Phase B1 complete

I've passed the written test for my private pilot's license.

the sea in the sky

There was something new in the firmament as Dawg and I lifted off from Apple Valley: clouds.

I can't begin to fathom why—all that nonsensical blather about global warming notwithstanding—but the weather here in the Mojave Desert has acting strangely for months. First we had a winter that was unseasonably wet. Now we have a spring which is unseasonably long. Windy, too. Spring's only supposed to last about, oh, two weeks around here. Normally, you have winter, which lasts about two months, with temperatures in the 30s, 40s, and 50s, accompanied by that wet stuff that falls out of the sky. Rain, I think they call it. Then you have spring, which goes for a couple of weeks to a month, temperatures in the 60s and 70s, with sprightly breezes (read: howling gales).

Then comes summer, which lasts about eight months, and is characterized by the sun being directly overhead, blasting torrential amounts of blasphemous heat onto the heads of the insane people who willingly choose to live here. There's also a paltry amount of wind (usually in the afternoons), perhaps a few cotton-ball clouds, and plenty of dust devils. Temperatures usually range between 98 and 120 degrees Fahrenheit. To escape the heat, animals dive underground and pant heavily. People go inside, shut the doors and windows, snap on the A/C and watch godawful daytime TV. In the evening, when the temperatures go down into the low 90s, animals and humans alike emerge to eat, drink, play and procreate.

It's those precious few weeks of spring which are to be cherished. One can actually stay outdoors the whole day through without melting into a gelatinous puddle. Things may actually be accomplished outside, such as chores, gardening, and home improvement, as well as more recreational affairs like exercise, picnics, even the consumption of a good book or a glass of lemonade. The Mojave Spring of 2010 has been going on now for two months. It's May Frickin' 27th out there, and it's currently in the low 60s, with winds of 25 miles per hour, gusting to 35. If that doesn't sound bad to you, that's enough to rattle the frame of my sturdy hacienda and howl around the eaves like a ravening monster. Makes the old folks at the airport huddle into their fleece and grumble about it being "still winter."

Normally I wouldn't mind this state of affairs. Sure, the wind dries out the eyeballs. Makes me look like I've been out on a bender the previous night. But hey, some days I really was out on a bender the previous night, so there's truth in advertising after all. However, wind is very bad for drones. Unmanned aerial vehicles don't fly so well in wind. Did I tell you that one of them went flipping off the runway at Victorville a few weeks back? Yep. Wind caught it just when it was landing. Knocked it into the dirt. Totaled it. That's three million dollars, shot. All because of a few fast-moving air particles.

Another thing we've been getting a lot of during this two-month spring is that wet stuff. Rain, is it? Yes. Showers of wet stuff, occurring every few weeks, have been falling out of the sky. There's been enough wet stuff to make an unprecedented amount of green stuff come up. Ordinarily the spring rains bring grass, some wildflowers, and turn the sagebrush and other shrubs green instead of brown or beige. This year's rains have worked miracles. I was out walking the other day (down by those high-tension lines I told you about). I actually saw lilies growing by the side of the track. Yes, real lilies: pale and somewhat desiccated, but lilies nonetheless, their green parts flapping in the "sprightly breeze."

This is exceedingly odd for a place that's only supposed to get 10 inches of rainfall a year. It's still cool, and it's not even all that dry. Why, I bet Death Valley barely got into the nineties yesterday. We actually had a fire in the wood stove a few days ago. Downright wacky, that. When it's windy, we don't fly, because Predators don't like too much wind beneath their wings. But winds weren't our only worry this morning. We also had clouds.

Now, I've never flown in clouds before. Not in, around, or near them. Clouds themselves are something unusual in the Mojave, down below 10,000 feet, anyway. I'm not qualified to fly in clouds yet, being only a student pilot, not having gotten my instrument rating. See, pilots who don't have an instrument rating are supposed to remain...let me see here, now...[consults the Federal Aviation Regulations, section 91.155, basic VFR weather minimums]...500 feet below, 1,000 feet above, and 2,000 feet horizontal, clear of clouds. ("VFR" stands for "Visual Flight Rules, and "IFR" stands for "Instrument Flight Rules," where you fly by using your instruments. Only pilots who've done an extra 40 hours of flight training and gotten their instrument ratings can fly IFR, but they can now fly through clouds, above 18,000 feet, and in poor visibility.)

So you may imagine, when Sierra Hotel lumbered off the runway, and I banked 'er left, into a climbing 180-degree turn, and the sun broke through the layers of clouds, lines and patches and streaks of them, all laying over the sky like a forest of cloud-trees cut down and strewn everywhere... Well, it was quite something. You know what it was like. Remember the first time you were in an airplane, and it climbed above the clouds, and the sun broke over the cloudscape, and all the multitudinous castles and skyscrapers and cliffs and buttes and towers and minarets, all inchoate white, spread themselves out beneath you like another world, an entire continent laid out in the heavens, a stormy sea in the sky? That's what it was like. Only I was flying myself through this white wonderland, and I had a much better view.

Dawg and I had gone up at the request of the Guard, so that we might ascertain the altitude of the cloud bases. This was because the Predator doesn't like clouds either, and the FAA doesn't like it when the Predators fly through clouds, particularly in civilian airspace. So our job was to determine whether we could escort the UAV through the clouds, up through the scattered cloud layer, through the holes and apertures, flank the lines of battle, make an end run around the puffy things. So it was that I, a student pilot, a greenhorn, a cloud virgin, got to fly above the clouds.

It was pure magic. It was not a single layer of clouds, not at first; they were scattered everywhere. It was more like an island chain than a continent: here there'd be a line of cotton balls; farther on some solid chains, cruising northeast, tall and proud, flags flying like battleships, the shortest of them easily 20 miles long; higher up the skies were streaked with cirrus and contrails. Everywhere were tiny wisps, huge buttressed watchtowers of cumulus, and odd-shaped clouds of no description which bridged gaps, hurried everywhere between their bigger brothers. The sky was turned into a patchwork quilt through which the sun shone, two horizons sparkling in the distance, one white and one brown, entrancing patterns of light and shadow dancing on the dusty ground below. I held the Mooney at a steady climb. Going 110 miles per hour, climbing 500 feet per minute, engine roaring at 2500 revolutions, we climbed ever higher. We reached the picket line, the first hurdle of clouds, and leaped over it, breaching the fortress walls. Then we were in the thick of it. We turned left to dodge a monster, a lumpy white beast with spikes along its back, its clawed limbs stretched out to the side; then we swung right again and headed for the mother ship. A solid, unbroken layer of clouds hovered over the Mojave River, 15 miles north of Victorville. It looked bad. The cloud base was down to about 8,000 feet. The restricted areas were capped with an inexhaustible supply of water and ice, suspended in the sky like a blanket.

