It's Alive!

About two months ago, during the week of January 30th,  2012, I commenced to temporarily shutting down as a writer.  I put every one of my writing projects on indefinite hold, and I envisioned the main one -- the final revisions of my newest manuscript -- to be lying under the sheet in my imagined lab like Frankenstein's monster.  Or in the case of someone with a mechanical bent, like a car without an engine, sitting under a tarp in my imaginary garage.  Either way, you get the idea.  I was walking away from some unfinished woodshed projects, and even though I was leaving them as such, they were made tidy and clean in their incompleteness.

The next month would be an experimental excursion into corporate America, a journey that I had always fantasized about but never really had an opportunity to realize.  The ideal version of this fantasy starred me sitting in a cubicle doing my work quietly, whatever that work was, as long as it was my responsibility and as long as I could do it without much thought.  But in taking the opportunity that was available to me, I was unexpectedly thrust into a world in which I simply didn't belong, one in which I could not function in any healthy sense.  Sure, the month-long training was a snap.  I can navigate through any classroom-type situation being that I'm an admitted career student.  But graduate from the hypothetical and into the applied, and, well, I soon understood why I was approaching the age that I was and had not yet held a job in sales.  I have since decided to give teaching a second stab, having already done all of the legwork a few years ago to get into the system.  I just never did any actual teaching, putting it on hold as my musical opportunities took off.  Such has been the story all of my life.  And my music career is still well into liftoff, it's just that this year, I'm all about the Benjamins!  I am thankful, however, for my journey into that particular level of corporate America, reminding me of where I belong, teaching me that although I have no real confidence when it comes to arguing with small business owners about their business, that I can certainly argue with younger, less-experienced students whose education is my business.

Which brings me back to the monster under the sheet, and the thrill I allowed myself on Monday, March the 19th, 2012, when I yanked back the cover and revisited my works-in-progress.  The truth was that I really couldn't afford the time to think about them in any productive way, and on more than a few occasions, I've actively had to put my work out of my head.  I know, "Who doesn't?"  Sorry.  In my case that would be suicide.  It's what gets me out of bed in the morning.  Say what you want, I don't think that's any way for an artist to live.  And live I will, as will my work, both of us once again, alive!

"Midnight in Paris" (2011)

Writers have a certain universality of concern, and I know this not just because I'm a writer, but because there are books and films and music and all kids of art that reflect this commonality, stories that touch to the heart of what all writers tend to think are unique only to themselves, whether they truly are or not. 

And Woody Allen knows this.  Which is why "Midnight in Paris" has quickly become one of my all-time favorite "writer movies."

I first discovered "Midnight in Paris" last summer during a solo trip to the movies, satisfying both my need for a flick and my enduring fascination with the Woody Allen cinematic canvas.  The trailer didn't show much, and as the surprise of the plot unfolded, I understood why.  I hadn't felt that treated by a movie in quite some time, and it had everything to do with the fact that I am a writer and that there are others out there like me.

And Woody Allen knows this. 

I revisited the film recently after having the DVD handed to me on Christmas Day, and it held up completely on second viewing, and even a third viewing as I had it running in a little window on my Mac while I worked on my own writing.  What is it in particular that I found so alluring about this movie?  I love the idea that the Woody Allen-type protagonist, played this time by Owen Wilson, is a shameless Romantic who finds himself in Paris with the freedom to explore the city streets at night.  What he finds would be a spoiler here, but let's just say that he is left to his own devises to take these walks at midnight and explore the fantasies (and let's be clear here, his fantasies are more literary than anything, and there is nothing darker going on here), fantasies that, dare I say, are important only to a writer.  He rubs elbows with the literary elite who show interest in him and in his writing, who want to read his novel manuscript, and he returns to his hotel during the day to obsessively sort out not only the details of his nightly wanderings, but to also "re-write, and then re-write the re-writes," and he does it all with the wide-eyed enthusiasm that only a writer experiences when they know that they're in the right place at the right time.  The movie is in fact heavy on this theme, of one's position in life with relevance to some imagined ideal. 

And Woody Allen knows this, too.

If it seems like I'm latching onto the idea that only writers can appreciate this movie, I'm only saying that because the temperament certainly does allow one to experience the movie differently.  Otherwise, "Midnight in Paris" is not to be missed if one is a fan of the prolific Woody Allen, as this one easily goes down as one of his best if not the best of his annual offerings in recent years.

Revoking the Katrina Card

This is my New Year's post, which was inspired as I stared at the bonfire you see here on our property during our Christmas Eve celebration.  "How far I've come," I whispered to myself that night after everyone had left, standing over the glowing embers with my hands in my pockets.  But this is a mantra I say often.

I remember one trip back to New Orleans in late 2006, during which time I was still displaced and re-establishing my life in Birmingham, Alabama, when someone I barely knew asked me when I was coming back to the city.  My reply must have had something to do with Hurricane Katrina keeping me away, and I remember his response being almost as if he was under some spell, as if he was part of some communal group hug that the entire city was locked into during that period, one that prompted him to say, "That was a year ago!"

