Where The Devil Won't Go

I finally decided to self publish the first novel in my new Lucas Peyroux detective series.

Quick synopsis:

Still shaken from accidentally shooting an innocent girl in the grasp of a crazed killer, Detective Lucas Peyroux’s first case back is a young Jane Doe washed up on the banks of the Mississippi. When the dead woman's sister disappears and local criminals start turning up dead, Peyroux realizes he has a vigilante on his hands, who might just be leading him to something a lot bigger than just another homicide. Can Peyroux track her down before she kills an innocent or ends up like her sister?

Check it out... Another will be out soon!
Where The Devil Won't Go

KINGS OF DELUSION finally released!

Honestly, this manuscript has been through the ringer. It has had an agent. It has been in front of the Big 5, all giving "rave" rejections. Something wasn't quite right, so I made alterations to address their concerns.

Then, I put together a group of test readers on www.goodreads.com and from their comments, Kings of Delusion took on a major rewrite of the first portion of the manuscript. This book is ready, but unfortunately, agents and publishers don't want to look at it again. It's been tainted.

Self publishing.

Should I? Yes, I should. This manuscript has earned it. And so I present KINGS OF DELUSION, currently on Amazon, but soon to be Print On Demand as well as on other ebook retailers.

Click to buy Kings Of Delusion.

Just Crawfish

The crawfish boil is New Orleans' version of a barbecue. When I heard a bar near me in Chicago was having a crawfish boil, I jumped on it. The crawfish were on the small side, but boiled right with potatoes, corn, sausage, etc. They also had pans of Jambalaya that was very tasty, or maybe the Abita on tap helped with that. Nothing like drinking during the day to shake things up.

When I first moved to Chicago, I felt special being from New Orleans. I never told anyone I felt this way, but when people found out where I was born, they instantly regaled me with stories of exploits of their trip. When they heard my accent, they might wonder if I had lived in Brooklyn, not sure about the odd inflections when I spoke.

I would also get to tell them about the "to-go" cup and how early I started drinking and it was perfectly legal. I get to tell them about Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest and the non-touristy things to do. When I lived in New Orleans all those things were normal, but outside of New Orleans, I was different in a good way.

But that feeling faded with my accent and I was a little disappointed when I go to this crawfish boil of about 80 guests and only saw one other person with a Saints jersey on and I didn't even get to talk to her. I wore my purple, green and gold striped Mardi Gras shirt and big Saints beads and not one comment from anyone, who were all dressed normal. They guys who cooked the crawfish didn't even comment on my loud shirt. 

One cool thing is that I got to meet Lake Charles, Louisiana native and Bears running back Matt Forte as I was leaving. It was a quick ten seconds and after his running the gauntlet of fan-selfies, he was interested in a getaway so we didn't talk New Orleans stuff, which is fine because I would have to tell him I'm a die hard Saints fan. 

My friends and I had a great time, but a crawfish boil is a social event in New Orleans. If everyone ain't talking to everyone, then its not a party…it's just crawfish.

The Pyloric Valve

I'll admit that I read all of Confederacy of Dunces before looking this up. Ignatious often referred to his pyloric valve closing or having serious problems whenever he was stressed (and that was often). I figured it had something to do with his stomach or having gas build up.

Here is a definition I found:

The pyloric sphincter, or valve, is a strong ring of smooth muscle at the end of the pyloric canal which lets food pass from the stomach to the duodenum. It receives sympathetic innervation from the celiac ganglion.

He used this condition on par with Fred Sanford clutching his chest and yelling for Elisabeth. One of the things I liked about this book is how others reacted to this fool, which was basically not to challenge him (except maybe for his mother). This cast of characters truly fit the title.

I doubt if I'll ever use this conversation, but I'll certainly remember if I hear someone on Grey's Anatomy say it (if I ever watch it, I mean). And if anyone reads this and then reads one of my future novels that has pyloric in it, then you will certainly get the private joke and tribute to Ignatious.

Supercilious

My blog posts have been rare to say the least.

Normally, I'm the type of person that doesn't have a lot to say in group conversation and writing a blog is so...exposing. If something isn't stated just right, the meaning could easily be misunderstood or taken out of context. And once it's out there, it is out there. And since not much has been happening on the publishing front, I haven't had much to say other than my current manuscript is being shopped around by my agent.

I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm not very smart in some areas...or in a lot of areas. As far as my writing goes, I have a big imagination, real characters with great dialog and thanks to the Internet, I'm a good researcher when I need to plow through a subject I may be covering.

