What the...???

Ahhhh... the joys of being a homeowner...

I remember when I first moved in. I'd hear some sound in the night and wonder what the heck was that? I'd get up and hunt it down. And then it would be only the furnace or sump pump or twigs brushing against the side of the house or a branch rubbing against the phone wire.

Kind of like how mothers are huh?Ones with babies at least.When there's the slightest sound in the night, they're up.Was that the baby? What does he need? Is he okay?Stuff like that.

Well... today..There I was, laptop set up at the kitchen table, hot cup of sugary coffee there at my left hand, all set to start working on a part of a story when I hear what sounded like a jackhammer noise coming from the south side of the house.

Not a continuous jackhammering. Just a staccato. Like bursts of fire from a machine gunner. Like the guy is just warming up and getting a feel for the thing until the real busting apart of the concrete begins.

So I get up and look through the blinds and... hmmm... nothing happening across the street. Maybe there's something farther down. Like maybe a guy is busting up a driveway or a water main broke. But this IS Elgin.. and this IS the west side. Maybe it IS a machine gun.

So I'm looking out the window and then I hear it again.

Hey, that doesn't sound like it's outside. It's coming from my house!

First thing I thought was that it was the sump pump trying to run but maybe the bearing had, over the years, gone bad, and it had seized up.

So I go downstairs thinking, "Oh shit. I do not need this."

I jiggled the wires to the sump pump and... It started up.

Thank God that's not broken.

Oh, maybe the prongs of the power cord just weren't making contact. Maybe the vibration just worked them to a point where they weren't touching perfectly. I could fix that. At least the pump isn't seized. So I go back upstairs and sit back down at the computer.

Then the noise happens again.

And five seconds later again.

So now I look out the bedroom windows. Maybe the sound is coming from the front of the house and, like a cricket's chirp, is just bouncing off something else and appearing to come from the south.

Nope. Nothing out there. So then I go outside. And while I was standing on the back porch, I heard the sound again. This time it appeared to come from the west. So I go and look down the street.

Nothing. Some parked cars and maybe a couple of garbage cans that haven't been wheeled into their back yards, but other than that, nothing that could make a jack-hammer sound.

But hey, at least it's not something wrong with the house.

So I go back inside. Sit back down and...

rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat-a-rat-a-tat-a-tat....

I could swear that is coming from my house. Damn. I gotta find out what's going on.

Then I thought, I've been hearing raccoons on my roof, or large squirrels on steroids, or testosterone, romping around after 9:00PM. Maybe it's one of them up on the roof, doing I have no idea what. Trying to break in? Having wild squirrel sex? Wanting to get in on some of the ten pounds of almonds I just bought at the Fisher Nuts Outlet?

So, I go outside again and, right as I was about to go get the ladder and investigate, I hear the noise.

I look up at the top of the house and I see... perched atop the chimney like he's playing snare drum in a band and waiting for the conductor to point to him..

a woodpecker.

He's just sitting there, hanging on to the side of that grating kind of thing and using the top part as a drum.

I went to get my camera but when I came out again, he flew off into the neighbor's tree. But it was this guy. The Flicker.

What he wanted with my chimney, who knows. There's no wood up there to peck on.

Maybe it was the almonds...

Biker Dude's Taxi Service...

When Biker Dude got to the office in the morning, he had an idea on how to make a little extra cash. He just needed to make a small investment in some equipment. He logged onto the internet and went to craigs list and composed a want ad.

"Taxi Meter wanted, cheap. Must be lightweight, titanium preferred.
Needs to be small, aerodynamic shape a plus.
Also, must be able to calculate cents per foot.
Any mounting hardware you can throw in would be appreciated.
Big plus if squirrel proof."

He gave a phone number and times he would be available and published the ad.

He figured he'd offer rides to weary, or in a rush, or just plain lazy, animals along the trail; sort of like a bicycle taxi. He would do all the pedaling; all the hard work of pushing up hills and against the wind, and the animals could just sit back and enjoy the ride.