Two hours later we went up to check again. This time conditions were good enough to bring the drone. Dawg piloted the Mooney like it was his old Navy jet, calmly relaying instructions to the drone driver. "Hold course 040." "Come right." "If you come ten degrees left, Grizzly, there's a nice big hole there you can probably make. Come left and give it your best climb." And so we went, following the drone as it clambered up an invisible ladder, turning right, turning left, dodging the extended arms of the clouds, which came from all sides and swiped at it like giant cat's paws. Up the drone leaped, straight it flew, curving through gaps, breaches in the cloud's defensive line, rabbit-holes in the sky. Once the gray ship ran straight into a cotton ball and disappeared entirely. It was a tense moment. Anything could happen. It was as if the clouds had opened up a maw in the middle of the blue and swallowed our charge whole.
"Keep your eyes open," Dawg said, tersely.
Seconds later, the Predator burst from the far side of the cloud, like a whale breaching in the breakers. It was a Nantucket sleigh ride at 8,000 feet. And then we'd made it. The skies cleared. The sun came down, and the cloud shadows danced. It was a clean shot to Four Corners. "That was great, chase," came the voice of the drone pilot. "But we just got word of severe turbulence, and we've been ordered to go home." A regretful grin lit up Dawg's face, the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Another day on the job.

a funny thing happened on the way to the bookstore

So there I was, wandering around Barnes & Noble, trying to figure out what the hell they'd done to the place. Everything was swapped around. The manga section had been shunted 30 feet to the northwest, the science fiction shelves had done an about-face, and it was anyone's guess where the dictionaries and thesauri had disappeared to. In the middle of this pursuit, I locked eyes with a two people coming inside the shop, who like me appeared somewhat disoriented. The woman was tall, middle-aged, with clear blue eyes, short dirty-blonde hair, sturdily built, wearing lots of denim. The man was similarly clothed, and had the look of a congenial vulture: tan-skinned, goggle-eyed, hook-nosed, pencil-necked, with a bald-patch crowning a ring of feathery brown hair.

I grinned sympathetically.
"They've switched everything around on us."
"I know," the woman said. "What's up with that?"
"Science-fiction section's over here now," I said, pointing, just to delineate which component of the store I habitually haunted. The woman, who was still wearing the same smile she had been when she entered, said, "Who reads science fiction? This is the book for you."
She held out a book. It was a large paperback with a black cover, and white, angular, futuristic lettering on it. It had some strange sort of illustration, like the Earth consumed with fire or laser beams. I turned the book over, and skimmed the synopsis. It was a militant science fiction epic, reminding me vaguely of Ender's Game, or perhaps Heinlein's Starship Troopers.
"Looks interesting," I said, handing it back.
"I wrote it," the woman said. Far too late, I noticed the similarity between the garishly-lit photograph on the back cover and the woman standing in front of me.
"Oh! Well...nice job."
"Yeah, thank you."
"Congratulations, you broke into that competitive market," I effused, grateful that I'd managed to think of something more edifying than "nice job."
"Thank you!" the woman said. She held up her book. "It's on the Barnes & Noble website. They won't put it on the shelves, though. I self-published, and they only stock the major publishers in their stores."
"Elitist pigs," I sympathized.
"That's why I'm here," she continued. "I need to talk to them about that."
My interest was piqued. I'd read a lot of blogs and websites about self-publishing, and I was beginning to think about trying it myself.
"You self-published?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. That smile hadn't moved an inch, all the time we'd been talking. The woman's boyfriend (or whatever he was) had sneaked away and was paging through a large coffee table book in the markdown section.
"Self-publishing's the way to go," the woman said. "Self-publishing is killing regular publishing."
"So I've heard," I said. "I've read a lot of blogs and websites about self-publishing. I'm beginning to think about trying it myself." "Do you write?" she asked.
"I've got a completed 53,000-word manuscript at home," I said, trying to remain in neutral. "Also science fiction."
The woman held up her book again. "This was originally 127,000 words. Then I came in here and bought a book about editing. I was able to cut out about 24,000 words."
"That so?"
"Yeah," she said. "Which is good, because with self-publishing, you pay by the page."
"I didn't know that."
"Yep," she said. "But my friends and readers said it was too short. They didn't want it to end."
For the first time, the woman's male companion spoke up. He had a pronounced English accent.
"I'm holding out for the sequel," he said to me. "Her book was good."
"What are you doing?" the woman asked him, looking at the book in his hands.
"I was trying to see if your Vista was in here," the man said. The woman peered at the book in his hands, and read the title aloud. "The World's Worst Cars?"
The man grinned, and let out an evil chuckle. Chuckling herself, the woman grabbed the book from him and threw it back on the shelf with its fellows.
"Are we getting out of here, or what?" she asked.
"Good luck with your negotiations," I said to the woman.
"Yeah, thank you!" the woman said, her smile hitching up another notch. "Good luck to you too."

I stayed at B&N just long enough to ascertain that copies of Writer's Market were in stock, then decided I could just sign up for an online account for $5.99 per month. Then I left.

Self-publishing. It had been something I had considered, and am still considering. I haven't yet tried (nor, therefore, failed) to find a major market for my book. Part of me would like to keep trying to get published by a well-known and established publishing firm, just to say that I could and did. Part of me would like to see my novel on the shelves of Barnes & Noble, gussied up and beautiful, the cover art shining out brighter than Botticelli's Venus, the name Bantam or Penguin or Doubleday emblazoned on the spine. The other part of me doesn't care WHO the heck publishes it, as long as it's printed and circulated, and finds its way to the hands and eyes and hearts of people who want to read it. The first part of me snickers at the second part and says, "Yeah, right. Thou craven! Wouldst thou forsake the emblem of Bantam or Doubleday? Wouldst thou content thyself with inferior binding, with a cheap paper cover and second-rate cover art, with limited circulation? A work which flasheth in the pan?"
"Thy argument hath merit," the second part of me sighs, shoulders slumping.
"This digit I hold before me hath knowledge of thy mother," sneers the first part.
The way I see it, there are pros and cons to self-publishing, just as there are to mainstream publishing. With self-publishing, your book will be published, if you can pay...and don't care how small an audience your work reaches. On the other hand, you're nobody's fool, and don't give a hang for money-grubbing editors, unfair book deals, copyright scams, inept agents, or any of that rot. Decisions, decisions, decisions. I'll have to think about this one.

To publish, or to self-publish? That is the question.

writing updates, 5/23/2010

As you may recall, my writing goals for 2010 went something like this:

• publish 3 nonfiction travel articles by July
• publish 3 short fiction stories by July
• publish my novel by the end of the year

Not counting the paltry piece I did for an information broker ("Tips on Learning to Play the Piano") I've published two nonfiction articles so far (in Real Travel Adventures and In The Know Traveler, respectively). The third (and several more) should be taken care of (and then some) by my trip to England. I've secured a deal with The Expeditioner to publish two-day dispatches covering my two-week sojourn there, beginning mid-June.

My novel goals have been amended, mutating from "publish by the end of the year" to "move the story toward publication." Sound nebulous to you? You're right. I've decided to forget the deadlines. Following them was a lot of stress and a dearth of productivity. I'm not due to get my manuscript back from my beta readers anytime soon, so there's nothing substantial to do for the nonce. But more excitingly, I'm making arrangements to send my MS off to my great uncle (on my mother's side) and my second cousin (on my father's), both of whom are published authors. My great uncle has written something like 40 books on business, and my cousin wrote a dark fantasy romance novel. I've sent both of them letters, asking if they'd care to read what I have and give me any pointers (including information about publishers and agents). I already know that my great uncle is interested; my grandfather (his brother) passed the information along to him, and he asked if he could have a look. And at the moment, the poor man's laid up in his house with a ruptured spleen, so (as Grandpa said) this is the perfect opportunity for me to employ him as a reader!

I'm tremendously excited about this. Professional input is what I really need at this point. Getting help from the pros is going to be a godsend. My relations might even put me in touch with an agent! Huzzah!
That just leaves me with the problem of short fiction. What with blogging, and working a job, and actively seeking another, and languishing with my novel in the ninth circle of revision hell, I haven't had much of a chance at writing anything new. But I've put my shoulder to the wheel, and I now have four stories on the go.

