Taking One for The Crew

When we left our intrepid group of thrill-seekers, they were gathered atop an abandoned railroad bridge high above the Little Shawnee. Remembering the name of the muddy trickle more than two hundred feet below is a testament to the impact this day had: February 29, 1992. There was a moment when the bare, gray brush and the dark brown strip of steel and wood became bathed in sunshine. The air still had a hint of rust and track grease, but blew fresh over the small valley. It was becoming a very nice morning.

For those who had literally taken the plunge, it was a magnificent sight. They seemed to view the world through newly opened eyes, back-lit by adrenalin and secured by the victory over death. Of course, there was very little chance that death made the trip up from Akron. This activity appeared to be as safe as a roller coaster and, except for the individual nature of the jump, just as routine.

As the jump captain ran down the rules, he skated over something that was clearly stated in the release forms and other documentation: The tethers are not guaranteed for weights exceeding 250lbs. There were clearly participants who approached that red-line, if not jumped it altogether. Two members of the celebrity host team, The Waking Crew, were probably approaching that magic number as well. But the captain assured us that the lines would hold a jumper up to 275 pounds. “I know,” he said. “I’ve sent them over and there’s no way I would do that unless I was sure.”

He was sure, but the one wiser member of The Crew was not so sanguine. The one who made no secret of his unwillingness to participate in such lunacy began loosening his harness, officially begging out. That left three: the Star, The Newswoman and the Producer. One needs little divining skills to determine which of the three was your story-teller. He was never a star.

Three brave souls and some just plain foolish (perhaps slightly fortified on pot) made jumps, and then four, then a couple of repeats which were allowed for an additional 25 dollars. The inevitable moment arrived – as all moments do - and it was time for The Crew to make their mark. After all, they were the reason for the excursion in the first place. The newswoman was pregnant, though that was still not widely known, so she was disqualified. The Star, never one to pass on an opportunity to grab and hold all eyes, actually engaged the small crowd in a debate over whether his should take to the top rail, or some variation, before becoming a human marionette in this Pennsylvania backcountry psycho-drama. He actually mounted the rail, steadied himself, and then, with a wave of both hands, said” “I’m not doing this. You gotta be nuts!”

Apparently, the job called for an unbalanced individual. Fortunately for The Crew and saving face, just such a person was on hand. The pre and post-leapers began the chant: "Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!" No one told them that the strapped up producer, who was dangerously close to the 250 pound cut-off, hated being called Charlie.

It was one of those moments: the brain rebels against reason and allows events to dictate actions. The producer found himself climbing the rail, curiously cautions so as not to fall from the railing and back to the platform. Seems odd considering it was the 200-plus-foot drop that was voluntarily in his immediate future. Gesturing to the crowd, like a triumphant general back form the front, the producer quieted the cheers and silently committed to the jump.

There are degrees of safety and levels of danger. Next, the unintended consequences of Taking One for the Crew.

Taking The Leap

CLEVELAND [August 29] -- There must be a desire, embedded somewhere in the human genes, to race toward the edge; seeking something that is not quite safe, yet offers clear odds in our favor. Sky diving and bungee jumping come to mind. Writing fiction for a buying audience, be they an acquisition editor or the reading public, must be right up there in the extreme rush department. It has certainly proved precarious. Regardless, abandoning caution, no matter how well tethered, seems etched in this writer’s character. It is not always fun, but it is exciting.

One of the first attempts at organized self-terror happened Leap Year 1992. It was naturally a Radio promotion with a tie-in to leaping into the year with the Waking Crew. This popular morning show has been highlighted before and will again. Through this association came the best of Radio and the worst of radio.

The idea was simple enough: On the extra day of that year, listeners and the Crew would literally throw caution off a bridge and celebrate with a new vigor. There were minor celebrities in attendance, not the least of which were the radio personalities themselves, a rookie pitcher for the Cleveland Indians and a fair sized group of hearty listeners. Some of them, quite fair-sized; huge, in fact.