For a small fee of course.

He got the idea after what happened that morning on the way to work.



It was between Saint Charles and Geneva. South of Island Park, where, after a 100 yards of open trail that used to skirt the outer perimeter of a retention pond, the trail dipped into thick forest preserve.

Ahead, just across a wooden footbridge, by the side of the trail, a squirrel crouched.

Now Biker Dude has seen many squirrels before. He's seen all manner of animals during is travels. Each one has its own set of reactions and behaviors when a rider approaches.

His intuition told him that this squirrel, as innocent and inconspicuous as it seemed at the time, had a plan.

It was almost like whenever he saw a chipmunk. Biker Dude just knew what it was going to do. Chipmunks were strange little critters. At least Biker Dude thought so. They'd crouch by the sides of the trail and wait. They would pretend to forage for nuts and seeds. Then, at the last second, when Biker Dude and his bike was upon them, right when the risk of being killed was the greatest, they would dart under the bike to the other side of the trail; Almost like they played a game of chicken with the bike wheels.

From the second he saw it, Biker Dude had a good hunch that this squirrel was going to do the same thing.

He noticed that this little dude had a gleam in his eye. He was no ordinary squirrel. He perched there like an Olympic sprinter in starting blocks before a 100 meter dash.

But he didn't dart under the bike tires. No. Not this one. This guy had to outdo every squirrel, or chipmunk, that came before.

When Biker Dude was ten feet away, the squirrel started running in the same direction as Biker Dude; parallel to him at the edge of the grass. Like he was getting up speed to take the baton from another guy in a relay race.

Right when Biker Dude pulled alongside, the squirrel took a flying leap and grabbed on to Biker Dude's right leg. He wrapped his arms around it. Biker Dude stopped pedaling and looked down.
He thought, "What the...?" The squirrel just looked up at him. Then looked ahead down the trail. His ears twitched in the wind and his fur blew back. He blinked his eyes.

After about thirty feet, when it had apparently gone far enough, or else realized the ride wasn't as much fun as he thought it would be, the squirrel jumped off. He ran off into the weeds and bushes on the side of the trail.

Biker Dude shook his head and thought, "Now I've seen it all. Either that or I've finally gone crazy."

He rode on. Feeling a little used. Not even a thank you. No thumbs up. No 'See you tomorrow...'

And no tip.

He thought, "Unless he pays by the foot, I'm not giving that guy a ride anymore."

Woooof...

So he's not in as good of shape as he used to be. Give him some time.

Today, Biker Dude got up early to put in some miles. Motivation: to lose ten pounds by late May.
He headed down the trail south of the route 20 overpass and, where the trail split into two, the left branch heading to Wheaton, and the right to St. Charles, he took the right.

Upon taking the St. Charles branch, one comes into a place, for about a quarter mile, where the trail zig-zags through a small, and densely packed, forest. The trees and thorn bushes are close enough to reach out and touch, and the canopy of branches and leaves above blocks out all light. Along with that, there's a series of four short, but steep, hills that experienced riders call "rollers."

It's basically a quick, three dimensional, side to side, up and down, rollercoaster-like experience, depending on how fast one rides ride it.

This particular morning, Biker Dude rode along at a reasonable 14-15 mile per hour pace. It was a little hard to open up the throttle at five in the morning when, 1) he was as out of shape as Biker Dude happened to be, 2) he couldn't see very well... and 3) when all you have for light is an LED pocket flashlight strapped onto the front handlebars. The flashlight liked to move around too. So along with the lack of any real brightness, there was the constant need to re-adjust where it pointed. Half the time Biker Dude steered with one hand and kept the flashlight in place with the other.

No big deal. He'd ridden this way hundreds of times. Not all of them in the dark though. But he knew the dips and curves well. And usually, there'd be nothing much to be concerned himself about except to watch that he didn't slip off the sides of the trail as he negotiated the twists and turns.

Usually.

