression threatened to once again cripple my writer’s ego.  I couldn’t allow that.  I needed to stay positive.  I needed to rebound from this editing disaster, do that phoenix from the ashes thing, make some really sweet ass lemonade from the leftover lemon rinds of my work. 

And I did.  I pulled it all together and wrote following piece.

Dear [Insert Editor Name of Widely Distributed Periodical]

After a successful term of service with the Idaho Statesman, one in which my name has appeared alongside the phrases Best Author and/or Best of Treasure Valley more than once, I am parting company with their periodical and seeking new challenges in a larger market.  I believe [Name of Widely Distributed Periodical] is an excellent fit for my style of writing and I would love the opportunity to work for your [Type of Periodical].  I am used to the riggers of an annual column but feel confident that I could handle the demands of something biannually or even quarterly.  I have several proposals worked out and would appreciate the chance to share them with you.  Please feel free to contact me via e-mail, phone, or post.  I have included an SASE for your convenience.

            I look forward to hearing from you,

            Tom Landaluce

            [Pertinent Contact Info Here]

2014 Best Of Treasure Valley

Proof now exists.  Evidence of my impact as a writer on the community at large.  Large, of course, being a subjective term which means, in this case, the Idaho Statesman-reading population of the Treasure Valley area.  It all happened on June 20^th, 2014 when that day’s edition of the aforementioned newspaper landed on subscribers doorsteps with nary a trumpet to signal its magnitude.  Inside was a supplemental guide entitled 2014 Best Of Treasure Valley, and amongst the top rated restaurants, musicians, food trucks, and hair salons was a category called Best Author.

Before we go on, allow me to transport you back in time.  The year was 2013, the day, June 19^th.  The following, painstakingly crafted piece of text captured the top position of that day’s Letters to the Editor section:

Now come back with me to present day times and let’s take a closer look at that 2014 Best Of Treasure Valley (or BOTV if you’re in a hurry) supplement.

So, do you see the correlation?  How’s that for changing lives?

Let us not dwell on the fact that I wasn’t, as far as I know, nominated for the award that I so carefully midwifed into existence.  Perhaps it was because I didn’t have an official literary release in 2014.  Or maybe my honorary win from last year disqualified me somehow.  There’s no way we’ll ever know so let’s not even mention the exclusion.  Instead, let us celebrate those who were honored:

Tim Woodward

Anthony Doerr

Judy Cox

It’s high praise to win the Tom Landaluce Award for Best Treasure Valley Author (the TLABTVA for the hurried hipsters) so please drop these lucky authors a note of congratulations.  We writers are a needy lot and must have constant praise else we wither away yet somehow fail to die; this last mostly out of some perverse self loathing or pseudo masochistic temperament.  So, please be supportive and check out their work.  Here are some handy links for doing just that:

woodwardblog.com

anthonydoerr.com

judycox.net

And to Tim, Anthony, and Judy, should you wish, or feel an irresistible desire, to thank me for my selfless efforts in championing local authors and basically forcing the Idaho Statesman to reevaluate its Best Of categories and single handedly creating the TLABTVA with pen, paper, and blood, sweat, and tears, I will happily accept the following gifts.

From Tim I would like a fruit basket of some sort.  Preferably locally sourced and environmentally friendly.  Should that prove impossible exotic, worldly produce shipped halfway around the globe at the expense of our ecosystem and a myriad of exploited farm workers in third world countries will suffice.  I like pineapples so bear that in mind.

From Judy I would appreciate a painting of some sort.  Perhaps a nice watercolor.  Or better yet, a watercolour; they’re so much more fancy.  Make it something that I could use for a book cover one day.  Think classic Sci-Fi if you’re having trouble settling on a subject.  I like the color green.

From Anthony I was hoping for a gazing mirror, something in which I could admire myself and perfect my author profile pose for future book jacket photos of the many well received hardcover books I’ll write.

Please feel free to trade with your fellow honored authors should you deem yourself an ill fit to adequately produce the suggested gift.  Perhaps you would rather paint a picture instead of rummage the fruit stands for excellent papayas.