Scurrying off to a remote railroad trestle in west-central Pennsylvania on February 29th is not exactly a welcoming experience. Especially if the group had to leave Akron in the pre-dawn hours just to get to the spot with enough time for everyone to have a turn. And what a location! The nearly abandoned bridge stood exactly 221 feet above a small, brown stream, with a railing on one side and an every-man-for-himself unguarded drop on the other. Old split ties meshed together to form a makeshift walkway along the tracks. It was obvious that neither route was used much and the walkway was the clear preference. Good thing. Had a train sped by most would have gotten a greater thrill than expected.

Two dozen shivering, coffee-drinking leapers watched in horror as the professional jump team began C-clamping the rusting banister of the bridge. Granted, there were many, heavy-duty clamps locked on the side and back-braced to the tracks. And there was a framework of new steel that they brought with them to give additional support to the two blue spring cables intended to prevent a novice free-faller from plunging into a wet and shallow grave. By the time the structure was completed – about twenty minutes – it was time for a test. Triple sandbags totaling about one hundred pounds made the trip without incident. A fourth bag slipped off the harness and hit the muck with a dull, gray whimper. That sent a group mouth gape through the crowd. “Whoops!” the captain of the jump explained with a chuckle.

We were there to jump, and though everyone still had the option to back out, none did...so far. The first to go was part of the team. The experienced jumper performed a swan dive, as beautiful as one can imagine; and it happened right there, just a few feet in front of the cheers. There was no stopping us now! Everyone saw their body in that sweet style that, for a few seconds, was freed from earthly burdens and danced with angles.

The young lady who volunteered to go first opted not to take the brave bounce from the top rung of the guardrail. Instead she crossed her arms, as instructed, and simply fell back into space. The scream was equal parts delight and terror until she tugged and swung seventy-five feet below the onlookers. Then, the stylers took to the rail, each more courageous and creative than the previous.

But fear was bubbling to the surface. And on our next visit, the agony and the ecstasy of a Taking One for The Crew!

Richard

It was fifty degrees at 6am in Hudson, Ohio! The already weakened body and shaky spirit was jolted with a breath of cool air and a chilly outlook. But the choice is ours, even in the dark…and the cold. What’s it going to be, Red? Wait for the hangman, or keep digging?

It is a good practice to remain positive, even when faced with tough decisions and the challenges seem insurmountable. This is not another one of those barely veiled laments from the unpublished writer. This is something to think about.

Aside from a certain set of fundamental beliefs – or lack of beliefs, whichever suits you best – humans learn responses from others. If one were to remain acutely observant this fact would stand out: everyone has problems. Some are small by comparison and some are quite dire. But whatever those first thoughts on a cold morning might be, to the individual, nothing could be worse.

Nothing could be further form the truth.

This morning Richard came to mind. No matter what dooming prospects one might contemplate, few face the same level of challenge as does Richard each day of his life. The disease that struck him at a relatively early age is called Polymyositis. Simply put, his muscles are turning against him. There is no cure, at least not for the degree of the condition that Richard must endure. He is in nursing care and that is where this traveler has the pleasure of his insights, his positive nature and his realism.

Richard is realistic. The disease, though rare, is wicked in how it attacks the body, turning muscles into basically useless mass while leaving the mind fully intact, painfully aware of what is happening. There is no doubt that he has moments, perhaps more often than not, when his situation overwhelms and saddens him beyond comprehension. The nurse’s aides who are required for nearly all of his daily needs are not always as caring with a person who reminds them more of an uncle than a grandparent. This is not to excuse their behavior, it is just a fact.

Yet Richard is always first with a smile, and if he is truly impressed, a compliment on the works done here and in the books. He is reading the first two stories of The Radio Murders. More importantly Richard looks out for the others in the facility. Most cannot speak for themselves. He is fearless on many fronts, but when it comes to the care and well-being of his family - the elderly and infirmed with whom he shares the fair-sized facility – he is naturally unforgiving. There was a meeting recently where residents were able to confront not only staff and management, but State and County officials about their concerns. Richard, zipping along in his electric chair, a printed list in his lap, had no time for small talk. This was important. Weather or not his concerns will be met remains to be seen. Will Richard keep an eye on the problems? All day long.

