The Numbers Game

Math was my weakest subject in high school. Starting when I was fifteen -- though I'd always been a doodler, a scribbler, a daydreamer -- the right side of my brain got the better of me, and it has, thank the stars, resulted in a happy creative life. Still, I use just enough basic arithmetic to get by.

2016 was one of my most productive years ever -- my second best in term of number of words written, totaling some 478,000 and change. Add to that number at least another 30,000 in the form of a novel started in November, three short stories, and a screenplay all waiting to be completed in 2017. I finished 75 individual fiction projects -- 1 novel in July, 14 novellas, and the rest a mix of short stories and 1 flash weighing in at 100 words ("Catching Snowflakes" is presently on a very short list at a major publication project, waiting to learn if it's going to the dance). Last year, I sold 50 short stories and 4 of those novellas. In early October, on a warm, bright afternoon spent writing on my sun porch, I penned The End on my 1,200th work of fiction. All of my big numbers, dating back to my teen years, have been Space:1999 stories -- 1, 50, 100, 500, and 1,000. 1,200 was no different, thanks to my novella, "The Tomorrows", a powerfully personal, emotional experience that I was fortunate enough to share with the members of my writers' group over several weeks of meetings.

I went on 8 adventures in 2016 to destinations far and wide. Starting last February, I spent a wonderful weekend in Massachusetts, taking in the gala book launch of Murder Ink (which contains my short mystery, "Exhuming Secrets on a Hot August Day") in Boston, where the publisher treated us like royalty during a luncheon, reading, and signing. A month later, I was off to the first of 2 5-day trips to When Words Count, a luxury retreat center for writers in Vermont, where I split time between the Hemingway Room and Mark Twain Suite, and banged out a total of 6 first drafts (and much of that aforementioned screenplay). In May, I jetted off to Hollywood to attend the Roswell Awards, where my short story "Mandered" won Honorable Mention. In June, I enjoyed the wonderful retreat/workshop Writing From Nature. In September, I was off to not 1 but 2 writing adventures -- to the annual Writelines conference and workshop held on Star Island in the Isles of Shoals, and a return to the Waterfall House with members of my stellar writers' group. That same month, on September 18, I also got married to my longtime partner Bruce on the front lawn of our beautiful old house on the hill, Xanadu. The ceremony was attended by 37 friends and family members, who somehow all squeezed into our downstairs for the reception.

(arrival to the Twain Suite in mid-October)

As the autumn progressed, I was writing with a kind of tireless fire, and knew I was in for excellent numbers come the end of the year. But I also sensed a kink in my health, which I noticed (and foolishly ignored) on the first day of my Star Island adventure. The day after a marvelous Thanksgiving, I started to shiver, and over the course of the next two days, it grew worse. I also found myself unable to stand upright for long. On November 28, I went to our local hospital and was admitted. It would be 24 days before I was released to come home to family, Xanadu, and muse. During that time, I had surgery to remove a deep bone infection, suffered a severe allergic reaction to IV antibiotics, and, spurred on by the overwhelming desire to be home (and to attend the second Murder Ink gala launch in Boston at the end of February -- Ink 2 contains my sports-themed mystery "Murder at Channel Ten"), dove into a fierce commitment to physical therapy -- if the wonderful therapists suggested I do 5 minutes of reps on a machine in the gym, I did 8. If they wanted me to do 20 leg lifts, I did 30. During my hospital stay, I wrote 3 short stories based upon hallucinations I suffered the night following surgery. I jotted notes on a 4th (which I wrote upon my return home days before Christmas). Back at Xanadu, I was able to walk again -- for every 1 day spent bedridden in the hospital, according to the nursing staff, it takes 3 to get back on steady legs, a mathematical figure that terrified me...and one I was determined to best.

