Good Nutrition Equals Great Writing?

I love theories. I mean, you can come up with the craziest, most witless piece of

crackpotty-ness and never suffer any consequences. It’s the mental form of sudden constipation relief, climaxing in an intense steaming pile of vacuous thought.

This observation brings me to a conversation I had recently with my friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski (celebrated author and welder).  Now, Eddie is always theorizing. But unlike the mindless theories touted in the media every day, Eddie’s stuff merits our real attention and respect.

Case in point: Eddie insists our creative writing powers wax and wane with our nutritional intake.  In other words, if quality goes in, quality comes out. He credits his carefully-maintained personal nutrition program with his mind-boggling success in the literary marketplace.

So, with that in mind, let’s examine key maxims that buttress the foundation of Mr. Salinski’s Dietary Theory for Writers:

No. 1—Sugar is good.  Eddie loves sugar.  He has discovered his writings are more earthy and edgy after he’s consumed daily quantities of sugary foods. But he’s very particular about product preferences:  Twinkies—excellent. Ho-Ho’s—beyond reproach.

Suzy Q’s—always beneficial. Hostess snowballs—can’t be beat.

No.2—Milk is bad.  Instead, Eddie prefers hourly doses of caffeine (strong, black, sugary) to give his work a certain perkiness that his readers expect from him.

No. 3—Leafy greens and veggies are for bunnies.  Eddie says they give him a false sense of health that is detrimental to his writing.

No. 4—Booze in any form.  Always a plus, especially when imbibed before a Ho-Ho breakfast in the morning.  Eddie’s strict regimen of boiler-makers (beer mixed with whiskey) keeps him buoyant and alert, imbued with that special patina of cockiness we’ve come to expect in his writings.

No. 5—Red meat, fish, poultry.  Eddie says eating bits of animal corpse in any form is bad for a writer’s bowels.

No. 6—Snacks.  Eddie leans toward Snickers, claiming they contain a scientific compound of essential ingredients that can sustain all known life species.

Those are the basics.  Of course, Eddie admits his nutrition theory may not work for everyone. But it works for him and who can argue with success?

Like I said up front: Eddie’s advice has never led me astray. Of course, there’s always a first time.

Best Time to Write? Eddie Says Break the Rules.

“Any time is the best time for writing.” 

So Eddie proclaimed one Sunday when I found him at home in his trailer. I had brought up the subject of creative timing after I developed a profound case of writers’ block. It was only natural that I seek advice from Mr. Salinski—celebrated writer and welder and, more important, my close friend.

Eddie was busy giving his pet raccoon, Petey, a bath in an old galvanized wash basin. The poor little beastie looked at me with his sad burglar-in-the-night eyes, as if imploring me to free him from the realm of soapy water and let him return to his usual resting place atop his master’s bed.

eWorld and eGads!

Eddie’s Take on Technology

by Robert J. Wetherall

Despite its pervasiveness in our lives, the little E is still in its infancy. In twenty years, we’ll wonder how we put up with such a complicated, unpredictable, frustrating amalgam of computers and clouds as the Internet exists today.

My good friend, Eddie Salinski, celebrated writer and welder, weighed in on this very subject while picking dandelion greens near his trailer last weekend.

As Eddie put it, “Think of the Internet and its trimmings as a wee little baby. Cute and cuddly as all get out, but blessed with all kinds of baby-baggage: Smiling at you one moment and then burping and spitting up the next.  Lulling you with that adorable baby Winston Churchill smile, before you discover it’s just passing gas.  That’s the eWorld in a nutshell.”

“It’s just beginning to crawl,” Eddie said. “And we’re still naively intrigued with the newness of it all—and, horror of horrors, we don’t want to be left behind. So we’re texting, twitting, posting, poking, liking and blogging like crazy.  And making sure that we’re grabbing our share of space on a zillion sites that immerse us in whole universes full of information and nonsense.”

Eddie paused to swat at a horsefly the size of a Kindle that was circling his thin gawky neck.

“Now, don’t get me wrong: I think all this eCommotion is great,” he continued. “I do all of my writing on a laptop these days, but sometimes I miss the simplicity of pencil and yellow legal pad, or my old Remington and white-out. Things were slower then and it seems I had more time to actually Think about what I was writing, rather than just slamming it into the magic box.

