Five Broken Winchesters

Just a quick note to let you know that FIVE BROKEN WINCHESTERS is now available on the Kindle machine. This is a collection of mostly weird western stories, with a couple of nicely-done straight westerns thrown in for balance. There are some terrific stories here from the likes of Brian Panowich, Ryan Sayles, Chris Leek, Chuck Regan, Isaac Kirkman, and Ron Earl Phillips.

I contributed a Hawthorne "flash" to the mix, as well as the introduction. I hope you check it out. Only 2.99.

Clotted

What a long, weird week I've had, man. If we're friends on Facebook, you probably already know what's been going on, but if you haven't, well...

I went in to work last Wednesday (I work as security in the ER of a major hospital) with my left arm getting sore and uncomfortable. I didn't think much about it, really. But over the course of the evening, the arm started to swell until it was like, twice its normal size. I snagged a passing nurse, who looked at it and said, "Dude, that could be a blood clot. Get it checked out." I said, "Okay, I'll do that tomorrow morning." She said, "Uh, no. Like, now." So I checked in, they did an ultra-sound on my arm, and sure enough... blood clot. A BIG one. It ran from the crook of my elbow to behind the clavicle in my shoulder. I didn't even know blood clots could be that big.

Anyway, got checked in and all that, they hooked me up to a blood thinner to prevent further clotting, and starting almost immediately they began drawing blood from my right hand every four hours. The blood thinner made me bruise easily and by the end of my stay the hand was black and blue with puncture marks. That was actually the most uncomfortable part.

They did a CT of my chest, trying to determine what caused the clotting. I asked, "What are you looking for, exactly?" and the nurse, somewhat reluctantly, said, "Well... we just want to make sure there's nothing cancerous."

And I don't care who you are, when someone mentions the C word in connection with your own body, there's a little part of you that freaks a bit. I nodded, smiled, said, "Okay." But sleeping well that night would've been impossible, even if they HADN'T been waking me up every two hours for blood drawing and taking vitals.

Late the next morning, the nurse swings by my room, says, "CT is clear," and hurries out. Okay, so no cancer. All good. But they still didn't know what caused the clot. Testing on my blood continued.

Surgery was scheduled for Friday afternoon but because of unavoidable circumstances was delayed until that evening. I was annoyed and maybe snapped a little at the staff because I hadn't eaten anything and was cranky. But I got over it. They did the surgery that night, stuck a tube all the way up my arm and started pumping clot-busting stuff in there. The next morning, they checked it, saw it was working fine, and pulled the tube out. They also figured out what caused the clotting-- my clavicle was pressing up against a major artery.

So-- no cancer, no blood disease, just a weird fluke of anatomy. I suppose I'll have to have surgery in another couple of months to fix that.

After the surgery, I had a free hand to wander around the hospital whenever I felt restless. At one point, I wandered downstairs and outside to get some air and sneak a cigarette. I was standing there feeling a little sorry for myself when this older guy came up and lit a smoke and we started talking. He was there for his son, he said, who was up in the cancer ward. The son was 21 years old, learning disabled, and they'd just learned that he had intestinal cancer.  They were putting him on chemo, but the prognosis wasn't good. He would probably die, and soon.

The father kept it together, smoking his cigarette, looking old and tired. He'd lost his wife a few years earlier, and his son was all he had. Because of his disability, the son didn't really understand what was happening to him. We talked for a few more minutes and I wished him well. We shook hands, and he went back upstairs to be with his boy.

When he was gone, something weird happened to me, and I hesitate to mention it, but here it is: I turned away so no one could see me and I started crying. I'm crying a little now thinking about it. I pulled myself together before the crying could become sobbing, wiped my eyes, and went back inside. I was fine. I had a blood clot that, while life-threatening, was fixable and I was going to be okay. But this man was about to lose the last thing in his life that held any meaning for him.

I made a point of being extra-nice to everyone that day. The staff was terrific and they took good care of me. My wife was there every day, studying for her next test while I slept fitfully on morphine and read and watched stupid shows on TV about cute animals.

I'm back home now. Tired, weak, etc. But I'm okay, and I realize how lucky I am. Not like the man I met outside. I suspect my thoughts will turn to him, and his son, often.

