That Was The Week That Was Was The Week That Was

From reflections to events, but that’s the way my week usually goes. Unlike other writers, I don’t just jump on the morning news, even in a big event, I let the story “season,” because first thoughts are never the correct thoughts. What happened is never as important as why it happened, because if we don’t reflect, and learn, then we’ll just keep doing the same thing over and over again, and, as you probably know, that’s the definition of insanity.
I began the week with an idea of the eventual breakup of the American Dream, i.e. set up a government to steal everything, and try to cram it into the Beltway. In “God Bless Americans,” I said, “As we all know, the American government has been overreaching for years, and part of this is because of the artificial definitions of who’s who, and what’s what. Most of the time Federal mandates, and decisions are mandatory, and arbitrary. States make laws, but why? All Uncle Sam has to do is make His law, and the state legislature becomes a complete waste of time. K. C. Massey can carry a gun under Texas law, Sammy says, “No,” K. C. goes to jail. Someone can fire up a joint in Malibu, DEA doesn’t like it, guy gets arrested and has a criminal record. Fundamentalist Mormon wants to marry twin sisters and the Fed can’t seem to find the ink to put one more square on a tax form. See where this is going, folks?”
From there I let old Brother Greed get ahold of me and penned, If I Had Won The Powerball. I ain’t even gonna lie to you. I had that money spent, and I listed all my dreams for the public to see. “If I had won the Powerball. I sat up last night waiting for the Powerball drawing. I didn’t get a single number. You’d think there would be a prize for that! Anyway, like practically every other fool who invested in castles in the air, and purchased a Powerball ticket, I had big plans. I’d like to list them here. They ranged from the sublime to the sub-slime, but here goes.” Well, as you probably figured out, I didn’t win, and had to rush down to pay the light bill the next day.
Politics raised its ugly head next, ugly being the key word. Hey, for the record, I understand why Bill cheated on Hillary, ok. I kept having images of Arkansas politicians, ugly women, and cornbread swirling around in my head and out popped, Dead As Cornbread. “From White Water to Benghazi, Hillary has danced on a razor’s edge for years. Other people in the public eye can commit just a smidgen of what she’s pulled and they’re thrown out of the Army, charged with a crime, end up with public ridicule, and Alex Jones accuses them of leading the New World Order. Hillary could pee on the White House steps and the Liberal Left would say she had found a new way to fix global warming. Am I the only one who thinks there is something wrong with this picture?”
Where Everybody Knows Your Name was next. I have no idea where this idea sprang from, but I suspect it was a bar tab. “Places like this never last, and that’ sad. Just a place where seasoned men come to relax and compare lives. I gain more there than any other place I go. I listen more than I talk, and I learn. These guys view things like ISIS with a very jaundiced eye. And everybody knows your name. I like that.”
That night I listened to my friend, Scott Binsack, reflect on his belief in an Eternal Creator, and wrote, In God We Trust. “God got expelled from school, His commandments from the courthouse square, and from the halls of Congress, and we wonder what ever happened to the country. God is a nice guy. You don’t have to throw him out, just ask Him to leave, and he’ll oblige. And, when He does leave what do you have left? Bruce Gender, Hillary, Obama, and Imam whoever! Children don’t say prayers, or the Pledge of Allegiance in school anymore. They learn how to do drugs, and different sexual preferences, depending on the gender, or cross-gender of the teacher. Welcome to a Godless world!”
