BETSY LERNER'S WITTY ADVICE TO WRITERS

Besides being a top notch writer, Betsy has a sense of humor. She soon had me laughing with her straight shooter commentary. Although, as I delved deeper into "The Forest for the Trees," I thought, you're supposed to be mentally unstable in some form to be a writer, willing to cut off body parts to draw attention to yourself and your book was my take. Her vast experience led me to believe she worked in a mental institution, but I know better. Now, I can offer her a reprieve from the everyday rigors for I am as normal as they come, imagine the possiblilties. Enjoyed the book and the wit it took to make the subject points sink in.

TIM ON THE BEACH WITH HIS NEPHEWS

UNBRIDLED PASSION

The story begins the day I saw her. I knew I had to have her. And it's true what they say, love knocked me off my feet and left me breathless, but so did a swift kick to the gut from one of her well placed hooves. As I lay there, hurt and helpless, I knew I had to get right back up, because there were still chores that had to be done, she's not going to feed herself or clean her own stall.

WHO SAID ALL THE GOOD ONES ARE TAKEN?

Friends tell you not to settle, that if you wait long enough, Mr. Right will come along. But what if he doesn't? Feeling a little desperate, you give online dating a try. After all, the Internet should be able to fix you up with someone who shares the same interests as you, (or at least claims to for the sole purpose of getting laid.) Meanwhile, you have hit it off with one guy in particular and have even spoken over the phone. By now, you're picturing the perfect date, so you decide to meet in person. Instead of meeting you halfway, he asks you to drive across the state because his car is in the shop. At this point, you would drive across the country if you had to. Full of wonderful expectations, you arrive at the restaurant where he is waiting for you. Judging by the expression on his face, he is rather pleased with your appearance. You, on the other hand, are a little put off because his online photo must have been taken several years back, when he still had all of his teeth, (a deal breaker for sure.) You order the cheapest thing on the menu so as not to feel obligated. Suddenly, the two of you find yourselves at a loss for words, (hard to believe since you never ran out of topics in your e-mails back and forth to one another.) When it's time to go, he walks you to your car. You try to put as much distance between him as you can by jumping in your car and closing the door. You do, however, make the mistake of rolling your window down. This gives him  the opportunity he's looking for. He bends over and leans into you for the "goodnight kiss." You back away and begin coughing and continue coughing when he asks you if he can call you again. You tell him no and then explain to him why you can't give him a ride home either.  

A PRIVATE MATTER

One of my female friends from high school and her husband were in the woods cutting firewood when Sandy, (not her real name) had to relieve herself. After alertly surveying the area around her, she chose what she thought to be the perfect spot. Feeling completely at ease, she pulled down her pants and squatted down like a wormy dog dragging its butt. It was at that moment when she realized she wasn't alone. A man in a deer stand peered down from above her. "I have never been so embarassed in my entire life," Sandy later told me, "but then, the man let one rip. When the ensuing noise made it over to where my husband was, he thought it was me, so he belted out, "She's a lady. Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, she's a lady, and the lady is mine!" "At which point, I pulled up my pants and told my husband we were leaving. I've never been back to those woods since."  

THE ONE FINGER SALUTE

Hey you, the guy in the car blasting along at eighty miles an hour in a drug induced stupor with your muffler dragging behind, why are you giving me the finger? If only you knew about the large array of rules and regulations a truck driver must strickly adhere to, maybe then you wouldn't be so rude. Our license now cost $300.00 or more by the time we pay for a physical, fingerprints, drug test, and all the special endorsements required to be a professional driver. The amount of hours we work, or the hours we can work are regulated by the federal government. Our blood acohol content level is so low that I fear antibacterial soap will send it over the limit. The latest rules now fine the driver both monetarily and with points on our license for minor infractions involving the conditions of our equipment. Companies who run junk are no longer held responsible for their own equipment, sounds fair, doesn't it? So, the next time you see me on the road, go ahead and wave...but please...use all five of your fingers.