So, I had an idea on how to continue to blog regularly. I recently read A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. You may have heard that a movie is being made and Jack Black will be Ignatious J. Reilly. While reading the novel, I was amazed at how much vocabulary I didn't know. Then, the idea hit me. At the risk of showing my ignorance, I decided to re-read the novel, picking out each word that I wasn't sure of the meaning and post it with some random commentary. It's an idea I want to try to see if it can find traction or be an epic failure. So, here goes...

On the very first page of the first chapter, I found:

SUPERCILIOUS - adjective - haughtily disdainful or contemptuous, as a person or a facial expression.

I had a vague idea of what it meant, but I looked it up anyway to be sure. Toole was describing Ignatious' eyes. He paints a very descriptive portrait of his main character and using supercilious gives a vivid description of his world view...and it also gives the reader an idea of the type of ride they're in for. The opening scene takes place in front of a D.H. Holmes. Those older residents of New Orleans will know this department store very well.

I also found this description: displaying arrogant pride, scorn, or indifference...sniffy.


You may be reading this, saying that I must be a moron not to know this word. If that's the case, then stop reading and please move on to your MENSA test booklet. I'm a novelist trying to help out other aspiring writers, not writers who feel intellectually superior to hacks like me.

But, finding a place for this word in my fast paced, thriller novels would be a chore. I think one of my characters would have to say it in dialog. I feel if I was to insert a word that I wouldn't normally use in my own everyday conversation, it would just look out of place. But, my intention is to feel comfortable enough to do just that.

So, in conclusion, if you didn't know what this word meant, your homework is to work this word into everyday conversation and then feel the superiority of telling your friends what it means. After that, create your own drinking game. You can add all the words that are sure to follow in the near future blogs.

Bulldozed!

The house I grew up in had been demolished, the foundation and all. I flew into New Orleans, rented a car and decided to drive around my old neighborhood to see how things were going. UNO was still there and had actually grown since I had graduated. The winding Lakefront looked the same. I crossed over the Seabrook Bridge and turned onto Hanyes. Things began looking pretty bad, but that's what I expected.

When I reached my neighbood, which was between Read and Bullard and Haynes and Morrison for those who live there, I saw my elementary school had been bulldozed. However, there were pylons stacked on the property, which meant there were going to rebuild the school...that or a rehab center.

Most of the houses in the neighborhood seemed okay as I continued on, but it was hard to tell how many were inhabited. I expected to see my old house, the one I lived in since I was three and my parents lost after Katrina, to be in a delapidated state with crazy grass reaching to the knees. No, it was gone. The only thing remaining were the two short palm trees that my Dad had planted on the front lawn. They are probably worth some money to someone.

Otherwise, I stared blankly at the plot of dirt. I actually looked at the houses on the left and right to make sure I was in the right spot. It took a moment to adjust to the fact that it was gone. It shouldn't have surprised me. Everything my parents didn't take with them to Baton Rouge for the hurricane had been destroyed by the flood. The more I thought about it, the more it felt right. It was closure. There was no reason to ever go back again, but I know I will. One day I'll be writing about the new house that's taken its place.

A Real Ghost Story

They say many New Orleans residences and buildings are haunted, but its a great place to create spine tingling stories that may or may not be true, but are somehow more believable in that locale. Well, I have my own ghost story (or at least a story that has yet to be explained) and whether people think I've made it up or not, I know it to be true and it still gives me the creeps.

When I was eighteen, I moved into a friend's house after his mother died. We also worked together at a Winn Dixie supermarket, so the arrangement was perfect. His brother lived out of state and he had this small two bedroom to himself, so why not? I ended up having his mother's old room, which not believing in haunted houses, I didn't care.

Things started out great. We were young, partied, and had lots of fun, but through those first few months, the normal "ghostly" things started happening; missing keys, doors being closed or opened, wierd sounds at night. Again, I didn't pay much attention to it; explaining it away.

Then, it happened. My friend left for work at 9 a.m. I was due in at Noon. Before I left, I got the mail and brought it to my room. I remember this like it happened yesterday. I had five envelopes and put them in a stack on the dresser. I got dressed, locked up, and went to work. My friend had a double shift. He did not leave work at all. When my shift was done and he was still there at work, I arrived back and went to my room not expecting to see the five envelopes spread several inches apart in a perfect semi-circle on the bed. I still get goosebumps thinking about it.

His brother was out of state and he had no other family. None of our friends had a key and I know he didn't go back home. There is no other way to explain it. Plus, I knew my friend and knew his reactions. So, was the house haunted? I personally believe so.

To explain or not to explain

A gave my manuscript to a friend in Chicago to edit because he’s pretty good at the details. The novel is a historical thriller that takes place during Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. If anyone reads this blog, they know I’m from the Crescent City and all of my novels take place there.