I’m very TexCentric, and it showed in Olga vs The American Dream. “This was a big heads up to the third world. While Washington wasn’t invaded, America, for once, had to stand down. We, of course, put the spin on it. We were like Putin recently said. We were like playing chess with a pigeon. We knocked over all the pieces, pooped on the board, and then stomped around like we won. Still, we had the dream. Or rather, Martin Luther King had a dream. Our dream had caught the last train for the coast.”
Seems I was drawn to the past a lot this week. During lunch with some old friends, we got to talking about our high school days, and a few things came to mind. In The Last Picture Show I wrote about things that would make kids in New York, or California would cringe at. “I didn’t have a pickup. I had a ’54 Chevy. The good thing about it was you could get four friends in the trunk when you went to the show. That meant for you, and the girl, it cost about seventy cents to get in. That’s right, one girl, five boys. Hey, we weren’t Muslims, she was safe. Also, if you were lucky she would be an Army brat and have five dollars or so in her purse, which would turn into buttered popcorn for everybody. The way you convinced her to give up the money was a gift, usually flowers, which meant a swing through the graveyard on the way to pick her up. They didn’t show that in the Last Picture Show either!”
By the week’s end I was blowing through pretty good. Still reflecting on Scott’s broadcast, I did a commentary on my first book, Sharon. “The Muslim community has got to come to the realization that the volatile section of Radical Islam is so dangerous to the rest of the world that they, the “good” Muslims need to handle it, or we, the rest of humanity will have to handle it for them.”
I was flying so high that I began to generate “doubles,” by this time. When I get an idea I just write it, no waiting for later. After listening to a Trump speech I resurrected Little Red Riding Republican with a nice 2016 update. “Well, that’s where Little Red Riding Republican comes in. She had been raised in the wisdom handed down from generation to generation. She had eyes of blue, and flaxen hair that fell down around her shoulders. She would take long walks in the country, and one day, during one of these walks she became lost and a figure appeared out of thin air. It was a black knight!”
And, last, but certainly not least, Black Lives Don’t Matter! Actually, I’ve toyed with this title for months, but I just couldn’t take the edge off enough. When someone came back with ALL Lives Matter, I thought to myself, “Heck, why don’t we just join hands and sing, “We Shall Overcome?” Finally, I came up with a perfect second line. For the record, Black Lives Matter is the epitome of Liberal Stupidity. You simply have to have the guts to put it out there. Everybody knows movements like this are stupid, and the originators laugh all the way to the bank. Unfortunately for them I write for the Tea Party, not the Pot Party! That’s why they call me Bill the Butcher! “Black lives don’t matter! My life matters! In the words of Billy Joe Shaver, “When you have no way to go you’d better know I’m gonna get my share of mine.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a racist. More than that, I’m a Texan. Texas wasn’t built on a food stamp. America has evolved into a welfare state. In Texas we have a thing called a “51% sign.” Now, it’s supposed to refer to the amount of food vs alcohol that forbids the carrying of a gun within an establishment. In America it is the percentage of citizens working every day, as opposed to those lining up at the welfare office for their daily bread.”
Sunday is a day of rest. Well, maybe for some, but for me it’s a day of reflection. They don’t rest, so I don’t rest. I have been called, A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin, and that’s good, because when the libtards pounce on me I can always say, “Hey! I told you I was stupid from the start.” Have a blessed week, and keep looking for America. It’s somewhere out there.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin


How To Be A Writer 101

During a get together last night someone posed the question all writers dread. “How much money have you made?” This will throw the unseasoned off, and result in everything from excuses to outright anger, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and said, “Not a cent.” I’m not a real writer, I’m more of an accidental tourist. My entire writing career has been backing into a corner, and writing my way out. My patent advice to beginners is if you are writing for money stop, and sell snow cones. You’ll make more.

You must write because you enjoy it. If the dollar signs are before your eyes composition becomes laborious, and that will work its way into your material. For me writing an article is like painting a picture. You do the whole thing, and then go back putting a dab here, a dab there, until you get what you want. The whole picture must fit. When I dream up a subject I pretty much have the entire concept in my head, and the resulting article is the summation thereof.

You have to learn the craft. I wrote music for years, and finally got that down to where I could churn out a fairly good song, but I’ve only been in political satire for about two years. I’m still in training. That, and I have a high school education from Killeen, Texas, and that’s just about as illiterate as you can get and they still let you drive a car. I know absolutely nothing about composition, subject-verb agreement, proper English, or adjectives. What I do know is how to turn a phrase, use sixty-four years of common sense, and poke fun at liberals who don’t know what sex they are.

You all know the famous writers, King, Hemmingway, and Grisham. Those are rare. If you are going to be a successful writer, i.e. write every day and get read you have to be successful in your own right. Mine was real estate. By dumb luck I formed a company with my wife and sold a boat load of real estate. In the process I became versed in real estate law, and brothers and sisters, I ain’t kidding. I have sat before the Texas Real Estate Commission, representing brokers twelve times and schooled them! The only time I ever lost was when we used a lawyer (Ted Smith) and his brilliance cost me forty-six thousand dollars. The fact is, if you are going to write you must experience life else you have nothing to write about. In Nashville all beginning songwriters go on endlessly about “paying dues,” and the life of a songwriter. I just wrote songs about loose women and bad whiskey because I knew all about that, and couldn’t find the Grand Ol’ Opry with a GPS!

All my stuff is original, right off the top of my head. I write “off the cuff,” and call myself “A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin.” That way, if I foul up I can always say, “Hey, I TOLD you I was stupid!” Like I said, I was a song writer, adult country humor to be exact. Although I’d written three books I didn’t consider myself to be much of a prose writer. I put one or two little comments up on Doc Greene’s chat room. I’d always had several Facebook pages, but never developed them. As you may have seen yesterday I have divorced Facebook, but, just like a real divorce, she keeps coming around, so we’ll see how that goes. Facebook is worthless to me, but I want to bring my reader base over to more productive formats. Anyway, I kept making comments on Doc’s chat room and little by little I began to expand the comments to articles and put them up on various pages and groups.

A friend of mine suggested I do a blog. I’ve always considered a blog to be a poor man’s publishing, but it took little effort so I ran one. Then someone suggested that I string the articles together and do a book, so I did. I published through Amazon, which is another poor man’s effort, but the price is right. I wasn’t particularly happy with the layout, and getting them to accept the cover was an ordeal, but the words were all there. That, and the fact that I wrote the book on an iPhone. Published it from an iPhone too. How cool is THAT? I just love it when someone gets on me about my punctuation, not realizing I write mostly on an iPhone, in the morning, with dirty glasses. Go Figure!

I began to attend political events, and drawing upon what I was writing I actually had something to say. The stats began to pile up and I realized this was working, which was never my intention at all. Bear in mind I was retired after a career in Nashville and Austin. Divorced, I had been living with my son out in California and hanging out near Ocotillo Wells. My ambition was to have Martinis with co-eds and play guitar on the beach. I migrated back to Texas, and ended up taking care of my five grandchildren which my ex had adopted and actually looking after her husband who had been diagnosed with Agent Orange and cancer. He actually subscribed to my blogs and began to discuss Texas politics with me. The man has three bronze stars and a purple heart. When I would tell him I was “thinking” about going to some rally he’d rush out, buy me a new suit of clothes (I’m a desert rat) and insist that I go! They eventually moved up to Salt Lake and left me to care for the two houses back in Texas. (So much for retirement.)

So, I began a routine of putting up an article a day on Raging Elephants and various groups writing blogs and sitting on the porch composing on my iPhone, none of which I took very seriously. I made the style simple so the average reader could understand. I would take an issue, step back, look at it, and ask, “What’s REALLY going on here?” Originally I made it salty. Since I was a song writer I made the articles “go ’round in ‘circles.” I used key phrases like, “Swat them bees,” and “Save your fork,” to alert the reader. I read a lot, but I don’t do research per sae outside of checking the correct spelling of someone’s name. After I wrote something I read it out loud. This is an old songwriter’s trick. The article must go around in circles. The human mind looks for conclusion. You start, explain, and end up right back where you started. Hammer that nail! The reason for reading out loud is to make the prose smooth. Forget everything some college English teacher ever told you. If they knew anything about writing they’d be in the New York Times list and not teaching in some Po-Dunk junior college out in Coryell County, Texas! I regularly use “don’t” for “doesn’t,” double negatives, and I’m real fond of the word, “ain’t,” because that’s what Bubba sitting in his F-150 with his copy of the Dam Good Times understands!