Yes, it had been a year ago at that point, but it was still fresh in the minds of those like myself who for whatever reason couldn't just "come back" to New Orleans.  It was an ironic time of great desperation and tremendous growth as I took care of my ailing mother far away from anything we were accustomed to.  I would in fact spend the months following the storm in a hotel room in Tuscaloosa, Alabama before moving farther north, and it is that balcony that I still consider the starting point to where I am today.

And today I am sober, with the only new comment I have on this subject in the new year being the realization that I would give anything to be this way for parents that are still alive.  Even though I know they realized I was sick, how wonderful would it have been to engage them at this level of maturity (pushed into existence as the result of Katrina) rather than the semi-volatile person that they knew as their son?  My mother would in fact have to endure this person even in her latter years, with the event of her death meeting some quota of piled-up tragedy that would help push me toward sobriety.  Well, that's not entirely true.  The decision, as is always the case for the recovering addict, is the decision of the addict alone.  But the decision was a good one, kick starting a period of productivity and awareness that has filled up my journal pages exponentially.  My journal for 2006 was 109 pages.  My journal for the year 2011 is now well over 500.  And how strange it is to think that the documented year following the storm had so little activity, or at least, activity worthy of writing down.

The city of New Orleans has long loosened that communal group hug, replaced instead by a version of the city perhaps not entirely as it was before, but close enough by the resident's standards.  Therefore, it is more than possible for Jessica and I to "come back," and our future plans include just that.  But for now I am revoking my "Katrina card," satisfied here, as are my people in New Orleans, that we are all where we need to be for the time being.

Those are my reflections.  What are yours?  Happy New Year.

The Authority of Anne Rice

And she really does have the authority, doesn't she?  When one stops to think about it, after she single-handedly provided the modern vampire fiction blueprint with the publication of Interview With the Vampire, it's almost unheard of to know that she's gotten little to no credit in the wake of the not-so-recent-anymore vampire craze that finally may be showing signs of stopping.  Rice, in fact, has been quite vocal when it came to Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series, criticizing among other things the idea that Meyer's immortals inexplicably felt that it was necessary to attend ... high school.  It's the stuff that's made Rice fans like myself furious in a way that one gets when they watch someone take credit they didn't deserve, especially when the real credit may go to a friend or a family member, or in our case, an author that you think of almost as family!  It's like hearing someone claim to invent a brand when in all actuality, the brand exists because it's being targeted to a market that had no prior knowledge that the brand already existed!  Vampires have become afterschool specials and we're all sick of it, and apparently, so is Anne Rice. 

It's no wonder that she's given up on the genre for the time being and has instead moved on to werewolves with the February 2012 release of The Wolf Gift, a book that I guarantee will redefine the mythology.  And I haven't even read it yet.  I don't have to.  That's just what she does.  She turns legends inside out and fills in the holes that have existed for centuries.  She did this reworking with vampires, witches, mummies, an ensemble of ghosts (most all of whom were from New Orleans, by the way), oh, and a marginal literary character by the name of Jesus Christ.  And guess what?  Anne Rice is about to do it again, readers, and no one has earned the authority to do so more than she has. 

I've also seen recently that Anne Rice's Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt is being adapted into a film to be directed by Chris Columbus, and I may have this wrong, but it looks as though she may have some casting pull this time around.  This, as some of you may remember, is a far cry from when Tom Cruise was cast as Lestat in the film version of Interview, a complaint that she later retracted, but one that I suspect kept her out of the creative meetings that resulted in the horrendous 2002 film adaptation of Queen of the Damned.

I certainly hope that this is the case, which would give Anne Rice the "author"-ity that she has deserved from Hollywood for well over thirty years now, taking her place as the reason why vampires are still around to make sparkly and send to proms.

Fourth Draft

Have you ever seen one of those shows on any of the various home and garden channels where they tear apart and remodel a house?  Or maybe they bring in a celebrity inspector to point out all of the various problems and then proceed to rip down walls, all the while in a frustrated huff, even though you know these guys will be able to do the very labor-intensive work required, and even enjoy doing it?  My girlfriend, Jess, has turned me on to these shows being that she is quite the handywoman herself.  But I find inspiration not from gaining knowledge on home improvement, but from the obvious metaphor, the idea that "constructing," or in my case, "reconstructing" a fourth draft of a novel is very much like going into a building, finding where the leaks are coming from, and then going to work to patch things up.

The good news is that rarely does a novel written in such a meticulous way as my third book was written see anything beyond a fourth draft.  As I've stated earlier on this blog, the third draft was the one that I was going to build on, the foundation that will hold the structure together just long enough for the inspectors to come in and snoop around.  This is where, in my case, the trustworthy beta reader came in, pointing out that certain parts needed to be developed, and that the piece could benefit from as little as a few more lines here and there.