So, I try to incorporate the customs and character that makes New Orleans special to me, like sno-balls, crawfish boils, coffee and chicory or saying hi to strangers you make eye contact with. And for the most part they are well received, but my friend pointed out something in my manuscript that he didn’t think was believable.

Simply put, I have a sixteen-year-old female character who kisses a twenty-something year old family friend on the cheek – several times - since they end up linked together during the storm. He wrote down ‘I’m not buying it’ and ‘not believable.’

I told him that kissing good friends on the cheek hello and goodbye is perfectly normal in New Orleans and nothing is thought of it. He understood and told me I should write a few sentences explaining that and he is right. I'm assuming that the average America knows these things.

This gives me pause as to how much I should explain and if that would bog down the story. Like if I write ‘neutral ground,’ should I explain it’s the median between the streets or actually give its origin?

I think I’ll leave those questions hanging in the air until an editor tells me they don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

P.S. New Orleans natives don’t call their city The Big Easy.

Email Correspondence with Anne Rice

One of my all-time favorite books is Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour. When I read it, I wasn’t a big into books, reading maybe one every few months. But this book grabbed me and pulled me in enough to where I read Taltos and Lasher, the two follow-ups to The Witching Hour. I didn’t feel they were as good, but sometimes you just need closure.

I have never read Interview with a Vampire, but I saw the movie. I am not a big vampire or religious fan, so I never continued to buy her books.

I love that Anne Rice is about New Orleans. I’m not up to date on her present status, but last I heard she was living in Metairie, which is basically a suburb of New Orleans. Since I have a book coming out, I was naive enough to think that she might want to throw a quote at me, being that we were both from New Orleans. You don't know if you don't ask, right?

I emailed her, wondering what assistant would read it and then get back with me months later. I was surprised to see a response the same day, graciously declining the quote, of course, but very kindly. I emailed back thanking her, but joking ‘if it really was her’ writing me back.

Big mistake.

Anne Rice practically yelled at me through the email that she answers all of her email personally and goes to great lengths to be available to her readers. I was very embarrassed. I wrote back telling her it was a joke and that I believed it was her and was telling my wife and friends that I had corresponded with Anne Rice. It was a misunderstanding.

She calmed down and apologized for getting worked up and we had a little laugh over that. After a few more emails back and forth, I signed off telling her that I would be seeing her in similar circles and that we’d laugh again about it.

I can’t wait for that day, but let me tell you; you do not want to make an enemy of Anne Rice.

Crawfish in a Hurricane

This is the first chapter in a book that I don't believe will ever be published. BUT! If after reading this chapter, anyone posts that they would like to see more, then I will continue to add chapter after chapter until the entire book is posted. Just one reader...

Chapter 1

The cremation casket was a Shaker. It was plain, ash brown with an ivory crepe interior and the least expensive Milt could find before taking his last breath. Carol Benoit could not deny her dying husband’s last cheapskate wish. Milt refused to pay over a grand for something they were going to incinerate. None of the mourners would ever see the inside anyway because Milt had requested that his coffin remained closed until they burned him into ash and his bones crushed to dust. Only his immediate family could take a morbid peek if they so chose. He had expressed that his granddaughter Phoenix just might.

There would be no tomb above ground as the more affluent New Orleans deceased were usually laid to rest. Being buried in this city wasn’t an option, either, as seeing loved ones eventually rise from the saturated ground wasn’t very appealing. To Milt, there was no closure in remaining above the ground. Katrina had been a testament to that as he saw dead bodies floating away from their tombs on the news.

His son Jason had chosen a suitable picture from Milt’s youth to blow up and display on an easel. It was hard to uncover a snapshot where he actually wore a smile, but Jason settled on a photo taken when Milt was 55 years old and had made a hole in one on a par-three at City Park. He still had hair, thin as it was, and blonde as the day he was born. No one had noticed the transition to baldness, or at least they never spoke of it.

Jason and Beth had four children; Vail was the oldest at twenty-five, London was twenty-three, their only daughter Phoenix was eighteen and Rome was sixteen. Each of them could not be more different.

Phoenix had isolated herself, sitting on a metal foldout chair, away from consolers. The cool steel felt good against her calves. Her idea of dressing appropriately fell into the realm of less Goth make-up and a paisley sundress that she hated having to buy for the occasion. She felt uncomfortable and a bit sexy at the same time.

