Darling Terry had a sense of humor.

He had to.  A bronc-busting cowboy named Darling,after all, meant he was a magnet for on-color (and, more often than not, off-color) jibes.  Of course, if his name wasn’t enough, at 4′ 8″ tall, heavily freckled, and with red hair as vibrant as Ronald McDonald’s, he was a veritable comic book.

He took it all with a shrug and a wink, though.

He rode broncos.  Nearly every bone in his body had been fractured or outright broken.  Nearly every joint had been sprained.  He lived with more pain than anyone had the right to, and he had long ago figured that humor, even being the center of it, was just the kind of distraction necessary to function through the pain.

He settled into the worn, torn cushion of the booth.  The diner was their favorite hangout when they passed through Midwin, Oklahoma.  It was so small, it wasn’t on any map that they had found.  A rough diner, a gas station, and a house for the family that owned both–it was small, and forgettable, if it weren’t now so familiar.

Tilting his head back, he drained what was left of his Corona in a single, big, swig.  “Ahh,” he sighed, winking across the table at Bellbottom.  “Now that, my friend, is exactly what this ol’ boy needed.”

Bellbottom grinned, displaying the large whole in his smile, where his front top and bottom teeth used to be, but were no longer thanks to one too many tequila shots, a flirtatious  80’s hair woman in a t-shirt that said ‘For Rent’, and a jealous husband.  The overprotective man had been a monster, one of those body-building types with little testicles, huge boobs, and even bigger fists. 

The tequila, unfortunately, kept Bellbottom in the tangle for one swing more than his teeth could take.

Darling shook his head with a snicker.  “Bellbottom, I need to thank you.”

“For what?” Bellbottom said, slurring a bit.  Five Budweiser’s in an hour and a half would do that to Bellbottom.

Darling couldn’t help it.  He laughed until his eyes watered.  “Because, without those teeth, and with those big purple eyes of yours–I can’t help but look at you and forget about all the pain in my back . . . and leg . . . and ankle . . . and wrist.”

Bellbottom laughed, too.  The man had been kicked by his daddy’s horse when he was young, and while he was, in truth, as smart as a whip, he always wore an outwardly daft expression.  In all their years on the circuit together, Darling had never figured out if it was an act, or if the man simply couldn’t help but look simple. 

“Well, I’m glad I can, could, be of service,” Bellbottom said in between bouts of drunken laughter.  “If you hadn’t fed me all that tequila, I wouldn’t be able to take your mind from the pain.  You now.  Now that I think about it.  I think you might have ulterior motives when we go to drinking.”

Darling squinted.  “You’ve got me all figured out, my friend.  You’re a genius.”

Their laughter subsided, and the proprietor’s spinster daughter approached the table.  Margaret.  Darling tipped his hat to her.

“Well, my dear Margaret, how are you this fine evening?”

The woman was a melancholy spirit.  She wore her ghosts like a mourning dress.  “Darling,” she said simply.  And then, with a look to Bellbottom, “Bill.”

“Now, now, Margaret,” Bellbottom said with an air of mock distress.  “Only my ex-wife, my ex-kids, my dead parents, my former principal, the IRS, and my–my–” he gave a bleary eyed inquisitive look to Darling before he continued, “and my colonoscopist, call me Bill.  Everyone else,” he exaggerated a peer at Margaret, “including you, should call me Bellbottom.”

Margaret shook her head, her mind somewhere else.  “Can I get you both another round?”

Darling stared at the woman.  He felt his good-humor being ground down.  She was kind enough, but her sadness was palpable.  Within proximity to her, he couldn’t help but wonder about her story.  “You bet,” he finally said.  “And why don’t you get one for yourself and join us?”

“I can’t,” she said matter-of-fact.  “I’m working.”

Darling looked around the rest of the diner.  But for them, it was empty–like usual.  He glanced up at the Cadillac clock on the wall.  “I don’t see anyone else in here taking your time, and seein’ it’s nearly eleven, I don’t see the harm.”

Margaret looked around furtively.  “I appreciate the offer, Darling, but if my dad saw me fraternizing with a customer, he’d fire me.”

