Waiting Sucks

Almost a month ago, Sarah went to the doctor (Eden and I went with her, but we didn't really go to the doctor) and he told her there was a good change this baby was coming early. Now we're two days from the due date and I kind of want to punch him (even though the good Dr. Woo is an extremely nice man). I'm absolutely no good at waiting. It sends me into a complete stupor, leaving me nearly incompetent when it comes to doing just about everything. I mostly just wander in a haze around the earth, waiting. Waiting. And as soon as this baby is born, I'll be fine to go about my business completing things as usual. But until then ... I've got nothing.

I'm wondering if this effect that waiting has on me shows up anywhere else. Not to be morbid, but if we're just waiting for the end of time (particularly if you're from the school of thought that we're waiting for something better), how on earth can I get anything done in the here and now? Not that I think about the end all the time. But you know. It's a question I have: How does waiting for the end effect me in the here and now?

Stupid Ticket/Officer of Peace

Apparently, in Minnesota, when you move, you're required to get a new driver's license within 30 days showing your new address. I wasn't aware.

Here are the order of (imperative) events.

1. We moved into this house almost a year ago.
2. I got new license plates for our car
3. I was unable to put the new license plates on the car because the screw were rusted on
4. I received a parking ticket for expired tabs
5. I placed the new plate in the back window, above the old plate
6. I got pulled over for having two plates showing
7. I gave the officer my license and answered him honestly when he asked if I lived at my old address
8. He spent 8 minutes or so looking up my info (with my pregnant wife, daughter, and dog waiting)
9. He cited me for having the wrong address on my license

Here's the thing. I know the guy has to do his job. But I really was trying to be helpful with the whole license plate thing. I don't know. Maybe I'm just frustrated. My neighbor grows pot on his back porch and plays loud music at all hours of the night and there are always people shouting in his house and his dog is terrifying and his buddies dog is always running around the neighborhood. And that's just my neighbor, you know? Ah. Life is unfair. C'est la vie.

One more thing. The citation refers to the police officer as an "officer of peace". I wonder how our idea of law enforcement might change if everyone referred to the police as officers of peace. And if they legitimately though of themselves as officers of peace.

I asked Sarah what she thought and she said, "Maybe they'd be more like mounties." O Canada! Maybe we'll change our address again.

Finally. A job.

I started my job yesterday. I'm doing the same thing that Sarah has been doing for the last ten years, providing her lots of opportunity to feel WAY smarter than me. I'll be working with autistic kids doing Applied Behavioral Analysis, an intensive, early-intervention therapy. Once again, the jobs falls under the never-thought-I'd-be-doing-this category, but I'm definitely looking forward to it. Last year I worked in a classroom at a junior high with a bunch of autistic kids; I think it will be interesting to get in on the ground floor and see if I can help keep kids out of resource rooms in the future. The company has a high (I want to say 70%?) best-case-scenario rate, meaning that the kids start the first grade (or whenever they start going to school) without an IEP or any sort of label. It seems amazing to me, but after watching a couple of sessions, I think I'm beginning to understand how 8 hours of therapy everyday can help kids adjust to a world they have trouble understanding. Now if I could only adjust to a world I have trouble understanding.

It's Coming

Fall. And I can't wait. This summer has been too hot. There is a reason I live in Minnesota. I'm looking forward to sweatshirts and jeans. Besides, the two pair of shorts that I own both ripped during the same hot hot HOT week. One along the back pocket and one, somehow, along the front of the leg. Summer hates me.

Also coming: More stories. I've been working overtime on my critical paper and the first draft is done and I'm hoping that the second draft doesn't take as long as the first. It's about the relationship between songs and short stories as they relate in the three techniques of precision, movement, and final effect. If that sounds super boring to you ... well, it might be. But for me, it's one of the most interesting non-fiction topics I've ever written about. And it's changing the way I write songs and stories, which means it must be important. At least to me. The gist of it is that in songwriting and short story writing, you're working within the confines of a shortened time and space. With a novel, you can write five hundred pages about whatever you want - the color of the grass, the history of the Nordic people, why a character might wear glasses instead of contacts. And the reader will probably give you the time to do it; they've invested in the novel and they're going to want to see it through to the end. (Not always true, but we're working on generalizations here.) Short stories and songs are different. You have to be precise; if you only have a certain number of words to use, then each word ought to be chosen precisely. You have to provide movement; in songs that comes in rhythm, but also in the lyrics and stories it comes in plot, but also in the rhythm. And you're trying to provide the reader with one final effect; I would argue that the best songs and stories leave you with one overwhelming feeling. Anyway, if that's super interesting to you, you can get your MFA at the University of Nebraska-Omaha and I'll be teaching about it next summer. Or you can read my 30 page paper. Your call. OR EVEN BETTER: You can hire me to teach at your college.

Anyway, I've almost tackled the critical work, so I'm moving back into stories. I would like for my creative thesis to be a collection of short stories that is accompanied by an album of songs about those stories. The Northwoods Hymnal. I have two songs and five stories completed (and completed is a tricky word). I'm shooting for ten to twelve. I have about seven or eights months to go. Really I have ten months, but there is a break between the spring semester and the summer residency and I think I'm supposed to be done before that break. Regardless, it's nice to have direction and a goal in sight. I posted one story a few weeks ago and I suppose I could post the other stories as they complete. I can post demos of the songs too if that's something people are interested. All eleven of you.

And the album I've been working on for three years? What about that? Still in progress. But I'm sitting down with Jake and Josh this weekend to construct a plan. Hopefully it will help all my flailing in the darkness. I realized I have five different versions of Little Bird; at some point I'm going to just have to tack it down with a tether and nail. And then you'll get that version, while I wince at all the things I should have done differently. So much for masterpieces.

Show(s)

Big show tonight with cathy Crescendo at Eclipse Records in St. Paul. I'll be toting the electric guitar while Jake does all of the pretty singing. If by chance you read this in the next hour, find a way to get there. If not, you should know that you really missed out.

Also, I have a show coming up on Wednesday at Bethel college opening up for an R&B/Rap act named FAITH. It's gonna be sweet. I'm going to play mostly slow, sad songs. 6 PM - Don't be late!

The hardest word to spell

For me it's onomatopoeia. In fact, it's so hard to spell that when I tried, just now, I couldn't even get close enough for spell check to pick it up. All I got was "No Suggestions". Thank God for google. And seriously, a T? And a poeia ending? That's ridiculous.