I have made my construction plans via sticky notes (index cards are traditionally used here, but hey, I have a "Stickies" app on my computer) arranged like a storyboard with each chapter getting its own, color-coded note.  The notes put on these sticky notes will be inserted into the manuscript via what I call "prompts" typed in bold, cueing me to start there and write those few lines, or whatever is needed to make that part work.  This is where I am, and it's a good place, being that the beta reader admitted that it was the "cleanest" manuscript they'd received in a long time, and perhaps more importantly, that the novel was more than salvageable and "needs to be represented."

Which brings me to a decision I've made recently that you can read more about in the "A Brief Disclaimer" section of this blog, and it has to do with the previously self-published versions of my work.  Basically, I've realized that nothing is going to happen with them in the form that they are in now, that is to say, stigmatized as self-published works.  If I am to recognize the integrity of my past work for what it is and what it could be, I need to take it out of the market for now, knowing that they are simply not ready to be consumed.  They are early works that tie into this third work-in-progress, one that is designed to stand on its own, and one that will still stand as my potential launching pad into the industry.  But since I cannot un-publish those novels, the novels exist now in my mind only as manuscripts (self-publishing companies should make clear that you still own the rights to your book) and nothing more.  As a result, these novels have been unlocked, giving me the freedom to go back and change minor punctuation and grammar, things that had previously fallen victim to both my inexperience as a writer, and the heavy hand of copy editors assigned to make my book more "marketable," and thus destroying any stylistic consistency.  It is because of this, you will no longer hear me acknowledge these editions as even being in existence, and it is my wish that these editions no longer be included in my body of, as of now, un-published work.

These manuscripts have in fact already been altered, but only in matters of the above mentioned grammar and punctuation with the content remaining the same, and I've sat down to do this in wonderful new writing locations.  As you know, I love finding new spaces to work, and I have recently discovered the University on Montevallo's Carmichael Library in Montevallo, Alabama as the place where I will more than likely write most of my next novel.  It reminds me very much of the university libraries that I've worked in throughout the years as both a student and a post-graduate alumnus, sometimes choosing to immerse myself in its academic atmosphere of desks and cubicles and campus tranquility instead of drinking it up on a Saturday night.  Nowadays, the drinking part isn't even a factor, but revisiting a college campus not only gives me the inspiration that I need in such a rural part of the country, but it allows me to tap into my natural wiring as an academic, working in the environment that at one point in my life, I'd planned to become a part of.  It's good to know that these constants exist around me to mirror the constants of my artistic sensibility. 

It's very much like when you hear of an artist's career in some retrospect documentary, where the artists themselves are talking about their work as if its relevance to them has never dissipated.  They are able to pick apart and dissect their movies or songs or books as if they had just created them, and you realize that this is the case because the artist lives with the art that they create, and the places where they were created, and the reasons that they were created, for the rest of their lives.

20 Years of Nirvana's "Nevermind" and My Time in the Cult of Cobain

I don't remember exactly when it happened, but I do know that it coincided with another transition that was happening at the time, at least in my world.  The year was 1991, and I was only then exploring life outside of what I already knew.  As was the music industry.  The timing was perfect. 

Nirvana's "Nevermind" was just there one day, as was the first and most earth-shaking single off the record, "Smells Like Teen Spirit."  The song was soon followed by most all of the remaining, radio-friendly tracks that played like the soundtrack of my life then, along with Pearl Jam and everything else that was being pushed through the system.  But I was oblivious to the actual sequence of events, knowing only that I really liked the music and never really making a noteworthy transition in my mind that what came before was dead and that I was no longer a part of it.  It just became "not real" anymore, replaced instead with the spirit of the music and the musicians who were making this new music, very much akin to the spirit of the 1960s in my opinion, where a Romantic introspection was taking place that was designed to eventually change the world.  It was why I latched onto the charismatic Kurt Cobain as my generation's John Lennon, a perspective that wasn't unique to people my age, but one that would eventually play out in a grim parallel of death and martyrdom.  It would also raise a discussion only a few years later that stayed with me to this day.

The year was 1994, and I was in one of my writing courses at the University of New Orleans when the topic came up of what Kurt Cobain meant to the youth of his generation in comparison to what John Lennon represented to his.  And I remember being shocked that so many students dismissed Cobain as just another troubled addict who ended up doing the inevitable, claiming that he "took the coward's way out," and all the other stock reactions that people have who seem almost jealous that they possibly didn't have the courage to do what they really wanted to do (this is generally a very strong opinion of mine when it comes to reactions to suicides, but that's for a different piece).  The result was that John Lennon -- who keep in mind, I hold absolutely dear -- won out in a landslide as to the more influential artist, and for some reason, this sent me right to our assigned journal exercise that night, an assignment that I knew would have to be turned in, and one that I knew was going to make a ripple.  I don't remember exactly what I wrote (if Hurricane Katrina hadn't claimed all of my college notes and materials I'd be a much happier man, that's for sure), but I do remember the line: "Back off.  We don't want or need your sympathy."  And I'm absolutely positive that this was aimed directly at the Lennon sympathizers, or to those who just didn't understand what it was I did then, to the point where I felt the need to refer to myself as part of a "we," as if being a member of some Cobain cult!  This was what Nirvana's "Nevermind" and the records that followed did for me, or more to the point, to me.  It was an interesting time.

