Hope is a Mother

It's a Friday night. I'm home alone and snowed in in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I'm a 53 year old California boy who has no business living here in the Great American Midwest, but I'm stuck here for economic reasons. Tonight I have half-a-case of ramen, 2/3rds of a Fifth of Old Crow with some Coca Cola for mixers, and a brain full of SEO strategies, PLR posts to write, Google Adwords Keywords to research, and potential guest-blogs to plan. Then it hits me... it's probably the cheap bourbon talking... How long has it been since I last sat down at my keyboard as nothing more nor less than a Street Dog Crime Fiction Writer? Answer: It's been a while, man. Mickey Spillane would tell me I've turned into a Hollywood Pansy. And Spillane would be right.

I miss the days when my typewriter went RAT TAT TAT like a Thompson Submachine Gun, like a Browning Automatic Rifle cutting through posses of pursuing law dogs. RAT TAT TAT TAT! Like Robert Leslie Bellem with a bottle of Jack and a Black Mask deadline.

It's time to strap it on and get it on.

Time to "Get Down and Get With It" as the criminally-overlooked English band SLADE used to say.

I need a new challenge. I've been trying for several months to write the second King Leary novel, but, apparently, Leary and his world are not grabbing me the way they should. It may be time to do something different, at least for awhile. Something more visceral, less convoluted.

Hope is a Mother

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