Hi, friends and readers:

I’m up early this morning. I already took my two-mile walk on the beach. The sea turtle nest rescue crew was busy this morning. They found seven new nests on our island, all of the laid last night. Pretty amazing, eh?

Here’s the third, and last, installment of Screwy Louie:

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2009

“Louie was beside himself. He sat down on the kitchen floor, amid all that carnage, and he wept for his creatures, for Oliver, the king snake, and, especially, for Petey. He missed the swine terribly. He got sick to his stomach, thinking about how he=d eaten pieces of the boar, earlier that day. He puked all over the kitchen floor and his vomit mixed with his mother’s blood, with his father’s too.”

I take a gulp of beer and swallow.

Holy crap.

“Screwy Louie decided he wanted to see Petey one last time, just to say goodbye. So, he left the house and limped to the canal out back of the Bledsoe residence. It didn’t take him long to find Petey. The tide was low and the hog’s detached head, his skeleton, and intestines rested on the canal’s exposed bottom. A furious clattering came to Louie’s ears. Blue crabs, dozens of them, swarmed all over Petey’s remains. They picked bits of flesh from the carcass. They dined on the boar’s eyes and lips.”

Jesus . . .

“Screwy Louie couldn’t stand the sight of Petey’s head, lying in the canal and getting chewed. So, he scaled down the canal bank and shooed away the blue crabs. He lifted Petey’s head from the mud and brought it ashore. Now, believe me, that was no small effort. The swine’s noggin was as big as a portable TV. I’ll bet it weighed sixty-five or seventy pounds.

“Bibb Larsen—the mullet fisherman I mentioned earlier—was a half-wit, and a drunk besides. He was never far from a bottle, even while working. He didn’t report the commotion at Bledsoe Island ’til two days after it occurred, during a rare moment of sobriety. Then, of course, I got a call from the Sheriff’s main office in Brooksville, asking me to visit the Bledsoes, to make sure things were copacetic.

“I reached Bledsoe Island in late afternoon, around five. The weather was warm and muggy. The Bledsoes’ boat was tied up at their dock. I pulled alongside it and cut my engine. I put out an anchor line from my stern. Then I tied my bow line to a cleat on the dock. Things were quiet and peaceful. A blue jay sang and katydids buzzed. River water mumbled against my boat hull.

“I went to the front porch, to the screen door. Even before I knocked, I saw Screwy Louie. He slept on the porch sofa. He snored away. His mouth hung open, and a foot-long string of saliva dangled from his lower lip. Louie was covered in dried mud, in caked blood, too. The mess was even in his hair. The bandage had fallen from his injured foot, and I saw stitches and a Mercurochrome stain in the arch of the foot.

“I knocked two or three times. Then I called out Screwy Louie’s name. He blinked and then he looked around him like he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he looked at me.

“I said, ‘Louis, are you all right? Where are your folks?’

“It took him a minute before he responded. He sat up on the sofa and shook the cobwebs from his mind. Then he pointed with a thumb, to inside the house. He said, ‘They’re in the kitchen.’

“Of course, I knew something wasn’t right, ’cause of Screwy Louie’s appearance. So, I didn’t enter the house right away. I stood outside the screen door; I called out, ‘Henry? Sarah? You in there? It’s Gene Pettigrew from the Sheriff’s office.’

“No answer.

“Screwy Louie just sat there on the sofa, staring through the screens at the river like I wasn’t even there. I reached down and unsnapped my holster. Then I rested my hand on my pistol butt. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other; I said to Louie, ‘Mind if I come inside, so I can speak with your folks?’

“Louie didn’t answer me with words. He shook his head and kept staring at the river.

“I opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The stench coming off Louie was enough to make a goat vomit. I had to pinch my nostrils shut ’til I got past him. The door into the living room was open, and I went in there first. Nobody there. Then I checked the kitchen and, good-God-almighty, you should’ve seen the mess. The headless corpses of Henry and Sarah Bledsoe lay on the linoleum floor, in sticky pools of dried blood and vomit. Their legs and arms were splayed and their necks were nothing but gaping purple holes. The skin above their shoulders was jagged and torn, like someone had took a crosscut saw to them.

