An Eye for Diamonds by Kevin Litwin

            Edmund Freitag died yesterday after a long, painful illness. Joseph Gumm never heard of the man until this morning, while reading a newspaper article about the deceased.

Mr. Freitag was a business tycoon who never married, lived alone, and has no survivors. The 85-year-old man lives – or lived – only a few blocks from Gumm, but the two never crossed paths.

The newspaper story mentioned certain details that catch Gumm's eye, causing him to suddenly become interested in the late Mr. Freitag. It seems the old man died a millionaire, thanks in large part to a lifetime of allegedly overcharging and callously bilking naïve customers at three highly profitable jewelry stores he owned.

The article also includes a somewhat odd quote from an interview the elderly lifelong bachelor granted the newspaper last year, when the cantankerous Freitag said, “The only loves in my life are my home and a collection of diamonds I own. I’d kill to protect them both.”

One key word from that quote – diamonds – piqued Gumm’s interest, then the article’s final sentence made his heart beat a bit faster.

A brief visitation for Mr. Freitag will be this evening from 5-6 p.m. at Iris Funeral Parlor, and visitation will also be tomorrow at Spirit Chapel from noon until his funeral at 1 p.m.

“His funeral at 1,” Gumm muttered with sinister thoughts in mind.

For Joseph Gumm is a jewel thief, and burglarizing homes is his talent. He has pillaged numerous wealthy residences during a career of crime, though none of the robberies ever took place in his own neighborhood.

That was about to change with the death of Edmund Freitag.

****

At 5 p.m. that same day, as funeral parlor visitation began, Gumm climbed into his pickup truck and methodically drove to the old man’s now uninhabited house, to case it discretely from the street. The majestic three-story mansion looked to be securely locked, with the nefarious Gumm assuring himself that an interior alarm system must surely be part of the home’s infrastructure.

Curiously, no fencing of any kind surrounded the perimeter of the property, which could allow basically anyone to access the front door and grounds. However, even with this seemingly unusual security oversight, the veteran jewel thief realized that the entire estate still had an impenetrable aura about it.

As he slowly coasted along the street and prepared to drive away, Gumm happened to spot a third-story window on the eastern side of the house, toward the rear of the mansion. The large rectangular window is virtually invisible from the street, unless someone specifically looked for it.

For some peculiar reason, the third-story window was wide open that evening. The Freitag property showed absolutely no sign of life – no people or vehicles were visible anywhere – so the whole scenario made no sense to Gumm.

Adding to the puzzling scene was a long, rickety, wooden ladder anchored atop a concrete patio slab, with the ladder stretching upward to the third-floor window. The patio slab held no furniture – its only current purpose was to serve as foundation for the ladder that ascended to the open window.

“This joint's a fortress, so what gives?” Gumm wondered, crinkling his forehead in confusion with no answer to the puzzling sight.

But after a few seconds of ponder, he attributed the askew setting to a painter or handyman who probably worked on the home and forgot to lock up when leaving. With that puzzle solved, one final minute to meticulously study the property was followed by the black-hearted thief motoring away from the mansion, to begin plotting his next fabulous robbery.

“I'll do the heist tomorrow around 1,” Gumm concluded, knowing the mansion would certainly be abandoned due to Mr. Freitag’s funeral.

The scheming burglar surmised that walking – not driving – to the targeted home would be his wisest tactic, allowing himself to sneak up from the backyard instead of the street. Plus, he noticed during his home casing that the back of Freitag’s property is heavily wooded, so Gumm could sneak through a portion of the woods to ideally arrive at the rear of the house without anyone noticing.

How to enter the fortified home presented another issue, but that final item could be figured out tomorrow. Tonight, the confident jewel thief would sleep and dream in delight, with images of brilliant diamonds glimmering in the forefront of his mind.

****

On the afternoon of fate, at 12:30 p.m. as gray dreariness filled the sky, Gumm exited his own residence and put into motion the wheels of his daring burglary. Armed with a tiny crowbar and small jimmy stick stuffed into a jacket pocket, he embarked upon a calculated out-of-the-way hike to the woods behind Freitag mansion.

He slithered and slunk through heavy foliage until finally making his way to a strategic tree-camouflaged position, where he could easily see the back of the elderly gentleman's home. The house appeared as formidably secure as ever, except for what Gumm surprisingly witnessed in the near distance.

The third-story window – the same window that was open late yesterday for whatever reason – was wide open today, and the concrete slab still supported the big ladder that scaled up to it. The baffled robber could also see that the window had no screens or other obstacles within it, so in spite of his bewilderment, he made a decision of destiny.

“I’m goin’ through that window. But really, why is it still open?” he wondered while beginning a careful sneak toward the ladder. “I don't see no work trucks or nothin’, and the place is dead quiet. I don’t understand, but it saves me from jimmyin' the back door or bustin' a window and maybe trippin’ some alarm.”

Gumm's original plan had been to forcibly enter the house via crowbar or jimmy stick, then rush to hopefully find jewels within three or four minutes, and ultimately run from the premises before police could possibly arrive. But now, the open window mysteriously beckoned to him as a perfect means of entry.

****

He donned a thin pair of tight-fitting surgical gloves to hide his fingerprints, then climbed the shaky ladder with steely nerve and his guts of a burglar, reaching the inviting window within seconds. He peered cautiously into the opening before nimbly climbing through, and immediately surmised that he had entered a library chamber.

Tall mahogany bookcases were lined next to one another, and a thick brown Afghan rug covered part of an intricately patterned hardwood floor. Blue velvet armchairs with engrained crests also graced the stately room, and art treasures of surrealism and impressionism adorned gold-colored walls.

But the item whose splendor ultimately caught Gumm's eye was a vintage rolltop desk of European craftsmanship that sat regally in the middle of the room, with an office chair of Victorian resplendence pushed up against it. And atop the glorious desk appeared a sterling silver jewelry box with the word Diamonds elegantly inscribed in cursive. Next to the shiny box sat a solid gold watch along with a pearl-handled serrated letter opener, and Gumm’s heart pounded with unyielding desire at the sight of such bedazzlement.

