A Constant Suicide

I've moved.

2010-03-28T08:48:00.000-07:00

Too much spam. Too much BS.

Here's my new home: http://briankrans.tumblr.com/.

Thanks.

Be very, very afraid to laugh

2009-10-29T23:40:00.001-07:00

So, a while back I wrote a few posts that have been getting some attention back in the ol' fair Quad-Cities.

The first was about a "sighting" I had whilst living in the City of Davenport. The second was that the person I saw "abducted" was someone shown on the Web site ZWatch.org.

Sorry for the three people that read this blog and the one person who actually believed this was real. Yes, me, Brian Krans, an author of numerous fictional work, created those posts to further a conspiracy that might bring criminal charges.

Seriously. Read the story by the tenacious and talented Quad City Times reporter Ann McGlynn titled, "'Zombie' event planners might face charges."

As I was accurately quoted, I called the event — a zombie pride parade in Davenport — "form of creative expression" and "an art form," "mobile, walking art" and "our version of 'War of the Worlds.'"

If there are criminal charges pending against anyone involved in the project, I will declare this now, and in front of a jury if necessary, I WAS PART OF IT FROM THE BEGINNING!!!

Was there a conspiracy? If by conspiracy you mean planning extensively by numerous talented individuals in search of a goal, then yes, there was a conspiracy. Was there a crime committed? That's for the lawyers and possibly a jury to decide.

We collaborated, we created, we confused a few people, we entertained even more, and hopefully inspired some.

Instead of people looking at a Web site searching for a missing kid — whose "family" didn't even know that much about him — and giving it a dismissive look, some contacted the police because, let's face it, some people are easily scared at even the slightest hint of something wrong. Then again, most people are smart, saw right through it as the ploy it was and went on about their lives.

So that's the end of it, right? Nope. The cops are involved. They're upset and charges might be filed against the few of us brave (read: dumb) to tag our names to such a project where no one was hurt, no property was damage, nor any liberty was obstructed.

No, really, this is what's happened to us. I really, really hope there is a God and he hates people without a sense of humor.

We can't take jokes. We take everything seriously. Everyone has feelings. No one should ever, ever hurt them. I'm guessing — and often I'm not good at that — that someone made a huge stink about the site once they realized they were duped into believing what was obviously a hoax that was ALWAYS intended to be an advertising ploy for a few parties in the Quad-Cities.

To those people: you should also seek the heads of Ron Popeil, the Sham Wow guy, the people behind the Blair Witch Project and Michael Bay. I only include Michael Bay because his trailers make me think the movies might be good when they never are.

I'll end this with a quote from the greatest philosopher to ever grace the planet at the same time we all did, George Carlin: "I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven't tried that for a while. Maybe this time it'll work."

Happy Sell Some Friggin' Books Month!

2009-10-01T08:32:00.000-07:00

November might be National Novel Writing Month, but October will be my Sell Some Friggin' Books Month.

While my first novel/memoir might not be some teen vampire book — which we all know is an allegory for AIDS — it does have enough bits and pieces from everyone's college experience: falling down stairs, puking all over campus, irritating the townies, etc.

How many memories? ONE Magazine called it "a concise, thought-provoking and nostalgia-conjuring story of life during the impressionable stages of early adulthood."

So, if you haven't read it, you should really get on that.

Let's face it: living in San Francisco is expensive. I have books and you're looking for some cheap entertainment.

All you have to do is email me at briankrans@gmail.com with your address and how many copies you want. I'll send you my PayPal info and once I get $10 for each copy, I'll ship the books your way. FREE SHIPPING? Amazon doesn't even do that!

Sending it as a gift? I can include a nice or offensive inscription to your loved one (or maybe your ex- that you wish would just die). Either heart-felt or heart-piercing, I'll get your message across.

Support literature you bastards!

I can't believe it!

2009-09-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

This is getting really, really creepy. In my last post I described what happened in my neighborhood not long before I left the Quad-Cities.

Somehow this blog got linked up with www.zwatch.org, a site dedicated to a missing QC man, Zachariah Furio. The site is now run by his brother Adrian, who in videos on the site investigated his own brother's disappearance.

The paper I used to work for wrote a story on the site that questioned it's validity and a reporter for the competing newspaper even suggested that I was the brother running the site. I will swear this with a Bible under my hand — I AM NOT RUNNING THAT SITE!!!

The most disturbing thing is that the picture to the left is of the missing guy, supposedly supplied by the QC Department of Biological Sciences. Never in my time in the Quad-Cities have I ever heard of such an organization, but I am positive of one thing — THIS IS THE PERSON TAKEN INTO CUSTODY THAT NIGHT IN DAVENPORT! Never, ever in my life have I been sure of such a thing.

Now I know that after years of covering trials that eyewitness testimony is the most unreliable out there, but I will never forget this face. Ever. This is the EXACT same calm face he was wearing when taken into custody.

No flashing lights. No cuffs. Masks and gloves? Is this the swine flu? H1N1, as it's known by is spreading everywhere, including 2,000 people on one college campus. This, according to zwatch, is the H1Z1. WTF is that?

Something is wrong in Davenport. There should be something out there other than unanswered questions for zwatch.org, a skeptical media because they're too lazy to look outside the usual channels, and a leak to a Web site that gets made fun or more than it is taken seriously.

If there's anything that makes me wish I had more time as a reporter in the QC, it's this. I was normally the one making jokes at the latest "panic" piece I was writing — swine flu, floods, tainted peanuts — but this is one of the few things that actually made me concerned. I doubt this photo is like that kid who cries blood.

All of the questions I was asking to my sources in law enforcement in Davenport have been met with silence except for one, which I will not name for obvious reasons. He's quit over this. To quote a voicemail message he left me, "Don't ask me any more questions about Furio. I'm out. I'm done." That was all I've got.

I'm glad I got out when I did.

I don't know what happened...

2009-08-24T13:09:00.000-07:00

This might sound kind of strange from my normal blog topics — as if any of this has any focus — but I have to share this somewhere and I don't know where else to share this.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not some conspiracy theory nut, but there were some things going down in my neighborhood in Davenport before I left. Since then, I haven't been able to get any good answers from anyone as to what happened.

Not long before I left there was what I thought was an arrest in my old neighborhood at the top of the hill. My neighborhood was no stranger to flashing lights and gun-drawn arrests but these were different. Normally, squad cars would fill the street with flashing lights and uniformed officers, whether packing handguns or shotguns.

I don't remember what night of the week it was, but it was a weekday. I was up late, per usual, sitting at my desk writing. Down the block a bit, I heard a commotion and went outside and stood in my front lawn.

At some random house — one of the few that didn't get the cops banging on their doors — about eight men were standing in the front yard. They weren't wearing any kind of uniforms or insignia other than blue jeans and black T-shirts. These weren't the normal undercover or vice cops seen around the city.

The most alarming thing about these guys is that they were all wearing blue rubber gloves and dust masks like these.

It's like the Swine Flu had suddenly become some black ops thing and these guys were the ones cleaning up. I saw them take someone into custody.

Whoever was inside the white suit they put him in sure was going calmly because everyone walked out real quiet like, got into a black van and left heading north.

Maybe this doesn't mean anything at all, but when I checked, something felt wrong. Any contacts I had at any law enforcement agency in the QC were of absolutely no help. Even the ones that would give me nuggets of info for stories didn't even so much as call me back.

No public records showed anyone being held at any of the jails listing that address. No police agency showed an arrest at that house in the recent past.

It could all be nothing for all I know.

"Despite"

2009-08-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

I have finally found my favorite word: despite.

Since I feel like this is a beginning of some college essay, I might as well include this part: Websters defines “despite” as “without being affected by; in spite of.” It’s Latin root means “look down upon.”

There could be a fill-in-the-blanks that starts with despite for all the people I admire: Despite _________, I __________.

There’s so many ways to fill that in. I want to get it tattooed on my somewhere and fill it in with Sharpie every once in a while, moving on to something else before it fades away.

Despite my age and ability, I keep skating.

Despite my high school counselor, I made it through college.

Despite the critics, I still write.

Despite knowing better, I take chances.

Despite everything to the contrary, I am where I am.

Despite my haters, I move forward.

Rolling in SF...

2009-08-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

San Francisco is a weird place. Here, people seem to smile more, or at least where I'm staying in the Haight-Ashbury district for the next week.

The weirdest thing, there's a way to make a few bucks writing about what you really love. Hence is the case with Examiner.com. It's a site with content nearly fully-generated by freelance contributers in major cities across the country.

To my luck — or at least the fact it's such a niche market — I'm writing about rollerblading in San Francisco. My first piece focuses on the long history (which I kept extremely short) and influence SF has on blading since its birth.

As the "SF Roller Blading Examiner" I'm free to write as much as I'd like about aggressive blading, commuting on blades, rec skating or pretty much whatever I want so long as it deals with the wheeled booties on my feet.

My goal is to create a place for beginning skaters to look for resources to learn about skating, but mostly to put blading in mainstream media as much as possible. As a sport, we're more broke than California.

For this job, I'm paid by clicks, make sure to check out the stories as much as possible. Let's face it, San Fran is an expensive place to live.

Keys

2009-07-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

They're simple things but they've got me thinking.

As I pack up everything I own — or at least what's left after selling most of it — I'm realizing I've spent a lot of time trying to determine what's important in my life. The easiest way is looking at my key ring.

This week I'm giving a lot of keys back. One is for my cousin's house. Another is for the laundry room at my old apartment (I've been freeloading for over a year). Yet another is for Skate Church and one for the lockers to the shop there. My apartment.

Then there are the car keys. The car keys are the last to go but the one's I think I'll miss the least. No more lazily driving to my destination, unaware of the journey until I got there. Nope, now I have to blade, bike or meander through public transportation to get around, something I've never done.

My apartment key is the second to last to go. Lots of memories of having too many bladers over after sessions, clogging the room with the stink of beer and smoke, laughing too loud and too late while Cheung crank called hookers in Las Vegas. Too much fun. Then there's the piles of cat hair still clinging to everything. That, and everything that came with it, I'm not crying for leaving behind.

Skate Church keys. Saying good-bye to all the kids sucked, but I would have traded my time there for anything. It's without a doubt the thing I'll miss most about the Quad-Cities. Outside the kids, having a key to an indoor skate park with a 40-foot wide mini ramp was my favorite part. Again, lots of good times. Lots of injuries, but good times too.

My cousin's house. Ah, yes, family I really get along with. A ball-psycho dog I taught to play Wii. Taco Thursdays and smarty-pants Palmer kids. All good memories.

In giving these keys back, in the midst of all the good times, I realized one thing — outside the car, nothing belonged to me. None of these were places I had any ownership nor stake outside time and emotions. I never settled here. I never bought a house, a condo or signed a lease in the last two years.

I'll miss each one of those keys, but maybe it is time to leave.

A step above a Star Wars geek...

2009-06-02T11:22:00.000-07:00

So, a new Buffalo Wild Wings is opening in Moline and as a gimmick, the store is offering free wings for a year to the first 100 people in the doors. As much as I am a wh
ore for their saucy wings (Hot mostly, Blazin' if I want internal bleeding and Parm Garlic for dessert), I won't be one of the people waiting in line.

The store opens Monday and there are already predictions that people will be camping out as early as Saturday. I was wrong. I just found out there are people camping out there in a tent right now. It's friggin' WEDNESDAY! Six days for wings!

Wow. Considering the offer could be as weak as six free wings a month for a year, that's some dedication to cheap-skating.

This got me thinking...is a year's worth of wings really worth a weekend camping outside a closed restaurant. Sure, people have waited for worse, but there needs to be some kind of rating system for those people who deem it necessary to pause their lives for certain things:

Here are a few of my selections:

5). iPhone 3G Guy: Sure, now you can gather porn at blazing speeds, but the difference between the guy at the head of the line for the new 3G and the guy who gets it weeks later — the size of their contact list.

4). Black Friday Shopper: It's not the waiting in line that is the demeaning part, it's the brutal nature of those shoving their way through the door. Maybe the chemical in turkey that makes you tired makes you psychotic when illuminated under florescent light. Then again, times are tough and power drills and flat-screen TVs are expensive.

Disclaimer: One day after Thanksgiving a friend and I waited outside the Wal-Mart I worked at to buy things for other people. We made $150 each for 2 hours of work. I was 16.

3). Star Wars Fanatics: While now extinct until George Lucas finds another way to whore out spinoffs of this great six-part series, the Star Wars fans were always the most eclectic. Whether dressed as a character that doesn't appear in the movie they're waiting for or having rehearsed light saber battles in the parking lot, these crazy kids just like to have PG fun. That, and after the whole waiting, they're still paying $9 to see an abomination — at least they did for the last three movies.

2). Parents: So your kid likes Hannah Montana. Maybe your snot-ass punk of a kid wants a PSP. Cool, give them some cash and wish them luck. Waiting in line for hours, doing all the work and paying for tickets/toys only makes you a failure of a parent, not a good one. If your kid is disappointed in the fact they don't get to see the latest Disney manifestation of what adolescence should be, tell them to wait until they get a job. Sure, they like rock stars, but they won't be one.

And now, the number one offender for waiting in line for all the wrong reasons:

1). Reality TV Show Contestant Wannabes: If you're waiting in line to hopefully cash in on your uniqueness, you'd be better off banking on your craziness. American Idol, The Real World or America's Next Top Model can do without you. You're not that interesting, talented or pretty if you have to wait in line.

I've been bad...

2009-05-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

Actually, I've been behaving recently, at least to a certain extent.

Last week, I saw an ad on the SF Bay Craigslist looking for a job, but instead I found something even better.

An ad for a startup magazine called Kidnapped! said: "Do desperate times call for desperate measures? Have you ever done something you’re not entirely proud of? Made a dubious decision in the heat of the moment, fueled by the unlikelihood of being caught, remembered, or resisted? Has personal gain ever out-weighed moral obligation, friendship, or dignity?

If so, we want to hear about it."

And they did.

I wrote a story — aptly named Divorce Party — about an experience where I did some funny, but not-too-funny things while bartending a divorce party a few years ago. I workshopped it with the usual Tuesday night crowd and they liked it.

Today I got an email from the magazine that said they "LOVE" the story (and the caps were theirs).

The issue is supposed to be out this summer, so look for it.

Until then, I'll be writing.

San Fran...

2009-04-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm looking forward to seeing this image in person. Maybe not this exact scene, but something like it. And I like a good skyline and dusk scene as much as the next hetero guy, but this is not why I'll be moving to San Francisco by fall.

I guess it's been too long since I've been excited by anything that has sustained itself for an extended period of time. Don't get me wrong, I love so many aspects of my life right now that the thought of leaving it makes me sick to my stomach.

Things have seemed to reach a standstill in the Quad-Cities. Stagnant is maybe a better word. I have amazing friends and I always seem to find a way to keep myself interested, but there must be more. Too often I find myself doing the same things, falling into the same ruts. I crave a challenge. I crave adventure.

So, by my 28th birthday, I will be living in San Francisco with my friend Les. I'll be selling my car and relying on my skates, a bike and public transportation to navigate the 13th most populous city in the country. Thirteen is my lucky number after all.

For the first few months, I might have to survive on money from the sale of my car, but two weeks without a job will drive me insane. I know I'll find something, but newspapers are out. Sadly, the old gray ladies are dying. Online reading — like you're doing now — is, sadly, where it is at. Oh well, I always have unsold copies of A Constant Suicide I can hock on the streets.

For my creative writing, I couldn't ask for anything better. Taking myself out of my comforts of home, really seeing a city instead of what's in front of my windshield, should do wonders for my creativity. That, and the writing scene is AMAZING! I could very easily be applying to the three schools there with a Creative Writing MFA for fall 2010. Consider that done.

A writer and a graphic designer from Iowa (which allows gay marriage) move to San Francisco. They both rollerblade. Sure, that doesn't sound gay at all.

Grad schools...

2009-03-21T18:20:00.001-07:00

So last week was the week of rejections. From everywhere.