And finally, from the Idaho Statesman…  I suppose your inclusion of local authors in your annual Best of Treasure Valley list is thanks enough.  Though it would have been nice if you were to recognize where that idea initially came from, perhaps some sort of acknowledgement is in order.  A tastefully inscribed plaque perhaps?  

Their Secrets Revealed!

Where Ideas Really Come From

an exposé

            Any professional writer will tell you that there is no magic well where ideas come from, no story tree from which to pluck a preformed fiction-fruit, no cave of glittering diamond concepts waiting to be mined.  I’m here to tell you that those writers are full of shit.  They all have some special place where their ideas come from, they just don’t want you, or anyone else, to jump their claim, harvest their fruit, or dip into their sacred well.

            No doubt you are suspicious of my assertion, and I’ll admit, I was skeptical at first as well.  I bought that whole just-write-and-read line my favorite writers have been spooning up all this time.  But now I have inside information and my sources are irrefutable.  Read on, the revelations will shock you to the core.  Read on and I will parade the true sources of some very popular authors before you.  Read on and I will teach you how it’s done.

            Writing has been called a craft.  A practice.  An art.  These terms connote magic and that’s exactly what been going on this entire time; for as long as man has attempted to relate information from one individual to another.  Let’s go all the way back.  To cave man times.  We’ve all seen the images, those paintings of bison and auroch and deer littering the walls of prehistoric man.  And we’ve all heard the explanations for the images.  Depictions of successful hunts, decorations, cataloging of herds.  Utter nonsense.  The truth is that these paintings are stories.  The first stories ever written down. And it was no genius Cro-Magnon whose brilliance was leaps ahead of his large browed brethren.  No, it was some cave dude who walked into an unexplored cavern, saw these pictures on the wall, and said, “Hey.  Look what I did.”[1]

            And from there, the practice continued.  All early mythologies are just fictions the writers of that time happened upon.  In Egypt a beetle shared some tales with a man, this man passed these stories along to some friends, and BOOM… Pyramids and mummies.[2] 

Sea foam on Grecian shores used to spell out cryptic messages in the sand.  Some early morning beach combers read them and BAM… Zeus and golden showers and swan sex.[3]  And then you had the Romans.  They were a bit different.  They stole their ideas from the Greeks.  They were plagiarists.[4]  But still, plagiarism requires its own sort of magic.  How would someone know what idea to steal?  Some sort of device would be necessary.  The word plagiarism is derived from the name of a nefarious implement called the Plagiarspoon?  It’s true.  The Plagiarspoon[5] was a ladle-like artifact one would use to casually dip into the mind of another for the purposes of spooning out delicious ideas. 

The Romans had tons of these things.

I would elaborate on some contemporary religions, but I don’t want to risk alienating my readers unnecessarily.  Let’s just say that there are reasons why Easter eggs and Chirstmas trees exist and you can apply that line of reasoning to any of the more trinkety objects found in the other major faiths as well.  Let us focus on some popular writers of the modern age instead.

            According to my source[6], all authors with any kind of substantial readership have a tried and true method for gleaning stories ideas for publication. Some authors have been brazen enough to flaunt their sources right in our faces, in the guise of metaphor.  Alan Moore proposed a sort of idea-ocean, a collective pool of mass consciousness where all writers draw inspiration.[7]  Those with relatively common ideas are presumed to frequent the shallows and those willing to brave the depths came back with truly unique concepts.  Stephen King described stories as fossils just waiting to be unearthed a piece at a time.[8]

Both of these men were not speaking figuratively. 

They were being literal. 

            Alan Moore frequents the bottom of the sea, a svelte pearl diving Englishman seeking small, glowing, marble-sized orbs.[9]  And, as his idea-ocean metaphor proclaims, it’s not easy.  All that light attracts little critters.  All those little critters attract small fish.  Bigger fish come around for the small fish.  And, of course, large predators aren’t far behind.  Many a writer has been lost to the monsters of the oceanic idea-deep, but Alan Moore is smart man.  You didn’t think all that hair and beard were for show, did you?  It’s for protection.  When he’s in the water it hovers about him like seaweed, camouflaging him from the sharks and the sea monsters while he collects little idea-pearls from inspirational oyster beds, tucking them into and oiled-leather pouch on his hip before returning to safer waters.