But instead of instantly pilfering the silver box and vacating the crime scene, he pulled out the Victorian office chair and sat down at the rolltop desk. He eagerly reached for the box of gems and zealously pulled off its tight cover, revealing a king's ransom in sparkling diamonds that ancient monarchies would kill for.

Flawless cut diamonds by the handfuls. Exquisite jewels glistening like sunlight on dancing water.

“Incredible,” a mesmerized Gumm whispered in ecstasy.

He quickly snapped out of his euphoria and realized that getting out of the mansion was top priority, so he hurriedly arose from the office chair, replaced the lid tightly onto the invaluable silver box, and amorously grabbed it in both hands. His total enthrallment with the diamonds caused him to blindly forego the solid gold watch and pearl letter opener.

The wide-eyed thief started to take a first step toward the open window to make his escape, when a sickening premonition streamed into his consciousness. Suddenly into the dank library chamber appeared the menacing ghost of Edmund Freitag.

****

The shadowy apparition had sickly gray features that glinted in the ruddy purple light filtering through the window, and the horrid image of the elderly corpse caused perspiration to burst from Gumm's forehead. He shuddered with terror and blinked twice to make sure the nightmarish vision was real.

As the petrified burglar tried to fathom the goings-on, he backpedaled a step in dread. Then the old man spoke.

“You loathsome creature!” bellowed the enraged ghost as his phantom shape floated ominously toward the intruder. “You invade the very home I love and steal my collection of treasured diamonds? You vulgar piece of garbage!”

“H-how is this happening?” the mortified Gumm whimpered as icy chills enveloped his spine. “Y-you…you're dead. I read it in the newspaper.”

“Yes, I am dead, but my corpse could not rest with a pariah like you raiding my beloved home!” Freitag screamed with death on his lips. “And now that you have violated my lovely lair long enough, the time has come for you to leave.”

The eerie ghost of Freitag snatched the serrated letter opener from the rolltop desk and, with a rapier-like motion, slashed a brutal deep gash into Gumm’s left cheekbone and across the cornea of his left eye. The stunned robber was momentarily paralyzed with shock, so the crazed Freitag violently jammed the razor-sharp jagged opener into Gumm's left eye and furiously carved and dug at the eyeball until it dislodged from the socket. The bloody round orb dangled and bobbed on Gumm's face like a tether ball.

The silver gemstone box flew wildly into the air from the jewel thief's quivering fingers as he shrieked in agony, with his cut-up face and grotesque hanging eyeball gushing geysers of scarlet blood. The overwhelming trauma caused the astonished Gumm to clumsily stumble backwards as he shivered with terror and writhed in pain, grasping his mangled face with both hands. He continued stumbling further backward in hideous convulsion until reaching the open window, from which he fell and somersaulted savagely to the concrete slab three stories down.

Joseph Gumm died instantly, landing face first into the cement patio as pieces of his head splattered about. The bulky wooden ladder came crashing down and landed directly onto the thief’s hanging eyeball, which tore from his face and rolled to a stop a few feet from Gumm's crushed skull.

Three stories up, the wild ghost of Edmund Freitag angrily flung the dripping letter opener at the massacred intruder below, then abruptly closed the window and locked it tight. He drifted to the box of prized diamonds that lay intact on the bloodied Afghan rug and anxiously returned the coveted item to its proper place atop the rolltop desk.

Quickly checking the time on the gold watch, it read 1:00, so he immediately disappeared from his cherished home. Mr. Freitag had a funeral to attend. His own.

Sometimes Andrew Is by Kevin Litwin

Sometimes Andrew is a super hero, always saving the day,

Sometimes Andrew is a dinosaur, hunting for his prey.

Sometimes Andrew is an astronaut, landing a ship on Mars,

Sometimes Andrew is a rock star, playing the drums and guitar.

Sometimes Andrew is a doctor, helping people heal,

Sometimes Andrew is a famous chef, cooking a yummy meal.

Why is Andrew all these things? Because he likes to play,

His great imagination helps him enjoy every single day.

When Andrew gets a bit older, he can be anything he wants,

But right now when he’s 6 years old, it’s just having fun that counts.

The Adam’s Apple by Kevin Litwin

Tonight the moon will be full, so tonight I will do the deed. I have planned this surprise for days.

My madness continues to fester, tormenting my spirit, as the perversity of the actions I witness on a nightly basis has driven me to the extreme of rage. As I curl up for naptime in the early afternoon prior to tonight’s fateful murder, I reflect upon good deeds my human does for me.

He raises blinds each morning before leaving, knowing that two windows in our apartment face south. The sun pours through the violet glass as I doze on soft carpeting, listening to fainted sounds of nearby freeway traffic speeding by.

Each evening when arriving home, he opens two cans of tuna for me to enjoy. It’s not the cheap tuna – it’s albacore. And one evening last week, he brought home a scratching post for me to delight. Made of hard emery and oak, I have meticulously sharpened my claws to a scary razor finish in anxious preparation of this frenzied night to come.

****

As today’s evening breaks, my human returns to our apartment as he does every day at this time. He taps my head in a playful manner, and satisfyingly scratches my neck under the collar for what seems to be a blissful eternity. Even though I’m independent to a fault, my human insists on feeding and caring for me, so tonight I shall equivalently return such favor when he drops off to sleep.

For because he is oblivious to the world when out cold, he hasn’t the slightest inkling that each night a mouse invades his throat and nests there. Surely it is a mouse. What else could it be? Yes, it is a mouse.

I noticed by chance the monstrous little creature a few nights ago, and its existence has haunted me unceasingly since then. The cruelty of it throbbing up and down, up and down, inside my human’s throat makes my soul shriek with fury. I hate the little fiend. It must be exterminated.

****

Tonight has finally arrived, filled with unusual gloom. The air is hot and sullen, and my psyche overflows with nightmarish contempt. Moonbeams silt through the apartment windows, and my keen eyes are sharper than ever as I notice from the living room that my human has turned off the lamp in his bedroom. Undoubtedly he has stretched his tired body atop the smallish bed, and usually within five minutes becomes dead to the world with slumber.

