Bikers Waving Etiquette – by Norm Brown

My brother and I took a long motorcycle trip a couple of weeks ago from Texas out to the mountains of northern New Mexico and southern Colorado. It was a great trip with cool camping weather at the higher elevations, but we had to cover a lot of miles to get there and back home again. Along the way we encountered many other bikers on the road. There was a huge rally scheduled for that week in Red River, New Mexico. They were anticipating a crowd of over 20,000 bikes of all sorts. Since we were looking for quiet places to camp rather than a party, my brother and I veered away from the little town. So we passed many of the folks rumbling along the highway in the opposite direction. These frequent brief encounters got me to thinking about the rather unique “code of the road” that many, but not quite all, motorcycle riders observe when encountering fellow bikers travelling in the other direction.

It all has to do with waving—or not waving. I know, it sounds pretty trivial, just a simple friendly gesture toward a stranger out on the road enjoying the same recreational pastime as yourself. But surprisingly it involves some rather quirky decision making. The vast majority of riders you meet (and their passengers) wave with the left hand down low in a sort of muted “low five” with open palm toward the oncoming bike. It’s a sensible gesture that shouldn’t be misinterpreted by a driver behind you as a turn signal. If there is a group of oncoming bikers I simply hold that pose until they have all passed by.  

 

Occasionally you encounter the really enthusiastic rider who puts a lot more into it. These guys are usually flying along at a fast pace, hunched down over their gas tank. In this case the left arm is fully extended and blown back by the wind for a sweeping wave as he flies past.

 

And then, as I mentioned, there are bikers who for whatever reason choose to not participate. This is where the decision making part comes into play. As the bright single or double headlight gets closer, do I initiate the interaction myself or wait for some sort of clue? I actually feel a little bad when I decide not to acknowledge the other rider, but then notice too late that he or she did have a hand out down low. And of course I feel foolish if I give a big old obvious wave and the other person just looks away. In doubtful situations I sometimes do the “almost wave” as in the photo below. For this you just tentatively take your left hand off the handlebar. The advantage of this move is that the gesture could be interpreted as a small rather noncommittal wave, but you can also do something else with that hand if the other rider blatantly ignores you: flex your fingers like you were relaxing a tired hand, reach up and pretend to adjust your side mirror, or even pick your nose. Don’t try that last move if your helmet has a full face shield—you’ll look pretty silly.  

This usually all happens at high speed. So, how do you decide what to do in time to do it? Sometimes you can rely on the appearance of the approaching bike and rider. But stereotypes don’t always hold to form. The helmetless guys on choppers with loud straight exhausts do sometimes wave at people in full safety gear on a touring bike loaded with camping gear. I have noticed that riders on bikes with those high “ape hanger” handlebars usually don’t take a hand off. I think maybe their arms could be too numb from holding that awkward position. But stereotyping often fails. And that works both ways. I ride a Honda Gold Wing Motortrike rather than a two-wheeler. With more baby boomers returning to riding, these are becoming more popular with both male and female riders, but when I first switched to three wheels they were unusual to see on the road. Back then, as I was cruising along behind my brother on his high powered sport bike, I think guys would occasionally assume that I was a female rider. In cool weather, I wear a bulky jacket along with my helmet. I noticed that some guys would not acknowledge my brother’s wave at all, but give me a big obvious waggle of the hand. This never embarrassed me at all, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they were trying to flirt a little with what they thought was something other than a sixty-something year old guy. Which raises the age old question: “Does a snicker inside a full face helmet actually make a sound?”

Wave or not, my fellow travelers, but ride safe.          

 

Norm Brown is the author of the suspense novel Carpet Ride, published by Secondwind Publishing, LLC.

 

              

500 Miles to Go — by J. Conrad Guest

Over the years I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve devoted many words to the past—I’ve reminisced over my youth, written about both my parents, even written a letter to myself that was left undelivered to my younger self, aged eight. Two of my novels, One Hot January and January’s Thaw, are time travel yarns that largely deal with regrets, and living life right, of the importance of making the right choices simply because they are right. In my latest novel, A Retrospect in Death, the protagonist conquers the Great Divide and must review with his higher self his past life, searching for the bread crumbs that led to his great dissatisfaction with the corporeal world in preparation for his return to the lifecycle. In Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings, I wrote the autobiography I wish I could’ve written (sans the infidelity) had I the courage to go against my parents’ wishes that I not play organized baseball to see if I could’ve had a career in major league baseball.

