Beem Weeks's Blog - Posts Tagged "beem-weeks"

I've added a couple of short stories to my writing page. One is entitled Yearbook. It's a piece written about a year ago. It is not inspired by recent events in the news. Inspiration comes from a song by the band Hanson--though I changed the intent. The song in question, also called Yearbook, details the story of a boy who goes missing.

My take is a person can disappear without vanishing. They can be right there in the same room and still be gone, changed into someone or something we don't recognize.

The second story, called Bad Acid At Woodstock, is a silly little piece of nonsense I wrote long ago. Just a bit of fun. Enjoy.

The only thing good about winter is staying indoors. This gives me more time to read and write. But lately it's been more reading than actual writing.

I'm a slow writer to begin with. It's a deliberate act. Creativity should never be rushed. I am a firm believer in rewrites, rewrites, and more rewrites. Of course there are occasions when the first draft of a story nails it. But even then I comb through the piece just to be sure (and usually find things to change.)

I aim for perfection but have never even come close to achieving it. If I'm not interested in something I've written, I can't expect anybody else to give a damn about it either.

I've got several start-and-stop pieces that will never see publication. They sounded interesting when I conjured up the idea. But once on paper, well, they suck. And that's okay. Writers never bat a thousand--especially this writer. But I aim for it each time out--though never at the risk of becoming bogged down in one story. That's what makes creating something new so exciting--trial and error. The thing to remember is: Just keep writing.

I read a tweet the other day from an author posting a comment he'd received regarding one of his novels. The comment went something like this: "Great story, but way too much sex." In all honesty, I've not read the book in question. But the issue of sex in literature has long been a thorn to some, a crime to others, and a selling point to many.

D.H. Lawrence faced all sorts of legal issues concerning his novel Lady Chatterley's Lover upon it's original release back in 1928. That book--and much of his other works--was banned in England and the United States for decades. The Free World at its finest. I understand some people prefer "clean" stories. There are many classics that carry a solid G rating that have been favorites for hundreds of years.

Today, with the advent of self-publishing, writers of erotica have found an audience--some with great success. I don't write erotica, nor do I read it. But that doesn't mean there isn't a place for it. There is sex in my novel. Sexuality is a human trait--indeed a trait of most living creatures. There is the romantic element, which gives rise to the romance novel. For those who want their sex without love, there's lust. Lust is a strong emotion that everybody experiences at some point in life--though some would deny they've ever been guilty of that sort of sin.

Then we come to sex for curiosity's sake. A girl kisses another girl just to see what it's like. A guy cheats on his wife of twenty years just to satisfy an urge to know what it would feel like to be with somebody else. Sex and sexuality is part of being human. It's part of being alive. It's real life. It's what gives breath to the fictional characters authors create. To deny it is to deny our humanity.

Now that doesn't mean you have to read about it in some novel that makes you uncomfortable. That's why we still love the classics.

So if you're not into sex in your story, pick up a copy of Little Women, Moby Dick, or A Farewell to Arms. A great book is always a great book.

Is it such a terrible thing to self-publish that novel you've spent hundreds of hours perfecting? Some authors think so. There are those who believe self-publishing is selling out the dream for baubles and beads. Others claim it's a shortcut that's not been earned. I beg to differ.

I chose the self-publishing route because of a desire to get my work to readers in a quick and timely fashion. And it worked! Jazz Baby, my first novel, is available all over the world in print as well as in ebook formats. The downside of this form of publishing is the lack of a big-budget advertising campaign. That's where social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads come in handy.

But not all self-publishers are equal. The cheaper you go, the lower the quality you can expect. I'm reading an excellent self-published novel that suffers from poor punctuation. Without a solid editor to comb through your manuscript, you can expect errors to reach your readers. Some readers might not care--or even notice. Others will, and they'll fault the writer. This will cost that author in the long run.

Sure, even the big publishing houses let slip an error here and there. But online publishers who don't offer professional editing really do the industry a serious disservice. These are the ones who take your money and publish your work, warts and all.

Don't shy away from this wonderful medium. If you're tired of rejection letters, try the indie route. It's a growing industry with a bright future. Just take your time when shopping. Beware of hidden fees, make sure they offer professional editing, and be ready to work your tail off to sell your product to the world. Because writing it is no longer the difficult part of the deal. Letting the world know you wrote it is.

Jazz Baby http://www.tinyurl.com/bbj4my7

Slivers of Life http://www.amazon.com/Slivers-Life-Co...

I love reading and writing. It's amazing how stringing words together, turning them into sentences, can lure us into worlds that don't really exist. It can take us away from a mundane life, transporting the reader to places created in minds long dead. But the work remains.