Almost instantaneously, the mouse then always arrives, traveling from wherever it travels to cloister itself inside the neck and throat of my human. I have especially noticed this disturbing escapade in earnest for the past two nights, while quietly casing the bedroom to check on things. I watch in horror and disdain as my human lays on his back and struggles to breathe, all due to the vile trespassing mouse that methodically moves up and down, up and down.

****

Suddenly, I now hear strange noises emanating from my human’s mouth and throat, so I instantly rise to my feet from the living room comfort and lithely tiptoe to the bedroom. I arrive at the door archway and from my standing position on the floor, I look upward and peer at my prone human whose throat is trembling with the vibrations of that infernal mouse going up and down inside his neck. Up and down, up and down. Evil vermin, it is time to become acquainted with the frightening predator that I am.

With heart-stirring excitement, the destroyer in me flexes my sharp retractable claws and I grind my fanglike teeth, in crazed preparation for attack. Then, with eyes spewing fire, I take one gigantic and calculated leap upward from the bedroom floor and land perfectly on the bed, inches from my human’s head.

With claws honed like knives and in a fit of rage, I mightily slash my razor-like nails at the very body of the loathsome mouse and, with the strength of a tiny Hercules, I violently rip it from the confines of my human’s throat. Die, filthy intruder, die!

Hot black blood pours like molten lava from the neck of my human – blood of the wretched mouse. The disgusting creature lay motionless near the side of my human’s head, and being hunter and carnivore that I am, I devour the little scum in one bite, in victory. Excelsior! Its taste is wild and delicious, more delicious than albacore tuna.

I wish I had the ability to laugh, for now would be time for guffaws and glee, given the joyousness of this occasion. Sweet, sweet triumph. Vulgar mouse, your depraved actions will never darken our door – and throat – ever again.

****

The mouse’s distressing dark blood continues to cascade from the neck of my human, as pillowcase and bed sheets become more and more smeared with repugnance. However, it’s perfectly okay. My human lay quiet, with his nightly affliction finally vanquished. Never will that nasty varmint provide another instant of nuisance.

So dream beautiful dreams, my human. No doubt you will be proud of my accomplishment once you awaken in the morning, and realize what I did. Is a reward in my immediate future? Dinner tomorrow evening might be greater than usual. Instead of albacore, perhaps I shall feast on red salmon. Served wild and delicious.

Gently Rapping

I’ll kinda miss doing my Wednesday and Saturday blogs, but today is my final one. I’ll still stay in touch by updating my CLD Facebook page on the first day of every month, plus more if I have any big news regarding my book-publishing effort.

I did attend the Killer Nashville mystery writers’ convention a couple weeks back and had some encouraging news. I was there on a Sunday morning for three agent/publisher book pitches, with my first 10-minute shot occurring from 10:40-10:50 with publisher Martin Shepard of The Permanent Press out of New York. When I finished, he asked me to send him the first 50 pages of my manuscript, so a glimmer of hope right off the bat.

The next 10-minute pitch was with publisher Deni Dietz, and she ultimately asked me to submit my entire manuscript to her. Then my third and final shot was with New York agent Jeff Kleinman, supposedly a difficult person to deal with who surprised me by wanting to see my first three chapters.

In fact, Kleinman immediately liked my story idea and asked if I brought the first three chapters with me. I didn’t, never suspecting that any agent or publisher would ask such a question at the convention. He chided me a bit for being unprepared but bottom line: He still wants me to send the first three chapters.

Of the 650 people at the convention that weekend, an organizer told me that the agent/publishers asked to see a total of 40 sample writings, including my three. Made me feel good until they all gave me their final words of advice – “Okay, we like the idea. Now make sure you have every word perfect before you submit anything to us. Don’t send us crap. Now it’s all about the writing. Make it great.”

Deni Dietz, who wants the entire manuscript, told me that her publishing house doesn’t take any manuscripts under 65,000 words. Mine, before I began a final edit that I just started over Labor Day weekend, was 57,800 words. As I currently write this blog Tuesday night Sept. 6, the book is now 59,000 words after I’ve gone through the first 10 chapters of the 45-chapter novel. I’ve got some more ideas of scenes to add, so onward I shall go.

Dietz and the two others said there is no hurry for my manuscript or chapters – they each already have their 2012 book lineups set. They all told me that when I’m ready to submit my work to them, the earliest it could get published is 2013. Sheesh, they work way in advance.

So more writing and editing is my plan of attack, and I’m focusing on impressing Deni Dietz since she asked for the whole thing. I work with a good editor at Journal Communications – Raven – who said she would read and critique my manuscript when it’s finally ready.

Ironically, Edgar Allan Poe is one of my favorite authors and his most memorable work is The Raven, so Raven seems like a choice of destiny to oversee my final edit. I plan to have the rewrite completed by the end of September, at which point I will approach Raven for her help. I will suddenly come a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at her chamber door. Hopefully, Raven won’t say, “Nevermore.”

Thank you to niece Andrea who from March 8-Sept. 7 posted my 45 blogs – hey, the same number of chapters that are in my book. Thanks for reading the blogs, everyone. Talk atcha on my CLD Facebook page Oct. 1 – maybe sooner. KL

Killer

Haven’t blogged in awhile because my life kinda stinks right now, like the tuna fish sandwich I ate yesterday. But onward we all go.

Book update: I will be attending a Killer Nashville mystery book writers convention Aug. 26-28 near Vanderbilt University in Nashville. The annual convention showcases the mystery genre with many nationally recognized speakers, agents, editors and publishers in attendance.

One of the nice aspects is that a registered attendee like me is allowed to pitch his book for 15 minutes to a New York agent. Ironically, I’ll just so happen to attend a seminar called The Perfect Pitch only an hour prior to my personal pitch. Good luck, me.

A thank you goes out to Jessica for putting together a flashy one-page, two-sided, flyer-like, card cover (inside joke) handout I can give to agents at the Killer Nashville conference. The flyer has my book cover on the front (thanks Jon Brooks) and a brief synopsis and my bio on the back. There is even a cool graphic of my signature – looks like I signed with my own blood (thanks Keith).