J. Conrad Guest

In my forthcoming novel, 500 Miles to Go, to be released by Second Wind Publishing this fall, I turn my pen to writing about the importance of, and the risks associated with, the pursuit of dreams. The Declaration of Independence grants us certain inalienable rights, including life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But when pursuit of a dream affects others, causes them angst and results in their concern for our well being, turns them away from us, what then?

Alex Król made his dream come true to drive in the Indianapolis 500 eight years after seeing his first 500, in 1955, the year Bill Vukovich was killed in his bid to become the first driver to win three consecutive 500s. Alex had been following the career of A.J. Foyt since he’d broken onto the scene in 1958, and he wanted to pattern his driving style after Foyt’s catch me kiss my ass technique.

Then there’s the girl: Gail Russell. No, not the Gail Russell, who starred opposite John Wayne in Wake of the Red Witch and was in her own right downright gorgeous. Just not as gorgeous as Alex’s Gail. Alex’s girl since high school, Gail fell for Alex before she learned that he risked his life on dirt tracks during the summer months to the delight of fans who paid to see cars crash—the more spectacular the wreck the taller they stood on their toes and craned their necks to see the carnage. By the time she learned the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth—that Alex had vowed to one day drive in and win the Indianapolis 500—it was too late. She was in love with him.

Below appears a short excerpt.

“Who’s that?” I asked. It was the second week of the new school year, and Vince and I were walking to our next class when I spotted the raven-haired goddess walking toward us. It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t really expect that Vince would know.

“Her?”

“Don’t point, you idiot! Yes, her.”

“Gail Russell. She’s in my second hour History class. I hate History.”

“That’s because you don’t think anything of any importance happened before you got here. Don’t you want to leave behind some legacy of your own – have people read about you in a history book after you’re gone?”

“I never thought about it that way.”

Gail passed us and I stopped to turn around to watch her retreating figure – which was divine – the way her hips swayed in the floral skirt that bared just enough of her shapely calves.

“You go on, Vince. I’ll catch up to you.”

“But –”

“Go on. I won’t be late.”

I then hurried to catch up with Gail.

“Excuse me,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. She stopped and turned to look up at me.

“Yes?” she said in a soft voice; her accent told me she wasn’t from around these parts.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Gail Russell?”

She looked confused. Apparently, it was a line she hadn’t heard before. I was pleased I was the first.

“But I am Gail Russell,” she said.

“Really? Imagine that. But I was referring to the actress who starred opposite John Wayne in Wake of the Red Witch. I think she’s the most beautiful woman in pictures.”

This Gail blushed and averted her eyes at my homage.

“I need to get to my next class,” she said.

“Yeah, me, too. But listen, I know it’s short notice, but how would you like to go to the dance with me tomorrow?”

Gail blushed anew, but she bravely looked up at me. She took a moment to consider; eventually a smile came to her lips – she had a beautiful smile – and then she nodded.

“I think I’d like that,” she said.

“Great! Meet me on the front steps after school, and we can exchange phone numbers and particulars.”

“Okay,” she said and hurried off to her next class.

I stood a moment to admire her departure and wondered at my great good fortune – that she hadn’t yet been asked to the dance by some other guy. I was still too young to understand that the cutest girls were often left to spend Friday night home alone because guys figured they either had already been asked, or that they’d get shot down for presuming the gal would consent to going to a school dance with a mere mortal.

And then it hit me that I’d neglected to tell her my name. Apparently, this sort of thing was new to her, too, since she hadn’t asked for it.

–

J. Conrad Guest, author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, January’s Paradigm, One Hot January, January’s Thaw, A Retrospect In Death, and 500 Miles To Go (forthcoming)

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Sea of Destiny – Part 12

Kyle and his family are on vacation on a cruise. At dinner their first night, they meet a beautiful, but obviously ill, young woman named Emily Geraci. Kyle recognizes the signs of a woman whose body was ravaged by Cancer.

They made polite dinner conversation. Kyle found her quick witted and nearly as sarcastic as he was. He enjoyed her scathing critique of the drive over from Orlando.

“Did you drive yourself over?” Carmelita asked.

“Not quite up to that yet. I took the company shuttle. Not the most comfortable trip, but at least I didn’t have to worry about the traffic. People in Orlando are idiots on the road.”