“I couldn’t help myself; I went to the sink and puked. It was awful. After I washed my vomit down the drain, I ran cold water over my face. Then I filled my mouth with water, over and over, swishing it around and spitting it out, ’til the bad taste on my tongue went away.

“I found kitchen towels in a drawer and I dried myself. Then I placed towels on both corpses, to cover their neck holes. When I did so, I stepped in the blood and vomit mixture on the floor; it stuck to my shoe soles. My shoes made a slurping noise, each time I took a step.”

Jesus, I may puke myself.

The old man takes a sip from his beer. Then he continues.

“Before I left the kitchen, I wiped off the bottoms of my shoes with a towel, ’cause I didn’t want to mess up Sarah Bledsoe’s living room carpet. Then I returned to the front porch. I found Screwy Louie as I’d left him: staring at the river. I put my hand back on my pistol butt; I said to him, ‘Louis, you’ve done something bad, haven’t you?’

“He nodded, then, but didn’t say anything.

“I asked him, ‘Where are your folks’ heads? What did you do with them?’

“He looked at me and said, ‘They’re in the cemetery.’

“I said, ‘You mean where you buried your animals?’

“He looked at me and nodded. Then he stared at the river again.

“I said to Screwy Louie, ‘I’ll have a look. In the meantime, you stay put. understand?’

“He nodded again, and kept on looking at the river.

“Sarah Beldsoe’s vegetable garden—formerly Louie’s cemetery—was located maybe fifty yards from the main house, sheltered by Sabal palms and red cedars. I walked across the Bledsoes’ St. Augustine lawn. Then I made my way through a thicket of Brazilian peppers. The peppers blocked my view of the garden, but even before I reached the clearing, I heard a buzzing, a chorus from hundreds of blue bottle flies.

“In the clearing, three heads sat atop poles Louie had driven into the ground. The pole in the middle was taller than the other two by a couple of feet. The heads on either side belonged to the Bledsoes, though I barely recognized them due, to the flies feasting on them, and disfigurements caused by Louie’s cypress knee.

“The head in the middle was Petey’s, of course. He was lord of the cemetery. And, I swear, I think that boar had a smile on his face.”

The old guy drains is beer glass and his Adam’s apple bobs. He sets down the glass and smacks his lips. Rising, he hitches his pants.  He says to me, “I’ll be on my way. Thanks for listening to my story.” Then he walks out the door, and into the rainy parking lot.

I sit there, shaking my head

* * *

A week after my chat with the old guy in the Chaz Bar, I visit the library at the St. Petersburg Times; I study reels of microfiche. It takes me a few hours of searching, but eventually, I find what I came for: an obituary for Louis Bledsoe. At age thirty-one, he had swallowed a chicken bone and suffocated. For many years before his death, he had resided in a hospital for the criminally insane, up in Chattahoochee.

According to the paper, Louie’s relatives had chosen to cremate his remains. Louie’s ashes would be scattered on Bledsoe Island, the Times reported, where his beloved friends lay at rest.

-The End-

* * * *

Okay, folks, that’s the entire story. I know it’s a gory tale, but I like it just the same. Let me know what you think about the story. If you liked it, tell me why. If you didn’t like it, tell me why. I like hearing from readers, as long as their comments are constructive.

Have a nice Saturday, friends.

Hi, friends and readers:

I’m a Gulf Coast boy; I always have been, except when I attended college and law school. There’s something about living near a large body of water that appeals to me. I always feel claustrophobic when I’m inland; I don’t know why. The barrier island I live on is not very big. We are bounded by the Gulf and the Intracoastal Waterway. Each street has six houses on either side; that’s how narrow the island is. Each morning, I walk two miles on the shore. It’s a great way to start the day. I don’t think I’d want to live anywhere else but here.

Is everyone enjoying my story, Screwy Louie? Here’s the third installment.

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

I sip from my beer and listen.

The old guy keeps on.

“On the day Screwy Louie was released from the hospital, both his folks went to Brooksville in their car, to pick him up. Louie=s foot was bandaged; he was on crutches.

“Sarah had prepared a picnic lunch—Cole slaw, roast pork sandwiches, and slices of peach pie. The Bledsoes stopped at a county park, where they dined under the shade of live oaks. Louie was hungry, and he ate three sandwiches. He told his mother the only thing he hadn’t liked about the hospital was the food, that he’d missed her cooking.