Also a shout out to Gary, who e-mailed some encouraging words last week telling me to keep plugging with Crazy Lucky Dead, as he relayed a fact about the best-selling book The Help. It’s a 2009 novel by Kathryn Stockett about African American maids working in white households in Mississippi during the early 1960s, and apparently Stockett was rejected by more than 60 agents prior to finally getting a book deal. Her novel ultimately made the New York Times Best Sellers list.

Okay, that’s all for right now. I still love to write but dislike all the other aspects of this peddling process. The whole thing makes me feel like a hamper of dirty clothes. Maybe my washing machine will be at the Killer Nashville convention.

Next blog Sept. 7. Goodbye.

From Kevin

I am going to end my blog on Sept. 7.

That will be a full six months since I first started blogging on March 8, and I don’t think anyone really cares what’s coming out of my mind anymore. I think you’re all ready to move on to something else, and so I am.

Right now I’m in the process of writing my second book, plus I just put together a children’s book that I will soon try to peddle. As for Crazy Lucky Dead, I certainly haven’t put enough effort lately into either finding an agent or self-publishing it or e-publishing it, so I need to get back at it. Luckily for me, I wrote the book so it’s timeless, meaning that if an agent ever does take a chance even years from now, I’ll barely have to rewrite it. Just transform 2005 Chevrolet Impalas into 2016 Nissan Leafs, and things like that.

So today’s blog, then a blog on Saturday Aug. 20 to catch people up on things, then the final one Wednesday Sept. 7. The whole thing a little confusing? Maybe, but I’m a little confused myself these days – kind of like a tourist in New York City.

Thanks for reading. I’ve really enjoyed blogging.

Kevin

Distorted Reality

I must be turning into a 14-year-old teenage girl.

I've been watching too many TV reality shows lately, mostly for all the gossip and drama that accompanies them. This became especially evident Thursday night when I was affixed to the season premieres of Project Runway and LA Ink.

Don't know why I watch Project Runway – I'm certainly not a clothes horse. Maybe I'm attracted to the design artistry that's involved. By the way, this season I'm rooting for the straight guy. Oh, wait – there aren't any.

As for LA Ink, again I like the artistry. I'm impressed when clients bring in pictures of people's faces they want tattooed on their arms, and the tattooists make the finished tattoos look exactly like the pictures. Speaking of which, bad move by Kat Von D to get a big likeness of fiancé Jesse James tattooed on her underarm, then the couple broke up in real life a week after the taping of that particular episode.

Okay, I need to stop. Gotta go listen to my Justin Bieber CD.

Burn, Baby, Burn

Lose weight and increase metabolism in a healthy, scientific way?

Nope, this isn't a Billy Mays (deceased) commercial. I wrote an article this week on research advancements at the University of Tennessee, and interviewed Joy Fisher with the UT Research Foundation. She mentioned quite a few upcoming medical breakthroughs at UT, including:

“We're backing a company that has developed a can't-miss, scientific weight loss product called Innutria,” Joy said. “Innutria is a food ingredient with a specific blend of natural nutrients, which when added to food or a beverage helps your body burn fat and increase metabolism.”

Joy doesn't yet know the launch date (it will be soon) or where Innutria will be sold. Innutria.com will have updates.

Speaking of Food

My friend Tony visited Sea World the other day, then relayed this joke:

“Why does Sea World have a seafood restaurant? I'm halfway through my fish burger and I realize, Oh my…I could be eating a slow learner.”

Johnson Rod

My last blog pointed out how proud I was of ridding our house of ants, then followed that achievement by painting the entire downstairs of our two-story house. But since pride goeth before a fall, I could almost count on something else popping up at home to quell my enthusiasm.

Sure enough, only hours after last Saturday’s blog was posted, our air conditioning unit went on the fritz. Luckily, our home is cooled by two pumps – one for the upstairs and one for downstairs -- with the pump failing for the upstairs. Everyone in the family stayed downstairs for the remainder of Saturday and all of Sunday, with the temperature upstairs reaching 99 degrees one time when I checked.

The repairman was at our house at 8 a.m. Monday and gave me a detailed explanation of the problem, and I was pleased that the bottom line for fixing the unit was only $120.

“Yeah, it was your start capacitor,” the repairman began to tell me. “Those capacitors used to run on oil but the government ended all that with the environment thing, so now every capacitor wears out after maybe three years of torque-starts to cycle the motor.”

“Do what?” I thought to myself.

I can hold a pretty good conversation about cars and most home improvement projects, but air conditioners and furnaces – not so much. The guy could have told me that the air conditioner needed a new Johnson rod and I would have gone along with it.

Sorry. Only Seinfeld fans would understand that Johnson rod reference.

The Bell Tolls

Back when I attended grades K-12 and then took six years to earn my four-year college degree, I never began a school year prior to Labor Day weekend. The first day of a new school year was always Sept. 5 or 6 or 7.

That’s why it always surprises me when wife Jenny, a teacher at Spring Hill (Tenn.) Elementary School, begins every school year at the end of July. Jenny was back at school this week on July 25 to attend teacher and administration meetings in anticipation of students arriving back to class this coming Monday, Aug. 1.

But there is actually a method to this madness of being in school with basically two months of summer remaining, as current-day temperatures hover around 95 degrees. Spring Hill and the rest of the overseeing Maury County Public Schools district adheres to a year-round school calendar, with everything beginning in late July and ending in late May. The late May graduation is one advantage of year-round schools – I never graduated from any grade prior to June 14 or 15.

Plus the year-round schools get two weeks of vacation in October, a long Christmas vacation, and a two-week vacation in the spring. However, that is being altered a bit this year by having some days cut from both the fall and spring vacations, then those cut-days are being added to dates throughout the year that will allow for a few three-day weekends and a few four-day weekends.

Jenny says she likes the year-round calendar.

“We still get a full two months for summer vacation, and looking forward to that break in October is really nice,” she says.

So good luck, Spring Hill Elementary and all Maury County Public Schools as you already embark upon 2011-2012. It’s still boiling hot outdoors, so I hope all classrooms have good air conditioning units that have no chance of Johnson rods ever breaking.

