When a songwriter praises your use of language in a novel, it’s hard not to glow like radium.
Hurry up, get in, let’s go. Two stops to make today.
Ladies first: Elizabeth Kaiser joins me in the post Food, Family, Fear. They’re connected, oh yes indeedy.
Then, my friend and editor and occasional drinking buddy Tom ‘BentGuy’ Bentley interviews me about my books, process, and tastes. And we talk waffles. And whiskey.
Cheryl is the hardest working author I’ve ever met. (And, in fact, we have met, when she drove from Maine to Wisconsin to meet the fam. I was touched and impressed. There was Strongbow Cider involved.)
Her books are good and getting better.
Her comments on my revealing psychological ramblings in the post just make it better.
I would have preferred 5 stars. Her review, though, is done right: some opinion, but mostly, details that will help any reader decide whether it’s right for them.
Read and comment, eh?
I’ve been a faithful user of AutoCrit ever since I first heard of it. In my opinion, the best automated editing and feedback tool an author can have.
Jocelyn from AutoCrit interviewed me about my long relationship with them and my writing process. Even if you’re not an author, there’s plenty there about Phil Brennan’s latest shenanigans.
Today, Lia London uses the phrase “flamboyantly unassuming” which I find buoyantly amusing. Give her interview with me a read, and chat in the comments, eh?
During our year-end sabbatical and post-mortem/planning episode, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to do all I can to separate my art from money matters. This past year related issues brought me closer to abandoning writing than anything ever has in the past.
I’m planning on writing like mad, but I’m planning on giving it all away. Take money, marketing, business out of the equation so I can create without feeling the obligation to give people “their money’s worth” which is a phrase I haven’t been able to get out of my head for years.
Artists who make a good living learn to separate these issues, the art and the business. Great thinkers I’ve followed like Mark McGuinness at Lateral Action, Hugh McLeod at Gaping Void, and Bob Dylan at everywhere, have all managed to do this at various levels. Maybe I’ll get there after while.
For now, anyone who signs up for my newsletter will get every novel I write, free, including those already published.
I registered my first domain name in February of 1999. (It was spinhead.com, the one I use for my web design company and my primary email.) I’d already been designing websites for 4 years prior, and working with computers since I first went to work with my Dad sometime in 1976 or so.
For the past 20 years I’ve spent more and more time online.
And less and less time in the real world.
I’m trading the deceptive ease of online relationships for the messy complications of infinitely more satisfying connections in real life.
More time out in nature.
More time playing music.
More time with Best Beloved and our Little One.
More time sharing meals with friends. And taking my cooking from good cook to creative chef.
More time writing and studying the craft of writing, novels and music.
More time out in it and less time in my head.
Some Things to Note
If you know me in real life, you know how to get in touch. Do so, or wait till you see me later in the week.
Otherwise contact Sue (Sue@Spinhead.com or 715.296.0347) and she’ll know what to do.
Here’s what this is not about:
- Nothing is wrong. Honest.
- This is not a reaction, it’s an action. A choice based on deep thinking, meditation, and conversation with those I trust most.
- It’s not about you. You didn’t offend or hurt me. Not now, probably not ever.
- I’ll still be writing. A lot.
- I don’t know when, or if, I’ll resume my previous online shenanigans, meaning posting everywhere, emailing like a dervish, living in social media. But don’t hold your breath.
P.S. from Sue – I fully support Joel in this decision. As his Chief Social Media Officer however, you’ll note that I’ll be managing his social media accounts on his behalf. So if you see his tweets or posts on his Facebook Author page, that’s me behind the scenes. 😉
The hand on my knee was firm. Then, it was crushing. Then, it started to slide the kneecap right off. Despite the pain, I didn’t cry out; in a bizarre comedic moment I wondered if the thing shoved against my ribs was called a ‘silencer’ for more than one reason.
Another survival tip for you, kiddies: no matter how funny you find yourself, don’t smile when the bad guys are interrogating you under physical duress. They don’t like it, and things go downhill fast.
Mr. Big (as in the leader) gestured vaguely toward the bathroom hallway Siobhan had gone down (where was she??) and Mr. ReallyBig the thug dragged me from the booth and shoved me ahead of him down the hallway toward a greasy door at the end.
I had a little more experience with being meekly led to the slaughter, and I wasn’t walking to my own funeral this time. Better to be shot in a room full of people than in a dirty alley (or maybe the alleys in Galway aren’t dirty; I didn’t remember) or down by the ocean where they’d never find you.
I say I had experience with the concept. I had none with the execution of it. I jerked away from Mr. ReallyBig and ran for the door. Which was locked. I think. I don’t know; it wouldn’t open.
The pain in the back of my head was amazing. At first I thought he’d shot me; then I realized he’d just slugged me with the gun. Not enough to knock me out; contrary to what you see in the movies, that takes more than a light tap. But enough to make me reconsider my flight and, instead, bend over with my head between my hands. I’m no tough guy, I’m an academic, remember?