I mention onomatopoeia because I realized today that children basically learn to speak primarily in onomatopoeias.

A list of Eden's words (and I'm using words loosely):

- Mama (For Sarah and Molly, Jacob's chinchilla, who lives in the basement)

- Dada

- Nana

- Up

- Beep Beep!

- Wee-ooh (a siren)

- Bock Bock! (a chicken)

- Mmmm (a cow)

- Meow (a cat)

- Yum yum

- Hop Hop Hop (a bunny)

- Fly Fly Fly (A bird)

I can't think of anymore off the top of my head. But let's see: Mama, Dada, Nana, and Up and definitely words. The beep, siren, cow, and cat are definitely onomatopoeias. That's half and half. The last three are something else altogether. I suppose the hopping and flying are actual words because she knows the actions that go along with them. But yum yum - what is that?

So maybe she knows more words than onomatopoeias. But it's interesting to note that it's about half. Could you make it through a day using half onomatopoeias?

Side note: I don't think I'll ever have trouble spelling onomatopoeia again, after using it so many times. I should make this an exercise, writing blogs with words I have trouble spelling.

Also: What the hardest word to spell for you?

Super clever blog title!

Seriously. How DO they do it? I can't ever figure out how to title blogs effectively. I assume it should be humorous. Or, at the least, it should induce curiosity. I was seriously considering titling this blog entry "Structure and the Short Story." Do you want to continue readings? I don't.

Here's the thing: This semester I wanted to get a better idea of what short stories look like now. I've read a good deal of Hemingway and his cohorts, but I wanted to know what my cohorts were writing. The answer: A little bit of everything. But there is something that irks me. Structure.

I'm reading through the Norton Anthology of Contemporary Fiction and at this point, about halfway through the 500 some pages, I think most of it is good. They've included Carver's masterpiece Cathedral and some lesser known stories that I read last semester by guys like Ron Carlson (go, right now, and pick up his collection A Kind of Flying. Or at least read The H Street Sledding Record and Bigfoot Stole My Wife. So excellent) and Charles Baxter (Pet Milk, in this case). I like these stories. I like a lot of these stories. Last night I read Amy Hempel's The Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried and it completely floored me. Or Andre Dubus' A Father's Story. Tons of great stories.

The writer's that do not win my affection, however, usually share a common trait. They attempt to jazz up their story with some sort of structural change. They write avant garde-ly (not a real term.) and, for me, they sometimes ruin otherwise good stories. I'm immediately pulled out of what my first semester mentor Fred Arroyo calls "the fictional dream state" (or something like that), because the author refuses to complete a sentence, instead leaving the end of a paragraph hanging and starting the next paragraph with the second half of the sentence. Interesting? Sure. Sort of. Necessary? I guess if you need a gimmick to get published in an anthology. The only story I've started and refused to finished William H. Gass' In the Heart of the Heart of the Country. He gave headings to short sections, like Politics or Place, and then writes what I would call prose poetry about those specific elements. And I cannot find a story. I will gladly admit that I might just be too stupid. But my frustration lies in this: People have been writing amazing stories in classic structure ever since people started writing stories. Could it be that the challenge that lies in writing a simple sentence is enough? That we don't need to be tricked with gimmicks? Isn't it hard enough to engage a reader over the span of 2500 words or so?

Geez. I sound like a geezer. (Did you see that, what I did there?) Maybe I'm old school at 28. I think the same thing about songs, that structure exists for a reason, that it helps people listen and interpret. Nothing new under the sun and all of that. Anybody have a great example of a story that functions outside of the realms of classic story structure? I'll read it. Maybe it's just a matter of taste. I just really believe that it's hard enough to write a good sentence; that challenge is enough for me. No reason to reinvent the wheel. Don't tear down fences until you know what they're there for. Man, I sound ancient and ornery. And maybe I haven't made a lick of sense. If you get one thing out of this:

Go read Amy Hempel's story that I mentioned. It feels new, it sound new, it's a challenge in 8 or 10 pages. But she writes without fancy gimmicks. She just writes great sentences.

Ear candles

Sarah is 34 weeks pregnant and last time we went to the doctor she asked him this question about her ears building up with pressure and refusing to pop. The doctor said that sometimes in pregnancy ear wax can thicken and/or produce at a greater rate. Who knew? So, we went to a local co-op and got some ear candles. I couldn't resist trying them. You basically stick a hollow candle in your ear and light the other end on fire. The smoke is supposed to loosen waxy buildup and over the next five days we're supposed to feel a definitive difference. I'll keep you updated. All you really need to know right now is that it's not entirely safe, only do it if your kids are napping, and find a comfortable spot that you wouldn't mind being singed. We did it on our living room couch, so, that wasn't a great idea. But there were no singings (wait. singing? or singeing?) I did drop hot ash on the floor at one point, but everything was okay.

Apart from ear candles, I don't have a lot to write today. I did finish the first copy of my critical paper yesterday (Special thanks to Explosions in the Sky for the soundtrack). I'm sure it's terrible, but I feel like it was a pretty good start. I'll spend the next week editing it and then send it off to be torn to shreds by my mentor this semester, Mr. Pope Brock. He's very precise and I'm a little nervous, but he lives in Maine and it's not like he's cutting me, just parts of my work. No harm, no foul.

Side note: We were watching baseball the other day and a runner coming from third tried to take out the catcher at home. This is about the only physical altercation that happens in baseball. Sarah wanted them to call a foul. I explained that there were no fouls in baseball. But I think a part of her growing appreciation for the game died. I'm just glad it wasn't a bench clearing brawl.

Flannery O'Connor and Community

I just finished reading Flannery O'Connor's collection of short stories A Good Man is Hard to Find. So creepy. So Southern. So good. I particularly liked the one about the Bible salesman who steals an Atheist woman's wooden leg. Bizarro.

(Side note: Flannery? Really? Why? How much do you dislike your child?)

Two things struck me in particular (well, three, but two about the actual writing). One: O'Connor writes from her Catholic faith. It's apparent in all of her stories; they all have elements of faith and grace and, I would say, redemption. But it never once bothered me, it was never overdone. It's nice to know, I guess. I sometimes worry (and this may be completely stupid) that my heritage of faith will affect my writing negatively. It's silly, now, seeing it typed out like that. But anyone who creates is bound to have ridiculous worries, it's a natural extension of putting yourself out in the world. And I think, most of the time, the worries are only our own and not ridiculous at all.