They're all science fiction. The first is ruddy brilliant, or would be, if I could just figure out to get from Act II to the end of Act III. It's about a human colony on another planet that's ruled by the same sort of debilitating caste system they have (or used to have) in India. The second story is rotten, only a few paragraphs in and I'm already hating it. It's about the Big Crunch, and takes place billions of years in the future. It was inspired by certain stories I read in a science fiction anthology, The World Turned Upside Down. Isaac Asimov had a pretty good one in there ("The Last Question") which concerned the distant future, and human evolution, and what would happen to the universe, and so on. Mine is similar. But I think I'm just coming off as a hack.

The third story is even ruddier brillianter than the first. Got a sort of cryptozoological angle to it. Plus it has an old-timey feel that's fun to write (it's set in Rhodesia in 1957). The fourth story, which I just began writing the other night, is about the Bermuda Triangle. Specifically, it concerns Flight 19: a squadron of Grumman TBM Avengers that went on a long-distance training mission in 1945 and vanished without a trace. More mysterious yet, one of the search planes that was sent to look for them disappeared as well. There's all sorts of theories about what happened to these airplanes and their crews, ranging from the mundane to the fantastic. Maybe they ran out of a fuel. Maybe a freak microburst swatted their planes out of the air. Maybe strange fluctuations in Earth's magnetic field played merry hob with their compasses and sent them far off course. Maybe they were abducted by UFOs. Maybe power crystals from the city of Atlantis opened up a pathway to another dimension and sucked them in. Who knows where they wander now...?

Unlike most of my other writing projects, I'm optimistic and cheerful about these stories. I have a feeling that they're going to be no problem, you know? Just some little 10,000-word stories, that's it. Editing them's going to be a snap, I've got the plots all figured out in advance (something I didn't really have when I began writing The Novel). Plus they're just plain fun: I feel as though I can just write whatever comes into my head, take the story whatever direction I want, write the story itself about whatever I want. Look at the above: you've got planetary colonization, universe-destroying, horrific monsters, and the intoxicating and timeless mystery of the Bermuda Triangle (under a veneer of WWII airplanes). What's not to love? Moreover, with these short stories, there's not as much research required as a full-blown novel, not as much writing required as a full-blown novel, not as much revision required as a full-blown novel, not as much depth required as a full-blown novel, not as much—

Noticing a pattern here? Publishing is what's bothering me. I've never tried to market anything fictitious before. My subscription to Writer's Market has slackened, and I'm hesitant to begin another, because now it costs money, dammit, and I'm trying to save for England. I need to suck it up and just pick up a copy at the local bookstore, I guess. But either way, I need to find some short fiction (science fiction) markets. If I do that (and I really work my butt off between the time I get back from England and July 1st, 2010) then I ought to reach my goals.

I'll keep you posted. If anyone has any suggestions about magazines that publish short fiction, I'd be grateful. Heck, I'll sell 'em to Playboy. That's how Stephen King got his start, y'know.

cocktail review no. 38 - B-52

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!!!

Congratulations! Congratulations to one and all! If you're reading this, this means you are among the first ever to lay eyes on one of the Postman's über-special double-secret SHOT REVIEWS!

Okay, yeah, I know. It's off-color to pair a Vietnam travelogue with a shot called "B-52." Lay off, buster. Comb through any cocktail encyclopedia you like and see if you can find another Vietnam-related drink. I dare you. Maybe "Shooing Away the Tribes of the Night"? Ha ha, very funny. That's way more off-color than a "B-52."

Ordinarily I don't go in for shots. I downed more than my share of tequila slammers when I was in da club in Busan, yeah. My posse knocks back an obligatory shot of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel or Maker's Mark when we're out on the town. My cousin Brian and I had a few Jell-O shooters during my ill-fated graduation party in Fargo, sure. But I'm not really a shots man. I can be persuaded, however.

That being said, I've decided to sneak a few shot reviews in here on occasion. Even if shots are transient and fleeting, and can't be enjoyed with the same leisure and mellowness as a full-blown cocktail, the unique flavor and often exotique content of shots make for an interesting experience nonetheless. Therefore, if I should happen to come across a unique shot (on the rare occasion I imbibe one), I'll review it here. But I'm going to be sneaky about it. You'll have to actually click on the post to know whether I'm doing a shot or not, unless you can tell from the name (or you've got me in your blogroll with "snippets" enabled). Maybe later on, when I get to be an affluent novelist/pilot/bartender, I'll start offering prizes for the lucky folks who happen to notice my shot reviews, and comment on them. Yeah, maybe. We'll see.

Anyway, on with the review.

• ¼ ounce Kahlúa
• ½ ounce Bailey's Irish Cream
• ¼ ounce Grand Marnier

Pour the Kahlúa into a shot glass. Pour the Bailey's over the back of a teaspoon so it floats on top of the Kahlúa. Layer the Grand Marnier on top.

I wasn't expecting much from this. I rather thought that the combination of coffee liqueur, Irish cream, and orange liqueur would be nasty. Boy, was I wrong. This is tasty. Thanks to the viscosity of the Kahlúa and the Bailey's, this shot's a bit thicker than most, and goes down slow and smooth. But more importantly, the distinct coffee baseline is offset by the orange overtone. Grand Marnier is fancy stuff (actually cognac and orange). After having a shot like this, you can tell it's a notch above ordinary triple sec.

All in all, B-52s aren't half-bad. It's a lot of work for a shot, but ultimately worth it.

random travel destinations - Vietnam

As far as vacations go, Vietnam wouldn't be my first choice. However safe, stable and secure it may be now, the country and its name have nasty connotations for the American psyche. Nobody thinks of anything pleasant when the word "Vietnam" is mentioned.

But I can't help it. I'm in the perfect mood to write about it. I'm listening to Led Zeppelin, for one thing. (They were formed in 1968, you know.) I just watched a show yesterday about FACs, or forward air controllers. Those crazy military pilots who flew tiny propeller airplanes over enemy territory to call in air strikes. Some of 'em worked for the Air Force, some worked for the CIA. The latter flew plain-clothed and in unmarked airplanes (generally Bird Dogs). It was the most incongruous image: a guy in a flannel shirt and jeans, the steaming jungle behind him, loading bombs and rockets onto his single-engine plane, looking like a white-collar office worker on his day off...except for the magnum revolver strapped at his hip and the M16 over his shoulder.

Anyway, let's talk about 'Nam. Some of my friends have told me that I'm missing out. The place has some of the best beaches you'll find anywhere. Surfing's great. I said, yes, I know that, I've seen Apocalypse Now. They said no, no, you don't have to worry about machine-gun fire or mortars now. I said, uh-huh, yeah, I know, I've seen Tropic Thunder. They said no, no, you're jumping to conclusions, there aren't any armed rebels or ex-military personnel or landmines or anything floating around Vietnam anymore. I said, yeah, right, I've read Paul Theroux.

That's where most of my information on modern Vietnam has come from: Paul Theroux. I'll grant you he went through there quite some time ago. But the images he painted of stark poverty, landmines still blowing up trains decades after the fact, scores of Vietnamese-speaking Caucasian toddlers (sired of servicemen and native women), communism, massive reeducation programs for the "unindoctrinated," the single-party system, restrictions on free speech and press...

...well, those leave a bad taste in my mouth.

So I don't know if I'll ever go there. I might. Just to say I've been. I mean, it'd be remiss of me to form an opinion of the place before having gone and seen it myself, right? Plus, I hear they have some pretty weird foods there, like fried scorpions, dog soup and civet coffee (where the beans are passed through the digestive tract of a civet before being roasted and brewed).

