Chapter one of the new novel.

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

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

Book signing at Borders in Davenport.

2 p.m.

Sure to be the party of the year.

Whatever.

Got nothing.

Iowa River Rumble

It ruled. Enough said.

One novel, one month

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...

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...

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...

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

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

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?

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

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

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...

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

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

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!

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

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...

Weekends

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...

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...

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

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!

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

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...

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

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...

The here, now & later...

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

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!

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

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...

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

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

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...

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

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'?

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!

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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.

On salvation

Writing this keeps me thinking about salvation. Finding what we're looking for in life, what's best for us, etc.

My narrator finds salvation in someone who will later kill himself. Hence, "We create our saviors."

But, as I've come to think about a lot lately, is it possible to save ourselves? Is there a way to avoid all outside sources to find true happiness in ourselves? Is there anyone out there that doesn't count on anything -- work, a significant other, drugs, alcohol - to find moments of bliss?

Some would say yes. Others would say no. I say we all have some kind of dependence.

Then self-actualization comes into play. Growing instead of destroying. Taking care of lower needs and then proceeding to higher ones. Those reaching self-actualization show some certain points:
• They embrace reality and facts rather than denying truth
• They are spontaneous
• They are interested in solving problems which may include personal problems or the emotional conflicts of others
• They are accepting of themselves and others and lack prejudice

But I don't think anyone can reach these on their own. You have to find what drives you, whether in relationships with others or yourself, and then move up from there.

Whatever. That's just what's going on in my gourd right now.

Movin' on down, to the east side...

Writer's need inspiration. They needed muses.

To quote V for Vendetta, "Artists use lies to tell the truth."

The best writers use their own lives to create worlds based in fact, but surrounded by fiction. I've read some books where you can tell the author never took a chance in their life and just sat around being safe all of the time. A good book is an adventure. Writers must take them to write them.

So, for that and other reasons, my latest adventure -- and a long overdue one -- is one in housing. I'm moving to one of the less-than-favorable neighborhoods in Davenport. Two blocks away there was a drive-by in August that killed a teenage girl (see earlier posts about fight in courthouse). Gun shots ring out on a nearly regular basis. My neighbors are crack dealers.

It is a far cry away from the safety that is Wisconsin Rapids or Winona.

And there's that question: Why?

I would like to say rent. I would like to say it's right next to SkateChurch. Both are true, but neither are.

I could just go scamper off to the suburbs, buy a house and live in peace and quiet. All I would have to worry about was keeping my grass cut the right length and making sure my truck was always clean. But, what would that teach me about life that I don't already know?

Let's face it. I'm young and stupid. Living in the 'hood is a bad idea. With every chance I take in life, my comfort level increases. Then I have to jump out again and push the boundaries. Soon everything will feel comfortable.

It's seeing a part of life I've only been exposed to in short doses or through courtroom testimony. Eyewitness is the best.

New Year's promises

Tonight millions of people will start out their resolutions. It’s the common belief that as the clock hits midnight tonight, a clean slate will be put forth in front of everyone. We believe it’s a chance to start over.

Well, that’s all bullshit.

Anything I do today doesn’t automatically get dismissed because we start using new calendars. Everything we do, whether positive or negative, is carried with us each day. There’s no clean slate. We got one at birth. That’s the only time we get one.

So, instead of pledging to quit smoking or drop 20 pounds, I pledge to anyone reading to CONTINUE to do things I’ve been striving for since my last New Year’s resolution two years ago: Be the best person I can.

I pledge to continue to make a life for myself that I choose. I pledge to not let any criticism, negativity or personal vendettas against me stand in my way.

I promise to strive to attempt to make my friends and family proud, the way they all do every day. As my friends and I age past out college years, we marry. Our children get older. Every single one of you make me so proud that I once was able to just sit around and slam beers when we could have been doing something more productive. No time was wasted doing it.

I promise to publish my first novel by my 26th birthday. I promise to start working on my second one immediately afterwards. I’m too young to just be sitting around anymore.

I promise to continue to give back to those who have invested time and energy to keeping me out of jail. I promise to come and visit more often. I promise to put you all before work.

Anyone who knows me knows that I never use the word promise unless I guarantee I can do it. Notice how many times I used the word in this entry.

To all my family, friends or anyone else reading this, these are not resolutions. These are promises.

Rewrite

Yup, still not done.

There's just not enough hours in a day to do everything I want. If there was something to completely eliminate the need for sleep, let me know.