“Later, on their trip down the river in the Bledsoes’ boat, Screwy Louie asked his father to stop at a stand of cypress trees, so Louie could cut a knee for whittling. He’d be laid up a while, Louie figured, and he could pass the time, making a few creations. Louie wore his big knife on his belt—the one with the serrated edge—and it didn’t take him long to saw the knee loose. The knee was good-sized, three feet long and thick as one of Louie’s calves.

“Well, things went fine ’til the Bledsoes reached the island. Screwy Louie went ashore, hobbling on his crutches. Henry busied himself securing the boat to the dock, while Sarah carried Louie’s overnight bag into the house. Of course, right away, Louie made a bee line for the shed out back, to check on his creatures. He was all excited about seeing them and saying hello. But, of course, they weren’t there; the shed was empty.

“Screwy Louie was mystified at first. He went to Henry and asked where his snake and the other creatures were. Who had moved them, and to where?

“I guess Henry didn’t quite know how to tell Screwy Louie about setting the creatures loose, about the vegetable garden and all. He told Louie, ‘Speak with your mother about the situation; she’ll explain things.’

“Well, Screwy Louie stormed into the house on his crutches, where he confronted his mother in the kitchen. When he asked about his menagerie, Sarah told him, point blank, that she had released the creatures into the wild. It was where they belonged, she told Louie. Then she explained about the cemetery, how the family required fresh vegetables, and how she needed that fertile soil for her garden.

“Screwy Louie hung a few names on Sarah—nasty ones. Then he stomped out of the house and across the island, to the site of the former cemetery. When he saw what his parents had done—how the land was scraped clean, tilled and fenced—he let out a wail. He cursed and kicked down the chicken wire with his good foot. He crushed the tomato plants and kicked up the seeds his mother hand planted.

“When Henry saw what Screwy Louie was doing, Henry ran to Louie. Henry carried the freshly-cut cypress knee with him.  He told Louie to stop damaging the garden. What was done was done, Henry said. He handed Louie the cypress knee. He said, ‘Choose a spot on the front porch and get to whittling.’”

The old guy shakes his head and grimaces. Then he continues.

“Louie took that knee all right; he snatched it from Henry’s hands. Louie reared back and swung it—hard as he could—at his dad’s head.

“Henry Bledsoe was quick and limber for a guy his age. He managed to duck in time to avoid getting hit, but he knew better than to fight Screwy Louie for possession of that knee. He took off running instead. He hollered over his shoulder, ‘You cut that out, Son; you stop this foolishness right now. They were just a bunch of dead animals, anyways.’

“I guess Screwy Louie saw things differently than Henry. He dropped his crutches and proceeded to chase Henry around Bledsoe Island, swinging that cypress knee and cursing the old man. Bibb Larsen, a mullet fisherman, happened to pass the island in his boat, with a load of fish. Bibb saw Louie chasing Henry through the trees, and screaming like a crazy man. But Bibb didn’t stop; he knew better than to tangle with Screwy Louie, and he kept on going.

“Because of his injured foot, Screwy Louie had difficulty catching up to his father. Like I said, Henry was pretty spry. But after ten minutes of chase, Henry was winded. Then he tripped over a tree root; he went sprawling onto the ground. That’s when Louie caught up with him. Louie began pummeling Henry with the cypress knee and cursing Henry.”

I reach for my beer and drain it. I order another for me, and one for the old guy as well. He nods his thanks, and gulps the last of his existing beer. Then he belches and continues.

“About the time Henry hit the ground, Sarah became aware of what was going on. She hollered out the kitchen window, telling Screwy Louie to stop, to get a hold of himself. But, of course, Louie paid her no mind. He whacked his dad with that knee, over and over. Eventually, he struck Henry in the head, and it knocked Henry unconscious.

“Louie turned away from the old man. He limped toward the house, clutching that cypress knee. He entered through the back screen door, and I guess Sarah heard him ’cause she closed the kitchen door. She tried to block it with a chair, but her efforts were of little use. Louie put a shoulder to the door; he crashed it open and the chair went flying.

“Sarah cowered in a corner of the kitchen, in her apron and house dress.  She hollered at Louie to stop what he was doing, to leave her alone.