“True of any big city,” Kyle replied diplomatically.

“I guess, but it seemed like everyone in Orlando was completely insane.”

Kyle chuckled. “I guess it seems like that sometimes.”

“We’re from Orlando,” Mindy said. “Daddy says Mickey Mouse lives there too.”

“Really? Have you seen Mickey?” Emily replied, eyes big with wonder.

“Lots! Mommy used to work for Disney. We went all the time.”

“What fun! I’ve never been. It’s on my list after I skydive and rappel down a mountain.”

“Any particular mountain?” Kyle asked with a smirk.

“Any that presents itself. I figure I’ll have to go out of state, however. There aren’t too many mountains in Florida.”

“Not any I’ve ever seen,” Kyle replied with a smirk.

Dinner was cleared and Carmelita took the kids back to the cabin to change and watch a movie.

“Don’t be too late, Mr. Scott,” Carmelita reprimanded. “You need to come tell the kids goodnight.”

“Thanks, Lita. I won’t be long.” He frowned at her behind Emily’s head.

When they were gone, he and Emily took a stroll along the deck. Strains of music lured them to a lounge where there was a dance floor. The music was a Latin jazz blend that made Kyle’s blood race.

“Do you like to dance, Emily?”

“Me? Wow, I don’t remember the last time I went dancing.”

“Would you like to?”

“For a little while. I’m just getting my strength back.”

“Best exercise in the world.” He held the door open for her.

The music washed over him in a sultry cloud. They draped Emily’s shawl and his jacket over a couple of chairs before hitting the dance floor. Kyle held her gently, moving smoothly to the music, his body following the subtle beat of the drums. Laughing happily, Emily threw herself into the dance, giggling when she missed a step. She was thoroughly enjoying the moment. They danced until they could hardly breathe, taking a well deserved break when the band did.

“I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” Emily giggled, fanning herself with the wine menu.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“My mom. She had a dance studio in West Palm until the trifecta of hurricanes back in 2004. Totally destroyed the building. What Charley didn’t take out, Frances and Jeanne did.”

“What a pity.”

“She lived with us for awhile, but decided to move to Tampa instead.”

“Does she like it there?”

“She loves it. The kids miss her though.”

“I imagine so. You have wonderful children. So smart, funny…. Your son is a character.”

“Yeah, he gets that from me, I’m afraid. Their mom wasn’t nearly as sarcastic as me. I hope the girls got her temperament.”

“How long ago did she die?”

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Well, you’re on a cruise ship with your housekeeper, you’re speaking of her in the past tense, dancing with me and you didn’t seem the least surprised to see a woman with no hair. Did she die of cancer?”

“Yeah, five months ago.”

“I’m so sorry.” She took his hand, squeezing the fingers gently. “I just found out I’m in remission after nearly eighteen months of fighting.”

“You’re a very lucky woman.”

“Which is why I’m on this trip. I’m celebrating a new chance at life. I realized I’d lived in a shell for the last thirty years. I’m determined not to anymore.”

“Hence the skydiving and rappelling?”

“I may never do either, but it’s nice to have a goal. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” He kissed her fingers. “You’re a brave woman, Emily Geraci.”

Embracing the Play of Writing — by Pat Bertram

I watched Talent for the Game the other day, and one of the points made in the movie was that baseball is big business. It seemed ironic to me that in our world play becomes business, and business, such as the business of writing, becomes play. (Most writers nowadays write for the love of writing, with always the dream of making a living at it as a goal, a dream that is slowly being eroded by the sheer masses of books, especially ebooks, on the market, so for most writers, the business has become play.)

Then it dawned on me that maybe writing, like baseball, has always been about play. Sure, both fields have their mega stars who make most of the money, but still, there are sandlot games and town leagues (mostly those leagues are softball, but let’s not let technicalities get in the way of a great analogy). Generally, anyone who wants to play baseball or softball can, but not everyone manages to turn the fun into profit. Writing is much the same. Anyone who wants to play can, but only a very small percentage ever makes a living at it.

I know people who won’t watch professional sports because they say the pros play for money and not for fun, that the players don’t seem to enjoy themselves, which takes the joy out of the game. In the same way, some of the major authors, the ones who are best at the business of writing, write the worst books. Obviously, most people don’t agree with me since they snatch the books up as soon as a new one comes on the market, but for me, after more than two or three books in a series, the authors lose their sense of play, and the books lose their luster.