Iowa said no. So did Colorado, Michigan, Brown and others. I got a story rejected from a literary magazine I really respect. There were some personal rejections too, but since this blog is supposed to be about my literary ventures, we'll stick to those.

The worst of all of them was Colorado — sending me an e-mail on Saturday night that not all of my letters of recommendation arrived, so they couldn't accept my application. On a Saturday night! That's when I get to find out someone couldn't manage to send a letter, even after promising me they would! Let's just say it killed the mood for what could have been a magically adventurous and much-needed night off.

Anyway, this is the week of acceptances. Baltimore wants me, which is great because of their non-traditional program. We could be a good mix together. "You're in" is such a good phrase to hear. (Proceed to scraping your mind out o' the gutter).

I also received a financial aid offer from San Francisco State. I have yet to get a final yes or no from them, but I figure since they went through the trouble of making sure I could afford to go there, there might be some interest in me.

In other news, the Buffalo Carp release party was last night. And, of course, since I had two pieces chosen for it and was a judge in the short fiction contest, I couldn't make it. One very talented writer said of the event, "I'm really proud of the Quad Cities tonight."

Really wish I could have been there. Anyway, but it, support it, love it.

Reading tonight...

2009-02-25T08:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm headlining the Out Loud Series at Quad City Arts. It's kind of a thrown-together idea of having less-known (like I'm that well known) people read their work before I get up and spew out some dribble. Normally reserved for poetry, this Out Loud is the first where fiction writers are the center of attention.

Scouring my brain for what to read, I opted to revisit some of my older notebooks to write something special for the occasion. What I chose was to go with was an amusing anecdote from my travels to New Orleans in 2007 with the youth group from SkateChurch. Nothing better than getting some guns pulled on you by a few cops while volunteering with kids.

The point of reading that story is to transition into a chapter from Freeze Tag on the Highway. While the chapter is actually number ten or so, it's the first bit of the book I wrote while inspired to start the project while in New Orleans.

The reading, instead of just some slopped-together short stories in random order, is more about the creative process and how my life inspires my fiction.

Hopefully, it won't blow up in my face. God, I pray they're not serving alcohol. It could get ugly if they do.

Thoughts...

2009-02-02T19:34:00.000-08:00

So now that I'm some kind of business reporter, I've got my mind away from the area's collection of broken teeth, mangled flesh and monthly body count that is the crime beat.

Covering a country in a recession is all sorts of messed up. People are trying to "think green" by using less and trying to save money by spending less, but in turn are hurting an economy that was founded on people discarding everything and spending more than we could ever make. Our foolishness is catching up with us at a rapid rate, sending us clamoring for ideas on how to resolve it.

Frankly, I think we're screwed and deserve it. Don't get me wrong, I don't want anyone without a job, especially one they've given their soul and fingerprints to for the last few decades. I love those guys and girls. I was raised among them.

I'm just hoping that whatever comes of these economic predictions — if things are really as bad as people say they are — is that we all become smarter. Maybe with all of this we can see the ramifications of things we thought were easy choices.

Take for example the simple thing of food, something we all often look over as a means to end hunger. Honestly, I hope the recession kills fast food. Since we're all trying to save money (or at least us middle class and poor kids), I hope we all start thinking about where we are putting our money. Instead of jamming the pockets of the corporations that dole out bonuses in the millions and billions to their top people, can we support the companies that support charities with causes close to our ideals?

Do we stop feeding the McMachines, the Big Boxes and the rest of the places that give us sub-par living, as both the consumer and the employee? I have. I've sworn off fast food, vending machines and anything that gives me over-processed crap for eager money. I've finally started shopping, knowing when I'll get hungry. I stash my food and don't buy crap I might think for a second that I'd throw out.

I shop where my friends work, even if I have to go out of my way to go there. I shop the places in my neighborhoods. If someone gives me crap service, they won't see me again.

With limited money to spend as I try to dig myself out of debt — whether in preparation for grad school or the beautiful fact of not owing anyone any money — I'm more conscious of where I plug my bills. If they paid for a Super Bowl ad — chucking out $3 million for 30 seconds — I won't buy their stuff. (Although www.aconstantsuicide.com is a Go Daddy site, a company that has treated me very well in terms of service) If they advertise with our paper (thus paying my paycheck) they've got a better chance of seeing the money back. Sorry Wal-Mart, none for you.

There's tons of places I'd like to take all of this rambling, but I won't...this time.

We're all going to see hard times, in one fashion or another, if we're not there already.

We just need to think more. We need to be more deliberate with what we do.

After all, thinking is a good thing. I'm going to try it out for once.

"Freeze Tag on the Highway"

2009-01-11T10:06:00.000-08:00

So, following a hiatus where I worked on my social life, exploring America and about half a dozen short stories, I'm back working on the novel. Since I have an agent in New York currently reading it, I think it's a good idea to have more pages available than what I've sent them.

It's not like I've been sitting on my couch watching movies all the time. I've been getting more active in SkateChurch again, traveling in a van to Texas, a week in Vegas, a trip home, a food column for ONE Magazine, hectic changes in my work and romantic life, becoming an editor at Buffalo Carp, and a whole bunch of other side projects. I've been a busy boy because, for some reason, I don't think there's such a thing as "too busy." Thanks mom.

Sadly, since beginning the latest novel — titled Freeze Tag on the Highway — I'm only about 150 pages into it. I know where I want to go, but since it's written in present tense, I really can't jump around like I did for A Constant Suicide.

There's also the fun task of applying to grad schools. In the end, I applied to about eight (I say "applied" when I still have one more to apply to). Yes, I only applied to ones that didn't require the GRE. The thought of taking a huge standardized test that will help judge if I can get into a Creative Writing program makes no sense. You would think the worse someone did on the test would better their chances. I know I'm wrong.

So, while waiting for either little- or big-letter day from each school come March, I'm on the novel train. There aren't any really big short story ideas burning through my head, so it's about time I get clipping along on that. I want it done before I go to grad school.

Then again, if I don't get into school, I'm going to pack up my crap and move to Portland and become a hermit for a while. Maybe somewhere warmer.

And here's a photo tour of what I've been up to:

Drunk blogging...

2008-12-31T07:43:00.000-08:00

Okay, now that I have internet, here's what I wrote for Drunk Blogging Day. Somehow it ended up in a horrible attempt at screenplay format, but it's un-edited. I haven't read it since I wrote it, so enjoy.

INTRO SCENE: A 27-year-old white boy in an “IOWAT” T-shirt and great sweat-shorts sits at a couch with his knee in a brace and ice pack on top. A bottle of beer, pack of Marlboro Ultra Light cigarettes, green Bic lighter and a whole bunch of other crap rest on the same coffee table as his white MacBook. The writer stares intently at the computer, incessantly typing while occasionally stopping to sip his beer or smoke a cigarette.

CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON THE COMPUTER.

BEGIN NARRATIVE:

Today is the day that Ernest Hemmingway and Charles Bukowski would have loved had they written on computers — National Drunk Blogging Day.

In honor of said holiday, I’m spending the evening at home with a six-pack of ice cold Miller Lites and a small amount of painkillers in my stomach. It’s not as that I’m suicidal or want to drift off into some delirium-soaked rant about the faces of Coltrane or something (Movie, anyone?). Nope, it was emergency room trip number three for me this year.

First, it was a broken ankle. Then it was a car accident. Now, it’s a stupid trick I was trying, not paying attention and then slamming my knee full force into the end of a grind box. For those of you playing the home game, take your right knee, find some exposed steel pipe with ragged edge and take a flying leap at it. That’ll get you four stitches and swelling and bruising so bad you’d think the center of your leg was an eggplant.

Then again, thanks to a comp day, I get the luxury of drinking on a Monday night while icing and elevating. My other plans were evacuated after the hospital, so fate stepped in and said, “Hey, have some beers and blather away on the laptop.”

GETTING UP TO ADJUST HIS LEG BRACE, THE WRITER WINCES IN PAIN, REALIZING THE ON-SITE PAINKILLERS ARE WEARING OFF AND THE SWELLING IS IN ITS MOST PAINFUL STAGES

WRITER CRACKS OPEN SECOND BEER AND SLAMS HALF OF IT. HE CHASES IT WITH MORE IBUPROFEN.

Fucking ow! Seriously, I didn’t think it would be this bad. I know I smacked the hell out of it but c’mon this is nuts.

OPENS THIRD BEER

Really all I want to do right now is lay down and watch episodes of “No Reservations” on my computer until I fall asleep. I’m normally not this big of a wuss, but the swelling is the worst part.

The silver lining to my lacerated crowd is that I’m not shy of ideas to write about.

What is all of this about? What is the grand message behind every scar on my body? Why continue doing things when pain, rejection and disfigurement are eminent?

Perserverence. Challenges. Goals.

I’m going to go into work limping — as I have many times before — and I’m going to be made fun of. I’m going to be mocked. I’m going to be asked, “Are you finally going to quit skating?” Every bruise, gash, broken appendage, and that question comes up.

There’s the simple answer: No. No, I’m not.

If I quit everything I wasn’t good at, I’d never really do much. I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t skate. I wouldn’t get dressed. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t have sex. I fail at a whole lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my successes. I’m not special this way. Everyone is built this way.

We garble our words the first time we try to talk. We fall the first time we try to walk. We will most likely run into some inanimate object with our cars at least once before we die. We will most likely fail a test. We will most likely get turned down for a job. Hell, as humans, the only constant thing in our lives is failure. Anytime we try anything for the first time, we don’t do it right. Hopefully after long enough, we get something right. It’s either that or we give up. I’ve seen those guys. They’re the ones drunk all the time, sleeping in cars and waiting for a handout because they’re sick of trying. (Okay, not all of them, but at least a few.)

WRITER GOES ON TANGENT

You know those people in college who drink a certain kind of booze (almost always girls and Jack Daniels), get incredibly hammered and then swear to never drink it again? What’s with that? Isn’t the point of drinking an abundance of alcohol to get drunk? Well, if I drank anything like that, I’d be all over it again. And by “if” I mean “because.”

Is it the booze’s fault? No.

Lesson of the day: if you drink a bottle of Jack Daniels, you will get drunk. So drunk, in fact, that you’ll probably do stupid shit that seems like the shit at the time. My words of advice, do it to it as much as you can within non-lethal means. That’s why they make it. Think of the distillers, they have families to feed, too. (You’re welcome, Joe)

WRITER FINDS TOPIC AGAIN

Am I ever going to go pro at skating? No. Does it make me feel great, keep me from become a fat slob couch muffin and foster creativity? You’re damn right it does. Maybe if I were smart I’d quit so I wouldn’t creak and moan so much, which gets worse every single day I fail to take better care of my body. But, because of skating, I’ve traveled the country, met some of the coolest people in existence, and reconnected with what’s important in life — friends, bullshitting, fun and not being afraid to get hurt.

I’ve heard way too often that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

WRITER OPENS FOURTH BEER, SMOKES A CIGARETTE AND THINKS FOR A BIT WHILE STRETCHING OUT HIS LEG

If we all dictate our lives by our failures, we’ll end up doing nothing. If we know something is important, if we feel we need it to truly be free, there’s no need to fear rejection, failure or pain because perseverance is the greatest virtue.

You’re going to fail. Admit it. I have. Admit it and move past it. Try, fail and give it another go. Collect people who hate you because the more you do with your life the more people are going to hate you.

Basically, follow the philosophy of a great street wise-man — a.k.a. comedian — Dave Attell: No matter what you do, someone can find a way to call you a dick.

Get bloody. Get dirty. Even if you stay squeaky clean, someone who thinks they’re on Mt. Everest looking down on you will make you feel like crap. You can either prove him wrong, or ignore the ass-face. Either way, do what you want because hopefully that guy will get AIDS and die. Even if he doesn’t, know that his feeble words did nothing but keep you on fire for your passion.

You ever have a Bloody Mary that was nothing more than just mix and vodka? Well, I’ve had one with olive juice, pickle juice, mix, vodka, pickled mushrooms, pickles AND a beef stick. A goddamn beef stick in a drink! God bless Wisconsin! Anyway, let everyone else be that mix and vodka drink, while you strive to be the one with the beef stick. If you get there, or die trying, you’ll be my hero. Guys on the couch never make history. (You’re welcome, Travis.)

THE WRITER PAUSES, SIPS FROM HIS BEER AND WONDERS IF ANY OF THIS IS MAKING ANY SENSE

There’s a reason I framed my first write-up from my editor. There’s a reason my first rejection letter from an agent is on my fridge.

There’s also reasons why I keep writing, despite criticisms, rejections and nay-sayers. There’s a reason I keep skating, despite emergency room trips, pain, bruising and swelling.

There are things I want to do in my life, so I’m working on them. I know I’ll never be perfect — I don’t try to be. I have my slacker days but there are days I work myself raw. I know you’re all the same way.

Pain goes away. Scars remind us of our great adventures. The trials, the errors, the assholes, they all serve their purpose. It’d be better without them, but we deal with them because we’re not going to sit around and be complacent with what others deal for us.

Then again, another great philospher — Dr. Dre — once said, “Fuck ya’ll, all ya’ll, if ya’ll don’t like me, blow me.”

Hells yeah.

WRITER OPENS FIFTH BEER AND STOPS WRITING.

National Drunk Blogging Day...

2008-12-28T10:26:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is National Drunk Blogging Day. The name itself is pretty self-explanatory, so if you need clarification, pick up your keyboard or laptop and beat yourself in the head. It should come to you then.

So, in honor of such a great day, I plan on having myself some spirits tomorrow, getting on the ol' Mac and cranking out something I probably shouldn't.

But, while dispensing my neurological diarrhea, there's so much on my mind lately that I could write about. And, since I'm trying to make this whole writing thing a full-time gig, it's you — the reader — who really matters.

I'm looking for ideas. Sure, this blog is about my book and writing adventures, but is that's all that's in my life? Not one bit.

Let me know what you want to see me write about while sloppily drunk, whether it be the beauty of B-grade horror films or who I'd stalk if I had to stalk someone.

Comment. Give some suggestions. For all I know, I might be able to cover everything.

Travel writing...

2008-12-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

I've never done much travel writing because I've always been cooped up, tapping away at home, working my butt off on the weekends and so forth. This year, that wasn't true.

Whether a weekly venture to Iowa City for a writing class, a day trip to Chicago to skate and eat or southern California for a "conference," I've been a lot of places this year for all sorts of reasons.

In February, it was to the Bitter Cold Show Down with 14 friends in a van. In November, it was with 11 friends to the Hoedown in Texas. I wrote about both adventures for www.iowa-connection.com and some for ONE Magazine.

The latest was posted today — a reflection piece on a six-day trip Las Vegas for some skating, rock climbing and good food in the island city. You can read it here.

The Vegas piece was one of my better pieces recently. I can't really tell you why, but I put some more flavor into it than I could writing for the newspaper.

So, as I keep driving vans for 15 hours or jet-setting to the west, I keep looking for adventures, good food and cool people.

There's still Detroit in February and possibly a few places in the middle.

Thanksgiving...

2008-11-27T11:42:00.000-08:00

No turkey for me. Again, just as I have since a sophomore in college, it's the delicious Totino's Pizza Rolls. So good. So wrong.

Anyway, besides the usual things I'm thankful for — family, friends, skating, writing, etc. — I'm thankful my story "The Watcher" was picked up and published by Word Riot.

Read it here.

Post some love on there for me.

An assignment...

2008-11-13T13:12:00.000-08:00

Here's something pretty dumb I wrote for class at the University of Iowa. We were supposed to write the first two pages of what would be a 600-page autobiography. Considering I have no idea why I would write one or what stage of my life I'd be compelled to write one, this is what I came up with. It was fun to write and it got a few good reactions from the class, so I thought I'd share.

A JACKASS IN THE WRY

One thing I’ve been known to say is, “You know what I’ll never say on my deathbed? ‘I wish I kept a cleaner apartment.’” It was a statement that reflected my ignorance toward the unimportant things in life. It’s not like I was a total slob or anything, but keeping a tidy house was never a priority. Neither was making sure my hair was kempt or if I was wearing the latest clothes. All trivial shit to impress people I didn’t know and might not have liked, as far as I’m concerned.