Humble Home

Being a homeowner is tough. There always seems to be something to fix, upgrade or address.

Two weeks ago a colony of ants charged into my living room like a Marine invasion, and the reason for their unwelcome appearance remains a mystery to this day. But a quick trip to Home Depot followed by strategic positioning of ant traps got rid of the pests overnight.

Then last week I decided to paint the entire first floor interior of our two-story home, fully confident that it would be an easy undertaking. Oh, how wrong I was, what with the taping, ladder-climbing, sanding, priming, spackling, caulking, rolling, edging and trim work.

I figured it would take 3-4 days to complete everything, but I wasn’t able to rest until the seventh day. The whole project moved slower than rush hour traffic, but you know what? Now that it’s finished and I look it over, I couldn’t be happier with my accomplishment.

But as I walk around as proud as a peacock today, the next home problem will surely occur tomorrow. Today I’m a peacock. Tomorrow, a feather duster.

Horizontal Author

I’ve always heard that author Truman Capote was strange, which was somewhat proven to me this week when I read about his writing style.

Capote, who penned classics such as Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, claimed to be “a completely horizontal author.” He always wrote lying down, in bed or on a couch, with a cigarette and coffee. The coffee would switch to tea, then sherry, then martinis as the day wore on.

Capote said he wrote his first and second drafts in longhand, in pencil. And even his third draft, on a typewriter, would be done in bed – with the typewriter balanced on his knees.

Where’s Gramma?

A quick joke e-mailed to me yesterday by friend Mike:

“You have to stay in shape,” Mike says. “My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She’s 87 today and we don’t know where she is.”

Mrs. Kracht

What is the capital of Nevada? Carson City!

What’s the capital of Washington? Olympia!

What’s the capital of Maine? Augusta!

I found out last week that my old fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kracht, passed away a couple months ago at her home in Ferndale, Mich. I don’t remember many of my former teachers – I vaguely recall one from second grade, another from sixth grade, one from high school and a couple from college – but Mrs. Kracht stood out. She had innovative and fun ways of getting her students to learn, and to this day I remember competing in row races to learn all of the U.S. state capitals.

Mrs. Kracht would sit at her desk and announce a state (for example, New Mexico) at which time the first students in each of the six rows in her classroom would rush to the front blackboard, grab a piece of chalk, write Santa Fe on the board, then run back to the second student in their respective row and hand off the chalk – all while Mrs. Kracht was announcing the second state.

The pandemonium in the classroom was uproarious, and her students excelled. I still know all of the state capitals to this day.

Mrs. Kracht was a lady who exuded kindness in everything she did. Someone once told me that you should live so well that when you die, even the undertaker will be unhappy. Mrs. Kracht lived life as well as it can be lived.

The capital of West Virginia? It’s Charleston, Mrs. Kracht.

Heaven Is for Real

My mother read a book the other day entitled Heaven Is For Real, then called to chat about it.

“Kevin, I no longer have any anxiety about dying and going to heaven,” she said. “This is such a beautiful book. It brought me to tears every chapter.”

The true-story New York Times bestseller details small-town Nebraska pastor Todd Burpo, whose then-four-year-old son, Colton, suffered from an undiagnosed ruptured appendix. After emergency surgery, little Colton began describing people who were impossible for him to have seen or met, such as his miscarried sister who nobody had told him about, and his great grandfather who died 30 years before Colton was born.

“It’s so amazing that I’ve started reading it a second time,” my mom said yesterday.

End With a Joke

My Uncle Rich loves to tell jokes, and told me this one last week:

A man has six children and is very proud of his achievement. He is so proud of himself that he starts calling his wife “Mother of Six” in spite of her objections.

One night they go to a big party. The man decides it’s time to go home and shouts to his wife at the top of his voice across a crowded room, “Shall we go home, Mother of Six?”

His wife, irritated by her husband’s lack of discretion, shouts back:

“Anytime you’re ready, Father of Four!”

Flowers in Concrete

Stephen King says he writes 10 pages every day without fail, even on holidays.

That tidbit is from his book On Writing, which provides insightful advice on the craft. I was thumbing through it this week and came upon a chapter where King discusses pace. I’ve always thought that fast-paced writing results in enjoyable reading, and was pleased to find out that King feels the same.

“Mostly when I think of pacing, Elmore Leonard explained it perfectly by saying that when he writes, he leaves out the boring parts,” King says. “Take out the fluff so you don’t intrude on the story. Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

Rewrite 44 Times

While King writes 10 pages a day, other greats had different routines. Ernest Hemingway wrote only 500 words daily, but was meticulous. Someone once asked him why he rewrote the final chapter to Farewell to Arms – supposedly 44 times.

Hemingway’s answer: “To get the words right.”

Like Hemingway, author James Joyce prided himself on taking his time with each sentence. A famous story has a friend asking Joyce on the street if he’d had a good day writing.

“Yes, I did,” Joyce replied.

“How much did you write today?” the friend asked.

“Three sentences,” Joyce happily answered.

Act Two

I started a second book yesterday. I think writing a book is the hardest thing I do without getting a hernia. It’s as difficult as growing flowers in concrete. But there are some moments in life that have an indescribable loveliness to them, and I experienced one yesterday after penning a satisfying paragraph.

So act two has begun, of a continuing adventure where I never feel quite alright.

What the Faulkner?

Just exactly like father if father had known as much about it the night before I went out there as he did the day after I came back thinking mad impotent old man who realized at last that there must be some limit even to the capabilities of a demon for doing harm, who must have seen his situation as that of the show girl, the pony, who realizes that the principle tune she prances comes not from horn and fiddle and drum but from a clock and calendar, must have seen himself as the old worn-out cannon which realizes that it can deliver just one more fierce shot and crumble to dust in his own furious dust and recoil,

…

Oh, my gosh. That 120-word, long-winded beginning of a sentence is from William Faulkner’s 1936 novel Absalom, Absalom!, which I purchased and then began reading this week. Faulkner holds the record for the longest sentence ever published in a book – 1,257 words in Absalom, Absalom! – and it runs from page 181 to page 184.  I bought the book specifically to read that passage, and did yesterday. In the pantheon of sentence writing, it is a freak.