Knowing Richard does many things for someone who will take the time to listen. He has a wealth of knowledge about computers and web design, all self taught. He is honest to a fault – why not? And he has no trouble getting out of himself, leaving the ravages of an orphaned disease and helping out when he can. It would be impossible for most to live his days and nights. And only a tiny percentage could do it without going mad. But Richard is consistent. Don’t let that smile fool you. He’s watching out for those who can’t look out for themselves.

The Island

(Oh, That Magic Feeling)

Has the world changed in the last three years? It is an important question for this modern-day van Winkle, squinting through a crushing hangover, awakening from a writing stupor. Three years and six books, living off good fortune and hard work of the past, awake now. Now what?

Let’s review. Walking away was not as easy as it seemed. Radio defines a person and the mark was not easily washed away. But there was a dream in place, a frightening prospect that one could, would sit down and finally write that book (everyone had at least one bad book in them, was the frequent refrain).

Then September 11, 2001. Whatever muse that might have been heating to a spark was fully doused then. The world had changed and Peter Jennings – God bless you Peter Jennings – was a constant companion until the next thing. That was the war in Iraq and all focus was once again diverted. It was not until August of 2002 that the true purpose of the departure – of taking the money and running – finally began.

It was quite ugly, that first manuscript. There was an idea, and some characters, but that was all. It took almost a year to write initially and another six months to understand that it was not very good and to try again. That or quit. No quitting here, could not quit.

A little better understanding of process and a little more study on the craft and Number One was semi-presentable. Then Nunber Two was started, followed by Three, then Four, Five and finally Six; all gaining representation and all pounding the pavement to publishers.

Publishers, now there is an insular group. Short margins and a declining public appreciation for their product have necessarily made them stoic when it comes to new writers. And there certainly is an abundance of trash out there, both never seeing the inside of a printing press and some that are actually on airport reading racks. It has made the imprinters so discriminating that a book had better hit the afterburners on the tarmac – at the gate – if it is to receive any attention at all. One need only click a few links on this site and a thousand others to read the same lament.

Can’t blame them for this rude awakening. It was a gamble from the start. A step taken supported by cliché and fortune-cookie philosophy that distills down to one potent intoxicant: you never know unless you try. And try some more. It is time well spent, but heavily mortgaged and now the swim to the island for some relief and a possible answer to the question: what’s next?

Swimming in the ocean is a little tricky. Distances are wildly influenced by the light, fatigue and desire to get somewhere. Publishing is an island of many sides. Sometimes it seems that three sides could be likened to the Na Pali Coast of Kauai: beautiful, but nearly inaccessible unless one is willing to make a very difficult hike.

So, the question remains: has the world changed that much in the last three years? It is time to rejoin the ranks. Oh, the books are out there and with any luck at all they will return one day soon with yet another reason to slip away and invent more people, places and very exciting things. Until then, anybody hiring?

Training Wheels

It is one of those two-sided moments: remembering when that big, strong hand released the bike behind your first taste of freedom, and the moment when it was your hand that let the small rider fly.

It only took the few drive-by seconds to see it coming. Humorous at first, the big man, odd-looking with the sleek and perforated helmet perched on the top of his bald head, tests the vehicle’s tensile strength with fifty or more extra pounds. His daughter is there, standing by the newly adjusted machine - wheels reduced by two – talking a constant stream in an attempt to stem the nervousness. When very young, a tumble from mere inches of where she would normally stand seems like a fall from the treetops.

The time has arrived. “Don’t let go, daddy! Don’t let go!” The ride of her life begins and it all seems to go well. Too well. The reassuring adult voice is overwhelmed by the excitement and giddiness of this small step toward independence. “I’m doing it, daddy! I’m riding.” But daddy makes a big mistake: he calls approval from yards back, still panting at the point where he clandestinely released his child’s wheels. Gravity and panic arrive in his daughter at the same time. The bike loses the line in the pavement; a line that was perfectly straight less than a second before. The front wheel suddenly weighs more than she does and is impossible to handle. Dad sees the zigzag, the loss of control, but he is too far back to catch her. She is down in a heap, pink metal, beige wheels, candy-striped top and powder blue jeans. The face tells the story, contoured, squeezed eyes and wide mouth; the scream will come as soon as enough breath is gathered and pushed from her injured spirit. You only hope that is all that is injured. That will heal fast, just as soon as she realizes that – if only for a moment – she was riding on two wheels!

