Election Day: The Revenge

Tuesday is Election Day, thank god.  The following are the chain of events that have occurred over the previous week:

-Obama aired a commercial asking for my vote.

-Romney also aired a commercial asking for my vote.

-Obama aired several thousand more commercials asking for my vote.

-Romney countered with the same number of commercials asking for my vote.

-Obama sent me a courteous letter asking for my vote.

-Romney called me during dinnertime asking for my vote.

-Obama sent a young man with a clipboard to my front door asking for my vote.

-Romney himself came to my door and asked for my vote.

-Obama snuck in through my front window and asked for my vote.

-Romney was caught in my backyard dumping gasoline in swirly patterns. He dropped the match and the words “Vote For Romney” ignited.

-Obama was caught dumping gasoline on my favorite maple tree and told me that if I didn’t vote for him he would "burn this poor tree to the ground."

-Two days ago I came home to find that our two cats were missing. Left behind was a ransom note telling me that if I ever wanted to see my two cats alive again I should “Vote Romney.”

-Yesterday I came home to a completely empty house. There was another ransom note, but this time the word “cats” was replaced with “wife and child” and the word “Romney” was replaced with “Obama.”

-I was getting in my car to drive to the police station and report that the President of the United States had kidnapped my family. As I opened my car door, a cold blade pressed against my Adam’s Apple. A muffled but somehow familiar voice said “Vote Mitt Romney for president or I’ll gut you head to toe.” I elbowed the attacker in the midsection and he went down. I hopped into my car and sped off toward the police station. While waiting at an intersection a whacky hobo, who looked mysteriously like Obama wearing a tattered wool hat and fake grey beard, held up a sign outside my windshield. The sign read: “If you don’t keep the car above 55 miles per hours and drive straight to the polling booth and vote for Obama…Ka-Boom.” I stepped on the gas until the car was going 55mph and I rolled out the door. My body violently bounced off the asphalt several times. When I finally came to, I was bloody and woozy. Then a kindly old man helped me up and tended to me wounds. He told me that none of this would have happened if Ron Paul was on the ticket.

Weather Porn

I don’t consider a tropical storm a hurricane until Al Roker slips on his rain poncho and reports live from a breezy patio by the ocean. When Al begins to tilt in the gusts, I stock up on toilet papers and batteries. If he crumples to the ground and rolls like a tumbleweed with horsepower, I head to my apocalypse bunker. My question is, however: What in the world is Al Roker doing outside in an “extreme weather event” in the first place? If he simply tells me it’s windy and rainy outside, my imagination can handle the rest. And for those who have no concept of the effects of a hurricane-Google "hurricane".  

Honestly, what is American news outlets’ obsession with sacrificing a reporter to the hurricane for the sake of television?  First of all, the at-home audience rarely hears the reporter because of the wind, nor sees the guy through the downpour. I propose that viewers require an aspect of danger to keep a vested interest. I call this concept weather porn—legs spread, ass flapping, balls out weather porn. Al Roker reporting from a behind desk is boring. But if there is a chance that Al will get clocked in the back of the head by an out of control seagull or bowled over by a runaway deck chair…TURN THIS SHIT UP.

As an aside, I should mention that I have nothing against Al Roker. I don’t want to see the guy injured. In fact, I like Al. But if the Weather Channel absolutely must stick someone in the eye of the storm for an update, what’s wrong with Rush Limbaugh? In fact, I don’t even care if Rush mentions the drop in barometric pressure or the height of the waves. He can simply deliver one of his bombastic diatribes inside a nail gun factory, amid a category 5 wind.

Anyway, if news outlets require danger and spectacle during weather events to keep viewers meteorologically masturbating, here are a few ideas to lure viewers and attract advertisers:

Glen Beck reporting from inside the funnel cloud of an F5 tornado.

Verne Troyer (Mini-Me) reporting from a blizzard in which at least two feet of snow is expected.

Mr. T, in full-on Clubber Lane mode, reporting during a short period of light rain.

Richard Simmons reporting from the interior of an awakening volcano.

Gary Busey reporting from a surfboard riding a 12 foot tsunami wave.

Yao Ming reporting from the flatlands during an electrical storm.

I know my suggestions may seem excessive, but if weather reporting is trending toward hardcore, might as well show up-close insertion.

From Negative Zero To Rip Orion: My Novel's Origin Story Pt 4

Whereas each of my first three drafts took six to eight months to complete, I began writing Save Me, Rip Orion in February and was finished, along with another edit, by Mother’s Day 2012. No trudging along until November this time. Luckily, I was able to import several large chunks of story from Anymore Forever via the greatest invention in human history, the “copy and paste” tool. I suppose that the quickened rate of speed in which I finished the novel was directly proportional to my pre-chapter 1 preparation. As in my prior attempt, I had a note card for each scene in the manuscript. Many of the note cards contained sloppily written sentences that curled in funky loops in order to fit in the diminishing white space. I also required a lot more note cards this time.