            And Stephen King really does dig up his stories.[10]  It’s not what you’d think, though.  When I first became aware of where ideas really come from, I figured that a man like Stephen King would be excavating graveyards as he hunted for his next best selling tale of terror.  The truth is, he finds fossilized books in random locations with the aid of a dousing rod.  In fact, he made mention of this very implement in his book On Writing.[11]  Also surprising is that he doesn’t even need to be in Maine for the rod to work.  He has located some of his best story fossils in England, Nevada, and, for the book It, in a sand box at grade school in Wisconsin.[12]  Honest.  I am not shitting you on this.

            Love the Harry Potter books?  J.K. Rowling pulled them out of an old hat.[13]  How about Mark Twain?  He apparently fed a big catfish on the banks of the Mississippi and then took dictation when the fish got chatty.[14]  Jane Austen had a special flower garden in which Sweet Williams grew.  Tiny paragraphs, visible only through a spyglass, were etched on the petals of these flowers.  The paragraphs formed the novels for which she would become famous.[15]

            One of my favorite writers, Grant Morrison, breaks open glass thermometers and pours the mercury into a puddle.  He perches above this puddle and watches intently as his reflection relates wonderfully odd stories.  There is no sound so he has to read his own lips.[16]  Chuck Palahniuk finds entire books in used vanilla flavored condoms or in the watery blood left on foam trays of particularly well cut pieces of grocery store beef.[17]  Maya Angelou found some of her most famous poems in a bird nest perched in pine tree that smelled of mint.  The most uninteresting egg in the nest always cradled the best idea.[18]

            Neil Gaiman gets all of his ideas from grilled cheese sandwiches.  They sing to him.  Won’t shut up actually.  This is why you will never see him eat a grilled cheese sandwich in public.  Oh he’ll claim that this is because sushi is his first love, but really he just doesn’t want you to overhear his next novel.[19]

            So what about you?  How does all of this help any of you craft stories with artistic and, more importantly, commercial appeal?  Simple.  You, too, can find ideas.[20]  It’s not that hard if you just pay attention.  Here’s a simple exercise.  Most of you take the same route to work everyday.  Occasionally there will be something that impedes your normal progress.  Maybe it’s road construction or a car wreck, a sudden urge to stop for coffee, or even an attractive driver in the car ahead of flashing a provocative smile in the rearview producing an urge in the back of your brain to follow when he or she turns from your normal route.  These incidents are not superfluous, they are stories calling out to you.  Allow yourself to be maneuvered off course.  Don’t worry about work, you won’t miss it when you’re famous. 

Eventually you’ll wind up somewhere unfamiliar or familiar but during a time that seems unusual.  Perhaps you’ll find yourself in the parking lot of an antique store.  Inside you’ll spot on old radio that figuratively “speaks to you.”  Buy this radio.  Take it home.  You will soon discover that during certain phases of the moon this radio will pick up broadcasts of story ideas that critics will later champion for their wonderfully nostalgic narrative.

            If your route takes you past a yard sale… stop.  Buy that old mail box.  The junky one that’s kind of embarrassing.  Proudly replace your current mail box with this old one.  Within a few weeks you will start receiving letters with post marks dated in the future.  These letters will contain powerful novellas.

            And it doesn’t always have to be a car.  Maybe you take walks.  Great.  Try not to pay attention to your destination.  If you end up at a public swimming pool… go inside.  If they won’t let you in without a proper bathing suit, go buy one.  Pick up some goggles while you’re at the store.  Return to the pool.  Swim along the bottom until you find what you are looking for. 