But perhaps more interesting was the mark in the margin made by my professor, right next to the line I mentioned, where she simply drew a red exclamation point.  Yeah!  At least I had one. 

Back in the Game

Not that I was ever really out of the game, but by way of a quick update, the manuscript that I've been chronicling the production of here has not only been completed, but is now in the hands of beta readers and editors alike.  In addition, I've been preparing to begin writing a new book, my fourth, and it's a novel that will mark a certain departure for me stylistically.  This new one is completely under wraps, however, and probably won't get mentioned here again for quite some time.  Shhh!

But this puts me in the first-time position of being in both post and pre-production on two separate novels, and when I factor in the calendar event of my two-year sober point back on the 9^th of this month, never before have I felt so back in the game.  My first two books had been written, re-written, and then re-written again and again by the time I made the haphazard decision of self-publishing.  Once again, I don't recommend it, even though back when I did it -- and I'm only going back to 2001 on the first novel -- self-publishing meant that a publisher would actually print your book cover to cover on a "print-on-demand" basis.  Nowadays, eBook publishing has put a nice little dent in the business model for both vanity presses and traditional publishers alike, being that it seems that self-published eBooks are actually making money for their authors.  I really don't know that this new trend has loosened the grip on the very secured route of traditional publishing.  That is, has the process for getting a manuscript through the system, from editor to agent to publisher gotten any easier simply because of competition with the growing online industry?

I suppose I'm going to find out, because the thought of self-publishing online or in any other format again is an absolute last resort for me at this stage of the game.  It's all or nothing.  Either way, someone has to write the books, right?

Midnight in Key West

With only two nights to go in Key West, I wanted to post a quick something about this scene, nighttime on this section of the island, only hours after the bustle of the tourist-friendly Duvall Street closes and the customers and employees scatter.  This is the "Blanket," Key West style, and it is a time of night I've grown accustomed to while here.

It is in fact so safe to walk these streets late at night, that for me, it's a little unnerving.  The area in and around Duvall Street reminds me so much of New Orleans, with Duvall being closer akin to Bourbon Street, and the neighborhoods surrounding looking like parts of the Garden District.  But in no way would I consider taking to either one of those neighborhoods in New Orleans on foot after hours, especially when there seems to be not a living soul around!  It truly is amazing.  Where does everybody go?  Walking through the French Quarter for so may years has wired me to check for movement in passing car windows and to keep a steady, peripheral awareness that produces a special kind of tunnel vision.  Here, I lapse into that pinhole-size perspective, and it makes it quite hard to sightsee.

But the points of the late-night walks have been all centered around a certain centering, for processing the night on stage, for exploring the storefronts and points of interest for any daytime outings, and more importantly, for walking around inside of my writer's mind.  I felt like Owen Wilson in Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," and what a coincidence it was that I was in the land of Hemingway.  I was looking for that old Rolls-Royce around every corner.

What Inspires Me

Greetings from Key West, Florida.

Been here for three days now, performing nightly with my band at Sloppy Joe's Bar, the alleged place where Ernest Hemingway tied quite a few on in his day.  But if you eavesdrop on one of the tour trams that pass every now and again, you learn that the original Sloppy Joe's, and Hemingway's liver, have remnants further down the block in an entirely different location.  But I digress.  Key West has gone off my radar as far as rants go.  It is what it is, and I'm here first on business, and second, to get lost in my imagination for a solid week.

Which brings me to this post, which was inspired by a Twitter feed in which a fellow writer blogged about their influences.  I'd never thought to do that myself, usually reserving that information for when I was a drinker and would talk many an ear off about literature and writing and the best of both.  But those days are gone, and with it went the bravado of a loud drunk.  Nonetheless, I'd like to take this time to mention the latest book I've read (pictured above), which I found very inspiring for reasons I'll explain, and then say a little something about what influences me as a writer.

First and foremost, I have to mention the Queen of the Damned herself, Anne Rice, my surrogate mother of letters and inspiration to this day.  Her contemporary fiction is what put me on the path of the novel as my primary means of storytelling, and I admit it without shame that she has been most all I've read in that field to date.  I can't remember the last book I've read (fiction, mind you) that she hasn't written, with the exception of one (again, pictured above).  I just recently saw a YouTube video of her in her little office in the California desert, and it made me think about perseverance.  Anne used to live quite the extravagant lifestyle in New Orleans, but apparently lost all of it due to bad investments and a crashing real estate market.  That information came from a separate interview I read recently, but when I put it all together, it made me think, "I can and will write everywhere."  Anne used to write in a Garden District mansion, and now, by the looks of it, she writes in a small room in a suburban California condo.