Did I know what was important? I like to think so otherwise telling my story would be a waste, just as much as you reading it. Then again, I could be wrong. For as much as I’m aware, I could be the biggest anarchistic asshole who’s ever had a go at writing.

So the question is: did I say that as I choked away at my last breaths? I don’t know. I’m not dead yet. Sorry about that. (If you read this during my post-mortem years, add ten points because someone is always keeping score.)

So, yes, as you start reading this, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t have the ending you’ll expect. In fact, I don’t know the ending yet. I hope its something pleasurable, like dying peacefully in my sleep. Never mind what I just wrote. Another thing I’ve been known to say, depending on my mood, was, “I want to die in a headline.” Since I began writing the stories — not the headlines, mind you — I’ve seen the spectacular ways people have come to their demise. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Acute toxicity due to barbiturates. Blood-alcohol concentration of 0.58. You know, like The Joker used to say, “If you have to go, go with a smile.” Well, we all have to go. Me, this ship hasn’t sank yet, so we’ll leave this ending open for now.

I’m not sure if my life reads as a cautionary tale or as an epic. I’d like it to be both, but more of the latter. Right now, I’ve got a Marlboro burning in the ashtray and an open Corona between it and the MacBook I’m writing on while most of my body is covered in an orange, blue and white plaid bathrobe I bought in college at a thrift store for twenty-five cents. To some, this sounds disgusting. To others — writers, most likely — this sounds like an all-too-familiar comfort they wish they could retreat to while waiting for some flight in some airport or some turd in some bathroom while reading this rubbish.

Then again, with this lifestyle, the headline will most likely read, “Homeless man found dead on Turnpike, body run over repeatedly.” Either the cancer or the craziness got to me first. Whoever came in second was the real winner. There was much less work to do afterwards.

But I really can’t even mention homelessness without interjecting with Dude. He was a 44-year old homeless man I met in 2004 while still a young pup of a newspaper reporter. Actually, I’d been one for about two weeks when I found him. Not really found, because that makes it sound like an accident. I went looking for him. When you’re trying to make a name for yourself in the news game and a homeless man whose legal first name is Dude who makes about $52,000 a year panhandling gets arrested for taking a piss on the local movie theater, you better move your ass to track him down and interview him. I did that.

Well, Dude’s philosophy and outlook on life probably shaped my deathbed apartment statement. Dude — not too clean and apartment-less — was talkative the whole six hours I spent with him drinking behind a gas station in Davenport, Iowa. Then again, my death headline could have read, “Local reporter stabbed to death behind gas station, homeless man charged.” Whatever. It was a hell of a good time and it ran on the front page.

Letter of Recomendation

2008-10-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

Here's some ensuing hilarity. When I ask for a letter of recommendation, here's what I get:

"To whom it may concern:

I know the young Krans well.

For a man his size, he eats very few babies and for someone who smokes
as much crack as he does, he steals very little.

They say if you give 1,000 monkeys typewriters and an eternity to bang
on them the beasts will eventually recreate the works of William
Shakespeare.

To recreate Krans; three monkeys, two days.

Good luck and good riddance

Former keeper, XXXX XXXXXXXX"

Awesome. Just awesome.

Grad school time!

2008-10-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

Here we go again. Last year I applied to the Iowa Writers' Workshop and got the little envelope in March. This year, hoping for at least one big envelope from at least one school, I'm throwing my net wider other than Iowa City.

Possible places I could be living next spring include Iowa City, Baltimore, Oregon, Colorado, California or Rhode Island.

I applied for the prestigious Wallace Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University, but I'm not holding my breath. That's one of the best programs, although you don't get a degree at the end. They basically pay you $26,000 a year to hang out and write. That'd be way too good to comprehend.

So out I go, fishing for letters of recommendation, application fees, statements of purpose and all the fun she-bang. At least I was smart enough to choose programs that don't involve the GREs. God bless America.

'The Watcher' accepted by Word Riot

2008-09-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

Late last week, I got a pretty cool email (and that's the best way I can phrase it).

"Good work. We'd like to use this in a future issue of Word Riot, most likely November's."

It was from Jackie Corley, publisher of Word Riot. It's a quality literary journal that emphasizes experimental and dangerous writing. Their slogan is "Good writing. No remorse."

They've accepted my short story, "The Watcher," a piece about a store security guard coming off a meth binge. Some of you might remember me passing it around for critiques. All of you that added your input, thanks.

It's a sense of accomplishment because it's my first real published piece of short fiction. It feels even better because they rejected one of my earlier works. So, check out "The Watcher" in November or whenever it comes on.

Also, become a fan of theirs on Facebook.

A student again...

2008-09-08T12:32:00.000-07:00

Today, a good friend, B.J. Bales, and I became students at the University of Iowa. While we're not technically enrolled here, we're both taking a creative writing class taught by a student of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, Hilary Rand.

It was the last day of classes and I just filled out my application to take non-degree graduate courses on Saturday morning. Three visits to two offices, with two advisor signatures, and I'm in. We'll be meeting every Tuesday night from 7 to 9:30 p.m. So, after writing at the paper all day, I'll drive with B.J. to the U of I campus for our one class.

Getting permission from Rand, she even told me over the phone the class would be rudimentary for me. And that's fine. It'll be good to be in a classroom again. However, unlike my days at WSU, I'll be paying attention to fiction and poetry. We've already been to the Dey House, home of the Writer's Workshop, viewed as the best creative writing program in the country.

I applied last year. I got my rejection letter in March. Hopefully with this class this semester and possibly another in the spring semester and I'll be better prepared. Because if all else fails, it'll be a good chance to—and excuse this cliche—sharpen my pencil.

It'll get me writing, which is kind of the point. Okay, well, it's totally the point. Hopefully I'll have some interesting assignments to post when it's time. Until then, I'm waiting around with B.J. in some coffee shop as the instructor leaves our information for us at the Dey House.

We've already missed the first class last week. Now, we've got to get the first assignment done in 24 hours. Not a big deal when you only have one class.

Then again, I've got a short story I'm finishing, a novel I'm supposed to be working on, volunteering, a full-time job, a girlfriend and skating. It'll all get done. I'm sure of it.

"A little bit more like Bukowski..."

2008-09-05T08:31:00.000-07:00

Five days in California. Three skate parks. No serious injuries. One Mike Opalek visit. Two trips to the ocean. One dead seal. Two kids drug out of the water. One short story written in a notebook, hopefully the one to get me into grad school.

All senses stimulated. All ideas good. Mood is much better now. Time to keep writing.

A summer spent undaunted...

2008-08-14T06:06:00.001-07:00

Since I don't have a lot to say right now, here's a little photo collage about the summer thus far.

Update

2008-07-26T18:48:00.001-07:00

So here I am, sitting outside on my back porch on the chair I stole out of a dumpster. The cicadas are buzzing in the trees, a hypnotizing rhythm that goes well with the Imogen Heap playing on my headphones, but it's not enough to entirely drown out my shouting neighbors of the "Pop Goes the Weasel" from the passing ice cream truck. The frozen pizza is sitting well in my stomach. Ah, the life of a starving artist.

It's been a weird month, so maybe that's why I've not been updating the blog. Sorry about that.

So, here's what's been going on.

- The Young Emerging Writers Workshop is all but done. The writing part is done. Tomorrow, Shawn Eldridge—the illustrious editor of A Constant Suicide—and I will be putting the final touches on the layout for The Atlas, the literary magazine we publish at the end. Everyone should come to the release party Aug. 11.

- Right now a copy of A Constant Suicide and about 100-or so pages are being read by an agent in New York. It's the one the romance novelists from the reading hooked me up with. The query letter I sent the agent was good enough for her to read my work, so that's a plus. So, now I wait.

- I got another rejection letter about a short story called "Archives." I'll send it out somewhere else and send Word Riot something new. No biggie.

- After seven weeks of healing, my ankle felt great. My new Xsjados arrived, so I went skating in the church parking lot. That lead to up Brady Street, skating at a nearby school and down to the skate park. The X-rays the next day said that was a bad choice. So, I sit around and heal. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not good at sitting around.

- Right now, I've passed the 33,000-word mark on the latest novel. While I've been "working" on it for nearly a year, I've been slacking until lately. Now I'm cruising through it. With an agent looking at it, that means that there's a possibility it might sell somewhere. So, I figure I might as well finish it.

Hopefully everything is beautiful with everyone. If you'll excuse me, I've got some writing to do.

A writing exercise...

2008-06-27T12:59:00.001-07:00

Here's something to try:

- Get a tattoo on your arm that says, "Dolar hic tibi proderit olim," or "one day this pain will be useful to you."

- Go to work and watch the worst thing imaginable that a parent could do to their child. Watch in graphic, horrific detail. Then write a story for the newspaper.

- Feel dead inside.

- After work, go to the bar and drink large amounts of Scotch in an attempt to feel better. Have drink or two with your friend Ryan.

- While at said bar, write a story in your notebook called "I was a child porn star."

- On Ryan's advice, go to a reading, full of Scotch and smelling like it. Read that story to a bunch of hippies and blue hairs. Make three people cry.

- Have two New York Times Best Selling authors tell you afterwards you are good and need an agent. They'll even offer their help.

- Have a better day than you ever thought possible.

Konichiwa! -- My Moleskine in Tokyo

2008-06-16T08:39:00.000-07:00

Another pit stop for the same notebook that hit London was Tokyo.

Marsida from Moleskine posted these. The girl in the center is flipping through my notebook while it's on display at the Tokyo book fair. I think this is it's last stop before it heads back home to me.

It's had some adventures. I think I'm overdue for one myself.

On a side note, the first draft of the latest book should be done by the time my cast comes off. While I'd love to put the stamp of guarantee on there, something might come up. Or I'll make more excuses. Whatever I prefer.

A letter addressed to me...

2008-06-10T14:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Brian,

I know you saw a man with one leg Friday. And then you thought something like, “How do you know what you'll miss until it's gone, whether it be a leg, your vision, or someone?”

That same day, you ordered new shoes. You also told your “little sister” you needed some new jeans because the gray ones you were wearing were looking pretty bad.

That was after you took the skin off your left skate so your friend could make a pattern out of them. Well, it wasn't the only pattern.

Then you went skating at SkateChurch as normal on a Friday.

You've been skating a lot, but you haven't been writing that much. You know, that novel you've been working on for almost a year now? Well, you always thought you needed a push. I gave you one, even after all these warnings.

My favorite warning was right before you did that pole stall, a little kid asked you, “Hey, did your head heal?”

And you responded, “Yeah after a few days. I'm a quick healer.”

Less than an hour later, you had your annual spring visit to the emergency room. They cut the leg off your jeans and your skin from your left Valo skate fit really well over your splint.

You broke your left ankle, just like all the signals I've been giving you.

Well, at least you're writing more, just as you should remain for the next six weeks as you sit on the couch in your bright neon green cast.

Enjoy your time off skating and use it wisely. Also enjoy living your life like someone who has taken something for granted for too long.

Love,
Karma.

New short story

2008-06-02T13:09:00.000-07:00

On a Wednesday, the old lady and I packed up and shipped off to Six Flags Great America, a place I only visit once a decade. Not on purpose, just happens that way.

Waiting in line for each ride, surrounded by tons of junior high and high school kids, we were innudated with warning signs. No loose fitting shoes, no one under this height, rar rar rar.

Then there's my favorite. The one that looks like a Weeble Wobble with a hole in it's stomach that's holding a packing peanut.

Do not ride if you are pregnant.

That got my creative juices flowing. Standing in the mix with all the little emo high school kids that don't look they're having any fun, I wondered if there in the thousands of people, someone would ride roller coaster after roller coaster to end an unwanted pregnancy.

After some thought and research, it's totally possible in the middle of all those G-forces to do damage to the placental wall and either terminate or complicate a pregnancy after five months.

So I got home and for the first time ever, I was able to write a short story in two sittings. It's 2,800 words of something I thought would be totally repulsive and nauseating, but instead came off as one of the saddest things I've ever written.

I'd post it here, but I think it has a chance of getting published somewhere. I'll keep everyone posted.

Until then, enjoy your summers and hit the amusement parks.

'ello love! -- ACS in London

2008-05-20T13:09:00.000-07:00

Marsida Shuyti -- a hard-working woman in Mila, Italy -- uploaded a whole bunch of photos from the Moleskine booth at the London Book Fair. Amongst notebooks of artists and writers across the globe, there's my first pocket-sized notebook and a copy of A Constant Suicide.

So I'm geekin' right now to see it in the international audience the same month the book was featured in ONE Magazine.

Let's just say it's been an interesting month. And it's only half over.

One year later...

2008-05-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

When I graduated from college in 2004, my mom gave me a copy of Dr. Seuss' "Oh the Places You Will Go."

One of my favorite lines has been, " You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go."

A year ago today, the place I went was releasing A Constant Suicide. With the help of some very influential people in my life -- some I knew well, some not at all and others I've come to know very well since then -- I've had more life-changing adventures all over the place that I don't believe would have ever happened without some great decisions I've made.

From having more than 300 friends show up to a book release party that lasted until sunrise to book signings at Borders where the staff wanted us to come back regularly because of how loud and boisterious we were, nothing can compare to the feeling of putting myself out to an audience, not knowing how it was received.

Of course I've had many people tear the book apart. My favorite was an anonymous review on Amazon that likened reading the book to suicide itself. But I don't worry about that person. I think of the high school kids that tell me it was the first book they read and now are reading the novels that inspired my writing.

I think of the people who have dealt with suicides in their families and thanked me for getting it right. I think of the people who say I accurately captured the typical college experience.

I think of people telling me that Ethan's mom made them horny, or the people who say they both laughed and cried when reading it.

I think of the book tour Bryon Garrison arranged for me in southern Illinois, going to hometown libriaries smaller than my apartment and judging a county fair talent contest, watching my back as I left the fair because of who we chose as the winner. There's more at stake to those things than you think.

Then there's Dave at Copia, hocking my book to everyone who came in. There's nothing weirder than selling someone a book and then taking their drink order. Then again, that's a great humbling experience and would have hoped for nothing better. So is seeing the boxes of unsold copies in my apartment.

I think of the candid radio interviews and desperately waiting for my copy of ONE magazine to see the first review of my book. Getting a sense of validation and then wanting nothing more than to start writing again.

What I think of most are the real life characters I've met since writing the book. The colorful, ambitious writers who asked for advice or the book afficianados who said I should give up writing.

The guy rumored to be formerly connected with the mob that ran the hotel and no matter what time I went to my room, he and the maintenance man came walking out of it. The crazy stalker girls at the bar. Ryan from Quad-City Arts and the reading with only six people there.

Dr. Seuss was right -- hang-ups do happen. But then again, " Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way!"

Bits...

2008-04-30T11:07:00.001-07:00

- The review from One magazine was outstanding. I don't know if I could have asked for anything better. I'm at a loss for words for what it did for my drive to write, but I'm definately writing more right now, including book reviews for the magazine. Check out the next issue for my review of Bukowski's "Factotum" and also a short piece on the Iowa skating scene. The book reviews will be a regular, steady gig for me.

- I'm currently working on a short piece for a magazine's upcoming political issue. It's a fictionalized version of a trial I recently covered regarding wartime bidding and how deals were made in Kuwait regarding government contracts near the invasion of Iraq. It's probably the most sophisticated piece of fiction I've written to date.

- The novel keeps chugging along, slowly, yet surely. I'm timid in certain points and get blocked, so that prevents me from writing on it on a regular basis. Still, I am confident where it is headed and what I have so far. Maybe I just need to put my ass in the chair and get moving along.

- All things considered, my life is very copasetic right now. Great things have fallen into place all around me and many endeavors are paying off it bucketloads. I hope the same is true for everyone else out there.

- The one-year anniversary of A Constant Suicide coming up, so stay tuned to the blog for the year re-cap and tales from some of the interesting and great things that have happened to me since May 15, 2007.