There were some Vietnamese restaurants I went to in South Korea that were pretty dang delicious. And for all the strife, Vietnam still possesses some eye-buggingly beautiful scenery, like the Thác Bản Giốc waterfall...

...and Ha Long Bay.

That's the way of it. The most war-torn, dangerous and oppressed nations always seem, somehow, to be the most naturally picturesque. It's almost like Mother Nature's trying to ease the lives of the poor wretched souls living there by giving them a heaven of geological and biological splendor to look upon as they work and slave and die.

If none of that stimulates you, though, you can just go play ping-pong with a robot.

the ol' college try

So, says the storyteller, sitting on a chair on the back porch, a tumbler of Irish whiskey in his hand, did I ever tell you about the time my cousin and I went on a pub crawl one frozen December night in Fargo after I graduated college?

It was 2007. I was 22, and a newly-minted college graduate. And I do mean new: I'd been handed my diploma only two hours earlier. It was bitterly cold. December isn't even the coldest month in North Dakota, but that night was a frozen hell. My grandparents and my eldest cousin B had graciously driven eight hours from northwestern Illinois to be at my graduation ceremony. Along the way, they'd had a flat tire. It was the dark of night, somewhere in the vicinity of Wahpeton, one of the loneliest stretches of Interstate 29. The wind was howling. Snow caked the landscape and filled the air. It was easily -30 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind was something corrosive, like acid. Any exposed skin was instantaneously stung by the icy blast, and then numbed, deadened. Changing that tire was an exercise in the same kind of agony that's buggered everyone from Neanderthal man to the Donner Party. Grandpa could only stand to be outside the car for a few seconds at a time. Dad and Mom (who were themselves driving up from their home in Wyoming, and had joined my grandparents in their mutual trek along I-29) stood outside in the midst of Valhalla and changed the tire. They spent the remaining hour to Fargo trying to prevent their hands from turning black and falling off. My cousin B is tough. He's a Marine, for crying out loud—that should tell you something right there. He's four years older than I am, lean as a rail, every ounce of him either muscle or bone or sprung steel. Gimlet eyes, square jaw, warrior's courage. Even he said he'd never been anywhere so cold in his life. He couldn't figure out how I stood being up there for three winters straight.

Not even that, however, could stop me from having myself a drink on graduation night. The ceremony went well. I didn't trip leaving the stage. I waved modestly to Mom and Pop, sitting in the stands, misty-eyed. I found them in the lobby after it was all over. I shook hands with some of my classmates, and humbly accepted the congratulations of my proud parents and grandparents. We all (somehow) made our way through the blizzard to our cars parked outside the Fargodome, and got back to the Radisson Hotel.

Then we had a celebratory dinner. B and I each had a tall glass of the Michelob Amber Bock, and without even realizing it, the night's drinking had commenced. The folks and grand-folks hit the hay after dinner, leaving B and myself at the hotel bar for what we assured them would be "just a few drinks." He had a Heineken. In complete defiance of the weather, I had a Corona. With lime. That's how I roll.
Blizzard, you can go take a running jump, I thought to myself.
"So, you know anybody in town who might like to come out?" B asked me.
I did, as a matter of fact. Brad and Arthur, two fellows I'd had the privilege to share some general education classes with, and who I'd been bumming around with ever since. (Without them, I'd have spent most of my college career sober.) I couldn't think of a better pair of drinking buddies, so I gave 'em a ring and before long they were coming in, shaking the cold out of their coats.

It seemed only natural, after B & A had had their opening beers, to transition into shots. This is where my memory starts to get fuzzy. Only starts, mind you. There were three drinking establishments that we hit, all situated along Broadway in midtown Fargo. Well, there were three drinking establishments that we hit, at the time of this particular slice of debauchery at least: Dempsey's Irish Pub, Rooters, and the Old Broadway. These varied in style and patronage from dive bar to as-hip-as-North-Dakota-can-possibly-get, which ain't much.

We hit Dempsey's first. Good crowd. Standing room only. The joint's only about as wide as a walk-in closet, but somehow we fought our way to the bar and got some beers. The night was in full swing. Smoke filled the air. (Yes, real cigarette smoke; you can still smoke in bars in ND. Quaint, right?) The yells of happy drunken people, most of them in our age bracket, resounded up and down the long, low room, drowning out the jukebox. Up at the bar, teams of four were challenging the "Shot Ski," an old wooden ski slotted with four round holes. Four friends would simultaneously lift the ski and tilt it, each thereby imbibing the shots thoughtfully inserted into the aforementioned holes by the willing staff. My single greatest regret about that night is that B, Brad, Arthur and I didn't try it.

Finding Dempsey's a little packed and smoky for our taste, we ventured out into the dark, slippery streets, back into the chill wind, to sample another venue. I remember there being no shortage of other people out walking around that night, even despite the blasphemous weather. We walked and walked and walked, down to the southern boundary of Fargo nightlife, the Old Broadway. Colloquially known as the "Slut Factory," the OB was eastern North Dakota's number-one producer of freak-dancing blondes. The production line was running at full capacity that night. Blinded by strobes, deafened by insidious music, wowed by beer brands we didn't recognize, elbowing our way past members of both sexes, all clamped tightly together on the tiny dance floor, we made our way to the back corner. Flippant to the last, we sat down and ordered some Jell-O shooters. This was my first and (so far) only experience with Jell-O shots of any kind. I was too far gone by this point to remember much of anything about them. I must've found them rather forgettable, even with a BAC of 0.2%. Attempts at conversation proved futile, what with people like Usher and Ludacris exploding from the sound system. Brad's Lutheran sensibilities, admirably ingrained even after two pitchers and six shots, were offended by the number of wannabe lesbians out on the floor.

With that in mind, we adjourned to our final stop: Rooters, right in between Dempsey's and the OB, on the east side of Broadway. This place must've been around since the pioneer days. It looked exactly like one of those enormous saloon halls from the movies: a wide room with a high ceiling, and a bar a mile long. Excuse me, I mean two wide rooms with high ceilings, and bars a mile long. This was what kind of freaked me out. It was as if two bars were built right next to each other, and the proprietor's minds were connected by some strange psionic link, causing them to make their respective establishments exact mirror images of each other. And then, after discovering this salient fact, both owners just said "screw it" and knocked out the wall between the two bars, rendering them two connected rooms displaying bilateral symmetry. The bar in the southernmost room was on the south side; the bar in the northern room was on the north side. Both rooms had their mirrors, bar stools, tables, and even lights in exactly the same place, only diametrically opposed to each other. And in case you're wondering, no, I was not seeing double. We picked a table in the southernmost room after deciding the atmosphere in the northernmost wasn't quite right. (It's anyone's guess as to how we decided that.) We sat down, ordered up a few more pitchers, and just sat and talked as best we could over the noise of hundreds. I caught up with B, and he and Brad and I had some entertaining discussions about life, the universe and everything, booze-fueled. Arthur, bless him, who had remained Brad's designated driver by some Herculean effort, indulgently sat and listened to the doggerel we spouted for hours on end. It was a fine, relaxing cap to an end-all evening.