Now, before I go further off track here, let me mention The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson (that's right, pictured above), a wonderfully written and structured book that inspires me in its simplicity.  I'm sure Mr. Davidson himself would not be so kind with my calling his work "simple," mainly because according to the background information on him, the novel took seven years to write.  But the book is simple only in the fact that it manages to carry two story threads framed in a plot-space that is really uneventful.  Without reviewing the book, I just want to make the point that it showed me how less can absolutely be more, and Davidson is very much akin to my approach.  It's vivid, beautiful, and internalized in the Romantic tradition.

Back to what inspires me, I have to mention the very same Romantic tradition, more specifically, the English Romantics of the eighteenth and nineteenth century.  Even more specific would be the second generation led by Byron, Keats, and Shelley.  It would be downright weird for me to claim that as a novelist I was influenced by them stylistically, being that they were poets.  But their philosophies are what molded me, and the study of their time and work is what gave me the Promethean flame that I write so much about.  That flame, in my opinion, was carried centuries later as the writers of the Beat Generation -- another great influence on my work -- internalized their passions and made the written word like new, post-World War II monuments of expressive achievement.  William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Allen Ginsberg truly believed they were changing the world, like the English Romantics before them, and in a way they did.  Only it was the world inside.

Yes.  The world inside.  Writers can't move into any other words unless they're satisfied with the one inside.

That is what inspires me.  What inspires you?

Third Draft

The third time is the charm!  Here is the draft on which I'll build, the one that will be placed gently into the hands of beta readers and potential agents.  The Internet was down when I completed it, which is probably a good thing.  It reminds me of stories of mass conceptions during power outages.  It has been nine months between drafts! 

Anyway, this one clocked in at 422 pages, which means I was able to chop 44 pages from the previous draft, a statistic that only now in finishing I realized.  I would never have expected that.  There was numerology involved in today's completion, today being August the 3^rd, 2011 (8+3=11), and as if to punctuate my belief that my work tends to be in sync with the universe, by no effort of my own, the novel was completed at 11:11 a.m.  My "Silver Screen" channel was on in my office, and while the final pages of the manuscript slipped out of the printer, triumphant soundtrack music accentuated the event!  But in all seriousness, today is the culmination of quite a bit of personal growth, and it is a testament to how far I've indeed come.  I love you, Jessica.

As is one of the main purposes of this website, there will be more posts to follow regarding plans for the future of this piece.  We will track my pursuit of agency representation, and ultimately, of legitimate publication.  Let's do this together, shall we?

Key West Revisited

Thought I'd post a little something here about my recent week spent in Key West, during which time I edited my new book during the day and played music at night. It was wonderful in this regard. As long as I have this opportunity, my Key West weeks will double as writing sabbaticals.

But I do want to mention the literary significance of Key West, namely, the well-documented fact that Ernest Hemingway lived on the island for a short time during one of the most prolific periods of his life. The Hemingway House is a tourist attraction, and I did make the trek on foot to the house, and I did take the tour, and I did buy a souvenir coffee mug. Now, I did all of these things during my first trip to Key West (sans the coffee mug), and I have to report that the Hemingway mystique was much more potent that first time around. I think I know why.

Simply put, I grew up as a writer in New Orleans, the same city as a literary idol of mine, Anne Rice, also lived. I'd pass her house on a regular basis in the Garden District of New Orleans, the mansion sitting behind the gates on the corner of First and Chestnut, the residence the model for the Mayfair house in Anne Rice's own The Witching Hour. I even had the privilege of being inside two of her other properties, one being her house on Third and St. Charles during the Bacchus parade back in 1997. I remember walking around the house saying, "This is what words on paper built." I actually imagined the walls themselves being made of pieced-together manuscript pages. It was something to aspire to, an atmosphere that even now I try to reproduce in my own home. I dream often of being in her house, roaming the halls in search of her writing space, just to have a look.

I can't say the same for the Hemingway House in Key West, and to be fair, I'm going to assume that the main reason has to do with the fact that it is not a very well-kept place. Window fans circulate what little air there is in there, and aside from evidence of a bedroom and a kitchen and a bathroom, the house doesn't really look lived in. It looks like what it was, and that was a place for Hemingway to entertain and then eventually crash while on his never-ending benders in Key West. He does have a "writing studio" in a separate small building that the tour guide said was once connected by a walkway straight from his bedroom, but even that looked stifling and uninspiring. But the six-toed cats that roam the property were ... well ... there were six-toed cats that roamed the property.

