Anthology Published!

My story, Networks, is now available on Amazon...in the Indiana Science Fiction Anthology. :-)

Stacy's Mom

In most stories there’s an arc, or as I like to call it, The Something Build Up, The Something, and the Something Aftermath. Usually the arc involves an internal or external conflict with the main character, or, when the protagonist Learns An Important Lesson.

I capitalized, because the trick is not sounding condescending. The best fiction gives a sly wink to the reader as in I know that YOU know what’s going to happen, but the poor schmuck in this book that's about to get whacked doesn't without making said schmuck seem too silly or stupid.

I think this is true for all fiction, but perhaps even more so with young adult fiction. I’m about done with another YA book, and this concept has been on my mind. Most of the conflict for this age group revolves around the young person thinking he or she has it all figured out, but then…whack. Gentleness is especially important here, both for the young readers, but also for older readers remembering their own childhood.

For example, in an episode of (geek alert) Star Trek Next Generation, Wesley (a child prodigy) believes he can master a complex and forbidden aviation move that has been banned because it is dangerous. He does it anyway and someone is killed. Afterwards Wesley is still surprised he couldn't do it, yet ashamed at his part in his friend's death. The writer masterfully illustrates youthful bravado without making Wesley seem ugly.

There was a song out a few years ago by Fountains of Wayne that perhaps does this even better. I love this song because it’s funny and poignant at the same time; the lyrics reflect amusement at the over confidence of youth, but at the same time are fondly reminiscent.

I get the feeling that someone in that band was once in love with Stacy’s mom…

Stacy's Mom

Stacy, can I come over after school?
We can hang around by the pool
Did your mom get back from her business trip?
Is she there, or is she trying to give me the slip?

You know, I'm not the little boy that I used to be
I'm all grown up now, baby can't you see

Stacy, do you remember when I mowed your lawn?
Your mom came out with just a towel on
I could tell she liked me from the way she stared
And the way she said, "You missed a spot over there"

And I know that you think it's just a fantasy
But since your dad walked out, your mom could use a guy like me

Stacy's mom has got it goin' on
She's all I want and I've waited for so long
Stacy, can't you see you're just not the girl for me
I know it might be wrong but I'm in love with Stacy's mom

Harvest

This morning the moon hung low and bright over my lake, casting a long silver-yellow stripe across the calm waters. I thought about running down the hill and scooping up a pail full of water and then dousing my plants with lunar essence. By the time I’d changed out of my PJs, unhooked the cat from my leg, and answered a phone call the morning had broken. But that’s OK. Just having the idea was enough, and inspired a scene in the book I’m working on.

I think most writers have a child like streak. Not to be confused with childish, although we all have those moments. For me, child like means recognizing, preserving, and encouraging that sense of wonder about the world. Kids know that magic can be just around the corner…if you are willing to look for it. :-)

Here’s another favorite poem …especially nice after that raven post.

The Moon's the North Wind's Cookie(What the Little Girl Said)
by Vachel Lindsay

The Moon's the North Wind's cookie
He bites it, day by day
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is the baker
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that ...
greedy.... North.... Wind ....eats....again!

The Raven

I love Halloween; fall is an energizing time of year anyway, and then the mysterious overlay of Halloween… it doesn’t get much better than that.

The imagery of this holiday is so compelling: witches, ghosts, bats, and black cats all cause one to contemplate, if not the darker side of life, to at least acknowledge all is not cookies and cupcakes. Dark doesn't have to be bad. But it can be. And that shivery is it or isn’t it makes Halloween deliciously fun and spooky at the same time.

The raven is a favorite icon at this time of year. I offer two poetic tributes to this intelligent and often maligned bird. The latter is the most famous raven poem of all time by Poe. It’s not surprising that he wrote such verses, considering his other work.

The first is an interesting one. I’m not a huge Dan Fogleberg fan; I admire his talent, but his songs have never grabbed me. Except this one. I liked it so much I bought the album (yes, it was an album back then). I was disappointed, because I didn’t care for any of the other tunes. Unlike Poe, this particular song seems an anomaly, as if Fogleburg, for one brief moment, was channeling the energy of the raven.

Wish he’d done it more.



Dan Fogelberg
As The Raven Flies


I see the raven's made her nest in your eyes
She's got you thinking that her love is a prize
And you'll go under from the weight of her lies
As the raven flies...as the raven flies
She'll bring you stories that just never sound true
She'll bring you secrets that were never meant for you
And just as you come round she'll send you back through
She's in love with you...she's in love with you
Darker, darker
Don't let her talk her way into you
Lonely, lonely
You know she's only no good for you
Darker, darker
Don't let her talk her way into you
Lonely, lonely
You know she's only no good for you
I see the raven's made her nest in your eyes
She's got you thinking that her love is a prize
And you'll go under from the weight of her lies
As the raven flies...as the raven flies
As the raven flies...as the raven flies

Eagar Allen Poe
The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!