The Jolly Old Party Snack

I think I know what it is to be a professional writer.  I have a large project I’m working on – the script, a short story that I just have to write inspired by the most remarkable wedding I attended over the weekend, and a blog post which, being Monday, must be a work of original fiction.

I don’t want to write the work of original fiction for the bog.  I want to write the short story, even as the script tugs at me as says, “Get me done.  You’re going to love the end.”  The discipline that lets me finish any of my writing insists that the blog must come first.

I know, I’ll just copy an entry from Washington Orville Hampton’s diary.

May 12, 1983 – Budapest.

This is truly a remarkable age we are living in.  I’m staying at the Prague and Pony, unspeakable thousands of miles from home, yet this afternoon upon waking – it was a very late night of  draw – so hungry I couldn’t stand it but between shifts in the hotel kitchen, I found a sort of delicatessen across the street and was able to get not just a pastrami on strange brown bread but also a cup of Pringles.

I remarked to the man behind me how much I loved the processed potato snack and he smiled before buying my lunch.  I thanked him and he suggested we take one of the sidewalk tables and enjoy the early afternoon together.  It was the least I could do for a fellow traveler and he spoke the Queen’s English with such charm that I could think of no more entertaining way to pass the time.

He also had a cup of the Pringles and devoured them with the sort of passion generally reserved for confections coated in chocolate.  The conversation worked its way around, as conversations do and in a moment’s pause I took up the cup and commented on the snack food being labeled a Crisp rather than a Chip.

For his part he shook his head and wondered, obviously not for the first time, why we insisted on calling crisps chips on the other side of the pond.  In good natured fun I assured him that it was because they were chips, not crisps.  We’d invented them first.

“But not the Pringles,” he said.  I thought on that.  On the bottom of the package it said they’d been made in Jacksonville, Florida.  “Is there a Jacksonville in Spain’s Florida?” I inquired.  “No,” he assured me.  “They are made in your Jacksonville.  It was the only place I could find the right ingredients.”

Now, I must admit that my curiosity was aroused. He’d only introduced himself as Christopher.  I looked at him again, could it be?  He beamed back at me and, with a flourish, said, “Lord Christopher Pringle the Second, at your service.”

That made more sense.  He was the heir, not old Chris Pringle himself.

Blazing Footstools

I missed the #5 minute fiction this week.  I was just about done, writing the last line and judging whether or not there was enough time for a quick read through when ZZZap.  Out went the power.  I was not using a laptop.

I also did not have a flashlight handy.  Or my cell phone.  It was cave dark.

By the time the power came back it was much too late to attempt recovery.  Fortunately the house didn’t blow away.  And the power did come back.  I consoled myself by watching Chuck.

October 8, 1871 – Chicago, IL

It has been a wonderful stay in the windy city.  The last four days have been quite full.  Who would have thought there would be so much going on this far west?  I’m expecting the O’Leary’s back on the eight o’clock train in the morning and will then be on my way to Manitoba to inspect a ranching operation for Mr. Cogsworth.

That leaves just tonight for one last bit of frolicking in the big city.  I plan to start with “The Five Tubs” and then have dinner at the Windsor Ascot, their steak is amazing.  That reminds me, I think I left the lantern in the barn when I finished milking Bessie.  I’d better get that before

Greetings and salutations from rural America.  That’s right, I’m on a road trip.  Not just any road trip, either.  This is the full blown, 1k in a day, dawn to dusk, variety.  To paraphrase Danny Glover, “I’m getting too old for this.”

You may be wondering why I would undertake such an incredible journey on a day off before a major 3 day weekend.  I’m going to take a page from J. J. Abrahams’ book and stuff that bit in the mystery box.  But no worries, you won’t have to wait three or four seasons to find out (or in the case of that one show, never find out because it was canceled).  I’ll tell you tomorrow when I’m back and fresh memories of our highway system.

Today I’ll make up for missing yesterday with an excerpt from Washington’s journal.