He grabbed a swatch of greens and put them into a kettle.

“But I think I’m maturing a bit, too.”

“How so?”

“I’m cutting down on my eStuff a bit:  First off, I quit Facebook and Twitter. That saves me a ton of time better spent writing or just laying on my backside and smelling the flowers.  I’m not texting any more, either. I mean, who cares that I ran out of vanilla while mixing up a cake this morning?  All those giddy gadgets work for some folks—but as for me, they have a strictly limited place in my little world.”

Eddie picked up his kettle of greens and headed for his trailer. “Join me for chow?” he asked as I followed at his heels.  “I’ve got a big chunk of ham and some spuds to go along with these greens.”

“So you’re not tossing out your laptop?” I asked as we entered his modest dwelling.

“Not on your life,” Eddie said.  “The Little E has its place. I’m just going to enjoy it in a bit more moderation.  When it’s all grown up, I might jump in a bit deeper.”

As I drove home later, I pondered Eddie’s words.  My stomach happily rumbled with the remains of dinner and I made myself a promise:  Eddie’s birthday is just a few months off. When the great day, arrives, I’m going to present him with a new iPad.

Eddie--The People's Choice?

By Robert J. Wetherall

What’s more fun than watching a bunch of public servants sitting around a big oak table, scratching their collective heads and searching for ways to prevent constituents from pestering them about things like housing, education, taxes, infrastructure, safety, etc?

Yes, I’m pretty negative on the subject, much to the dismay of my friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski, who, as a celebrated writer and welder, is also an old hand at politics.

“You’ve got to look at things from the perspective of the office holder,” Eddie told me one day while I was helping him tow his rusty Chevy Suburban out of the swamp behind his trailer.

Eddie's Marriage Close Call.

By Robert J. Wetherall

Most writers require at least a modicum of support from friends and family to help fill the potholes littering their road to fame.  I figured this would also be the case with Eddie Salinski, celebrated writer and welder who happens to be a close personal friend of mine.

But turns out I figured wrong: Eddie has forged his way to success mostly on his own, without nods of approval and accolades from others.

I found this out while Eddie and I were having quiche at a nearby Denny’s a few weeks ago.

I asked him why he never married.

“Almost did a while back,” he said.  “But fate came to my rescue.”

Al Qaeda declares Fatwa on "In the Hole" Idiots

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From The Eddie Salinski News Bureau:

In a surprise pro-Western goodwill gesture, Al Qaeda and its Taliban subsidiaries have announced plans to forge a Jihad against all those drunken goofballs who yell “In the Hole” every time a golf pro strikes a ball during tournament play.

“These besotted fools have no shame and must be dispatched to the Land of the Virgins by any means,” declared an Al Qaeda spokesman, who said the group decided to take action after learning that many Americans believed the “In the Hole” idiots were actually Taliban insurgents employing a new psychological terror tool.

As every golf fan knows, U.S. tournaments have been plagued and disrupted by slack-jawed imbeciles who have to scream “In the Hole” after every golfers’ swing. This has disrupted play on many occasions and has understandably led to rampant bloodshed in many instances. 

“We will track down these misguided devils without mercy,” declared the spokesman.

Al Qaeda Bakery IPO

By Robert J. Wetherall

Al Qaeda Worldwide and its Taliban subsidiary have launched plans for an Initial Public Offering to raise operating capital for its new chain of bakeries: Talibuns.

Company spokesmen stated that company bakers have succeeded in developing a shelf-stable pastry that will appeal to the taste of western infidels.

They described Talibuns as single serving pastries served warm, dripping with butter and white frosting.  Along with the iconic pastries, Talibun outlets will also offer a line of complimentary snacks and beverages, including Americano coffee, camphor, and betel juice.

Al Qaeda Bakery Ltd’s U.S. distributor, Corky Carruthers, said the Al Qaeda entrance into the Western fast-snack market is further evidence of a subtle change in Al Qaeda’s quest to win over the hearts of Americans.

Mass beheadings, live burials and acid-dipping will also play a role in the company’s western marketing plans.

Writing and Weight Loss

By Robert J. Wetherall

Watch those excess pounds simply fall away with every well-turned phrase and polished sentence!