Already September, no no no

Holy shit, are we well into September already? This sucks. I haven't accomplished anywhere NEAR what I wanted to this year. Days crept by, weeks, months, and I've puttered around with a handful of different writing projects with very little to show for it so far. I've actually completed three short stories. That's it.

Fuckin' shameful is what it is.

Like every year, I started off with a big MASTER PLAN, and like every year, I never quite got it done. Mostly out of laziness. You know how it is, I reckon. You work a day job, long hours, and even though the job is pretty much a cakewalk, you come home tired at the end of the day and all you want to do is maybe watch a movie or read a little and go to bed. "I'll get up early tomorrow morning and write," you say. But of course you don't.

So life becomes nothing, really, other than existence. And you start getting depressed, maybe, beating yourself up, wondering if you can even really call yourself a writer anymore.

Anyway, you probably know the drill.

So here we are, September, year almost gone. By this time last year, I'd written something like 1,000 pages of new material. This year, not even a fourth of that.

So what do I do about it? Well, the only thing to do, really, is to stop looking back at the wasted months and re-commit to actually getting some stuff done with the time left. I'm well into a Hawthorne novella, and if I do it right I can finish it before the month is over. And then another one (the long-put-off Hawthorne-Laramie cross-over). And then perhaps start on something longer. I don't know. Give ole' Hawthorne a break next year before starting the "second cycle" of his stories.

Mostly, though, I just need to stop being a lazy, tired bastard and get some shit done. I need to follow the example of ace writers like James Reasoner, a man who fuckin' WRITES, brothers and sisters. This whole "nothing more than existence" thing needs to stop.

Anyway, point being: I'm taking a hiatus from the blog here and the social media sites I've become so addicted to (yeah, YOU, Facebook, you seductive Jezebel) until I actually have these things written. Next time I talk to you, my friends, I'll have some solid stories behind me.

How to Be a Man in the 21st Century

Men ain't what they used to be. This is a fact. Males of my generation (I was born in the mid-'60's) and younger have been sensitized, sanitized, and emasculated to such a degree that we're barely the same species as our fathers and grandfathers. In some ways, we don't really WANT to be like them, sure, but it other ways, ways that count, we're less.

We can't go backward to some mythological time when "men were men"-- and I would be remiss not to mention that too many people, then and now, mistake "Giant Asshole" for "Real Man". Masculinity in and of itself is much maligned because too many males haven't understood what it actually means, and have behaved like enormous dickheads.

But being a Man in the manner of our fathers is not something we should want. Being a Man in the 21st century is an entirely different ball game. Here's some pointers, brothers.

-Be decent. That is, treat other people with respect, especially women. Never let the words "whore", "bitch", or "slut" cross your lips. No matter what. NEVER EVER raise your hand to a woman. That makes you a weak little punk.

-Be a man of your word. If you make a promise, you'd better damn well keep it. Be honest and deal square with other people. If you don't have that integrity, you don't have shit.

-Keep your cards close to your chest. Stop talking so goddamn much. You may think you have lots of interesting anecdotes, and maybe you do, but keep some parts of yourself in reserve.

-Stay cool. Don't get worked up. In a crisis, keep calm and level-headed, speak in a low, unhurried voice. Stay in control.

-Don't think you have to go to the gym. A singular fixation on your rock-hard abs might be... over-compensating. Yeah, women dig guys with muscles, but they only dig them on the shallowest level, the way you might dig a girl with a big booty or nice legs. They've been trained to appreciate that, but not take it seriously. It doesn't really mean anything of value; it's eye-candy. If you really want to muscle up, try actual physical labor-- chopping wood or pushing a plow or something. Those are honest muscles, derived from doing something useful, not obsessing on your body.

-Dress like a man, not a boy. Only punk kids wear those big baggy pants, sagging down around their crotch. Only a wuss wears skinny jeans, and tee-shirts with some dumb-ass corporate slogans or hats on sideways. Hair perfectly coiffed with lots of "product" is effete and vain. Have a good haircut, sure, be well-groomed, but not to the point of shallow obsessiveness. Wear clean clothes that are practical but stylish. Have a suit or two tailored, if you can spare the cash.