Two: Geography is a part of us. I read a large chunk of Road Angels by Kent Nerburn and what I read (which was great) was basically a travelogue discussing how geography effects the way we write. If you took O'Connor out of the South, I'm sure she would have been a good writer, but I don't think she would have been so mesmerizing. I hope the cold, the quiet, the distance, the importance of summer, the pine trees - I hope it all works its way into my writing. And a cursory observation: I feel a sadness for people that have been removed from their homeland. It must be like missing a part of your actual identity.

Third: I bought this book on half.com which is a great place to buy books. I always buy the cheapest ones and usually they come a little scuffed up or there is maybe some pencil underlining strong phrases or whatever. I don't mind. Books ought to have character. I like things with character. If you come to one of my shows or to my house or whatever, ask me about my '81 Guild that I bought at Willie's American Guitars. It's a year older than me and all the worse for wear. And I LOVE it. Anyway, this book is the exception. The girl who owned it first, Shannon Thompson, went through the whole thing with marker of all different colors (I think she was particularly fond of pink). She drew hearts in places. Made weird comments that made me think she might be in middle school. At the end of the book, on the last blank page, she just wrote "I DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING." It was kind of funny, when it wasn't obnoxious. And I felt like I got to know her a little. Which is weird, because usually reading a book is such a solitary experience. Today I actually caught myself wondering if I could get in touch with her to ask her about some of her comments. Most of them were just lame (at one point in the leg-stealing story she simply wrote "Weirdo") but some of them were perplexing enough for me to want to ask about why she thought this or why she wrote that. Anyway, it got me thinking about starting a book group. Or community reading. Or why music is so much more popular than books. I think we are, for the most part, attracted to activities that will shove us into community. And this version of A Good Man is Hard to Find did exactly that.

Things we take to bed

Eden:

1. Doll

2. Baby (not a real one)

3. Cat (also not a real one)

4. Weird red troll monkey

5. Blanket

6. Teething Ring

Luke

1. Book

2. MacBook

3. MacBook Charger

4. Insulin

5. Ice Cream (see number 4)

6. Phone

I was thinking today, "How did this kid become such a hoarder?" Mmm. Got it.

Don't forget about the free songs from yesterday.

Free music

So yesterday it was finally cool enough to form thoughts. But instead of blogging, I worked on my 30-45 page critical paper for grad school. I've got to get it done (DONE!) before this new baby comes at the end of September. My apologies though to those who were desperately waiting for a sharp and witty blog entry. Alas, I've failed you again.

Let me buy your love. With free stuff. (Make sense? I don't think so.)

(Shorts. Get it?)

Get your free EP Shorts here:

http://www.thegreatamericannovel.net/Shorts%20EP.zip

It's mostly made up with the shortest songs I've ever written. Three of five clock in under two minutes. They're just me and my '81 Guild, but I think you'll enjoy them, and they'll have to hold you over until I ever actually record that next album.

Also, if you want to be great friends (and I think we should be), do me a favor and shoot me your email, so that I can add you to my mailing list. (I have yet to mail anything out, if you're worried about junk mail. You can hope for, at most, an email a month.)

And one more thing: If you want my last EP, Trees, for free just shoot me an email at lazerhawley@gmail.com. If you want to support the music and buy the EP you can get it at http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/GreatAmericanNovel

You are all the very best.

Story for a Heat Wave Day

Because it's still too hot to think, I present you a story. It's my only published story to date and they only one I think is done enough to post. Also, I feel like it's apt for today, since the heat index is supposed to climb up towards 110. I'm dreaming of winter.

Blizzards

We are an avalanche, tumbling out the door and down the back steps, a whirlwind of hats, gloves, elbows, knees, and scarves, our knit winter wear still searching for the proper appendage as our boots hit the snow, crunching under our weight and leaving proof behind us that we are not ghosts, but heavy footed adolescents. We jostle for position, picking up speed and snow as we land in a heap in the yard where the garden grows in the short months of summer. It was mom who had started it, shouting to get out of the house before we drove her crazy, her voice booming off the walls, loosening the wildness from our dormant bones and sending us rampaging around the house, pulling on our long johns and wool socks to keep us warm in the winter air.

We run the first couple of blocks, shouting at Danny to hurry up, his little legs, two years younger than Keith’s, four years younger than mine, pumping like mad to keep up. Keith and I inevitably slow down and blame Danny for our waning pace, although we are glad to stop, our deep breaths meeting the air like exhaust spitting out behind the cars warming in driveways up and down the road.

“C’mon Danny! You’re too slow.” Keith is hard on Danny because I am hard on Keith. And Danny is hard on our barn kitten Lucy because Keith is hard on Danny.

“Lay off Keith. He’s got short legs and his boots are too big for him.”

“I do not have short legs!” Danny shoves me from behind.

“It’s not your fault. You’re just the baby.” I smirk at him, keeping a twinkle of teasing in my eye.

“I’m not the baby!”

“You don’t sound like it at all when you crying like that.” Keith does not keep any twinkle in his eye. He wears a superman S for sarcasm across his chest, an alter ego to hide his sensitive Clark Kent heart.

“I’m not crying.” Danny sets his jaw and speaks through his teeth.

“Whatever,” Keith says, “Last one to the field is an idiot.”

And we’re off again, us clever boys, calling each other names as we go, now out of earshot of home, mixing in what curse words we know with our taunts, puffing our hairless chests as we run.

The best blizzards are the warm ones, when the air hovers around freezing and the flakes drop like swans, wings spread, spinning and twisting to delicate landings on the frozen pond of the earth. The snow wipes the slate of the world clean; the ground is a blank page, and the trees are crooked and white ice sculptures, towering high and frozen over the earth.

We reach the field behind First Methodist in the order of our birth. Keith takes off across to the far side of the field and begins to stockpile his artillery behind a barrel-chested oak tree. The snow is wet and heavy, the kind where when you hold it in your bare hands for a minute it forms a hard icy shell.

“No ice balls,” I yell. As the oldest, I have a God-given duty to lay out the rules of engagement. I head for a small grove of spruce trees, who’s canopy of branches will protect me against high angled air strikes. I look back to see Danny standing at the edge of the field, staring at the silver branches gleaming off the tops of the trees. “What are you doing Danny! Take cover!”