Every moment between Phoenix’s thoughts came a staggering, slow motion encore of the pillow she had placed over Milt’s face as he lay dying of prostate cancer in the hospital room. Her muscles tensed as if she was still pushing it, applying the pressure, taking Milt’s last breath in payment for all he took from her. The veins in his hands had bulged with struggle within the bed’s restraining straps. She let herself breathe and relaxed on the chilly metal chair, wondering who was watching her. Someone was always watching her.

The room itself made Phoenix uneasy. It appeared as if it had been decorated for a movie set. Cheap oil paintings of old men hung between windows with curtains of questionable flowered patterns. Pedestals of Wal-Mart vases held plastic flowers with linen petals. Standing in small huddles were a few mourners with suits or nice dresses and she knew they were the relatives with the good jobs. For the most part, for funerals and weddings, their people wore collared shirts, jeans and their dressy gym shoes, or at best slacks and button down dress shirts.

She tried to follow London with her eyes, as he looked to be avoiding everyone. Perhaps if he could stay on the move, he wouldn’t have to speak. She knew the interaction was killing him. She was reminded of London’s hidden handsomeness, as he was dressed in a pressed Polo shirt with his favorite blue silk tie.

London’s new cop-chick attempted to hang on his arm from time to time. “Jesus, let him go. You’re not on a date,” she whispered. She was pretty, though, but all wrong. No one was ever right for him, but isolation was his choice. London seemed to want to drive them away, one by one. Phoenix knew that her brother’s problem stemmed from witnessing his first girlfriend Nicole’s mysterious and blood-riddled death when he was thirteen years old. It had destroyed his teen years and now in turn, was spilling into his adulthood. No one ever got close to London again during those years; no one except Phoenix.

Eve the cop was a strong woman, it seemed to Phoenix. Eve looked like she knew what she wanted and London would let her be in command for a little while, but it would end the same. For one, she was too old. London was twenty-three and she had to be thirty, at least. Eve clung to him unnaturally, sizing people up as they approached as if she was a bouncer. Could they have had sex already? No, she would have sensed the change.

There was something odd about Eve and Phoenix knew odd. She was married to odd. Phoenix watched Eve and London whisper in each other’s ear and then they agreed to something. After that, the cop-chick left the premises. She must have realized that he couldn’t give her his undivided attention.

Over the next ten minutes, London had glanced at Phoenix once and a while, as if he was going to eventually come over to keep her company, but for some reason he kept circling. She thought he looked guilty, apologizing to the distant relatives who stopped to give him a quick hug or handshake. And her disdain deepened for those relatives not spending much time with her, although she couldn't condemn them, as she had always been the scariest freak in the bloodline.
You make your own environment, then bitch when you have to live in it, right?

The youngest sibling, Rome, wasn’t in attendance. He was sixteen and mildly retarded, yet had movie star good looks. Most teenage girls found themselves attracted to him at first – until they spoke to him. There had been a discussion with Elaine, Rome’s therapist and teacher on whether he could handle his Paw Paw’s funeral. Phoenix guessed they had decided not. She pictured Rome sitting next to pint-sized Elaine on the new two thousand dollar sectional couch as she tried to explain death with her Ken doll.

Poor Rome, Phoenix thought, amazed she was entertaining the foreign concept of sympathy. At least he would be able to say hi to his relatives as they woofed down food back at the house after the service. The long-lost aunts, uncles and cousins will be able to see how a family can remain stagnant their whole lives even while their surroundings constantly changed. They’ll get to see how old, used furniture bought after Katrina can look next to brand new luxurious purchases because Mommy can’t handle money. Oh, but Daddy could replace his boat at the Lakefront Marina, complete with wheelchair accommodations.

Still bored, Phoenix picked Mom and Dad out of the crowd. Beth and Jason Benoit have been married for twenty-seven years and they couldn’t look more like strangers. Her Dad was the picture perfect mourner; sad and attentive, giving his I’ll be okay smile when appropriate. Being paralyzed and wheelchair bound since Katrina, he spent most of his moments with his close friend Detective Shanahan or his mother, Carol, just like a good son should.

Phoenix made slits with her eyes, peering though her lashes as if they were bushes in a jungle and she was stalking her prey. She began a little game of predicting her mother’s movements around the room. Beth fixed her hair when Phoenix thought she would. She showed off her only pair of diamond earrings to some blue-hairs that should be shopping for coffins themselves - another true physic prediction. Okay, Phoenix thought, lift up your bra when no one’s looking, then go chat with the gross funeral director Mr. Nolan, who had been giving her special attention all day. Done and done.

A commotion caught Phoenix’s attention from across the way as a group near the entrance suddenly parted. Like Venus in a clamshell, Christine Peralta, Milt’s nurse of the past three months, had just made an appearance, wearing her dress scrubs no less, and making a direct path to her father, Jason.