Like baseball, writing is an inherently frivolous pursuit, made important only because of our frivolous lives. Okay, maybe our lives aren’t frivolous, but most of us don’t spend our days out in the wilderness gathering nuts and berries, hunting for meat to put on the table, chopping wood to keep warm, finding cover when it snows or rains. Writing in itself can’t do any of that, but wouldn’t it be nice if it could? I’d write a feast for us all, where we could come together and enjoy good food and good company at only the cost of a few words.

And no, I’m not advocating we junk civilization and go back to primitive times. I’m not much for the outdoors (except for walking) and frankly, I prefer indoor plumbing. But you have to admit, no matter how you look at it, writing is not a serious activity. It’s about making believe. Playing dolls and building worlds. We use words instead of toys, but basically, it’s the same thing.

Maybe we’ve been looking at writers all wrong. Maybe instead of celebrating the folk who embrace the business of writing, we should be celebrating those who embrace the play of it.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”

This Blog is Going to the Dogs, or Rather, the Wolves — by Mike Simpson

So here’s an apology I’ve needed to make for a long time. I need to make amends to all of my canis lupis friends out there.

That right: “Dear wolves, I owe you an apology.”

Unfortunately, my grave misbehavior toward you occurred precisely at the moment of my first real literary accomplishment. Of course I’m talking about the publication of my first short story, for which I received $10 and three copies of the magazine. Probably you have your own copy stashed away in the attic and might have even forgotten my story, so allow me to remind you that the publication was Long John Latham’s Western Fiction Magazine and the name of my story was “The Fifth Wolf.” This happened in 1969. I was sixteen-years-old. The magazine published my story and immediately went out of business. Yes, it’s true. Sort of reminds me of Mark Twain’s description of his Civil War service: “I joined the Confederate Army, served for two weeks, deserted, and the South lost the war.” I hope my story didn’t hasten the demise of the magazine.

The story itself, given that it was purely the product of an adolescent mind, was fairly well done:  two cowboys camping out had a discussion about running low on ammunition. One of the men told the other the story of how his brother had been out hunting one day only to be surrounded by a ravenous pack of wolves. The brother systematically shot the wolves one-by-one until he ran out of bullets. The “fifth wolf” was the one that got to the brother and killed him. Okay, okay. I was sixteen.

Over the years as I’ve thought back to that story, two impressions invariably come to my mind. The first is amazement (I was too young and dumb to know how lucky I was). The second is regret. The fanciful story I wrote would never have actually happened.

In 1972, while I was working as reporter/photographer for the Courier-Gazette newspaper in McKinney, Texas, I was sent out to a farm to take photos of something. There I was walking through a wooded area, looking for a landmark with nothing but a camera in my hands, when I surprised and was surprised by a gray wolf. We were never closer than twenty yards and he bounded away quickly, stopping once to see what I was doing. I remembered the story I had published and thought, “How ironic, to be eaten by a wolf, just like the brother in the story.”

Really? I had nothing to worry about. Wolves—those that are not rabid—never attack human beings. In fact, there is no record of a healthy wolf on the North American continent attacking a human being. Anthropologists suggest this is because, for thousands of years, canis lupis and homo sapiens were partners. We hunted together. It’s thought that proto humans learned a lot of cooperative group behavior by mimicking wolf packs. Odd, isn’t it, that the wolves seem to have remembered while we have forgotten?

Over the weekend as I stood outside the gray wolf enclosure at the Western Carolina Nature Preserve in Ashville, I thought about the disservice I had done to our historical teammates. Sorry about that, friends. As a whole, we haven’t done right by our old partners. At least “The Fifth Wolf” was never as well known and brazenly perpetuated as the story about that little girl with the red riding hood.

—Mike Simpson

Summer!! by John E. Stack

Oh the joy. Oh the bliss. If one might borrow a few words from Alice Cooper:

School’s out for summer
School’s out forever…
No more pencils
No more books
No more teacher’s dirty looks
Out for summer
Out till fall
We might not go back at all

Students believe that they have a monopoly on summer because they are out of school and no longer do they have teachers to answer to.

But, they just don’t understand. As excited as the kids were on the last day of school, it was nothing compared to the excitement of the teachers when the last yellow bus pulled out of the parking lot. Everyone knew that after a couple of days of paperwork and getting our rooms organized our break would begin.