At something approaching 2:00 a.m., we staggered out of Rooters and turned our steps to the Radisson. We slithered over slush piles and ice puddles, wantonly weaving through the now-empty street. B and I took fond leave of Brad and Arthur in the lobby, called for the elevator, entered our shared room, and promptly passed out. Little did either of us realize that we would be woken up at 5:30 to go drive home. I'd rather not remember anything about that morning. I remember B raising an emphatic fist and bringing it down with all his might upon the shrieking alarm clock; I remember Mom and Dad finally jolting us out of bed at six with a thunderous knock; I remember trying to pack my clothes into my suitcase, still drunk, wondering how in the world I was going to drive my car 13 hours back home; I remember saying goodbye to Gramp and Gran and ashen-faced B in the freezing hotel parking complex in the snowy gray light of dawn; I remember the hangover kicking in somewhere between Main and 13th Avenue; I remember begging my mother to kill me and hurl my abused corpse into the icy Red River; I remember my sweet, sympathetic mother buying me some hot chocolate at the gas station; and I remember slowly, ever so slowly reviving as I downed the scalding beverage and cranked up the radio in my Ford Taurus, as our little two-car convoy clambered onto I-29 and headed south, bound for Wyoming.

It was a good night: fun, booze-filled, freezing-ass cold, and it made for some rather fond memories. B and I agreed (via e-mail, much later) that we would make it a tradition. We'd visit every one of our remaining five cousins when they graduated college and treat them to something similar. My cousin Dirk and my brother H both graduate in the spring of 2011. Oh boy, won't that be interesting...

inspired by Smithy

There are a lot of people I could talk about in terms of inspiration. Indiana Jones, for one. Jeez, I've wanted to be that guy ever since I was twelve. H.G. Wells, for another. Writing in the late nineteenth century, he managed to predict the invention of airplanes, lasers, space flight, space-time manipulation, and bio-weapons, and do a damn creepy job of it.

But right now I'd like to talk about my friend Smithy, over at smithyblogs. Now there's an inspiring man for you. He always says what he thinks, and means it. He doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about naysayers or detractors. He just up and opines. I like to think I'm the same way, but I'm not. I'm a weasel. Smithy's the genuine article, and that's a woefully rare thing in this day and age. Smithy siphons this exceptional quality into an equally inspiring medium: sports rants. Being a Brit, Smithy was born and naturalized a soccer football nut from Day 1. Being from Manchester...well, presumably you've heard of the legendary Manchester United football team. They're the only one that most Americans have ever even heard of. (What other teams are there? What, like, maybe Arsenal?)

So let's just say that football (meaning soccer) is a subject near and dear to Smithy's heart. And he expostulates upon it with passion, verve and vehemence. Check out his latest update, a rundown of the results of the predictions he made a few weeks ago, a tirade against Chelsea, a word about the British election, and the Seoul Friendship Festival, which, from Smithy's description, sounds like the only celebration in South Korea during which English sausages may be had in profusion. I heartily enjoy standing before Smithy's soapbox and listening to his match breakdowns, season reports, and sportsman's proselytizing. Not only are they entertaining and often hilarious, but they provide a valuable sort of secondhand education for me. I'm learning that, yes, there are other teams in England besides Man U and Arsenal. Smithy drops a lot of names that I have to run to Wikipedia to look up. It's educational, both in regards to the sport itself and my own cultural awareness. Or lack thereof.

So I've decided, as any upstanding and humble apostle would, to copy him. I'm going to ape Smithy. I'm starting up a new installment on this here blog (title to be announced), concerning what's happening with my team, predictions for future games, how the season's shaping up, players, enemy teams, breakdowns, tirades, commiseration, the works. (I apologize to any women in the audience whom I may be turning off.)

Trouble is, we haven't really got a soccer league in this country. Well, okay, yeah, we do. Major League Soccer. But you never hear or see it anywhere. Okay, yeah, they're televised by ESPN, ESPN2, and Fox Soccer Channel (hey, whoa, Fox has a whole channel devoted to soccer?!) but that's about it. The last sports bar I was in had maybe one or two television screens devoted to MLS. The remaining eighty-three were busy depicting the Lakers getting themselves kinged by Oklahoma City. I played soccer for four years and reffed it for two (which means that, yes, I once understood the bloody offside rule). I love soccer. Great game. But I don't feel as though I'm qualified to speak on it, not to the degree and depth that Smithy does. I think I know football gridiron a bit better, especially now that I'm following a team religiously. Smithy's already got the market cornered on soccer rants anyway.

So let's get to it, then. We had a heck of a season in San Diego last year, but there were still a few...erm...problems. We started slow, as usual. Denver beat us hollow and in Pittsburgh...well, let's not talk about that. Some of the fans stated clattering for Coach Norv Turner to be sacked. But things started picking up again as the season went on. The thing about Turner, I hear, is that he really comes through when the chips are down. The grudge match against Denver went well (32-3) and we slaughtered every NFC East team in our way, winning 18 games in a row. Our 13-3 run for the sun was tragically cut short in the last round of the playoffs, thanks to three—count 'em—three missed field goals by Nate Kaeding. New York went on to face Indianapolis and their hick quarterback Peyton Manning, a full-size poster of whom I had to stare at in middle school homeroom in Oak Ridge, when he was still playing for the University of Tennessee. Indianapolis then went on to lose against the New Orleans Saints in Super Bowl XLIV. Ha ha ha, I suppose all's well that ends well, eh?

Needless to say, some changes in the lineup were in order. The draft was back in April, but I've gotten some news that San Diego recently signed Nick Novak for a one-year contract. Don't know much about the man, myself. A Virginia native, Novak graduated from the University of Maryland, and has played for Washington, Arizona and Kansas City. He made 13 out of 20 field goals while playing for the Redskins and the Cardinals, and his average was 6-10 with the Chiefs. (That's a lot better than Kaeding's 1-4, that's for dang sure.) Novak's six feet and 198 pounds, which is a bit heavy for a kicker, I reckon, but maybe he'll be able to put a little extra meat behind his punts, who knows? Now, ostensibly, Novak has been signed to "fill in" for Kaeding, who is still recovering from a groin injury sustained prior to the 2010 Pro Bowl. Yeah, right. What a load of hogwash. I think Kaeding's groin was actually injured by the business end of a patent-leather shoe, heading straight up at about 40 miles per hour. There were about 30,000 people in Qualcomm Stadium last January who would've loved to have their foot in that shoe, let me tell you. I'll bet you anything ol' Nate won't be coming back for the 2010 season. Or if he does, he'll be third string, easy. Novak's been signed to replace him. After three missed field goals, one could hardly expect otherwise.

In other draft news, the Chargers picked up no less than twenty rookie free agents in April, from schools all over the country: Fresno State, Eastern Oregon, West Texas A&M, Southern Methodist, even Cornell! If I watched college football I'd probably know more about these guys, but I don't. Sucks having a seven-to-five job and trying to write for a living; you don't have much time for the idiot box. But I'm looking forward to seeing them all in action. The three to watch seem to be Ryan Mathews, Donald Butler, and Darrell Stuckey. Mathews is a running back from Fresno State who's got 1,808 rushing yards and 19 touchdowns to his credit. We secured him by trading picks with Miami; we got their first-round, fourth-round and sixth-round picks, while they got our first-, second- and fourth-round picks. We also traded the Dolphins our inside linebacker Tim Dobbins. To replace him, we got Butler from the University of Washington. At a hulking 245 pounds, Donald nearly racked up his weight in tackles, knocking out 238 enemy players when he was with the Huskies. Only four of those were sacks, however. Stuckey opened the third day of the draft pick. San Diego snagged him from Kansas, where he played both safety positions; but the plans are for him to play mostly strong safety. That's fine by me. Stuckey's 5'11" and 205 pounds, which makes him heavier than the free safeties we've got. But he's not too porky to move around and still get some coverage done. He has 295 tackles to his name, too, which means he must be doing something right back there.