Therefore, Key West for me is just as I had mentioned earlier, and that is a place that I have the luxury of going to twice a year (for now) and spending a week inside of my writer's mind. I saw very little of the island aside from certain streets that were essential for me to roam in order to survive. Unfortunately, Key West represents everything that I no longer am as a man two years sober, yet I will move confidently into the midst of this beautiful part of the United States and take from it what I can. Thank you, Key West!

Progress Report: The Home Stretch

I'm writing this after only moments ago finishing Chapter 20 of 30 of my new book, and in the moments between then and now, I've already taken the news to Facebook and Twitter, and now here to TedTorres.com. This is the excitement of a project drawing to a close. This is the vision of another black binder materializing in my office with another snapshot of where I am as a writer inside. This is why I do it, and it's why you should do it, too.

From here on out, the chapters are shorter, and thus, I can more easily incorporate my "edit, insert, read, and move on to the next chapter" regimen with an accelerated sense of progress. I've worked through the clunky prose, passed the point of my sobriety, and now I'm sharing the drive and enthusiasm that the writer of the pages I'm editing right now had when he worked in a trance-like state at the Hoover Public Library. However, this is also usually the time when I start planning ahead, although this time around, my aspirations are more grounded in reality.

Five years ago, and weeks after my mother and I settled into Alabama after Hurricane Katrina, I had in fact had most of Scenes from the Blanket written and edited. Only the final three chapters (if I recall correctly) needed to be written, and I remember carving out a workspace and going to work in the very small apartment I had rented, downing cup after cup of coffee and pounding out the rest of the book. But the planning for the future part was all about getting it published as quick as possible, using the crutch of having survived the ordeal of Katrina as my justification, or more to the point, my reward. I was going to self-publish yet again, and this time, I was going to do it right … whatever that meant.

Well, as I've preached over and over again here on TedTorres.com, self-publishing is not the way to go. It creates an instant stigma in the industry, and there is no amount of promotion that can be done, either by yourself or through outside agencies (I actually hired a publicist during this time) that is going to blur the reality of that stigma in the eyes of anyone even coming close to taking you seriously as a novelist. It took two knocks upside the head with this lesson to finally learn it, and it is why this third book will be worked into the system legitimately, and it is the only plan I have for this book as of now.

But this is not to say that I haven't made other plans! They are just the more constructive kind, manifested in the form of a stream-of-consciousness Word file that I started yesterday (this is primarily how I outline my novels) with notes for a fourth book. It will mark a departure for me, leaving this Blanket Trilogy I've created behind as the first part of my literary canon (while, of course, still pursuing legitimate publication for this new one), and marking my launch into a genre more akin to dark comedy.

The new book has a working title, but it will change. It has to. Like everything else in life.

How I Think I May Have Quit Smoking

I am constantly recording voice memos to myself. It's kind of part of the gig. I used to carry a notebook, now I carry my Android phone. And here's a transcript of one that I left about a week ago:

It's April 19th, 2011. I do not need be obsessed with numerology when it comes to quitting smoking, with regards to how many cigarettes I smoked today, or the date, or anything like that. I just simply need to stop smoking. Especially considering how I feel today -- short of breath, heart palpitating, tingliness in my head and scalp, pain in my jaw, and just the usual symptoms of everything pointing towards blood pressure, hypertension, circulatory problems, etc., etc., etc., all from smoking! Smoking, which couldn't possibly help any of these symptoms at all. I need to stop smoking, and I need to stop smoking … right … now.

That was around 5:30 p.m. that day, and I haven't had a cigarette since. But what I did do was remember this "60 Minutes" piece that I saw not too long ago, one that gave me hope, one that forever banished the consideration of patches, lozenges, and even a recent obsession with "electronic" cigarettes. I went out and bought this product immediately. Sure, it's replacing one addiction with another, but in the end, at least I'm not lighting something on fire and sucking the hot exhaust into my body!

Progress Report: The Half-Way Point

Goodbye, Amy Tan. You were posted during a time of high fever, and although I loved the lecture, it's time your face moves down a notch on TedTorres.com.

With that out of the way, once again over a month has passed since my last post. But it's been a busy month, occupied with recuperation from a minor illness, lots of shows with my band, and as I am happy to report here, lots and lots of editing on my new novel. In fact, I'm only pages away from the half-way point in both the edits and the inserts, and soon it will be time to implement the third part of my three-part plan, which is to send this completed first half to an editor in New Orleans.

Most of the work on the book was done in the building you see pictured here, the Hoover Public Library, with its rows of quiet study cubicles, its in-house coffee shop, it's art gallery, and its post-modern ambiance ... especially at night. Among other locations in the library, this room was where most of the new book was written before my moving to the country, and I've since had the pleasure of revisiting the library a few times during trips into town, utilizing its resources for a few more hours of intense work, reminding me both of how good it can be to get out of my office at home during the editing process, and how much love and nostalgia I have for this facility. If you ever find yourself in the greater Birmingham area, be sure to visit. It truly is one of the most amazing libraries in the country.