I sit with my back against a tree and draw armfuls of snow toward me. The air feels warm against my cheeks; my skin is flush from the run to the field and the extra layer of long underwear. I take off my coat and hang it from a nubby branch just above my head, creating a shield of protection from the angle of Keith’s fortress. I make one snowball, then another, then another, stacking them next to the trunk of the tree.

I am packing the fourth bullet tightly when I hear the sound of sleet crumbling against skin. I jump to my feet and turn toward the sound of the impact. I see Danny slumped in the snow and Keith charging out from behind his towering oak, running to the heap of red scarf and blue jacket. I run to Danny, reaching him first, dropping to my knees at his side, the hard snow crunching against my snow pants.

“Danny! Are you alright?” He is lying with his face in the snow and I roll him over to get a better look at him. He pulls his gloves to his face and I can see that his nose is bleeding. “Keith! What the hell did you do?”

“I … I .. He was just standing there and so I …”

“So you threw a snowball at his face?”

The snow is brick red where Danny’s face hit the ground; the flakes are breaking down to crystals and a faint steam rises off the surface of the snow. Danny turns to look at the blood, now thinning out as the ice melts water into the stain, spreading out the pink remnant across the field.

“Cool.” Keith and I turn to look at Danny, his gloves shielding his face, catching the blood that is still running out of his nose. His voice is muffled, from the gloves and the blood, and he sounds like he does when he catches a winter bug and his nostrils run with snot and all his M sounds turn to Bs and his D sounds have a hint of N at the end of them. He takes off one of his gloves and wipes his hand across his nose, catching the blood along the outside of his index finger. He flicks his hand at the snow and we all watch at the blood speckles out across the frozen ground.

“You’re alright?” Keith has opened his telephone booth, parting his hair and putting his glasses back on and is looking worried in his tan newspaperman suit. His eyes are serious and he arches his eyebrows as if it will lift the weight of his concern.

Danny, still sitting in the snow, looks up at him and smiles. “You think I’m some kind of sissy?” He throws his head back in a squeaky laugh and his body follows, tipping backwards into the snow. He waves his arms in semicircles and scissor kicks his legs, mixing in some of the bloody snow, creating an angel who wears a pink stained robe. He looks up into the sun, a hazy circle in the sky, held back by gray winter clouds. The blood is beginning to freeze just above his lip. He is laughing and we can’t help but join him, falling on our backs and flapping our wings through the dense snow.

And now we are snowdrifts, frozen hard and fast to the furniture, plowed into separate corners of mom’s living room, settled like glaciers in our chairs, immutable hunks of compacted ice, stubborn and hard in our middle age, our words coming slow and quiet, like the winter passing outside the walls of our childhood home.

Danny sits in the recliner, one hand stroking the fur of the impossibly old Lucy, the other hand stretching and retracting, trying to find the blood to soothe his aching fingers. The cat curls up in his lap, hunkering down against his soft stomach, trusting him to protect her ninth life, even if he is to blame for the loss of her first eight.

“Still trimming trees, Danny?” Keith clears his throat and coughs out his question. He knows the answer but ask to fill the silence; he’s out East now, but still calls mom every Sunday like a good boy.

“Yeah.” Danny shifts his eyes from his bending fingers to the gray and white fur of Lucy’s back. He makes his living swinging from trees, swooping from branch to branch, a chainsaw clipped to his harness belt. I watch as he turns his attention back to his hands and wonder how many Advil it takes to quiet his noisy knuckles.

“You found anyone to love besides that cat?” Keith’s sarcasm has taken a dark turn since he left home, the last echo of humor silenced by an unbecoming meanness. Mom blames his wife, who stole her boy and moved him to that big city and never stops nagging him, she says.

“Better the cat than that wife of yours.” I see Danny’s face tense instantly and know that he regrets taking Keith’s bait. Keith pushes himself out of his chair and walks across the living room rug to stand over Danny, who remains seated, rocking gently in the Lay-Z-Boy.

“You wanna say that again?”

Danny lifts Lucy from his lap and sets her on the arm of the chair, patting her gently with his huge hand. He is still the baby, but only in years now. He stands, towering over Keith, his momentum carrying his arm with him, his fist full of knuckles, cut and chapped from the dry winter air, swinging around from behind him. The sound of fist on flesh is almost the same as the sound of sleet on skin. Keith drops to the ground, catching the weight of his fall with one arm. He lies back on his elbow, holding his nose with his free hand, staring up at Danny. Blood runs from between his fingers, red drops blotting mom’s white carpet.

Danny sits down in the recliner and lifts Lucy onto his lap. Keith wipes his nose with the arm of his white Henley and stands with a grunt. He walks through hallway and back towards the bathroom. I turn my eyes to the window, seeing the snow come down, feeling the warmth of the blood-flecked rug under my feet, feeling the pulses of both my brothers pounding in the air, the white heat of anger.

When we were boys, mom used to boil water on the stove and I would hold open the back door as she carried the pot to the back steps, steaming in the freezing air. She would toss it out over the garden and we would listen as it landed with the tinny sound of ice on ice, bouncing off the frozen ground, the air cooling the water so fast that it froze before impact.

“It’s looking pretty bad out there,” I say.

The worst blizzards are the cold ones, when the wind blows in from the west across the flat, flat prairie and the temperatures drop below zero and the wind chill scratches frostbite into your skin in a matter of seconds. The air takes the breath from your lungs, a vacuum of cold. The snow gusts across the roads, hiding the black ice that slicks the asphalt like oil. Streetlights shine into a white night, teeming flakes of snow making it impossible to see even the house across the street. The world outside is dark and quiet; the only noise the crack of freezing trees. It is snowing like that now, a wind-whipped whiteout, the streets freezing solid, the trees cracking with ice. The temperature will plummet in the night and we will sleep in our boyhood beds because this is family and there is nowhere to go now but here.

Hot Hot Hot

Would you believe me if I said it's too hot to blog? My brain just shuts down; I think my body is using all it's energy to cool itself, leaving nothing for thinking. For instance, read that last sentence. I'm not sure it makes any sense.

Quick proud father story though. Tonight I laid Eden down in her crib and she chose to take her doll and a book with her. A book! We must be doing something right. I mean, it was dark and I know she can't read, but she had it held open in front of her when I laid her on her back. SO PROUD.

Eden's First Rock Show

I mean it wasn't exactly a rock show. I was playing the acoustic guitar. But there was a drum set and Jacob shattered the hot rods he was using. So that's something.