As I'm going through the pages, there's nothing but more questions for myself. Are the references to something to vague? Do they spell everything out too much? Are the characters forming clear enough for my reader? Are they just clear to me?

Since no one else has seen anything except the little bit I've posted, they'll remain questions for myself before they get to my editor.

A rewrite is the nightmare of writing. You want to forget the bad stuff, but it keeps coming back up. The good stuff never stays long enough to remember.

It's tedious and scrupulous questioning everything you've done up to this point.

I'll read one sentence and love it, hoping the next is just as tight and powerful. When it's not, I just want to burn the whole thing.

I haven't yet, so that's a good start.

Murder trials and courthouse brawls

This has nothing to do with the book, but it's amusing enough not to share.

I've been covering two murder trials going on at the same time this week. A van pulls up at a party and unloads four guns worth of bullets. The prosecutors say it was a retaliation crime between long-time rival groups on opposite sides of the river. The person who gets killed at this party, populated by a family whose name is constantly linked to crimes? The one girl in three generations of the family who graduated high school. This 19-year-old hadn't even got her first paycheck from her first job.

So we head to trial. All week, these families who have hated each other long before the murder, are forced to be in the same cramped hallways. They're face to face with each other, but things were surprisingly peaceful.

Until Friday.

I was just coming up the stairs, calling in an update to the editor of our Web site. As I'm on the phone, the fight begins right in front of me. What do I do? Stay on the phone and jump in the mix, sort of. I get in closer as a bailiff gets in the mix with about 10 other people. Soon the group shifts my way. I'm doing a play-by-play into my phone considering I'm the only reporter whose witness to this.

And BOOM. I get an elbow to the ribs. Other bailiffs and running down the hallway, shoving cans of pepper spray in people's faces, but not unleashing hell just yet. A can was shoved in my face. And I'm in the middle of it all for the last few seconds until it's broken up.

A bailiff had to be hospitalized. Three guys were arrested.

There I was just doing my job and a fight breaks out. Then I'm part of it. I didn't throw any blows, but the smears of blood on the floor were inches from my feet. And I never got off the phone and we smoked the competition on the scoop.

"So, honey, how was your day at work?"

"Not bad. Check out this bruise."

Rock Town Press

That's right kids, not only am I self-publishing my book, my friend, Aiden Landman, and I are starting our own publishing firm: ROCK TOWN PRESS

My book's the experimental project, followed by a second when he finishes his first novel.

So far, while more writing and editing needs to be done on A Constant Suicide, here's the cast and crew for the finish product.

Rock Town Press logo: Brandon "Brando" Price
ACS Cover: Shawn Eldridge
ACS Artwork: Amanda (Sorry, don't know you last name) from Hickey Brothers
ACS Editor: Aiden Landman
Printer: I-Demand of Davenport, Iowa.

The people are coming together so the thing can go places.

Sorry, that's all I got for now. Murder trials and bar work keeping me busy. More as it comes.

Rough editing done

So a trip to Rapids was pretty successful.

I've gotten through the 80 pages of tight-margin, small font print out of everything I wrote last month. There's some parts that made me laugh. I forgot I wrote some things.

Then there's the part that make me cringe. The word "blah" is written in my poor penmanship more than I would have liked. Still, as a whole, I'm pretty happy with what I have so far.

But there's another hurdle cleared. I'll have to go back over the electronic copy and add or delete whatever I wrote on the paper copy.

Here's an example of what just one of the pages looks like.



Again, sorry about the poor photo quality. It's still from my camera phone.

As always, there's still more work to go.

A dedication to writing...

So here's something everyone is going to call a dumb move.

I'm selling my TV.

That's right. My TV, DVD player, surround sound, entertainment center, all of it. It's going to a good friend moving to Milwaukee at a good price. For the few of you visiting this weekend, enjoy it until he picks it up Saturday.

Why would I go and do something so foolish? Why would I deny myself the God-given right to sit vegetated in front of the glowing boob tube for hours? Well, that right there is the reason. I'm prone to zoning out in front of the thing, doing nothing for hours.

Let's face it, unless I've lived with someone, I've never had cable. I get only two stations in right now. Most of the stuff on TV right now - reality TV, game shows, etc. - is horrible and I have no ambition to watch any of it.

Then there's movies. Boy, will I miss those. The majority of my DVDs will be sold. A select few, I'll keep around in case I want to view them at a friend's house. But, either way, I'll be around another human being to watch them instead of spending even more time alone by myself. That's what's writing time is for.