The rest is too sad and wonderful to contemplate. But the notion of training wheels does not fade from life. Every endeavor, even those far less frightening than that first ride on a real two-wheeler, needs a period of risk aversion. Practice with a net before the big show. And then the show, where your best had better be good enough.

Few of us venture into the arena of death defying performance, but in our own less bone-crushing way, we all must strip off the training wheels and let her fly. For some it might be too soon and the tumble keeps happening. Things never seem to go quite right, even when surrounded by opportunities. There are such things as mental training wheels and some of us never replace them with solid faith in our abilities. And there are those whose extra wheels never really touched the ground. They were just there so mom would not worry so much. They were born ready.

Most seem to fall somewhere in the middle. Willing at some point to trust nature and muscle memory and speed forward with a great sense of confidence and an eye on the brightest of futures. In the case of writing for sale, that day job, savings, a wealthy benefactor all act as training wheels while we struggle to find the balance. Perhaps some of us try too hard and that front wheel, the one that was so steady a moment ago, begins to wobble, signaling certain disaster. Along with that comes the inner voice speaking those familiar lines of doubt and fear. Someone needs to stick a training wheel in that useless mouth!

Just as the lesson handed down from parent to child proves: don’t fight with nature. You can do it, just ride.

The Slow Learner

CLEVELAND [August 20] -- Nearly everything done well starts out as disaster; an embarrassment of errors that most would like to forget. Yet without those moments, those days, weeks and months of trying and failing, success would remain elusive.

Thomas Pynchon collected some of his early works under the title Slow Learner. The master of post-modern American literature, and in many ways a pioneer for some of today’s best writers, knew that it was not genius, training nor even talent that paved the way to a successful career as a writer. It was persistence and facing the flaws in his technique head-on. Trying and failing, gaining a little acceptance so that he can try a little harder and fail just a little less. He was his own worst critic which, given the scope of his work and the demands placed on the reader, is quite a harsh vocation.

Early works are cumbersome. The letters seem to glisten with the sweat of the writer and the structure often reflects the tight shoulders and set mouth of a young person attempting the impossible. By the time the public sees what is almost laughably called a debut, the writer has been to hell and back with manuscript after manuscript of sub-par attempts. Or so he is told. He has sacrificed his fortune, his relationships and in some cases his very life just to get a point across.

One more try, before the fight starts.

The stories are too numerous to dismiss. Is it madness that makes the writer, or the process that makes us mad? Having some small experience with mental illness is no preparation for the difficulty in gaining acceptance for the stories created from nightmares or love affairs. The imagination plays the same trick on those starving for attention through publication as it does to the desert's lost. We read our work and see great things; others read and see something else entirely. Can the writer possibly know the true value of the work before professional reviews and sales figures confirm or deny a place on the shelves? That sound is an unanimous “NO!” from PM Members and others, even those well on their way with several titles in the stores.

In 1974, while the door to a radio career was just creaking open, there was a temporary engineer sitting in a remote cinder block building at the base of giant towers. The Radio Frequency radiation (RF) was so strong that neon bulbs would light independent of any fixtures or power and the hair at the base of the skull was in a permanent state of arousal. The time was drawing near when union rules prompted overly-frugal owners to dismiss the young man before becoming tenured at his six month anniversary. But the staff of the station consisted of less than 2% minority workers. That was one in fifty-seven, in a market where African Americans made up 30% of the population. The street-savvy owners feared dismissing that one - this one - especially for such a mercenary reason, was inviting trouble. So the order went out: get another minority on board, "before the probationary period of the one we have expires."