We played last night at Eclipse Records in St. Paul. It's a total hole. It reminds me of some of the places my old band Sequel played. It's a record store and about a quarter of the store is walled off into a black, brick room, complete with a stage and sound system. It's not as bad as some of the places I've played and, in all actuality, the sound is pretty stellar. It was a fun night. Jake and I played first and I think I managed six songs in 35 minutes or so. I did a lot of blathering. If you didn't come you missed out on some sweet philosophizing (including the totality of my last blog post). Parachutes Fail (www.parachutesfail.com) also played and they were sweet as usual. They have a new ep out that you can get just be email Josh at josh@parachutesfail.com. It was their last performance of their long running set - they're working up a new one for the near future. I'm not entirely sure what it's like to have one set that you play almost every time. I don't actually know what my set will be until I play it and it usually changes in the middle. Sometimes in the middle of a song. Also, if you love vocal harmony and sweet, simple pop songs check out Sleeper and the Sleepless (www.myspace.com/sleeperandthesleepless). On top of being stellar musicians Heidi and Jess and Jimmy are super nice human beings.

I am working on a record. I promise. In fact, I'm getting together with Josh and Jacob to discuss how to tackle it. It's songs that I've been writing over the last three years and the farther I get from the songs the harder it is for me to put them to tape. I'm usually not one to feel any pressure about this sort of thing, but for some reason I do and it's been a little paralyzing. (Side note: Can something be a little paralyzing?) But we're gonna get the ideas right and then we're gonna get the actual songs right. You'll love it, I promise.

Bookcases and Music

So I'm building this bookcase. I started last week and I've been a little obsessive. Actually, I started the bookcase a few months ago when I picked up an old, tall window off of Jacob Champlin's aunt's front lawn. I added a couple of windows from my parents' house when they installed egress windows in the basement. Now I have it all framed out; it's got one tall window on the left side, a window above that that opens in an upward angle, and two other windows on the right that open opposite of the tall window. I'll post a picture of it pretty soon, in case that explanation didn't make any sense. Anyway, it's being primed right now and then I'll pick out some colors so that it will fit in our living room. (Sarah is good to me, to let me build big bookcases and move things around in order to fit them into our living room.)

I was just now standing out in the driveway looking at this monstrous primed-white bookcase. I realized that one of the screws in one of the shelves was peaking through and breaking up the wood a bit. I grabbed a 90 degree screwdriver and took the screw out and then sunk another at an angle into the shelf. It took me a couple of tries and I tore up the wood a bit. I was mildly frustrated with the whole process and stepped back to take in the entire thing. It's pretty good, but it's definitely not the work of a finish carpenter. It's the work of someone who knows their way around tools and lumber and has never built a bookcase. But I'm pretty proud of it.

Anyway, I was thinking that the bookcase is a big, wooden metaphor for my music. None of it is perfect; I refuse to do a million takes in an attempt at perfection; that kind of perfection can drive a person crazy. It's a little rough around the edges, some of the angles are sharp and crisp, the lines aren't all completely level, some of it is torn up from too many attempts at sinking screws. But the most important thing about it is that it holds the things I love, the things I think are important, the things I want to fill my life with, the things I want to share with other people. The bookcase is the same.

That's all.

Name dropping

I'm dropping my band name. It's too confusing. I spend all my PR time (ALL of it. Which is obviously a ton.) saying things like, Come on out and check out my band The Great American Novel. Wouldn't it be easier to say, Come on out. Or I'm playing music. It's no degrees of separation, you know?

You can check me out online at:

Here.

I'm doing all things through this blog from now on. Until someone begs to create a website for me. And then I'll have some sort of contest to name my domain.

Residency

I'm in Nebraska at my graduate school residency. Actually, I'm currently listening to some faculty read from their work. I like some of it; others I'm not so high on. But readings are weird. I miss the music. I suppose I'm a songwriter before anything else. Although my short stories are ratcheting up.

So this residency takes place in Nebraska City at the Arbor Lodge, this big conference center slash hotel. It's beautiful, lots of bare unlumbered wood. If you didn't know, Nebraska invented arbor day because no trees grow here naturally. But they sure did bring in some beauties.

I brought my mini studio with me. Today I recorded an EP. I'll release it for free soon. It's called Shorts: it contains five short songs, three clocking in at under two minutes. It's just me and my '81 Guild so, if you like that sort of thing, then I imagine you'll dig it.

Middle School Graduation

I'm unemployed in two days. But today I'm enjoying our middle school eighth grade graduation. I don't remember having a ceremony. I'm not bitter or anything though; I didn't particularly enjoy any of my graduations. Although in all honesty, I don't remember my preschool ceremony. Apparently my name was announced followed by, "He wants to be a clown when he grows up." Never did achieve that one, but hey, I got a whole life ahead. What did you want to be when you graduated preschool? Middle school? High school? College? Did it change from station to station? What happens to a dream defered?

P.S. If you're on some sort of middle school graduation committee, just buy a copy of Pomp and Circumstance. There is zero glory in the seventh and eighth grade orchestral version.

Something I've never done

There's something I need to ask my mother about and I can't for the life of me remember. Or rather, now that I have my phone in my pocket I can't remember. When my phone is upstairs I have no trouble remembering, but then the minute I have the phone in my hand I can't remember. I know there's some research out there saying that our short term memories are being affected by not having to remember things like phone numbers (because they're kept in our phones) but I didn't expect my memory to be tied so closely to my phone.

I did something I've never done this week. I showed up at a new job and quit within an hour. I like to think of myself as a hard worker and usually a humble worker. I've worked fast food and group homes and college recruiting and I think I've done a lot of different things with approximately the same effort. But Tuesday I showed up to paint a house in St. Paul and all the people wanted painted was the second and third story trim. I've known about this painting job for some time and I've been psyching myself up for it. I thought I had a mild fear of heights and I did have a small knot in my stomach about it. It turns out that I'm terrified of heights. I got maybe six feet off the ground, up one of those flimsy aluminum ladders and I started sweating and my heart started pounding and my hands and legs started shaking. It was bad (and embarrassing). I think I could have climbed up the ladder and come back down, given enough time anyway, but the idea of spending all day 25 feet up on a ladder, reaching around to scrape and paint trim ... no way. So I quit. I still feel terrible about it. But I would have been a waste of money at that job. It's a strange thing to say "I can't do it."