3/18/1983,  Dearborn, MI

I met up with the man who invented soda pop this afternoon, Winward Iacocacola.  We had stopped at the same roadside diner and struck up an immediate friendship.  He told me that one of the most difficult things for his company was transitioning from the expensive and unreliable glass bottle to the economical and practical can.  To solve the problem he partnered with a Japanese firm (Mitsubishi) to help with the manufacturing.  In exchange for access to his secret formula, the conglomerate would receive a small percentage and, in 100 years, get to name one of the Iacocacola products.  (Current plans are to call it Coke-Zero after the most successful products of both companies.)

While we were talking, the counter girl interjected that she liked the old glass bottles and had a terrible time with the cans. Winward asked her about it and she related story after story of cans being shaken and then exploding when she popped the tab.  He said that the trick was to shake a shaken can even more until it was very firm in her grip, then squeeze as hard as she could while popping the top.  Stops the explosion every time.

I will have to try that and let my new friend know how it worked.

Dirty, rotten dingoes.

I made the 5 minute fiction finals last night.  It was a pretty thin field, you should really set up a reminder on your phone and give it a whirl.  The prompt was, “Your story must include a thunderbird.”  I chose instead to include a Thunderbird.  Specifically, Marc Cohn’s “Silver Thunderbird.”  Which got me humming “Walking in Memphis” all night.  Which led to me hunting through the cd collection this morning while I ate my bagel looking for my Marc Cohn cd.  Which led to me listening to it on the way to the train station this morning.

I will need to get my hearing aids adjusted.  Not only do they not like Adele, they don’t like Marc Cohn either.  For some reason the music puts them into their anti-feedback loop mode.  It’s an interesting warble effect but one I prefer to skip.  Speaking of which, yesterday afternoon on the train I was going through Washington Orville Hampton’s journal and found this.

August 17, 1980, Northern Territory, Australia.

Another long day on the trail to Alice Springs.  It’s very hot here and the fauna are brazen.  I fired a shot at a pack of dingoes that wouldn’t move from the waterhole.  Despite the desolation – blessedly smog free – I have encountered many other travelers including a young family.  They were very pleasant and we enjoyed a lunch of canned provisions and jerky near Ayers Rock.

The afternoon ride was grueling and must confess to falling asleep before camp was properly set up.  I awoke as night consumed the outback and hurriedly set about finishing up.  I paused in my labors with the distinct feeling of being watched.  I slowly turned to see a dingo staring at me, her eyes reflecting the dancing fire and a bundle hanging from her mouth.

I looked again.  It was a baby.  Or a wallaby.  She turned from my camp and ran into the wilds.  It really looked like a baby.  Most likely wasn’t.  Most likely if I told anyone they’d accuse me of drinking too much and having a dash of sunstroke.  They’d probably be right.

Dingoes don’t take babies.

A dingo ate my baby and all I got was this dumb t-shirt.

"Not just famous, IN-famous."

Caught a bit of an exciting little league game last night.  #4 was playing and gave quite an accounting for himself.  I took one of our dogs – the one that #4 determined, during his science project this year, was our “Third smartest dog.”  Talk about the glass being half full.

Speaking of glasses, I came across this post in Washington Orville Hampton’s journal.

June 8, 1977 – Washington, D.C.

I overheard a marvelous discussion while waiting in line at Wendy’s tonight.  A young girl stood with her mother, clearly tourists, and talked about how much she liked the Whitehouse tour.  Then she told her mother that someday she was going to work there.

Her mother laughed politely and asked doing what?  The little girl, very seriously, said, “In the big office.  The roundish one.”  Her mother said, “You mean the Oval Office?”  The girl nodded.  Her mother said, “But Monica, that’s where the President works.”

The little girls crossed her arms and said, “Then maybe I’ll be president.”  Her mother sounded a little sad, “We girls can do a lot more than before, but I think president may be a bit out of reach in the country.”