The apartment was bigger than it looked in the photos online. Real estate must be cheaper in a small town than in the cities. I didn’t know. I’d never lived anywhere but one big city and apartments were even more expensive than renting a small house. It didn’t make any sense to me, but I guess if you’re willing to pay for the benefit of not having a lawn to mow, someone might as well take your money.
I also wasn’t used to having the super live offsite. Though she wasn’t the super, she was the apartment manager. Or owner. I should get that straight. She and her husband lived down the street in a nice little house by the lake.
“Right up the road if pipes burst or you lock yourself out,” Mrs. Wright had said. Mr. Wright was housebound so she had taken care of our business arrangements.
“Now, there’s lots of young men for neighbors, dear, but they’re polite and well-behaved or I wouldn’t have them. So you just make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wright. I’m not worried about them.”
One eyebrow twitched, and she smiled.
“No, I supposed you’re not. I’m off, then.”
Maybe her intuition works better than mine. Maybe I was advertising more than I realized.
No young man was getting anywhere near me until my heart grew back in the hole left by the young man I’d just left forever.
Never believed in situational ethics. While I sympathize with Jean Valjean, he was still a thief. There are plenty of grey areas in life. Honesty isn’t one of them. Honesty is binary: anything you do is honest, or it’s not.
People make mistakes, sure, but if someone steals, and then all they do about it afterward is feel badly, they’re a thief. It’s a fundamental character defect.
A half-penny candy becomes Enron. I’m not kidding and I’m not exaggerating. Bend the twig and get a crooked tree.
Someone who’ll steal is bent. Bent is bent. Thieves aren’t known for veracity.
Bent is bent.
So when I say “it’s been bothering me,” what I really mean is that you can directly attribute some of this blathering and confusion to the severely disrupted emotional condition I’ve been in since I discovered that someone I feel strongly about, and could feel more strongly about with only a hint of a nudge, didn’t share my rigid moral character.
If that doesn’t make sense to you I suggest you don’t waste any more time on this tale than you already have.
If it does, you’ll know what it costs me to admit I stole something once, and why I’ve locked the memory away.
Alexander Hamilton is only half as much
as Andrew Jackson in your twisted mind
George Washington is peanuts and Lincoln’s not much more
but Grover Cleveland would be quite a find
too bad Woodrow Wilson don’t circulate no more
got your hands on him he’d never leave
but gimme just one Roosevelt to call a cab
and I’ll be gone for good you’d best believe
December 8th, 2016, if I’ve done this right, my 300th post will go live here at my fiction site.
That would be today. And this would be the post.
I wrote my first blog post in 2002, fourteen years ago. I’ve written a few thousand posts at various blogs. I’ve written 9 nonfiction books, 6 fiction books, and more than 100 songs.
Writers sometimes forget to stop and celebrate just getting stuff done.
Four years of posting, mostly about my writing, while also maintaining my indie publishing website.
I feel pretty good about my writing these days.
I hope y’all feel the same.
The next Phil Brennan book, A Still, Small Voice, will be published digitally by year end. (The print version won’t be ready until January.)
Here’s a few ways you can be involved, and get cool stuff:
- Sign up for the newsletter before the next edition (it goes out Thursday, December 15th) and you can request a free advance review digital copy when it’s ready. This free offer is only for folks already on the newsletter list before it goes out.
- Preorder the print version, and get the digital version free.
- Share my newsletter link with anyone you know who likes my kind of writing. Copy this link, and paste it in an email, on Facebook, Twitter, wherever:
The preorder page will be ready before the newsletter goes out, but you can preorder any time at all by simply sending $12 to PayPal@Spinhead.com (or for international orders, $25) and tell me it’s for the new Phil Brennan book, A Still, Small Voice.
Since he was here to catch a blackmailer, ignoring the noise and commotion onscreen was part of the task, and he was glad of it.
Also glad that he knew exactly who he was looking for. Easy to catch a criminal in the act when you know who they are. Follow them around a bit, do some discreet digging, and hey presto! Usable information leading to eyewitnessing their perfidy.
The light from the preposterous dance number bounced off a shiny silk suit. No, it wasn’t the suit.
It was a knife blade. And that was flashing toward the suit.
The suit worn by the blackmailer he was going to catch in the act.
Instead, he’d caught his murder, live and in person.
Knob turned, I listened for any sounds.
In the absolute still of the church Niall’s breathing behind me was louder than anything behind the door.
I pushed it open and stepped into the dark.
Accidental stumblings indeed.
As the lights blinded me, I don’t know who was more startled when we collided, me, or Conor Dubin.
I whipped around as the church door slammed. My glimpse of the spot where Niall had been standing was now a glimpse of a heavy wooden door.