The chief engineer just happened to be a South African. This is important only because of his peculiar world view. He asked the janitor if his son would like to learn broadcast engineering. The young man was hired with the full intention of replacing a certified, and by now experienced engineer, maintaining at least the appearance of compliance. The clock ticked down and the days came and went with the would-be replacement, through no fault of his own, displaying woeful incompetence. The day before the nervous transmitter engineer was to be let go, the janitor’s son walked out; fed up with a job he had no hope of learning, nor desire to continue. Thus began a long and sometimes arduous radio career. It was the only time this writer – then radio novice – was ever aided by the color of his skin and a conflicted society.

Many more mistakes later and we arrive here, still waiting for the clock to tick to the final hour, when this new career must either take shape, or fade into a period of fanciful waste. As difficult as it is to see the macro-lessons of the past - escaping disaster and given yet another chance to try again – fear of the future seems to drive some of us forward.

Others it simply drives mad.

The Gesture

CLEVELAND [August 18] -- It is a small gesture. But in the context of the Wal-Mart parking lot, and given the apparent age of the couple, it stands out.

Late afternoon in August – any afternoon – and big retailers are filled with haggard parents; oblivious kids in tow. The soon-to-be-reschooled young people are likely thinking of a new whatever for their virtual pre-teen lifestyle, and in denial about the change looming just days off the horizon. Mom, and in some cases dad, is well aware of the return to normal that is about to dissolve summer into a sweaty memory. Clothing and supplies top the list for this trip!

It is not like holiday shopping, when patrons wearily seek just enough for giving; just enough to symbolize a spirit of the season. This is not a real season, rather an event. There is purpose in their steps and the reluctant child is calling the shots. “I need one of these for my locker.” “Do you have the list from the school?” “Everybody’s wearing these!” A familiar attempt to mollify the inevitable loss of freedom with material gain.

Mom (or dad) is unusually cooperative and probably spends more than she would have. In America, kids are not an expense, they are a cherished investment in time, love and money. Even parents with little extra at the end of the week, in this working class setting, would find a way to give the fresh student what he needs, and at least some of what she wants.

All this is expected when the lone shopper finds a parking space and sits at the wheel, gathering reminders of exactly why he is there. That is when the gesture happens. The car - one row over and two cars out - pulls into a space. It is a gray Honda. More than commonplace, it would be a cop’s nightmare should an occasion require a unique description. The lot is filled with similar vehicles. Both doors open and a young man slips from behind the wheel. Short cropped, sand-colored hair, a sports tee shirt and jeans, he is as nondescript as his car. On the passenger side is a young woman, also a Jell-O mold of a girl: brown hair, pale skin, too pale for mid-August. But instead of stopping at the rear-passenger bumper waiting for his girl to join him, he walks around to the passenger door, opens it completely and helps her out! And it is not just a begrudging thing that she somehow encouraged or insisted upon; it is a touching motion that radiates tenderness and love across three lines of cars. The gesture would have been right at home in 1965, or among those who courted in 1965. But this couple was in diapers in 1985.

The move – and the continuing connection between the two – is enough for the observer to stay in his car long enough to study the pair as they make their way toward the blue and gray block entrance. Even after the initial shock, traveling adjacent rows to the shopping Mecca, it is difficult not to stare

The young woman has on a white blouse, tucked slightly just at the heart line and flared to just below her hips. She is pregnant, and judging by her husband/boy friend’s nurturing, the child will be their first. Surrounded by ripe families, he caresses his new family like a delicate bud on a rare orchid. Even his eyes widen and watch as she softly complains about aches and pains the girl she once was never dreamed existed. It is like seeing not just one new life, but three gliding into the Wal-Mart culture and taking their place at check-out.

Of course this is nothing new or even uncommon. But there was something almost traditional that many believe is lost in the very young: when love is not just a word or an act, but a way of living. One imagines, twenty, thirty even forty years from now, he will still open her car door and offer his hand to the girl he loves.

In Praise of Lynda

CLEVELAND [August 16] -- Learning is one of those great human mysteries. There is no lacking forests worth of documentation outlining millions of scientific theories on how we learn. It is possible that those trees died in vein. The reason is simple: each person learns differently. The variations might be slight. There is even a commonality to the functions of growing, maturing and developing specialized skills, but within that function there is almost an infinite number of variations.