Teenage writers needed

2008-04-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

I've been invited to help teach in the Midwest Writing Center's third annual Young Emerging Writers Program, an internship program for Quad-Cities authors.

It's a month-long program from June 16 to July 17, where ten to twelve high school-aged writers write poetry, fiction, non-fiction and drama that will later be published in their own literary magazine.

Besides getting their poems or short stories published, ambitious young authors will learn more about the creative process and attend a three-day writer's conference. Most importantly, they will GET PAID TO WRITE!

So, spread the word so any budding young authors can get a start on their careers. Applications are due by May 23.

For more information click here or email my collegue Ryan Collins, the Literary Arts Administrator at Quad City Arts.

Out this month...

2008-04-04T14:22:00.000-07:00

Be on the lookout for One magazine and their review of "A Constant Suicide." It hits the stands of the best stores in the country later this month.

Misc. ramblings from the notebook...

2008-03-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

Here are just a few things that will probably leak into the book. Right now, there just random thoughts that will weave into the mindsight of some of the book's more colorful characters.

"Everyone was once someone's kid. We were all once teenagers with goals, aspirations, raging emotions and out-of-control hormones. A lot of us forget that all the time."

"Underneath it all, it's still there. It, the unknown and unnamed. These feelings, the fear of the unknown. What I do know is that I like what I don't know.
Blind ignorance.
A chosen stupidity.
Constant disaffection.
Unalarming apathy.
I have it because I want it."

"Tell people they're worthless.
Tell a guy he's lazy.
Call a girl a slut.
Tell a boy he's crazy.
Call another a freak.
Don't worry, they won't disappoint you.
They'll be everything you tell them they'll be.
Or nothing at all.
If you tell them."

"No one really ever wants to see someone else be happy. We love the misery of others."

The Ides of March

2008-03-13T08:26:00.000-07:00

The Ides of March was the day Julius Caesar was warned about by the witches. Then his best friend goes and betrays him.

Knowing that little tidbit of information got me in the good graces of my college English teacher. I really wish I would have kept my mouth shut.

It's also the day my high school current events teacher said was a good day to go out and kill our favorite Italian leader. The principal at the time was Italian.

This year, the Ides of March mean more. Besides the day of the Quad-Cities' annual St. Patrick's Day parade and Augustana College's annual STIGMA, it now means something for me.

It's the anniversary of the death of Ethan Costello. I kind of haphazardly chose that day for him to kill himself, but immediately I thought of Mrs. Cavenaugh in high school. She taught me Shakespeare, so I had to run with it.

So, whether celebrating a campus full of house parties or the day for the guy who rid Ireland of snakes this Saturday, don't forget about Ethan. He was a good guy who loved the partying. Do it in his honor this weekend.

'ACS' up before an international audience

2008-03-03T13:23:00.000-08:00

If you browse down past the last blog entry, you'll find an ode to my notebook. And that's all I thought it would be -- a short blog post to give the blog an update.

It was, but it's not now.

Shortly after writing it, I was contacted via e-mail by Marsida an employee with Moleskine. She said she loved my ode to their product and had a proposition for me.

She told me about the largest book fairs in Europe in Frankfurt and London. Moleskine focuses their attention at the trade show through the original and artistic use of Moleskine notebooks. They wanted to choose and expose a small quantity of "the most stylish Moleskine notebooks."

Basically, they wanted to show off one of my notebooks. It was either that or send me one to decorate and personalize. I opted for the first option. Last week, I mailed by pocket-sized notebook, warped and yelled from two years of writing, to Moleskine in Italy along with a copy of my book.

At the Moleskine booth at the book fairs, people in the business will be able to leaf through my notebook, complete with doodles, clippings and quotes. The book that holds some valuable secrets and memories will be up for anyone there to read. It'll displayed next to a copy of A Constant Suicide.

I chose to send my notebook so people can see the thought process that went into the book. If I just decorated one, it would have seemed fake. Still, I'm a bit nervous not having it with me.

Besides the chance to show my book and the notebook that helped shape it to 23,000 members of the global publishing community, I get five of the same notebooks. These will be blank. And free.

And then, after months in Europe, my notebook will be returned to me. Hopefully in one piece, but if not, that's no biggie because the adventure might be worth a torn page or two.

"ACS" in One

2008-02-25T08:40:00.001-08:00

This last weekend I and 15 other rollerbladers went to the Bitter Cold Showdown, the biggest competition and trade show in the industry in Columbus, Ohio.

Besides skating an insane park, interviewing and talking with the pros, I checked out the booth for One Magazine. I pretty much had to for several reasons.

It's a great magazine with outstanding pictures, great stories, but the part I like the best is that it has more culture aspects of life than any other sporting magazine I've read. It's truly well-rounded.

For starters, it combined skating and writing. And secondly, I sent them a copy of A Constant Suicide. The editor, Justin Eisinger, had said he had read it, but never said whether or not it was going to be in the magazine in the "Tidbits" section.

I met Justin and he immediately recognized my name. Like it was no big deal, he said, "Yeah, the review's going to be in the next issue."

I said nothing. I was completely speechless. A blanket of euphoria covered me, wrapping me into moments than only a certain girl has made for me before.

Then it really hit me. My book, the self-published little piece of myself, will be featured to an international audience inside the pages of the best sporting magazine ever published. That, and considering other writers they've featured were Bret Easton Ellis and Chuck Palahniuk, two of my favorite authors.

HOLY FRIGGIN' CRAP! That's pretty much all I could say. Then I made a sad attempt at trying to be all cool about it, but I'm sure it failed.

Later in the day, I talked with Justin more about the magazine, skating, journalism and just writing. I talked with him about anything I could contribute to the magazine. I'm set to do book reviews.

So, subscribe to One and be on the lookout for issue No. 9 next month.

Until then, I'm going to be twittering like the big geek I am.

Ode to my notebook

2008-02-19T09:19:00.000-08:00

It's simple ruled notebook with 192 pages. In the back, is a pocket folder. A piece of gray ribbon marks the page I last used. An elastic band keeps everything together.

I'm nearing the end of the second Molesine notebook I've started since taking writing seriously. Another is waiting to become the object of my attention for the next few months.

These same notebooks were the ones used by Van Gogh, Picasso and Hemingway.

These notebooks I recommend to many writers. They're currently being used by the next great writers such as Travis Hulce and Bruce Bales.

My first notebook began in December 2005 with little quips and phrases, some from me, others from friends who let bits of wisdom and humor drip from their tongues. Sometimes, at the most inopportune moments.

The pages of the second notebook began last July while on a youth mission trip to New Orleans. Twenty pages in, I began scribbling a scene which is now my latest novel. It's simply titled, "Meds." It's seven pages of long-looping cursive others have said looks more like the Declaration of Independence than a writer's mind diarrhea.

My Moleskine comes with me everywhere, recording moments of passionate thought I don't want to lose. Pages of poetry for Erica and her handwriting from when she couldn't speak following wisdom teeth surgery. Quotes from idiots in court. Writing tips. Drawings.

Notes from the K-Zoo skating comp. Notes on prescription medications and mental illness. Bits and pieces of short stories. A narrative for a zombie comic book.

The pocket itself holds other treasures. A speeding ticket. Bar napkins drooling with sentiment. Doodles and quotations of wisdom handed to me.

It's these pocket-sized relics I never want to lose. If my house would burn down, they'd be the first thing I'd grab.

I don't pay attention when grabbing a new one off the shelf at Borders. I just grab the first one. By the time I'm done with it, I'm saddened that such a good friend will rest on my desk while another will take its place.

Not a replacement, but another extension of its twin. Another great oppertunity to turn the blank pages into something other than just blank pages.

My first reading...redux

2008-02-04T13:13:00.000-08:00

We walked to the third floor of the Bucktown Center for the Arts. It's snowing heavily outside, flakes sound proofing the streets below us. All we see on the sidewalk are our own footsteps that took us to the locked front door and the locked side door. In the back, we were met by an old poet who immediately knew I was me.

On the top floor looking down, we're alone in the loft-like room filled with empty couches, tables and chairs. It's nearly seven o'clock and the reader's there, but not the listeners. We joke about how no one will show because of the bad weather. I joke that my friends are never on time for anything.

And it becomes time to begin. There's about ten of us there. Most of us are writers.

Ryan begins, reading a selection of his own poetry. Then the old man from the door, seeking input on a poem he wrote years ago and is thinking about switching around stanzas. Then another guy wearing a plaid scarf like an ascot. He reads one poem about how the world will end if Ron Paul is elected president.

Then Ryan introduces me, the featured reader. I've decided to read the homecoming chapter from "A Constant Suicide." Erica later tells me it was probably the wrong choice considering the audience. I was thinking that as soon as I started reading it.

Leslie smiles as me when I look up to read. Her daughter, Catherine, is following along with her own copy, even though I told her she wasn't allowed. Tony watches from the corner of the room. Erica sits up front.

It's the first time I'm reading the book since it was published. I'm having fun reading it, but realizing there were better chapters I could read from.

Then, it's onto the second chapter from the second book. The one that doesn't have the title yet. As I read, I realize it's a long selection. I'm spitting as I talk, frothy white gobs landing on the printed pages. I need water.

When I'm done, there's applause. The first reaction comes from the old poet. "Maybe someday you'll learn to slow down," he says.

A woman in the back says, "You're a very talented writer." I almost blush.

In this room filled with either good friends or complete strangers, I've immediately cured all fears of reading my own work aloud in public.

Now it's time to book the next one.

Column...

2008-01-23T14:19:00.000-08:00

Here's another column I wrote for the paper.

"Learning from horror classics"
By Brian Krans, Metro East

Say you and three friends go out to the woods for the weekend. Hours later, you've killed them all because after reciting part of an evil book, they all turned into the undead.

Here's the question: Do you go back to the same cabin with a different girlfriend who is also named Linda? Of course not, not because it makes obvious sense, but because you've seen "Evil Dead" and "Evil Dead II."

Oh, the things those fantastically splendid horror films can teach us.

To clarify, I'm not talking about the ones mass-produced with current celebrities seeing the dead or knowing who killed them.

No, I'm talking about horror classics. The movies that make names like Jason, Freddy and Michael even creepier. The greats from the '70s and '80s where fake blood poured like raspberry syrup over a stack 'o' pancakes body count. The ones where the entire score from a movie can come from a synthesizer or an ill-tuned violin. The ones you can rent five-for-five-bucks at Hollywood Video.

Why do we love them? I'm not sure. Maybe it's the fine line between horror and humor. My girlfriend says it gives us another chance to yell at the TV. Maybe so we feel smarter because we obviously wouldn't make such obviously bad mistakes.

Even if you view them simply as entertainment, you'll find the subtle life lessons oozing out like brains out of a re-dead zombie's ears.

George Romero taught us all many valuable lessons in "Night of the Living Dead." My favorite is that sometimes, no matter how bad of an idea it seems, you might want to listen to the raving lunatic when he says the safest spot in a zombie invasion is the basement. Sometimes, those crazies aren't so crazy.

Then again, if the teenage vampire movie "Lost Boys" taught us anything, it's to stick with your gut. Life if you're like Corey Feldman and think the owner of the video store on the boulevard is the head vampire, he could just be. And is.

Another is Stephen King in "Creepshow," the comic-turned-horror classic from 1982. In writing it, he had some sage advice like if your lover's husband wants to bury you neck deep on the beach to save the cheating wife's life, the simplie answer is don't do it. She's probably already dead.

Another lesson from "Creepshow" that Mr. King, in all of his acting might, illustrated that if you find a meteor lands on your farm, don't play with it. You might become a plant and be forced to shoot yourself.

As long as we're talking about Mr. King, let's talk about his short story and the 1984-film adaptation, "Children of the Corn." What possibly could we learn from them? Tons. More specifically, don't let your ego get away from you or the killer cult of kids you're leading will turn on you and sacrifice you to the corn field monster.

Also, be weary of any large group of religiously zealous kids living in a town without parents. Nothing good can come from that.

My first reading...

2008-01-11T10:47:00.000-08:00

So, the folks over at Quad City Arts invited me, so I might as well get over my phobia and finally do a reading of my book. Hope everyone can make it.

Here's the press release Ryan made up:

WHAT: Brian Krans feature reader at MWC’s January Out Loud

WHEN: Thursday, January 31, 7pm

WHERE: 3rd Floor Conference Room, Midwest Writing Center, 225 E. 2nd St. Davenport, IA (in the Bucktown Center for the Arts)

Brian Krans will be the featured reader at Out Loud January 31

The Midwest Writing Center’s Out Loud reading series is back! 2008 is our fifth year, and to mark the occasion, we planning to have featured readers —both poetry and prose— following the open reading part of the evening, which starts at 7pm. Our first feature is Brian Krans, author of A Constant Suicide.

“Brian Krans attended Winona State University in Winona, MN, where he initially majored in criminal justice but graduated with a degree in journalism… In 2004, Krans took his journalism degree to the Quad-Cities to begin covering police and courts for The Rock Island Argus/The (Moline) Dispatch. He’s covered numerous presidential campaign stops, traveled to the Hurricane Katrina-ravaged Gulf Coast area, and the trial of a teen charged with the brutal murder and dismemberment of a fellow classmate that garnished national media coverage… In his non-fiction writing, Krans has interviewed everyone from lifelong prostitutes to BMX biking legends. From police detectives on the scene to convicted murderers in prison… A Constant Suicide is his first novel. He’s currently working on a second.” (from www.aconstantsuicide.com)

This will be his first featured reading and it promises to be a great evening. So come to Out Loud, read some of your own work and then take in the high-intensity work of Brian Krans, our first Out Loud featured reader of 2008!

Inspiration

2008-01-08T14:10:00.000-08:00

My favorite author, Chuck Palahniuk, offered words of advice to writers that goes something like this:

Did you ever sit down to take a dump, but knew you had nothing to push out? Did you ever just sit on the toilet and push and push and push? No, of course not. If you don't have to go, you get up, get something to eat, and go about your day. When you have to crap, you crap. Writing should be the same way. Why waste time forcing something out when it's not ready?

It's just great advice. Why try to write when you know nothing will come of it?

And that's where I sit (pun not intended). After finishing my grad school application, which came after the disastrous laptop crash, I felt like I wasn't ready to delve back into the second novel quite yet. Something was missing.

I say it was inspiration.

With complete scenes written out in my trusty Moleskine notebook and a pile of books and articles read for research, something was missing to get me to start tapping away at the book. A few times I tried, but it felt like I was just pushing and straining in futility.

So I stopped. I got something to eat. I spent some time with my favorite people, namely one person in particular. We had some crazy fun times, but we also had a lot of down times. It was a great opportunity for me to clear my head and realize what was important in my life.

(I'm still a fan of the thought that real people are better than imaginary ones.)

So, in the weeks that passed -- holidays included -- I unknowingly got my main character, who currently goes by the name Jake, into perspective. By getting inside my own head, clarifying some thoughts and emotions, I was able to see what could make him tick, what would drive him.

I hadn't felt like a writer in a while because I haven't been writing. I was so wrong. I was writing non-stop, but in my head.

Last night when I sat down to write, I knew what needed to be said, what could be ignored and how to go about it. That's not because I sat at my computer and pushed it out. It's because I spent a good deal of time relaxing, thinking and enjoying life.

In essence, I feel like a writer again, not because I wrote, but because my head is clear.

Thanks Erica.

Oh Christmas...

2007-12-25T10:37:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but I've never been a big fan of this day for the past decade or so. I've got my reasons, and their mine. Get your own. This year, however, White Trashmas was so delicious we had to have seconds. Maybe we'll do a White Trashmas in July, too.

On a writing note, I finished the script for the graphic novel on Christmas eve before going to co-workers house and scaring them with weird stories. Nice work, Tony. Nice work.

We begin shooting for the photos for the graphic novel on Saturday.

Until then, with one writing project out of the way until a re-write or anything else is needed, it's back into the novel. My narrator has been sitting aimlessly since the majority of his short fictional life was erased.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spend my Christmas with fictional characters that I create inside my head.

New Year's can't come quick enough.