Yes, it’s unbelievable but true, my good and loyal followers:  Those among you who write well are also destined to magically maintain your proper weight and inevitably take on the appearance of Adonis. 

But do the rest of us have to face life looking like overfed circus bears? No. Because it turns out, lousy writers can experience beneficial weight loss as well.

Lost Art of Editor Worship

by Robert J. Wetherall

As a writer, you know you’re in deep doo-doo when you get a note from your editor inquiring, “What have you been smoking?”

Of course, you can take this a couple of ways:  First, you can assume the question is posed by a person vitally interested in your personal habits. Or, second, you can view the inquiry as a veiled warning that your writing is approaching a dangerous precipice:  That jumping-off point dividing the hilarious from the hullucinatory.

Now, my editor at Penumbra Publishing, whose initials are Pat Morrison, is a kind, insightful professional who deserves excellent marks as she goes about her 24-7 mission of  inspiring her unruly flock of writers  to perform at their highest levels of excellence.

Mating Season For Writers Begins

By Robert J. Wetherall

“Geez,” says my good friend, Eddie Salinski,” I almost forgot. The mating season for writers starts next week.”

“What in Sam Hell are you talking about?” 

“It's a concept I developed several years ago: Writers begin mating in June each year.  Their genre doesn’t matter, either. Whether they’re creators of fiction, non-fiction or whatever, they all lay eggs.  These eggs hatch in around 21 days, providing of course that a caring agent has been sitting on them.”

Ewriting: Real Democracy.

Everybody is writing books these days.  Since the birth of E this and E thats, anyone, fool or philosopher with access to the "cloud", can commune with their muse and cobble together a string of words into sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters and books.  Democracy in action.

Look, I'm doing it right now. Tap, tap, tap. One-fingered on my magic little iPad. Nothing to it.

But writing might be the easiest part for some folks. The tough part is getting someone to read our crap. I mean, our material.

Last Sunday I put the subject before my old pal, Eddie Salinski (celebrated writer and welder), over a brunch of KFC and Hostess Snowballs. 

Munching on a moist drumstick, Eddie lifted his eyes toward the popcorn ceiling of my living room, obviously lost in thought.

Al Qaeda Confirms: Osama's Dance Studio Still Open

By Robert J. Wetherall

Terrorist fears that Osama Bin Laden’s sudden headache will limit his activities have eased, according to reliable reports.

My good friend and mentor, celebrated author Eddie Salinski, says his sources confirm that Osama’s School of Ballet and Tap in Boca Raton will remain open.

As Eddie puts it, “Intensive training in ballet and tap have been a required part of terrorist training for years, ever since startled aides found Bin Laden wearing a pink tutu while molesting his favorite camel.”

Eddie reminded me that swarthy men wearing colorful tutus have long been a part of the Boca Raton street scene.  Locals believe the men are part of a troupe of circus performers, despite the AK-47’s casually slung over their shoulders.

Before his sudden onset of head trauma, Bin Laden had claimed that skillful execution of ballet moves would help aspiring terrorists in their more intensive training efforts. And he advocated up-tempo time-steps by tap-dancing suicide bombers as an effective way of entering crowded markets without causing undue notice.

I asked Eddie if he trusted these reports. (After all, our daily TV and news outlets haven’t picked up this news). 

“Who gives a rat’s ass?” he countered, a wide smile creasing his gnarly countenance.

“I love stories like these,” he said.  “There’s so much bull floating around in the press these days, you can’t keep up with it. Those crazy bastards’ll print anything, I swear upon my trusty Donald Trump Bible.”

“Not anything,” I said.

“Anything,” he repeated. “Want some proof?  Okey-dokey.”

He jammed a newspaper into my face and I looked at one of the headlines.

Something about the world coming to an end.

  

Writers are Very Special

As a writer of sorts, I’m fully aware of the trials, tribulations and sheer crap that we writers have to go through. But a brief discussion yesterday with my pal, celebrated author and welder Eddie Salinski, set me straight on this by giving me a view of the world through his unique looking-glass.

Eddie says he has no time for writers who walk through life with a hang-dog look of the maltreated and unappreciated--just because they’ve received several hundred rejections by publishers. And dodged insults from herds of high-fallootin’ literary agents who wouldn’t know a book from a submarine.

