A cocktail with Hemingway:

Well,

Here’s the

smoking gun

Let me be your fifth ex wife

You can call me puss

I’ll be the cat

eat your canary

We are canard

mort

Dead Ducks

Day Drinking

On a diatribe

Ask me what came first

Ego

Or attention

I’ll savor each syllable

Purr my way into your

presence

Ask me for a night

Cap

Gun

blowing smoke

The best are always

rapidly oxidizing

their

Source

material

The sun did not shine.

It was too cold to write

so I went to the bar

on that wet, dreary night.

I had me a beer

then another or two;

I was fatally bored.

I had nothing to do.

But then the door opened.

Some people came in.

They were singing and laughing,

revved up by the wind.

That’s when I saw him,

his hat large and loose.

He came straight to my table,

my pal, Dr. Suess.

He sat and he smiled.

He chuckled and grinned.

He pinched my cheeks madly

and said, “Let’s begin!”

He ordered Sam Adams

and green eggs and ham.

He talked about writing

and said, “Here’s my plan!

“I’ll write about flub-jubs

and hespery-gogs

with slithery ponkles

and starry-tailed dogs.

Tiny French bongtruffles!

Salted McGees!

Hand-colored grackles,

and goo-birds with cheese...”

Seuss got so excited

he jumped to his feet,

spat out his beer foam

and whistled, “Tweeeeet tweeeet!”

That beer must be strong;

it went right to his head.

He frisbee’d the green eggs.

It filled me with dread.

He hopped on the table

and tapped out a dance.

I had a bad feeling;

he winked me a glance.

“Don’t worry,” he said,

hopping down to the floor.

“We’ll not get kicked out

of that fine wooden door.

“For I can repair this!

It’s magic! You’ll see.

I brought some Things with me,

Things One, Two, and Three.”

They sprang from his hat.

Then, with twinkling eyes,

Dr. Suess sat back down

as the barkeep came by.

“You clean up this mess!

You clean it up now!

Or I’ll call the cops!

This is just not allowed.”

So Thing One swept the floor

and Thing Two did the dishes.

Thing Three licked up green eggs,

said, “These are delicious!”

They dried all the glasses

and put them away.

They wiped every table

and called it a day.

The barkeep was happy;

his place was so clean!

So very much cleaner

than he’d ever seen.

He offered to hire them,

Things One, Two, and Three.

My pal, Dr. Suess said,

“Hey! What about ME?”

“You should stick to your writing.

Your act is not funny.

Keep on writing stories,

come back when it’s sunny.”

Suess counted his dough.

He looked pretty rough.

He paid, he was ploughed,

he’d had more than enough.

He put on his hat

and finished his beer.

Pushed in his chair

and said, “I’m outta here.”

Some fish are red fish.

Some fish are blue.

Dr. Suess made them all up.

I wish they were true.

I drank my warm beer

and stood up on my feet

and shuffled on home,

back to Mulberry Street.

"Sir,"

and he nods in acknowledgement,

"I don't drink."

He raises an eyebrow,

a twinkle I mistake for

curiosity when he is actually

amused.

"What do you wish

to talk about,

why have you roused

my rest?"

"There are things

that I can't place,

that I can't seem to

settle," and he

chuckles at the sentiment

of family,

hums at the possibility of

love, and he becomes serious

at the notion of

time travel.

"Now that is a

secret, such as is the

rest of life," he raises the glass

to my lips, "the best

we can do

is live" and he presses

me to

drink.

Can you write characters of other races/genders/etc.? Sure. But I think where it gets tricky is can you speak for them, which is another issue.

When writing characters I think of it in terms of a realist painter or an abstract painter -- either I’m drawing something as true to life/form as I can, based on careful observation and study; or I’m manifesting my own emotions / consciousness onto the page and giving it life. If your character is meant to be the former, then it’s probably alright to try and diversify them so long as you remain neutral and aware of your own lens. But if your character is meant to express your own self/psyche, then I would stick to a character that falls more closely to your own background.

The safest bet when writing a character of another gender/race/etc is probably to just ask for feedback from honest proofreaders of that particular group. When they read your character, is it too flat/stereotypical? Is it a valid portrait or a false copy? I’ve sat in several book discussion groups and heard the words, “Did any [insert demographic] even read this crap before they printed it?” too many times. It’s a simple fix that can force you to be a better writer and take a more critical look at your own innate biases before you immortalize them on paper.

Case in point: One of my close book club friends loves horror but can't stand Stephen King, because his minority/female characters often fall flat (and/or dead). Whereas I prefer Dean Koontz - sure, half his books might boil down to a boy and his dog fighting monsters, but the man definitely knows how to write about a boy and his dog.