“Doesn’t matter.  I’ll find a way.” said the girl

I believe her.  One day everyone in America will know who she is.

Almost Writing About What's on my Mind

So as I post this, R&A has had 9999 page hits.  Incredible.  Thank you.

I wasn’t late for the train today BUT it was raining so hard I was still tempted to run for it.  Never fear, there is still a bit of pride left in me.  I walked.  Then I wrung out my socks.

I plan on entering the Palm something or other screen writing contest today.  I was going to do it last night but I forgot.  Midnight tonight is the deadline.  Why am I entering a contest that I don’t even remember the full name of off the top of my head?  Easy.  I have an amazing script that doesn’t fit into most contests (35 pages), there’s a cash prize, and remember the first paragraph?  Pride.

I made the finals in last night’s 5 minute fiction.  Amazing to me how in just 4 paragraphs I was able to go from fairly normal and funny to weird and dark.  Feel free to vote for anyone.

I have a new favorite TV show.  I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.  Today it is time to look at Wash’s journal.

June 9, 1979 – New York City

As I wrote yesterday, I’m visiting my friend Frank in New York.  Today he had to go into work to proctor an exam and invited me along.  It’s been a few hundred years since I set foot in a high school so I readily accepted his invitation.  How bad could it be?

It could be bad.  But it was nothing like Guadalcanal or France despite the best efforts of popular media to convince you otherwise.

We were set up in the gymnasium of the Mount Jefferson High School for Rapscallions, Hoodlums, and N’er-do-wells where rows upon rows of desks had been hand carried from the various classrooms and painstaking placed in ordered rows.  At the front of the formation stood a folding table with two chairs, a pot of coffee, the instruction booklet, and a stop watch.

Many of the students who came in greeted my friend warmly, comrades rather than indentured servants, and the air was filled with such pleasantries as “Good morning Mr. McCourt.” Followed by his unmusical, “Morning Phillip.” Or “Morning Jennifer.”  I believe that for every Phillip there were seven or eight Jennifers.

He got the test started and we spent the next two hours giving everyone the evil eye.  It was great fun.  When the test was over the students tripped over themselves to bring the booklets up and escape into the city.  Except for one young man who was still hard at work.

Frank reminded him that time was up and he said, “Yes, yes.  I’m almost finished.”  Frank said, “You have to be finished now.  The time is up.”  The student raised his hand for silence.

This was interesting.  Frank went to the desk of the student and said, “I really have to take this now.  I’m sorry.”  The student scratched out several more answers and then put down his pencil.  “No worries.  I’ve finished.” he said.

Frank told him that he couldn’t take the test now because he had cheated and taken more time than was allowed.  As we walked to the proctor’s table, the student agreed that normally that would be a problem.  “But, this is different.”

“How so?” asked Frank.  The student looked at him, serious as could be, and said, “Don’t you know who I am, Mr. McCourt?”

“I do not.” said my friend.  “Nor do I care.  The rules are the same for everyone.”  The student shook his head.  “You really don’t know who I am?”

Frank said, and quite smugly I might add, “Young man, I don’t care if you are the son of the president.  You’ve taken too long and I can’t accept your work.”

The young man said, “Don’t worry.  I’m not the son of the president.”  He shoved his test booklet in the middle of the pile on the table.  “I’m nobody.” he said and turned to walk out.

I began to work on the pile.   Surely I could figure out which test had just been added.  I was interrupted however by the belly laugh of my friend and his arm on my shoulder.  “Leave it.” he said.  “He’ll be just fine in life even if he needs a little extra time.”

I wish that were true.  I wish it didn’t matter how much time we given and that we could get a little extra if we really need it.  Maybe it would make a difference.  Make the difference between getting by and being alive.  Make the difference for those of left afterward who just want to know why.

"Walking the earth like Cain."

April is sort of like Friday.  It’s a fine month in its own right, but really, everybody is excited because the next month is May and it will be summer.  Not because they actually like the idea of getting up early and fighting traffic to the train station just like every other work day.  So which month is like a Wednesday?  That depends on the week.