I'll be the first to admit I don't know all the names of the players on my team. I didn't recognize Dobbins's. I don't know why I never noticed him out there, but I have a few ideas. When I'm watching a Chargers game, I'm usually too absorbed in the Holy Trinity of LaDainian Tomlinson, Darren Sproles and Philip Rivers to notice much else. Or rather, I used to be too absorbed in the Holy Trinity. Philip Rivers, our able quarterback, and Darren Sproles, Mr. Greased Lightning himself, the Artful Dodger, the un-catchable running back, are still around. For reasons I can't explain, the Chargers released Tomlinson in March. If I was to tell you that "I could crawl into a hole and shoot myself right now," you'd have to laugh and tell me to get serious, because you'd know that in order to adequately express how I feel about losing Tomlinson (to the New York JETS, for f***'s sake), I'd have to crawl into a hole, castrate myself with a rusty razor, poke out my eyeballs with sharpened Popsicle sticks, commit hara-kiri, light myself on fire with a blowtorch and then shoot myself. After nine seasons, 138 touchdowns, 12,490 yards, and more NFL records than Jesus H. Christ, LaDainian Tomlinson is no longer on my team. Excuse me, I have to go find a blowtorch.

Anyway, even with Tomlinson gone, I reckon Rivers and Sproles will still make out. With a pool of free agents that size, and a new kicker, I have high hopes for San Diego in the 2010 season. I'm depressed that we don't get to play Oakland until October, though. Those bastards are IN for it. More about that later. I'll continue checking up on the news, and if anything interesting happens I'll blog about it. We should be in the doldrums for a while, though. I'm not sure if the preseason is going to be worth covering. But even that doesn't even start until August.

So, all other things being equal, I'll see you then... Thanks for the inspiration, Smithy.

fasten your safety belts

Hot air rises. This is the reason that blimps and zeppelins stay up, that eagles and vultures can climb to ridiculous heights without flapping their wings the whole bleeding time, and that certain politicians are elected to high office. Due to the increased energy of its heated molecules, air becomes less dense as it gets warmer, thereby rising above the cooler, denser air down below. Trust me, this information will come in handy later.

Hello there! And a Happy (Early) Mother's Day to you. This post shall chiefly concern the latest work-related buzz, and recent (helpful) revelations about novel-publishing. You probably won't find any links to related websites in here, though. I'm feeling rather independent today.

Where shall I start? How to explain the myriad little things that happen every day on the job which would delight and entertain you no end? The many interesting people flitting to and fro in our little airport here in Apple Valley (to say nothing of the airplanes)? The incidents, the dialogue, the parade of human condition that marches past on a daily basis? It's impossible to document it all. Especially since I keep forgetting to bring my darn camera to work. I'll just give you the highlights.

We had a Cessna Citation visit our humble airport on Thursday, the second one this year. If you don't know what a Cessna Citation is, I'll delineate for you: it's one of those airplanes that was designed to cause civil unrest. Take a look for yourself. As if that wasn't orgasmic enough, a couple of Stearman biplanes sneaked in while we were out on our morning mission. You know, the planes that killed King Kong?
Then a Wheeler Express 90 wheeled in from Tehachapi. And a Bellanca Cruisemaster right after that.

I think I drooled on myself.

Furthermore, I pulled off my first (perfect) landing in the Mooney the other day. It was our new Mooney, nicknamed "X-Ray." It's a heck of a lot easier to fly. Admittedly, this was the morning flight, when the air was smooth as butter. Still, I could've done a lot worse. Maybe I didn't pull back quite far enough on the yoke when it came time to round out and touch down. But I really greased 'er in. As Mr. Mooney said, "you just kissed 'er down." He was full of praise, which made me feel pretty dang good, seeing as how he's a former Air Force pilot and has done more flying in more godawful weather than I can imagine.

Of course, I ruined it. It was later that same day, during the afternoon flight. Things were admittedly a little bumpy, and there were more people in the landing pattern with me. But still—my approach was perfect—straight-on to the runway, good glide slope, ideal speed, everything. I just flared too high, that's all. I was 50 feet off the ground when I started leveling off. Even I could not tell you why I did this. I know perfectly well that 50 feet in the air is no place to start rounding out. When you raise the nose, you get slow, and you do NOT want to getting slow 50 feet off the ground on a landing approach. You're already so slow that the plane might quit flying and fall out of the air. I've just got this hang-up about Mooneys. You really have to point them down at the ground in order to descend. And the M20E's approach speed is 80 miles per hour. So there I am, nose-down, heading for the ground at freeway speed. That freaks me out. Like I said before, I'm used to flying slab-sided Cessnas, which float on down at a leisurely 65. I like to go down slow, I guess. And the thing with Mooneys is, they're finicky. I was ten miles too fast on my final approach, doing 90. In any other airplane, ten extra miles ain't gonna matter. In a Mooney, of course, it does. If you try to flare at 90 you'll start climbing again. You have to have your speed right, or else.

This is where most newbie Mooney pilots get into trouble, on landings. Flare too high (like I did) and they bang the tail on the ground or crack the gear on a hard landing. Go too fast (like I was) and they flare, climb up suddenly, panic, point the nose back down hard, overcompensate, and hit the propeller on the ground, or go off the runway.
"This is why I like Mooneys," Mr. Mooney told me, after we'd parked (and he'd finished explaining to me what I'd done wrong). "They land like fighters."
Oh, great, I thought. In addition to my landing problems, the weather seems to have arrayed itself against me. Now that the spring winds seem to have gone (whew), summer is fast approaching. And being in a wide, flat desert with plentiful sun and lots of open ground (a good mix of sand, rock, and asphalt), we get these things called "thermals."

You probably have some pretty innocuous ideas about thermals. Right now you're thinking, "Oh, right, thermals! Those are those lovely warm currents of air that rise up from the ground, sending eagles to soar and gliders to kiss the azure sky!" That's what you're thinking, right? I must admit, I once belonged to this school of thought. Then I went out flying in a small plane for a couple of days. The sun was shining and the thermals

(convectioncurrentscausedbyunevenheatingoftheplanet'ssurfacebysolarradiation)

were in full swing. If you want to get an idea about what thermals are like from a pilot's perspective, picture an invisible fist, dozens of yards across, rocketing skyward and slamming into the belly and wings of your airplane. Got that? Okay, good. Now picture hundreds of invisible fists, shooting up from the desert floor like a barrage of anti-aircraft missiles, each one a mile high, whooshing through the air all around you, buffeting your plane up, back, forward and sideways. That's what thermals are like.

We're getting into a pattern here in the desert. It's the usual for the summer months. Calm and cool in the mornings, and then in the afternoon, when the sun has heated the air, the breeze kicks up. As long as the sun's shining here, you know there'll be thermals and crosswinds galore below 5,000 feet AGL, especially with all the mountains. (The mountains, in fact, amplify the thermals and winds, like a skateboard ramp.)

So I'm beginning to realize that I'm in for an interesting time during the afternoon flight. Thermals and turbulence are at their worst when you're low and slow. So I'll be climbing out of the airport, only a thousand feet or so off the ground, and those crosswinds and invisible fists will start hammering at me. The nose of the plane will be swerving back and forth like a car on ice. First one wing will be pushed up, then the other. Sometimes the tail gets caught, too, and our attitude suddenly goes from nose-up to level flight! Things haven't gotten really bad yet. But I can only imagine what'll happen if the thermals get any stronger. You all know how strong turbulence can be in a big jetliner. Imagine how it'll be for me, sitting there in my little Mooney. There'll be little else to do but tighten my seat belt, clench my buttocks, and try to keep the plane pointed straight ahead. It won't be the catbird seat, that's for dang sure. The weather is making it warm for me. Literally.