Teachers know how precious summer break really is. There is time to rest. Time to reflect. Time to spend with family. Time for a movie, outside of your living room. Time to sit down and read a good long book. Vacation. And, time to relax.

Some teachers will not get that luxury. Since we are ten-month employees many will start summer jobs to insure they can make ends meet. Most of us have our pay spread over twelve months so we won’t have to work unless we really want to.

I teach middle school and I just went from 110 kids down to two, whom I can put in their rooms if I get tired of them. Personally, I have a honey-do list about a mile long that I will work on some, but mostly I will spend time with my family. I will spend some time relaxing on the beach and maybe writing when my muse allows. I will spend a week in Arizona on a mission trip, which I hope to do a different type of work.

It’s all about recharging and getting ready for the new school year. Where kids usually try to avoid learning during the summer, teachers take the time to learn new ways to inspire and reach the new students that are different from the kids that we just taught. If you are tired and stressed, it is difficult to learn new things. If you are not inspired then it is difficult to inspire.

Out of all the things I have on my honey-do list I believe the first thing on my agenda will be a nap. Then, I plan to wake up and go to bed. I will write when inspired and play with my little girl every day.

I hope all are blessed with a great summer filled with joy and blessings.

***John is the author of Cody’s Almost Trip to the Zoo

A Glimpse at Istanbul by Mickey Hoffman

I wanted to visit Istanbul because I just had to see the Aya Sofya. Ever since I first learned of this incredible building in an art history class, I felt a pull toward it. And a few decades later, I managed to get there. Also known as the Hagia Sophia, this ancient structure is one of the marvels of the ancient world.

There are many other things to see in Istanbul, of course, but didn’t spend time in the usual tourist pursuits. For example, I only looked in at the huge bazaar from the outside entrance near a flower market. Carpet and tile stores didn’t interest me either. In fact, the only things I bought inTurkey were a fist sized, stuffed crow that I hunted down after seeing one hanging from the rear view mirror in a taxi and a beaded hanging symbol from a local soccer team. I did some great sketches and took some photos. I spent a lot of time inside the Aya Sofya, speaking to the walls.

In order to enter the Aya Sofya you first have to negotiate a gauntlet of carpet, leather and trinket vendors. All male. They reminded me of the merchants who used to try and pull you inside their stores on Maxwell Street in Chicago. They don’t take refusals easily. Perhaps because I was female and by myself, the interactions weren’t as pleasant as they might have been. I’ll never know. If I was polite they persisted and got into my personal space until I felt uncomfortable. If I got rude, the men’s tempers flared and scared me.  I would not recommend this walk to unaccompanied women of any age. More on that topic later.

The building, originally a church, dates from around 525 AD, or CE as they say now. The walls are about four feet thick and are heavily supported by adjacent smaller rooms and buttresses. This is the only way they knew to support the huge dome on top, which awed the citizens of the most advanced city in the western world. It still awes people today. The building has been a church, a mosque and now is a museum. It’s filled with gold leaf mosaics as well as gorgeous marble floors and many other adornments. The interior is just dark enough to be mysterious. Outside it’s salmon pink. Not a faint salmon, but a full-hearted orangey pink that’s shocking if you don’t expect it.

The minarets were added when Aya Sofya became a mosque. To give a better sense of the enormity of this building here is another view.

These side chambers support the roof.  And they’ve done this for centuries in spite of many large earthquakes. The building is brick and cement, and many much newer buildings made of these materials have collapsed from far less trauma. If you continue along the side you come to a rear courtyard which holds a beautiful covered fountain.

The inner roof right over the fountain looks like this:

 

Now let’s go  inside the Aya Sofya:

And this:

There’s a ramp that goes up to the balcony.  Not stairs, a ramp in a narrow and dark passage. It has bricked walls and a heavily cobbled floor. The balcony is decorated with Byzantine style mosaics. Here are two of them. The first is of Empress Theodora, who led an interesting life. She tried to expand the rights of women and had a lot of influence with her husband, Emperor Justinian. She is shown here in a saintlike pose which is rather amusing when you consider her early life as an “actress.” Enough said.