New side project

2007-12-14T20:31:00.002-08:00

So, along with the next novel, my next writing project is a graphic novel.

It's the brain child of Alex "That Kid Who Draws" Iaccarino.

It's going to be a zombie attack in a major city. Sure, the idea's been done, but Alex's unique style of art, along with Wizard of Oz Photography, some willing models and usage of Mikey LiLian and Nick Yazbec's apartment, it's going to be something you haven't seen in a while.

I'm working on the storyline while the Wizard and That Kid will be doing all of the art work. We're talking about a perfect-bound soft cover book published under Rock Town Press. It's way more than just a comic.

It's miles away from anything than anything any of us have done before. That is, except for That Kid's love of incorporating zombie's into his mind-blowing art.

Until then, I'm shopping for an axe and polishing up my 9mms because Alex and I are on the hunt for zombies.

Until there's more news, happy hunting.

Iowa Writer's Workshop

2007-12-05T19:35:00.000-08:00

The application is done...finally.

After months of pouring thought into what I'd send to apply for hands-down the best fiction writing program in the country, the envelopes are sealed. Tomorrow I will go to the Post Office and mail them.

I am relieved.

There are thirty seats in the fiction section and the same in poetry. Thousands apply each year.

It's a breeding ground for Pulitzer Prize winners. Vonnegut taught there. Anthony Swafford, author of Jarhead, is guest teaching there this year. This is the writers' program.

I am nervous.

I barely gave any thought to applying to Winona State University. When the acceptance letter arrived, I was happy, but just barely enough to mention in a blog some seven years later. Getting in was just something I did and barely gave much thought.

This is different. This is completely different. Immediately after I decided I was going to go, I began getting signs, or at least what I took as signs about the Writer's Workshop.

Thanks Shawn for telling me to apply. Thanks Shawn, Becca and Pennie for the letters of recommendation. Matt, Leslie and Katheryn, thanks for editing.

Thanks everyone for the support. Thanks everyone who've told me I'll get in.

Until then, there's one less thing on my plate to worry about.

Until then, I wait. Anxiously.

Update: Laptop

2007-12-01T17:50:00.000-08:00

So Gabriel at Computer Evolutions in Davenport fixed my laptop. He wasn't able to retrieve anything on it because the old hard drive wouldn't so much as spin. At least it was fixed for free under warranty.

As far as the most important info -- the book and anything for my grad school application -- I got some of it back.

There's a hero in this tale. His name is Matt Meenan, otherwise known as the valiant copy editor who helped with A Constant Suicide without ever having met me. The first time we met was at the release party.

So, this tank manual editor not only had the documents I emailed him, but also edited them quickly enough that I was able to spend a Saturday fixing all of the necessary corrections. Honestly, he's one of those great editors that not only spots where a comma should go, but also where dates and numbers don't match up.

He's a writer's editor that you have to love. I do.

So, the grad school application is 98 percent done. By tomorrow, it will be ready for the mail. Cross the fingers, say a prayer, whatever, but the Iowa Writer's Workshop is the only thing in my life I've ever really held my breath over.

The silver lining of it was that that the 50 pages of the book that no longer exist will be fun to write again because I now have a better idea of how Jake, the narrator, is and can be true to his character.

Maybe my computer needs to crash more often.

Or not. That's just dumb.

Goodbye friend...

2007-11-27T12:28:00.000-08:00

My laptop is dead.

Out of nowhere, my 5-month-old computer completely crapped out on me. The hard drive is fried. In its silent, yet spectacular breakdown, it took everything with it.

Some 70 pages of the next novel.

My grad school application.

All short stories. All programs. All music. All photos.

Lesson of the day -- BACK UP EVERYTHING. I didn't. That's why I'm dumb.

At least it's under warranty.

Once I get it back, I'll start over with the novel. Maybe it was God's way of telling me it wasn't that good to begin with.

A Public Service Announcement

2007-11-21T16:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter one of the new novel.

2007-11-14T12:48:00.000-08:00

So, here it is, the first sneak peek of my latest novel project. While I'd love to say I'm going to meet the 50,000-word goal this month, I doubt it'll happen. But here's the rough draft of the first chapter. I've got a lot more done than this, but this is what I'm about to throw out there for public criticism.

Please leave your feedback -- as little or as much as you'd like -- about anything. Don't worry about punctuation and typos because I've only re-read it once.

Sunday evening.
Camper check-in.
Objective: Meet & Greet

Kids are the best drug dealers I know.

I’m not just saying that to be funny. It’s true. The likelihood of getting shot or ripped off by a ten-year-old is pretty low. You don’t have to worry about double-cut blow or a bag of weed that’s all stems and seeds. They always carry the best stuff. Prescription strength. And the cost is always right.

That’s why I’m glad that I am here.

I’m standing at the front gates, waving in car after minivan after SUV. Each passing one stirs up dust from the gravel path, creating a luminous haze in the summer sun. Me in my standard red polo shirt and cargo shorts, my arm waves at my side. After hours of welcomes, I don’t hold my arm as high as when the caravan began. A dust film has developed on my sunglasses. I dread the thought of tan lines.

The walkie-talkie on my belt is silent.

Each car unloads a small amount of cargo for one passenger. Duffle bag, sleeping bag, pillow. Everything on the list and not much else. As if on cue, parents haul their kids’ things over to a folding table in front of the main hall.

I watch them as they walk over, looking for the signs that mean anything. A sniffle or a bad cough. Glazed over eyes. A twitchy walk. Jerking heads. A scowl. A cast on an arm. Pale. Too many freckles.

It all means something to me, the way it means something to a parent, the way it means something to a physician.

Sara—at least that’s what I think her name is—greets everyone with a row of perfectly straight white teeth wrapped around her tanned face. Her smile downsizes her enthusiasm.

“Welcome to Camp Wazeecha, where we build strong kids with strong character through strong values,” she says over and over throughout the day. She’s almost chirping.

Every other Sunday, she puts on the same show as one pack of campers leaves and another comes in. The annoying thing is that, for her, it’s not a show. She actually believes the camp motto. It only grows worse when the curtain goes up.

I’d get rid of her if she weren’t so trusting.

The parents stand in front of Sara, or whatever, and I’m watching from a distance, still waving, still doing my best to smile in the thickening cloud of dust. They talk, Sara handing the camper a lanyard and white plastic nametag she pulls from a shoebox filled with white envelopes. That box doesn’t concern me. It’s the one next to her on the ground that interests me the most.

In hordes of unrecognizable faces, I remember the latest of all the check-ins from last year. He’s a scrawny, little mutt of a kid, the weight of his red duffle bag sways him to one side as he walks up to the table. I vaguely recall any details of him, any resemblance of himself changing after a year. Puberty, weight gain, muscle growth. It changes them all you’d think you’d never met any of them.

But I remember that red duffle bag.

Right inner side pouch. A silent small-toothed zipper. Not like the rough one on the outside. This kid was an entrepreneur of amateur sorts. He was smart last year and I feared he’d be too smart this year. That’s what I remember of him, but not his name.
This kid’s mom pulls a large zippered plastic bag from her oversized Gucci knockoff purse and hands it to Sara, if that’s her name. Our grinning hostess accepts it, scribbles on a clipboard, checks the plastic bag for appropriate markings, and drops it in the box.

She smiles to the parents. She stands. She shakes their hands. It’s the silent equivalent of telling the parents to leave.

Your child will have lots of fun here, that handshake says.

Thanks for trusting us with your child.

Your child is safe here.

Most parents hug their kids goodbye. Some give them kisses as these pre-teens squirm away in embarrassment. Almost everyone gets some kind of last-minute physical touch before mom and dad drive off in the van, waving back at their kid like overzealous beauty queen contestants.

Not this kid. After the handshake with Sara, mom and dad turn away and get into their SUV. They drive away, barely even noticing me as they come within inches of running over my feet. The dust clears and I see the kid picking up his bag, pillow and sleeping bag. He turns and walks toward the cabins, knowing exactly where he’s staying. He’s been here before and knows everything here. The places, the regiment, the rules.

The look on his face says he doesn’t want to be here. It also says it’s better than being at home.

My attention returns the box, now cluttered with bags full of brown bottles, blister packs, eye droppers, whatever. My trick-or-treating goodies.

It’s not as full as last weeks batch of campers. That’s a good thing considering last week. As far as I know, none of the parents are any the wiser to what happened. The kids know better than to say anything.

The flow of vehicles stops.

One last group of parents is checking in their daughter as I walk away from my post at the gate. The personal, cheery greetings are done. I let my arm fall limp at my side. This is the last group of campers for the season and I won’t have to stand out in front of the gate for another nine months.

Sara—maybe—waves me over to the table. I walk past the older kids lying in the grass catching up from last summer, giving each other those hugs teenagers do, the one’s where they barely touch. The pre-teens are chasing each other in the grass between the cabins and the bathrooms, burning off saved up energy from hours spent in cars.

There are acres for them to run around, climb trees, break a leg, get lost. Right now, they’re all a calmer form of themselves that will begin around noon tomorrow. It’s part of the clockwork and routine that happens every year, every week.

“This is David and Charlotte Dalton,” Sandra—the name on her nametag—says, standing up next to them. “And this is their daughter, Anna.”

The girl looks me right in the eyes. Somehow, I remember her.

Even if she wasn’t the last camper, she would have stuck out. While everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirts, Anna’s dressed for a day at the mall, not the first day of summer camp. A short blue skirt hugs her waist and thighs, a pink button-up shirt is buttoned down to show the lacy fringe of a bra underneath.

Only about fifteen years old. Looking like she’s twenty-five.

“Anna, welcome back to Camp Wazeecha,” I say, reaching to shake her hand, a greased grin spread across my face.

David reaches in and grabs my hand before Anna can get a hold of it. He squeezes firmly. He’s obviously tense about something. He looks down at the nametag on my chest. The shine off the top of his bald head catches the setting sun and throws it in my eyes. He loosens his grip. I pull my hand back.

“So you’re the Jake we’ve heard so much about,” he says.

There’s so many ways to take that comment.

I smile and say, “Only good things, I hope.”

And the tension is broken with a laugh. His, not mine. Anna shifts her foot in the dirt and begins to draw something with her toe.

And Charlotte says, “We just wanted to meet you. Anna couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Again a little laugh. Mine, not hers. Somehow, I still can’t think of what they’re talking about.

Not laughing, David is serious. “We were hoping that this summer you could keep Anna off of the horses. After what, um, happened last year, we’d like to prevent another…uh…incident.”

Still, I had no clue what they were talking about.

Looking up from her dirt doodle , Anna shifts her eyes towards me. I still don’t fully remember her, but I remember her eyes. She’s looking at me the same as last summer. Those big eyes.

And I say, “No problem, sir. Lots of kids don’t like horseback riding. There’s plenty of other things here at Camp Wazeecha to make sure Anna has too much fun to handle.”
I remembered her plain brown eyes. I had watched tears stream out of them for hours. And it had nothing to do with the horses. She’s filled out since then. She looks five years older, not a year.

“Excellent,” David says, shaking my hand again, gripping it even harder. He pulls himself closer, his head side-by-side to mine.

He whispers in my ear, “We might be back sometime in the middle to check up, if you know what I mean.” He pushes away from me and smiles. A mean smile.

He looked at Anna. He’s happy now. She’d drawn her initials in the dirt.

“Well, we’re off princess. You’ll be in good hands.”

They hug. Anna squirms. They kiss. She pulls back. Her parents leave in their van, honking their horn and waving like idiots.

Anna stands next to me. Her foot swishes in the dirt. She erases her initials as we both watch taillights glow in the dust. I look down at her. She must be about fifteen or so.

“They didn’t want me to come, but I begged them to let me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, a softer version of what it should be. This bothers me, and I don’t like it.
I give her a soft pat on the back. She doesn’t budge. “Go put your stuff in the bunks. We’re all meeting in the main hall in an hour.”

She walks away, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her. The wheels shake the case as they bounce over every pebble on the path, every bump in the grass.

Sandra begins cleaning up the table. The nametag box is empty. She leaves the clipboard and other box for me, just as I told her to do at the beginning of the summer. Just as she has for the last three months.

“Don’t do anything too extreme to start with,” she says, the chirp gone from her voice. “I’m going to start gathering everyone in the main hall. Will you be ready in ten minutes?”

I look over the checklist on the clipboard. I smile.

“No rush. Let’s make it twenty.”

“Fine, but remember I still need to talk to you,” she says.

“Yeah, sure. We can talk afterwards,” I say not looking up from my clipboard.

She walks away, leaving me with the box. A box that once held fresh oranges now holds

Ziploc bags filled with bottles, vials, blister packs. Medicine for the kids. Medication for whatever ails me, whether self-diagnosed or not. It’s the last week of summer vacation for everyone, including me.

It’s going to be a good session.

Tidbits from the latest book

2007-11-06T12:19:00.000-08:00

Here are bits and pieces from the novel I'm working on right now. It doesn't have a title, but at least it has a beginning.

- I say we set fire to it all. Let everything burn. Let's start something new from the ashes. Let destruction give birth. Because if you do everything and feel nothing, you might as well put a match to it all and worship what's left.

- Love is the most abundant emotion out there, but hate makes the biggest difference. It's marks are felt everywhere. A gunshot wound. A war-torn country. Famine. Plagues. Summer camp.

- "A parent's job is to make their kid's life better, not worse." The narrator.

- It's a chance to be a kid forever. Fifteen never has to end. This is my Neverland.

- In my attempt to keep things simple, everything became complex.

- It's call a crush for a reason.

- "I didn't want my dad to be my first." A 14-year-old camper.

- Wipe clean my memory of all of this. Enter not into my delirium, but into my psychosis. End my worries. End it all. But don't end me.

Saturday

2007-11-01T06:27:00.000-07:00

Book signing at Borders in Davenport.

2 p.m.

Sure to be the party of the year.

Whatever.

Got nothing.

Iowa River Rumble

2007-10-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

It ruled. Enough said.

One novel, one month

2007-10-21T12:53:00.000-07:00

November has 30 days in it, so if someone was dumb enough to write a 50,000 word novel in that month, it'd be an average of 1666.666666667 words a day.

And if you're reading this you know how dumb I am. That's right kiddies, November is National Novel Writing Month. A year ago I had this crazy idea that somehow I could write something coherent at a novel's length. A Constant Suicide ended up being about 75,000 words.

So why do it again? Because I love to torture myself.

Just like last year, I've already cheated. I put down about 8,000 words so far in my next book, which still remains unnamed. I've got a lot of research done and scribblings that should be the major scenes in the book. But to be completely fair, I'll have to get at least 50,000 more words that what I started with.

Again I'll post some of the first chapters when they look fairly decent.

Again I'll spend weekends and nights locked inside my apartment writing away.

Again I'll let fictional characters become their own and act accordingly.

Sounds simple, right? No. I've got a bachelor party to go to in the Twin Cities, a wedding in Chicago, moving apartments, skating, two jobs, volunteering, grad school applications and other things to attend to during the month.

Oh, this endeavor will be such sweet, sweet torture. That basically makes me a literary masochist. Whatever. I've done it before and I'll do it again.

Then I have the fun of re-writes to look forward to, which are their own little batch of terror anyway.

A column I wrote...

2007-09-28T13:59:00.000-07:00

Here's something I wrote for work to fill space, so it'll do the same thing here.

"Some of the best people I know aren't old enough to vote.

And sometimes I wish they could grasp that.

You'll probably never hear about them. They won't show up in the sports pages for football victories or in the scholastic achievements listings.

The whole point of it is to keep them out of the obituaries.

So, I'll tell you about the kids I know through volunteering. The ones whose acts of bravery, kindness, fortitude and all-around selflessness go unwritten about every day would melt your heart.

For most of them, I don't know what they're going home to. Some I know have great parents, while others have none at all.

The ones with the bruises, not from skateboarding, biking or rollerblading.

The ones who sleep under a bridge but still go to school.

These are the kids who should -- by several theories of psychology and sociology -- be the ones out committing crimes because some are neglected by their parents to the point it's crippling. They should be the people I write about every day as a crime reporter.