When I was in fourth grade at Fair Oaks Elementary School in Brooklyn Park, MN our school slogan was "Every kid a winner every day." Problem 1: the sentence is missing an "is". Problem 2: some days we're losers. Some things we can't do. I can't hit a 90 mile an hour fastball regularly enough to play Major League Baseball. I couldn't really hit a 70 mph fastball often enough to play Babe Ruth baseball in middle school. I think I could practice hard every day and still not hit that 90 mph fastball, let alone a breaking ball of any kind. And I feel totally fine with that. Maybe we should be teaching kids to be proud of their strengths, aware of their weaknesses, and that basic human worth isn't built on either of those things.

Good thing my self-worth isn't tied into my short-term memory.

4 years

Today I have been married for 4 years. And I have to tell you that, for me, it has been amazing. I'm sure Sarah wishes I picked up after myself a bit more, but I think I've done an alright job. If someone would have asked me five years ago, before Sarah and I started dating, where I saw myself in five years, I'm not sure what I would have said. I know I wouldn't have said, Married, with a kid, a dog, a cat (A CAT!), and another baby on the way. Oh yeah, and two cars, a mortgage, halfway through grad school and unemployed. None of those things would have been on my list. But I wouldn't change any of them. Except unemployed. But we count our blessings right? And I'm certain to have a job in the next two weeks, I can feel it. Just in time to leave for ten days of grad school ...

Have a great Fourth of July everyone (and by everyone I, of course, mean the three people who read this).

My neighbor's internet is broken again

I'll get back to blogging soon enough. Lately my computer has been a tornado of resumes, cover letters, and Pro Tools sessions. And the occasional fantasy baseball update. But the blogs will come! They will. I started working on a non-fiction book called "Thoughts from a Recovering Narcissist". I'll post bits and pieces of it I think. What better place to reach outside yourself than the world of blogging, right?

Big show tonight at Cafe 318 in Excelsior. Well. Not big. But a show nonetheless. So, I'm off to rock and roll.

Technology, weight, and prose

I think I've found a job. I'm expecting a second call early this week. From Home Depot. It's something right?

I've been trying to slow my digital life. I think technology is wonderful but sometimes it does get your head spinning so fast that it's nearly impossible to find peace. I'm working towards employing a tech sabbath. It's at least a though now.

I'm also working on losing some weight, which is weird to talk about for me. My sister called me Ribs when I was younger because I was rail thin. But somewhere around 25 my metabolism went on strike and we have yet to work out a collective bargaining agreement. So I have an oldschool (yet space-age looking) exercise bike that I have been spending quality time with. And I've been counting calories. All of this sucks. I would have eaten more and better food when I was younger if I had known about this day. Blarg.

So technological peace, weight watching, and the third leg of the trifecta is: novel writing. I'm completely starting over. [shock!] I'm currently reading Leif Enger's Peace Like a River and it is breathtaking. The story is great but the prose is ... Why I read. So shouldn't that be why I write? I completed the novel once and by that I mean I completed the framework and I have some idea of where I'm going. Now I'm going back to write lovely prose.

Check back with me in six months about the weight, six years about the novel, and six decades about peace.

The 400 Bar (and the show) Reviewed

Is sweet. Really great sound, which for what amounts to a dive bar is impressive. Plus the bar tender told me it's "nationally relevant". Not entirely sure what that means. I suppose they get a lot of great shows in - maybe they get a lot of blog love. It's happening right here, isn't it?

I'd like to give you a rundown of the bands because we got booked on a bizarre bill.

1: Nerve Lizard - a three piece, instrumental jam band that wailed. Tons of slap bass, loose drums, and sizzling guitar work. That being said, I'll quote Jacob: "I was riffed out after the second song." My sentiments too, but those guys could play.

2: Bug Girl - A two-piece from Australia that consisted of a long haired shirtless drummer and a fist pumping dark eyeliner female guitarist. Apparently some producer who has worked with AcDc did their record. You could tell. Two huge Marshall stacks and tons of badass rock n roll. It was great. My favorite was the tune "Blood, Sweat, and Beers". I dream of being cool enough to write a song like that.

3: Us - You know, The Great American Novel? Playing the acoustic guitr and a drum set with a broken kick pedal. Kudos to Jacob who found a way to play through it. A pro, that guy.

4: Scary Numan - A bunch of guys my dad's age playing songs from the 80s. I actually think their slogan is "Destroying your favorite 80s songs". I don't really have favorite 80s songs, but I'm sure they would have been destroyed. The keyboardist did have a sweet MOOG. And they used a drum machine for everything.

See what you miss out on when you don't support your local (and Australian) artists? For those of you who did come last night, thank you.

Hey! You there! Blog reader!

I need some help. I've been playing under the moniker The Great American Novel for the last couple of years. I haven't really had a band, although for the last few months I have had a drummer. Here's the thing: I'm thinking it may be easier to just go by my birth name. I realize that in the grand scheme of things, this dilemma is of no importance. But I'm wondering: what are your feelings about band names? People names? Monikers?

Let me know.

Shows and Whatever Else

Anybody reading these anymore? I'll keep writing them until I start getting messages about wasting internet space.

I have a show tomorrow at the 400 Bar in Minneapolis. I think it's gonna be sweet, except that I have to sell 25 tickets for it. Which is fine; I mean I understand why they do it. It's just that it's a Thursday and I don't have that many friends. Bummer.

Jacob and I have been practicing, which is super fun because it makes the songs better. I'm quite enjoying being a two-piece, with just the acoustic and drums. Not to say that I wouldn't take a bass player - I may have one trying out here soon - or a multi-instrumentalist (i.e. guitar, banjo, accordion, everything). If you're interested, do let me know.

I also have a show next weekend (May 29th) at a new place called The 808 in Minneapolis. It will be loads of fun. I'll be playing guitar for cathy Crescendo, as well as performing myself, as well as listening to Sarah Winters and her band perform. Then June 11th in Duluth (I think) and June 30th at 318 in Excelsior (which is just me and a guitar). Then a month off for graduate school stuff. And back in August.

Jacob is moving into our basement this summer for a little while, which will be great. We're going to start work on a full length with some of my favorite songs I've ever written. Drums in June sometime. And the rest will follow.

I wrote another Ray Carver song, this one based off the story Why don't you dnace?. That's three so far and I continue to enjoy the process. Be waiting for the Raymond Carver record to drop in the next decade sometime.

I've also started back on that pesky novel, after taking a semester off to write short stories. If you've been reading, then you know that I finished the first draft. Well, now I go back and destroy two-thirds of it and start fresh. It's quite a process.