She was a striking woman, having a face that could appear in a Noxzema commercial. How does anyone get skin so perfect? Phoenix could see most of the males trying to get a discreet peek past their wives at Miss Voluptuous and once again, she felt for Rome not being here to see the woman with whom breasts he had fallen in love.

But, why would she show up? Maybe she went to all her patient’s funerals. She could be the grim reaper in disguise. Death might be that beautiful. Instead of wearing a dark robe with a sickle in hand, it’s a set of scrubs and surgical gloves, gliding in as if on a conveyor belt to take her place behind the coffin.

Still, it was nice of her to hug her Dad. She just may be a terribly compassionate person. The kind of woman her dad wished his daughter was. Phoenix hated her, wanted to be her and wanted to kiss her all at the same time. She closed her eyes. Stop, she thought. Just stop it. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?

Phoenix scanned for London once again, but spotted the oldest brother, Vail, instead. His perspiration was thick as he crept up to her. “How are you doing, ‘Nix? You’re not going to be sick?” Vail questioned. The buttons on his dark striped shirt looked as though they were going to pop off under the strain of his fat. It was time for him to add another “X” onto the size of his wardrobe.

“I’m alright.” She didn’t believe big brother was actually concerned. The last time they had any meaningful exchange was when he had asked Phoenix to convince her best friend Angie to be in his homemade porno. Ever since he had strong-armed himself into owning an adult bookstore, his next logical step was to create a movie company and become a porn star. She had ranted about what a pervert he was and then stopped speaking to him altogether other than random small talk in front of her family.

Vail nodded, then looked around and spied Christine by their Dad. “Okay, let me know if I can do anything for you. Say hi to Angie for me, okay? Say hi to Angie.”

She parted the bangs away from her eyes with her middle finger as Vail waddled into the mix. What was it about death that made people marshmallows? Under any other circumstances, Vail the smut peddler wouldn’t have even said hi. Was it the fact that she had witnessed death? Did that make her more interesting or popular? Maybe Vail knew what she had done. Her stomach rumbled, not having eaten all day, but that was a constant. She knew there was a big difference in being a thin rebel and a fat rebel. The latter was just pathetic.

“Hey, ‘Nix.” London rubbed her shoulder and finally sat down beside her. “You okay?”

Her face didn’t flinch, but inside she was ecstatic that London had showed. “I’m anticipating nightmares that I’ll wake up screaming from every night for the rest of my life.”

He let that statement settle as he looked around at the milling waistbands, plump and skinny, shuffling back and forth, sitting and standing, trying to keep busy until they could get to the food buffet at their house.

“Eve wanted to come by the house later, but I convinced her that I was going to be busy with family.”

“Eve’s hanging in there, eh?”

“It’s hard to say no to her.”

“How does she like the periods of long silence?”

“Oh, she does most of the talking, which is perfect. I just have to say yes now and then.”

“It’ll be harder to say yes when you’re resenting her for it.”

“Get out of my head.”

“I wish I could get out of mine.”

“At least you fought the urge to kill him,” London proclaimed seriously. “I’m sorry you had to be the only one in the room when he died, but, honestly, we all know he was evil.”

“I guess.” Phoenix was close to tears and that pissed her off.

“You look good. I’m glad you didn’t wear your black lipstick although here, it might be appropriate.”

Phoenix giggled, then sniffed when she felt a drop coming from her nostril. She quickly wiped it away, “I want to know you’re okay, London. This isn’t anything like that day at the canal with Nicole. I don’t want this to bring back those feelings you had at her funeral. You know what I mean.”

“This funeral is a breeze compared to confusion I went through with Nicole’s. I dream about her sometimes. Everything’s always washed in her blood and I can’t make out who killed her…if I killed her.”

“I know it drives you crazy that you can’t remember that fucked up week, but I don’t know if you should remember. What if it’s that knowledge that sends you over the edge?”

“All I know is one day we’re riding our bikes and the next day, I’m at her funeral. I have a dream where Nicole’s alive and we’re playing in the lot. Then she rides off alone and I’m stuck in a ditch so I can’t follow her and she leaves with saying goodbye. Then, I turn into a crawfish and there’s crawfish all around my feet, except y'all are the crawfish.”

“Even Vail?”

“Yeah, he’s a fat crawfish. And y'all are shooting into your little crawfish holes because you know a hurricane’s coming. Then a hurricane does come and I’m immobile. I want to curl my crawfish tail and shoot into the mud hole with you guys, but I can’t. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Weird. Now I'm hungry for crawfish." She smiled with sincerity. "Look, something horrible happened to Nicole. People do terrible things and your brain is wired to protect itself. The electrical impulses up there are being rerouted around the memory of Nicole’s death. You’re not ready to remember that evil. We see other evils every day. Take Vail, well, he’s just sinister. Paw Paw was practically the devil. And seeing Paw Paw actually die, I’m going to be having my own bad dreams for a while.”