My mother-in-law made me an apple pie and it was very, very good.  Got me thinking how lucky we are to have apple trees everywhere.  Reminded me of this entry from Washington Orville Hampton’s diary.

May 7, 1804 – Venango Couty, PA

I was fishing along French Creek this afternoon with Edmund Torrence and Archibald Montclaire when out of the scrub emerged a Bostoner dressed as an injun.  Edmund went for his musket but I stayed his hand.  The stranger noted our fresh catch and offered to trade a jug of his hard cider for some dinner.  We were agreeable, especially when our new companion began telling stories.

The afternoon passed quickly due to the quality of both the conversation and cider.  At one point Archie commented that it would be nice to get a jug of that cider in any town he traveled to.  One thing led to another, as it always does with Archie and by the time the sun had begun to set, Archie and Edmund had established and funded the “Appleseed Cooperative” with John Chapman as manager and employee specifically tasked with planting tart orchards everywhere that we were likely to travel during the next few years.

Naturally this was done for the purpose of a wager on the success of Chapman’s venture with Edmund convinced that he would succeed and Archibald thinking that the Mohicans would get him before we drank another gallon of his liquid ambrosia.  I don’t much care about the wager but I like Johnny and plan to travel with him for the summer.

"Listen my children and you shall hear..."

Washington Orville Hampton remembers when North America was an unsettled wilderness and there were no giant sporting goods stores anchoring malls where buffalo once grazed.

April 18, 1775  --Boston, MA

I had the misfortune of discovering a dead man this evening while walking through North Boston.  As I passed Christ’s Church I heard a shouting from above and looked up to see two shadows fighting in the bell tower.  I couldn’t see them very well as only a single lantern was hung and my feeble light didn’t extend that high.

While it is not generally my purpose to interpose myself into the business affairs of others, it seemed that one of the men was wearing a red jacket and with the “Sons of Liberty” so active, I was concerned for his safety.

I rushed into the church and made for the bell tower.  While climbing the ladder – no mean feat for one of my stature – I heard to most horrible scream and then the struggle stopped.  I reached the top and steeled myself for the worst.

I found the corpse of a man who had been recently stabbed to death but there was no sign of his assailant.  I came all of the way up and raised my lantern into the air and cast about.  There was a rope dangling and I saw the chap in the red jacket running off.

I am not a doctor and there was nothing I could do for the poor dead man, so I shut off his lantern lest it caught the church on fire, and descended with my own light.

I went to the barracks to report the incident only to discover that the garrison had been rowed across the river and were on their way to Lexington at that very hour.  This cannot be good.  I must book passage back to Europe first thing in the morning.

When Right is Left

I’ve been away for a couple of days.  Sorry to have missed the posts, that isn’t how I like to roll.  I can see the argument for preparing posts in advance and then scheduling them to be published instead of doing everything “live.”

Yesterday was more interesting than Monday.  I went on a field trip with #3’s class to an old manor house.  It was nothing like Highcliffe Castle but it was still trey cool.

And I made the finals in the 5 minute fiction contest.  Please vote.

A reader asked, “Why do the English drive on the wrong side of the road?”  I’ll let Washington answer.

4/28/1924 Brighton, England.

I had the great fortune of encountering Sir Willem Henry in the pub this evening.  I had just started in the mash portion of my bangers and mash, a fresh pint of bitters at hand, when the door blew open to reveal my old friend.  He spotted me at once and soon we were engaged in stories of the old days.

Eventually talk got round to current events and I asked him what he was up to.  “You won’t believe me,” he said.  I assured him that I would but he, as usual, turned out to be right.  It appears that the crown is still trying to win back their dominance from the Americans.  I assured Sir Henry that ship had already sailed and he nodded, but retorted that, “There is always room for folly on a ship of fools.”