That's what makes authors immortal--the stories they write. But enough of my rambling. I've posted two more short stories on my "writings" page. They aren't necessarily new--I've posted them on my home website--but they are new to this site. Also, just a heads-up on a great free short story contest open now at http://www.freshinkgroup.com/280-new-.... It's open to anybody who cares to enter. There are many genres to choose from. The deadline is Aug. 1, 2013. Good luck to those who enter.

I always imagined writing a novel would be the most difficult step to becoming an author--published or not. That isn't the case, though. Selling the finished product to a reading public is proving to be even harder than the arduous task of creating it.

Getting published is simple in this era of online publishers. But making a book-buying public aware of your work is such an odyssey--a thankless one at that. It's out there, among the millions of other novels clamoring for attention. Having a PR person chasing down reviews and interviews would be a wonderful blessing--which a starving artist can scarcely afford.

The dream of being a full-time writer has all but collapsed. I've seen those slick ads for this method of sales or that shiny new idea, each touting promised customers--in theory. But in reality, these are designed to separate the author from his/her hard-earned money--with little or no return on the investment.

Frustrating as it is at times, I'm still a published author. If it doesn't pan out, well, at least I can pull out my book and say, "I made it this far." I want more, though. I want an audience who reads my work and lets me know that they enjoy it or they despise it. It's here, this story called Jazz Baby. It's available worldwide at tinyurl.com/bbj4my7 among other sites.

But if my voice isn't getting heard, well, I'm just talking to myself. I'm extremely grateful for places like Goodreads, Koobug.com, and Twitter. These have helped me move a few more copies than I would have otherwise.

I know I'm ranting. But sometimes we all need to do that. Now, I'll reset myself and try again in this new year. Here's to writing! Cheers!

I just spent the past few hours Googling long-gone drive-in theaters from my area. It's amazing what we are able to do with today's technology. With only a handful of keystrokes, I was able to pull up pictures of lost relics I visited during those wonderful summer nights of the 1970s and 1980s.

Mingled with those ancient photographs were stories from others who recalled similar glory days spent seated in cars, watching films we now deem classics--or corny. "Let's all go to the lobby and have ourselves a snack."

Early on it was family time at those shows. But then the teenage years with those brand new hormones lured us to the drive-in, apart from prying parents, putting us in the mindset for some kissing, maybe, hoping to get past second base with that someone special.

It became an event, an American tradition played out all summer long across this great nation. And it didn't matter the era, either--50s, 60s, 70s, or 80s. It played out the same.

The movies had little to do with the adventure. There are few films I can recall once I reached those teen years. Maybe there'd be a carload of buddies going there, a case of beer in the trunk, ideas of meeting girls in our heads. And most of the time there were girls with those same crazy notions of meeting guys. They call it hooking up today. We just called it fun.

The older we get, the more we reach back for a quick touch from the past. "What were those girls names we met that time in 1984? You know, the night we went to see Red Dawn?" Old friends remind me, "Pam, Vanessa, and Cheryl." True story--though I won't go into details.

Like youth, those old spots vanish with time, victim to the wrecking crew, replaced by the modern. There was a drive-in just outside of Lansing, Michigan, called the Crest. Family entertainment--until 1973. That's when it became an adult movie theater. Funny thing is, it was torn down and replaced by a Catholic church. How's that for messing with somebody's memories? Of course, I never went there after it ceased being family oriented. Truth. But all those other drive-in theaters that once dotted the landscape maintain a hold on my fondest memories--even if they are gone.

I miss those days. I'm sure many others miss those days as well. Kids today will never know the great fun of a drive-in movie beneath the stars on a warm summer night. And maybe that's not such a bad thing, either. It's something that belongs only to those of us who lived it.

The other day I attempted to watch a popular comedian on a DVD I recently purchased. I was at my mother's house when I decided to view the comedy concert. Two minutes into the show, Mom hit the stop button. "Too much," she said. Too much humor? Too much laughing? Nope! Too much cursing--especially that F word.

I can understand Mom's complaint--to an extent. Mom won't watch movies filled with that particular offending word. Some great films have gone unwatched because of that word. Raging Bull is a classic film, but all Mom recalls of that movie is the over-use of that F word.

It is possible to make great films, write wonderful novels, or tell funny jokes without that word. There's a whole history of fantastic movies, books, and comedic shows to prove that statement. But what if the writer is trying to bring that element of reality into his/her story?

A novel about a gangbanger dealing drugs on some inner-city street corner won't have him calling his enemy--the one intent on killing him--a stupid dummy. When arguing over the proper way to dispose of a body freshly whacked by a pair of mobsters, it's not likely they'll toss a bunch of gee-whiz's and golly-wow's into the mix.

For all it's harshness, obscene language is still just that: language. It's how we talk--whether in English or any other dialect. Give a listen to some of those great old James Cagney gangster movies. He's tough, a hot-head, and violent. And while he never utters a curse word--Hollywood code prohibited vulgarity--the performances are intense.