But what can a news reporter do without watching the nightly news? You'd be surprised. Meredith's out of the area, so the nightly news is useless. Besides, I'll buy a decent radio and listen to the news stations in the area.

So what will I do with all of the spare hours not watching my 100-or so DVDs? Read. Write. Exercise. Live my life. Anything but watch TV.

I've spent too much of my life sitting down, letting someone else use their imagination to tell me how I should see something. For hours, I'd turn my brain off. Not any more. As long as I'm old school, that's living under the assumption people still read for leisure, I'm going the full bout.

In my apartment, you'll find no television. There's no Internet. Just a growing number of books, ones I bought to read and others I have written.

Let's see how long it lasts.

On editing

I'm half-way through going over the first rough draft manuscript right now, and, for the most part, I'm pretty happy with what I have.

There's still going to have to be some changes, considering the ending changed since I wrote the beginning. Foreshadowing is a good thing. Also, there'll be a lot of instances where I'll have to spice up some blah language.

Other than that, there's some parts I'm pretty proud of. Others I would hope the world never sees. I'm dredging along in the process, keeping pace with what I was writing it.

Peace, love and hair grease.

Post-partum depression, of sorts

So here's something I didn't expect.

Since completing the novel, killing a character and not being able to give him closure in his departure, I've felt extremely depressed for the past couple days. Some of you might have got the text messages. Don't worry I'm fine. While they were worded weird, it was just a way to say I appreciate all of you in my life and never tell you enough. I don't want to wait until it's too late.

Apparently, it's not uncommon for authors to become depressed after a completion of a book or after killing off a character. We invest so much of our emotions writing about a person who becomes real in our minds, so when they die, we feel a friend has died too. It's what losing a child must be like.

J.K. Rowling, the woman who writes Harry Potter, cried for days after killing Dumbledore.

While I killed off the main character, Ethan, a long time ago, completing the full details of his demise was actually depressing. In sorts, I've come to respect and like a character that only exists in my head and on page.

Many of you know about my depressive episodes and attempted suicide in college. In some ways, similar emotions ran through me after killing Ethan. It's so strange to describe. It was like the death of a life-long friend.

It was a bad thing to sit alone by myself and write the story and then go and celebrate by myself. Too much time on my own, fostering the death of the character, made me feel even worse. My feelings of isolation had become bad.

But, now I'm back at work, keeping busy around people. Still, it's something I didn't expect as a first-time novelist.

That will all be gone I suspect when the boys from Winona come to visit this weekend.

****FINISHED*****

That's right, as of 5:43 p.m. Thursday, Nov. 30, 2006, I finished the first rough draft of my first novel. One month, 50,201 pages.

While I'd like to emphasize how rough this draft is, there's a beginning, a middle and an end. The first goal has been met. The first hurdle is clear. Still, don't ask for a copy yet. It's really rough.

Now it's on to months worth of editing, rewriting, page layout, cover design, more editing and publishing. While I have no clue how long any of this will take, I'm shooting to have the thing released March 15, the day in the book Ethan, one of the main characters, commits suicide.

I can't thank the people who have supported me through this and other writing projects I've done. I gurantee you this one will be seen through to the end. It's the first of many. There's no greater feeling than shutting and finally getting something done.

But, for all the Winona kids who have inspired this book, I want you to know I love you all. Meredith, mom and the rest of my family, thanks for everything always.

But for those of us who are privvy to some inside jokes, here are some things that made it into the book. Some were planned, others just wrote themselves in.
- First Prentiss
- Subway bag
- Killing coy
- Punching walls
- Streaking campus
- Underage alcohol delivery
- Frats and Roofies
- Attic House
- Pink Taco
- Pink piles of puke
- Lobby lizards
- Drink Day

So now, with one day left of vacation for the week, I'm going to take the rest of the night off and begin editing tomorrow morning. No more getting up at 7:30 a.m. every day on my vacation. I figure one day sleeping in is payment enough.

Last day...

I've never been that great with deadlines, but I excell under pressure.

It's the last day to write anything to fall within the parameters of this chanllenge. I know I need a little more than 5,000 words, which is about the pace I've been on for the last week.

Instead of wasting one more keystroke on this blog, I'm going to write.

I'll post when I get to 50,000. Or when I give up early.

Kellen smells like poo.