I learn by listening to people who obviously have more comprehension than I, and for the most part they have been very supportive. I never argue, and most of the time I’m not rude, unless you count putting up “Leatherface,” and making a racial slur, yeah, I done that. I’m very aware that I’m a beginner with absolutely NO training. I’d end up on a radio show with some guy who had more degrees than a thermometer, and I didn’t have the background to debate a brisket recipe, much less black history (I’m from Texas, so I simply must be a racist, right?) ! About the worse I’ve ever done is to ask a professor on Michael Bee’s show, who was expounding his theory of the black tribes in Africa civilizing Egypt and the western world, why I couldn’t find any great pyramids in the Congo. (He told me the Illuminati had “cloaked” them!) Being an adult humorist I originally used very salty language, but began to pull back as I realized people were actually READING my stuff!

My first book on this subject, “A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin” was so so, but I’m now putting together a second book, “I Crappith Thee NOT,” in which I will zero in more on style, and content. I don’t expect to hit the best seller list. I am retired and between me, and my husband in law we have three homes. The old sarge was hanging on for dear life because he wanted to get a place out in SoCal and have me to take him sand railing across the Mojave Desert before he died. He always told me, “The best is yet to come.” Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

The way I look at it I will never get an honorable mention in the New York Times, but hey . . .I live in Texas! You can buy a lot of beer with 50,000 sales! I am always grateful for people who put up with me, and I learn from greater minds than my own. Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin is the personification of a philosophy. If you are going to write you must divorce ego. I am really simple, as are most people. I have no remote idea how many people read my stuff. I know my one reader, my mother no longer does because she’s dead. I have never in my life ran into someone at the supermarket that ever read anything I ever wrote. Pump up your ego and you’ll get your feeling hurt quick!

Once, when I attended a meeting where I spoke, when I emerged someone was asking me all kinds of questions about my opinions about this and that, and using words I didn’t understand. I told her, “Well, I don’t know nothing about all of that, but they sure got some good samiches in there.” Guess she didn’t like the cuisine, because she left.
Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin


Communication is a living, organic thing, born in the mind of the writer and nurtured in the heart of the reader. It’s not fair to call someone ignorant, or illiterate simply because their form of communication differs from yours. Ignorance is subjective. Put a Harvard law professor in the Outback of Australia with a sharp stick and a boomerang and then tell me who is ignorant!

The intelligence of a writer is twofold. First it is within. You can sit on a porch in Texas, such as I do, and formulate dozens of ideas, but to be able to communicate these ideas, now there’s the trick! Very simply put, to make another person understand what you understand is where the art of writing resides. That’s the second, and most important thing! To embed your thoughts into someone else’s mind is a skill that you develop over years, and cannot be taught, it must be lived!

I learned how to do this in Nashville as a songwriter. To be a songwriter you must be able to reduce complex and emotional ideas to sixteen lines, and they all have to flow, and rhyme! If you “reach” for it you’ll never get there. When it becomes cumbersome you must step back, take a breath, and ask, “What am I really trying to say,” and more importantly, “Is it WORTH saying!” It helps if you miss a meal or two along the way.

You never make a point by argumentation. An argument is just two people trying to discuss something on which they will never agree. The moment your reader senses such an approach you will lose that reader. There must be at least a semblance of agreement, a meeting of the minds, before you can effect communication. You can almost never win anyone over to your ideas who is adamantly opposed to everything you are, and disagrees with everything you say. In effect, you must always, “Preach to the choir.” The secret is to find YOUR choir, and preach to THEM!

If you agree that trying to sway an inflexible mind is a daunting task, don’t YOU be inflexible! Let your mind flow, embrace ideas. Quite often I will begin an article with one thing in mind, and before I’m done the piece will go an entirely different direction altogether. Never write a complete work with your mind already made up. Allow room for inspiration. I did this just yesterday. I embarked on an article about police. Originally I was going to rip and tear at police brutality, but before it was over, I stepped into police shoes, and two things hit me. One, I was totally wrong in my original premise, and two, I was very grateful for people who have chosen that thankless, underpaid profession!

Never let a pre-formed set of ideas direct your prose. I combine this with the misunderstanding of education. Education can be a useful thing, but adherence to ideas streaming from a professor that are accepted without question can be a deal killer. Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach! I know someone who is constantly in school, as was her mother, between them, more degrees than a thermometer . . . neither one can compose a grocery list! Oh, they’re very good at counting commas in my articles, but there is no communication between us because they are too bogged down with education, and presupposed political mindsets, set in stone, to ever engage in any meaningful dialog. Talking with them is like trying to have a martini with a religious nut! There are two kinds of people in this world; those who take a pound of dried beans, gather the spices and cook for hours arriving at just the right taste, and then there are those who just open a can. The college professor handed them a can opener long ago, and they never progressed past the microwave. You can live on their beans . . . technically.