Teachers are the hardest working artists on the planet. They are quick on their feet, love the work and are the ultimate gardeners of the human spirit. The science and craft of the profession are used up, modified and all but discarded before the student teacher year is complete. Master Teachers are as poetic as Frost and as visual as Picasso. There is no student who can avert his or her eyes without telling a good teacher exactly what is needed to succeed. There is no classroom so big as to hide a lost child or so small to hide the artistry of a good - a Master teacher.

In five decades this perpetual student has found many ways to learn; a more apt description might be discovered the best ways in which knowledge seeps beyond a thick skull. As with many of us, it was not in the classroom, rather in living and trying, failing and finally making breakthroughs. Tiny breakthroughs. Learning comes when you least expect it and the lessons learned through pain are the most lasting. (Don’t put your hand there, you’ll burn…told you.) “Nothing fails like success because we don't learn from it. We learn only from failure,” so said the brilliant University of Michigan social theorists Dr. Kenneth Boudling. It is easy to add to the intellectual landscape, but often the toughest job is seeing through the despair and taking home the lessons.

Here are small tributes to two teachers who are as accessible as the fifth grade and considerably more effective. The first is a member right here on Publisher’s Marketplace. Eva Pohler is a Ph.D. in English. She has offered her knowledge to those of us who struggle to find the story while frequently losing the words - or at least their proper place. Her blog, named The Sh*t Detector, with appropriate filters, is a fun re-examination of language and composition. The teacher in her, gripping her class and holding on tightly, makes each post interesting and humorous. Few know the language well enough to remain totally confident in its construct; a little daily refresher course can only help. Though comments here about other pages are rare – nearly all members are worth a visit – The Sh*t Detector is a must read. Of course, for marketing and a unique inside glimpse at the post-deal realities, there is no better blog than the chart-topper from M. J. Rose. Her book featured below is exciting, sexy and a wonderful example of a true talent working hard and smart. Ms. Rose made the often stodgy publishing world come to her. Enough sucking up. Both these members are kind enough to feature this little collection in their respective recommended columns.

The other teacher in this tribute is also available on-line. It is the only way this classroom could have become reality. Lynda.com is a training site and CD marketing venture that has such an amazing business model that one might underestimate the work that went into the “classes.” Even a novice can learn nearly any graphic application from this well formatted, expertly instructed site. Palatable, easy to follow instructions can literally turn those with a base knowledge of computers into webmasters in a few days. A week at the most. If there is any desire to put to use those expensive programs that are collecting dust along side Ivanhoe and Anna Karenina on the seldom touched bookshelf, click Lynda.com and check out her deal. It is not free, but for the price it is a real value.

P.S. Because of Lynda.com this Essay Archives page is undergoing reconstructive surgery. It is already a cleaner site reflecting the professionalism with which the work is undertaken. And a great thanks to Richard, for the tip toward Lynda.com. At a later time, from a stronger stance, Richard will be a subject of one of these visits. The prospect of that alone is worth an occasional peek back here at The Radio Murders.

One Step Beyond: An Honest Appraisal

CLEVELAND [August 14] -- If you worry, don’t pray. If you pray, don’t worry. Some might find the next six-hundred words offensive. This is serious business, this writing for sale. But just as we approach the work – with all elements of the human experience including love, sex, humor, violence, fear, loss and triumph – so must an honest appraisal contain elements of the whole.

Spirituality on a PM site is like politics. One might correctly conclude that it has no place in a focused comment on a job-specific member page. We are here to become better writers and better marketers of our work. That is understood.

But there are many occasions when it becomes necessary to veer from the limited access road and roam the rest stops of life. This is one of those times. These days are heavy with doubt. Were it not so hot, inside the fireplace a blaze would consume pages from all six volumes of The Radio Murders. It gets like that sometimes, so we are told.

Stretching the metaphor, it is time to let The Driver drive.

It is a great vanity to believe that something culled from nothing except one’s experiences and vision can become a commodity. The topic has been broached before, but now is the time for reflection and owning the decisions and the risks. This is where spirituality comes in. Without it madness would surely follow.