But not these kids.

The ones who slap me in the face with an ice cream sandwich, and just to gross them out, I'll pick it off the floor we play basketball on and shove the melting ice cream in my mouth.

They'll groan in disgust and laugh hysterically because, for a second, they've forgotten about everything bad in their lives. That's my job. Being a surrogate big brother has never been so much fun.

There's a certain kid that comes to mind. She's so tirelessly concerned about others' problems that she forgets to tend to herself, because someone has made her feel worthless.

It's so depressing it breaks my heart.

And there are so many cases like hers in the Quad-Cities. Kids that could just use a hug or some kind of affirmation of love from their parents or some adult who cares.

It just seems so simple to me, but still I hear it all the time: "What do you know? You're not a parent."

No, I'm not -- at least in the strict sense of the word. What started as volunteering at a skate park ended up to be one of the best and worst things I've ever done.

Best, because of how the kids give my life a new dimension filled with laughter, hope and empathy.

Worst, because I can only do so much.

But, I'm no one special. I'm just some guy with spare time. There are plenty of people out there doing even more with kids far worse off than mine.

The problem is there are never enough willing adults to tell a kid they're worth their time."

Plans never stop changing...

2007-09-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, I wanted to be a cowboy, among other things. Plans didn't work out.

Then, around high school graduation time, it was a cop. Then it was a journalist. At least I hit the mark somewhere close, somewhere down the line.

Now, it's a fiction writer, which--depending on who's standards you use -- I am one.

And next year, plans are hopefully changing again. Like writing a book, I've always talked about a lot of things. And usually it was nothing more than just flapping jaws because I'd never do anything to move from here to anywhere close to there.

But, right now I'm in the middle of shooting for my next goal -- become a college professor and teach writing.

And why shoot low? I'm going to one one of the thousands of applicants applying to the Iowa Writer's Workshop. The legendary writer's program is held at the University of Iowa, which would make me a Hawkeye.

Think of it like Harvard Law for writers. It's like applying for a standard maters program (This one would be a Masters in Fine Arts), but the key points are the writing samples you send in. So, I'm currently working on three short stories to send them -- which I use an excuse, among many, for not updating the blog.

I'll apply with best intentions, but keeping in mind getting in would be a long shot, but also a huge honor. And if I do get in, man are we all partying up a storm.

So, again, please wish me luck on this. I think I'll need it.

Researching fiction...

2007-08-29T20:51:00.000-07:00

While I'm still hashing it out in my head, on spare bits of notebook paper and about 8,000 words on my laptop, I'm not ready to release what my next book is about. I'm more timid this time around because I want to sell it to a publisher.

But, I will share some random fun facts I have learned in the process to researching topics in my next book:

- Five percent of the world's population has ADHD and about three times as many people believe the that mental disorder was made-up to sell medication.

- Various summer camps across the country have daily-updated photo Web sites so "helicopter" parents can monitor their children. Some cases include parents checking photos with a magnifying glass to inspect their child for bug bites.

- In Japan, it is common for teenagers and younger girls to prostitute themselves for expensive clothing and other things. All this is done on their own, without a pimp. There are hundreds of documented cases in the United States and Canada.

- A male Beta, otherwise known as the Japanese Fighting Fish, will not fight to the death with another male Beta in its natural habitat because the other will generally escape before any wounds become fatal. Only when the escape route is eliminated, will one fish kill another.

Anti-drug ad, circa 1987

2007-08-27T20:13:00.000-07:00

When we're little, we're always asked what we want to be when we grow up. I've been thinking about that a lot lately, so that explains why the following is in my head.

Anytime someone asks it now, all I can recall is that anti-drug campaign commercial of a cop chasing a guy in slow motion. The voiceover says, "No one ever says, 'I want to be a junkie when I grow up.'"

I'm wondering if someone has by now. Because there has to be at least one person that has wanted to get messed up all of the time, not have a job and basically do nefarious deeds for small amounts of money to get a rock or two. One person, in the history of mankind, had to at least think that sounded like a life-calling.

One person, out of all the junkies, crackheads, stoners, wastoids, crankers, speeders and cookers, had to choose it for themselves. Sure, everyone about to be sentenced for a crime to fuel that addiction says how bad they couldn't control it and it all started with their first joint sophomore year of high school after football tryouts.

Then, before they know it, they're drinking their mom's perfume for the buzz. (Well, kids, try hand sanitizer--it's cheaper.) Then it's pissing themselves in church from sheets of blotter acid put on the Communion. Before you know it, Johnny's a junkie, trying out for Partner for a Drug-Free America commercials.

But, he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. It was his friend--who's now a lawyer--that wanted to be the junkie.

Anyway, the moral of the story is: Sorry, Partnership for a Drug-Free America.

Someone has said, "I want to be a junkie when I grow up."

Latest book

2007-08-15T14:22:00.000-07:00

I've started my latest book, a fresh idea that came to me during my trip to New Orleans. Two other ideas I had before I liked, but couldn't seem to get past the first two chapters without agony. Not a good sign.

The latest project deals heavily with medicating kids. It's something I touched on in A Constant Suicide, but it's taking a new direction and a better take on it.

I've just started on it, putting about 2,000 words down. It isn't like last time where it was a race to meet a deadline, so sometimes words were just words. This time, I'm laying down and hinting at back story from the beginning, trying to create rich, multi-dimensional characters that don't really move too far geographically.

I've got my main character, my narrator. And I'm giving him his voice. The supporting characters are coming in slowly.

I hate to be vague in this, but this project's new and I want to make sure I know where I'm going with it before I say much about it. All I can say is that I'm really excited to write it and even more excited to do the research that will go into it.

My goal is to have it completed by the end of the year. At the pace I'm going, that should be no problem.

Again, any and all support is always appreciated.

Compliment?

2007-08-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

In the land of the day-workers, I write for a newspaper. And being in the media -- the critics of elected officials, policies, etc. -- we're constantly open to scrutiny ourselves. It used to be under breath and through mail and phone lines, but since the advent of the Internet (Oh, this blessed device!), saying whatever you want anonymously has been everywhere.

Then, while a teenager began trial, a blog was born: QCMediaReview.com. For months anonymous "editors" blogged about what local media did right, wrong and anything else. And blogophiles came in hordes, discussing everything from national media to the hairstyles of local TV anchors.

And, after months of sporadic posts, the Media Reviewers have officially called it quits, leaving behind parting words for each local media outlet. One part about the Argus/Dispatch stuck out to me, obviously:

"Brian Krans seems competent..."

The word "seems" made me crack up laughing. It's like I can fake it for the paper and they haven't met me in real life. It's not a Pulitzer, but from constant media critics, I'll take it!

Eyes on Katrina's After-Wrath

2007-08-01T17:03:00.000-07:00

Our van, which the kids dubbed, "Big Blue."

Big Blue took us to the lower Ninth Ward. This is where the storm hit first and where the water was last removed.

We worked yesterday painting a house for a guy named, "Cooler." His was one of many houses destroyed in the storm. Twelve kids from Iowa primed and painted two coats on the house in less than eight hours. The best part was painting over the brown lines across the house where the water level had stained it. Also removed was the spray-painted x that showed that a rescue team had searched the house. The X was above our heads because that's the lowest the boats could get when they searched it. Water covered nearly everything.

New Orleans

2007-07-29T19:10:00.001-07:00

Numerous times over the last few weeks, I've heard people say, "I thought all of the work was done there. Why are you going there again?"

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. A West Marine boating store is closed for the night. The shop next door is vacant. The traffic rolls past me as I type around 9 p.m. According to the watermark on the house down the street, less than two years ago where I sat was covered in water that would have been over my head.

The Starbucks behind me is, of course, open. Bourbon Street is alive again with all of its delicious debauchery. Tourists have returned to get their fill of plastic beads, and have their vanilla soy lattes that remind them of home.

I'm part of a 20 member group from Davenport who came to help the city that still suffers. It's my second time down to a city that was ravaged by some bitch named Katrina.

No, the work's not done. Yes, I know why I'm here -- and I'm pretty pissed off I haven't been able to do anything about it.

Today, me and the kids I know through SkateChurch toured the Ninth Ward, one of the worst places in the country, even before the storm. It's the area that was covered so well on CNN as people waved toward hovering helicopters, their fingers reaching from rooftops for help.

That was the aptly-named Flood Street then. Now, the Ninth Ward is a ghost town. Not a ghost town because there is NO ONE here, but because there are houses with spray-painted messages on them. One said, "This was once my home." Crime scene tape remains. Garbage and other refuse lines the streets.

Our job here -- as missionaries -- is to attack the problem on a spiritual and physical level. Any of you who have read A Constant Suicide might be able to tell I don't know where I stand in terms of faith, religion, or God. All I know is when you have 150 people touring the ravaged areas, and praying for help, my question I want to scream in the middle of prayer is:

AREN'T WE THE HELP? SHOULDN'T WE BE OUT DOING INSTEAD OF PRAYING?

My last trip here was with a group of city workers from Davenport. They worked all day, only to gripe about the fact they could only work 12 hours a day.

But tomorrow we start working. After going to "worship" three times in 36 hours, I'm about to stop asking God for help and working as his right hand. He needs as many hands as He can get, and not all of them need to be folded, asking for help when the need for it is right in front of our eyes.

Another short story...

2007-07-17T13:40:00.000-07:00

Here's the third class assignment from the Monica Drake Intensive.

The whole objective of this assignment was to use lists in our writing, which you'll find a lot of in A Constant Suicide. I wrote an entirely different, longer story for this assignment. It sucked.

So, I took the standpoint of some lonely-hearted, occasionally finds some luck with the ladies guy. Here's what my make-believe character had to say.

Here it is. Please, leave some feedback.

Souvenirs
By Brian Krans

With each one I take something.

Emily. A piece of her bubble gum.

Tara. It was her sparkled pencil case.

I keep a souvenir every time. Something to remember each one by.

Jennifer. It was her scrunchie hair tie.

Erica. A charm from her bracelet.

Katie. A Scantron from her book bag.

First I met them at dances at other schools, water parks during the summer, the mall.

Julie. A plastic miniature wallaby from her keychain.

Now it's at the bar when I'm out with friends, airport hotels when I'm on business, the strip club when I'm feeling lonely.

Meredith. A collection of removed hairpins with a few strands of brown hair stuck between them.

We come together and depart.

Simone. A small perfume bottle in her purse.

Jenny. A matchbook from her hotel room.

I keep all this refuse in a cigar box. It's my little secret treasure chest, buried deep in my closet. They remind me each time was real. They make me yearn for the next one.

Amy. A subway token.

Beth. A Strokes CD from her car.

Christie. A business card she never gave me but I took afterward.

Heidi. Her chrome-plated cigarette lighter.

Tara. Her pink thong lace underwear.

These are my dolls. We dance our dance and then leave each other. We never forget each other, yet we'll never see each other again.

Tonight her name is Sophie.

Tonight I'm taking her wedding ring.

First homework assignment

2007-07-04T20:19:00.000-07:00

Our first assignment for my new writing "class" was to write a 2,000-word short story taking part of our life and fictionalizing it. Here's the first draft, so leave some marks about it so I know where to go from there. (Remember, this is a work of fiction.)

The Watcher
By Brian Krans

At first I didn't think all of the blood could have been mine. Then I realized it must have been, I was the only one in the room.

The droplets formed a trail from the closed door to my chair. They crept up from there and followed up my chest as high up as I could see as I looked down with my chin dug into my chest. God knows where the trail began.

You would think I would have noticed how much I had been bleeding. The funny thing is when you're on the tail end of an all-night meth binge, you fail to remember certain things. It's worst when it's a bad batch.

You don't forget where you put your keys, but you forget you have a dog that hasn't been let out since yesterday morning. You have your dealer's number memorized, but you don't remember how to use the phone. You forget the importance of brushing your teeth, showering or even changing your soiled underwear.

You forget that the key to being the first officer on the scene is securing the perimeter and checking for the wounded. You forget what "the fatal funnel" means. You forget that Sherlock Holmes and James Bond are actually fictional characters.

What you don't forget is that the key ingredient to making methamphetamine is common household cold medicines.

Half way through your Police Officer Operations and Procedures final, you remember that you forgot to study. That was the whole reason I cooked up.

Somehow I'd remembered I had to work today.

So here I am, sitting in a chair in front of a sea of TVs inches in front of my face. The cameras are watching the customers. I'm watching the TVs. I'm not really watching the customers. The black casing on each set seems to be expanding and shrinking, in and out, a rhythmic breathing that makes me nauseous.

I couldn't feel my face or the trickling flow of blood from it. I was dumb to how much scratching I'd been doing on the top of my right leg, at the exact point where it met my ass. Now, hours from my last bump, the drug was wearing off and that one spot burned like hell as my jeans heated up between my inflamed skin and the leather chair.

My heartbeat was in my ears.

I should call Tony. He's swing by and drop off a few bumps to get me through the rest of my shift. Just enough. Not too much. It's not like I'm a junkie or anything. But I haven't seen him in months. Still, I remembered his number.

My mind returns to the blood. Maybe it started after I walked passed the registers. Maybe the flow began just as I entered the office. Maybe the little red dots started only where I could see them.

Still, I hadn't done anything to make it stop yet.

The first time I had done any sort of drugs was at David's birthday party. That must have been months ago because I remember it had been snowing then and everything was green now. That's where I met Tony and that's where I got to where I am now.

Six hours into the party and I could barely stand. I've always liked gin, but I've never trusted it. It was a big enough party where you knew almost everyone, but there was still plenty of people to meet. We all knew who Tony was before any of us met him. Somehow, I started talking to him near the keg.

He wasn't very discreet about where he got his money, and that's why David invited him. It was his birthday and he wanted to party. All I know was that I said, "You buy it and I'll try it."

The first bumps were in the bathroom off of the toilet tank. Three guys crammed into a shitty little college party house bathroom with a line of people outside, snorting tiny piles of what looked like crystalized cum. I still don't know why I said I'd do it.

Think of a night of drinking and the hangover that follows. The bad ones. The ones where you're tongue is swollen in the back of your throat and you shit black coal lumps. You're mind has been erased except for the little swishes of flashing memories.

Take that and you're still not close to where meth will get you.

The fern in Tony's apartment. The Rob Zombie CD cover. The one with "More Human Than Human" on it. Taking a bump off it.

Coming down just long enough to know it was time to go back up.

Going to the ATM. The little money I had was going for another gram. Money other college kids were spending on food and flat beer in cramped basement house parties I was forking out to keep the party going. The party that was Tony and I and whatever friends of his he knew were holding.

Sunlight stinging my eyes, washing out all details. Everything becomes two-dimensional, a flat copy over a flat copy. People on the streets were nothing more than walking magazine cut-outs.

Walking forever. Red Converse Chucks. Some blonde named Carla. Her doing a line off my stomach and puking on my dick. Daylight again. Night. Day. It doesn't matter after long enough. All that matters is getting more.

That's what I'm feeling right now. I've locked myself in a room with nothing more than my bleeding nose and my wall of TVs. A voice over the loudspeaker calls for "Nathan to the Paint Department. "

Nathan.That's not my name but I know they mean me. It's our store's code word for Loss Prevention. They need me to go to a certain department because an employee suspects someone of stealing. I'm not going.

What the hell could people steal in the Paint Department?

I lean back in my chair, grabbing the remote control board for the cameras and punch the numbers three and eight. The view on the third TV from the right in the fourth row moves with every wiggle of the joystick. I search around and find no one there.

I return the controls to my desk, never fully turning around in my chair.

Some noise comes from behind me. It sounds like a pair of sneakers whisking across the very top of the carpet. I've been hearing stuff like that all day, so I ignore it.

I look at my shirt again. The dots are getting darker. All of them. I think the bleeding's stopped on it's own, but I wasn't ready to call Tony. I hadn't seen him since our last time together.

No, this round of fun came from my own hands.

Now in my fourth semester of criminal justice classes, I was finally learning the good stuff about being a cop, which after working retail store security for sixth months and my latest pharmaceutical adventure, had me second-guessing my future career choice.