It took two more pints each for him to get through the whole of it but apparently the plan is to do everything the opposite of the Yanks when it comes to cars.  Make them leak constantly, hand assemble each one so they take forever to build, and make every intersection a circle.  (He had plans with him for several such circles in Brighton.)

The coup de grace, he said, was the global expansion of British influence in the form of a head-to-head battle over which side of the road to drive on.  I shook my head.  “That’s like the American’s refusing to go metric.”  He nodded.  “The only thing crazier would be a unified currency for Europe!”

We both enjoyed a good laugh at that and then spent the rest of the night brainstorming ways to make English cars the most unreliable in the world.

"What's the matter Colonel Sanders? Chicken?"

I made the finals in the 5 minute fiction contest lastnight.  Please stop by and vote.  You can read the stories too, if you like.  They are all very different.  It was a good prompt.

I have to make a decision about whether or not to stick with the new train station.  I’m actually a day overdue on that decision and will probably get in trouble with the conductor this morning.  Wish me luck.

Decision is made.  I will keep the new station.  I’ve seen several other people from the old station showing up the last couple of days and the parking lot is fuller.  I think things might be worse up north.

Found an interesting entry in Washington’s journal last night.  Thought you’d enjoy it.

August 8, 1958.  Mickyhollow, MS

Wonderful news.  I’ve sold the farm and am now officially out of the chicken business.  If someone ever comes to you and says, “You can make a million dollars with a chicken farm,” then you should look that man in the eye and say, “Balderdash.”

There are few creatures as vile and repugnant as a chicken, be they living or dead.  I for one will consider it to be too soon if I ever see the gizzard of a fowl again.

The young man that bought it from me – Frank Perdue’s boy, Frank, jr. – says he’s got plans that will change how America eats chicken.  Says he can make the million that eluded me.  Maybe he can.  And if so, good for him.  As for me, if I need to raise chickens to make a million I’d rather beg on skid row.

Integrity check

I had an encouraging lunch yesterday with an old friend, my partner in 1789 Legacy, and the person who got me writing again last year.  (All the same person.)  During our meal we talked about quite a few things but the biggest boost for me came behind the scenes.  We talked about process and inspiration a bit and I credited my 2 hours/day on the train for my success to date.  She said, "It's more than the time.  You put the whole idea together and you must type very fast to get it all down."

I took it as a compliment not realizing that it was at work in my subconscious.  As I drifted off to sleep last night I had an epiphany.  Just because I'm not a "pro" doesn't mean that I can't have my own unique way of getting a story out.  I keep trying to find a system out there that works for me but what I should really be doing is writing and then shoring up the weak spots.  I've been stuck on "Falling Star" for weeks now, frustrated that I'm not writing pages because I'm trying to "break" the story.  I envisioned it whole.  I wrote it in a couple of days.  Now I know what's missing.   I need to write it again filling in the gaps.  Then I'll see what's missing again.

Sure, that may seem like brute force, but pages are how I build.  Not bullet points.  And I've gotten much, much better at cutting out darlings.  My most recent short story lost 40% of its initial word count for the 2nd draft and is much, much better for it.  I needed to write the rest to know who it was about.

I'm a finalist in the 5 minute fiction contest this week.  Please feel free to drop in and vote for me.

 

A reader asked me this question:  "How can you tell if a politician has integrity?"  I turned to Washington for the answer.  Washington Orville Hampton, that is.

November 3, 1967.  Missoula, MT

I inspected Bullock's ranch today and have to say, it is a marvelous spread of just under a thousand acres.  He has quite a collection of characters working it too.  We played Canasta in the bunkhouse at the end of the night and I was regaled with stories that even my dearest friend Bunyan wouldn't believe.

Lest you get the wrong idea, they were not a group of liars.  Indeed, there were learned men about as well discussing science and philosophy and politics.  Having recently spent time with the Governor I was quite interested in their discussion about political ethics and inquired as to how one could tell if a politician was honest.