“Louie pointed the knee at her; he cried, ‘I want my cemetery back.’”

The old guy shakes his head again.

“Sarah Bledsoe was a hard-edged woman, and domineering as well. I guess she thought she could bully Screwy Louie just, like she always had Henry. She told Louie, ‘You can’t get your cemetery back.’ Then she told him why. She said she’d tossed all the markers into the river, and then she’d burned Oliver’s mausoleum and Oliver along with it. She said, ‘Fresh vegetables are more important than dead animals.’

“After she said those things, Louie demanded to know the whereabouts of Petey, the boar.

“Sarah pointed to the ice box. She explained how Henry had shot Petey and butchered the boar for meat, at her request. Sarah told Louie how Henry had thrown Petey’s carcass into the canal, out back of Bledsoe Island. ‘That hog’s finally serving a purpose,’ she told Screwy Louie. ‘You ate part of him for lunch today—three sandwiches, in fact.’”

“Well, Sarah should’ve known better than to say such things. Her remarks sent Screwy Louie into a rage. He fell upon her with that cypress knee, and he beat her bloody and senseless. He must’ve struck her twenty times or more—he crushed her skull, in fact—before a revived Henry Bledsoe burst into the kitchen with his rifle.

“Henry pointed the barrel at Louie; he told Louie to stop, to let go of that cypress knee.”

The old guy shakes his head again.

“Screwy Louie had other ideas. Instead of dropping the knee, he flung it at Henry. The knee struck Henry on the shoulder. By the time Henry recovered his balance, Louie had seized his knife—the nine-incher—from its scabbard. He slung the knife at his dad. The blade struck Henry in the chest; it dug deep and sliced clear through his heart. Henry dropped to the floor without once firing his gun. He was dead as Petey the boar.”

* * * *

Okay, friends, that’s all for today. Enjoy your Friday, wherever you might be.

Hi, friends and readers:

I live on a barrier island, on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Most nights, we have beautiful sunsets, similar to the one in today’s photo post. About twenty minutes before the sun dips below the horizon, my neighbors will gather at the shore. We all bring a beer or a glass of wine, and we watch the beauty unfold before us. It’s a nice way to begin an evening. I’m so lucky to live where I do.

Did everyone enjoy the first installment of my story, Screwy Louie? As promised, here’s the second:

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2009

The old guy says, “In a shed behind the main house, Screwy Louie kept other creatures: a six-foot king snake thick as a radiator hose, a rabbit with one ear chewed off, and a mockingbird that couldn’t fly any longer. They all lived in cages Louie had built with slats from abandoned crab traps, all held together with rope and wire.”

The old guy says, “Each creature had its own grave marker. If Louie had given the creature a name, he’d write the name on the marker, along with the creature’s date of death. Sometimes he’d write an epitaph, too, if the creature had been special to Louie. A marker might say, ‘Gus the gopher turtle, my friend to the end, September 12, 1975′, or something like that. Louie made the markers from all sorts of things: car license plates, flower pots, tree bark, clam shells, you name it.

I grunt and turn back toward the bar. I sip from my beer and finger the edge of my newspaper again.

Maybe I should go to Cecil’s and find a chair. I could read the news in peace.

“Now,” the old guy says, “there came a time when Screwy Louie had to be hospitalized. He was barefoot one day, and he stepped on an oyster shell and cut himself. The cut got infected real bad, so his folks took him to the county facility in Brooksville. He’d contracted blood poisoning; they kept him there a week ’til he recovered.

“The staff at the hospital loved Screwy Louie, and he loved them. The nurses brought him candy bars, sodas, and comic books. They brought him bits of wood from the hospital grounds. Louie had brought his knife with him, from home. He’d lie in bed and whittle shapes of creatures—squirrels and owls and such—and then he’d give these as gifts to the orderlies and nurses, to the cleaning lady and cafeteria cook. It was almost like a holiday for Screwy Louie, that week. When it came time for Louie to leave, the folks on his ward staged a going-away party, with a cake and everything. Louie cried like a baby, they told me later.

“But Screwy Louie’s happiness was short-lived. You see, Sarah Bledsoe had always kept a vegetable garden, when the Bledsoes lived in Brooksville. She grew rows of summer squash, pole beans, tomatoes, peas, and so forth. Ever since the Bledsoes had moved to the island, she=d had an urge to start a garden there.”