As always when there was no competition nearby egging him on, he rode on auto-pilot. His mind off in another world. He thought about yard work that needed to be done and writing that needed revision. As well as the normal Biker Dude-ish thoughts: the number of calories this ride would use up, how far did he want to go that day, and how these dang spandex shorts pinched.

His focus was yanked back to the present when, as he passed a thicket of bushes on his right, there came a rustling. Then a growl. A low one with the bass turned way up. Then whatever it was jumped up from where it had apparently lie in wait and stepped out behind him onto the trail.

He figured it wasn't a raccoon. Mainly because this animal had more of a macho sound than any raccoon he'd ever heard. A raccoon on steroids, maybe. But, contrary to all other animals' behaviors, whatever this was decided not to run the other way, as raccoons and squirrels and skunks especially seemed to do.

No. This thing started chasing him.

Now, besides having to keep his eyes on the path and steer with one hand, he had to try to stay alive.

Then it barked. He felt the fillings in his molars loosen up. This was no ordinary bark. This bark could rattle windows and loosen rusty bolts.

If he'd even glanced back, he'd for sure end up crashed or into the bushes, in which case, he'd be dog food.

So he pedaled like hell, or as close of an approximation to hell given the circumstances.
But it continued to bark, and it was catching up.

He remembered what a fellow biker had told him once and decided to try to do some barking of his own, thinking, "whatever it is back there.. 1) it seems to be gaining on me and 2) Shit!.Shit Shit... and 3) maybe I can confuse it by barking back at it. Even though it can see me and I can't see it and if it had a thinking brain it would know that it had the advantage."

He tried that, thinking at the same time that anybody who might hear him going past their house, like say they were up and brushing their teeth or getting ready for work, or getting in their car, was going to think, "What the heck? Is that a guy barking? That's it.. I'm moving out of this weirdo state."

So, after a fierce chase of about half a block, Biker Dude -- yes, he must confess, he got tired and all sprinted out -- was caught. But, instead of taking a chomp out of Biker Dude's leg, the dog pulled along side and just went wooofing past him.

He looked over, and it was like being passed by one of those Fed-Ex semis you see on the interstate. Where two semis, sometimes three, are strung together. It was a Great Dane, about seven feet long and as high as he was. And he was up on top of a bike! It just cruised by, looking like it was in slow motion.

It didn't, out of courtesy, say, "On your left." It just barked and went by like Biker Dude was not even there.

And then, like all the those before who have passed Biker Dude on the trail, as soon as it passed him, it turned off the trail.

"Huh?" he thought. "I was just getting a second wind. No giving me a chance to try to reel you back in? What's with that? "

No. It just turned off the trail. It kept on barking as it crashed through an opening to the side and vanishing into the dark.

The barking faded away behind him.

Or... maybe it was laughing?

Meanwhile his heart was going a thousand miles an hour, and his legs felt like a melted hand full of gummi bears, and he still had at least another 20 miles to go.

"Wooof" indeed.

He sure showed biker dude who was boss.

Out of Shape Dude...

Jeeez.. I don't ride for a week, I fall a little out of shape, and next thing I know, I get this little note:

Who is this biker Dude I'm hearing about? Someone said he's some guy who rides the trails all weather, all hours, and all seasons... chasing down Lance Armstrong types and making them look like their bikes are made of lead. Tangling with raccoons and truck sized dogs and flocks of carnivorous geese and squirrels hitching rides by clinging to his Wal-Mart sweat pants. They say when he comes down the trail, even mighty oak trees back off. And the reason Chuck Norris gave up bicycling was because he heard Biker Dude was out to race him.

They say he's got a Charles Manson look in his eyes and fingers that twitch on the gear shifters like a gunfighter's, whether he's racing some psycho taxi driver brandishing an Uzi, or weaving down the trail avoiding toddlers on tyke bikes. And all while hauling a complete library worth of books all over northern Illinois.

Some lady told me he drinks Cherry coke laced with Nitro Glycerin.

And there's a rumor that he was raised by ravens... another said it was coyotes.