But are they real? Are they genuine?

Does a movie like White Heat stand up against modern classics like Goodfellas or Pulp Fiction? That's for film critics to debate--though I do have my own opinions.

Gratuitous cursing detracts from any story--as does gratuitous sex and violence. But these things do have their place in a story meant to reflect the reality of an era, a place, or a culture. I won't be able to convince Mom of this--I've tried. But that's okay. Each individual is responsible for self. It's your story, tell it how you imagine it.

(Was: first and third person singular past of BE.) So says the Oxford American College Dictionary. I just call it lazy writing.

The use of the word "was" is the easy way out from having to actually prime the creative pump and come up with vivid descriptions that treat your readers to verbal delicacies of the story type. It's so disappointing to pick up a highly touted novel only to stumble over five, ten, or twenty uses of that dreadful word "was" within the first three paragraphs.

"Was" is a cheap way to get a description across. For example: "She was short and mean." YAWN! What dreck. Spruce it up a bit, toss some color into the mix. Write it something like this: "Short and squat, this girl; like a gumdrop with limbs--only not as sweet." Description is such a vital key to telling a great story.

Yeah, there are places where "was" is the word that fits. But such places ought to be limited in usage. Never settle just because it fits. Challenge yourself as a writer and you'll likely draw fans to your work. Fans buy books.

And sure, there are a handful of uses of that lazy word in my novel Jazz Baby. But you could probably count them on both hands. Slay those "WAS" monsters and watch your work take on flavors you never tasted before.

There are a million of them, those smells, tastes, sounds, or songs that have a way of transporting us back to a time long ago. The smell of fresh-cut grass leads me back to the early 1970s, to a time when I'd watch my dad mow the lawn and dream of a time when I'd be trusted enough to do the chore myself. Of course when that time came, I no longer had that desire to do such a job on a weekly basis. But that smell still takes me back.

Tasting fresh strawberries drops me into summertime 1983 and 1984. Dad's third wife made a mean strawberry shortcake.

During my nightly workouts with my weight-set I play CDs (Yup! I'm still kicking it old-school). Music has that amazing quality of time and era built right in. A song can come on the radio and take us straight back to the first time we heard it, the summer or winter it was released, or stir up memories of that special someone we once were convinced was the ONE.

We lived on Pine Street until I turned three years old, moved out during spring of 1970. And still I have a headful of memories from that house. Many of those reminiscences are tied to songs. Particular songs. Johnny and June Carter-Cash songs, to be specific. My dad loved that outlaw country sound--Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson.

Bob Seger was perhaps his favorite, though. Old Time Rock and Roll. To this day, Seger music has a way of pulling me into summers of the 1970s, when Live Bullet first came out, and Dad played the heck out of it all the time.

My dad passed away just last May. I miss him so much. But in that music I find him again, remembering moments I believed would last forever.

I lost my little brother two years ago. Today he became a grandfather and he's not here to meet his grandson. But there are songs he and I used to jam out to. Any Led Zeppelin album brings my brother back to me. Queensryche, Pink Floyd, Metallica; it all has meaning and memory attachment.

The other day I bought a few new CDs. Eighties metal. Cinderella--the hair band, not the fairy tale--is the one that inspired me to write this particular blog entry. Their first album came out in 1986. That is still my favorite year in my life. Freshly graduated from high school, money in my pocket, girlfriend by my side; it couldn't get any better. Carefree and young, we spent our free time at the local heavy metal club (The Silver Dollar Saloon) or seeing the biggest bands of the era in concert. Concerts were social events nobody wanted to miss out on. I went to dozens of shows, still have all but one of those ticket stubs to prove it.

So anyway, Cinderella. They were the big deal for that summer of 86. I delivered pizzas while playing the heck out of that first Cinderella album.

But somewhere over the years I lost that original cassette tape. Probably hadn't heard it in well over twenty years--until I found a copy on CD the other day. I popped it in the player and immediately my mind drew up recollections of friends I hadn't thought about in quite some time.

Some of those friends are no longer among the living.

We all got married, started having children, and began living our lives in different worlds. We lost touch somewhere along the way. And just how does that sort of thing happen? Usually with a "I'll talk to you later" or "Give me a call Friday" and that call is never made. A week turns into a month, a month becomes a year. We're too busy being married, being parents, living this new adult life where concerts and clubs no longer factor in. We forget the past and focus on the here and now--until a long lost CD is rediscovered.

Often, when I talk with my sister or older brother, the phrase "Hey, remember that time..." enters the conversation. My sister is good for "I forgot all about that." It's never really forgotten, though. It's still there inside the mind, just waiting for that someone, that something, that certain smell, or a special song to pull it into the forefront of the mind. Then it's fondly remembered, examined, and talked about, before being filed away again for another few years.

Thank God for memories.