 Eddie says don’t let all this affect you. Rise above it, he says, because if you’re a writer, you are very special.  You are one of a kind, courageously carrying on a struggle against horrendous odds. Battle-toughened. Unique. A rare meteorite in a desert dune. Your friends cleave to you and hunger for your attention.  Your many enemies envy you.  The IRS doesn’t dare audit you.  You enjoy special discounts at Sammy’s Second-Hand Stuff.  Your family even lets you ride in the car with them.

Better still, Eddie says that if you’re a writer, acquaintances will think it’s cute when you’re self-centered, rude and obnoxious.  They’ll assume that, as a person of higher status, you play by different rules than those accorded more humble non-writing beings.

“But what if I’m a really stinky writer?” I asked Eddie softly. 

“Doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Eddie offered. “Nobody knows the difference!”

He patiently explained that even lousy writing is better than not writing at all. He assured me that even a dumb shallow statement looks much smarter on paper than it sounds when spoken, especially when enhanced by a cunning modern font.

Eddie’s confidence radiated from his wiry little body as he flicked a cigarette into the dry brush behind his trailer. 

            “Trust me,” he said, offering me a soiled hanky to dry my eyes.

There’s no denying that Eddie’s pronouncements about the literary world must be taken seriously, given the explosive success of his own works.  That’s why Eddie Salinski has become my Oracle of sorts. He knows whereof he speaks. So who are we to be filled with doubt?

So let’s man up, as they say.  Straighten those shoulders. Have the cajones (if available) to face your future with jutting, uplifted chin. Stare fate in the chops. March proudly to an upbeat drummer.

Instead of wasting time writing your name in the snow this afternoon, go mail off another pathetic query. Mark it “Eddie sent me” and hope for the best.

After all, you are special.  Now act like it.

Robert J. Wetherall

Last Flight Home;

The Making of Bernie Trumble

Forever Andrew

Available at

Amazon.com, penumbrapublishing.com

Literary Agents: Are They Human?

By Robert J. Wetherall

Now before you jump all over and start tearing me into itty-bitty pieces, let me explain:

A lot of writers have it in their noggins that literary agents, by and large, belong to some loathsome lower species, like folks in congress, roofing/siding salesmen, and TV evangelists.  And that they are greedy, lazy and about as useful as blood-sucking ticks on an old hound dog.

I myself went along with this thinking until my friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski (celebrated writer and welder) set me straight.

“Think of agents as victims,” Eddie said. “Forced to charge a substantial sums to evaluate (and sometimes even read) schlock from dawn to dusk. Wheedling money from expectant but unrealistic rabble for supplies, postage, paper and what-not.  Pleading with these sheep to chip in money for agents’ trips to writers conferences in god-forsaken backwaters like Bali and Monte Carlo.  And even demanding ad nauseum for agents to find time to pitch their work to publishers.”

“And calling agents heartless is really unfair,” said Eddie, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Some of my most memorable rejections have come from agents whom I know suffered great emotional stress from having to toss my work into the garbage.”

Eddie waved a bunch of faded letters in my face. I began scanning their contents, which oozed care and consideration.

Some brief tidbits:

“Your work is well-typed and your envelopes are well-stamped.”

“Your work makes me retch. Kindly send Tums with future submissions.”

“Send more cash for miscellaneous expenditures.”

“I will represent you when the Ice Age Cometh.”

“Your story is filled with characters that are well drawn and quartered.”

“I strongly recommend begging as an alternate career path.”

Eddie snatched the letters from me. “You can tell these folks felt really bad because my stuff wasn’t exactly up to snuff back then. They always treated me with the utmost courtesy and respect.”

“Yes, that’s obvious,” I heartily agreed.

So readers, you can see that there is definitely a real possibility that literary agents may indeed be part of the human family.

And in case this is true, I’m going to consider treating them with respect.

Grammar? Don't Take it Seriously.

Ereaders Causing Cancer?

I received this note yesterday from my pal Eddie (celebrated author and welder):

With every technological advance comes a down-side. And the burgeoning popularity of Ereaders is no exception.  Hence it comes as no surprise that, indeed, Ereaders can cause cancer.

At least among laboratory mice.  But dedicated researchers at Tennessee’s Terminal Cancer Research and Welding Institute hasten to assure us that the type of cancers developed depend entirely on what kind of Ebooks the mice are reading.