"It's easy." said Brandt.  "You rap them upside the head."  We chuckled but he pressed on.  "I'm serious.  You hit them a solid whump and listen to the sound it makes.  If it rings hollow than you know they're alright.  If it sounds solid then you know they're full of bull-"

Olaf cut him off.  "You're crazy.  Empty sounding is good?"

"Just like a watermelon." said Joshua.  "I should have thought of that."

And so should I.  How often have we heard Father Algernon say that watermelons are the very definition of integrity?

Washington goes to San Francisco

This is awkward.  I'm not in my usual seat.  Or even close to my usual seat.  For some reason the train is especially crowded this morning.  I'm now on the East side facing North which is the total opposite of how it should be.  My elbow keeps hitting the side of the car.  I feel like I need to iron something.

Let me see what Washington Orville Hampton has to say about the need for same.

June 11, 2006 -- San Francisco, CA

I've had about enough of SF for this trip.  I remember when this was a respectable town.  This afternoon, however, was horrible.  I was dropped very unceremoniously at the front door of the wrong hotel.  Inside I discovered that the desk manager had been murdered and instead of getting a hotel room, I got an interview room.  Apparently people of diminutive stature are considered prime suspects when someone twice their height has an ice pick through the ear.

I complained, of course, about the ridiculousness of the whole thing but Detective Randy suggested that was my alibi.  I asked what his alibi was and he said he didn't have one.  That really threw him off and a Captain by the name of Stottlemeyer came in from the next room and took him out.

Then I got to meet a charming young woman, Natalie, and her boss, Mr. "oh-my-goodness-can-anyone-really-be-so-annoying?"  She called him Mr. Monk.  He spent the next half hour interviewing me.  Which was to say that he puttered around the room getting everything situated just-so before sitting down across from me.  Then he leaped back up and wiped everything down with a tissue.  It was mesmerizing in the same way as watching snails melt when you put salt on them.

Then Mr. Monk, without asking a single question, said, "He's not the guy."  The Captain didn't like that answer and argued.  Mr. Monk said, "He's not the guy.  Look at his bags.  He wasn't even supposed to be at that hotel."  The Captain said, "Right, he's told us it was a mistake."  Mr. Monk smiled and said, "It wasn't a mistake, Captain."  I, of course, was furious.  It was absolutely a mistake.  Coming to San Francisco was a mistake.  Miss Natalie said, "Mr. Monk, get to the point."

Mr. Monk tried to straighten my bow tie and I'm embarrassed to say that I tried to bite him.  I'd have punched him if I was handcuffed to the table.  He backed off at once and said, "Mr. Hampton didn't plan to go to the hotel, but his taxi driver took him there on purpose."

The Captain clapped his hands.  "Of course.  It was a set up."  The Captain turned back to me and said, "What can you tell us about the driver?"  I shook my hands to remind them I was cuffed.  Then I coughed to remind them I was thirsty.  Then I said, "Boy am I hungry" so they'd know I was hungry.  Then I told them all about my wild ride in the cab and the stories that the driver, Jame Gumb, had told me on the way.

"Eventus stultorum magister."

I don't know what happened a month ago, but the traffic getting to my station has become horrible.  I will be doing some math this morning to determine if it's time to switch to the further away station in the opposite commuting direction.  I've lost nearly an hour a day in extra traffic and it isn't productive time.  It's fossil fuel burning time.

Not everything is bad though.  The kids are enjoying another day off from school and I'm making wonderful progress on the new script.  I'm starting to get the hang of Power Structure and it's a remarkable tool.  A little buggy, but still very good.  Sort of like the early days of Movie Magic Screenwriter (their other application).  Sort of like every day with Windows...

I haven't heard back on any of my short story submissions.  That means I need extra motivation to send any more out.  It also means I need to write more if I want more to send out since the good ones are all still in play.  While we wait, let's check out what happened on this day in the history of Washington Orville Hampton.

March 5, 1891 -- Somewhere in North Dakota

The train is snowed in so we are stuck here for the night and, according to the station manager, quite possibly the next two or three days.  Fortunately I had foreseen this possibility when we were 15 minutes late in departing and both the engineer and conductor where walking the platform.