Writing is like cooking beans. I was going to expand this into methods that I use in my work, but that won’t help you. You just have to KNOW! You have to FEEL! It’s like when you write a song. I’ve met dozens of songwriters who can count meter, jive the rhyme, construct a melody, but in the final analysis, there’s just nothing THERE! It’s called a “mill” song. Something ground out that looks good on the surface, but there’s just “something” missing. All the elements are there, save one . . . communication! Like the old joke, “Man been talking fifteen minutes, ain’t said a thing!”

When you get folk’s heads going up and down instead of side to side you have communicated! You have taken a thought, born in your mind and transposed it to theirs, and don’t let it be a can of beans! If you do it right they will take that idea and run with it. Who knows, in your omnipotence you might’ve MISSED something! Communication is a living, organic thing.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

Thoughts of an Illiterate Blogger

Do you know how hard it is to do a dozen articles a day, and not come off like a contradictory fool? I worry about that. I find myself combing over past posts to see if I’m reversing myself. I am not very politically astute. No, really. When I say I’m a Simple Ol’ Boy from Austin, what I’m really saying is I write simply. I can be complex, I just choose not to. I feel that the world is complicated enough without dancing around words trying to paint myself into a corner. And look at my qualifications. High School diploma from Killeen High School. Now folks, that’s about as illiterate as you can get and they still let you drive a car!

With my friends and supporters I walk a line trying to agree with and please, but I do have rules. I’ve found that when I write an article that I personally think will be my undoing, THOSE are the hits! I really do avoid being controversial, but let’s face it, when you have a pen name like, “Bill the Butcher,” well, people expect things, you know.

The more I write the more I settle on what I believe. Like Doc said about me last week, there are times when I don’t even know my position until I begin to write. I do take inspiration from others I respect. Our opinions differ. For instance, I’m not all torn up about Jade Helm. I guess it’s from living near Fort Hood, and putting up with cannon fire and gun ships flying over my head most of my life. I AM concerned about ISIS because I know the dynamic driving them, and I really DO think Muslims in our state bear watching. I don’t give a flip about gay marriage. I can accept gay people, I just don’t want one of them marrying my sister.

My neck is not near as red as it used to be. Time was when I really said, and wrote some outlandish stuff. Here’s the deal. YOU sell three million records on the black market out of a garage in Harker Heights, Texas, then come back and tell me all about it! Publishing has changed a lot since 1994. Back then you had to have “distribution.” Now, all you need is an iPad. Being exposed to loads of other opinions has lightened my neck considerably. Hey, I can even get along with someone from California if she’s cute.

I study all the time. You may not believe it, but as I was writing about the attack in Garland this week I was reading a psychological study of Joseph Smith’s mindset in the context of his times. In modern times he would have just wrote the Book of Mormon and left the “inspiration” involved to the conjecture of his readers, but in the magical world view of the 1830’s . . .well, people expect things. Understanding people like Joseph Smith helps me understand politicians. Connect those dots! There IS a connection there people, trust me.

People believe the absurd. They want magic. Hence religion. Now don’t get me wrong. I am a theist. I even believe in Jesus Christ. I just don’t believe in religion. Religion is man’s feeble attempt to explain the unexplainable. I try not to really pick on people’s religious beliefs, but as a writer I KNOW how Mohammed came up with the Qu’ran and Joseph Smith penned the Book of Mormon, and it ain’t hard to figure out, folks. I have a nephew who once spent hours trying to convince me that during a seance, Satan, the evil one, arch angel, fallen from glory, source of all evil, came all the way from hell to beautiful downtown Killeen, Texas just to chunk rocks over a fence at him. I don’t try to pick on people’s religious beliefs, but it’s hard. People read into religion their own desires. Now, that’s ok until you start stoning pretty girls for looking good in jeans or tell me I can’t have a Martini, then we gotta talk. Come to think of it . . . pretty girls . . . martinis . . .stoned, but I digress.