Healthy (and down some 13 pounds), I found my way back to my desk and loved every second of being in my home once more, my own bed, and, especially, my home office, where I got into my old groove and completed several more stories before 2016 ran out. So many, in fact, that for the first time since I was in my middle-20s, my list of as-yet-unwritten story ideas dropped below 100. January 1, 2017 kicked off with 99!

And I have 1 last number to report about. As I type this post, this small, beloved blog is just 53 reads shy of earning it's 100,000th. Thank you to all the readers from across the globe who've taken time to follow my writing adventures -- here's to a million more!

Octoberfest

(Ghostly mist surrounds the retreat house on Saturday, October 27, 2012)

From Sunday, October 21 through the morning of the 28th, I retreated to a lovely little lodge house in North Conway, New Hampshire.  The house sits beneath the bald granite summit of Cathedral Ledge, a celebrated peak in the White Mountains. Standing on the wrap-around deck, one gazes up and there is the mountain.  Beyond that, only sky.  It is a breathtaking spot to sit and ponder, to dream.  I did both quite often during the week, the culmination to an October quite unlike any other during which I traveled, gave readings, and found myself with some brilliant new opportunities. Unexpected adventure was everywhere I turned in this mysterious month, which has always ranked among my favorite times of the year.

October kicked off with an incredible trip to Rochester, Vermont.  I was among a handful of scribes who won a free stay at When Words Count Retreat Center, a new high-end destination designed to pamper writers and help them to achieve their dreams.  As described in previous posts, my stay was above and beyond magnificent.  Truly, my time there will forever rank as one of the most enjoyable of my adult life.  Words flowed, as did a level of creative energy too rare in this era where publishing is being transformed before our eyes.  WWC is a gift I intend to give myself again, and the relationships I established with the retreat center's director and owners, by all outward signs, will lead to several exciting and mutually-beneficial work opportunities in the near future and down the pike.

(A favorite chair -- and pillow -- in the Stein Salon at When
Words Count Retreat Center)

My time at When Words Count came close on the heels of my trip to Star Island, another fantastic and productive adventure in which fresh pages and inspiration were in decent supply. Linking the two retreats together was an opportunity to write for a television series that literally fell out of the sky. Producers seeking to reboot one of the smartest and most thrilling TV shows of all time contacted me based upon work of mine they'd read (including a post on this very blog!), and I was brought on board the new production team.  While my NDA letter prevents me from discussing the project at this stage, I believe the work we are doing has the potential to be huge.  My enthusiasm for this particular gig has been a daily constant since and is responsible for several though hardly all the wide, giddy grins I am guilty of flashing throughout my stay at When Words Count.

Two days after returning from Vermont, I found myself back in the car driving north to give a reading at the Barley House in Concord, New Hampshire.  I and several contributors from the fabulous line of anthologies published by Rick Broussard, New Hampshire Pulp Fiction, entertained a significant crowd of devotees with samples of our stories.  My tale of Combat Science Fiction and sacrifice, "The Moths," is slated to appear in the latest release.  Rick asked me to read from the very first volume, Live Free or Undead, which contains my story "Road Rage."  Quite a few of my Wednesday night writer's group's members showed to support me, and I took to the stage amid thunderous applause.  I dedicated my reading to, "The courageous men and women of Moonbase Alpha" and was then asked to stick around to help judge a flash fiction contest put on by the fine folk at The New Hampshire Writers' Project.

(Reading from "Road Rage" at the Barley House)

I returned home and, seemingly in the blink of an eye, it was time to depart for North Conway, a return exactly one year to the date from a previous visit.  I and two of my pals from the writer's group moseyed north, stopping in Tilton, New Hampshire to shop for groceries and other needed provisions, and arrived early to find the house as lovely and welcoming as I remember. Sunlight rained down and a temperate breeze stirred the last of the colored leaves.  And there was Cathedral Ledge, visible from half the house's windows.  Our first night there, I made prime rib and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.  We drank iced coffee, cold sodas, seltzer with wedges of lemon, wrote, and relaxed in front of a roaring log fire.