“I know Dad wants you to talk to Elaine about that, but even though I don’t have your genius IQ, you can talk to me about it - anytime.”

She put her hand in his as she leaned on his shoulder. She didn’t want to talk anymore, but she didn’t want him to leave, either.

Please post a comment if you like.

A Katrina Novel?

To write about Katrina or not, that is the question.

Over the past few months, it seems I'm as close to getting an agent as I ever was before. Before the Katrina idea, I had a very prominent agent read a different manuscript and even though she rejected it, she had me call her to talk about why. It basically boiled down to the subject matter and not being unique enough to sell. I was disappointed, yet inspired. She gave me the name of another agent that might like the manuscript and I jumped on it (but have yet to hear back).

When we talked on the phone, she told me if I could come up with a detective thriller that happened during the Katrina tragedy, she could sell it, or try to. I came up with an outline of a story and she approved, so I started writing it.

Now, there are things to consider. What if she doesn't want it? Will anyone else want it? If it was to get published, will too much time have passed for people to want to read it? Will my fellow New Orleanians want to read it? A friend of mine who lost her house and moved away said she would NOT read it because she lived it. Is it worth the time and effort when I have other projects I'm neglecting?

I have another agent who requested my full manuscript, but said she wouldn't read until after December. And I recently got two rejections from agent that told me they loved the writing but it wasn't for them. THAT is progress in a writer's world of seeking representation.

For the time being, I will continue to write my story because honestly, I am loving it. I just found a great source; a cop who was there for the rescues. I'm surprised at how well my fictional story is fitting in with the Katrina events. I am going to make this more than just a novel. This is going to be a love letter to New Orleans. This is going to show the NOPD as heroes. I want this to be sad, thought provoking and inspirational.

I think I might've bitten off more than I can chew.

If anyone that lived through Katrina wants to respond with any of their experiences, I would surely want to listen.

Coming Back Stronger by Drew Brees

I just read Coming Back Stronger by Drew Brees, quarterback of the New Orleans Saints. It might appear that I’m a bit biased since I am a die-hard Saints fan, but in reality, it makes me a tougher critic because I would be very disheartened by a lack-luster attempt at an autobiography.

By age thirteen, I proclaimed myself an atheist, then a few years later agnostic, but now, I’m back to atheism. I had always told my friends that if God is who they say, then he/she won’t mind as long as I live a good and moral life. If there is a God, he/she will tell me, ‘hell, you lived at a higher standard than those who chose to represent me.’

Drew Brees is very devoted to God and it is reinforced throughout the book and that is not an issue with me. It’s perfect for New Orleans as most of its residents were raised Catlick. Religion is an argument that you cannot win, but can only respect. What Brees triumphed over is an inspiration in itself, but there were certain parts of the book when he talked about New Orleans and the people and the detestation that I had to stop reading because of my tears.

It doesn’t take much for me to become emotional about my home town and what they went through (I live in Chicago now, but I was involved in my family’s plight) and I have the same appreciation for the team that the current locals do. I teared up when they got into the Superbowl and when they won it.

Brees maps out his rocky road to success with all the speed bumps along the way. I loved the details of his draft and his injuries and his dealings with Miami. He was an underdog and fought through where many would have given up. This book has just enough football, mixed with a perfect portion of inspiration and he gives a lot of credit to his faith and God. Like I said, I don’t mind that. He says God, I say good.

Ahead of publishing schedule!

I just received word from Medallion Press that my ebook pub date is being moved up to May 2011 instead of December 2011. That means I have less than a year to market and promote UNHINGED into being the most downloaded ebook ever!

Is it wrong to dream?

Writers use their imagination, so I can easily fantasize about word of mouth and the demand being so high for UNHINGED that it eventually goes to print and then becomes a movie. It reads as a movie.

In case you don’t know what UNHINGED is about, it’s about a New Orleans detective chasing down a serial killer that is murdering women from his past. One twist is that they find out who the killer is rather early and the other twist is that FBI is sabotaging the investigation because they don’t want this killer to be caught.

Anyway, the plans for its release has now changed and I have to get a move on. First thing? By an ebook reader.

Literary Speed Bumps

Okay, so I'm still getting published in ebook format, but not print - unless my sales are awesome and they chance their mind. In the meantime, I need an agent to try to sell my books to other publishers for me and the first step in doing something positive towards that goal was taken away from me this week.