-Violence is almost never the solution, but sometimes, sometimes, it's inevitable. Learn to recognize when there's no other option, and act on it. Stand your ground in an equal match, control your fear of getting hurt. Don't brag or make threats or try to get cute with the movie-style one-liners. Just fight. Hard. And remember, losing a fight doesn't make you less of a man, not fighting back at all does.

-By that same token, don't be stupid. Know when you can't win. Hey, the guy with the gun or the knife always wins the argument. That doesn't mean anything-- someone who would use a gun against someone who isn't equally armed is a big wussy with some temporarily artificial power. You have to cede to it, though... if only for the moment. Even John Wayne knew when to put his hands up for lesser men.

-Never be the one who starts a fight.

-Don't brag or boast about your accomplishments...

-...but don't pretend to false modesty. Acknowledge, if only to yourself, your victories and your strengths.

-Being gloomy and moody is NOT the same thing as being strong and silent. Pull yourself together, man. Real men smile, even when they don't feel it. If you're having a bad day, that's nobody's problem but yours.

-A real man can admit when he's wrong, and not even mind it (much).

-Don't be snarky or sarcastic. It's a poor substitute for actual wit. Speak plain. When you talk, there should be no doubt about what you're saying.

-Racism, homophobia, and sexism are the mindsets of the ignorant and the insecure. A real man is better than that.

-A real man is kind to children. He's good to animals. He's generous to people less fortunate than himself.

-This one is tricky, if it's not already part of your natural personality-- be stoic. Stay strong and uncomplaining in the face of adversity or pain. Don't cave in. What I'm saying is, stop your pathetic sniveling.

-I mentioned being honest and dealing square with people; equally important is being honest with yourself. The process of "knowing yourself" can be a hard, dark journey, but if you don't wimp out, if you keep going through the darkness, you'll eventually come to some kind of light. The sense of purpose and center-edness that comes with knowing yourself is something that can't be faked-- and people can see it in you.

-And finally, a real man of the 21st century knows that he won't always live up to his own standards. At some point, he will fail, let himself down. But he won't abandon his principles. He'll re-commit, get over it, and move on. Because, really, being a better man just means being a better human being.

A Blur of Capes and Tights

Hey, comic book fans, remember how excited we used to get whenever we saw a trailer for a movie featuring one of our favorite comic book characters? "Oh, wow, a Spider-Man movie!" or "Holy crap, the upcoming Batman looks awesome!" or "Cool, Iron Man is gonna rock!" As they say, we were such dorks back then.

It all snowballed too quickly is what happened, it all started bleeding together until all we could see was this blur of brightly colored tights and capes and massive CGI destruction. It just doesn't mean anything anymore. I find I've gotten really bored with it.

Yesterday, it was announced that Ben Affleck would be the new Batman in the Superman/Batman movie (which, incidentally, will only exist to help usher in the Justice League movie). Reaction on the internets ranged from mild annoyance to frothing at the mouth. But I found myself shrugging and saying Eh. Who cares.

In the past, I've been really forgiving of these comic book movies, even when they weren't perfect, because I wanted to like them. That goes a long way, man.

Sam Raimi's first Spider-Man film was solid. The second even better. The third one... pretty bad. And even though they felt the need to re-hash the origin, I thought The Amazing Spider-Man was better than Raimi's take.

I enjoyed Edward Norton's Incredible Hulk, but I've always been a little biased toward Hulk.

Christopher Nolan's first Batman movie was great. The second almost staggeringly good. I'm a little ambivalent about the last one. The Batman films of the 90's all suck. Yes, even the first two Tim Burton ones. I don't know what we were thinking at the time, but watching them now is excruciating.

Hollywood's first two stabs at The Punisher left me cold, but you know what? I LOVE Punisher: War Zone, with Ray Stevenson. Yeah, I'm the only one, I know. But that's okay, because it meant I could buy the DVD for four bucks.

The first Hellboy was great. The second mediocre.

Watchmen just made me feel... dirty. League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was so bad it made me angry.

V For Vendetta was awesome and I will fight you over it.

The first Iron Man was terrific. The second, not so much. I didn't bother with the third.

Captain America was good. Thor was good. Green Lantern sucked ass. Daredevil wasn't as bad as they say.