Some vivid memories that constantly cascade in this writer’s experience occurred at the cliff edge. Cold sweats have been mentioned, as have early morning bouts of depression usually accompanying the realization that this is it. The stories, the task has moved one step beyond the PNR: the Point of No Return. Gambling with our own lives is one thing, but few of us live in a vacuum. There are others, sometimes many others who depend on our good judgment and selfless motives. It is their faces we see and their voices we hear while engaged in the useless projection of failure.

Some have been to the ledge many times, whether through ignorance, alcoholism (or other mental defects), or just plain bad luck. We have seen it all slip through our fingers. During those moments it is difficult to imagine a new start, new successes and a salvaged dream. Yet that is exactly what happens. As long as we don’t revert to the destructive patterns that got us there in the first place, somehow the rebuilding gets underway in spite of our fears.<img align=right src=http://badfiction.com/images/onestepbeyond.jpg>

There was a wonderful TV show in the late fifties and early sixties called, appropriately enough, One Step Beyond. It was viewed as a poor attempt to capture some of the magic of The Twilight Zone. But it was more than that. The show featured, more often than not, men and women in desperate situations with no hope of recovery. Broken marriages cured by inexplicable time travel; violent final acts prevented by Divine intervention; and revenge beyond the grave. These stories, wrapped in the shroud of truth, dramatized life’s biggest secret: somehow it all works out if only you let it.

This has been proven many times in one life. And there have been a number of times when the opposite is true. Yet when we step aside, do what is in front of us and, as Douglas Adams advises (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), don’t panic, things miraculously fall into place.

Is it a miracle? That is the question the pale docent for The Beyond might ask. He – John Newland - remained fuzzy and just out of reach, while the guide for The Twilight Zone, in smoky contrasts of black and white, seemed to have the answer: you can’t win.

This traveler prefers to believe the former, and history has proven it true. How difficult it is for one to trust in self, in one’s own ideas and abilities? It is vital in nearly all pursuits to know that though the last step was one of faith, that it was not one step beyond, but one step closer.

The Perfect Book

CLEVELAND [August 12] -- By the end of this visit, a complete novel will be presented. Using all advice on style and structure, the story will fly; keep the reader breathless and interested and crackle with clean prose, direct characters and clear purpose. The novel contains all the elements a reader needs to follow a story, make a sound judgment and move on to the next book. Depth, direction and action fill each word. Yet the reader has room to fit his unique images and prejudices, fears and desires, skepticism and conclusions.

All the do's, don’ts, pitfalls, traps, non-gimmicks and non-gadgets that are offered by the experts inspired the story. If one were to adhere to - and believe - every word sold on the craft and magic of successful fiction writing, then the purity, the very clarity of the story below should work on every level and this PM member will need an assistant simply to field the calls from major imprints and film studios.

Of course, some rules are mere guideposts; suggestions that might make a work more palatable and exciting. Still, if necessary, they are there for the breaking. Others are filling trade paper simply because there is an audience of frustrated would-be authors who - short of securing an MFA or continuing to write and learn - are willing to pay any price to be a published author. At last count, in a near-by library, more than seven-hundred titles are stocked devoted to the art and craft of story-selling. Some are vital. Style guidelines and grammatical references are necessary for those who did not follow advanced English classes to the smallest details. Even if such classes were taken completely seriously, and aced, the language is so fluid and a writer’s voice is so subjective that someone somewhere will find fault. Industry references such as the Literary Market Place and Jeff Herman's Guide to Literary Agents are also crucial.

Add that to the mix.

And this: who is the greatest writer in the English language? Most would conclude Shakespeare for sheer volume, intrigue and plot; Melville for style; Hemingway for realism and Twain for lively voice and memorable characters. Some might include Chaucer, Hawthorne, Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot), Dickinson, Faulkner, Joyce, and Woolf. Certainly many will find fault with this list and disdain the omissions. Everyone here or any other list are writers who followed a path drawn by intangibles. <img align=left src=http://badfiction.com/images/box46.jpg>Something within pushed the pen. It was beyond definition and certainly beyond on-line seminars, conferences and how-to books, even if they then existed. There was a drive and a skill that converged into innovation fueled by talent and eventually finding acceptance. A writer was like a magician or an escape artist: a marvel and a freak of nature all rolled into one vision, accessible and enjoyable, frightening and sobering. The writer gives conscience to the times and balance for generations yet unborn.