“Good,” Bellbottom said loudly.  “Then you could get the hell out of Midwin, and do your own thing.”

Margaret forced a smile.

Darling saw an opening and pressed.  “You know, sister, Bellbottom might be on to something.  Now, I don’t want to get you into any kinda trouble, of course, but you’d be much better company than this daft drunk across the table from me.”

Margaret tugged at the starched, pressed, apron about her hips.  “I’ll join you for a minute, but I don’t drink.”

That brought a definite frown from Bellbottom.

“I’ll be right back with your beers,” she said, turning away to disappear into the kitchen behind polished steel double doors.

Long Time No Update

Being unemployed is for the birds.  It’s a full time job trying to find a job.   And as such, my writing has come to a cold, bone-breaking halt.  My time on the blog has suffered the same fate.

But I’m course correcting.  Writing is beginning again.  That damn novel is not going to finish itself, especially if it finishes me.

I’m on it.

I’m making it happen.

I’m giving myself a pep-talk, in cyber-ether, to nameless people across the country, enjoying a respite of voyeurism.

Man. I’m pathetic.

Collaborative Photo Experiment

I was driving to work the other day, saw the sunrise and pulled over.  On the side of the road I admired it for a couple minutes.  Gorgeous.  There it was, just cresting the horizon, setting the sky on fire.   And it donned on me–in New York, if somebody else had pulled over to look at the sun the same moment as I, this same ball of fire would be full in the sky. 

I seemed so small, and it so big.  If it had eyes, that same sun, just getting a glimpse of me, would have been admiring how many others for how long. 

This got me to thinking: how cool would it be to have a picture diary–if you will–of the same sun, taken from the same direction, preferably at as close to the same lateral, at the same moment in time, from locations across the country?  It would effectively allow the viewer of the diary to see what the sun sees in a given moment.

I wonder how hard it would be to gather 20, 30, 50, or more people to make something like this happen?  All photographers, I think, should be asked to include some diary entry–something going on in their life, their town, their family.

It would be a project that tells many micro-stories that, tied to the over-arching theme of big and small, would have an opportunity to convey a macro-story.  Besides, if the pictures were good enough, and the diary entries interesting, and quirky, and heartfelt, and humorous . . . could be a good coffee-table book maybe worthy of publishing.

What would be the best way to put a grass-roots ameteur collaboration like this together?

If we could gather enough interested parties, we could then map out picture locations, set a date and time, and put something together.  We’d need to establish some ground rules, as to really make something out of this the we’d need to collect good, quality photos–preferably time stamped for proof that it was the same moment in time. 

If we did this, we could make a double feature out of it and do the same thing for sunsets as well.

I don’t know.  Maybe I’m a dork, but I think it would be kind of a cool collaboration, accomplished with a bunch of strangers from all over the country that would otherwise have no opportunity to meet, or to know/acknowledge ever existed.

How would we go about organizing something like this?

Literary Agents

Folks.  I would love some leads on Literary Agents who handle Fantasy/SF.

I’m 450 manuscript pages into my novel, and frankly, I’m frustrated beyond belief . . .

On the one hand, I could submit unsolicited . . . 3 chapters (been there, done that) and an outline.  But it seems chances of setting the hook are low.

On the other hand, I can submit to literary agent . . . complete manuscript.  Holy cow, I just want to get things moving.  I’m continuing to write.  And write.  And write.

I desire some direction.  What is the best way to go?  What nets the greatest chances of success? 

I have a story.  I’m telling it in secret, but I think there are many folks out there that would also like to become part of it.

Anyone with any leads, contacts, friends, family members related to, possessing acquaintances to, Literary Agents dealing with Fantasy/SF, I’d love to connect.

Joe

Something New Coming

Once I figure out how to make and USE pages, I plan on starting another dialogue surrounding my writing, in the form of quips, snippets, and fictions that can be started and finished in a couple minutes.

I am working on my first novel (10 years plus in the making) and I hope to have it finished in 2009.  I will try to wet appetites until then.