Why is Gamora?

“Welcome back, my friends. To the show that never ends. We’re so glad you could attend. Come inside! Come inside.”

(Just more Brain Salad Surgery, I suppose. Because IYKYK…)

I’ve been away for awhile. Not too present on social media. Neither overt or covert. Just…ert…I guess.

Social media is a never-ending pissing contest between the Know-It-Alls and Wannabes, with the occasional interesting connection or commentary thrown into the mix. A rat race that has grown rattier.

But that’s not what what this Unblog post is about.

I’ll begin randomly, and if none of this makes sense by the end, that’s probably by some unwitting design. I am a pantser, after all.

(For those who don’t know, a “pantser” is a term used to describe a writer who wings it. No (or very little) planning or outlining. Just the kernel of an idea, a pinch of sea salt, and an empty bowl to sail by.)

I set aside THE DEVIL’S SHARE months ago to work on a new, and entirely independent of Empire City, project. I’m nearly done with the first draft. I’m looking forward to the sense of completion finishing a novel provides. I’m excited for the next steps. Its a whimsical fantasy. Very different from Tom Holliday and the SCU crew. Lighter. Hopeful. With grand adventure.

I needed to write it. A palette cleanser, to be sure. I drew upon my own whimsy. My flowery writing style. My enjoyment of seeing Good triumph over E-vil.

She Who Shall Always Be Obeyed seems to like it too. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

My work life has been the busiest it has ever been in my long and illustrious career. For the first six months of this year, I’ve been buried. Late nights. Weekends. Pushing myself to hit goals. Trying to be as diligent as I can be. With that comes the cost of losing creativity, suffering from burnout, and spending much of my free time staring at empty walls because that’s all the mental capacity I could muster. Work life is key though. A steady paycheck feeds the Machine, and I know my roll for initiative.

I haven’t read much. Might be why I haven’t updated my WHAT I’M READING page of this website. I’m stalled on John Truby’s THE ANATOMY OF STORY. It’s got good pointers, but my brain hasn’t been interested. I do have an ARC for a sci-fi romp from talented author T.A. Bruno (check out his SONG OF KAMARIA series found here), but I’m a slow reader. I’ll finish it eventually.

But that’s not what this Unblog post is about, either.

This is what it’s about.

My dad passed away on April 5th. It wasn’t unexpected. He’d been battling lung cancer for a long time. He’d grown tired of the fight. Wasn’t interested in the treatments, although he did try them. He never wanted to be in a hospital. Didn’t want to be plugged into machines. He just wanted to sleep. And so he did.

My brother found him on his couch, peaceful in that endless sleep, after watching a Yankees game.

My dad always did things on his terms. Opinionated. Highly intelligent. A complicated man with some simple and elegant rules through which he lived life.

Did I know my dad well? I knew what I knew about him – long-standing service in the hospitality business. Proudly served in the Army. Proudly supported our Armed Forces. Staunchly independent. Yankees fan (we’ll never forgive him for this). Patriots and Celtics fan (never liked hockey, bless his crotchety soul). Brutally blunt. Adored his grandchildren to the nth infinity and beyond. Iciest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Sharp wit, loved Canadian Club (we forgave him for that), was terrible at fantasy football (but he did try), had few friends but a lot of acquaintances (by his choice), appreciated Japanese culture and art and crafted several of his own pieces. Oh, and he loved dogs.

I suppose one could argue that summing up my father in such a short paragraph might seem insulting. Deconstructing the various characteristics and vagaries of a man who helped raise me to be, well, whatever it is I currently am. Boiling him down to bullet points. A list of ingredients. Or just stuff on a list.

But had you known him, you would know that my father was a man of rigorous discipline, and pragmatic insight. “Keep things simple”, he would say. “Think about it, don’t worry about it.” Another bit of wisdom that I still try (and often fail at).

The first movie he ever took me to see was THE THIEF OF BAGDAD.

I want to be a sailor sailing out to sea.
No ploughboy, tinker, tailor’s any fun to be.
Aunts and cousins, by the baker’s dozen,
Drive a man to sea, or highway robbery.
I want to be a bandit; can’t you understand it?
Sailing to sea is life for me, is life for me.

The second? STAR WARS.

You think you see a pattern forming…

He claimed he didn’t like science fiction and fantasy. He may have known who J.R.R. Tolkien or George R.R. Martin are, if only through television or talk radio, or talking with me. When he spoke with his grandsons, he had no idea what they babbled on about. From video games, to manga, to anime, it never mattered. That was never the point. He didn’t care. He would smile and nod, and laugh at the appropriate times. He just loved getting to know his grandchildren.

My dad was one of the sharpest people I have ever known. Very little got past him. Not college educated, he graduated from the School of Hard Knocks with a BA in The Real World and a Masters in Street Smarts. For those who have read my books, Captain Mahoney is loosely based off of him. Loosely. If you knew my dad, then you’ll see it. If you didn’t , well, now you do. At least, a little bit.

In the Acknowledgements from my second novel PIECES OF EIGHT, the final paragraph reads:

And to my dad, my one-man marketing army, and one of my greatest cheerleaders, thank you for being there for me, patiently listening to me babble every Sunday after football about my so-called writing career. Writing is a lonely business, but knowing you’re in my corner, and have been from the get-go, is what family is all about.

But here’s the irony: he never read a word of either book. Not one. But he peddled the ever-loving shit out of my books from off-the-cuff discussions at his local watering holes any chance he got. Why? Because I was his son and he was damn proud of me.

Losing him hurts, but it’s more of a dull ache than anything. I’m also a lot older now. More weathered, I guess. Or just rundown. I don’t really know.

What I do know is life is long, and life is short, but how we choose to live that life is what matters most. We’ll make mistakes. We’ll make good choices. But be kind. Find wisdom. Offer a helping hand. Be the shoulder. Or just be there.

The world is black and white and gray. With color. Nothing is too complicated that a hug, or a good word, or a Heineken can’t fix. Ok, maybe there are some things that are too complicated. You get the picture.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you, and I’ll miss you forever.

Thank you for everything that matters.