I was accepted and paid in advance to go the PEN TO PRESS RETREAT in New Orleans, my hometown, where a small group of writers would get instruction on how to pitch to agents and editors from established well known authors and at the end of the retreat, we would get to pitch to these agents face to face.

I knew this was the way to go as the "query letter" is just so - so blah and generic and "one in a million" that they receive and reject.

The CEO of Medallion Press, the publisher that is supporting my upcoming ebook is a keynote speaker, so I was going to meet her. I was going to visit family and friends and my birthday falls on the Saturday of the last day of the retreat. New Orleans, my birthday, Saturday night - are you kidding! Anticipating this trip was probably the first time I had been this excited about anything since my wedding ten years ago.

Then, it happened, but I don't want to speak about it. If you remember when Lennon was shot, it was because the shooter wanted to be famous, so it came to be that the shooter's name was never to be spoken (although everyone still knows his name). I want to treat this situation like that. The person that screwed me will never be spoken of publicly.

But, you get the drift. I was screwed over and had to cancel my plans a week before I was to leave. Compared to some, I have no right to bitch as I lead a pretty good life, but even so, everyone has to deal with disappointment and those like me, the "bright side" people, will go on and continue to smile. As for the pessimists? I can't speak for them, as I don't know how that feels.

I will find another conference to attend and as for this retreat? There's always next year!

Never assume anything.

To any aspiring writers out there, don’t think that if you get your first novel published that your next one will, also. I didn’t assume, but in the back of my head, I kind of expected it would. But no, my next novel was rejected and now I’m trying to land an agent on the merits of my first novel getting published, but it seems like I’m starting from square one again.

I figure that now is the time to get all the help I can, so I’ve decided to go on my first conference, or retreat, as it is called. The Pen To Press Retreat in New Orleans – www.pentopressretreat.com -. I’ve read Deborah LeBlanc and liked her stuff, being from Louisiana, too, and she’s put this together, so I get to meet her. I hear it’s intimate, one on one, and a great learning experience. Plus, you get to pitch to a few agents and editors and I’m from New Orleans, so it should be great.

Writing the synopsis and query letters are my biggest weaknesses. I have two books that I feel are ready to go and two that might need minor work, so I’m locked and loaded. If anything, this will give me experience if I need to go to ThrillerFest in New York next year to pitch to agents out there. I hear good things about that, too.

Too much of a good story

Here’s another example of how the press, particularly sports journalists, can ruin a good thing.

I am from New Orleans and a life-long, die-hard Saints fan and have endured all the hardships that went along with it. This year, the magical year, was marred by the over-coverage and over-documented Katrina tragedy.

Hell, there was a drinking game made up for the Saints coverage.

Of course, the New Orleans fans love affair with the team is a feel good story along with turning to our beloved Saints while holding on to hope that New Orleans is going to return to its original state, little by little, year by year. And this year was inspirational and uplifting.

But having the rest of the world with no ties to New Orleans listen to the analysts and journalists talk about it over and over could make the most sympathetic person roll their eyes. I get it.

I can only hope that you can tune out the sportscaster and hold on to the story, because in truth, it is a good one.

Coincidence story #1

I love strange, out of the ordinary coincidences.

My very first job was at the Thom McCann shoe store in the Plaza in New Orleans East. I was sixteen years old and they had me working in the warehouse. I was doing such a fine job that they allowed me to integrate myself onto the floor as a salesman and since I was especially good with kids, they gave me all of them.

I was working this girl that I developed a crush on. I’ll call her Tanya Kelly. It took me weeks to work up the courage to ask her out. She was around twenty, much older than me relatively speaking and I know I came off as a pizza-faced nervous teen, but I managed to ask her to a movie without throwing up and she turned me down and I scampered off with my tail between my legs.

Fast forward to Winn-Dixie. I must have been nineteen or twenty and my acne had cleared up and I was working out, so I had gained a little more confidence over the years. I ended up asking out the older sister of Tanya Kelly. Her name was Jessica Kelly. I believe Jessica was around 27 years old and she accepted and we did go out. Did I have a thing for older chicks? Not really, if they were cute and legal, I was interested.

On one of our dates, we stopped off at her parent’s house to get something and I had the opportunity to meet them. They were dressed up in some kind of Mardi Gras-hippie getup and were on their way to a costume party. It was a fantastic first impression.

Okay, fast forward to the following semester at the University of New Orleans. My friend and I were taking a Geology course and who was the professor? Martin Kelly, the father. I leaned over to my friend and told him that I had dated this guy’s daughter. As a joke, my friend told me to drop the class. Mr. Kelly then looked up to me and nodded and I waved back. I didn’t think he’d remember me having met just once, but he did.

