I’ve been neglecting my blog because I’ve been spending more time on Face Book, and writing at home. It would be nice to be able to do everything all at the same time, but sometimes life doesn’t work out that way. The good news is my novel is really starting to shape up, and I have been having the time of my life writing it. The bad news is I haven’t made a whole lot of money yet this year. We’re not hurting, at least not yet, as we’re (meaning Teri) are good at saving our excess money for the times when we’re slow.

I tend to write on days when I don’t have work, or when I have work at home I can schedule around. I do this largely because my day job, pushing pixels, is pretty demanding, and is usually done in long stretches. A typical day for me would be to drop off Trevor at his school at 8:00, catch the bus to work, and then not come home until 10:00 at night. The bus ride to and from adds to this time, but since I read on my commute instead of yelling at the cars around me, I usually come home more relaxed and happy. Alas, this doesn’t leave a lot of room for being creative and throwing down another thousand words or so. Since the novel is getting more complete, and I am learning how to write more consistently every day, maybe I’ll be able to write late into the night in the future, but for right now, that is almost impossible.

I plan on putting up the parts of my novel which are complete before the end of this month. Since the novel is more than halfway written, this should add up to a lot of words. Those of you who have professed an interest, feel free to check back, or write me to find out when and where.

I wrote this poem/song about the experience of living in LA. Anyone who has ever spent too much of their day looking at the line of stupid cars ahead of you, will know exactly what this means.

Thousands Millions Billions Trillions
(a song)

We all live in the same town;
the town of lit-up dreams.
We all drive the same car.
We all have the same job.
We all crowd the same roads
by the thousands, millions, billions, trillions.

We all live in the same town;
thirsting for the big time.
Lusting after the same car.
Looking for the same job.
Filling up the same roads
by the thousands, millions, billions, trillions.

We all look up,
look up to the top,
and stare that the chosen few.
We fight each other
tooth, claw, and nail
for the scraps left
off their table.
fighting to fill the same job
by the thousands, millions, billions, trillions.

We all live in the same town.
We all have the same dream.
To be unique we ride the same train.
To be different we all act the same.
We all scream our individuality is real
by the thousands, millions, billions, trillions.

-Erk
8/11/97
8:45 pm

As you read this:

Words will have flown from my finger tips,
scattered amongst the electronic,
tides and eddies of the web.
Twisting into terrible lives.
Their fierce energy hitting brain tissue,
with a powerful smack.
Huge verbs and nouns,
ripping and tearing.

Prophesying with a single voice;
Doom.
Doom.

Doom.

-Erk
9/23/95
10:00 am

I was at the library the other day, looking for some new materiel, and quite by accident I ran across a new(ish) novel by Steven Pressfield called Killing Rommel Steven Pressfield is the author of Gates of Fire, which is such a rip roaring fine piece of work that I simply hand to any male I meet who is looking for something new to read. It almost never fails, such is the power of that story, and the great writing chops of the author.

The main problem I’ve had with Gates of Fire is the antiquity of the story. The movie 300 did much to get the average American interested in all things Greek, and specifically in the battle of Thermopylae, but before it came out, trying to sell someone on the idea that a battle 2500 years ago would deeply move them today was a bit of a struggle.

Another issue with Gates of Fire is the historical accuracy of the novel. Fighting with human powered edged weapons is a bloodbath. There is simply no escaping this. Pressfield, to his credit, does an excellent job of describing this to an audience who has only a modern (and largely Hollywood) view into the violence of war. The kid gloves definitely come off in that novel, and it can be really distressing to those who do not like to be knee deep in gore.

So when I picked up Killing Rommel, I discovered I found the next “perfect” book to hand to any man. The story revolves around the LRDG or Long Range Desert Group in the North Africa campaign in WWII. This was the British Army’s answer to the German Afrika Korps, and the precursor to today’s special forces.

The level of detail is astounding, and completely draws the reader in. Pressfield does an excellent job of describing the day-to-day life of the soldier on both sides, including their equipment, tactics they used in battle, what its like to be in a retreating army, and an advancing army (amazingly similar), and how to drive over sand dunes without getting stuck.

From the very first page, to the entire end, the book reads exactly like a memoir of a solider who was in the thick of things. One also gets a sense of the rather haphazard way in which a war can appear as one if prosecuting it. There is very little, if any, heroic posing. This book was certainly not meant to be made into a movie to showcase the latest Hollywood star. No one single handedly holds off the German army with a machine gun. Instead you get boredom, breakdowns, being shot at by your own guys, and the occasional terror of getting mixed up with the enemy.