A peregrine falcon once tried to keep up with him. Biker dude blew him away so badly, the falcon is in rehab now for severe depression.

I don't believe any of it.

See, I waited along the trail today. In Geneva at the intersection of route 38 and the bike trail. Where many have seen biker dude zip past in a blur of blond hair, titanium, and Rolf Vector Pro wheels.


It was 5:45AM. The time when usually, right on schedule, Biker Dude passes through on his way to whatever it is he does. One rumor I heard was that he worked for the CIA eliminating foreign agents. Another was that the Navy Seals hired him as a tactical consultant. Anyway, I sat on a park bench, just past the exit from the tunnel that goes under Roosevelt Road, but before the foot bridge over the duck pond, The Mill Race Inn behind me; quiet and still. In the fog and darkness and falling leaves I waited; listening to the water gurgling under the footbridge and the humming of car tires on pavement as morning commuters sped along the Fox River bridge over head.

I waited an hour, and there was no Biker Dude. The only people I saw the whole time were a runner and an elderly guy in a crusty yellow raincoat and squishy sounding shoes; a golden retriever trailing behind him on a leash.

I rubbed my eyes and thought of taking a walk over to a nearby Dunkin Donuts to get some coffee, when, from out of the tunnel comes this out of shape guy on a bike carrying like fifty pounds of stuff bungee corded to his front handlebars. His wispy hair plastered to his head by fog. From the sound of the guy, how he huffed and puffed, I figured he carried an oxygen tank and his own defibrillator. He sure looked like he needed it. He hacked like a total couch potato lifetime Pall Mall red smoker at the end of his first marathon. His eyes bugged out to the rhythm of his pedal strokes. I expected him to drop over at any second, but he kept pushing on past me and south through Island park. I watched as his little red blinker faded in the distance. Then turned back to watching the tunnel again.

I waited for an hour thinking maybe he forgot to set his alarm or something. Dang I wish I would have gotten that coffee. What a waste. Nobody showed up.

Nobody who looked like a Tasmanian devil on steroids zipping by like he was shot from a rail gun. The out of shape guy was the only biker I saw.

Hmmm... Biker Dude indeed.

Maybe he's just a myth.

I bet even I could beat him in a race.

Requiem for a Skunk...

Biker Dude downshifted and pedaled up the last small hill just before the wastewater processing facility. He smelled a slight scent of sewage in the air along with that of freshly mowed grass. He passed a man with a fishing pole and tackle box going the other way. In the distance a train horn sounded. He sped up to cross the Metra tracks at the top of the hill and then coasted down the gradual slope on the other side.

He thought of that morning when he'd run over the skunk. Feeling the sickly thump thump of the tires over its soft, furry body. He said a short prayer. "God, Please let it have lived. I didn't want to hit it." He thought of the skunk's family, and how sad they would be if one of their members didn't return... and he hoped.

He slowed enough to where he could see individual bees buzzing among the purple flowers on thistles and the petals of coneflowers which lined both sides of the trail; the petals now spotted with brown from an entire summer of direct sunlight.

He kept braking until the last bend in the trail; slowing to a crawl where he would normally be taking advantage of gravity and flying down. He sniffed the air for skunk but couldn't smell anything except wildflowers. That was a good sign.

The boulder crushing factory was quiet. Its parking lot empty. No earth shaking, no rumble of heavy machinery, no sound like the ripping of rock into its elementary particles. Just silence and the slow click clickety click of the bicycle.

All day at work he'd been thinking about what to expect when he came around the turn and could look ahead to the spot where he'd hit the skunk. He'd said to himself, "Maybe I just ran over is tail. That's all. So it won't be able to spray anymore. A least it will still be alive."
At lunch time he set down the book he was reading, closed his eyes, and saw the whole scene again. The dark blob in the trail. No time to react. A striped tail going up, the feel of the wheels over something alive.