Beds and accommodations at that house are wonderfully comfortable, the owner, Maureen Parziale, a delight -- hence the annual return.  And my creative output was no less solid than during my two previous retreat stays on Star Island and at When Words Count.  I put the nib of my fountain pen to page and dashed off the last two chapters of my modern Gothic novel full of grand guignol and dark family secrets, Blinders.  On Monday, I had a long and thrilling phone conversation with WWC's Jon Reisfeld regarding one of the possible writing work opportunities looming on the very near horizon, and then received an email from an editor seeking multiple short stories of mine for a new anthology he is putting together for German book publisher Bruno Gemuender.  On Tuesday, I woke from a haunting dream and began to pen a new short story based upon the dream's quite solid bones.  Later that afternoon, I returned to the novel -- close, so very close, to its THE END.

(My novel in its first draft)

On Wednesday, while racing closer to the novel's conclusion, I received an email from Laura Baumbach, my editor at MLR Press, which released my M/M mystery novella, "Mason's Murder," this past August. Laura was contacted by the new director of The Lambda Literary Awards, who is apparently a fan of my work and who asked for me by name -- would I be interested in being a judge on this year's awards panel and chairing the Science Fiction/Horror/Fantasy category?  After the shock wore off I agreed that yes, indeed, I was most interested in the position. The next morning, I wrote the final pages of Blinders and felt like a million bucks.  Despite the novel's dark subject matter, it's a story that has haunted me from the moment the Muse dropped it onto my lap.  I am proud of its 310 pages/77,500 words.  After a spell, I intend to draw it out of the filing cabinet where it now rests and transcribe/edit onto the computer for submission.

On Saturday, I penned the entirety of "Mourning Doves in Limbo," a 2,500-word short story already promised to an editor. Our last night culminated with a reading from our works-in-progress, peanut butter cookies, and a late retiring to bed in preparation for an early start.  By ten on Sunday morning, the 28th, our happy writing retreat lodge sparkled after a solid cleaning, and we were on the road, headed south for home.  But the adventure was hardly ended because, as I type this on Monday, October the 29th, Hurricane Sandy is bearing down on our little Granite State.  The lights are still on, and all is snug and secure, though outside the windows and the happy lights in my office, the world is gray and tremulous.  It's been one hell of an October!

When Words Count Writers Retreat Part Two

Within a minute of my arrival to When Words Count Retreat Center, a new destination for writers nestled in a rambling country hollow between the mountain peaks of Rochester, Vermont, I knew I had found my way to one of the happiest places on the planet. Since the autumn of 1993, I have retreated to write regularly across the New England countryside, from inns to islands and all points in between.  That first retreat to Wentworth Mountain over the Halloween weekend of '93 changed my life forever -- I went there determined to either give up this 'writing thing' or to embrace it like my very life depended upon the outcome.  Circumstances clearly favored the latter; even at its darkest moments since, I have loved my life, lived it with joy and exuberance.  Wandering the happy halls of When Words Count was like stepping back nearly twenty years through time to that very first retreat where I drank copious amounts of Earl Grey tea, luxuriated before a roaring fire, and communed with my muse in an intimate way deeper than marrow or blood; on a soul level.

That Monday night, I and my fellow conferees -- the fabulous Amber Lisa, the inimitable Jan Cannon (who is penning an amazing book), Lisa Cordeiro, and writer singer/songwriter Chrissie Van Wormer -- lounged in the Gertrude Stein Salon for a reading of our works.  I had just the previous night gotten book galleys for my short story "Phantomime" which was selected to appear in the invite-only anthology Blood Rites, a forthcoming release from Blood Bound Books.  I read the story aloud and got some fantastic feedback, and then I was thrilled to hear Jan's pages, followed by Amber's.  Both ladies knocked it out of the park as far as I'm concerned.  I love being read to.  I love it when the writing is stellar, and it sure was.

