A New Rabbit in Red Introduction!

At my All Hallow’s Read event last week, I did an activity with the audience. They got to rewrite the introduction to Rabbit in Red!

It’s a writing game I like to play. I wrote the first sentence of the book on a piece of paper, then pass the paper around the room. Everyone adds a sentence. Here’s the catch though: We fold the paper so each person only sees the last sentence written, and not the entire thing. I have a lot of fun playing these games.

So for your entertainment, here is the NEW introduction to Rabbit in Red! Thanks, All Hallow’s Read crew. Again, the first line is the real first line from my book. Each line after that was written by someone else. Enjoy!

Bill Wise hunted the rabbit in red, and his best friend Jaime followed.

The rabbit flashed through the forest as fast as it could.

But Bill was faster; furthermore, he caught the rabbit before it climbed the tree.

As the soft light of dusk shone through the withered branches of the tree, the rabbit spoke, “Take me, wise man.”

The branches of the tree cracked, the rabbit’s gaze unwavering as I sat in silence. The rabbit continued. “The time draws near.”

The waiting was almost impossible. What was only a minute or two seemed like hours.

He decided it would be best since it was Valentine’s Day to get her flowers.

He bought the biggest bouquet he could find and hoped she was going to love it.

She did love it. And she waited in anticipation of what was to come next.

“Ring, ring, ring, ring.” Her cell phone blared and she jumped out of her seat, dropping her fruit drink on her lap. 

“Why does this always happen?” She yelled out loud. “Why? Honestly, this stains my clothes and makes me, like, look ugly!”

The second person smirked sarcastically. “I don’t know . . . I think it suits you.”

A soft look around. “Fits you smug, like a coffin in the ground.”

It slowly began to rain, the sounds of cars passing was sparse, the town was quiet. Calm, but eerie.

The temperature began to drop, freezing the tiny drops as they fell.

The drops of water glinted, reminding me how cold I felt inside. I smiled, saying, “But it’s not over yet, is it?”

And they all lived happily ever after. (Or did they?)

WOW. How about the shift in the tale at that Valentine’s Day line? What’s your favorite line? Maybe I’ll have to work some of this in to the next book!

Thanks for reading. You can get Rabbit in Red, print or digital, here. Be sure to check out my website for more options and lots of other cool stuff, and follow me on Facebook!

Summer Then, Summer Now

Often before I begin a full day of writing, I like to do a warm-up. Today as I got ready to dive deeper into book two of my Rabbit in Red series, I took some time for a little free-writing. I thought about summer in my past and summer today. Here's what I wrote. I hope you enjoy.

Remember sunflowers as big as gods or devils?

I’d strain my neck to find their centers,

Envisioning a unique universe in each petal.

The sun would wake us up without complaint.

Daily adventures awaiting on grass and concrete,

Never fearing the heat would make us faint.

No lawn was too small to host a world series.

No house too little to be a big haunted mystery.

Life was a delirious string of games and stories.

Ice cream truck music turned us into sprinters.

And boy could we run, all day long, never tiring.

These were the rewards of suffering long winters.

The smallest hills beat the best roller coasters.

All you needed was a fast bike and a best friend.

It’s our imagination that brings us all closer.

Kool-Aid, Super Soakers, and snow cones:

We didn’t need phones or apps to be happy,

Just a creek where we could toss some stones.

Maybe it would have been fun to have today’s toys,

But I’m glad I remember dad’s holler and not some text.

All of today’s noise distracts us from such simple joys.

Sometimes I wish I had taken more pictures, sure.

I spent more time looking up instead of looking down.

Too busy living in the moment but those memories still endure.

These worlds from our childhood can inspire others,

They become stories on paper or tales told to children.

Life around us—not on a screen—is what we discovered.

Of course, I loved my video games and movies too,

But I’m glad I saved those for rainy days and late nights.

My dirty hands and sunburned face had better things to do.

Naturally every generation will glorify its past,

And hang onto nostalgia to sweeten present moments.

It’s because looking back we know life moves too fast.

But I wouldn’t trade in my childhood summers

For any of today’s technological games and wonders.

The HD of nature is and will always be a brighter color.

As a new summer begins, let us remember the little things,

That a bike ride or a reading a book under a tree,

Stimulates the mind as flowers are fueled by spring.

I prefer not to look down but to look up at the world near and far,

To see all of its beauty, to be inspired by possibilities.

I’d rather trip and fall than ever know I missed a shooting star.

We can reach the suns, the stars, the moons, and the oceans.

We can experience the infinite depths of their power.