Let me know if you have any questions. Just post them in the comments and I'll devote an entire blog to your questions. Everyone is special. You can also email them to me at lazerhawley@gmail.com or contact me through the website at www.thegreatamericannovel.net.

Later.

I'm back...

From Hogwarts. Laugh it up Literati and Cynics alike. I've been busy. Reading the Harry Potter series. As much as I'd love to be an elitist and say it's all rubbish, I'd like more to say that I'm a human being. They're really wonderful books. Or at least wonderful characters. And a wonderful world. And that's what she does so well, create a world within a world. And for me it is enough to forgive her sometimes blockish and rough writing. And, to be frank, I didn't want to leave. I got home yesterday and saw the book I had finished the night before sitting on my ottoman and I'll admit, I did get a little sad. But it's not like post-Avatar depression (I didn't see the movie) where this world is so gray and drab that I couldn't get out of bed this morning. I mean, today IS gray (or grey!) and drab, but I managed to crawl out of bed regardless.

Where was I? Ah. It's nice to imagine that there's a little magic in the world. I know exactly how cheesy that sounds. And I don't care. Is it so bad to hope for a world good triumphs evil?

Acoustic guitar = Ninevah

Big show tonight at Eclipse Records
In St. Paul with cathy Crescendo, Parachutes Fail, and Nyko Olson. The place looks pretty cool. It's a record store with a smallish arcade and the back third of it is devoted to a room for rocking out. Which we will gladly do. Jacob is playing drums for me tonight, but I have retiredy electric guitar for now, after an awful showing at The Red Sea a couple weeks ago. I'm a regular Jonah, running from the thing that gives me life: the acoustic guitar. But instead of ending up in the belly of a fish, I ended up in a weird middle eastern dive bar playing for a handful of gracious people. If you were there and on the off-chance your one of my 2.4 semi-regular readers, I promise this will be a better show. I'll do my best to remember to give you a rundown tomorrow.

The Internet is melting my brain

Oh man. Twitter has hooked me and now I'm nearly incapable of focusing my attention on anything.

Is it even a question anymore whether the technological age is related to the rise in ADD? (I gues that was a question.)

Point: I need to go camping. Or pull all the fuses out of my fuse box.

Proof: Ask yourself: Are these blogs making any sense? Is he using too many colons? Too many question marks? Too many topics?

Microblogging

I've gone back on my word. And back to Twitter. @americannovel

The thing about Twitter is it's a little like learning a foreign language. Or like understanding a different alphabet. Or like how if you know anything about sabermetrics it completely changes how you follow baseball. Or maybe I just have baseball embedded into my brain.

Baseball

Opening day was yesterday so you can expect fewer updates. Because I love baseball. And I'm in a fantasy league that will steal my brain and melt it into little drinks of sabermetrics. I hope I can complete my graduate school, find a new job, and put out a record, but with baseball in the air it doesn't look good. Wish me luck.

Vacation Illness

It's the worst. You get a week off of work and what happens? Your body breaks down. Sarah and Eden and I are in Arkansas right now visiting some of our best friends, Jon and Holly Neeley. They sold their house a couple months ago and are living in a camper in the park of their small town. It's awesome. Anyway, we got here yesterday, after spending a couple days with my grandparents and we were having a great time until the middle of the night last night when Eden and Sarah both got stung by the stomach bug. Injustice! This is vacation. It ought to be illegal. Viruses should have to follow social rules or something.

Vacation

Today is my last day of work for ten days. Thank God for working in a school and getting a full week for spring break. We're heading down to Arkansas to see my grandparents for a few days and then our most excellent friends Jon and Holly Neeley. Jon played guitar in Sequel to Adam with me and Holly designed all our merchant. They're also due to hav their first baby three weeks before we have number two. We're super stoked to see them. We're also interested to see how Eden does on the trip. We're splitting it into two 7 hour days. But she better get used to it; I was raised in the back seat of a minivan and I expect the same for my kids. Minus the minivan.

Side note: My whole life I thought South was up and North was down and I still get them confused pretty regularly. I suppose the logic was the the North had lower temperatures so it must be down further on the map. I still prefer to read maps with Texas on top. Not because I love Texas, oh no, not that at all.

Maintenance

My Achilles heel? Maintenance. This is a recent epiphany for me. Or maybe just the discovery of the word that best fits my most constant struggle. But it's come to a head in the last couple weeks with my attempts at an old habit: running.
I was blessed with a voracious metabolism. The only nickname I've ever acquired came from my sister when she started calling me Ribs sometime in junior high. Like any younger brother being called names it infuriated me, in part because she was teasing me and in part because she was right and I couldn't do anything about it. I could have eaten all day and night and never gained a pound. Long story short: not anymore. So I started running last week. It's been terrible. Any given day until I was 24 I could go out and run 3-4 miles. Nope. Not now. But the running's not even the worst. The worst is maintaining it. Maintaining my physical husk. Maintaining the energy and the memory to go out and do it. I'm not quite sure or the nature of this struggle, but I'm fairly certain I will always carry it with me.
Here are the things I hate to maintain, in no particular order:
Clean dishes
Clean clothes
Clean house
Teeth
Friendships
Personal hygiene
Church
Physical fitness
Yard
Dog's fitness

Pretty nasty list. And really it's longer I'm sure. I'm really only decent at maitaining a couple of things. Marriage and parenthood. And I think those are easy because for me they offer somethig different everyday. Unlike the dishes.

Maybe I need to start running different routes everyday.

iPod blog

This is my first blog via iPod. How's it going so far? I'm working on my networking skills and since the word net is in both network and Internet, I figure the Internet is the best place to start. Plus I don't leave my house very often. So here is blogging via iPod. What an incredible experience.

(Forgive me if this is a rather pedestrian post, lacking in my usual inspiration.)

Updates:

My first release unde the pseudonym The Great American Novel is nearing completion. I'm waiting on artwork an the hard copy of the recordings and then I will make it available via download. You'll be able to get it on iTunes at some point, but I'm hoping most people pick it up via cdbaby ad I get a better cut there. It's called Trees and contains five songs that mention trees in some way. It an organic, earthy, simple acoustic record and I hope everyone enjoys it.

My other update is that I've learned how to use iWeb and have designed my own website. www.thegreatamericannovel.net - go there and check it out and let me know how awesome it is. Also, I guess it would be nice to know where it is not awesome. It will continue to get updated in the next couple weeks and hopefully will be fully functional to coincide with the Trees EP. I'm quite the savvy businessman.