You can make methamphetamine at home and you can buy all of the ingredients right here in the store I was supposed to be watching.

Cold medicine. Anhydrous ammonia. Tubing. Rock salt. Matchbooks. Batteries. We had it all.

Yup, here at Fleet Farm we had everything you need to manufacture your own stimulants or blow up a federal building in Oklahoma City. And if you applied for a store credit card today, you could save up to fifteen percent on all your purchases. Thanks for shopping Fleet Farm.

Instead of going the traditional, and highly caustic route, I opted to invent my own way of isolating the pseudeoephedrine out of the cold medicine tablets.

Last night, right before I turned the key as the last person out of the store, I walked over to the Personal Aids Department and pocketed twelve boxes of Sudafed. I had no idea how much I needed, so I over-stole, cramming the boxes in my messenger bag.

No one checks to see if Loss Prevention is stealing. No one watches the watchers.

At home I mashed up the pills on the kitchen counter with a rolling pin. I took the mess of powder and loaded it into the coffee maker, running water through and getting a twelve-cup batch of pink slop. You could drink just that, but you better have an excuse for the emergency room doctor why you're puking blood.

Instead, I put the carafe into the fridge, light up a cigarette and go watch Family Guy in the living room. I should have been studying, but I figured with twelve hours before the final and a batch that was almost done, I had the time to relax.

Family Guy, King of the Hill and The Simpsons. All reruns, but it was just long enough for my pink liquid to turn into soapy white sludge. I pour it onto a cookie sheet and slide it into the oven, which is set at a mere one hundred and forty degrees. Just enough to dry it out.

After two episodes of That 70s Show, I'm set. I have about an ounce full of already-cut and powdery study fuel. I separate my first line in the pan.

I lean over.

I take a breath.

Exhale.

The powder careens up my right nostril, sending a rush of stimulants and pain to the back of my skull. My throat is clogged with the taste of kiddy aspirin and shit.

I cough.

I gag.

I nearly throw up, but I can't blink.

I am no longer tired whatsoever.

The rush was better than the first time. Better than with that first bump off the toilet tank at David's house. Better than any bump with Tony. And I had a whole plastic bag all to myself.

I sit back down on the couch with my bag in hand. A few more minutes of TV won't hurt. Neither will another line. Fuck, make it two.

Twelve hours later and I'm writing about things I didn't study. The advantages and disadvantages of a two-man squad assignment. Dispatching information. Standard booking procedures. It's all blank, except for the section on methamphetamine manufacturing.

The testing hour ends. And I bump again afterwards. The bag's gone by the time I go to work.

And here I am, staring at my wall of TVs, watching everything and nothing at the same time.

And I hear that noise again. Shoes on carpet. This time it's followed by a cough. I'm positive it wasn't mine. I turn slowly in my chair, wiggling my nose to loosen the crusted blood inside.

The first thing I notice on my desk was the open box of BBs. It was starting to come back.

I had, the whole time I was in my office, forgotten something pretty fucking important.

He sat in the chair a few feet from my desk. He'd been there the whole time I had. This kid, about nine or ten years old, continued to sit silently, slouched in the chair behind me.

Everything was clear, no longer copies over copies.

I had grabbed this kid in the parking lot after stealing a single BB out of the box. On camera, I watched him pop open the milk carton-like container, shake a single copper bead into his hand, look around six times -- three each direction -- and pop it in his shorts pocket.

Now I remember the only reason I didn't let the kid go was because I couldn't understand why he'd take just one stupid BB. That's why he's in my office, staring up at me like a little shit head. That's why I thought I didn't have to pay attention anymore. I met my one-shoplifter-a-day quota.

My only question was whether I called his parents yet. Or worse, the cops to come pick him up.

His feet barely touched the ground and his kicking feet made the whisking noise again. Outside his little, faint cough, he didn't say anything. Until now.

"Mister, what's wrong with your nose?"

Intensive Writing

2007-06-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

Today I went back to class. This time around instead of studying journalism, criminal justice and whatever gen eds a university is making me take, it's about writing. Real writing.

The course is a six-week on-line course taught by author Monica Drake on The Cult, Chuck Palahniuk's fansite. Chuck -- my favorite author -- calls Monica his "nemesis" in the introduction to her first book, Clown Girl.

The course compares itself to a cheaper version of a Masters of Fine Arts degree without the neato piece of paper that cost $30,000.

The main reason I finally chose some formal education in fiction writing is because of the title, "Your life. Your fiction." Basically it's learning how to whore your own life out for fiction writing. God, that just sounds so familiar.

The course host says, "There's a story in our lives every day, in every pocket and backpack, in every empty bottle and scrap of paper, and we'll start looking."

Maybe it's dumb to learn how to do it after I've done it. Maybe. Since I'm already embarking on my second novel, using my own experiences to create a more realistic fictionalized world, I figured I'd give it a shot.

So, for the next six weeks I'll be getting class assignments, peer reviews, personalized guidance from Monica and all sorts of other goodies.

Yeah, 'cause I need one more thing to chain me to my computer.

ACS to invade WSU!

2007-06-23T10:52:00.001-07:00

That's right kids, "A Constant Suicide" will soon be carried by the Winona State Bookstore. It's the same place I spend hundreds upon hundreds of dollars for textbooks, will now be carrying my words.

I'm not sure how long till they hit the shelves, but I'm sending them some copies on Monday to get things rolling.

This is cool to me considering the book will be on-campus, where the stories behind ACS were formed. A campus bookstore itself isn't in the book, but it's good enough for me.

So, if you STILL haven't got a copy of it -- and the reviews are GREAT! -- and if you're in the Winona area, stop by the Winona State University Bookstore in Kryzko Commons and get one.

"Art" inspiring art

2007-06-15T19:26:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I'll Google search "A Constant Suicide" to see where it's getting linked up, and to make sure the website is getting the right search results. Then Thursday, someone took my top spot on Google. It was for a painting titled "A Constant Suicide."

With one click, I found this:

Immediately, I recognized the window as the bar I work at on the weekends, Copia Martini & Wine. It's also where we had the release party, so the promotional poster was still in the window.

The artist, Brad Bisbey, commented on his blog, that the title of the poster "got me thinking about how we can sometimes commit constant suicide through negative thoughts, unforgiveness, lifestyle choices. Our thoughts can be as poison to our system as arsenic."

It's like through that one comment that he'd read the book, at least the way I see it.

Like me, Brad is on a mission. I wrote the first 50,000-word draft of the book in one month. Starting today, he's going to be producing a painting a day for the next 30 days for the Daily Painters site. As he put it, "more like 20 paintings in the next 30 days."

So there you have it. Art inspiring more art. Two people who have never met somehow end up connecting through their crafts, even if it's just in the Quad-Cities.

Either way, he said he's going to paint a larger version of "A Constant Suicide" and I'm making room on my wall.

Fun with comic books...

2007-06-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

Weekends

2007-06-11T19:10:00.000-07:00

This weekend was a blast. Myself and the rest of the WSU crowd shipped off another one of us from bachelorhood into the world of marriage. Good luck Joe & Tanya Gartner. You'll make some good-looking kids.

As long as I'm on the subject of weekends, I want to make sure everyone is invited to my first real book signing this weekend. Stop by Borders in Davenport Saturday, June 16, at 1 p.m. and I'll but my Herbie Hancock ("Tommy Boy" reference for those who think I'm an idiot) on a copy of A Constant Suicide for you.

Better yet, you can get my editor, Shawn Eldridge, the real brain behind the finished product, to sign the little guy as well. If there's time, we'll spew out whatever knowledge on self-publishing we were able to gain during our adventure and pass it on to any other would-be novelists.

Or, if you hated the book and the whole idea of it, stop by and punch me in public. You can't hit Shawn -- he's too nice of a guy.

The big questions...

2007-06-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

Two questions have been asked numerous times:

1. Which character are you?

2. How much of the book really happened?

Let's start with number two, just to be difficult. Yes, some events in the book are 100 percent verbatim of what happened to me. Other parts I played witness. Some stories I have the scars to prove, and other people that were there will back up the story.

So, yes, a lot of it's true.

On the other hand, good portions -- even entire chapters and plot lines -- are completely fictitious. There's no way I could have all of that happen to me and still be alive (Chapter 2).

Which is which I'm not going to divulge for obvious reasons. One, it takes away a small bit of mystique of the story. Two, the statute of limitations hasn't passed and my friends and I didn't get caught then, so we'd like to keep it that way.

There's no 50-50 split on truth versus fiction, but those that were there for the real stories know where I embellished. Other parts I stole directly from my own life.

Now, onto the question that gets asked the most: Which character are you?

To that I say: I am as much of every character of my book as I am not. There is no single character or group that is entirely based on me. (C'mon, I'm pretentious, but not that bad.)

Any fiction writer will tell you a single character is not usually based on one single person, but rather a grouping of people. Creating fiction is sort of like Thanksgiving dinner -- you have a lot on your plate and if you want, you can just smash everything together and make paste of it.

I based my characters on different friends at different points in our lives. Some was me, but it was also my family, college friends, co-workers at the dozens of jobs I've had, people I've known from around and anywhere else I've ever run into a human being.

I'm not Chris nor am I Ethan, yet I am both in certain aspects. I know that doesn't make sense because it doesn't make sense to me.

There is no simple answer.

Critics and why I'm not a "real" writer...

2007-05-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

And it has begun. As soon as a story I wrote about self-publishing appeared in the paper, so did the critics. Not about the book itself, but the nature of self-publishing. The story appeared on Quad-Cities Online where readers could comment about the story.

Immediately, I was told I wasn't a "real" writer. The terms "flash in the pan," "scam artist," "cheap" and "self-involved" came out in full force. My favorite critics were telling me (anonymously, mind you) that I somehow wouldn't be allowed into this seemingly illustrious writers clique.

Immediately, I think about a dark room in the back of an unknown writers' club where everyone smokes big cigars, drinks expensive Scotch and wine, talking in haughty English accents about prose, authors I've never heard of and the like. But, to be in the club, you have to pay your dues by getting published in literary journals. Basically, as I took one online comment, you have to write for writers.

Well, I say screw that. I can tell you many reasons why I write. The most basic one is that I love it. The second was that I had something to say. I wrote for my friends, a generation of people who don't keep bookshelves of leather bound books like Ron Burgundy.

As I like to put it, I write for people who don't read. My most influential author, Chuck Palahniuk, did that for me. The book Fight Club got me into reading. Now I can't stop.

But he didn't self-publish. I did. That's why I'm just some hack.

Online, I was defended by another anonymous person who said self-publishing was closest to the author's true voice. And then, my favorite ignoramus quote of all time: "An author this inexperienced doesn't need to have his 'true voice' heard."

In essence, if you're not a member of the club, shut up. Well, it's funny. I'm putting in my quote book to remind myself again why I write - to keep a voice out there.

But, I'm sure that's the least of the criticism to come my way. I'm not worried.

Just remember: The easiest way to avoid criticism is to not do anything. As soon as you do, people will attack you for any reason. I say bring it.

Long, long weekend

2007-05-29T08:19:00.000-07:00

Let's just say it was interesting.

My mom and brother hung out Friday night and Saturday. Then the party with about 300 guests including my cousin Dan and Kelly, Dean and Emily from Winona, and a slew from the Q-C. As far as I could tell, everyone had fun -- some maybe too much. Then, after 3 a.m. rolled around, we headed to my apartment for good times until 7 a.m. with some of the Iowa rollerbladers.

Then breakfast, then a nap, then work, then sleep, then the bike races, then a lack of sleep and now work. Ouch.

And, it wouldn't be a three-day weekend without some very, very weird twists in my social life. I'd go into it further, but, hey, it's my life. Get your own.

And the Argus/Dispatch ran my version of how the book came together. Buy a copy of today's paper and check it out.

Also, a friend told me her cousin heard about my book from a psych professor in Des Moines. That's just weird. Cool, but weird.

All I know is that when I release my second novel, I'm not scheduling a party at the beginning of a three-day weekend. That's just brutal in ways I didn't think was possible.

And now back to the world of the working class.

Par-tay!

2007-05-24T13:32:00.001-07:00

Again, I'm going to remind those of you reading at home that you're all invited to the ACS release party Saturday at Copia Martini & Wine Bar in Rock Island.

Starting at 8 p.m., we'll hang out and have a few drinks. I'll sign some books and you all can make up for the hours upon hours I spent by myself writing it.

If all else fails, stop by and see the bar I work at on the weekends and meet the infamous Dave and Mikey that make Copia what it is.

Or, just stop by and see the social circle I have going. There will be lawyers, maybe a judge or two, some rollerbladers, some college buddies, maybe a few from my hometown, some tattoo artists, a psychic, some bar flies, a bunch of cops, my mom and brother, some writers and, of course -- the people who make A Constant Suicide what it is today.

So, whether for novel or novelty value, stop by, say hello and buy me a shot.

Tpyos

2007-05-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to read the book, giving myself the luxury to finally sit down and enjoy it without tediously going through it with a red pen. And that's the reason why.

People are going through it and the first thing I hear is, "I caught a typo on page..." Yeah, there are some. I knew there would be and that's why I haven't been able to read it yet. It was bug the crap out of me knowing there in there. I guess ignoring it is my defense mechanism.

But I knew there would be a few. Let's face it. None of us working on the book were paid, we all had other things going on our lives and we're bad at deadlines. So, the book shows the human side of Rock Town Press. It's shows we'll make mistakes.

(That, and you should have seen the condition I handed it to Shawn & Matt in. Ouch.)

But, I'm pretty sure when it gets reviewed that's all I'll hear about. People love pointing out your faults before they'll give you any credit. It's the details that make us human -- and by default imperfect -- but some people just have too much fun telling you how many mistakes you make.

But, no one's been that harsh. Yet.

I look at it this way: if the first book was perfect -- which I'm not claiming it is -- what would be the point of writing a second (which I am)?

Besides, the typos make the drinking game all that much more fun.

And now I whore out my friends...

2007-05-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

This is a call for help from everyone. Since A Constant Suicide is now out and printed, with a delay from Amazon that was MY FAULT, the word needs to get out. I've had about a dozen people read it and say it was "worth my time," as one person, who will remain nameless, put it.

If you've read it, go to Amazon and leave a review of it. Even if you didn't order it from there and have gotten through it, hop on and leave your thoughts on the book so potential readers can know what to expect. Please, stay away from short ones like "Krans sucks/rules!"

Also, if you live somewhere and think your local bookstore should carry it, bug the crap out of them until they do. But please, no extortion or anything else that could constitute a crime. I can't afford attorneys for everyone.

Tell your friends about it, at least the people we hang out with that know how to read. Point them towards www.aconstantsuicide.com, get a few people together and play "The Official A Constant Suicide Drinking Game." I figure, why write a book about getting drunk, falling down and killing yourself without a drinking game?

If you're really feeling ambitious, and not afraid of feeling like a pushy bastard like I do right now, post links on blogs you regularly go to. (Besides this one of course.)

This book was built from the ground up with help from friends, so why should the marketing be any different.

Anyway, love you all and thanks for the help.

Amazon

2007-05-16T15:38:00.000-07:00

Sorry to anyone who ordered from Amazon.com. There's going to be a delay.

I have heard shipping as late as June 24, but I haven't heard anything from them as to why. I'm guessing -- and you know I don't do well at that -- but it's probably from the rush of getting them so close to the release date. There on Friday, released on Tuesday.

Either way, the thing's got my name on it, so I'll take the heat for it.

But please, remain vigilant.

If you haven't ordered already, and live in the beautiful land of the Quad-Cities, go to Borders in Davenport (map). They've got copies at the same price as Amazon -- and you can get them now without shipping!

Don't get me wrong, Amazon has been good to me. It's just that I'm old-fashioned. I love bookstores. I love seeing people buying books, reading them, and doing a bit of that myself. I'll take a store over the Internet anyday.

That, and there's a book signing at the Davenport Borders on June 16 at 1 p.m., so stop by and come stare at the geek at the table.

That's right...

2007-05-15T19:56:00.000-07:00

The here, now & later...