I should also note that this book is far less bloody than Gates of Fire. There is only one battle scene in which crosses from battle to gore, but it is blessedly short, and holds a moral significance to the protagonist, something you don’t truly get (or at least I didn’t) until you read the afterward. Other scenes show the protagonist actually evading bloodshed by quick thinking and decisive action.

For those with a more religious perspective, the characters are not religious, but the protagonist does face a rather interesting moral dilemma, one in which I think many Christians will likely be able to identify with. The solution to this dilemma is both inspiring and satisfying, but does not fully play out until, as I mentioned before, one reads the afterward.

The amazon page lists a few reviews, but I thought this one was the most appropriate for a closing.

I am particularly fond of historical novels because I consider them a painless way to learn history.

Amen to that brother. Killing Rommel is an excellent way to learn about one small part of WWII. It reads as if written by your favorite uncle, and is as exciting to read about the mundane as it is to read about the heat of battle.

I liked it so much that as soon as I returned the book to the library, I went out and purchased a paperback version for myself. Right now it’s sitting at my father-in-laws bedside, where it will no doubt keep him with a silly grin on his face for many a night as he recovers from surgery.

I was buying fruit for my breakfast. I do it almost everyday. Same place, same basket size. It’s a quart of sliced fresh fruit. The type of fruit varies with the seasons. It’s a healthy way to start the day, and seems to keep me awake better than another coffee.

I had just handed my basket to the lady behind the counter, when I noticed an elderly gentleman walk up. He had gray hair, longish cut for most men his age, and was wearing gray slacks, and a red polo shirt. He paused in the narrow aisles near the man in a wheelchair. The man in the chair (Frank to his friends) asked if he was in the gentleman’s way.

“No”, he replied in a kind voice. And then, as an after thought, “not yet.” The last was delivered with a bit of a twinkle to show he wasn’t serious. Nice guy. Comfortable around others and funny.

The lady behind the counter asked how he was. Apparently he was another regular. Then she asked how his wife was doing. I could just picture him and his wife coming to the fruit stand every Thursday or something, and having a polite conversation while picking up some extra kumquats, or navel oranges, or the small red currants, bitter and still on the vine.

“Not too good, Elsie.” He even knew the name of the lady behind the counter. That was impressive.

Then, as if he didn’t realize what he was doing, he continued, “she fell down last week again. She wasn’t hurt much, but she suddenly stopped eating.”

These are not the words one expects in a friendly conversation. I saw Elsie’s lips compress just slightly, and her eyes seemed to fog slightly. Elsie is a busy lady, and she doesn’t always have the time to chat. We all know that. Apparently, the gentleman forgot that while friendly, she was also an employee. She was trapped by employee politeness, that somewhat difficult position in which showing polite interest while working is taken as showing personal interest.

The man was oblivious to all this. He continued, “she doesn’t want to see a doctor. I tried taking her to Dr. Kellar, but she wouldn’t get off the couch. She will let me get her things at the pharmacy, but nothing else.” He stopped for a second, as if to catch his breath, “I was hoping some fruit would bring back her appetite.”

I could just see him in a dusty brown living room, tan light coming in from the window, standing over the couch, and holding out a plate and saying, “but they’re your favorite plums dear. Elsie packed them special just for you.”

The man was still smiling, still polite. Too lost in the horror of watching a lifetime of shared courtesies, pinching pennies, buying a first car, and sharing late night TV next to each other on the sofa, to realize he had crossed that thin line from friendly to rude. After feet, yards, and even miles of things done together, his wife was dying by inches. And there was nothing he could do.

Elsie handed me my receipt. She had finished charging my card. I placed the slip in my wallet, and slipped the wallet into my backpack. Skateboard in hand, I quickly left the fruit stand, clutching my plastic bag with my quart of fruit, and my plastic fork. I passed the other fruit stands, and the leather repair guy, and was soon in the clear blue sunlight of the parking lot where no one was dying or talked casually about their life falling apart in a cheerful voice. I dropped my board, and made good time pushing my way to work. I was extra careful to watch for cars, especially at the crosswalk in the middle of the parking lot. The cars can’t see you coming, and they never expect someone to be moving as fast as I roll in a pedestrian space.

Finding work on my desk was a relief. Soon I was immersed; fruit container open, headphones thumping, and my mind not thinking. Not thinking at all.