But you know, the apex of this whole superhero movie thing, I think, was The Avengers. What a marvelous spectacle that movie is. It hits all the right notes and gives us everything we could want from a comic book movie. I thoroughly enjoyed it on almost every level.

Even while watching it, though, I had a sneaking sense I was seeing the end of the superhero movie genre as something truly interesting. It was as close to perfect as we can expect from the genre, and really, where do you go from there?

Only one way: more of the same. Ad nauseum.

I was excited about seeing Man of Steel, because as un-cool as it may be, I really love Superman. The original Christopher Reeves version still stands up really well, but I felt we were long overdue for a more modern take on the character. And Superman Returns committed the cardinal sin of being boring. So I wanted to like Man of Steel.

And I more or less did like it. More than most of my friends did, anyway. My only real problem with the movie (and it's a VERY BIG problem) is the over-the-top, CGI-soaked, brain-deadening levels of destruction in the last third. The Superman I love would never have allowed that to happen. But more importantly, it was... tedious. Tedious and pointless. Maybe we, the movie-watching public, have been fascinated this century with scenes of total carnage and cities being devastated (the lingering psychological scars of 9-11, maybe?), but I for one am losing my appetite for it. It's not impressive or emotionally stirring anymore. It's dull. I actually would have liked Man of Steel a LOT more if Superman had found a way to avoid having half of Metropolis decimated.

Anyway, all of this brings me back to the Superman/Batman movie, and the announcement of Affleck in the cowl. Affleck won't make or break this movie. If it flops, it won't have much, if anything, to do with him. If it's a huge critical and commercial success, it also won't be because of Affleck. It'll be about how predictable the story is, how much we can suspend disbelief, and how much CGI devastation we can swallow before choking on it.

James Reasoner's DANCING WITH DEAD MEN

Writing 300 novels in a roughly 30 year period is a hell of an achievement. Writing 300 that are solid is something else again. But that's what James Reasoner has done. With his new novel, DANCING WITH DEAD MEN, Reasoner has brought his entire bag of tricks to the party, and the fine craftsmanship he's known for is on full display.

The story contains many of the same themes that we see in a lot of Reasoner's work, most notably the idea of the protagonist, a hard man, groping toward something better than what he was and encountering nearly insurmountable obstacles along the way. The biggest obstacle, of course, being the weight of his own past, and his doubts about being able to affect a positive change.

In DEAD MEN, the hero is one Logan Handley, former gun-for-hire, now crippled by the onset of a paralysis affecting his left arm and right leg. He travels to Hot Springs Arkansas in search of a cure and finds himself almost inadvertently entering a new, kinder phase of life, making friends and working like a normal person. That is until he foils a bank robbery and finds himself in the employ of a rich lumber baron-- next he knows, Logan is pulled back into the role of gunman. When an old enemy of his hooks up with the lumber baron's business rival, and Logan's new friends are threatened, all bets are off and our hero has to reconcile both sides of his nature to save the day.

The whole thing unfolds at a pretty breakneck pace. Reasoner excels at building momentum from scene to scene, never skipping any opportunity for action, and making the reader feel a real emotional investment in the characters. This is what he's always done, and it's the reason why he's a writer's writer.

Here's to 300 more.

Just some of my favorite Elmore Leonard covers

Quite a few years ago, along with at least a couple hundred other people, I met Elmore Leonard at a book signing at the old Borders in Birmingham. His signings there were something of a tradition. He seemed very frail, very tired, but his acerbic wit was on full display. He spoke briefly, and spent the entire evening signing books for a never-ending line of fans. As clearly exhausted as he was, he shook everyone's hands and smiled. When it was my turn, I asked if it was okay to get a photograph-- he stood up slowly (he'd been up and down and up and down all night, fulfilling photo requests), put an arm around my shoulders while my friend Carole took the picture. I said to him, "Thanks, Mr. Leonard." He smiled, shook my hand, and said, "No, Heath (he knew my name from signing my book), thank you," before shuffling back to his seat to sign a hundred more books. Not the greatest Elmore Leonard story, I know, but his graciousness, even when he so clearly was not having a great time, stayed with me.

So long, Mr. Elmore Leonard.