 

BLOGGED DOWN

This blog thing is akin to sitting atop a wild bronc, in that, my pageviews have seen their fair share of ups and downs. When I first started blogging I tended to be a little longwinded. Okay, so this is my first rodeo, but I didn't want anyone to think I was lazy. From now on, I'll keep it short and sweet.   Figuratively speaking, however, it should take you at least eight seconds to read it.

MATRIARCH

Every herd has a boss mare, even a herd of two. My wife, Diana, is the boss of our household. That's why the other day when our neighbor asked me if he could have some ash trees off of our property, I told him, "You'll have to ask Diana, she's the boss." The woman sitting next to me said, "That's the way it should be." And I suppose it is. Things just seem to run smoother when there's only one boss.

MORE BANG FOR YOUR BUCK

Ah yeah, there's nothing like that adrenalin feeling I experience in the spring. It's a sensation of flying, like a rag doll, through the air. The turbulence before take off. The picth of trajectory before gravity pulls me back in. The rough landing when I hit my head. And then...the audible moan upon impact, "Ouch, I hate riding these horses after they haven't been ridden all winter!"

TIME TO TWEET

Really, is this how people are talking now? Seems like a foreign language to me, a cross between Tweety Bird and Trick or Treat. Even so, next week, I'll be on twitter.

LOVE LETTERS

Do men still send love letters through the mail, or are all the Don Juan's behind bars these days? You know the guys I'm talking about, the ones who have all the time in the world to write the kind of gushy stuff that every woman wants to hear. Yep, they sure don't seem to have any problem getting in touch with their feelings. But, I do. I have never written a love letter in my entire life. I'm not sure my wife, Diana, would know what to do if I did. But still, she understands how I feel about her. I don't have to express it in writing. I show her every time I go to work and put in a twelve hour day, or when I spend my weekends building fences and fetching water for her horses. She knows. Why else would she put up with me for thirty-three years?

FORBIDDEN

For my 10th birthday, I got a BB gun. Before I even had a chance to shoot it off, I was told by my mother that shooting animals was forbidden. All the while, I envisioned waving the rifle around and hitting moving targets. I couldn't wait to get outside and try it out. I lined up beer cans and plastic army men, and fired away at them one-by-one. The neighbor's tire swing made a nice target, as well as a couple of ornaments that adorned his backyard. But, as the days wore on, I became bored. I suppose it was instinct more than anything else that made me grip the rifle and hold it straight up when a robin flew over my head. I didn't think I would ever hit something moving so quickly. Still, I closed one eye, aimed, pulled the trigger and nailed it. The bird fell right in front of the kitchen window and proceeded to flop around wildly. To my horror, my mother was at the kitchen sink doing dishes. I had to decide whether to get the bird out of her view or run in the opposite direction. I dropped down on my hands and knees, crept along the side of the house, reached and snatched it up pronto. The incident went unreported. But, from that day forward, I decided to travel a little further from the house before bagging anymore birds.



My nephew refused to smile and the pony laid her ears back, so I muttered, "Just take the picture!"