But that's just what I need: a challenge. Think of how much better a flyer this is making me. Between landings, handling a complex airplane, crosswinds, and mile-high geysers of hot air, I'm getting a crash-course in what Mr. Mooney jokingly refers to as "the survival gene."

And now, an addendum about novel-writing: It's continued to be a tremendous relief, taking it easy, not badgering myself to get published. Sitting back, taking a deep breath, and having a think about all of this has made me realize a couple of things.
First, I sent the manuscript out to my readers too soon.
There were a lot more edits I should've made before I did that. It was just too soon to send it out. Through phone calls, I've discovered that my readers having a lot of trouble, even just a few chapters in. They're not getting the most out of the story, and as a result, I'm not getting the most out of their feedback. I should've slowed down, taken it easy, paid attention to what I was doing when revising, and made sure I had a manuscript that was as tight as I could make it before I gave it to readers, to get the maximum profit out of their effort. And perhaps to ease that effort, too.
Second, I've been neglecting the blueprints I laid out in my character bios.
I don't know why I've been writing (let alone revising) without my notes and outline open in front of me, but I have! And a few days ago when I went back into the character bios that I'd written, I rediscovered some data that made it clear why I'd been having such difficulty. The reason for the intangible hardship I've been experiencing in writing/revising became clear on the instant. Now I knew why I thought my first three chapters were so shallow. Why character development in the second novel was stagnating. (All three of these things have put me on the verge of pulling out my hair, no joke.)

There's some things I've left out: my main character's tragic past, for one. The secondary main character's estrangement from his father. Both men's life histories, basically. The reason I've been disliking them so much, the reason I can't seem to have fun making these two guys think and talk and walk and battle, is because I don't know them very well. Reading the outline I'd painstakingly hammered out months ago (to prevent these frustrations from blossoming in the first place, ironically) made me understand what was missing in my work. There were some gaping holes in my manuscript, some vacant opportunities for characterization and plot development that I could now exploit. Armed with this new (or rather, old) information, I can turn my rickety, half-baked, puerile manuscript into a damn good novel.

It was a revelation, to be sure. Boy, I'm glad I decided to sit on this thing for a while! Mind you, I haven't been entirely bone-idle. I'm going to cast an eye over the novel again this weekend, just superficially, you know, in passing. Maybe jot down a few notes, using my character bios and my outline: things I need to change, or add in, or embellish. A few days ago I sat down at the computer and did some real work: character interviews. Recognizing that I didn't know my characters very well, I decided to call 'em into the office and have a chat. I gathered my notes, looked up some good questions on the Internet, and went at it. (I had several questions of my own, of course; like "Well, let's just get the toughie out of the way: what motivates you, MC?") And lo and behold! I didn't believe it, but it worked. I found the words—both my own and my characters'. They flowed off my fingers like wine past a Greek hero's lips. I saw my MCs—both men in their mid-twenties, idealists of a sort, one cooperative and friendly, the other surly and profane, sitting across from me as I peppered them with awkward questions.
How well do you get along with your father, MC #2?
What made you decide to come to Washington, MC #1?
What do you hope to do with your life, you guys? How did you meet each other, anyway? High school, wasn't it?
I finished up with a sense of supreme satisfaction. The plot was rounding itself out. With the info in my character bios, I was setting up some terrific foreshadowing for character development down the road. Most importantly, I felt a great deal more familiar with my characters. Up until this point, I had been talking to them on the phone, reading about them in the newspaper. Now I've met them face to face, and like 'em a little more for it.

Watch yourselves, writers. It's easy for novelists (especially first-time sapheads like me) to get too involved in the story and overlook the characters. Every decent writer I've run across insists that an author must know his-or-her characters like the back of his-or-her hand, the door of his-or-her refrigerator. If you don't know your characters, talk to 'em and have them tell you who they are. It'll make writing about them a lot easier. If I hadn't quit on publishing for the moment—thereby giving myself a much-needed breather—I never would've figured any of this out, probably. None of the all-important revelations would've come to light, none of the important research would have been done. (Oh, research! How could I forget that? Booting the publishing fever has given me ever so much more time for research. I've got five library books on my nightstand and another on the way.) Even if I had somehow realized something with the printing press bearing down on me, I likely would've despaired of ever fixing the novel. Incorporating all of the new (um, old?) information would've seemed an impossible task.

Now, it seems anything but. Fasten your safety belts. There's a whale of a tale coming, Mr.World.

I hadn't thought of that...

You know that old story about the five silly fishermen? They get back to shore, do an improper headcount, and think somebody's missing? And the little girl points out that there are, in fact, five of them after all, only the knotheads who counted neglected to include their own selves?

My state of mind is something like the five fishermen's at the moment. Profound shock, a flood of relief, and a little bit of shame. I have just diagnosed myself with publishing fever. Rebel helped me out with the diagnosis. In fact, she saved my life by taking me to the Book-Writing Hospital, let's say. She and I have been critiquing each other's work, and she sent me a couple of links that she said were real eye-openers for her. That went double for me! Thanks, Rebel...it seems you knew just what my problem was all along. The links led to:

1. A marvelously informative piece about publishing and writing "firsts" for bestselling author Aprilynne Pike, and
2. A revelation-inducing piece by Editorial Ass.

They blew me away. If you're anything like me—a frustrated, insecure, uncertain, ignorant, starry-eyed, dream-shot, success-besotted, unpublished novelist—you NEED to read these. AP and EA informed me that I have a disease I didn't even know about, nor even considered that I might: "I must get published" fever. It's the warped, all-consuming, feverish drive to forge ahead and publish your first novel as soon as possible, no matter what. It's the urge which causes you to pick the first agent who accepts you or contacts you, regardless of whether they're the right one for your book or market. The need which forces you to pick the first publisher who will print your work, just because, well, they're a publisher, and they'll print your work. The blindness which makes you go too fast, cut corners, skimp on important information, neglect research, make poor decisions, even start off with the wrong book.

Everything I just listed here could've easily happened to me. I was on my way down that road up until ten minutes ago, when I sat down to do a little industry and market research. I was stressed, annoyed, worried, anxious. Having finished the manuscript of my first novel, edited it through twice, and sent it off to my beta readers, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to start down the road to publication. In fact, I belittled myself for not having jumped on the process sooner, like back in November when I actually did finish the MS. I kept kicking myself for taking so long, for being so ignorant of the process. My head was filled with wild dreams of bestseller lists, and book clubs, and signings, and lecture circuits, and sales, and all those other things which are NOT the measure of the success of a book. But to my uninitiated little mind, they sufficed. More than that, my fevered brain dreamed of an unsuspecting American populace soon to be lavished with the gift of my writing, my premise, my message. I was hoping, praying that I had a novel worth the paper it would be printed on, that I would somehow navigate the nebulous world of the publishing industry, secure an agent, obtain a reputable publisher, and stock the shelves of every Barnes & Noble in the country.