I think I got a B in that class.

PS – I also working with his son at the same Winn-Dixie.

Those days are gone…

My Maw Maw and Paw Paw (grandparents) used to live in a double shotgun house in Gentilly (a suburb of New Orleans) and my Maw Maw’s sister lived on the other side of her. Across the street from them was her other three sisters, living next door to each other in their own double. My grandmother was one of 13 children and at any part of the day at any time of the year, you could find them sitting on their porches bullshitting.

People would walk up and people would leave, rotating to keep the conversation alive. Most would get a beer or go out for sno-balls and talk about things relevant or inconsequential. It didn’t matter.

I was a child back in the 1970’s, but going to their house meant chocolate and it meant dollar bills. It meant great home cooked New Orleans food and I remember the mellatons on the vine in their backyard.

Sometimes my Dad would take me around the corner to the barbershop where there were Penthouse and Playboys mixed in with the regular magazines. I thought I was slick in hiding them inside other mags, but later I realized that they knew. They had to have.

When I grew into my late teens, my visits were less as I had more important social issues, but one particular memory sticks in my head of bringing a girl I had just started dating to my grandmother’s house and my Aunt Myrtle offered us a couple of Miller Ponies and when I refused, saying that I was driving, she called me a sissy – right in front of the girl I was trying to impress.

I do miss those days.

A New Orleans - Chicago comparison

About fifteen years ago, my friend and I moved to Chicago into a sublet in Lincoln Park for the first four months. There was plenty of traffic and people walking around, as there were so many shops, restaurants and bars. The young people hustling and bustling was contagious and exciting.

So, here’s how I compared New Orleans to Chicago when I first arrived:

I tried telling people hi as I saw them on the street and the reception was not so positive. I was ignored, looked at funny and even avoided. I quickly learned to stop greeting people for no reason. But, come to find out, the people here are just as friendly as New Orleans once you know them.

Driving was strange. I was flipped off for the first time in my first week and not because I was driving poorly. I just wasn’t in a rush. People that are bad drivers in New Orleans are oblivious to it and the bad drivers in Chicago do it on purpose. I do find it very irritating when people in bumper-to-bumper traffic won’t let you merge in front of them. I think it’s either a control thing or a power thing or an entitlement thing.

My accent was either charming or a source of ridicule and throw in pronunciation like “C-ment” and it was the funniest thing to them. I’ve since lost most of the accent.

Chicago is clean and New Orleans is not so clean.

Overall, I love living in Chicago or I would’ve moved back a long time ago. Every now and then, I run into a New Orleans native and the connection is instantaneous. We can spout off locations and in many cases, people we know in common. There is one girl I met in Chicago that had eleven people in common with me and we had never met. I think I’m very lucky to have had the experiences in New Orleans as well as Chicago, two of the greatest cities in America and possibly the world (I can’t say for sure until I experience them).

The Famous To-Go Cup

I in NO WAY encourage drinking and driving, but I will preface the following by saying that if you are leaving a bar and have a drink in your hand, you are either going to finish it all at once or, as in New Orleans, going to grab a to-go cup and leave with it in your hand.

When I first arrived in Chicago, we had gone out to some bars in Lincoln Park and I could not get used the fact that there wasn’t a stack of plastic cups by the door. I’m not a fast drinker and I had to stand at the door of each bar and try to down my beer or throw it away. What the hell?

In New Orleans, it is perfectly normal to walk around with your alcohol and when I was in my late teens and twenties, it was also normal to drive around with your alcohol. I’m not saying the cops didn’t bust DWI drivers, but my we were never worried about having that cup of beer in our hand. If we weren’t drunk, we were fine. We even had drive through daiquiri shops (but you weren’t supposed to put your straw in it – wink wink).

In the French Quarter, it would make sense as everyone was walking, but outside of the Quarter is where you took your chances driving around. My friends and I have never been pulled over while bar hopping, but I attribute that to lax law enforcement at the time. Like I said, it was normal. A lot of times, the cops working the door would be the one’s to hand you the cup.

Yes, to an outsider, this may seem bad, but I will only speak about my own case, because we weren’t black-out alcoholics and we didn’t drive like fools. Whether you don't agree, or think I was lucky, you may be right. I probably was in some cases and I would never do, or condone this now. But I was smart and an awesome driver. No tickets, no accidents – ever. My drunk was never a sloppy drunk and at that time, in the late ‘80s and early 90’s, the New Orleans kids 18-25 years old, lived the life that they knew.