That's all for now. I plan to write soon about my aversion to maintenence. I'll sign off like I've started signing off everything, even though I feel like it doesn't mean anything at all.

Regards.

Published!

You can check out my short story, BLIZZARDS, in the new edition of Oeuvre Magazine at www.northlandartsmagazine.com. It's a small arts magazine out of Duluth, published only online, but it's really a beautiful publication. Check it out...

Raymond Carver writes my songs

I've been required to read like 30 books in my first two semesters of graduate school. Thinking about it now, it doesn't seem like such a huge number and I thank God everyday that none of them were textbooks. Of course, I didn't like all of them. And originally (I may have mentioned this in an earlier post) I did not like Ray Carver at all. I was asked to read "Where I'm Calling From", which is the most exhaustive volume of his short stories available. I think so anyway. It's nearly 550 pages of Carver shorts and it runs in chronological order. Anyway, I read the first few stories and I was put off completely. But the more time I spent with him, the more I enjoyed his stories.

INTERJECTION: I once told a most excellent friend of mine that we could never be best friends. I just didn't think it was in the cards. I think he took it as a challenge and it really wasn't too long after that I would tell him I was wrong. Which he thoroughly enjoyed. And still does. (I once told him I thought I was right 98% of the time, so any time I'm wrong, he enjoys it). I can't tell you what changed, other than we spent more time together and developed rapport and history and appreciation. And he's still one of my best friend. Anyway, I feel like Ray Carver and I have the same story, like we clashed upon first impression, but kept having to spend time with each other and now he's really one of my favorites.

If you've never read Carver, he's considered one of America's greatest short story writers. He came from a poor background and writes from a pretty blue collar perspective. Sometimes it seems like nothing happens in his stories. But most of the time his characters are broken and human and funny and charismatic and ridiculous and sad and lots of other adjectives. His stories sneak up on you and surprise you. They're beautiful, really. And, for the most part, mundane.

So there's Carver. And now me: I haven't written a song for six months, which I think is the longest drought I've had since I started writing songs 12 years ago. Now, I think that part of this is because I've been writing so much other stuff since my grad school started. And writing stories is different; you can write more for one thing. And I've fallen completely in love with stories. Which has led me to a minor worry that I'd never write another song again. I say minor because you can't worry too much about a thing like that. And because I wasn't sure if I'd miss it. But the worry grew and grew and grew, until (and you can ask my wife about this) I started mentioning it a few times a week. And then: Epiphany. I could co-write with Ray Carver. I was reading all these stories and they sung like songs to me and I thought it was only natural. So today I wrote my first song in six months. And I wrote it with Ray Carver. It's called Where I'm Calling From, just the same as the story it came from. You can find the story lots of places. For instance, the library. The lyrics I'll post right here:

Me and J.P. and Tiny make three
Down at Frank Martin's place
On the front porch, smoking outdoors
Propping up our feet
J.P.'s got this story he's trying to tell
But he's shaking and shaking and shaking like hell
And I know what you'd say
If you saw me this way

Where I'm calling from
Honey, you don't wanna know

This morning at chow Tiny's talking about how
He can call ducks down
Then ain't there, he's gone back in his chair
Seizing hard on the ground
And that's how it goes when you try to get clean
Always nicking your chin while you're shaving
But I don't mean to complain
I got only me to blame

Where I'm calling from
You don't wanna be

J.P.'s telling stories about life before drink
How he had him a wife and job as a chimney sweep
And now all he's got is this soot on his hands
And a burnt stack of plans
And some hope for a second chance

But where I'm calling from
Honey, you already know

Mac and Cheese

This is gonna be REALLY quick. A bit of advice: Spend the extra 25 cents or whatever to buy good Mac and Cheese. It does make all the difference.

No excuses

I realized my last three blogs had apron-wringing excuses for not posting regularly. Enough of that.

I'm reading Raymond Carver right now and I keep getting to the end of stories and going, "What?" His minimalism is heroic (although apparently that had a lot to do with his editor) and his stories are real and spartan. And real spartan, I guess. I wonder if we will ever have a great minimalist again. I think Hollywood has burned that bridge. More, more, more, you know? Which is not always better. What about precision? How about qualitative over quantitative? I'm just rambling here. Mostly I'm angry that Avatar got the Golden Globe for best picture. I haven't seen it, but I'm a snarky blogger now and so I can say that kind of thing. Go watch the "Bitch Pleez" SNL sketch on Weekend Update.

Update. That's all these will ever be. Monthly, probably.

Update, update.

I finished the first draft of the novel I've been working on. 78,000 words. That's insane. And it's mostly okay. I take heart in what I've learned from Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird that writers must forgive themselves for their "shitty first draft." Now it is work, work, work, edit, edit, edit, revise, revise, revise. Unless edit and revise mean the same thing.

For now I've been writing short stories. My mentor this semester is this awesome and crazy woman from LA named Kate Gale. She runs a publishing house called Red Hen and writes poetry and other stuff. She grew up in a Christian cult and has fascinating stories. She keeps a blog at kategale.wordpress.com and she swears she loves my writing. I'll take it, even if it's flattery for a graduate student. In her critique of my first packet she told me I was a "literary writer", which was mildly confusing for me, so I emailed her and asked her exactly what she meant. I got this response:

You could be a commercial writer. You could be a hack. You could be a grocery store book writer. But sadly, you won't be able to buy your mother a car. You'll be able to buy your wife a glass of wine and your daughter a swing set.

I feel good about that and I thought I would share it with the world (a.k.a. you, blog reader.) I also hope that I can someday write something commercial, but in the meantime, we don't have a swing set and we rarely drink wine.

So stories. I'm terrible with titles, so I'll let you know at least what I'm writing about.

1. The joys of Almond Bark at Christmas and the strange ways that we all cope with sadness.

2. A son who digs up his dead father to bury him in a different location.

3. A foster girl, now grown, learning about the difference between love and survival. If there is one.

4. The confusing nature of pregnancy tests

5. Also, individual scenes from that darn novel.

If you're interested, I might be willing to send something to you. Not all of them are done or anywhere near polished. But the whole copyright and online information thing makes me nervous.

Also, I'm looking for a job. Maybe as a technical writer or something. If anyone has any leads ...

And hopefully I'll be back sooner, rather than later.