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

During my childhood, I spent my summers in Ironton, Michigan, skipping rocks across the smooth surface of the lake, or watching the steady stream of boats passing through the channel day after day. The year I turned eleven, I met Craig, one of my best friends. He and I would always wander down to where the Ironton ferry was docked. A small flat bottom ferry guided by cables traversed the water between Ironton on the west shore and Peninsula Road on the east. It carried a maximum of four cars across the narrow gap in the lake which separated the south arm of Lake Charlevoix from the main body. A cramped cabin in the center of the flat deck provided shelter for the operator. The Spartan interior was heated by an oil fired stove that barely staved off the cold when it ran right. A stout column rose from the floor with a mere three gauges to monitor the engine. In front of that were two steel control levers, one for each propeller, connected directly to the shafts under the floor of the cabin. Besides a small metal stool and a cash box, this was the captain's headquarters. The antiquated, three cylinder diesel engines protruded through the floor and required constant tinkering to keep it running. Three pistons thumped loudly producing perfect smoke rings out the exhaust pipe that stuck out above the roof. Noisy, but efficient, the ferry plodded back and forth, day after day, nine months of the year. Befriending the different captains was a delicate process. Each of the three held very different beliefs of their position as captain. One was a grump who wanted to charge a fee for riding his precious ferry. The second would let my friend and I ride as much as we wanted. At times, he even let us into the tiny cabin to watch the intricate working of his inner kingdom. The the third was, by far, our favorite. Captain Jim would let us help out by operating the gates to let the cars on and off the deck. Eventually, this morphed into us actually operating all the controls and collecting the fees. Most often, it was during the late shift when Captain Jim would relinquish control. Craig and I would pride ourselves on making a perfect, bump free landing into the dock. On a beautiful, clear night as we chugged towards the dock on the final trip of the evening, Craig and I screwed up. We had been running the boat most of the night while Captain Jim collected the cash and chatted with his passengers. He had gone into the cabin and started counting the proceeds from his shift. This placed him at the control pedestal, so Craig and I assumed the Captain was going to dock the ferry. I lost track of Craig as I stood in the doorway of the cabin enjoying the summer breeze and the rhythm of the old engine. Glancing towards the dock, now only fifty feet away, I realized we were at full speed ahead. I shouted at Captain Jim...but it was too late.

FEELING VULNERABLE ANYONE?

The best part about being a writer is knowing that someone likes what you've written. But, there's a certain amount of vulnerability writers feel when we try to get feedback. And let me tell you, it's never easy. We could ask a friend or family member to read our work, but chances are, they'll just tell us what they think we want to hear, since they're so supportive and all. And, soliciting the advice of a complete stranger is certainly out of the question, or is it? It's not as hard as you might think if you just follow a few simple suggestions. The secret is to never give them the opportunity to say, "No." Just remember, you have to sneak up on them, like a mountain lion stalking it's prey. I find this works best when they have their heads down trying to concentrate on their work. Next, try to make it as uncomfortable for them as you can, "Um...I mean um...would you like to read my manuscript?" I promise you - they'll have a hard time saying, "No." 

GRUMPY'S PROFILE

The name Grumpy was an old CB handle I used back in the days before the invention of cell phones. Nowadays, us truckers use Blue tooth, because we can't afford the $10.000.00 fine if we're caught using our phones. By now, you've guessed my occupation as a truck driver...and wannabe writer. Hobbies, if I had time for them: fishing, golfing, driving my 1970 SX Cutlass (aka Gutless) and relaxing on the beach with family. Sounds like a dating site, doesn't it? Except that I'm happily married, with a herd of horses, a pack of dogs and two cats. What do I hope to accomplish with my writing? To tell stories that trigger emotion and leaves my readers wanting more. How's that working out so far? Talk about frustrated. I was getting a little peeved...but then...slowly, my persistence paid off. To the point where my readership doubled overnight. Literally, the number of visitors to my site went from 1 to 2 in one day. But, I hung in there and was rewarded when I wrote "The Stray Cat." Everyone loved it. Will I continue to write? Yes, as long as I have an audience, I plan on being here everyday when they show up.  



BROOK

                         FACEBOOK                                                

I was already working 60 hours a week and had my hands full with my Blog when my wife called me to ask me to stop by the library and fill out my profile on Facebook. Now, I am as compassionate as the next guy, but I told her, "I don't have time for that tonight." But, she insisted that I stop and look at the account since she had recently found a woman to help her set the account up... And, this woman had been gracious enough to be my first friend. (Everyone see where I'm going with this?) Eventually, I got the account opened, and was surprised to see all these faces (about 50 of them) wanting to be my friend.
All I had to do was mark a box that said, "Add a friend," which is what I did. I checked all 50 boxes in 5 mintutes flat. The next time Diana ran into the woman, she wasn't very happy, "Some of my friends have contacted me to complain that your husband is harassing them. I tried to tell them that he is new at this," she said, "that he doesn't know Facebook is just for family and friends, but now they don't want anything to do with me."  "Sorry." Diana told her, "But, half of the people replied back accepting his request." I tried to apologize, via e-mail, but Facebook blocked me. It seems one woman was so mad, she reported me to the Facebook police. Since that time, I'm back on good terms with Facebook and haven't added any new people to my account - unless I know them.                                     