Now, as a completely unrelated aside, I would like to address the lack of recent movie reviews on TedTorres.com, reporting that I have in fact seen lots of current releases, but at the same time, admitting that my takes on most of these films have been so to the contrary of most mainstream critics lately as to almost look as though anything I'd post here would be intentionally argumentative (if that's even the right word). In no way am I the guy that will say the sky is red or that water isn't wet just to prove some point, but I'll be damned if even Roger Ebert and I have been on opposite ends of the opinion spectrum on a lot of these films, and I've always considered Ebert to be the closest (at least 95% of the time) "real" critic there is out there to me. I've in fact wanted to write about most all of last year's films, and I even had a pretty good rant about how sick I am of the media complaining about how long the Academy Awards show is every year. C'mon! If you're a movie fan like myself (and unlike myself, if your not working on Sunday nights for the past four years!), a show that celebrates film in all of it's facets like that one does couldn't go on long enough!

Glad I got that out.

Peace.

COMING SOON: a special offer from TedTorres.com!

Amy Tan on Creativity

While sick in bed today with nothing by way of any sort of editorial productivity on the horizon, I instead found this very relevant clip on what influences creativity, or in my case right now, the lack there of.

I am a strong believer in the whims of the universe, especially when it comes to omens as to whether or not I'm on the right track, from perfect page numbers and word counts, to having just enough pages in the printer to print exactly what I've written that day. It is the same place where ideas come from, the same energy that pushes and pulls everything into its rightful place.

Amy Tan touches on this wonderfully, and it's the only reason I need to justify why my mind is sick and can't work today. Who am I to ignore the signs? I found this clip, didn't I? And it's got my name all over it ... literally.

The Writer's Journey

I am on the Writer's Journey, and I am reminded of this truth every time I lapse back into some reminiscence, some nostalgia for times in my life where I feel as though I should have done more, where I should have been more engaged.

But I was already on the Writer's Journey at that point, drifting naturally into worlds of expression both related to and mutually exclusive from my own, shooting movies in my backyard, penning lyrics to a heartfelt song.

Merely a landmark of where I was on the Writer's Journey, a mile marker where others chose to exit and prosper, but where I had no choice but to continue on, a very part of the road itself.

I am still on the Writer's Journey, you see, and even though I may have visited your towns and took the name of your resident population, I have always considered myself something other than.

It is why the Writer's Journey has placed me here, aware of the growth of the settlements I've helped create, yet moving in a self-contained circle held together by something natural, something that is as real to me as anything could ever be.

And so here is a postcard from the Writer's Journey, sent from a place where the transience has stabilized, letting all of you know in the brotherhood and sisterhood of expression, that I'm still doing the best work that I can.

"Buddhism Without Beliefs: A Contemporary Guide to Awakening"

I wanted to post a little something here about Buddhism Without Beliefs by British author, teacher, and self-proclaimed "secular Buddhist," Stephen Batchelor, because the book always seems to become relevant in my life when I least expect it. I bring it up now, for instance, only because mention of the book had to be edited out of my current manuscript for reasons of extraneous detail. But there it is again, on my mind, and here it needs to spill.

I first came across the book about ten years ago while working at Barnes & Noble during a semi-lucid morning shift, shelving books in the "Eastern Religions" section. The mere appearance of the book caught my attention -- a light yellow sliver of a volume shoved between the other books like a forced card. I grabbed it and started flipping through, and hours later, I had bought my own copy and was making notes in the margins, notes on Batchelor's stripped-down overview of Buddhism that set me on a course of study for the next couple of months.

For the writer in me, the Buddhist idea of the reorganization of perception was akin to both the English Romantics of the nineteenth century, and the writers of the Beat Generation in twentieth century New York, both literary movements having been a tremendous inspiration on my own writing then and now. I thought, Something had to have set Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg off on their spiritual journeys, right? Now it was my turn.

Granted, I never went so far as to proclaim myself a practicing Buddhist (although I did experiment with Batchelor's process of mediation), but I cannot deny that the easy-to-understand explanations of a religious system that, according to Batchelor (strictly from his agnostic perspective and in no way meant to insult traditional Buddhism), is more of an internalized modification method than a religion, and it has stayed with me to this very day. A particular highlight for me was the section on "Compassion," and how mastery of this emotion through basic and solid reasoning (Batchelor's walk-through of how to understand a perceived "enemy" is nothing short of revelatory) is not only essential to the human condition, but is a common thread of all religious systems to which most of the Western world adheres. Want to understand why you should love your enemy instead of just doing it because a man named Jesus said so? It's all there.

Progress Report: The Three-Part Plan

By way of a quick progress report, I've implemented a three-part plan to complete the final draft of my third novel. I love the number three. I always have. I always will.

See? Like that. Three declarative sentences in a row.