As for the novel itself, I’ve battled my way through the first fatiguing chapter and encountered quite a few sentences that are 400-500 words in length. Good grief, William. Were periods frowned upon in 1936?

No Blog Fog

Friends Roy and Diane asked me last week if I still enjoy blogging, and I do. It’s challenging. Who knows? If one of my eventual 7 books sells someday, I can put together a little compilation of these 104 blogs that I’ll end up with from this first book endeavor.

Andrea my niece just told me about a woman in Omaha who has been approached to do a book based on that woman’s blogs. Write on, all writers.

Watts New

I took an enjoyable ride in an all-electric car last week, a 2011 Nissan Leaf, that friend Mark purchased for himself and wife Karen. Very nice car and plenty of hop as Mark and I punched it along the freeway, hitting 85 mph in mere seconds.

Gasoline barons obviously dislike the Leaf, but an eventual major conversion to electric vehicles seems inevitable for America’s driving future. Congratulations, Mark and Karen, for being way ahead of the game.

Calm Frozen Face

And now, as I inwardly emit a blood-curdling scream of anguish, let me share with you the final 98 words from Faulkner’s 1,257-word sentence:

…carry him up the front steps and through the paintless formal door beneath its fanlight imported pane by pane from Europe which Judith held open for him to enter with no change, no alteration in that calm frozen face she had worn for four years now, and on up the stairs and into the bedroom and put him to bed like a baby and then lie down himself on the floor beside the bed though not to sleep since before dawn the man on the bed would stir and groan and Jones would say, ‘Hyer I am, Kernel.

Hurray. A period.

Write Stuff

I am a charter member of the fraternity of dreamers, so I will begin writing my second book this coming week as I embark upon an 11-day vacation. I don’t want to divulge the subject just yet because I’m superstitious. All I can say is that I’m filled with verve and vigor as I look forward to book-writing again.

My goal is have the first draft written by the end of August and then clean it up throughout September, which is my favorite month of the year. I want to keep this schedule because I’m actually itching to get a third book started.

The third will be especially sinister. Won’t it, Natasha Stone?

Crazy Lucky Isn’t Dead

The start of a second book doesn’t mean that I’ve given up on Crazy Lucky Dead. No, that’s not the case at all.

I still haven’t heard anything from the three agents who contacted me a couple months ago and showed a modicum of interest, so I’m assuming that they have long rejected my project. Therefore, yesterday I e-mailed five more query packages as I begin actively trolling again for agents, as if they were largemouth bass.

Absalom, Absalom!

Reading a book? I haven’t done that in ages but decided to tackle a classic by a writer who many regard as the most difficult author of all time. I accessed amazon.com this past week and ordered a copy of Absalom, Absalom!, written in 1936 by William Faulkner.

I bought the book for one main reason, and I’ll share that with you in Wednesday’s blog – after I’ve slogged through the first couple of excruciatingly difficult chapters.

News of the World

Admission of guilt: My favorite newspaper in the world is the sensationalistic New York Post, and my favorite weekly tabloid is the National Enquirer. The irreverence of both publications intrigue me, and many stories they run simply serve as poignant eyewitnesses to man’s imperfection.

So I was stunned this week – along with millions of other people around the globe – when officials with News of the World newspaper in London announced they are discontinuing operations of the long-standing lurid publication. The final issue prints tomorrow after 168 years of being England’s top-selling paper.

Yes, it has been in business non-stop since 1843. The newspaper’s owner, Rupert Murdoch, is stopping the presses following scandalous accusations that the paper’s top editorial officials illegally eavesdropped on the phone messages of murder and terror victims as well as politicians and celebrities.

News of the World, which sold more than 2.5 million copies every Sunday for decades, now sees 200 employees out of jobs. In these days of newspapers dying for a variety of economic reasons, here is a wildly successful one that meets its demise for an entirely different reason.

Cause of death? Unscrupulous suicide.

Open Vent

Quick change of plans: Today I'm flying to Orlando for a big party at Hooter's. I hear Casey Anthony is already there.

Interesting that you can kill your child or have knowledge of how they died, then hire a snake-tongued lawyer and ultimately go free to continue your gallivanting lifestyle. Casey Anthony is lucky she didn’t go to prison, because hardened inmates think child killers are the lowest form of human life.

But from what I’m hearing, many people think she’ll now be killed in the free world. Party hard while you can, murderer.

Baby Gaga

MTV – is that an acronym for Maternity Television?

Much of its programming these days focuses on reality shows about 16-year-old girls who are pregnant. And once they give birth, viewers can enjoy their fascinating journeys into ridicule, despair and welfare.

That's good entertainment, MTV. But who am I to talk? I’m looking forward to Jersey Shore returning.

Great Gurgitators

On a somewhat comical note, did any of you watch the Nathan’s Famous Hotdog Eating Contest on ESPN July 4? The winner was Joey “Jaws” Chestnut, who in 10 minutes ate 62 hotdogs, including the buns.

Chestnut defeated competitors such as Erik “The Red” Denmark, the current world champion of smelt eating; Tim “Gravy” Brown, the reigning potato wedge-eating world champion; and Bob “Notorious B.O.B.” Shoudy, the world's current chili spaghetti champion.

To the scoffers among you, including any of you who live in Missouri, I'm not making this up.

The ESPN announcers said that for normal people, it takes about two minutes to devour maybe 3-4 hotdogs if we hurry. Chestnut had 12 hotdogs and buns eaten in the first minute, and a total of 20 after two minutes on his way to 62. No wonder he is holder of the coveted Yellow Mustard Belt.

Oh, and the reason why champion eaters drink water basically after every bite, or soak every bun in water? The water takes all the air out of the hotdog buns, making them easier to slide down the esophagus.

Geez, I know entirely too much about this.