I don’t chase women as much as I used to because I have a bad leg that seems to be getting worse with age, and they keep getting away. Also I’ve found that double amputees do not attract me. Wait, let me think about that one. Sometimes I worry about myself. Anyway, as I blog myself to literary hell I thank you for putting up with me, and reading. Communication is the most important thing. I figured that out after five ex-wives you know. I keep my style simple, like I said. I write like I speak. I have a friend with like a double degree in writing, literature, stuff like that. Kid writes for a solid week, ain’t said nothing! I now have written thousands of articles that have gone all over the world. Not bad for someone who couldn’t pass high school English, huh?

Writing in Today’s World

Writing and putting a book out is an MF’r! Oh, I’m sorry, good Sunday morning everyone. Anyway, tying up all the lose ends and getting a book out to the public can be an exhausting experience. When you start one of these things you really don’t intend to finish it, or at least I don’t. Mine usually start as a few lines, maybe a page or two, never anything like a PLAN or anything like that, oh no! When I write a novel I usually write the end first. I write jokes like that, too. Come up with some funny line, and then have to fill in story to support the humor.

I think along about page sixty or so it begins to dawn on me that this thing is a bit more than a grocery list. At that point some sort of direction begins to form, but nothing that’s going to intimidate Hemingway, or anything like that, just several pages that seem to be on the same track, but don’t quote me on that. Then two things happen. First you become inspired, and that’s dangerous. When you become inspired you stop combing your hair. The next is what goes into this particular work becomes restricted. If you’re crazy enough you think you might actually have some kind of “message” for the people, you start being very careful about what you put in. Now this works up to a point because if you’re not too schizophrenic what fits, and what doesn’t fit becomes readily apparent soon enough.

In my latest assault on human intelligence there was this one chapter. Since it was a book of political satire, I had to include this one particular subject, which was about as funny as a birthday party at Auschwitz, so I scanned the Internet and found several news stories to substantiate my views and put them all in. Several things wrong with this. First of all it’s just plain ol’ down home plagiarism. Next it’s the lazy man’s way out. When I see an article with a lot of quotes, figures, and bits and pieces from other sources I simply won’t read it. Anyway, this chapter didn’t fit in any way with the spirit of the book, and it took Amazon, oh, about three hours to pack it in my ear. I ended up replacing it with another article that I had written, which was clever, serious, and had a twist at the end, which was still not funny, makes the reader think, and consider.

You ramble on for a period of time and then one day it looks like this thing may be a book, and could be drawing to a logical end. To show you how stupid I really am, it’s along about this point that I begin to save copies on flash sticks. Up until that point I’m writing on just about anything. I have written a book on a iPhone! It is also long aboutnthis time you begin to think about editing. Now, I’m fixing (how do you like that Texas slang? “Fixing!) anyway, I’m fixing to step off into uncharted territory here that’s going to alienate, oh, about ninety-nine percent of the published world, but I don’t believe in editors. I had one once.

Back in the day, when literacy was the standard, prose, punctuation, syntax, and other things were important. Well, Facebook and texting did away with all that crap. This is good and bad. The bad is that very ignorant people can now have their moment in the sun to a very large portion of the population, who are just as stupid as they are. Stupid people have influence. If you don’t believe that, just look at the White House, but I digress. The good part is that language, English in particular, has been reduced to a level that most people can comprehend. When you’re writing for the boys and girls down at Harvard that’s one thing, but when you’re targeting Texas A&M, and you’re a two-bit blogger, such as myself, you have to communicate in the local vernacular. “Cast your eyes in yon direction” will translate to, “Lookee yonder!” Now, I’m not slandering the Aggies, but . . . Oh, forget that, yes I am, but let’s continue.

