Monthly Archives: February 2012

Author Central Site: Current List of Books Published:

Click on this link to see my books in print and other commentary. The current list at this time includes twelve works:

Novels: Neon Nirvana, Devil’s Hopper, The Latest Bloodshed, Getting To Know You, At Witts Inn, Falstaff’s Diaries,

              A Necessary Woman

Short Stories: Tales for Commuters & Other Time Travelers, Difficult People

Screenplays: Hunters in the Fog, Seltzer Lake

Poetry: Dispatches from Tumbleweed (Haiku poems)

Forthcoming: Two Adult Novels & A Middle Grade Novella

These works are essentially finished but are in final copyediting, cover & text design and marketing planning.

Hope to publish in 2012 before Mayan Apocalypse but then if it happens who will be around to read literature anymore.

It’s the 21st Century for many people but truth is many citizens of the world are trapped in medieval, ancient & primitive thinking. In fact, all these historical epochs and associated psychologies bubble through all our brains as potential worldviews. Count on a tough New Millennium with a lot of foot dragging into a liberated One World Society. In my humble opinion, we’re still tribal peoples in a global civilization in many ways beyond our control. Part of my journey in fiction is to explore through storytelling and the mythic imagination our still primitive natures. E.O. Wilson, the great entomologist (expert in ants), concludes ants are the most aggressive animals on earth, never not at war. Right behind ants in first place, guess which species is likely second in aggressiveness? Yes, you’re sadly on the right track to a wrong future of mutual abuse: homo sapiens: jokingly self named, “wise man”. Let’s face it, that’s hardly truth in advertising. And that’s no joking matter. Sometimes “fiction” is more honest & accurate than the dissembling of “nonfiction” with its ideological pre-assumptions. Keep hope alive for our species. Give peace a chance. Turn away from the knee jerk urge to go to war. That’s enough preaching for now. Let’s get back to storytelling. Thanks for dropping by.

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Falstaff’s Diaries, a novel (recently published as a Kindle Ebook)

Sharing here, dear Reader, an opening sample of my experimental comic novel, Falstaff’s Diaries. This is not your typical mainstream novel but neither is it so far, far away, from any playful tale telling of a modern Falstaff in America. For a view of the cover, free sample, etc., try the following friendly link (we thank you):

Summary on Amazon: A Rabelaisian, coarsely humorous, diary novel written during the late 1980s by Wolfgang Falstaff, Ph.D., a peripatetic scholar and philosophical gadfly from England and the Continent; this latter day roguish Falstaff explores and exploits American culture, while studying Eastern thought and seeking therapeutic relief for mid-life depression in a New England meditation center near Boston.
The European academic gadfly Doctor Wolfgang Falstaff settled in New England and the Boston area in the late 1980s for a period of treatment and study at the Transcendental Institute (better known as “The Farm”) located in Marktree, Massachusetts. Throughout his two plus years of Rabelaisian diary notes, the reader may follow his seemingly erratic path through the dungeons of his depression and coarse humor, upward to the highlands of clarity and the saint-like balcony of Far Eastern cosmic views, rebounding into the black holes of nothingness and enlightenment–these clashes of realization can teach us all something about the terrains of postmodern consciousness and the treachery and exhilaration of risking it all for transcendent, nay, spiritual, realization.



March 4—

So in the midst of advanced draft brainstorms, ye olde storyteller, Dr. Falstaff, bent and bruised (abused, yeah), opens a crack in the creative space, and herein, a start by gum, by golly, Dolly Tearsheet.

Holy avatar, Batman, but this has been a tough season. Yes sir!

Ash Wednesday it be. Let the pain of denial begin. And here, the mind is at rest, a season of abstinence, forty, a big Four O, days ’til sunshine outstretches the dark. Thereabouts anyway. Mark me, now.

Dinner instruddles at The Farm. Scuseme, yes, when I return, shall begin the tale of Rolf Wittgenburg and one flaxen-haired lass, Helena Spitzmark, yes.

*  *  *

March 9—

Lesson One.

A torrid affair. The fear of the Last Man. Will he be the Last Hope? And of course he cannot replace Father, that damaged Genius who attains the Fame and Pseudo-Fortune. Father drinks too much and interferes in his sons and daughters’ lives. He meddles, he upsets, he harasses, he minds your fuckin’ business, okay?

Here the irate client bares her legs from her skirt. I see as Therapist, I say I see her libido snake out, the Temptation. We skirt the subject of sexual preferences. We maintain high altitude philosophy. The World is Our Domain. Will we descend to flesh and blood, gnawing hungers, loose fingers? Will we only grind the Wagered Wafer of life unfulfilled. I seek citizenry motives, find sheen on surfaces sublime, color gives me vertigo, my fingers trail across carpets, corduroy, plastic surfaces; smiles are pandemic, hearts are closed for repairs.