I take another gulp of beer, I drain the glass. I rise from my stool and hitch up my pants.

The old guy’s jaw sags. He says, “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I need to check on my boat,” I say.

He says, “It won’t take me ten minutes to finish the story; you’ve got to stay.”

I draw a breath; then I let it out slowly. I lower my ass to the stool and signal to the bartender for another beer.

* * * *

Okay, friends. I have much to do today, so I’ll close this post. Have a nice Thursday, everyone.

Hi, friends and readers:

Not everyone can afford to buy the books my stories appear in; I know that. So, every once in a while, I’ll post a free fiction piece on this site, for your reading pleasure.

Today, I’m posting the first installment of my short story, Screwy Louie. It’s an unorthodox piece, to say the least. It takes place  on the Chassahowitzka River, about seventy miles north of Tampa. I used to have  fishing camp up there. It’s a beautiful place, and very remote. Crazy things happen up there, from time to time.

Screwy Louie is a tale of madness and murder; it’s not for the sqeamish, that’s for certain. But I worked quite hard on the story, and I think it’s an entertaining piece. I’ll post the story in several installments, in the days ahead. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

* * * *

Screwy Louie, Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

The place is deserted, save for two gals seated at a table. They nurse glasses of beer. One gal has a black eye — a major shiner. The other appears to be missing her teeth. The juke box plays country western. I have a newspaper under my arm, and I choose a stool at the bar where I can read in peace. The bartender—a guy with long hair, tattoos on his forearms and a leather vest—asks me what I want.

I rattle my paper again; I turn to a new page and study more headlines.

Take a hint, pal.

“Most folks don’t know it,” the old guy says, “but we once had a double homicide, here on the river. It made news all over the state.”

I look up and stare into the old guy’s rheumy eyes. I shake my head and say, “I’ve fished the Chassahowitzka since I was a teenager. I never heard of such murders.”

The old guy shifts his weight on his stool. He says, “It’s true. I was present when the killer confessed; he told us everything in detail.”

I think to myself, This guy’s daft. I’ll bet he’s got a different story for every day of the month.

I turn back to my paper.

He says, “You know Bledsoe Island? It’s the one beyond the tree line, with the two-story house. You pass it on your way to the Gulf, it’s north of the channel.”

“I know the island,” I say.

“The Bledsoe family’s owned that property for generations, back to Civil War times. The home presently on the island was built in the twenties; it has survived several hurricanes. The lime rock used to build the chimney came from a quarry near Brooksville.”

I reach for my beer and take a sip. I’ve passed Bledsoe Island five hundred times. The house has a screened porch all the way across the front. There’s a flagpole in the yard, and when someone’s staying at the property, a Confederate battle flag flies. Like my fishing camp, Bledsoe Island can only be accessed by boat, a five-mile trip from the Chassahowitzka marina.

The old guy continues.

“The Bledsoes are a respected family in this county. Most of them live in Brooksville, of course, and they only use the island as a fish camp. But Henry Bledsoe, son of the man who built that house, decided he’d live there full-time with his wife, Sarah, and their boy.”

I think to myself: That would take some doing, living on that island year-round. No electricity, no indoor plumbing, hauling groceries by boat . . . .

“Henry had good reason to seek isolation. You see, his son, Louis, was mentally defective—retarded. People around here called him `Screwy Louie’, but not to his face. He was a big, good-looking kid, with flaming red hair and shoulders wider than a door frame. Once I saw him lift the front end of a Chevrolet, right off the pavement, all by himself.”

I fold my newspaper. Obviously, this guy’s not going to let me read. I’ll either have to leave the Chaz-Bar entirely, or sit here and listen to his yarn. I glance out the tavern’s plate glass window, into the parking lot. Rain stipples a mud puddle and wind stirs the fronds of a Sabal palm. I decide to stay put; I’ll watch bubbles rise in my beer glass.

The old guy keeps on.

“As a child, Screwy Louie attended a special school for retarded kids in Pasco County, but he’d already graduated when the Bledsoes moved to the island. He was eighteen years old by then. Of course, he wasn’t employed. People back then didn’t hire retards, not even to bag groceries at the supermarket.”