For example, bespectacled mice reading scientific manuals have shown outbreaks of brain tumors.  Blue-eyed male white mice, subsisting on a literary diet of Ebook chick-lit, have shown spikes in the incidence of testicular cancer.  Mature lab rodents immersing themselves in an Ereader study guide of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men developed urinary tract tumors.  And so it goes: courageous furry little labsters perusing their tiny tablets for the benefit of all mankind.

Researchers report the Ereader-attributed cancer incidence is apparently equal across all brands of tablets.

Fortunately, the mice have not been left to suffer with their conditions.  All of the test subjects recover fully after they were put on strict diets of pureed Grace Metalious Peyton Place remainders.

So indulge yourself in your Ereader content without qualm.  You are not a mouse—so your chances of falling ill from these new gadgets are nil. At least that’s according to those pros at the Tennessee Institute for Terminal Cancer and Welding.

 

Recipe for Success—Going to the Dogs

World-renown author and welder Eddy Salinski tells me that anytime he writes himself into a corner he just pops a dog into the story.  Mutt or Champion, it doesn’t make any difference, insists Salinski.  You’ll be swamped by drooling agents and bean-counting publishers.

People, including those who can read, have a special place in their hearts for pooches, according to Eddie..  Big pooches. Small pooches. Fat pooches. Lanky pooches. They’re all the same: Lovable, laughable and loyal to a fault.

As a serious writer (or an unserious writer for that matter) you can use pooches to good effect in writing yourself out of all kinds of jams.

Tired love scene?  Throw any large pooch into the fray. Dull dialogue?  A yipping Chihuahua can sprinkle your scene with sage comments in Spanish. Blocked on your tense mountain avalanche tragedy? Trusty Saint Bernard to the rescue.

This works in all media, of course.  After all, who ran for help when that little kid got stuck in the well?  And even the iconic Bud Clydesdales frequently add a bit of pathos to their commercials by tossing a Dalmatian into the mix.

And it’s so darn easy, requiring not a shred of imagination from us.. Because you can plug any old dog into your work and leech off a good measure of furry warmth. Puppies are sure-fire of course. Pair them with doggie names like Katie, Buzzy and Elmo and you just can’t go wrong.

Summing up: Literary success is ours for the asking, according to Eddie Salinski.  Put a pooch to work in your saga and you’ll never have to eat beans again.  

 

Optimism: A Writer's Best Tool

Writers by nature tend to be optimists.  They have to be, in order to dodge the steady stream of curveballs served up by the Universal Lefty.

Indeed, optimism, resilience and dogged determination clothed in a tough hippo hide is the hallmark of writers who have gallantly prevailed against harrowing odds.

Case in point: My great and good friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski is a master of turning lemons into a popular summertime refreshment.

Some time back Eddie called me. 

“Guess what,” he said. “I got me a horse. A racehorse, I’m thinking.”

Eddie exclaimed that this horse of his was in the backyard wrestling with a bundle of hay at that very moment.  He filled me in with the details:

“It’s black and white with a funny mane. Real big dude, too. Mean as hell. Bites like a banshee but runs like its ass in on fire.  Bought it a couple months back from a couple of gypsies who stopped by my trailer to fix the roof.”

I decided right then I had to drop everything and run over and see this outstanding animal.

Eddie was waiting for me as I pulled into his dirt drive way. He took me ‘round back and threw open the doors of his shed. Standing there, fiery eyes, staring me down, was his “race horse.”  

“Be careful,” Eddie said. “Don’t move around too much. He can get real rambunctious all of a sudden.”

The animal with the blazing eyeballs stood tall, muscles rippling under its black and white coat.  Stripes. What the hell is this, looking at me like I’m an appetizer?

I caught my breath and whispered, “Geez, Eddie, that’s no horse. You got yourself a darn zebra.”

Eddie scratched his head. “Be damned,” he mused.  “Sure looks like a horse to me.”

“Damdest thing I’ve ever seen. What in the world are you going to do with it?” I whispered as the great beast began pawing the air, flecks of slobber spraying hither and yon..

“Hell, I’m going to keep it.”

I shook my head as if he were a mental case.

“Listen here,” he said. “This old boy won the third race at Del Mar last Saturday. Going to run him again soon as I find a jockey who doesn’t taste good to him.”