There is another ancient building in Istanbul which is called Little Aya Sofya. It was built by Constantine in 550. It’s a community mosque now. The day I went there only a few men were present, but even though only one man was praying inside, gaining entry wasn’t easy. Although the place is said to be open to the public, the caretaker seemed skeptical about my request to enter. He was completely unimpressed when I told him I’m an artist. Finally, he decided I could go in if I went right upstairs and didn’t make any noise. I took a only few photos and had just started to get my sketch pad out when the men decided my presence was too immodest and asked me to leave.

If you’re wondering what that hanging thing is, it’s a light fixture. It hangs low over the floor. There will be a better view of one later in the Blue Mosque. This interior is much simpler and I like it better than the Blue Mosque. The simplicity is pleasing to the eye.

The Topkapi palace is world famous, perhaps for its cache of jewels. I found it rather boring, but here are a few photos you might like. The courtyard shows you what traditional Turkish architecture is like.

Okay, okay. You want some bling?

The hand isn’t someone stealing the jewels, it’s there to show you the size of the emeralds.

In one of the museums they had a library which wasn’t open to the public. A Cleric was in there reading the Koran and singing. He sounded exactly like a Jewish cantor praying. Once again, I found it perplexing how two religions with so much in common can be in such interminable conflict.

The Blue Mosque is very famous and popular with tourists. This is the entrance. First a photo and then an etching. The day I stood there sketching, two women came and sat on the steps. They’d obviously been shopping but all their fine clothes were covered.

A view of the entire mosque:

Inside the Blue Mosque.

Below the city lie the Roman cisterns. Wow. Creepy and amazing. Those Romans were so clever.

Having never been to Italy, I was most interested in seeing the Mosaic museum which exhibits art from the time of the Roman empire. Unfortunately the museum was closed. I ran into a young city police officer standing nearby who spoke fluent English. He said he could get me in and went to speak to the man in the ticket booth. I think he was the caretaker. He spoke no English so I’m not sure but he reluctantly agreed to let us in. I have only one photo to show you and this one isn’t very good.

The reason for this is that once we got inside the deserted building, the policeman decided it would be more fun if he treated me like a date. A hot date. I slipped out of his grasp a few times and told him to stop and when he didn’t, I started to run. I ended up running full speed out of the building, zooming past the old ticket seller. I caught a mix of sadness and guilt in his eyes. He might have known what the policeman was like but didn’t know what to do about it. Anyway, I hadn’t expected this from a police officer, especially since I certainly hadn’t indicated in any way I wanted a romantic interlude. And I was wearing very loose loose clothes that covered me from wrist to chin to ankle in spite of the heat because I hadn’t wanted to stand out or offend anyone.

As much as I loved Istanbul, after this incident I was more than ready to leave the city. In my next blog we’ll visit Cappadocia in south central Turkey with a short side trip to Ankara.

***

Mickey is the author of two mystery novels, School of Lies and Deadly Traffic published by Second Wind, LLC. She is one of the contributing writers to an online serialized novel, Rubicon Ranch III: Secrets.

A Matter of Perspective

A mentor once told me, “Everything is funny. Just depends on how you look at it.”

Okay, this might not apply to tragedies like war and natural disaster destruction, but for the most part she was right. What reduces one person to hysterics might bore another. Comics utilize their own unique perspective in their work. But in order to sell it to the audience, it must be believable. Perspective lies in the moment. What you see or feel comes with a mix of your personal circumstances, life experiences, upbringing, belief system, and attitude.

I recently watched Gabriel Iglesias’ comedy show Aloha Fluffy. He usually makes me laugh until I cry. This guy gained recognition from a comedy talent show where the audience determined the winner by voting someone off each week. Gabriel did not win his season, but he won me over. I always voted for him. I may not have much in common with a Mexican man, but I identified with his perspective on life.

Gabriel found fun in everything. Especially things others might find hurtful. Mister I’m-Not-Fat-I’m-Fluffy made good money regaling audiences with his own life experiences. He made no bones about his love of junk food – tacos, doughnuts, and chocolate cake.

“People ask me all the time, Gabriel, why are you always making fun of yourself? Well, I don’t make fun of myself. I just tell you about other people making fun of me. That’s from my real life.”

Another guy that size might hide himself away and take every fat comment directed at him to heart. He might have lost a girlfriend or job because of it, so his perspective could swing the way of great misery. But Gabriel viewed his weight through his own lens, harnessed it like lightning and turned it into a cash cow.