But only if we live and walk with our eyes up and minds open.

________________________________________________

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Love is like a forest fire

I found the following in my college creative writing journal, from many years ago, the spring of 2000. I'm trying to remember what I thought, felt, and experienced when I wrote the following.

Love is like a forest fire

It only takes a spark

And your whole world goes up in flames.

Sounds good, right?
You’ve missed the point.

Everything burns.

You don’t expect much from a spark.

But when it takes over your world,

You demand it give to you what you gave to it.

Love is fire.

It strengthens as it destroys.

It requires your air to survive.

It takes from you, one branch at a time,

And it can be great,

If it lends you equal support.

Or it can tear you down,

One limb at a time,

A mountain of ash that was once a great forest of trees.

Sting, a poem

Lots of metaphors here need to be strengthened. If you've been following my blog, you know a lot of this is my writing practice, a place to think and create. Here's a little poem I played with for about fifteen minutes. Not nearly enough time to make something great, but I'm keeping up with my goal of writing once a day. Have comments for strengthening the metaphors and clarifying the image? Share if you wish. But be kind. It's a lot easier to write about a random thought or insight in fifteen minutes than it is to construct a poem! This will be something I'd like to return to later and revise.

Sharp and surprising, that stinger.

The bee is gone before the pain sets in.

Rubbing my hand, there’s nothing to see

But a red mark and inflamed skin.

Where did it come from?

The villain is gone now, not a scent in the air.

I wonder about pain. I wonder about beauty.

I wonder about flowers and bees and perfect harmony.

There is beauty all around.

Look at that butterfly by the flower.

There is pain all around.

Look at the bruise on my hand.

Memories are like this.

A shock to the system from out of the blue.

One moment a smile. One memory a tear.

Dangerous hives bring sweet honey.

Life will bring you pleasure and pain.

There is no day without night, no spring without rain.

And joy can bring a powerful sting.

Even the most beautiful of days have bruises.

Who am I? Who are you?

I sit down during the summer of my life and the fall of the year to ask, “Who am I?”

We all need to consider the big questions from time to time.  The who, the why, the how.  We need to know who we are, what the world is, who others are.  We need to know about the big guy upstairs and little guys surrounding us.  Essentially, who we are, who I am, is somewhat dependent on those answers.

I am made of elements, atoms, cells, those science things.  I will die and someday return those elements to the earth as I decompose.  The earth will swallow me whole, and a part of me may appear in a rose, a dandelion, be eaten by a raven, a cow, and maybe pop up in a happy meal.  That’s kinda weird, but kinda true.  One way or another, we will return to the earth.  We are part of something bigger.

But who am I?  What makes me unique beyond those points?

I fear at 35 that I sometimes forget the face of my younger selves.  Who was I when I was 4?  7?  17?  21?  Who I am is who I was . . . time is a lazy river that never ends, and I am the part of that lazy river from when I was born up until now.

I try to remember what the child Joe felt.  I want to look him in the eyes and ask him questions about the world.  I wonder how he’d answer.  I want to know what the puberty Joe felt.  I want to remember his hormones, his humors, his fears. 

Sometimes I feel that I am on top of the world; sometimes I feel that the world is on top of me.  Sometimes I yell with enthusiasm; sometimes I can barely breathe at all.  But I don’t think this is unusual.  It just . . . is.  There are days where I can accomplish anything.  There are days where the actions of the world sadden me to a point where I don’t want to get out of bed.  Thank God for coffee.

I am inspired and passionate. 

I am my family.  I have the fire of my grandmother, the fire that caused her to hit my four year old head with a telephone receiver because I first did that to her.  I have the laziness of a hard-working grandfather (RIP) .  He worked his bones dry and desired nothing but comfort and relaxation in the winter of his life.  I am my father (RIP)—his jumbled brain and maniac thoughts.  I am my mother—empathetic and sensitive but coated with a turtle shell that grows harder to defend against life’s blows.  I always want to feel, always want that passion, and the few times I’ve lost it, the few times it began to slip away, I grew cold and frightened.  My passion and fire are everything.

I am the kindergartner who threw racecars into other kids’ building blocks to destroy their castles. 

I am the 7^th grader who almost failed science because I fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and she had to sit right next to me.

I am the 8^th grader whose best friend did the worst thing a friend could do another.

I am the 9^th grader who pretended to be sick so that I could stay up late and finish a horror novel.

I am the 10^th grader who encountered great evil and was surrounded by a gang of kids violently swinging baseball bats.  I am he who said I would learn how to not be afraid.