Eddie’s “race horse” gave out a loud kind-of-whinny of agreement and kicked a big hole in the side of the aging shed.

Eddie shut the door and grinned: I got a good feeling ‘bout this dude,” he said.

That’s what I mean about optimists. The Eddie Salinski’s of this world make do with what they have—no matter what fortune brings their way.  I predict Eddie and his new friend will get along just fine, stripes or no stripes. 

And he’ll probably have the makings of another really good book to boot.

Osama Bin Laden: Strictly Fiction

There is compelling evidence that Osama Bin Laden doesn’t exist—and never has.

For writers, this means that the sprinkling of mere words across a page still possess the power to alter the course of history.  Here then, are the facts as we know them, from the writer who started this masterwork of fiction, Akmed Ish Ke-bab, in his own words:

“It was back in the early 1960’s when I was mistakenly arrested near my Saudi home on suspicion of spying for the insurgent Haji tribes. Government police tossed me--torn, bruised and bleeding--into a cold concrete cell.  Huge rats the size of burros nibbled at my toes as I contemplated my fate.

“Soon enough, the iron cell door squeaked open and two huge jailers with long bears and pistols entered the cell and dragged me upstairs.  My interrogator in traditional Saudi robe and headdress wore a monocle in his right eye and was smoking a brownish cigarette. As I sat on a small stool in front of him, he signaled the jailers to begin pummeling me lustily with the butts of their pistols. This they did with alacrity, despite my pathetic cries for mercy.

“So now, who is the leader of your group?” he asked, motioning the jailers to cease their ministrations for the nonce. 

In response, I vomited my last meal of donkey entrails, casual barfing sounds escaping my bubbling lips at the same time.

“Ah,” he cried.  “We have the name at last!”

“What?” I asked, wiping my lips with a tattered sleeve.

“You said Bin Laden. Osama.”

“No, that was just a noise I made.”

“Too late to take back, you filthy swine. My ears do not deceive.”

He motioned to the guards: “Take him out back and hang him.”

“Just then, a heaven-sent RPG dissolved the building in dust and I found myself out in the street, surrounded by body parts and overturned vehicles, but, miraculously, still alive and in good working order.  Later that night, sleeping beneath a palm in a public park, I had a revelation: Who is this Osama Bin Laden—syllables of which my larynx had inadvertently concocted as bile burst forth from my lips?

“Such a man did not exist. But, as a typical starving, homeless writer, I was adept at grasping at straws: Thus, in giving this Osama (or whatever) a life, I would shape him and use him for whatever good fortune would bring me. Thus, single-handedly in the years that followed, my imagination gave birth to this fictional character Bin Laden, telling of his mad exploits and loopy outbursts in books and articles for the masses.  My words gave him a rich father, a family of wives and brats, money to pursue his giddy ideas and crackpot schemes. Little did I realize then that thousands of crazed followers would become enamored of this Bin Laden—the bizarre creature of my cerebral cortex.  It would give them all something concrete instead of their former careers fashioning bricks from steaming camel dung.

“All of this has provided me with a good living,” said Akmed, a bright smile on his bronze, bearded face.

Akmed is older and a tad creaky now, but his memory is Gillette sharp.  His books and movies embellishing the Osama legend have garnered him millions.  He now lives in a lavish hideaway near Boca Raton, Florida where he follows the frequent bursts of news about Bin Laden’s alleged follies with a grin and a chuckle.

But, you ask, what about that bozo, with the scraggly beard that appears all the time on the tube threatening to blow up America’s carmelcorn stands.

“He is my idiot nephew, Omar, “says Akmed.  “I pay him to ‘pretend’ whenever they turn him loose for a visit home from the hospital.”

So that’s the ticket, fiction writers! Come up with your own imaginary characters. Just remember: Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun have already been taken.

Sugar, fats equal great writing?

I love theories. I mean, you can come up with the craziest, most witless piece of

crackpotty-ness and never suffer any consequences. It’s the mental form of sudden constipation relief, climaxing in an intense steaming pile of vacuous thought.

This observation brings me to a conversation I had recently with my friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski (celebrated author and welder).  Now, Eddie is always theorizing. But unlike the mindless theories touted in the media every day, Eddie’s stuff merits our real attention and respect.