KICKING BACK WITH FRIENDS ON BLOG AND FACEBOOK

THE STRAY CAT



CODY

                                                                        

GIVING IN TO TEMPTATION

I stared longingly at the succulent fruit cup, the only thing that remained in the lunch my wife had packed for me. Opening one of these plastic containers on a flat surface without sloshing the syrupy juices around could be a challenge. Imagine how difficult it would be to open one while driving a semi and hitting a rough patch in the road. Even with that struggle - I figured I'd give it a try. I held the cup in my driving hand, careful not to squeeze it too hard. But, because they put so much liquid in the container, I just know that, inevitably...most of it will end up in my lap. Slowly, I peel back the plastic cover without spilling a drop. It was that moment when I realized it was a fruit cup of Jello. 

PORN SITE?

Cody the Wild Stallion wasn't meant to sound like a porn site. Thinking back on it, though, I suppose it does. Cody refers to a stallion my wife brought home one day. He never wanted anything to do with me and I returned the favor. Turns out...he was quite a character, and became the leading story in my book. Some woman eventually bought Cody. She thought he was the finest horse she'd ever seen. Good luck with that.

SECRET SERVICE MEN PINCH PENNIES

I was watching the news last night, forget which network was on, but I swear I heard the anchorman say that a dispute broke out after several Secret Service Men refused to pay for the services of one prostitute. I remember thinking, "these poor men, they don't get paid enough if they have to pool their money together and share a lady for the evening."  

BETSY LERNER / VIVIAN SWIFT

I was in the library the other day researching how to write a query letter when I stumbled upon Vivian Swift's blog. Vivian suggested Betsy Lerner's book, "The Forest For the Trees" and mentioned how one could get it at their library. I checked with the librarian to see if she could order a copy for me. She punched the information into the computer, wrote down some numbers and handed me the slip of paper. "You have it here?" I said surprised. "Yes." was all she said and then sent me on my way. I searched and searched the book shelves, but couldn't find it. Concentrating on the task at hand, I didn't hear her when she walked up behind me, cat like, and scared the crap out of me, "Are you finding it okay?" She asked.  When my heart started beating again, I answered her, "No, I'm not."  "I was wondering what was taking you so long." She said with no humor. "Well, let's see," she said looking over her glasses, "808.2 should be right here next to 808.1."  "808.2." I said. "You wrote down 802.2." And then I enthusiastically offered the piece of paper she had given me as proof. I should have known better than to challenge her expertise - because I'm almost cetain that she was a teacher prior to becoming a librarian. She shot me a fierce look. Felt like I was headed straight for the principle's office. She turned and headed back to her desk. Meanwhile, my phone rang. Since the library has a no phone policy, I took the call in the back where no one could hear me. It was my wife, Diana, "Did you find anything on query letters?" She asked.  "Yes, I did. Besty Lerner has a book on the subject."  "Betsy Lerner!" my wife screamed so loud that all the patrons turned and looked in my direction. "Can you ask the library to order a copy?"  "I already asked about the book and was told that they already had it. It must be out because it wasn't on the shelf."  "Can you tell them to put it on hold for you?"  Bypassing the first librarian, I spoke with another librarian to see if someone had the book out. She deferred back to the first librarian. While I waited, I sat back down at my computer to check out Betsy's blog and discovered she had a posting about screaming. I also have a posting about screaming on my blog. Worried that she would think I swiped her work, I checked the date of my posting. Whew! My posting is April 2nd...hers is April 3rd. The first librarian retruned to tell me that the book was missing and that they had ordered a new copy. She then told me to check back in a couple of days. I could just imagine the look on my wife's face when I arrived home empty handed. Even more astonishing would be the look she gave me when I told her she'd be the one going back for the book.