Of deadlines missed

I didn't make my self-imposed "by the end of August" deadline for having the sample chapter of the Chicken Ranch book finished. Not even close. I've accomplished maybe a tenth of what's necessary for the completed section, and I'm not all too proud about that.

What went wrong? Other writing commitments, mostly. Interviews and book reviews and the like--all paying gigs, thus not to be ignored--demanded my immediate attention. There were more CR-related interviews and the other book proposal (which isn't all that earth-shaking, but I'm not ready to announce it until I have a contract offer, let it be jinxed) gobbled up a huge amount of my allocated writing time. Finally, I sat down with The Wife and we blocked out large swaths of time over this past weekend where I would do nothing but write. I might not meet the deadline, but I'd come darn close.

Alas, that was not to be. At the old homestead, there are two huge old sycamore trees. These things are relics of my childhood. We had a tree house in one, and the other was the site of great big leaf piles of perfect form and substance for jumping into during chill autumn afternoons. Both of these mighty trees are dead, or in the process of dying. I first noticed a creeping deadness in the branches a couple of years ago, and last year they looked downright sickly. Massive limbs began dropping this past spring, and the concern that one or both would fall onto the house and do real damage--or even drop a big limb on a person--became a very real concern. So Friday a call came from my brother that he'd lined up a cherry-picker rental for the weekend, and could I help with the tree dismantlement.

Duty calls, and all that. I spent the weekend carving enormous dead tree trunks into smaller-but-still-considerable chunks of tree trunk and subsequently hauling them--and many, many assorted branches--to the riverbank at the edge of our property. I haven't been that tired in a very, very long time. I'd drink a quart of water at a time and almost immediately burst out in sweat. I'd work until I dried, then drink some more and the process started again. I still have that deep muscle burn that only comes with lactic acid fermentation. When I finally called it a day, I tried to pick up the Bug only to find that my arms were dead--I literally could not pick up a three-year-old. But the old sycamores were taken care of, as were assorted other branches from red oak, live oak and pecan trees menacing an assortment of power lines. Mission accomplished.

But absolutely no writing was done. For this I am ashamed. I'll try harder this week.

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Friday Night Videos

Class is in session, which means, for all practical purposes, that summer is over. Here's Jimmy Buffett to help us say goodbye to the beach with style with "Bama Breeze." I know it came out after Hurricane Katrina, but after visiting Galveston last month, it's just as apropos for the devastation left by Ike.



Previously on Friday Night Videos... The Muppets.

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Somebody stop me

Why is it that with the huge Chicken Ranch project on my plate, my online serial Memory that's been languishing for a month without a new installment, a possible story for Lee Martindale's "Women of Tradetown" antho to write and the incomplete "Shoals of Cibola" waiting to be finished, I find myself researching Pak-Mor side-loading garbage trucks? And rubber tree plantations? And street sweepers? Why can't I simply finish a project before ideas for another being taking over my waking thoughts? Why?

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You go girl!

Time for a little bragging on The Wife. Monday was a rough day--she hit the wall with certain folks, people more than willing to take advantage of her photography as long as they didn't actually have to pay her for her services. Some things were said that really cut her deep, and the saddest thing is that the folks doing the talking had not the slightest clue they'd said anything insulting, demeaning or offensive. But it established, unequivocally, that they had no regard for her beyond what they could mooch.

The Wife, to her credit, responded aggressively. Not against the dolts, since they are lost causes. Instead, she dove into negotiations with the local Chamber of Commerce and came away with a high-profile deal for the use of one of her signature photos. She also pressed forward on another deal to display her work in a local restaurant. That's two impressive achievements right there. But the latest--and perhaps greatest--initiative of hers is a photo essay she's pitched to La Leche League International for their monthly magazine. The Wife is deeply passionate about her involvement in breastfeeding advocacy, and when the children were younger, wanted tasteful, stylish photos done of her nursing them. Unfortunately, my photo skills were non-existent back then, and studios looked upon such an idea as more akin to sleaze than anything else. Now that she's got her own studio, motherhood, pregnancy and nursing photography have become some of her signature subjects, and I have to say she's damn good at it. In particular, she's developing a series of glamour nursing photos (recall that famous Annie Leibovitz portrait of Jerri Hall nursing her infant son) with the ultimate goal of publishing a book. Some of the creative ideas she has simply ooze irony, and her eyes light up whenever she talks about it. All of this would be featured in the article, which would go out to women worldwide who are the target audience for this project. Very, very cool.

The Wife isn't Leibovitz-famous yet, but the time's coming. Check out her website at http://www.lisaonlocation.com/ so you can say "I knew her when..."

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Different trigger pulled

I just mailed off a book proposal. No, this isn't the infamous Chicken Ranch project. I'm still working on that one diligently, hammering the recalcitrant sample chapter into shape for an expected launch date sometime next week. This, my friends, is an entirely different book proposal, one that, with luck, will see print a good deal sooner than el rancho pollo. I have to say though, for something conceived as a project requiring minimal preparation on my part, I'm been putting in a heck of a lot of hours in on it. The grand plan originally had me finishing Sunday and hitting the mail Monday, which means I'm already a day--or two--behind, depending on how you want to look at it. I'm oddly drained by the experience.

Of course, there's no guarantee my first choice of publisher is even going to want it. I have viable alternatives, yes, but it'd be nice get this wrapped up on my first at-bat, for a change.

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How'd I miss that?

It would appear that "The Whale Below," my story from Ann & Jeff VanderMeer's pirate anthology Fast Ships, Black Sails, has earned an Honorable Mention from Gardner Dozois for 2008. That means I'm 2-for-2 on Cibola airship stories, with "The Final Voyage of La Riaza" almost getting picked up for two best-of reprints (both bids fell through, unfortunately).

I really, really need to finish "The Shoals of Cibola," but where to find the time?

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Friday Night Videos

Well, since I'm dealing with a bleak and foul mood today, some degree of levity is required as an offsetting counterbalance. So what better combination to act as such than the Muppet and vikings?



Previously on Friday Night Videos... Gene Wilder, Madeline Kahn and Marty Feldman.

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