The old guy turns toward me. He rests his feet on his stool stretchers.

“Screwy Louie wasn’t dumb. He could perform basic tasks, like trimming trees and mowing the grass. And you could hold a conversation with him, as long as you kept it simple. But you didn’t ask Louie to add up a column of numbers, you didn’t ask him to name the capital of Texas.”

I nod, fingering the edge of my newspaper.

“Screwy Louie was a fine whittler. He’d carve all sorts of things from cypress knees and oak limbs, from pine knots—animals, birds and fish of all types—and he’d sell these to the public through Imogene, a woman who ran the bait shop at the marina back then. She always displayed a few of Louie’s creations on a shelf behind the register.

“Screwy Louie owned several knives he used in his whittling, including one with a nine-inch serrated blade; he kept it in a leather scabbard attached to his belt. He wore that knife everywhere he went so, if he saw a section of wood suitable for whittling, he could cut it off a tree and take it home with him.

“Screwy Louie had a way with creatures, too—birds and mammals and so forth. Every time I’d visit Bledsoe Island on my patrols, Louie would have a pelican in a cage with a splint on its wing or a gopher turtle who’d lost a leg to a gator. Or a raccoon bit by a snake. Louie would nurse them back to health, as best he could, and he was good at it, really. Whenever I came upon an injured creature, I’d drop it off at the Bledsoes, ’cause I knew it would receive proper care.”

The old guy lifts his beer and takes a sip, just enough to moisten his lips.

I think to myself, I’ll bet he can make that beer last three hours.

The old guy swallows. Then he keeps on.

* * * *

Okay, readers, that’s the first installment of Screwy Louie. I’ll post another tomorrow. In the meantime, have a nice Wednesday.

Hi, friends and readers:

I rose early this morning, for my two-mile walk on the beach, followed by a brief swim in the Gulf. It’s beautiful down there today, as always. But it’s especially nice right now, as our loggerhead sea turtles are creating their nests in the sand, near the dunes. It’s their time of year to do this. People who live on the island protect the nests with barriers, so the nests don’t get stepped on or otherwise molested. I counted seven nests this morning, during my walk.

We even have special streetlights on the street fronting the Gulf. The lights are shielded from the beach. That way, when the baby turtles hatch (always at night when the moon is up over the Gulf), they won’t get confused about which direction to go, to reach the water.

Our little island is heavily populated, and I think it’s important to be considerate of the birds, fish, and sea creatures we share this place with. Protecting sea turtle nests is a good example of “peaceful coexistence”, I think.

Have a nice Tuesday, all.

Hi, friends and readers:

In february 2006, I visited Sydney, Australia, an amazing place. I took a sailing cruise with a group of backpackers, all under 25 years old. I was definitely the grandpa of the passengers, but I had a great time.

A young man on board had come to Australia from Vancouver, his name was Dally. His parents named him after the character, Dallas, in S. E. Hinton’s novel, The Outsiders.

Dally brought his guitar with him and, every night during the cruise, we played and sang together. He was a very nice young man; he told me Vancouver is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Tonight’s photo post depicts Vancouver in winter time. Pretty, eh?

Why haven’t I been there? I’ve visited Victoria, BC, in Canada. But I suspect Vancouver’s an entirely different experience.

It’s been a long day for me: writing, YMCA workout and swim, and then an hour at the driving range, practicing my golf swing. Will I ever master the sport? Have a nice Monday night, friends.

Hi, friends and readers:

Good for you, Barack. It took some guts for him to take this stand. But he’s a smart guy; he sees the writing on the wall. Of course, Neanderthal states like my own — Florida, oh, Florida — will fight gay marriage to the death. But much of the country is coming around.

Look: remember “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”, in the U. S. military? It died last year. Now, gay men and lesbians can serve without hiding their sexual orientation. The right wingers predicted chaos in the military, should this happen. But what happened? Nothing. Nada. People get along well when they can be themselves, don’t they?

Have a nice Sunday evening, friends.

Hi, friends and readers:

I earned my undergraduate degree in journalism. Then I earned a law degree. Both professions involve a great deal of writing, but I wouldn’t call it creative writing. Journalists records events of the day. Lawyers create contracts or argue points of law in briefs filed with the court.