            Here’s one that you can do in your own backyard.  Bury a standard Bic pen under a tomato plant.  Water it on Mondays with pint of apple juice.  One day an apple will grow on that tomato plant.  Eat the apple but save the seeds.  Mix two teaspoons of water with each seed to create a fine black ink.  Blue if you used a blue Bic.  Let this ink use you to write a masterpiece.[21] 

            And if all this seems too indirect then go to the source.  Frequent a writer’s home and rummage through his or her trash or, better yet, the compost bin if they have one.  The story ideas you find here won’t be all that impressive, the previous owner discarded them after all, but take a couple of these throwaways, mix them with some of the half ideas you found with your Plagiarspoon and you’ll end up with something not exactly new but extremely marketable.

            When you’re famous, be sure to make speeches at libraries.  Advise the budding writers you meet there that, to write well, they must write everyday and read a lot of books.  Maintain this declaration publicly, but when you see the face of a little boy or girl droop as their sense of wonder dies, smile at them.  Wink.  Then take them aside and advise them of a rare computer program called Creative Writer that only refurbished-computer stores carry.[22]  Tell them that this software will allow them to type in a couple of key words and it will then calculate the best possible story based upon that input.  Then pat yourself on the back.  Buy yourself a cookie.  You have made a difference, and all of their future contributions to fine literature can be attributed to you.  Much like all of yours can now be attributed to me.

           

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[1] I think this one is in the Bible somewhere, but I found reference to it in the movie Caveman featuring Ringo Star (by far the best thing he has ever done, including the Beatles).  Watch it when you’re running a fever of one hundred and four degrees or higher and you’ll see it.

[2] From an old AOL disc I found at an estate sale.  I put it in my laptop and found all the historical data that follows in a text document entitled Creative Writing.  The Egyptian material appeared on pages 29-34 and page 73 of that document.

[3] AOL estate sale disc, Creative Writing file, pages: 56-69, 88, and 122-125.

[4] AOL estate sale disc, Creative Writing file, pages: 88, 116-119, and 134-135.

[5] AOL estate sale disc, Creative Writing file, pages: 15, 88,  116, 118, 133-134, 156, 159, 167-171, 180, 203, 205, 224-227, and 246.

[6] From a toy I found in a box of Grape Nuts.  There are never toys in a cereal like that.

[7] Eddie Campbell’s EGOMANIA (2002) issue #2 pages 18-22.

[8] On Writing. By Stephen King.  He starts in on this around page 163.

[9] I spent a day writing down the third word of every person who walked past me.  The resultant document detailed Alan Moore’s oceanic methods.

[10] Almost all information on Stephen King came from an old Aldo Nova record I found in my parent’s attic.  It was slightly warped and I thought it’d be interesting to run it backwards on a record player.  Maybe summon a demon.  What I got was biography on everyone’s favorite writer about writers.

[11] On Writing. By Stephen King.  He’s still going on about this on  page 173.

[12] Warped Aldo Nova Album.  Fourth song on the A side going backward from the outside in.

[13] The Morse Code clanking of any British train will rant about this ad nauseam claiming that Miss JK really Plagiarspooned them with that hat, pulling those ideas while riding on trains, actually lifting concepts from the locomotive ether that permeates all railway cars.

[14] I was wearing a white suite and stroking my budding moustache and I just knew.

[15] Whenever I tune out during a chick flick a British-voiced narrator inevitably starts droning on about Jane Austen. 

[16] I mixed a dose of green Nyquil with red Nyquil to see what would happen.  Holy Shit!  Grant Morrison.

[17] I don’t want to talk about this one.

[18] When I’m on my man-period… I just feel things like this.

[19] In dreams.  Where the hell else do you think?

[20] All instructional material on how to find story ideas came from cutting up creative writing books, scattering the pieces on a table, and rearranging them at random.  The result wasn’t anything Burroughs-esque, but according to the resulting text, Burroughs never actually employed this method.  His ideas apparently came from a very different technique, but my book refused to elaborate on the subject.

[21] I just made this one up, but it turned out to be true!

[22] Employees at these stores will claim that they do not have the Creative Writer software.  They will insist, and rightly so, that they have never heard of it.  Be persistent and make them check “in the back.”  They will return, with a stunned look on their face, carrying the coveted software.