Writing is more powerful when you write what you know.

Tacet means silent

in Latin

Hush, child.

Why talk so much..

Listen to the quiet night

Listen to the beauty of the darkness

Nox

Caligo

Listen to the cricket's chirp

To the moonsong

To the wind's whisper

To the world's breath.

Hush, child.

Melt into this silent chaos.

It will teach more than I ever can.

I have to leave now..

Forever, I'm afraid.

But if you listen to the

chirp

song

whisper

breath

you will find your way.

I dip my toes into the pool of boredom and quiver with fear. My mind runs—sprints—gallops away at the first sign of silence, the first sign of inaction. I must find something to do. I bite my nails in a desperate act to feel accomplished. I must find something to do. Scanning the world for something to read: a billboard, an irrelevant pamphlet, anything to keep my mind from settling. I must find something to do. Someone please help, I can feel it happening; my stirring mind is missing its spoon and the chaotic contents are settling. Don’t let them touch the bottom of the pot; don’t let them awaken to ask where they are. Because surely they will realize they are bored. Oh no, It’s too late. I’ve transformed.

Rippling water sparkles with movement. Stalks of wild flowers waver in the spring breeze. The art of boredom is provoked and the stagnant world awakens with life when the mind settles into inaction. When there is nothing of interest surrounding the self, once the fear of boredom has gone, the mind works hard to find amusement in the mundane. The illusive mundane. Subtleties of life begin to emerge and a new world offers itself to the still.

An inactive mind begins to stroll the path of purpose, alerting the Self to the overlooked actions of others, like a hawk searching the ground for prey. The book wavers in her delicate grasp. His voice whispers with his thoughts. His fingers connect with an itch on his face. Her heels stomp with authority as she progresses towards her destination. The library rustles with human action, breathing life into the settled mind.

On the Feast of the First Morning of the First Day, in the Year of the Monkey, 1968, North Vietnam’s wildcat soldiers—many dressed in pale shirts with pleated pockets, button-downed trousers, and wearing sun-helmets or jungle hats—attacked South Vietnam.

Bullets and tracers cracked the silent sky; grenades and mortar fire shook the earth.

Thousands of Americans in hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, faced ever-growing waves of gritty soldiers trying to provoke citizens in the south into overthrowing their own government and siding with Ho Chi Minh and his Communist regime.

It did not happen.

What did happen, however, was a bloody mess: More than 40,000 Viet Cong died, along with 7,000-plus Americans.

I was not in-country during that brutal battle, known as the Tet Offensive. I showed up later.

In 1971, I was given guard duty at the end of a runway at Da Nang Airbase—a runway that had been overrun during Tet.

Spooky.

The night-watch lasted four hours. It was deadly dark. Menacing. On the edge of the jungle—a stone’s throw from hell.

I was alone.

It crossed my mind that somebody was out there. Watching me. From the other side. (Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were doing their job—like I was doing mine.)

Nighttime creeps me out. Haunts me. Especially that night. Gloomy thoughts conjured up layers of fear, anxiety, and dread. I didn’t need that. Not one bit.

I was wearing a helmet and flack jacket along with my uniform-of-the-day. My weapon: an M1911, Automatic Colt Pistol. The barrel was rusty; sand had found its way into the detachable magazine.

Nobody ever taught me how to shoot a 45—let alone dismantle and clean it. Didn’t really matter. I was told not to load my pistol unless ordered to do so. And, if so ordered, not to shoot unless given an official OK. Good thing, too, because (given the rust and sand) the dang gun would have exploded in my face.

About two hours into the watch, I got paranoid—trees became stalking solders; shifting ground-grass transformed into a dangerous threat. My breathing sounded like labored gasps from a faulty fireplace-bellows; my heartbeats reverberated like hollow thumps rumbling through a defective drum.

At some point I put my hands in my pocket and was surprised to find the harmonica I’d used the night before to play for drinks at the on-base saloon. Of course I wouldn’t play the harmonica out here. Not on watch. For one thing, the sound would call attention to me; for another, the shiny metallic top and bottom plates would make a great target for sharp-shooters.

Playing would be a suicide move.

Eventually, boredom, fear, and dread teamed up to form a strange euphoric alliance. Pragmatic. Morbid. Sinisterly re-assuring. I took out my harmonica and played a sultry blues riff. Panic melted away. Terror took a trip. Apprehension dissipated into wistful puffs, like ghostly smoke leaving a dying fire.

Better target for a sniper? Sure. But I figured I’d rather take a kill-shot than suffer a shattered arm or leg.

Silence sauntered away that night. Quiet as a bug. Far away from my one-man parade—drifting through a stream of blue notes and caressed by a soft, summer breeze.