Okay, let’s get serious, she says, let’s get to the heart of the archetype? What’s your favorite sexual position, Doctor?

What’s yours? the Doc replies, ready.

No, you go first.

No, you!

I won’t stoop to conquer.


Yellow journalist.

Bourgeois couch potato.

Stupid dilettante.

Boorish bitch!

Self-obsessed prick!

You really make me sick, with your posing, your academic exercises, your, your.

Belly-aching, whining, sycophantish worship of the Great Masters of All Slime. You haven’t read them, you only worship them. That’s the real difference. You can’t look at the Holy Books because you’re afraid you’ll be blinded! So you take little distorted glimpses of Truth, Holy Truth, Veritas my eye! And you make up your own little crazy Cod games with what you’ve seen. I think the Buddhists have a name for guys like you and it isn’t front row, pal! You’re definitely in an Outer Circlet. You got the drift?

Devastate, I should be. Am I? Hell no. You sour pussy! You

sweet and sour concoction of womanly wiles. You think I’ll give you the pleasure of maiming my morning of creative freedom by bowing down to the level of primeval tides, some sorry creature slurping about, trying like hell to raise its sorry little vain head from the soup. Oh no, baby toes, oh no, I’ve got your evolutionary number. You’re pre-Pterodactyl, you’re ante-Fern Forest and Great Swamp. You’re the great Muck Worms of the Foaming Seas Come to Land Mass. You’re plates of organic rot grinding the coral rocks of volcanic islands. You’re the original, the one and only inhabitant, the highest form of an insignificant lava cone protruding from the Pacific Ocean, way before vertebrates, before arms and skittering lizard reflexes. At your best, you’re ur-proto-reptilian!

Oh, it’d been a fine morning for insults, a bit condensed, more work on expansions, digressions and balance of ironies, but still for a cold morning like this, 12 degrees Fahrenheit, and the stench of the lab research wallowing in its crib of neglect and confusion, the old scholar alchemist groans his ruined lower back into the chair and prepares for the inevitable stupidities of his own mind.

Golly! The Scholar runs out of Gas in 19—? How about the Publisher? Oh no, he’s just starting his Thefts. Therapist slogs onward, while Editor takes a break. Ye Olde Fictionist returns with a wild ride through Insult Acres, just off the ThruWay from Inca-pa-cities, vegetable, mineral, animal. Paper beats rock.

So, Roles beat the Fictionist into a small morning corner, backgrounded later. Afternoons and evenings. Loosening up. All Roles come together simultaneously. None of them done well. So here is the challenge of this Year or next phase. Bring these Roles to fulfillment, complete expansion. Gopher It.

Thank you. Realizations are powerful now. The Sage smiles and views other worlds. Wow! Thank God It and I have a sense of humor, mutually circumspect most probability.

Ah yes. Then there’s doing. There’s writing finished text. Oh how I love to start, but true to name, I’m procrastinating. Sick. This year we finish. So no more reading of idle texts, each move has a deathly accuracy in a time bound world. Not enough time for all that I wish to accomplish. Oh boy! Take a break on the wild side. Come back to the Land of Total Freedom, well, about as much as you’ll ever see. Last Refuge for Reprobats of Kultur. A Land without Mercy: always the last wor(l)d!

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Infernal Regions Report: Scribe in Purgatorial Revision Spirals

Let us now praise the gods & goddesses of revision.

Long accepted is the law of writing, reading, rewriting…putting away…(after a period long enough for amnesia to set in, reopen the text)…read, rewrite, read again till sick of it again…repeat ad nauseam…[test the manuscript on poor “friend” victims, get feedback, please be patient with good readers]…and so on it goes, until the Author gives the creature a push out of the lab and good luck to that orphan…but always remember, authors in their heart of hearts love all their children, however suspect in terms of ideal standards of literary finesse.

By way of prologue, this is currently a period of revision, two novels in advanced revision yet not quite ready to release into the sink hole of despair & hope. Yes, Authors must dream too about their creatures of the imagination.

In brief, two novels in final prep…and a clamor from the Idea Pile…for new works to start. Meaning, the Author is in a betwixt & between (liminal) state. A most delicate transition between imaginary worlds. Steadying this uncertain phase to the next work in progress are those tortured texts under final tweaking. You get the point I’m sure, especially if you’re an obsessive compulsive writer who must scribble or type something everyday or else you start to suffer withdrawal nausea usually accompanied by rock emotional swings. Strange business. Don’t wish this scribe habit on anyone. Count your blessings if you can write and put it down for a few weeks, months or years. Please, I hear you, enough.

Oh, almost forgot, I’ve joined up with Author Central out of the Amazon Tribe of Scribblers. They’ve given me a very nice website with great links for the tentacles in a postmodern writer’s life. Check it out my twelve current works of fiction, hopefully a little something for everyone (what a nice man, the author is):

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