Case in point: Eddie insists our creative writing powers wax and wane with our nutritional intake.  In other words, if quality goes in, quality comes out. He credits his carefully-maintained personal nutrition program with his mind-boggling success in the literary marketplace.

So, with that in mind, let’s examine key maxims that buttress the foundation of Mr. Salinski’s Dietary Theory for Writers:

No. 1—Sugar is good.  Eddie loves sugar.  He has discovered his writings are more earthy and edgy after he’s consumed daily quantities of sugary foods. But he’s very particular about product preferences:  Twinkies—excellent. Ho-Ho’s—beyond reproach.

Suzy Q’s—always beneficial. Hostess snowballs—can’t be beat.

No.2—Milk is bad.  Instead, Eddie prefers hourly doses of caffeine (strong, black, sugary) to give his work a certain perkiness that his readers expect from him.

No. 3—Leafy greens and veggies are for bunnies.  Eddie says they give him a false sense of health that is detrimental to his writing.

No. 4—Booze in any form.  Always a plus, especially when imbibed before a Ho-Ho breakfast in the morning.  Eddie’s strict regimen of boiler-makers (beer mixed with whiskey) keeps him buoyant and alert, imbued with that special patina of cockiness we’ve come to expect in his writings.

No. 5—Red meat, fish, poultry.  Eddie says eating bits of animal corpse in any form is bad for a writer’s bowels.

No. 6—Snacks.  Eddie leans toward Snickers, claiming they contain a scientific compound of essential ingredients that can sustain all known life species.

Those are the basics.  Of course, Eddie admits his nutrition theory may not work for everyone. But it works for him and who can argue with success?

Like I said up front: Eddie’s advice has never led me astray. Of course, there’s always a first time.

Robert Wetherall

Last Flight Home

The Making of Bernie Trumble

Forever Andrew

Available at Amazon.com, penumbrapublishing.com, wetherallbooks.com

The Truth About Eddie

Ever since I started mentioning him in these columns, folks far and wide have been asking me to tell them more about my friend, celebrated writer and welder, Eddie Salinski.  Just this morning, I received a Morse code message from an Intuit Eskimo living in the icebound environs of the Arctic Circle. 

“Want more Eddie,” came the faint plea.

So here goes:  Eddie is hard to track down because he lives in an ancient 1978 Winnebago Sportsman (320 hp, Allison six-speed tranny) and goes wherever he wants to, whenever he gets the notion.

It’s hard to figure his age: he’s not a kid anymore but he doesn’t slump like an old guy either. He’s about six feet tall and is lanky—but his build isn’t the slim, peach fuzz-types you see Venice Beach. It’s the skinny, boney build you get through years of over-work and under-nourishment. 

Eddie has short gray hair on the top of his head and a three-day growth of beard on the bottom. His eyes are hazel and, notwithstanding a wide smile showing uneven Chiclets of teeth, his features are rugged, ragged yet quite studly.

I caught up with him last August at a tractor-pull in Salem, Kansas.  He told me he was there to lay his mother to rest and after that he was heading for LA for a writers conference where he was a featured speaker.  He reminisced a bit about his beginnings as a writer. 

First goal: Learning to read. Since Eddie says he is dyslexic, autistic and toxic, it was an onerous task. But with that out of the way, he began jotting down Eddie-type thoughts in a notebook that eventually became a manuscript that landed in the hands of a noted New York literary agent. One cold winter’s night, this agent (whose name rhymes with Scott Meredith) was just about to toss Eddie’s work into a blazing fireplace along with a bunch of other manuscripts when Eddie’s typed words caught his eyes.

That was all it took. The more the agent read the smoking pages, the more he was captivated by Eddie’s roughhouse but innocently powerful writing style.   Before long, Eddie was the toast of the publishing world.  He was lighting the gas hotplate in his old trailer with 100-dollar bills.

But instant, lightning-bolt-out-of-the-heavens success has not changed Eddie Salinski. He remains humble and self-effacing to a fault and still gives free advice to lesser beings such as yours truly—which I try to pass along frequently in these columns.

Hope it helps. But if it doesn’t, don’t blame Eddie. It’s just that somewhere between Eddie’s telling and my re-telling, maybe the magic was lost.

But we’ll keep trying.