Sunday, April 24, 2011

Grammar? Don't Take it Seriously.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

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.


 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

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.  
 


Monday, April 18, 2011

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.














Sunday, April 17, 2011

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.


Friday, April 15, 2011

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



Tuesday, April 12, 2011

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.