Then his creative brain took over and he imagined a posse of skunks and raccoons and squirrels all waiting for him. Revenge on their minds. Heading him off at the "pass", just around the bend where the alleged incident occurred. A chalk outline of where the body once lay. A crime scene investigating possum with a camera and magnifying glass scrutinizing the scene and collecting evidence into little bags held by his chipmunk assistants all scrambling back and forth to some kind of vehicle... his mind wandered.. what kind of vehicle could you create that chipmunks could pilot? He toyed with that image for a while and laughed at the silliness of it.

Then he imagined the skunk he'd run over, still alive, but hobbling around on crutches and bandaged head to foot standing in the trail as Biker Dude approached. A vigilante group hidden, like in Bonnie and Clyde, except this time a group of animals; poised to jump out from the sides of the trail in ambush. Armed with sticks and shards of broken bottles instead of machine guns.

He really wanted there to be nothing but an empty trail. To know it was not a fatal accident. But here he was around the bend, and ahead of him, in the middle of the trail, there was the skunk.

It lay on its side. Its mouth open in its last dying breath. Flies buzzed around and on its body.

Biker Dude stopped. He couldn't touch it, that wasn't very sanitary, especially after it laying there all day, but he wanted to at least get it off the trail into the brush. To a more dignified place than right out in the open where all could see.

He nudged his bike shoe under the skunk. Feeling its weight and stirring up a cloud of flies. Surprisingly, there was not very much skunk smell in the air. Just a trace. He flicked his shoe, much like a soccer player just lifting the ball in a controlled manner over the head of the keeper, and the skunk rolled into the weeds and bushes off to the side.

He stood there for a few seconds. Pondering the skunk's life and its tragic and surely premature ending. Sure, it was just a skunk. An animal that most of the world wished didn't exist. Yet Biker Dude felt for it. After all, he had not always been Biker Dude. He was once invisible. Shunned. An outcast and a loner.

A jogger came along the trail from the north. "Good job," he said, as he slowed down. "I was wondering when someone was going to get rid of that thing. Yuck."

Biker Dude looked at the man and shrugged. There was so much he could say. About the preciousness of life no matter what form. About how misunderstood skunks were. That they were actually very affectionate animals. He could also talk about how people do the same to each other as they do towards skunks. Shunning certain types or groups simply because they were different or didn't fit with their own definitions of acceptability.

But he knew he'd get nowhere. That the guy would just look at him like he was weird.

The guy passed by, giving Biker Dude a thumbs up kind of nod. Biker Dude nodded back.
He took one last look at the skunk off to the side. He thought to himself, "Well, if nobody else remembers you, I at least will. Sorry old friend."

He heard the train horn again, this time much closer. He heard the bells at the crossing behind him start to ring. He put his feet back on the pedals and continued down the trail toward home.

A Rendezvous in the Dark...

At 5:00AM, Biker Dude flew down the Walnut Street hill past the train station. He got low and aero to pick up speed. He shifted into high gear and raced to stay ahead. He crossed the train tracks and then jumped up onto the sidewalk to let an impatient taxi driver pass.

When he'd crossed the river and reached a point just south of the riverboat casino, he dove through a break in the bushes, and after riding a dirt path through the grass for twenty feet, emerged onto the bike trail. He shifted up a gear. Dried leaves crunched under the bike tires as he sped southward. A crescent fingernail of moon hung in the eastern sky. The paved trail surface was alive with moving shadows and blowing leaves.

The trail ran past a grocery store parking lot before plunging into the heavily forested area south of route 20. Under a streetlight, its dim bulb swinging by its wires like a pendulum in the wind, a family of raccoons gathered around a rusty blue trash can that had fallen over. Huddled together in the midst of cans and shredded hefty bags, they feasted on the remains of a White Cottage pizza box. They scattered as biker Dude approached. He smelled rotting vegetables and rancid meat and almost gagged as he rode by.

Up ahead, on the route 20 overpass, a Fed Ex truck crossed the river and headed east. Biker Dude rode under the bridge and squinted. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness. The gray moonlight through the trees barely illuminated the line where weeds bordered the trail on either side. A tree branch reached out from the side and scratched at his arm. He ignored the distraction and focused on steering down the middle of the trail.

