Left to my own devices

Peter Lovesey has died . That name may not mean much to a lot of you. That's fine. He was one of my very favorite authors, though I haven't found many people on this side of the pond who've heard of him. I was at our local Barnes & Noble last night, and saw that they have four of his novels (though not his latest, which was published in December). He wrote over forty books, as well as dozens of short stories. He was prolific, but it never seemed to impact the quality of his work. Reader, I can't adequately convey how much enjoyment I got from reading Peter Lovesey's work. While writing is something I've liked to do since I was 8-years-old, reading is something I've always been more particular about. There are a lot of books I've started, then abandoned because I just couldn't get into their rhythm. You see, the style has to be just right. It's not easy to explain, but a few authors who have consistently been on go-to status for me are: P.D. J...

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" That was something kids seemed to be asked a lot when I was growing up (which is becoming increasingly further back in time as the years go by). I'm not sure if that is a question commonly put to children today, but it was, for me, a pretty exciting query. At least during my single-digit years. It conjured up an open landscape of possibilities. I don't know.. perhaps I'd be an astronaut? An artist? Mayor? When I entered my teenage years, and began high school, the question -- no longer posed as much by adults, but more to myself -- generated anxiety more than anything. It was crunch time. Crap - what do I want to be?

I've been meaning to write about something, but life has been busy of late. So, a week later, I'm finally getting around to it. There was an article that caught my attention, about a guy who used AI -- specifically, ChatGPT (you can Google it, if you want to learn more) -- to write a children's book. He then used something called Midjourney to illustrate it. The person in question, Ammaar Reshi, "wrote" (quotations used purposefully) Alice and Sparkle  for a friend's daughter, and self-published it online via Amazon's digital bookstore. He also had a physical paperback version printed. I'm not sure what the intended recipient thought of the tome, but Reshi talked about his endeavor on Twitter, and the reaction there, and on Amazon, was apparently lackluster. Some criticized the writing, others criticized the use of AI-generated art, claiming it stole the work of actual artists.

Recently I was part of a conversation about novels written by straight people that were about gay relationships. I kind of bristled at the idea. There's a well-reviewed book that I cited - Days Without End , by Sebastian Barry - about two men who fall in love during the American Civil War. Barry is straight. That's great - most people are. And, the writing of his novel came from a good place - he was moved by his son  coming out . Awesome. Based upon that, and the high praise the novel has received, I went to a local bookstore and purchased it. That was about five years ago. And it's sat on my shelf ever since.

This blog would seem to be the suitable place to officially announce my new book. I say that because it is culled from the writings here over the past ten years. It is titled,  Decade: Selected Writings (2011-2021) . Call it a greatest hits, if you will.

A long time ago, back when I was in grade school, I wrote a story. It was an assignment, probably in Mrs. Sims’s second or third grade class (I had her as a teacher for both years, and the memory is a little foggy on the exact date when the story was written).  Regardless, we're talking 1982 or 1983. Bar and His Car was a simple tale, about a man named Bar, and his automobile. It was a short tome, probably no more than 5 pages, complete with some pencil drawings by yours truly, to illustrate the title character and his mode of transport. The story ended up getting bound for some reason — it was in a deep blue cloth with white circles to break-up the monotony — and ended up in one of the revolving bookcases at our elementary school library. It was, for a time, a source of pride. On every occasion when our class would visit the library, I’d touch the book, caressing its soft cloth cover and think, ‘I wrote this.’

Years ago, in my teens, I wrote a very short story that was just some characters talking. Some of the talk concerned events they were expecting to occur in the future. It could have served as the prologue or first chapter of a book, but I was content to let it stand on its own. When it was done, I let a few friends and family read it. Their reactions were all the same: Where's the rest of it? This isn't a complete story, Matt!  Interestingly enough, I've had similar reactions to some recent movies and TV shows, though critical reaction for them has been (mostly) full of praise. (What follows are spoilers for the works to be discussed)

Margaret Elligham lay sprawled across the parquet floor of her house's grand living room, a look of terror upon her face. The Shamrock Charlatan (as he or she had been dubbed by the press) had struck again. This time, however, there had been a twist. Someone had died. The wealthy victim not only lost her jewelry, but her life. For months the thief had carefully broken into houses in the wealthy part of town, stolen several items of valuable jewelry, and left without a trace. The residents were none the wiser until they found their belongings missing, and the police were baffled. Unfortunately, for Ms. Ellingham, she must have caught them in the act, and the burglary had escalated to murder. "What's been taken?" sniffed Detective O'Malley, peering over the corpse with his hands clasped behind his back. A bald, upper-middle-aged man stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Madame's necklace, sir. It was her prized possession. It was so beautif...

Actor Ralph Waite, who passed away earlier this month at the age of 85, didn't know it, but he starred in at least three detective stories. They were written by yours truly and, of course, never published, but they exist. Three stories completed, one pretty much done but in need of editing, and strands of a few more in-progress. That, dear reader, is the life of an old detective who was portrayed by Mr. Ralph Waite.

I was conferring with a friend (and fellow aspiring writer) recently about how things have been progessing with our respective fiction writing. In short: slowly. We discussed what tends to inhibit our creative juices, and I was reminded of just how many roadblocks I erect in order to avoid sitting down and following-through with putting pen to paper (so to speak).

This is a post about my photography, but first, allow me to talk a moment about creativity and individualism, at least as they apply to me. Your indulgence is appreciated.