I accosted the steward and he advised that we would be delayed at least a couple of hours.  Having ridden in several rodeos, I knew that was code for track trouble.  I promptly sent him into town to arrange lodging for me at the most reputable home with space.

He returned an hour later with a room in the only boarding house.  Shortly after we received news of the extended delay.  While I was gathering my bags I happened across a third class passenger, a Miss Patience McSworely, traveling with three small children.  They belonged to her sister and she was transporting them to San Francisco along with several trunks of household goods.

Miss McSworely did not have the traveling acumen that a woman alone with children should and had not made any attempt to find rooms or even food for her charges.  They were to be stuck in the carriage indefinitely with a tin of biscuits and whatever water they could chip from the ice in the barrel behind the station.

Naturally there was nothing for it but to offer up my room.  She was most grateful and while I had been looking forward to hot stew and a warm bed, being as small in stature as I am, the Pullman will be perfectly comfortable.  I've plenty of blankets and company, most of my single traveling companions remained with the train.

"Get her!"

More snow.  ‘Nuff said.

August 8, 1978 – Toronto, Ontario.

I’ve met the funniest man in the world this evening.  The Plainclothes Mountie.  You know the one, he rides a horse everywhere but without the bright red coat so he can be “undercover.”  Hysterical.  Even if you’ve never been to Canada.

The character, of course, is a fiction of SCTV.  The closest to a Plainclothes Mountie I’ve ever seen was the winter I went into the Yukon Territory with Sam McGee and the policeman there were so bundled up you wouldn’t have known them from the prospectors.

But the man behind the fiction is amazing.  We can expect great things from young Harold.  I predict he will turn the likes of Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor on their heads.  It’s truly unfortunate that our evening was cut short by the appearance of a Free Floating Full Torso Vaporous Apparition in the dining room.  The hotel evacuated all of us but gave no indication of when we might return and I was separated from my guest.  There should really be someone to call about things like that.

"Ya better say your prayers, ya flea-bitten varmint!"

This has been a good week for keeping "rejected" in the title of the blog.  I had two short stories rejected and was eliminated from the Bluecat competition.  On the plus side, I made the finals for this week's 5 minute fiction contest.  I've won that a few times… but lost far more.

And that is the business side of writing.  On the personal side?  I can see improvement.  I like the stories I've been writing.  Today I'll be submitting short to a magazine that has rejected every one of my submissions for over 10 years.  Stubborn?  You don't know the half of it.

Washington Orville Hampton had this to say about stubbornness.

May 24, 1875 -- California, USA.

We finally reached San Tomasito at a quarter past 10 in the evening.  Sherwood took care of the animals while I arranged for our lodging at the only establishment that offers rooms.  It is disconcerting to be billed by the hour, but the linens are fairly clean and after a week on the trail, the subtle perfumes that permeate everything here are quite welcome.

Our pack mule, Bill Jefferson, decided to quit early this morning.  He sat down near the Amarillo Arroyo and wouldn't budge.  I grew tired of encouraging him onward after a few moments but Sam kept at it.  Sherwood advised me that once a mule quits, it's over and we should just leave him for the pumas, but Sam wouldn't leave old Bill.  The two of them made an ornery pair and we (Sherwood and I) had enjoyed many a laugh as the diminutive teamster waggled his finger in the face of the apathetic animal.

After an hour, Sam took a rest but he didn't give up.  When Sherwood suggested to him that we leave Bill, Sam started in on the rootenist, tootenist tantrum I'd ever seen.  "If there's one thing I hate more than a stubborn mule," said Sam, "It's the pumas that eat stubborn mules."

I had not seen a puma since leaving Chicago and although the taverns in Denver were full of tales, I had become something of a skeptic.  "Oh, they're there." said Sam.  "Hiding in the crevices."  Sherwood nodded sagely.  "He's right, Wash.  There's pumas in the crevices."