If you have any native intelligence at all you will pick up on some of the more basic rules of writing. Past tense, future tense, and all that stuff becomes apparent. You won’t really be able to articulate why it works, you’ll just feel it. You will know when you make mistakes. Sort of like when you meet some girl in a bar, talk with her for fifteen minutes, she goes to the rest room and never comes back. Like that! I throw out bits and pieces here and there, and friends who DID finish high school will point out goofy stuff to me. That’s editing! With this last book I sent copies to a friend of mine down at a radio station in Houston. As it turned out, he liked the articles and the owner of the station was kind enough to run a substantial amount of them on their web page, AND even read them on the air, which is always good. I intended him to read over the finished book and get back with me, but after Amazon had animal sex with me, I realized my friend had already READ most of the book anyway! The most important ingredient was already there, COMMUNICATION! Who is a better editor? A radio talk show host with thousands of listeners, or some old bat in a New York flat catering to a bunch of people who’ll never buy your book ANYWAY? Do the math. (And it’s real simple math, folks,)

Spelling is sort of important, but it’s not a deal killer. I try never to use a word that’s smarter than I am. I level out around three syllables. On occasion I’ll chunk in a four, but that’s rare for me. When Texans see too many four syllable words they will tag you as a Yankee, and that IS a deal killer. I try not to cuss too much. Sometimes it fits. I don’t cater to thin skinned liberals, but I do want to get at least SOME of my ideas across the Red River, and there IS a contingent out there who still don’t know what an S.O.B. is so I have to weigh my options. I write about politics and there ARE some S.O.B.’s out,there, trust me. I use spell check, but I don’t pray to it, especially when I manufacture a word here and there. And auto correct? Oh my God! Remember when I told you about the people who had been schooled on Facebook vernacular? Well, auto correct is for them. I put auto correct in the same basket with that animated paper clip in Word that dances around and tries to tell you about sentence structure. As soon as I realized I was listening to a paper clip I turned that little prick OFF! I don’t CARE if it’s an incomplete sentence. Miss Hornbuckle back at Killeen High School is not grading this paper, ok?

After it’s all over and you push the button depression sets in. Oh yeah. You must understand that all writers are crazy, myself included, and fifty percent are crazier than THAT! After all is said and done, and the book is finally out you will experience a void, but that void is nothing compared to what you feel when you re-read your PUBLISHED work. At this point you seriously consider using a Pen Name. The duration of this depression depends on your basic mental health and medication. A bottle of Jim Beam usually does the trick for me. I try not to get depressed on Sunday because I live in Texas, and Texans never seem to plan ahead on Saturday night.

Don’t watch sales. Therein lies madness! If you get a check, dance in the street. If you don’t get a check, don’t tell anybody. Remember, most people have never written a book, and those who do will never make a dime. It’s not about that. It’s about communicating. If you are not communicating, and make a million bucks, you have failed! If you get a check for six dollars and thousands of people are sharing your blog, then you have touched the essence of what writing is really all about!

Excerpt From The Book “Dobbit Dö”

A Reading From the Book, “Dobbit Dö”

Patterns began to form where the instant message screen had once been. Bizarre patterns with no rhyme or reason; indeed beyond reason. Swirling colors escalating, spiraling outwards toward her, seemingly going beyond the screen itself and then, suddenly she seemed to rush into the monitor. There was a loud whirling sound in her ears as she traveled a long tunnel of light to an unknown destination. She found herself in a landscape of glowing reds and oranges. Shaking her head wildly, trying to get her mind out of this she attempted to pull back, but it was no use. She seemed to be in her body, and yet, at the same time out of it. Feeling had been replaced by sensual touch, with every movement a reply from nerves never used. It seemed as if her entire body had become one erogenous zone. She looked down at herself and discovered that she was young again, maybe twenty, maybe less. Her body was firm, voluptuous, and alive. Her breasts were firm and her belly was flat. She felt more alive than it had been in thirty years. She was turned on by the very fact of just being so young. The beauty of her own body was exciting to her. She looked down to her long, shapely legs and now saw that she was standing on the alien landscape. But where was she? She looked around. The wind blew lightly on the grass, and the air was cool. It was almost serenely cool. Her hair was long and blonde, just as it had been in her younger days. The smell of ozone within the air lifted her spirits and revitalized her energy. Then, in the distance she saw someone. The person was walking toward her, casually, not seeming to care. After a while the person reached her. It was a girl of about fifteen, well built and healthy.

