I was in the shower one morning last week, letting the hot water wash over me, not thinking about anything more exciting than the weather or that evening’s dinner plans. Cloudy with afternoon rain and pork chops, in case you were wondering on both counts.
Suddenly, without warning, my novel-in-progress popped into my head. I’ve mentioned how slow-going it has been, writing the sequel to No Time for Kings; much of the problem is simply finding the time to sit down and do it, though there’s also the pesky little detail about not knowing what exactly is going to happen next. As discussed in the past, I never come up with an outline for my work in advance; I’m a classic seat-of-the-pants writer, like it or not. I had been stuck on how to reintroduce one of the main characters, whose role in the new book had been heretofore unknown.
I’m in awe of my brain, because in the span of six minutes, I suddenly worked out an entire scene in my head, one that would help propel the story forward. Flashes of inspiration like this are rare, so I decided to [insert idiom of choice, e.g., strike while the iron was hot or make hay while the sun shined, whichever best describes making an immediately beeline for my laptop and banging out a bunch of words before my hair had completely dried]. I don’t normally…okay, ever…write before work, so this was very unusual for me. But look, when your muse comes calling, you don’t leave her standing outside, shivering in the cold; you invite her in, offer her a cup of coffee, and see what she has to say.
I even reached out to blogger Vicki for help. My sequel takes place in Chicago instead of Portland, and I’ve never actually been to the Windy City. I suppose I could have picked a setting I’m actually familiar with, but where’s the fun in that? When in doubt, turn to Google. When still in doubt, turn to a blogging friend who lives in that city. She answered my question about deep dish pizza and I was off to the races. Thanks a bunch, Vicki! I may hit you up again sometime.
The words poured forth easily. Forty-five minutes later I reluctantly tore myself away from my novel, because I did have an actual job to do. Maybe someday I’ll live off of big, fat publishing house advances, but that day was not last Thursday. No biggie, though. That flash of inspiration from out of the blue really got me stoked. I know where Chapter 3 is headed now, which is a helluva lot better than having no freakin’ idea where Chapter 3 is headed. Between this and the novel ideas stored on CD, I haven’t been this motivated to write in years. Hopefully, I can ride this wave for a while!
“Lovesong” or “Love Bites”?
After a surprisingly rainy week, winter re-entered the chat on Saturday. We woke up to giant flakes falling from the sky, transforming our yard into a pristine, snowy wonderland.
Well, half our yard…
We could have conceivably sat around the fire pit, roasting marshmallows, and then taken a few steps and had a snowball fight.
We did neither. Lame.
Instead, we went to Janesville to run errands. Our first stop? Chili’s for lunch. We hadn’t been there since our South Dakota days. In fact, Tara was super excited to find a Chili’s in Rapid City (Portland mysteriously closed their last Chili’s in 2015). We ate dinner there our first evening, and imagined we’d return often, but between COVID and a desire to support local businesses instead of chain restaurants, we only went back once or twice. I’m not saying the food at Chili’s is phenomenal or anything, but their Presidente margaritas are pretty damn tasty. I’ve tried recreating them at home but can’t quite duplicate the flavor.
So, we grabbed seats at the bar and ordered a couple. I got the fajita trio (always dependable), Tara chose a burger (can’t go wrong there), and we struck up a music-themed conversation with our bartender, a tattooed dude with black gauges in his earlobes. I’d shared this story with my wife, about how Robert Smith of The Cure famously hates Def Leppard. She thought that was heresy and called him a music snob, while I said, I kind of get it. Admittedly, Hysteria is a quintessential late-’80s record that I played to death, and “Animal” is an absolute banger. But I will always gravitate toward The Cure.
“Who do you think the bartender likes more?” I wondered.
“Def Leppard for sure,” Tara replied. “You?”
“He’s totally into The Cure. The guy’s dressed in black, for crying out loud!”
Granted, every Chili’s employee was dressed in black, given that it’s part of their uniform, but I was convinced this guy would choose The Cure regardless. The next time he came by, Tara said, “Totally random question: The Cure or Def Leppard?”
“They’re both good, but I like Def Leppard better,” he said. “I saw them in concert once, and their one-armed drummer was amazing!”
%@!^
It always comes down to Rick Allen and his one-armed drumming, doesn’t it? And yes, that’s an impressive skill, but it has no bearing on the quality of the music, man. It all boils down to whether you prefer post-punk, gothic rock with dark, brooding lyrics or polished, radio-friendly glam metal. Because I am most definitely a music snob like Robert Smith, give me The Cure any day. I’d rather listen to a song like “A Forest” than “Pour Some Sugar on Me” ten times out of ten. But I suspect I may be in the minority, and I’m okay with that. Def Leppard’s biggest album sold 20 million copies, while The Cure’s most popular record sold four million. I do like an underdog.
Still, this sparked a fun conversation that covered the gamut from Frank Sinatra and Metallica to Tom Petty and Alice in Chains. Our Chili’s bartender has quite eclectic tastes! Tara mentioned our themed rock ‘n roll Saturday nights, and he loved that, so I told him to choose a random artist or band. He picked Cream, so when 5:00 rolled around, we put on their Greatest Hits album and dug out the cribbage board. It was a great classic rock catalyst for the rest of the evening, which included The Who, Led Zeppelin, and The Rolling Stones.
Death becomes them
Every winter, we choose a new-to-us old show to binge. This year, we picked Six Feet Under. I didn’t know a lot about it, other than the fact that Michael C. Hall played a gay funeral home director. Interesting that he’s still disposing of dead bodies, albeit in a less sinister manner than on Dexter. It’s been on my radar forever, and is widely acclaimed as one of the best television dramas of all time, so we dove in a few weeks ago.
We’re really digging it, too. It’s darkly comedic, with quirky characters and interesting subplots. Thirteen episodes down, 50 to go – and if history is any indication, we’ll fly through those in no time.
Do you ever go to Chili’s? Who do you like better, The Cure or Def Leppard? Have you seen “Six Feet Under”?
Mark My Words 
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