Some comics highlight the positive in the experience, while others seek to tear down and ridicule. I think their perspective reveals their true character. I’ve heard comics claim, “I’ll say anything for a laugh.” and “It’s only an act.” But I think they are kidding themselves. Comics create their persona around their material, similar to musicians. Gabriel is Mr. Fluffy Guy – a fun loving character. Imagine if Frank Sinatra hadn’t liked love songs. Could he have performed them with the depth of emotion required for his audience to find him believable, and immortalize his persona?

When my story isn’t working, I have to ask if I’m seeing it through the right eyes. I shift gears or I change who is telling the story to regain momentum. Perspective is the cornerstone of identity, and the difference between being a good sport and getting arrested. Some see the light through the dark, moving forward instead of grinding to a halt. Others wallow in the mud of self-pity, then refuse to shower afterward.

If you character said to the box of doughnuts next to him, “Oh, when we get home, you’re gonna get it!” would you believe him? You’d believe Gabriel.

Sheila Englehart is the author of Warning Signs, published by Second Wind Publishing

Novel Writing Tips and Techniques From Authors of Second Wind Publishing — Excerpt: Organizational Tools

Novel Writing Tips and Techniques from Authors of Second Wind Publishing is the 100^th book published by Second Wind.  The book is dedicated to everyone who made this accomplishment possible: our authors, our readers, our friends, and our followers. Thank you!

EXCERPT FROM NOVEL WRITING TIPS AND TECHNIQUES FROM AUTHORS OF SECOND WIND PUBLISHING

Organizational Tools: Name Charts

By
Coco Ihle
Author of:
She Had to Know

As a reader, quite often I find in my hurry to get into a new book, I race over character names and then get confused later about who is doing what. When character’s names start with the same letter, the confusion is compounded. I’ve had to discipline myself to take my time learning the names as they are introduced, thus avoiding backtracking. My reading experience is also enhanced by investing my thoughts in these people from the start.

As a writer, I decided to make it as easy as possible for readers to meet my characters in a way they would remember. To accomplish this, I introduced married people as a couple, gave some distinguished description for the lone individuals and made sure names were not similar. I also wrote out a background profile for characters who appeared, both major and minor. That way, their names fit their personalities and thus are easier to recall for the reader.

A really handy tool I used early on was a chart I made, divided into two vertical columns. The left heading read: “First Names of Characters.” The right, “Last Names of Characters.” I started with the letters of the alphabet on the extreme left, A-Z down the page and did the same for the right column. Next to the alphabet letters I filled in my character names, first names in the left column and last in the right column. This gave me a visual of what letters I used for my names. It’s quite easy to repeat letters unconsciously and this is an easy way to catch those repetitions. I had to change character names as a result of this exercise, but it has eliminated problems for my readers. I even included page numbers (in parenthesis) next to a name of a lesser used character in order to find him/her later when rewriting or editing.

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Novel Writing Tips and Techniques is available from Second Wind Publishing, Amazon (Print & Kindle), Barnes and Noble (Nook), Smashwords (all ebook formats including palm devices)

Rubcion Ranch: Necropieces has now been published!

Rubicon Ranch is a mystery series being written online by authors of Second Wind Publishing. Rubcion Ranch: Book Two – Necropieces has now been published! It is available on Smashwords in all available ebook formats for just 99 cents! Or you can read it free online.

Residents of Rubicon Ranch are finding body parts scattered all over the desert. Who was the victim and why did someone want him so very dead? Everyone in this upscale housing development is hiding something.

Leia Menendez has a plan: get to Rubicon Ranch, get in, get what was hers, get out. But does her plan include murder?

Egypt Hayes knows there are secrets hidden in Rubicon Ranch and she intends to use them in her next film. And maybe even use them to get revenge.

Moody Sinclair once killed an eight-year-old boy. Has she killed again?

Her brother Jake is searching for redemption. Did he find it in the death of another?

Eighty-two-year-old Eloy Franklin sits on his porch and watches. But does he do more than watch?

Ward Preminger was electrified by his encounter with the victim. Did find a way to get even?

Forty-three-year-old Melanie Gray stumbled on the first necropiece. But is she as innocent as she seems?

Sheriff Seth Bryan is bitter and cynical at having lost everything he values. Is he manufacturing crimes to bring him the notoriety he craves?

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We are now in the midst of writing our third book. Click here to: read online as six Second Wind authors write Rubicon Ranch: Secrets!