 When I began scribbling my notes Kait’s stomach was taut (taut is a funny sounding word).  When I concluded the first edit her stomach was already very, ah, pokey-outy. She was only in her second trimester, but judging by her pokey-outyness I’d say she could’ve easily passed as third trimester. The Parents magazines continued to appear in the mailbox monthly, but now their journey ended at the coffee table rather than the milk crate in the basement.

One of my concerns pertaining to my first three drafts of the novel was the lack of a sufficient one sentence synopsis. Furthermore, I could not conjure a buzzword that would instantly make ears perk. When the idea occurred to me to integrate the superhero element into my existing storyline, the pieces began to fit. First of all, the word superhero is attractive. When someone asks me what the novel is about, the word superhero is in my answer. Most importantly, the superhero theme fit each of the character’s plights, and glued together bits of the plot.

At the risk of being labeled as pompous or pretentious, I am going to take a moment to explain what I hoped to achieve with Save Me, Rip Orion. I really had two themes in mind, one being that fantasies fail. Several of the characters fantasize about either becoming a savior, or believing that a savior will come to their rescue. Roscoe fantasies about saving Marcy from the clutches of her past; Mitch fantasies about saving his relationship with his son; Damon fantasies about saving himself from obscurity and recapturing his glory days. The second theme concerns deciphering the “good guy” from the “bad guy”, and how that distinction  is really just a matter of perspective. Roscoe and Mitch mirror the comic book superheroes of their youth, Rip Orion and his sidekick Scutum. The arsonist at large mirrors the comic book villain, the flame-throwing Fornax. Even Damon, a textbook antagonist because he is in opposition to Roscoe, harbors heroic intentions. I chose the tagline “In order to save the world, he had to become the villain.” for good reason.

After I finished the novel I kicked back for a few months. In the meantime, I watched Kait’s stomach become gradually more pokey-outy until the poor girl almost needed some kind of mobile truss system to aide her in her daily ventures. Although the bulge may have been the bane of her existence (the weight of the bulge, not the contents), it had a practical purpose for me; it was a ticking clock. When the alarm would go off (baby comes out) I would need to transition from author to father. Remember, I told Kait “Let me have my baby than you can have yours.” I had precious little time left to deliver.

Rather than go the traditional, dying route of mailing dozens of query letters and such to agents and publishing houses I decided to self publish. I hired a great editor, Chris O’Bryne, who offered me half his typical rate to edit my manuscript; he said it was well-written enough to qualify for this hefty discount. (I received several quotes, and none were as generous as Mr. O’Bryne’s) Besides correcting grammar and sentence structure and the like, he also offered some valuable insight into big pictures issues. I made some changes, including writing two new scenes, and then allowed him to format the manuscript to suit different e-reader platforms. Once completed, I uploaded my draft to the Amazon Kindle store and Smashwords, who distributes to Barnes and Noble’s Nook store, and other fine retailers.

As a matter of opinion, going the indie/ebook route offers many advantages. A book is downloadable instantly, from anywhere in the world. Plus, digital books are not pulled from digital shelves. Furthermore, an author controls all aspects of publication, including the cover. Kait designed mine.

I did face the problem of how to categorize Save Me, Rip Orion. The novel is not genre fiction. In fact, the story is a somewhat lighthearted generic mystery until a twist occurs about halfway through that blows up the formula. The novel certainly should be considered an addition into the literary fiction universe foremost. I also added it to already overstuffed action/adventure bin as well.

Uriah erupted from my wife’s birth canal on September 21^st, of 2012, 11 days after Save Me, Rip Orion was published. I had my baby and Kait had hers; except I’m claiming ownership of both babies. Uriah is a healthy bulldozer of an infant. (As of this writing his body size is in the 70^th percentile in terms of size; his head is in the 90^th percentile.) I dug up and dusted off the 2010 and 2011 issues of Parents magazine from the basement and placed them on the bottom compartment on the coffee table. What’s more, Kait now has a badass double breast pump, purchased just yesterday. It looks like an alien dual action laser gun. 
These are good days. Villains be damned.

From Negative Zero To Rip Orion: My Novel's Origin Stoyr Pt 3

Kait’s collection of Parents magazine had grown to about a dozen issues. She had endured another more aggressive yet unsuccessful procedure. Afterward, she asked me to stash the stack of magazines somewhere in the basement so the cheerful faces of the cover children could be hidden from her mounting despair until happier days. She was beginning to believe that having a baby was a fool’s dream. I jammed the magazines in a plastic milk crate and piled boxes on them. Whenever a new issue would arrive in the mailbox, I would add it to the milk crate. Whenever we would go to Target and happen upon a pregnant woman, Kait would detour down another aisle or wipe her tears from behind a tall winter jacket rack. This was the spring of 2011.

During this time I read three books about novel writing: Plot Versus Character, Your First Novel and Tools of the Writer’s Craft. Each of these how-to books was helpful in its own way. My brain highlighted several lessons of these manuals. When I sat down with scrap paper and pencil to construct an actual outline for my third draft, I was armed with a more heightened perspective of the concepts a well-crafted novel requires.