Creative writing comes from within the author’s heart and mind. And it’s a curious process. People ask me, “Where do your ideas from stories come from?” The answer is, “I’m not really sure.”

Publishers will often contact me; they’ll ask, “Will you write a story about a gay skateboarder?” or “Will you write a story about love between a living human and the spirit of a dead person?” But most of my stories come from inside my head. I’ll ask myself, “What if were a successful lawyer with a drug problem? What if I were busted for drug possession? What if I lost my job and my marriage? What if I had to move back to the seedy beach town I grew up? And what if my socially inept, teenage son, came to live with me in my crummy apartment? How would I rebuild my life? What obstacles would I face?”

I address all those questions in a book I just completed. It’s titled Dodging a Pearl, and I’m in the process of querying literary agents, seeking representation for the novel. The book is 115,000 words — a full length novel. The print version would be about 400 pages. It represents many hours of labor, and many nights of pondering each question raised in the book, while I’m walking the beach or painting a room in my house.

I don’t “outline” my stories and novels. I’m what E. L. Doctorow calls a “headlights” writer. I only write as far as my literary headlights shine — pretty much in the moment, with only a vague idea of where the story is going. Each event in a story or novel should result from earlier events in the  story, or from “backstory” — event occurring before the story began, which the writer reveals as the story unfolds.

I’m not saying some writers shouldn’t outline. But it doesn’t work for me. The creative side of my brain doesn’t work that way.

I’m having a fine weekend. Last night, my partner and I attended a live stage production of The Rocky Horror Show, in a city park on the Tampa Bay waterfront. I’d seen the film, of course, but I’d never seen the play. The music was great, the singing pretty amazing. A crowd of 1500 sat on blankets, eating and drinking wine. A nice breeze blew, and it turned out to be a perfect evening. My partner even learned how to dance the Time Warp. What could be better?

Have a nice Saturday night, friends.

Hi, friends and readers:

In yesterday’s post, I mentioned a novel I’ve been editing the past couple of months. Within the next few days, I’ll finish the editing process, and then I’ll send it off to a publishing house I think is right for the project.

Finishing a full-length novel is a unique and thrilling experience, even for the most seasoned writer. For months, or even years, a writer struggles to create a story, with unique settings and meaningful characters. Scenes are written and re-written, over and over. Sentences and paragraphs are restructured. Words are removed and replaced. Punctuation is revised to improve the flow of words. Then, finally, it’s done. The book is complete, and now it’s time to send it off into the world.

I remember driving my youngest son to his first day of school. We were both nervous and apprehensive. Would he find friends? Would his teacher like him? Would he do well with his spelling and reading?

I feel the same way about the books and stories I write. It’s been five years since I had my first story published, but I’m still nervous every time I submit one of my writings to a publisher. I don’t think that will ever change, and that’s okay. Fear of rejection is part of the writing process.

Have a nice Friday, friends.

Hi, friends and readers:

We’re home from our surfing trip, which didn’t involve much surfing, due to lack of waves. Surfing’s not like most sports: tennis, swimming, basketball or baseball. You don’t just hit a switch, and then have waves appear. In surfing, nature calls the shots. When waves show up, you drop everything and go, because they might not be there tomorrow. Sadly, because we live on the west coast of Florida, we can’t just “drop everything” and hit the water. We have to pack up, drive 2-1/2 hours, get a room and then surf.

When we left yesterday, the surf report said we’d have waves, but the ocean was virtually flat, Tuesday afternoon, all day Wednesday, and again this morning. So, we packed up and drove home. Now, we’re relaxing and getting ready to ride our bikes around the island we live on. Afterward, we’ll take a swim at a private membership facility we belong to, just down the street. Rough life, eh? I’m a lucky guy, and I know it. Believe me: I know it.

I’m about to complete final edits on my new Young Adult novel, Tyler Buckspan, about a young man growing up in Cassadaga, FL during the mid-1960s. Cassadaga is where “mediums” ply their trade in this state. They tell fortunes, hold seances, and talk to the dead. The main character in my book, Tyler, is a fifteen-year-old who is just starting high school. I’ll talk about it more, in the weeks ahead. I’ll be quite busy, wrapping things up over the next few days, and submitting the project to one of my publishing houses.

Have a great Thursday, everyone.