“Mom?” The young lady tilted her head and smiled, greeting her as a friend.

The woman asked, “Am I your mother?”

“Well, you would have been, but you decided to kill me instead.”

She suddenly felt herself becoming weak, and she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”

“Yes you do,” the girl said. “You know me. And you know very well what you did. You ended my life before it even began. You had me pulled out of you with a coat hanger and tossed into the Austin City Dump. Isn’t that special mother?” The girl snapped the last statement and clenched her teeth angrily. Up until now the little girl’s voice had been light, almost melodic, but at the world “special” it took a dramatic change. “You know how long I’ve been waiting here for you?”


“For twenty-five years mommy. I’ve been waiting here so we could get to know each other, mom!” The young lady walked around her, looking her up and down. It was amazing how much they looked alike. Each had long, blonde hair. Each had the same slight frame, with the same blue eyes. Each was truly beautiful.

“I told you already, I don’t know you.” The older woman said.

“Oh, but you will get to know me, mom. Look around you. How do you like my home? Do you know where you are?”

“No. Where am I?”

“You’re in Limbo! That’s an ancient term mom. They don’t use it much anymore because it’s not ‘politically’ correct. Modern people tend to want to think that such places as this do not exist, but they do exist and simply because people don’t want to look at them anymore doesn’t make them go away. This is the place for the rejects. This is the place for garbage. This is the place for things you prefer to throw in the dump. Isn’t that special mother? And you know what’s funny? When you come here you don’t know where you are at first, because you are so young. And you’re blind, mom. You have never seen anything until that coat hanger grabbed you. It grabs you, and pulls you out into the world. They cut your lifeline, and you can’t breathe mom. As you strangle you begin to see, and then slowly you begin to realize that the only person you even knew had just killed you. Everything goes red, and then dark, and then you end up here. You’re not alive, you’re not dead, and you just exist. You can’t go to heaven, and you just wish you could go to hell if only to feel the flames. And you know what mom? You put me here! You made me come here, forever! Isn’t that SPECIAL mother?”

Her mother began to shake, and tried to look away from the girl, but the girl came to her and grabbed her by the sides of her head, forcing her eyes to look at her.

“Look at me. LOOK AT ME! Damn you, you murdered me you can at least LOOK at me!”

She looked at the girl. The child’s lip was quivering and she was visibly shaking with anger.

“Did you enjoy your life mother? Did you have a wonderful marriage, a nice retirement? You were having sex with Dobbit when you wound up here. Trouble is, he always extracts a price for the pleasure. Just think of it; this may be the very first time you paid a price for your choices, won’t it mother?”

“I’m so ashamed. I didn’t know you saw that.”

“You ought to be ashamed. Sitting there in front of your computer masturbating like a schoolgirl. You’ll be surprised when you find out what it did to you.”

“What did it do to me?”

The girl smiled and said, “It fixed things so you can stay here with me.”

The woman felt a sudden grip of fear. She had not considered the possibility of never waking up, never going home. This scenario suddenly took on very real terms for her. The girl was now smiling again and looking at her mother, waiting for an answer. The woman looked behind her, as if expecting to find a way back; back to the reality that she’d known before coming to this place, but there was just miles and miles of green grass and blue sky; deceptively blue sky, implying that all was well; all was peace, when in point of fact it was not! Like the girl was not; like soon she would be not! She appreciated “not” now.

“I’m going to wake up now.”

“Wake up? Do you think you’re asleep?”

The woman’s eyes grew wide with horror as she realized the implications of what the little girl was saying. She began to step backwards but the young girl put her hands on her shoulders. “Let me show you something, mommy.” Then, as if there were a movie projector in her mind she perceived herself at her computer desk back in her condo in Salado. Only now she was slumped over her keyboard. Her eyes were fixed and glassy.

“Oh, God,” the old lady gasped.

The girl smiled, “Mommy, He isn’t here. I told you. This is a place for rejects.”

The woman asked, “Am I dead?”

“From the first moment you saw me. Isn’t that special, mommy?”

Shelly found her mother the next morning, still slumped over her keyboard, her eyes wide with amazement.”