But Sherwood also told Sam that we weren't going to wait for him to save the mule because those said same pumas might take us if we spent another night on the side of the trail.  "I can take care of the pumas." said Sam, firing off both his revolvers.  I swear to you that the blast actually lifted him into the air.  I dare say that were I a puma I would not tangle with Sam.

Kiloword

                So all of the pedestrians are crazy today.  All is a lot.  Many of the pedestrians are crazy.  I don’t know if it was a single suicidal one that prompted a herd migration or just everyone upset that it’s only Wednesday but I have never seen it so bad.  Tires squealing, people jumping, horns (naturally) and shouting.  Dudes, chill man.  There’s a storm coming, let’s just use the crosswalk and wait for the signal.  I mean seriously, you want to get run over on the way to work?  No, really, do you?  I don’t.  Give me that extra 45 seconds of fresh air.

                A loyal reader wrote, “I loved your construction of ‘.3k words.’  Is there a word meaning a unit of 1,000 words?”  I poured over Washington Orville Hampton’s diary and found this entry, excerpted here for you in a sort of answer to the question.

 

12/25/1921 – Christmas in Paris

I found my room at the Hotel d'Angleterre to be somewhat typical of the French but then one doesn’t go to Paris to stay inside.  At least not in the room.  At least not in the room with only a book for company.  I arrived late in the evening so that this morning was my first good chance to look around.  Imagine my elation at finding a fellow ex-pat in the downstairs.

Ernest interrupted his conversation with the lovely Elizabeth Hadley to call me over.  I was invited to luncheon with them at the Café de la Paix on Ave de l'Opéra.  What followed was a marvelous day during which we…[snip] ...but the evening’s conversation was one of the most interesting dissections of the writing process I’ve ever had.  Hemmingway insisted that daily writing hampered his ability to enjoy grappa so that he preferred instead to write in great spurts, pouring out thousands of words at a time.

I felt that it would be impolite to express my distaste for grappa and instead asked what the proper term for a unit of 1,000 words might be.  He wasn’t sure there was one and the three of us worked out the puzzle.

There’s kilowatt, kilometer, (and in 60 years kilobyte) so we felt it should be kilo-something.  Hadley proposed kilograph.  Ernest thought we needed to come up with an abbreviation.   "kg" was taken, "kph" could work but I thought it would be confused with speed limits outside of America.  Hadley then proposed "kilographeme" so we could use "kgm."  Hemmingway thought it a long word and, using that amazing gift for finding the remarkable in the simple, said, “What about Kwd for kiloword?”   Absolute genius.

In 1957, Harper Lee actually changed the working title of his story idea, “Mocking Bird,” after drafting a detailed outline that was 2,000 words long and sending it to his brother with the cover, “Two Kilowords -- Mocking Bird.”

Cat Food

Welcome to the new Wednesday.  A day of camels walking through cubicle mazes and the inaugural excerpt from Washington Orville Hampton's journal.  (As a reminder, WOH is completely ficticious and nothing in his journal should ever be believed.)

From an entry dated March 3, 1981

                ... and Barnum says, "Cat food."  We all had a good laugh but then, after finishing an especially vile stogie and being shoo'd away by his Dame de la Journée, he popped a handful of Meow Mix into his mouth and crunched away.  He washed it down with the remains of his VSOP.

                Naturally we were all quite aghast but when Le Petite Cherie returned, she did not shun his attentions.  Indeed, it was us who made the hasty retreat.  And a hastier run on the local purveyor of fine dry cat food.

                Now my mother, God rest her soul, won't let me kiss her after a stogie even after eating the cat food but she will let me into the house which is far sight better than the alternative.  I have, through careful research in the name of science, determined that Purina Seafood is the most effective variety to cleanse your pallet of that awful smokiness that otherwise hangs on for days.  It is also effective when you inadvertently consume a large quantity of battery acid and need to keep your insides from being burned out.