But this is commercial fiction. Crest, Budweiser and Starbucks, one must meet and beat expectations. McDonalds. One must fall in line, be a better Coke, as if that were possible. One must brand, not by developing, but by following. All the work has already been done, calls made, research concluded, received and consensus reached.

This is how it is done:

Chapter One

Clouding eyes, the body stinks, mimicking silent accusations until the woman folds. The barrel tastes hot and sour on her tongue; pressing, curling into the bore. She feels the rifling's sharp edge, and then no more. Compounded sins: murder and suicide, she expects hell. No one knows.

“How long to collect on insurance?” The teenager badgers a lazy cop.

With no alibi, it was enough. Homicide beats suicide on the officer's application for sergeant.

Innocence shatters thirty minutes into the boy’s life sentence.

The End.

Thank you and good night.

Fat People

CLEVELAND [August 9] -- One hour a day on the treadmill and eat anything! It should work, but if the diet consists of blueberry pie and ice-cream, and the other twenty-three hours resemble broken animatronics, start buying expandable waist slacks.

Weight gain is the casus belli for a battle that never ends. There was a time when being the fat kid meant being the outcast, unique and the target for childhood vitriol. Now it seems that those not overweight are the oddballs. Depending on where in the country work, play and family reside the majority of those packing the aisle at Wal-Mart carry a half-person too many inside the double-wide tee shirt. It is a national crisis in a time of blanket crises.

This is not to ignore the dangers facing America at home and elsewhere. War is a constant, both on the streets and deserts in Iraq, in the mountains of Afghanistan and in the conflicted minds of all who are thoughtful enough to care. There is a debate in the collective consciousness of Americans that is nearly as violent as the war itself. There are children threatened by violence and perversion on a daily, almost hourly basis. This is not new, but fed up parents and their government created systems so that, like it or not, we are the Village taking all children under our care. Perverts, and those who would endanger a child, be very afraid. We are watching. These are the big issues and plenty of places on this vast graphic landscape ferret out all sides. Unfortunately, this is true even on the side of the abuser. There is a bit of good news, if one is allowed a slight digression: there is a common narrative developing around young girls fending off would-be attackers. It happens a lot. One little girl, Mackenzie Smith of Utah, made a remarkably eloquent statement explaining her actions. She said she “had too many things to do with her life, too many plans for this to happen. He wasn’t going to take me.” Group cheer, please!

Yet with all our challenges, pulling away from unhealthy eating and adding a little motion to our day remains elusive. This PM member, while no medical authority, knows a little something about being heavy – or Husky as the size was designated at the little clothing store on the corner of Parkgate Ave. and 105th. Corduroys were the wolfbane to the monster that wrapped a young boy’s thighs, wearing out at the leg-top after days of rhythmically whining for mercy. Gym class was tantamount to breathing underwater, with all the associated trauma and pain. A happy day was a treat to be cherished and banked. When a quack prescribed Dexedrine – they did that back then – those happy days were chemically forced and a whole new set of problems checked in.

But youth and determination prevailed – somehow – and the war finally ended at age seventeen. The timing could not have been more perfect. Fasting for days and feasting on girls, and yes more drugs, helped shed over one hundred pounds and the 6’ 2” frame held high the freak-flag with no more than 185 pounds tagging along. There were literal States and altered states to explore and the Halo Effect mentioned below was a perfect weapon against destitution, serious crime and, for the most part, a return to obesity.

That is not to say that the figure of a skinny, bell-bottom wearing dope smoker remained. Time and responsibility removed all intoxicants. Yet Radio opened a new front in battling a beach-averse body. Writing is an even greater nemesis. It seems sitting at a workstation and moving the neck and lower arms is not the best aerobic exercise. So it is on to the treadmill.

It was a recent discovery that reading is possible at a controlled 3 MPH on a 20 degree incline. Very cool.