A hundred yards ahead and to the left, a rock crushing factory rumbled and quaked. It's metal towers and buildings stood black against the sky like machines out of H.G.Wells' War of the Worlds. Biker Dude rode into shadow behind the wall separating the factory from the bike trail. He'd ridden this way for five months, starting in May, when there was plenty of light at this time of morning. Now in September, though sunrise wouldn't happen for another hour and a half, he kept his light off to save the batteries. He wasn't worried. He knew all the twists and turns.

Besides, nobody was ever on the trail at this time of day, except him.

Suddenly, a dark, cat sized shape materialized just six feet directly in front of him. Like India ink poured into black paint. No details. Just a vapor of something darker than the surrounding shadow. A black ghost. A striped tail shot upwards.

Oh no.

Visions of bathing peroxide and baking soda flashed through his mind. He saw people holding their noses when he walked by; giving him a wide berth. Then he had another thought.

"Nooooooo...," he cried out. But before he could steer around it or stop, he felt the pa-thump, pa-thump of his tires running over something soft... something furry... something alive.

His heart fell. Suddenly, he wasn't so concerned about getting sprayed. He turned around to look, but all he saw was blackness. He braked a little. The clicking of the rear wheel slowed. He debated. He stopped and looked back. He turned first one ear, then the other and listened. "Give me a sign," he said. "Snap a twig. Growl. Purr. Do something to let me know you're okay." But if anything was moving or alive, there was no way he could hear it over the sounds from the nearby factory.

He sniffed the air. Nothing. Just a smell of stone dust and diesel exhaust.

Years before, in the daylight, he had ridden over a squirrel that had darted across the path. In shock, he'd looked back expecting the squirrel to be lying there, its guts smashed, its eyes all bugged out, but no. It had gotten right back up and kept going. And skunks were more rugged than squirrels right? Well, they were bigger anyway. Biker Dude hoped that this skunk was, like that squirrel, tough enough to take on a speeding bicycle and live to tell about it.

Biker Dude got to work fine, but all day, he kept thinking. What if he had swerved. Why didn't he? Why didn't he have his light on? Would things be different?

He kept reliving the moment. He'd close his eyes and see the shape rise up, and then a tail, and then the sick feeling of a living being under the tires. He felt something on his arm and looked to see a two inch long scratch that he hadn't noticed before. Probably that tree branch that he had been hit by. The blood had dried and started to scab. There would be a scar.

He smiled.

Staring at the page...

I've been musing over what to write here and how to go about this blogging thing. I'm trying to figure out what's the best approach. Do I want to fictionalize everything? Do I want to start out with description of who I am and where I come from? Do I really want to do this at all?

It's not always easy to be creative. For me at least. The writers I've read in other blogs are good. Really good.

Do I really want to step out into a place where, once again, I'm a total newbie? A place where there's going to be other writers and most of them have been published, and I'm basically just someone who knows where to find the word in a dictionary.

Yikes!

An hour goes by.

Then two.

I'm sitting there in front of the computer, the fingers of my left hand tracing the rim of a cold cup of coffee. Just staring at the empty blog page, moving the mouse cursor around on the screen, tracing the letters of the alphabet one by one like I'm writing them in the air in front of my face. My brain a million miles away. A thousand germs of ideas mired in hesitation.

Biker Dude comes up and says, "Just write something. Write anything. Here, give me that," he says as he shoves me aside. "I'll put something up first. It may suck, but at least it's a start. Otherwise, you'll be sitting there forever, and I have places to go."

"But, what if?.." I said, trying to reclaim the mouse from him. "Wait... don't you want to..?"

He pushed my hand aside and threw me a look that said, "Back Off."

So I did.

He gulped down what was left of my coffee, handed me the mug, and while I got up to make another pot, he sat down and began to type...

Obstacles and Distractions...