Left Eye Lopes

Warning: I’m all over the place today.
Gimme a Brake
The recent car crash and death of Jackass star Ryan Dunn prompted the askmen.com website to post a list of Top 10 Celebrities Who Have Died in Car Crashes. Thanks, Natasha and Lisa, for giving me a heads up about this, and yes, I correctly guessed the No. 1 death – James Dean.
But me, being a trivia nut – how did I not come up with No. 2, which seemed so obvious? The answer never even crossed my mind. Of course, Princess Diana would rank high on that list.
The rest of the top 10 dead car-crashers in order were Grace Kelly, Jayne Mansfield, Gen. George S. Patton, Jackson Pollack, Porfirio Rubirosa, Billy Martin, Steve Prefontaine and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes.
Book It
My big boss, Bob, and friend, Maurice, both suggested at lunch the other day that perhaps I should publish 25 of my books myself locally, then I can keep about 15 and maybe hand out 10 as mementoes of my initial push-to-publish experience.
Then, if an agent eventually shows interest in Crazy Lucky Dead, that would be fine, but if nothing happens, at least I’d have a handful of copies as keepsakes. Maybe I’ll do that – I don’t know yet.
Barry True
A longtime friend, Barry, lives in Cleveland and is a diehard Browns football fan, and he called last week to talk sports. First, we both hope the NFL has a 2011 season, given that the lockout is now in its third month.
“How’s things look in Nashville? Your Tennessee Titans any good?” Barry asked.
“Nah, I’m thinkin’ 6 or 7 wins this year – they’re rebuilding,” I said. “But hey, we’ll never be as bad as your Browns. You guys are horrible every year.”
“I blame management,” Barry instantly answered. “They can never find any good players. Those idiots couldn’t find their ass with both hands and an ass map.”
He sighed, then continued.
“And I blame the coaches and players,” he said. “If they’d give 100 percent every Sunday, maybe we’d win more than 4 or 5 blasted games a year."
He sighed again.
"But I really blame my parents," Barry said. “If I was born in Pittsburgh instead of Cleveland, I could root for a decent team."

Columbo

Wikipedia gets checked by me every week to see if any celebrities died, so I can keep up on pop culture. Their deaths never affect me one way or the other, although I remember being sad for two entire days when Dale Earnhardt was killed in February 2001. I’m a NASCAR fan and Earnhardt was always my favorite driver, and his shocking death hit me hard.
Other than that, I’ve never been sad about another celebrity’s passing until I heard last Saturday morning that actor Peter Falk died.
“Oh, man,” I muttered and was legitimately sad for the day.
Falk became famous on TV in the late 1970s for playing the role of detective Lt. Columbo, but all the episodes aired as reruns throughout the 1990s on the Biography channel, which is how I got hooked on the series. Columbo was a cigar stub-smoking, wrinkled raincoat-wearing, old beat up Peugeot car-driving, irritating murder-solving genius. The show was groundbreaking because in almost all Columbo episodes, the murder occurred early and the TV audience knew who did it, then the plot steadily unwound as Columbo eventually figured things out for himself and nailed the killer.
I mention Peter Falk today because Columbo was kind of an inspiration for my Crazy Lucky Dead book. A murder in CLD takes place somewhat early, then the psychological bizarreness of the main characters is showcased throughout the rest of the novel.
A quick fact about Peter Falk himself – he was blind in one eye due to cancer at age 3. Falk’s daughter, Catherine, offered this anecdote about her father at his eulogy.
“My fond memories of Dad include watching him on Hollywood sets, and taking family trips with him to the California mountains,” she said. “Oh, I also remember many exciting car rides because that man behind the steering wheel had only one eye.”
Look into the AbyssStill no word from any agents. I’ve pretty much given up hope and am starting my next book when I go on vacation in mid July.
“You’ve given up?” wife Jenny remarked when she read the draft of this blog. “Get back on your horse and start mailing and emailing packets again – there are hundreds of agents out there. You’re not giving up so easily on your dream, are you?”
I’m a Seinfeld fan, and that was the exact sentence that Jerry once spoke to Newman when Newman, a mailman, said he had given up hope of ever getting a mail route in the paradise state of Hawaii.
“You’re not giving up so easily on your dream, are you?” Jerry asked.
“I usually do,” Newman answered.
Okay, I won’t yet. There aren’t many things I dislike more than mailing query letters and trolling for literary agents, but just about everything I’ve ever dreaded doing in my life has actually turned out well.
Wait a second. I’m out of stamps. There goes the dream.

Gut Check

Aaaahheeeeyaaahhheeeeeeee!

That Mardi Gras scream is in tribute to the first Cajun meal I’ve ever eaten, which was two days ago. Co-worker Mark and I bought lunch for another co-worker, Marcus, who is leaving the company, and we all decided on Cajun because Marcus and I never had such food, and Mark barely has.

Three bloody Marys (a going-away toast) were followed by six appetizers and two soups, and those eight different menu items allowed us to sample a lot of famed New Orleans dishes all in one sitting. The appetizers were hog-tied shrimp, crawfish etouffee, boudin, red beans and sausage, crab cakes and fire shrimp, along with seafood gumbo and jambalaya soup.

Amazing, amazing meal. One of the best lunches ever. When the waitress first served all the food, our table looked beautiful. It was as eye-pleasing as a Bob Ross painting.

“My favorite dish? The hog-tied shrimp,” Marcus said following the feast.

“I gotta go with the fire shrimp,” Mark said.

“The crawfish etouffee for me,” I chimed in.

We all agreed that all eight selections were incredible. Who dat? We dat. Great Cajun cuisine.

Hives

A quick shout out to another co-worker, Jeff, who has a sideline beekeeping and honey production operation. Jeff bottles honey under a Tru Bee brand name, and his honey was just highlighted in the July 2011 issue of Cooking Light magazine. Cooking Light is a national monthly publication with a circulation of 1 million readers.

I bought a bottle of Tru Bee a few weeks ago because my son Andrew has bad allergies, and I’ve heard that natural bee’s honey – specifically produced in the part of the country where you live – is a medicinal wonder. Well, it has certainly helped Andrew, to the point where he hasn’t needed his Friday allergy shots for the past two weeks.

Congratulations, Jeff…and Andrew, too.

Cowhide

I was walking along the street the other day when a lady approached me and angrily pointed at my suede jacket.

“It makes me sick that cows are used for food and clothes,” she yelled. “Y’know, a cow was murdered for your jacket!”