After several days of brainstorming, I had a recognizable plot structure for the first time.  Yeah, a plot structure; recall 8th English when the teacher drew the hump on the blackboard and labeled the differing levels of the incline exposition, rising action, climax and so forth. I had one of those. I also had a proper antagonist this time, Paul. I struggled with how much of an asshole to make him. I wanted Paul to be a decent guy who had only become the antagonist because he was a victim of circumstances. I wanted the reader to sympathize with him. (What’s worse in fiction than flat characters? If the good guy is as righteous as Clark Kent and the bad guy is as malicious as Lex Luther you either ain’t got nuttin’, or you got genre fiction.)

The third draft was such a far cry from the second draft, I could barely hear the cry at all.  Furthermore, this draft was extremely bleak. I think I was subconsciously more inclined to write a dark novel because of my own circumstances. My wife was unhappy. I was stressed. As a result I began to develop a case of Vitiligo on my face. Vitiligo is “the Michael Jackson disease” as the dermatologist put it; the “disease” has nothing to do with being able to moonwalk. (I don’t call Vitty-Eye-Go a disease; I call it a condition because it’s not health threatening.) This condition occurs when the immune systems turns its ammunition on itself and attacks the melanin producing mechanisms in the skin. Basically, the host develops patches of white skin and white hair. Several small patches of Vitty-Eye-Go sprouted about my mouth and chin. Fuck it, as they say in modern America. I had a novel to write.

I finished the third draft of the novel in November of 2011 (what is it about finishing the novel in November three years in a row?) In October Kait had a third, more aggressive procedure. This time the doctor knocked her out, although the process was out-patient. We stopped at King’s Restaurant on the way home from Forbes Regional Hospital; I nearly had to peel the groggy girl’s face out of her stew a few times.

Anyway, a few months removed from the latest draft I began to realize how downright depressing the story was. The main character Darin (who was once Duncan, and later, Bruce) was a cemetery groundskeeper. Heck, the novel began in a damn cemetery, where a vengeful Paul and his dying mother was visiting his dead father’s grave. How did Paul’s father end up buried? He was sent there after a teenage Darin set fire to his business many years ago. Furthermore, on the surface Darin seemed the kind of chap parents instruct their children to avoid on the walk to the school bus stop. Happy days are here again! This time around Marcy was a vocal atheist who harbored a hatred for her abusive past. Regardless, she was still the most animated and excitable of the characters, and sometimes a comic relief. She even could make Darin smile. Another character made his debut, Marcy’s best friend, her dog Random. Darin’s boisterous friend Mitch returned. God came back too; He is referenced in one scene as the target of a wrathful Mitch who aims his shotgun’s crosshairs skyward. This scene was a highlight and graduated to Save Me, Rip Orion, as did several other scenes.

I named this third version of the novel Anymore Forever. Sounds charming!

I also participated in a writer’s group. I don’t know whether or not to recommend writer’s groups. In the six weeks I was involved, six to ten people gathered in a conference room at the Children’s Institute in Squirrel Hill. Each week the group edited one of the writer’s works. One week the first chapter of my novel was critiqued. I evaluated five other writer’s pieces over the remaining five weeks. Do the math and consider the ratios. However I received enough suggestions and helpful tidbits that I do not regret involving myself. Another tool that a writer must utilize is his internal filter. Some critics fire so many suggestions that one must be able to decipher which to seriously consider and which to cast into the gutter. One group member in particular took grave issue with the physical positioning of the three character in the cemetery in chapter one; he believed I warped physics several times. I didn’t necessarily agree but I kept his comments in mind when I wrote a similar scene in Save Me, Rip Orion.

The good news came in January.  Kait learned on a Friday that her follow-up test after her procedure was normal. We celebrated by walking through a snowstorm to an Indian restaurant in Squirrel Hill.  I remember the day well. Just five days later she woke me up a half hour before my alarm clock detonated. She told me she was pregnant. I hugged her and congratulated her, and then dozed off again. When I came to, I was thrilled because she was.

I knew I wanted…I knew I needed to write a fourth version of the novel. I needed to make Darin someone for who the reader cheered. I wanted to lighten the dark tone of Anymore Forever. I needed to inject humor—good old-fashioned humor. I needed the next novel to better reflect my usually jaunty personality yet maintain a measure of a brutal edge. What’s more, I needed a theme.  But at the same time, I knew I wanted so much of Anymore Forever to graduate to the fourth draft.

After I marked a black X on the calendar the day of September 18, 2012, the baby’s prospective birth date, I knew the time remaining to write and edit the fourth draft was, well, numbered. An idea belted me one day at work. A theme soon followed. An audible “click” echoed amongst the Monongahela River Valley. Save Me, Rip Orion was conceived in a drab office cubicle and quickly began growing in my mind’s womb.