I enjoyed one of the most rejuvenating night's sleep in recent memory and woke with the opening of a short story that has eluded me since the spring and my trip through America's quite-wild West.  After showering, I wandered downstairs to the Stein Salon and wrote almost the entirety of "Cruciform" before Chef Paul arrived to cook us yet another exquisite breakfast.  I powered through to the end of the short story and returned to my novel Blinders, which got a wonderful jump start at the retreat center following six years of languishing unfinished within fifty pages of its THE END.  The same sense of euphoria I experienced in 1993 on the mountain where I chose to be a writer (or, more to the point, the writing chose me) embraced me, and I caught myself smiling widely while seated in the salon with its bookcases and cozy furniture and views of the rolling hills dressed in vibrant autumn colors, savoring the moment.

As part of our stay, we five were each given one-hour consultations with Jon Reisfeld and Steve Eisner who, along with Eisner's lovely wife Nele, were gracious and delightful hosts. Our conversation, held at one in the afternoon on Tuesday at the J. D. Salinger Cottage (a gorgeous detached bungalow just up the hill from the main house and the barn) was so upbeat, so energetic, it has sustained me well after my return from Vermont.  There are great and exciting plans for professional writers being created at the retreat center.  Based upon what they'd seen -- my usual output of fresh pages, one after another -- and what they'd heard me read, Jon and Steve invited me to be part of the excitement, which will also include a return to the center to lecture and workshop with other writers not far down the road.  I skipped along the trail back to the main house following my consultation.  There, beaming, I indulged in that day's episode of my beloved soap General Hospital on the Stein Salon's flat-screen.

Dinner that night included the most delicious butternut squash soup I've ever had the joy of tasting, with creme fraiche and a toasted crouton. Succulent roasted chicken and cauliflower, leafy salads with heirloom tomato and a sweet balsamic dressing, and perhaps the best chocolate chip cookies in the history of the planet followed.

"With simple yet fine ingredients, you can make lavish meals.  You can create something that people really respond to," says Chef Paul Kremar, the culinary genius behind the retreat center's incredible gourmet fare.  "With a handful of ingredients, you can create food that is as good as anything you've ever put in your mouth."

Chef Paul, whose enthusiasm and aura radiated throughout not only the Julia Child kitchen but the dining room and the Stein Salon, where nightly he served up incredible appetizers, was a visible and welcome presence throughout my stay.

"I don't subscribe to that old school notion that the kitchen is the sole domain of the chef," he says. "People are fascinated with food and want an interactive experience.  I believe in the opposite of the old Gourmet Magazine philosophy, which had a 'don't try this at home!' mentality.  Here, I like to interact with you, maybe inspire you to show that you can try this at home after you leave.  Flavor and texture must always reign supreme, and local food gives you a strong footing in terms of quality.  But it should always be yummy.  My goal is to make it the yummiest for our guests."

On our final night, Lisa read her latest short story, a paranormal mystery, and Chrissie, too, shared from her present work-in-progress, both offerings engaging and a treat for the ear.  I retired to my room exhausted but also energized.  For days, I'd absorbed the details of my surroundings, the trees and flowers outside, the elegant antiques acquired from months of auctions, artwork, and the personalized author-specific touches to the rooms.  I slept well and woke rested on the last day of my stay, a rainy and overcast Wednesday.

Saying goodbyes at a conference or retreat are never easy, but no sense of melancholy hung over my departure from When Words Count.  Bruce arrived in our car on time, and off we drove through the bucolic, rain-lashed countryside, headed for home.  A few stops along the way for provisions, and we enjoyed a happy night snunkered down with the cats while rain hammered the State of New Hampshire. Since that afternoon, the amazing energy that infused the retreat has stayed with me, as have the connections made in that magical place, a gift I gave myself and one all writers should treat themselves to.  I am counting the time until I return to that little slice of literary Heaven-on-Earth!