“Ma’am, I didn't know there were any witnesses,” I said. “Now I'll have to kill you, too.” 

Just a joke. Sorry if I offended any cows.

Just Foul

I was walking around the stadium between games of the College World Series in Omaha four years ago and noticed a young boy, maybe 8 years old, approach a player from the University of South Carolina baseball team.
“Could I please have your autograph?” the boy politely asked, even though he probably had no idea who the player was. The little baseball fan just wanted an autograph from a baseball player.
“No, kid. I don’t have time for that. No,” groused the South Carolina player, even though it was between games and he was doing nothing except shooting the breeze with a couple of teammates.
The dejected youngster walked away and the arrogant player spit on the ground, then continued talking about nothing with his chums. Maybe it was an isolated incident and that player was a jerk of a human being, but I’ve never forgotten that scene and will never root for the University of South Carolina in anything.
That’s right. If South Carolina had a ballgame today against Al-Qaeda, I’d probably root for Al-Qaeda. Well, not quite that far but you get my drift.
Decline and Fall
I’ve never considered sports stars to be idols or heroes, and tend to cringe whenever those words are used to describe these celebrities. I once read The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and one of the key messages in the book was that the Roman public literally worshipped their athletes.
The common citizens adored their gladiators, and lavished chariot racers and other sports luminaries with huge amounts of money and privilege. Sound familiar?
Ted Williams
Now, let me turn this blog around. I once was in Florida watching spring training baseball and met Ted Williams, who the media historically characterized as a despicable cuss. I found myself only steps from the retired slugging great and not many people were around, so I took a shot at asking him for his autograph. I’m not an autograph seeker by any means, but Ted Williams is Ted Williams.
“Mr. Williams, could I please have your autograph?” I asked with nervous trepidation.
“Yeah, sure. You got somethin’ to write with?” he answered.
I had a small notepad and a blue pen in my pocket, and he signed one of the notepad pages. Ted Williams isn’t my hero or idol, but he proved to me that sports celebrities can at least be role models if they want. All it takes is a little effort.
Shh, Movie’s Starting
I’m movie illiterate – I haven’t seen a movie in eons, because I really don’t enjoy them. Maybe I have a short attention span, but if a movie starts slow or sags at any point, my will to keep watching gets crushed like an ice cream cone under an 18-wheeler.
However, I’m taking a vacation soon and my list of relaxing things to do includes watching the DVDs of Citizen Kane and Napoleon Dynamite, both for the first time in my life. Several people have long told me that I must see these movies, so I’ll make the monumental effort and get it over with.
But before all that, my son Andrew has somehow wheedled me into taking him to see the new Cars 2 movie, which apparently debuts this weekend. I guess he wants some dad time and even though I dread films, I’ll go with a positive attitude because I sure don’t want to disappoint the boy.
Not like that South Carolina ballplayer did.

Fanaticals

Many who like sports also enjoy the violent aspect of the games. I do.
The controlled mayhem of football, the brawls of a championship boxing match, the hitting and fury of a playoff hockey game. Sports can appeal to the primal beast in us.
The now-infamous Wednesday night riots in Vancouver following a Stanley Cup playoff hockey game has garnered plenty of negative commentary internationally about the fans of Vancouver. Someone wrote that Canadians love hockey so much that it takes precedence over all facets of their lives, including civilized behavior.
Watching scenes of Vancouver residents rioting that night was like watching war footage from the Middle East. Ten guys beating up one guy, mobs flipping over trucks, fans throwing newspaper stands through store windows, looters wearing goalie masks, rioters throwing tear gas canisters back at police – those are images I’ll remember for a long time.
I’m sure alcohol along with anger over hometown Vancouver losing to the Boston Bruins had much to do with the violence, but even if you’re drunk and mega-outraged that your team lost, shouldn’t you still have enough human sense to keep yourself under the slightest of control? I mean, CNN reported that one innocent guy on the streets was wearing a Boston jersey and got stabbed in the neck, and is still in critical condition today.
I had a violent experience years ago in a Detroit bar when a fight broke out while a packed house watched playoff hockey on TV, and I suddenly and unwillingly found myself in the middle of escalating mob chaos. One maniac rooting for the opposing team pulled out a knife and started slashing wildly at everything, and cut my left forearm badly. I still have the scar today.
I guess my point is that crazed sports fans have a different mentality than people in normal society. I’ve always heard that Vancouver is a beautiful and progressive community, but whenever I think of that city from now on, memories of riot videos posted on YouTube will be what I think of first.
Trivia Pursuit
Speaking of sports, today Vanderbilt opens the 2011 NCAA College World Series vs. North Carolina at 1 p.m. in Omaha. Win or lose, Vandy will always be part of a trivia answer.
Question: Who were the first 2 teams ever to play a College World Series game in the brand new TD Ameritrade Park baseball stadium in Omaha?
Answer: Vanderbilt and North Carolina.
So go, Vanderbilt, go. I sure hope you win. But if you don’t, I won’t storm into my garage and flip-over my truck, then light it on fire.

Soapboxy Today

Why didn’t Google draw a graphic about Flag Day on its search engine home page yesterday?

You’d think these days when patriotism and our military are often on many people’s minds, Google would have observed such an occasion. I guess they only recognize things like Mozart’s 255th birthday. Last week, they even devoted two days to celebrating guitarist Les Paul’s 96th birthday.

Two days for a birthday? His mother must have had a difficult delivery.

Law of Average

I’m watching Judge Judy last evening and there were four commercials for slip-and-fall lawyers during the half-hour I watched. I read a couple days ago that Chinese universities are currently graduating 1,000 engineers for every 100 lawyers, while the United States is graduating 1,000 lawyers for every 100 engineers.

The U.S. falling further behind in math, science and engineering? I rest my case.

Khloe Who?

My wife likes any reality show with the Kardashian sisters in it, but I have trouble watching because they all have such nasal, whiney voices. However, I have seen enough of them to know the only reason why they are such a money machine.

The Kardashians owe their entire empire to one distinct-and-famous body part on Kim. I honestly believe that. I’d bet my ass on it.