And in the meantime, I was having a horrible time. Writing wasn't fun anymore. Revision was stalling, and even stopping. My intellectual and literary development had stagnated. My skills weren't being honed. The magic, as they say, had gone out of it. I didn't listen when, a few weeks ago (and again yesterday) my mother said to me, with a caring but dubious look on her face: "Are you sure this is the book you should be starting with? Are you certain you haven't bitten off more than you can chew? Maybe you ought to wait, and publish something else first." At the time, I thought she was nuts. Of course I wanted to publish this first, and as soon as possible. This was my life's work. I had a great story here, if I could but find the market. This novel would sweep the world. But more than that, this work was my passion. I loved this story. It had been born of the deepest, most desperate recess of my heart and mind. All my other ideas were as dust motes in the wind compared to it. It was a monolith of an idea set among a sea of lesser pebbles. There was no reason, I thought, why I shouldn't strain and strive night and day for its publication.

Man, was I stupid. And this morning, it became readily apparent to me. I began clicking through some web pages I'd dug up earlier, looking for free information on the world of publishing. And there was a bunch. (If you want to know why some authors fail, read this article.) After a mere 30 minutes, my brain felt as though it had been sandblasted. The proverbial little girl had walked up, tugged on my arm, and pointed out the error of my ways. An idea that had never occurred to me before (or even occurred that it might occur) had occurred to me.

Maybe I don't want to get this novel of mine published.
Yes, I know, I was shocked too. But there's some merit in the argument. First of all, consider what might happen if I push ahead with the publication process, snap up the first agent and publisher I can find, and get published that way. Perhaps my agent is less than ideal. Perhaps the publisher is too small (or too big). Perhaps the book never reaches the audience I hoped it would. Thousands upon thousands of things can go wrong if you just bulldoze through publication, doing a shoddy job without researching or shopping around. Now, suddenly, your work (in my case, it would've been the debut novel of my MAGNUM OPUS!) has gone from an unpublished manuscript with light-years of potential to a flash in the pan. An obscure failure. A piece of nothing. Scary thought, isn't it? Here's the straight dope, coming to you directly from Editorial Ass:

It's better not to be published at all than to get published in an inferior way. Doors begin to close if you try to take shortcuts. Instead, take your time to do things right. Accept no compromises. You will be much unhappier with a published book that has gone awry than with an unpublished book that still has potential. In short, your writing must not be contingent upon your getting published. Book publication is affected by many factors. A book may deserve to get published, but the market may be wrong. A book idea may be wonderful, but the execution may not be really up to snuff and need more work. The author may be a fantastic writer, but maybe this particular manuscript isn't the best book on its own, or maybe it's a good book but not a good debut. In all of these cases, if the author pushes, pushes, pushes for publication no matter what, they will damage both their future career as a writer and their relationship with their art. "I must get published" fever hurts a lot of people. It causes people to do things in desperation that will hurt or limit their long-term options. My recommendation to authors--and I know this sounds much easier than it actually is--is to try to develop zen about your books. You write because you love to write. You continue to work on your projects, whatever they may be, because you want them to continue to improve. Some projects, however good they are, never need to see the light of day, because they've been stepping-stones on your road to self-development. They are what will train you to write the book that really matters.

Some sort of explosion took place in my chest as I read this. A whirlwind of emotions came zipping in from Shangri-La, and I spent the next few minutes sorting through them. I had to physically set aside the computer, stretch out on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and think. Hard.

This is what I was feeling:

Mortification. Yes, of course: that was me realizing that I'd fallen into a trap that (a) I'd been totally unable to see and (b) thousands of others in my line of work had fallen into as well.

Surprise. Goes without saying. See mortification.

Revelation. I'm totally ignorant about the publishing process. I admit it. After today's events, I'm taking stronger steps to remedy that shortcoming. I mean, let's face it: Googling the best way to write a good query and checking in on Nathan Bransford once a month ain't gonna cut it. The dangers of the "I must get published" mindset were totally unknown to me before today. (Heck, the "I must get published" mindset itself was totally unknown to me before today.) Reading about it was quite the revelation. I now know what's been bothering me this whole time. (Have I mentioned the word "ennui" in my posts lately? Or "revision hell"? Or "soul-crushing"?) I also know how to take steps to prevent it in the future. I also know that I must now, as Mom tried to persuade me, take a good, hard look at my first novel and decide if it's really what I want to be debuting. Or if I should even try to publish it at all.

Relief. Why am I relieved to know I have a disease? That I committed a somewhat-worse-than-venial sin? I'll tell you: the uncertainty is gone. Patients are relieved to find out they have terrible diseases because at least they know what they have. Nothing's worse than not knowing. I'm free of the persistent sense of urgency, angst, insecurity and inadequacy now. But beyond that, I'm relieved because I can now relax. That deadline I put in place a few months ago, my goal to get this novel on the road to publication before the end of the year, has just gone up in smoke. I can take it easy. I don't have to push, push, push to get this thing back from my beta readers, back onto the drawing board, and then off to agents and publishers to be put back under the spotlight, under observation and scrutiny. I don't have to listen to my brain machine-gunning directives at me: You sit down and you edit that manuscript NOW, mister! It stinks! Get on that computer and start researching agents! Hop to it, we haven't got all year! Yank those writing/revision self-help books off your shelf and READ 'em, maggot! Who do you think you are, an expert?! What in God's name is taking you so long to query a publisher? Get yourself a copy of Writer's Market and get after it! Great elephants! Who says you've got time to go walk the dog or watch a movie? You've got a book to publish! And that's besides finding a bartender's job and studying for your pilot's exams, y'know!

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh....gone. They're all gone. Every single one of 'em. As I lay there on the couch, staring at the ceiling, I could feel the blissful quiet swell up inside. I knew that, in the near future, I'd have some decisions to make. I'd have some hard thinking to do, more soul-tearing and hair-pulling and browbeating...not to mention a world of research to perform on various subjects, like the publishing industry, agents, publishers, markets, niches, news, procedures, queries, formatting, revision, and a beehive more besides. But for the nonce, the deadlines are gone. The ship is riding at anchor. I have a job which is bringing in money. I have a trip to England planned in June (and multitudes more after that). I have drinks to serve, airplanes to fly, countries to visit, books to study, tests to pass, mountains to climb. I have enough to keep me occupied for a while, without starving or getting behind. For now, I need to remember the reason I started writing in the first place: because I love it. Because I've got an imagination the size of the Horsehead Nebula, which is always flinging cool ideas at me, like shooting stars. Because if I don't write, I'll explode. Because writing is an interesting challenge, and I want to meet it head-on, conquer it, and get good at it. I need to remember that the success of a book does NOT depend on how many copies it sold, whose book club it got into, which schools teach it in class, how many awards it won (or was nominated for), nor how many book signings it earned its author. Its success is measured in how many people picked it up, read it, and felt some part of it resonate with them, made them think, diverted their minds into new channels. Or maybe it just made them feel good. Ain't that what's important?

I need to remember I've got time to live and breathe. The Big Idea will still be there a few weeks or months or years from now. My copious notes are still in my desk or on my computer's hard drive. The manuscript is still sitting on the floor next to my bed, second edition, its pages pristine and ready for some red marks. More importantly, I'M still here, and I hope to stick around for a good long while. I've got time to write and time to publish. There's nothing that says this has to happen yesterday. Or today. Or tomorrow, either. Maybe I'll just sit on this thing, let it mature for a bit. Then I'll take another look and see if it's worth the paper it's printed on right now. Then I'll know whether I want to kick off my career as a novelist with it, or think of something else—something from the universe of ideas which have been swimming around in my mind this whole time, subordinated by that overweening monolith of an aspiring novel. Then we'll see.