2007-05-13T16:38:00.000-07:00

And now it seems like I can breathe.

The book is printed. We got our first 300-some copies late Friday afternoon after some troubles with the bleed on the cover. While Shawn did all of the work on it, I was running around having a tantrum. But they got done. We get the rest of the 700+ copies on Monday.

You want to know how to piss off federal employees? Show up at 4:55 p.m. to the Post Office and try to mail seven 30-pound boxes that all need insurance and delivery confirmation. Well, Debbie, the woman who waited on me, didn't go postal, but she did give me some tongue-in-cheek advice. "Get into a lighter media."

So, anyone who ordered on Amazon.com, they're coming your way. Also, anyone in Q-C that hasn't ordered can go pick up a copy at Borders in Davenport on Tuesday. It'll be in the local authors section. Also working on getting copies at the Book Shelf in Winona. But, if there's a place that you think should carry A Constant Suicide bug the crap out of them until they do.

Anyway, I'm off to continue recuperating from hanging out with the old Winona posse. Come back, there'll be more this week. Until then, thanks again for all of the support.

i-Demand

2007-05-08T08:40:00.000-07:00

Here's the beautiful part when you go into a project with no clue what you're doing. Seriously, ask Shawn and Matt, my editors. I barely know the English language. But, that's neither here nor there, because they finally made me sound somewhat intellegent.

So, as I type this, the book is currently in the hands of i-Demand/Fidlar, the print-on-demand specialist here in Davenport, Iowa.

Jodi, our beautiful and elegant rep, has put up with numerous e-mails, phone calls and general stupidity from me. Dates have changed and deadlines have been missed. (Mostly because I can't really write that well.) Still, she always helped above and beyond.

Anyhoo, as we sent in the pages a day later than we had planned, she said it'd be no problem to get enough copies for Friday to fill our Amazon.com orders. God bless her.

So, the book is DONE. I will be holding hundreds of copies this Friday as I scramble to get them to the post office to fufill orders of the faithful, great friends of mine who pre-ordered.

I hope everyone likes the book, and when it comes time to possibly tell your own story, give Fidlar a call. They put up with me, so anyone else should be a piece of cake.

RELEASE PARTY!

2007-04-29T20:13:00.000-07:00

Here's the real reason to write a book -- the party!
Everyone's invited, some come drink some beer and have some fun while I make up for too much time spent alone writing A Constant Suicide.

It's May 26 at Copia Martini & Wine Bar in Rock Island, Ill. We'll be hanging out from 6 p.m. to around 3 a.m., drinking some free beer and talking about the book.

Also, here's a link to the Quad-Cities Forum on WOC 1420 AM

Home, sweet home

2007-04-25T08:56:00.000-07:00

A man attacks an off-duty sheriff's deputy with not just one, but two knives. He's my neighbor. A man stomps a woman's face in with his boot. Then he proceeds to kick her in the ribs. That was two blocks away.

Both were just last night.

A week ago I was running past my house -- yes, me, running -- and heard a guy yell, "Shut up or I'll f---ing kill you!" Pleadings for mercy followed. Don't worry, I called the cops. Everyone lived.

There's still a bullet lodged about five inches underneath my window from a shoot out next door about a month ago. It's the window I sit by when I write.

Welcome to my home. It's where on one side guys deal drugs out in the open and junkies come and go. The cops are there all of the time. On the other side is SkateChurch, where almost every week 200-300 kids to come and skate to forget everything going on just outside our doors.

It's two blocks away where a drive-by last year killed a 19-year-old girl.

Why is my writing filled with a certain element of dispair and violence? Come and spend a weekend at my apartment and I'll tell you why. And no, I'm not planning on moving.

Hello Quad-Cities...

2007-04-24T14:25:00.000-07:00

For anyone in the Quad-Cities, listen into the Quad-Cities Forum this Sunday to hear me dribble on about nothing...and the book. Today I was interviewed by legendary Q-C newsman Phil Roberts of the Quad-Cities Radio Group. But, for those of you outside the Q-C, you can download and listen after it airs on www.woc1420.com It will be under the podcast links.

The interview will air Sunday:
6 a.m. - WOC 1420 AM
7 a.m. - KMXG 96.1 FM
7:30 a.m. - WLLR 103.7 FM
11:30 p.m. - KCQQ 106.5 FM
11:30 p.m. - KUUL 101.3 FM

More Amazon.com fun

2007-04-18T11:59:00.000-07:00

So there's this cool thing Amazon does that compares a book to other things readers have purchased. So, if someone buys my book and another one, it links them together. So, according to those buying, my novel has been comparable to the reading habits of those who love great, great authors. Some of those include:

- Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)
- Kurt Vonnegut
- Joseph Heller (Catch-22)
- J.D. Salinger
- Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange)
- Aldous Huxley (Brave New World)
- Jack Kerouac (On the Road)
- George Orwell
- Ernest Hemingway

To even think people would link those books with mine is the greatest compliment anyone could pay to me. Talk about making my day.

Virginia Tech

2007-04-16T14:15:00.000-07:00

At least 33 people were killed today in a shooting on the Virginia Tech campus. One gunman. Nearly 60 dead or injured. Then he killed himself.

Even after writing a book about suicide and college, I don't think I'll ever understand a situation like this. For once in a long time, news shocked me.

At one point I was thinking about pulling the book while this whole thing is settled. It felt like those NRA assholes who have gun rallies in towns after shootings. (Remember Charleton Heston in Columbine the next week?)

In the book, I make references to the "sniper in a belltower" massacre in 1966 at the University of Texas at Austin. I talk about people killing themselves over a girlfriend. I talk about suicide by cop and taking other people out, too. (To clarify, I adimantly oppose all such things.)

I've even been researching workplace shootings for my next novel.

Instead, the book will go on while everything with VT is sorted out. Until then, keep the college kids who did nothing but go to class in your thoughts and prayers. May the devil have fun roasting the bastard that did it.

One last time...

2007-04-15T20:09:00.000-07:00

So I've read my book twice in the last month. Once for plot, the second time for tedious errors. I still don't think I have any idea how to use the English language. But that's not the problem.

There seems to be something going on with everything. There's a certain hardcore element to the book. There are parts of it that I wrote in college. Un-edited journal entries that I'm going to send out into the world. They were my babies back then -- writing things down and I thought I had them taken care of. Then, reading them again, meticulously, I realized little has changed in me from when I'd spend hours writing away at what was going on in my head.

In one way, it's refreshing. Despite a new major, a college degree and three years working, I still am the same person on the inside.

In the other way, it's completely terrifying. I've realized that all of my personal problems still linger, despite the fact I thought I had them taken care of. It's not even close to that.

So, those of you that knew me from WSU, know that what you'll be reading is what I'm still going through. Those of you that didn't know me then, know that I share more with my characters than what I thought.

Still, knowing that life will never be perfect and the chance to explore it is amazingly beautiful, this is where I'm very happy to say I am. I'm very happy to say I was.

I'm glad, now, that I know the difference.

Sales good, promotions bad

2007-04-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

Online sales on Amazon have been going well, but if you haven't pre-ordered, don't be shy and get on there. The book's going to be sent for proof next week. That means I'll be able to hold my baby in my hands and examine it for every imperfection. It's just like being a real parent.

But, in the real of all that is self-publishing, I can guarantee one thing -- promoting yourself sucks. I have to go around and tell people how great I am and why they should buy my book. Seriously, I know arrogance would run high on my personality trait list, but even this is a bit much for me.

So, to ease my I-feel-like-a-whore pains, tell as many people as you can. Link the image of the cover to your MySpace page. Send some e-mails. Anything would help.

Seriously, I'm just a writer, not a PR flak.

Who loves ya'?

2007-04-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

It's impossible for me to thank everyone who has already ordered. The book went from number 70,000 thousand in ranking on Amazon to hovering around the 13,000 mark -- in one day! I know it's not Harry Potter level, but for a first-time self-publisher who hasn't even started real promotion yet, I'll take it.

Shoppers include friends, sources, skaters, drinkers, school buddies, co-workers and everyone in between. Seriously, without you guys and gals I'd be nothing buy a boring kid with no stories to tell and a lot of extra books laying around. Well, not like they're even printed yet.

Anyway, I appreciate everything.

A Constant Suicide on Amazon.com!

2007-04-02T06:22:00.000-07:00

Order, order, order!

The book's available for pre-order on Amazon.com. The more pre-orders I get, the better play it will get on the site, so don't hesitate to buy 100 copies. Whoever wants an autographed copy, order it and I'll sign it the next time I see you. I might just make a special trip for it.

Use the link to the right.

Special thanks go to my long-time friend Travis Hulce for noticing -- before I did -- that the page was up. Check out his blog on his adventures in writing on the links section to the right.

RELEASE DATE

2007-03-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

There's still work to go, but A Constant Suicide will be released on May 15. It will be available for pre-order on Amazon before that, but keep coming back for updates.

Update

2007-03-21T20:56:00.000-07:00

Besides cranking out more on the book, I've done some more business aspects. I've looked into publicity materials -- which all my faithful blogettes will get tons of -- and where to sell it.

While I'm shooting for a May 1 release date (and I say shooting like a second gunman), you'll be able to pre-order the book soon on Amazon.com. It'll be the primary place, but I'm also checking out Barnes & Noble, Yahoo! and other places, along with local book shops and copies I'll be donating to local libraries.

So, stay tuned and I'll be able to tell you when you can put some money down.

On motivation...

2007-03-20T17:08:00.000-07:00

A cardinal just flew right by me outside. The bird landed in a tree above my head and chirped noisily at me. It wanted to make sure I knew it was there. Since I was born, I've always associated a red cardinal with my grandmother. A watchful woman, she died a long, painful death at the hands of cancer while I was in college. Before she died, she told me, "I heard you're shaping up." I believe that bird I just saw was her, looking at me, letting me know she was watching over me.

Last week I had a conversation with a good friend and fellow writer, Barb. We both planned on having a writers' night, but it turned to beer and talking. We talked about what motivated us, not just in writing, but in life. I told her about my belief that I must do something with my life because of my ancestors. No longer are humans needed to procreate to sustain its own species, but rather one generation makes sacrifices so the next may flourish.

That's my life. My grandparents worked hard to provide my parents with a better life. The same went for my parents and myself. I am afforded luxuries right now not because of my work, but because of those who have worked before me.

Barb said I shouldn't look at it as though I should work to impress my family or those I considered such. I said that wasn't my motivation. I wanted to do the most with my life to make the sacrifices of those who departed before me not lost in vain. I refuse to become nothing because of how much my great-grandparents, my grandparents and my family toiled.

Another friend, a psychic, once told me some writers are believed to have channels from the dead. It's as if the deceased are a direct pipeline of inspiration and motivation.

I spent the majority of the day writing on the novel, working further on getting this thing done. Then a cardinal visited me and told me someone was and is watching.

As V said, "I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence."

Randomness

2007-03-12T17:04:00.000-07:00

It's only three days away from when I wanted to have the book published. I figured since I had it done in November, I could easily have it done by March. Why not? I mean, c'mon, I've done this before. Nope.

Sorry kids, but it's going to take a few more months. It would be worse off to crank out a piece of crap, when I can refine it into a nice gleaming turd.

Still, I'm elbow deep in my story, digging through like removing innards on a cadaver.

I can feel the heart. It's the story itself. The things I want to say. It beats.

The lungs move slowly, almost like they're drowning. It's my words. Using the right language that my narrator, a sophomore in college would use. Too often, he's speaking in ways only academics do. The unncessary weight is making it hard for my story to breathe.

The liver is hard. Too much getting drunk on what's not important. A scene is cut, dialogue is completely removed. I laugh at myself, thinking, "When did I actually think this part was good?"

My delete key is the scalpel. Still, I go through cutting out the stored fat that keeps my story from being alive and healthy. Soon I'll have to pack everthing back inside, sew it up and throw a nice suit on it. It will be time to show my Frankenstein off.

Another cover idea

2007-03-02T06:24:00.000-08:00

Here's another try from Mr. Shawn Eldridge. We're going to tinker with it, but it's a whole new approach. Let me know what you think.

RTP Logo

2007-02-22T13:57:00.000-08:00

Did you ever want to look into the future? Did you ever want a glimpse at what would become of the world as we all know it?
Here you go.

The logo was designed by the gracious hands of Brandon "Brando" Price -- graphic designer, newspaper publisher, owner of Murphy, and all around rockabilly all star.

Cover Mockup

2007-02-12T09:10:00.000-08:00

Here's an idea for the cover. Please leave your thoughts on it.

It's designed by Shawn Eldridge. Those of you in the Quad-Cities might recognize his regular work from The River Cities' Reader.

A severed finger, a rubber chicken and CDs

2007-02-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

So I opened my mail yesterday to find a severed finger in a box. Metallic confetti fell as I pulled the bloody digit out and twisted it in my hand.

I couldn't help but laugh.

In October, I wrote to my favorite novelist Chuck Palahniuk (Paula-nick). I had asked for advice on character development, being a reporter and other such crap. I wasn't expecting anything back. But Monday, there on my steps with the change of address covering who it was from, was a box the size of an ice cream carton.

Inside was a rubber chicken that if you squeezed it an egg would pop from its butt. An a rubber severed finger. And Chinese noise makers, an "It's a boy" gum cigar, temporary tattoos, a used pocket knife, a plastic carrot and other novelty crap.

He also included a few pieces of signed memorbelia and some CDs of him reading his work. My favorite was my "power raccoon." He's the guy that wrote Fight Club, so remember the scene with the power animal and the penguin telling the narrator to slide.

The letter truely was personalized, answering questions and telling me to stick with reporting because it was where the "BEST" novelists come from. (He himself holds a journalism degree.)

The fact that he spent all of that time piecing together this box of "sounds, colors and tastes," as he put it, showed how greatful he was for me writing to him and reading his work.

That gives me something to shoot for in terms of gratitude.

The hemrroid of the creative process

2007-02-02T06:34:00.000-08:00

The rewrite is done. That's right, done.

In the world of novel writing, the rewrite is the root canal. It's the hemmoroid clinging to the creative process.

It's all about solidifying story plots and ironing out the details that make the book flow. It's making sure people can understand a character and get inside his/her head. As to quote Sean Connery in Finding Forrester, "You write the first draft with your head. The second draft comes from the heart," or something like that.

A Constant Suicide, as it stands, says what I want it to say. I think it works, but it's up to my editor, Seinor Aiden Landman, to tell me if it's all crap or not. I hope to get the 250-page manuscript into his hands by the end of the day.

I'll be reading it again as my editor is going through it. Plus, I have to file tax paperwork with the state for Rock Town Press, look over the cover for the book, get my headshots taken for the back cover, order ISBN numbers, register it with the Library of Congress, etc.

Don't worry, it's not like I'm going to be bored. I do have two jobs otherwise. Speaking of, I should probably get back to them.

Again, thanks everyone for the words of encouragement and the future money you'll spend buying this thing.

(Getting three copies of the damned thing printed and "cheaply" bound cost me $50! Jebus!)

The worst things are coming...

2007-01-20T10:07:00.000-08:00

When mom or dad told you, "Finish what you start," they were right.

I've done one of the worst things a writer can do. Tied up somewhere in the sequence of events, I opened a new Word document and started typing.

"Enriquetta wasn't supposed to get shot."

And everything flowed from there. I've had the idea for my next book since I started my first. Finish what you start. At one point during the ramblings that are my next project, I wanted to scrap the first one and just start anew.

Some of the new stuff is pretty funny. Let's just say the line, "If you needed a DNA sample from Dan, just ask Tucker to spit," was part of it. And no, it's not the Dan you're all thinking of. Remember: The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

So I wanted to scrap "A Constant Suicide." Then I remembered why I was writing my first one. For all the First Prentiss and honorary FP. It's a collection of our good times and bad. There's a message in there I need to say.

So, as all I want to do is throw everything away and start a new project, I have to force myself to keep going. But for now, it's Saturday and I'm at the paper, finishing something I didn't get done last week.

Wow. I'm cool.