Dashiell Hammett's Advice

Even though this week has been a busy one, and I've had a ton on my mind, I don't have a whole lot to say.  I'm still processing a lot of it.  There was a lot of good and a lot of bad.  Thoughts which make we want to give up writing (perminantly) roll though my head even as I write this.  Maybe the darkness will win out, maybe not.  I have no way to read the future.

Instead, I want to give you this.  I've written in a lot of genres since I started putting pen to paper, but my first novel is solidly detective/noir.  What I found one day was a list of rules written by one of detective fiction's great authors, Dashiell Hammett.  I wanted to share that list with you.

LINK

If you write mysteries, it should have several nuggets for you to look at and consider.  But if you don't, take a look anyway.  It has tidbits which can help all of us, Most of it is still valid.  Give it a lookie-loo and tell me what you think.

Full credit goes to the website and its writers.

An Open Letter To All The Women In My Dreams

An Open Letter To All The Women In My Dreams

To all the women who inhabit my dreams:

     Thank you, but I'm married.  

     Your attentions have made many an entertaining—and I use that term loosely—night, but please, the time's come to stop.  Waking up to emotions that I haven't felt outside of high school isn't my idea of fun.  I wasn't a fan of them then and that opinion hasn't changed.  Besides, isn't a bonus of being married having only one woman driving me nuts, rather than the scores of you?

      Now I will admit that I know some of you.  Or at least I did once upon a time.  Old flames whose fires were quenched long ago, you have my permission to leave.  What we had was never real and never anything more than some fantasy in the back of my head.  We never went out, we never dated, and we were never anything more than friends.  Please leave.

     Those of you who are real, but we've never met—you celebrities and models—you may leave as well.  Sure, you can tantalize with your ads and popularity, but both of us know that isn't you.  And if you insist it is, then I'll insist on calling you a liar.  The real people you mimic, they may actually be as described, but you're just a shade.  You hold no more substance than smoke from a campfire.  The exit is behind you.

     And you, those of you who are utterly false with no substance in any reality, you are the worst of the lot.  Pretending to be all those things which are blatantly false.  Pretending to be my idea of a perfect woman.  That's nothing more than a blunt insult to the sex that you pretend to be.  No woman—no person—is perfect.  It's a sad and cruel joke upon my mind.  I don't wish you to merely leave.  You I want banished.

    Because—all of you, take note—I will take my wife with all her glorious imperfections over each and every one of you.  Sure, she has things that make her less than perfect and irritate the hell out of me, but when those things cease to exist, my soul feels empty.  I long for them.  So yes, I'll take her horrendous morning breath, her constant concern over her imaginary weight problems, and all those other tidbits that make me want to howl over the make-believe Hell you create.

     Now, there are a handful of you which can stay.  Only a handful mind.  Those of you who are of my dreams, but not in them.  Those women who help fuel my creative fires and inspire me.  The Stephanie Hawthornes, the Jennifer Winters, the Helen Blacks.  Welcome and have a seat.  Can I get you a glass of water?  A drink?  Anything?  You respect my wishes and are nothing more than you already are.   Thank you.

     The rest of you, you may leave now.

     Love,
     The Man Who You'll Never Listen To.

In Memory of Robin Williams

For this blog post, I had originally planned a heartfelt remembrance to Robin Williams, detailing everything he’d done and what it meant to me.  I’d even gone so far as to write the vast majority of it.  The problem was, nothing I could say accurately portrayed what he meant to so many of us.  Sometimes even words fail.  So all I can say is this:

Mr. Williams, you will be missed.   The darkness seemed to stay at bay a little bit longer with you here among us.  You were proof that we could be more than we seemed. That we should always cherish the kid inside us, no matter our age.  That just a number.  You’re only as old as you feel.  Your humor guided us through good times and bad.  Goodbye and rest in peace.

It's imperfect and I accept that.  My deepest sympathies go out to those who knew him best—his friends and family.  Thank you for sharing this man with us.

But, all things considered, there’s one thing left to say. Robin Williams, comedic genius that he was, suffered from depression.  It seems impossible that someone who brought such happiness to others could suffer from such a debilitating illness.  But it only goes to prove the opposite.  ANYONE can suffer from depression.  NO ONE is immune.  And we cannot act like it can be locked away in a corner and never spoken about.  That’s the one way we can damn everyone.

I know plenty who suffer from depression, both in private and in public.  It's nothing to be ashamed of.  Talking can help.  It may not be a solution, but it's a start.  Begin.  Speak to your friends and family, to your loved ones.  They would rather have you here with them than be left with just a memory.  Someone out there cares.  

Always.