Anyway, the first part of the plan is to forge ahead no matter how difficult this red pen stage is, although as I've mentioned earlier, I have broken through to the more inspired and sober parts of this book. And again, I have to report that this stage has been, for lack of a better word, misrepresented on TedTorres.com as being my "favorite" part. I was actually referring to the second part of the plan ...

Which is the inserting of the corrections. This is the part I love due to its certain level of finality. After doing as much as I can of the edits, the second part of my daily regimen is to go back and put chapters in the can, so to speak. This second stage sort of reminds me of the old "Billy Boy" cartoon, where the goat eats up the train tracks, the snake eating its own tail. But it's a productive consumption of track, bringing me all the more closer and quicker to getting the finished manuscript into the right hands.

And some very specific hands are part of the third part of the plan, again happening in conjunction with the first two, and that is to get the finished pages to you (and you know who you are), my invaluable confidant on the outside. In this regard I feel like William S. Burroughs in Tangiers, feeding his finished pages to Ginsberg and Kerouac in New York, telling them that it doesn't matter in what order the pages go, just publish it.

Well, I'm not that liberal with the piece. My OCD won't allow it. I've already written my Naked Lunch.

Behold the power of three!

In Memoriam

Today would have been the 71st birthday of my mother, Diane Cucinello Torres. It's been almost four years since her passing, and even now the thought of memorializing her seems otherworldly and strange. The idea that she's no longer with us is still shocking to me, and the realization that among other things, I'll never hear her generous laugh again from the other room is more than likely why I've waited so long to revisit this topic.

But as the story goes, six months before Hurricane Katrina, and one month to the day after my father's passing, my mother suffered a debilitating stroke that left her bedridden and in a state of mental regression. During this time, most of which was here in Alabama, there were good days and bad days, and the good days were almost always highlighted by stories of old New Orleans. My mother was a bit of an amateur historian when it came to the Crescent City, and as the few years we had together here went by, she would love to tell both myself and her nurses alike about how her and her friends would take the streetcar into downtown on a Saturday afternoon to shop at all the big department stores. And one doesn't have to think hard to imagine the scene with all of its period automobiles and wardrobe, the image of a group of young girls from the 1950s dressed in their best, huddled together at the malt shop with bags from D.H. Holmes and Maison Blanche scattered at their feet. Yeah, that was my Mom. She knew about all the old restaurants, from Antoine's to Brennan's, from Court of Two Sisters to Tujague's (the latter of which I remember going to as a very young boy), and one always got the impression that she'd lived the New Orleans experience all of her life, was truly a resident of the city in every way.

And she would go on to tell the nurses and I about the family that we had who settled into the old Italian section of the French Quarter, and about how she used to visit them during her downtown shopping trips as a little girl. These particular stories always brought up conversations about her side of the family, which unlike my father's side, was scattered with aunts and uncles that lived until just about my own teenage years. And they populated her stories like something out of a historical novel, vivid and colloquial as she spoke with her heavy New Orleans accent. The nurses used to ask her, "Mrs. Diane, say 'New Orleans' for us," to which she'd smile up at them and say, "Nawlins!"

As a real estate agent through most of the late nineteen-seventies and early eighties, Diane was a member of the Business and Professional Women's Club in our home parish of St. Bernard for many years, and prior to that, she worked for the St. Bernard Parish courthouse under Sidney Torres, a position that would prove to be a fateful one as Sidney arranged for her and my Dad's first date. After that date, according to my godmother, Teddy and Diane were like teenagers. They were married in 1968, and four years later, I was born.

I've mentioned that I believe I've inherited certain real-life skills from my father, and it has been my longtime assumption that I've inherited a certain type of imaginative trait from my mother, one that is directly related to storytelling, and more so, to stories about New Orleans. It was my mother who I could talk to about movies, books, and music, about my favorite directors, writers, and rock stars alike, and it was my mother that took me to the movies and bought me the books and the records. She instilled a love of the city in me from very early on, one that has been a thread of fascination for me when thinking about her, all the way up to the point where we both discovered Anne Rice at right about the same time, loving the rich tapestry of the novelist's stories, and as always, prompting my mother to tell me more stories of her own. She always supported every endeavor into the arts that I undertook, and like the photo I've written about in my father's memoriam piece, one of the only surviving pictures that I have of my mother was one of her holding a copy of The Petrified Christ in Barnes & Noble, the picture almost a bookend to the one of my father doing the same thing.

They both now sit framed side-by-side in my office.

And it's those pictures that I look upon regularly when I need reminding, reminding that grief is always more of a personal process than anything else. The truth is, in no way would Teddy and Diane want me to live in a perpetual state of grief. My parents dedicated their lives to the sole purpose of protecting me from harm and pain, much in the same way I was devoted to protecting them from the same in their final years.

Why would any of us want to stop now?

Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you. And don't worry … I'll take the stories from here.