40,000 done and in the bag

Well, last night I hit 40.000 words, which means I'm on the scheduled pace I should be -- 10,000 words a day. And, yes, that is a lot words for one day.

While sitting in your room by yourself on the computer all day might be all the rage with the kids, I find it depressing. Every day I have to take a break and walk around to find other people. It doesn't matter if I know them because I don't want to talk to them. I just need to see people.

That, and I've already lost four pounds this week. I suggest everyone try the writer diet. Just forget to eat full meals on time.

Anyway, I'm going back to what I should be doing.

It's time

Now is the time to see if I have what it takes. I've talked about doing a lot in my life, but rarely have actually done it. Guys from college, you know what I mean. Meredith, you know what I mean.

This week will decide if I can finally shut the hell up and do something with my life - do what I want to do with it. No more talk. It's time for action.

So here I am on the eve of the turning point of my life. Do I go on doing what I'm told, keeping a steady job or do I move forward with doing what would truly make my happy? If I succeed, I would be my own boss for the rest of my life.

The fridge is stocked. The laundry is done. Work is non-existant. Distractions have disappeared.

I will tell you this -- the ending is done and it even suprised me. It's nothing you'll expect.

Now, knowing the beginning and the end, I have to make sure I set the scenery and tone equal to the completed parts.

To all of my friends, you have inspired my life in more ways than I could ever repay you for. I love you all. Wish me the best.

With love,
Brian

I had a few mintues so I played with formatting. It's more fun wrting when you have some idea what it's going to look like on the page.



Let me know what you think.

Stuck in the middle

So, I'm stuck somewhere in the middle. The characters have been introduced, the stage has been set. Now it's a matter of getting everyone to start interacting. And I couldn't think of a thing Thursday. Seriously, I've got nothing.

So, when the beginning's done and the middle is being a red-headed step child, go straight to the end and work your way back. That's what I did and it seemed to work.

I threw down about another 2,000 words on the ending, but working at the bar put an end to that. I took a tablet of paper with me and managed to get some things down, but the post-Turkey drinking crowd wanted nothing to do with it.

It was my first time bartending alone and the place didn't burn down. I'm sure I'll hear today of what I did wrong. While pizza was my solid Thanksgiving dinner, I managed to come up with a shot to put it all in one glass.

Wild Turkey (turkey) + Vodka (potatoes) + beer (stuffing/roll) + cranberry juice (cranberry sauce) + moonshine corn whiskey (vegetables) + amaretto (pecan pie) + pumpkin pie syrup (pumpkin pie) = Thanksgiving Dinner

Actually, it wasn't that bad. It just shows how low my standards are.

There's working today at the paper and then the bar, then work tomorrow at the paper and then it's on to vacation. Or my idea of a vacation, holing up in my apartment, sucking down loads of coffee while typing like a mad man at a computer.

Wow, I'm cool.

Turkey bowling & writing

Nothing new yet, other than this drip coming from my nose. Usually, I get sick on my vacation, but this year I get it the week before.

Tonight I'll be officiating over turkey bowling at the bar. I wanted to use live turkeys, but that idea was nixed. I still might do the sound effects.

Then I'll spend all day on Turkey Day writing. I won't be going home. No one to have dinner with. Woe-is-me, right? No!

Last year was so great, I'm still overfilled. Bama and I made quite a nice showing for two kids that don't cook that often. We sat and fed our faces and chilled on the couch. Best holiday memory I've ever had. Seriously, it kicked ass.

I wish you all the best and I'll make sure to keep posting tidbits as I spend next week sheltered inside my apartment.

Have some extra stuffing for me.

Half way, finally

Last night, sat down for a bit and threw down about a thousand words. I finally topped the 50 percent mark. My biggest mistake as of far was editing pieces when I should just have been writing. The first draft is supposed to be rough.

Slowly, the book is becoming more commentary on college in general. Maybe I oversimplify too much, but I'm trying to view it from a former straight-edge kid who's running around drunk and horny all of the time.

But, I will say one thing. With Thanksgiving off, and the week to follow. I WILL FINISH. I repeat, I will finish. Some of the material by the end might not be too great for reading, but it will fit into the full amount.

I can't thank everyone enough for the criticism on the few chapters I've thrown down. It's much appreciated. The book is directed towards our age group, so the more input you can give me, the better.

Don't worry about my feelings. If you say something to make the book better, my pride can go to hell. And yes, that was me saying it. Capt. Cocky. Admiral Arrogant. Sgt. Shithead.