Then, it was the inside of the storeroom door, and I was on the wrong side of it with some people I desperately wanted not to see.
If I can get Keilan B up here for a couple hours, I’ll record a demo for this, because he’s the only one I know around here who could do the guitar solo the way I want it.
Bald Man Can Dance
(12-bar blues, plenty of distortion and reverb)
I’ve heard it said bald is sexy
But I’m telling you there’s just no chance
You may have heard tell bald is sexy
. . . . . . . . . . . no chance
My baby left me for a bald man
She wasn’t looking at his head, ’cause that bald man can dance
Baby said she’s going out for a drink
. . . . . . . . . . . of milk
Now why she gon’ take two forms of picture ID
If all she’s doin’ is goin’ out for a glass of milk? (which we have plenty of in the fridge, know what I’m sayin’ ?)
I think she’s goin’ to see that bald man
(amazing guitar solo during which you are not sure whether I am Elmore James or Elmore Leonard)
Whoulda thunk it’d be a bald man
Who’d mess up our romance?
I never would have thought a bald man
Would be the death of our romance
My baby wasn’t lookin’ at his hairline
That follicly challenged man
That wax-buying gentleman
That comb-eschewing character
I’m tellin’ you
Oh, Lord, I said that bald man can dance
Last February Adam Young started posting what he calls a “score” at his website. His other website. His primary website, in case you don’t recognize his name, is where Owl City lives because Adam Young is Owl City, every 12-year-old girl’s favorite group. Okay, at least my 12-year-old girl’s favorite group. And her father is a songwriter, right? Whatever.
Each month on the 1st, Young uploads a new score inspired by some historical event: the sinking of the Titanic, moments in the Civil War, and this month, Ernest Shackleton’s “failed” voyage to Antarctica. (Not failed. Not according to history, folks. Hero stuff there.) The scores each have about a dozen tunes lasting a total of 30 or 40 minutes. Sign up for his list, and all the scores are free to stream online or to download. Yeah, hours and hours of free music. Good music.
Did I mention it was good music? Some works are reminiscent of Owl City’s retrodisco, but all of it stays close to the theme he’s chosen for each collection.
Oh, the title of this post? They’re instrumentals. For a guy who is one of the snappier lyricists in juvenile pop music, he shows remarkable restraint and maturity by creating these epic and enjoyable wordless wonders.
To promote my newest book, A Still, Small Voice, which will be out in December, I’m going on a blog tour in January.
If you, dear reader, would like to host a stop on the tour, I’ll give one of your readers a copy of the book just for commenting. (Oh, and you’ll get one for hosting.) You don’t need a large audience. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to share.
If you know of another blogging author who might be interested in hosting a stop on the tour in exchange for the bribe of 2 copies of the book (one for them, one for a commenter) please point them this way.
Eager to share this one with you. It is my best book so far.
It was too easy.
The intense moment of exhilaration passed, leading to saner thoughts. Reason, not emotion.
Perhaps I had only delayed their meeting, not prevented it altogether. Return to 2019 and see what family history said? Certainly, but if you’re already at the store you don’t go home to see if there’s something else on your shopping list.
He had seen me. She had not.
Rushing through the crowd as rudely as I’d pretended to be to my grandfather, I saw her. May as well follow her to be sure.
Up East Lane toward Main she moved in and out of sight, the crowds from the train station being thicker here. The crowds dispersed at Main Street, walking east or west or climbing into carriages or sparkling automobiles. Once we crossed Main Street she and I were virtually alone. She turned left on Oak Lane, as I’d assumed she would.
Before we got to the grand Victorian at the corner of Oak and Third, she stopped, whirled, and came back my direction. Since she had no reason to know who I was, I simply continued walking, and made as if to pass her, tipping my grubby cap as she approached.
“Why are you following me?” Her voice was loud in the empty street.
I tried to step past, tried to remain calm. This was not what I’d expected.
“Why should I follow you, madame? I’m simply enjoying the sunshine and fresh air, and we happened to be going the same direction. I apologize if I startled you.”
I took another step. She blocked my way.
“You were at the station. I saw you accost that man. Now you’re following me. I ask again, why?”
Time for action, not words. I tried to step around her but she grabbed my arm. I put my hand on her wrist, trying to gently pull it from my own, but her grip was stronger than I’d expected.
“Take your hands off her, you thug.”
Surprised, I let go and turned to face the speaker, whose voice I recognized, of course. My grandmother covered her mouth with her free hand. A tiny squeal escaped past her fingers.
My grandfather, for the second time that day, punched me square in the face. This time it was hard enough to knock me down, bloodying my face. By the time I got up and cleared my vision, they were gone.
So that’s how you want to play it, eh, Time? I accept the challenge.
I set out to prevent my grandparents’ marriage, even if it killed me.