When it comes to writing, I've always had a difficult time coming up with conflicts and obstacles to put in the way of my characters. I struggle with making things difficult for them. I think the difficulty springs out of my natural desire, in real life, for things NOT to be in conflict. Some people thrive in the midst of conflict, hassles, trouble, and catastrophes. These people would make good emergency workers or generals. They bloom, they prosper, they thrive, they get more creative.

Not me.

I work better when there's a sense of peace; physically and especially emotionally.

And so in the writing world in my head, there's a hesitancy to introduce problems.

But, here in real life, especially when it comes to writing and finding time to do it, obstacles pop up like crazy. Like boils.. like zits on a teenager.. like squirrels after my bird feeder. I don't even have to try. They're a whole self-replicating and constantly mutating species. Ever evolving to find quicker, more efficient ways to create distraction. When it comes to obstacles, they spontaneaously create themselves. As if they step out of some other dimension into mine. They materialize out of nothing. Neutrinos can't even pass through them. They would survive a nuclear war.

It's like as soon as my hands move towards a keyboard, a switch toggles. A light goes on that tells a whole army of distractions to line up at the door and come pouring through into my life.


Today...
I went to work early. Wooohooo.. 30 whole minutes of time to write before work started.

And in 30 minutes, I didn't get a single word written. I didn't even get to see the keybord.
I turned the computer on, and then they guy here who's been telling every living soul all about his Ebay buying hassles came along.

Next thing I knew, the clock had spun a half hour ahead and the boss showed to ask me for the drawings I was working on.


Same at home.

Sit down to write and the phone rings.
Get up to answer it, wrong number.
Sit back down and then realize I left the wheat thins box in the kitchen.
Get back up because I'm starving.
Sit back down and the smoke detector goes off.
Get back up to fix it.
Sit back down and for unknown reasons, the internet doesn't work.
Get back up and fiddle with the internet router.
Sit back down and damn, I forgot my coffee cup next to the internet router.
Get back up to go get it.
Sit back down and spill it.
Get back up to get some paper towels. Trip over power wire, knock laptop on floor.

It's endless.

Obstacles and conflicts are easy in real life. They happen automatically. It's like I'm the only one at the office with a bag of chocolate and everyone is coming to my desk.

But only when I'm trying to write.

Argh...

Hey, that's an idea... I know a way to give my character some conflicts.
I'll just write a story about a guy who sits down and tries to write a story.

Cool. That'll work.
I sit down... get all set to write it and...

Hmmm... My sweet tooth acts up. Now I need to have some chocolate...

The new year's first official posting...

As usual, unlike Biker Dude, I struggle to get things done sometimes. I know, I'm kind of late with things. Not that I haven't been doing anything, just that I have been doing a whole lot.
I looked back and it's been over six months since I updated this thing. Sorry about that. But then, who really sees this anyway except for possibly my three friends, Cher, Hilary, and Jenny. Thanks you guys for your interest.

I've been mostly working on graphic design and illustrations, trying to realize a dream, and then I've been writing... just very slowly. Me, and Biker Dude, and a whole bunch of people here were very glad to see 2010 go. It was great as far as some things, which I will eventually be able to talk about, and really sucky as far as some other things.

The biggest sucky thing: One of our best friend's husbands died unexpectedly. He was a great guy and had a personality and presence that, though it's about six months now, we still haven't begun to forget. His name was Ken and I'll always remember him.

Members of our book club lost loved ones too. So truly, it was a downer of a year as far as losses go.

Plusses: Well, I finally walked across the Golden Gate Bridge. A "Bucket List" item that I have wanted to do for over twenty years.

And I'm on a pathway toward a degree in Graphic Design. So expect to see, along with Biker Dude stories, art and illustration items I've worked on.

I've been adding posts, sort of backwards in time though and retro to the day that things happened. It feels strange to have to do it this way, but it makes the chronology easier to keep organized, and I can write better this way.

So, a late Happy New Year to all. Hope to see more of you this year than last.