I am the 11^th grader who had his self-esteem smashed by two teachers, teachers he respected, teachers who hated the youth they had lost.  I am he who vowed never to let young people encounter the wrath of such demons, at least not in my classroom.

I am the 12^th grader who rarely showed up for school because I lost enthusiasm for learning.

I am the college student who vowed his life would mean something.  I am he who decided to devote my energy to others, who found passion, meaning and inspiration all around him: some wonderful professors, amazing friends, and incredible experiences.

I have known true love.  I have experienced the loss of people close to me.  I have had a gun pointed at me head and thought I would surely die. 

Now, thirty-five years later I am just getting used to being called “Professor.” It feels good.  No, it feels great.  But we all wear many masks; we all have many faces.  These are but a few.

I am a little of all that surrounds me.  I am you, and you are me too. 

                                                                                      

A Halloween Poem

I saw a spider on the door

As I reached for the knob.

It spun its web, trapped my hand,

And turned it into one pink blob.

I ran to the back door.

Only to be greeted by an army of wasps.

They flapped by my shoulder,

Reminding me that nature is boss.

I stared at an empty box

Left in my living room.

And then it opened on its own.

Its flaps-- like a ghostly flower-- bloomed.

Spiders, wasps, and ghosts in boxes

All of this is true.

To cleanse myself from evil.

I jumped in the shower with you.

Then my lover said, "come to bed."

So I crept into the sheets.

But a clown’s face greeted me

With teeth as bloody as beets.

I screamed when It bit me,

And the spider cast a web.

Then the wasp formed a nest

And the clown in my bed said:

"Happy, happy Halloween

I hope you like my friends

We’ll be here with you

Until the very end!"

A smiling jack-o-lantern

Sat on the window sill.

And with blood running from my face,

I knew that I was so very ill.

It was Halloween, all right,

Our greatest fears had come to be.

I had spiders, wasps, and clowns

Horror was all I could see.

But I laughed as blood soaked the sheets
And told them they were fools.

You’re messing with the wrong man.

I break all of Halloween’s rules.

And so I became the horror

That walked down the street,

To torment and freak
All of those who were meek.

On this night, our fears came true.

Do you have strength to fight them?

Because on one night, you will see

The evil only you can imagine.

Follow Joe on Facebook, and pick up a copy of Rabbit in Red, his horror novel (the first in a trilogy!) HERE! 

 

Back to school

A silly little poem I wrote and shared on Facebook the day before school started this year, Aug 17, 2014.

Another summer come and gone.

Reflecting on a Sunday evening,

Students and teachers alike

Hope for a school year with meaning.

I’ve set my coffee maker timer.

And I’m ready to motivate.

I hope by 9:00 a.m.

That I’m ready to communicate.

It’s year 14 for me
And I want it to be fun.
But I swear if a cell phone goes off,
That kid better run.

I’m excited to lecture, excited to write.
Will it be the same come December?
Or will Christmas come early
And turn me into a Grinch by November?

Will I change the world?
Will I be clever?
Will I at least get a red hot chili pepper
On Rate my Professor?

I hope for at least some,
My class makes a difference.
I’m sure for at least one,
We’ll be happy to say good riddance.

Some will have drama,
Others will have tears.
Some will have babies,
And some will find careers.

So here’s to another school year,
To the good and the bad,
But when you’re excited on a Sunday night,
You know this job ain’t half bad

Rabbit in Red, my upcoming novel, is quite a different tale than this poem, but I'm excited to introduce you to it. Just a little over a month away!

You can follow me on Facebook or Twitter, and it would be pretty cool if you subscribed to my blog, too :) 

On Facebook, On Today, and On the Past

I’m in this weird “in between” stage with my writing. I’ve finished writing a novel, I’ve outlined several new ones, and I’ve re-read several old ones. I’ve also recently pulled out a book of poetry I had written over a decade ago, a few poems of which I’ve shared this week. Overall though I’m talking about hundreds of poems written during a couple of youthful and chaotic years. It brought back so many odd memories.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to talk and hang with a younger version of yourself? I’d love to meet that 20 something version of me and tell him that everything is going to be ok. All of your dreams will come true. I’d love to meet the teen version of me and tell him to be stronger.

And so of course I have to wonder what my 50 year old self would tell my current 35 year old self. What am I doing now that he would think is crazy?

I have no regrets though. I have plenty of crazy stories that I have thankfully documented. Maybe I’ll share them someday. So many are embarrassing but so many are fun. It was a carefree time in my life.

Although I’ve finished a novel, I haven’t written poetry in a long time. The only recent poem I can remember was something I wrote after my dad died. I thought about sharing that, but after re-reading it tonight and bursting into tears, it’s just too much to share right now. No one needs to be that sad.

I’m happy now. I’ve left those crazy 20s behind, and to keep from boredom I’ve created new goals. But for old time’s sake, I thought I’d try to write something spontaneous. Perhaps not exactly poetic. Just something thoughtful. I don’t know what I’m going to write about as I write this sentence. As Stephen King wrote, “Amateurs wait for inspiration. The rest of us just get up and go to work.” So here’s my 35 year old self attempting to be genuinely spontaneous in writing.

Facebook vs. Blogging 

Browsing my Facebook history,

I’m amused at my online identity.

I’ll share my favorite books and movies,

And I’ll even post an occasional selfie.

I’ll tell you what I love about education,

And I’ll try to motivate and inspire.

But I don’t get too personal.

Facebook is a pond, and blogging is a river.
I get deeper, I let the current take me away.
I am lost in my own thoughts,
Not a dozen random no one needs to know posts.

Our Facebook lives are such bullshit.

Who cares what TV show we love?
(But damn, I heart Game of Thrones!)

Who cares what we made for dinner?
(But damn, this homemade pizza rocks!)
We all try and show off a bit.

My life is great because I’m doing ____.

If all I know about you is what you post online,

That’s a shame.

We’re not real friends.

I used to think Facebook made me closer

To those I never got a chance to see.

Now I think it’s created an excuse

So I can avoid you.

Facebook is the Cliff’s Notes of friendship,

A lousy excuse to stay connected.

And blogging may not be much better,

But it is a bit deeper.

Instead of the superficial,
I see a bit of your soul.
Instead of my weekend adventures,
You see a bit of my mind.
But blogging takes time.
Time to read, and time to write.
It's so much easier to scroll and "like."
But do I write for me or do I write for you?
Do we post for ourselves or for others?
And does any of this matter at all?

Thanks for reading. You can follow by e-mail or subscribe; be sure to click "full web version" at the very bottom of the main blog page and not the mobile site if you wish to subscribe. You should see the subscription tabs on the right hand side of the page. 

Power

               The person who invades your dreams has extreme power.

                In sleep, we are most vulnerable.

                You came to me last night in my dreams.

                (How many times is it now?)
                Arms open.

                Crawling in my bed.

                I rolled, to make it easier for you.

                And then you kissed me.

                Divine.

                You stroked my body.

                Hand gliding down my chest.

                Making my back curl like a gymnast.

                You grabbed me.

                Put me inside you.

                I was in nothing less than heaven.

                But as we all must do,

                I woke up.

                And I lost you.

                Again.

                (How many times is it now?)

                I roll over to an empty bed,

                And I long for one person.

                The one I will never have.

                The one who controls my dreams.

                The one with the power.

                The one who controls me.

- Written summer of 2004

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The answer

When you didn't come home,

When you didn't call,

When you avoided me and didn't make the time,

We discovered the truth.

By avoiding the question,

It becomes obvious

That the least desired answer

Is the right one.

-- Spring 2004

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Blind Man Walking

For weeks, I could see the brain of my toilet.
The chain had broken, and I had to reach into the fluid to flush.
After a couple of days, this didn't seem weird at all.
Funny the things we can get used to.
Go without cable for a month and you realize you don't need it.
Live alone for a year, and you know you can survive without others.
Raised on specific religious and political beliefs, and you'll never think you're wrong.
Maybe we are robots.
Conditioned and programmed and not unique at all.
Do you have the brains of a toilet?
Is someone pulling your chain?
Do you walk on paths paved only by others?

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Lazy inspiration

I'd like to sit and think.
To do nothing.
Boredom is for lazy fools.
Give me boredom.
Give me time to write some bad poetry.
But there's always something we have to do.
Freedom is not free.
Sometimes I want to be the moon.
Far away from this world,
Visible only in darkness
To romantic star-searchers
And deep thinkers.
It's the object of desire
And inspiration.
And it's never called upon
To do anything.

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The Joy of Writing

The novel consumed me,
A plethora of vultures
Attacking a corpse in the desert.
The novel was my child.
Pleasure and pain,
A thorn on a rose.
The novel fucked me.
Abusing my body,
It erased my mind.
The novel was a third shift waitress,
High on heroin,
At a cheap street corner dive.
The novel was me.
A clone, a brother,
Conscious and subconscious.
It was the sun behind the night.
And it was blinding.

- Written in the winter of 2003

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