Starting Fresh

Well, that was quite the hiatus. Easily the longest one since I started this blog. Sometimes, life gets crazy busy, and things just fall by the wayside. This, unfortunately, was one of them. I finally decided that the best way to get back to blogging was to just get it done. I'm still not writing like I wanted to this year, but that's going to pick up again as well.

For those who care, I've been dealing with a lot of work-related stuff. Christmas came and went, and didn't feel all that special this year. We didn't do much decorating, no baking at all, and even Christmas morning felt...blah. Sad, really, but after nearly two years of Covidmania, people are getting burned out.

So, what to talk about? I don't really have much to say, even though it's been a while, but I just want to get back into the habit of posting. Daily is the goal, but even if it's just weeknights, that would be an improvement.

It's nice to see that people were still reading the blog while I was away. It's encouraging to think that people will still be interested in what I have to say. So, I'm going to get back to the root that got me started on this blog: writing.

I've written posts about heroes, I've written about heroic movies and books, and I've written about the inspiration those heroes provide. I've got more things to say, especially on the subject of writing about those heroes. I just have to take the time to actually say them.

One of the things that I find frustrating about writing is our limited vocabulary. Not that the English language is lacking in words; it's got more than just about any other language except maybe Chinese. But for the majority of the population, they don't use the wide variety of words available. The best example I've ever seen of this is from a comedian named John Branyan, who did a fantastic sketch on the Three Little Pigs. I heartily recommend it.

So, for the modern writer, there is a fine line to walk between unleashing the richness of the language and making sure the readers understand what you're saying. Go too far in one direction, and you're basically writing Dr. Seuss. Encroach deeply upon the other side of that line, and suddenly you are affecting a manner viewed as pretentious superiority.

In my case, I don't pretend to have a working vocabulary to match Shakespeare, but I am smarter than the average bear. I have Gary Gygax to thank, at least in part, since I expanded my vocabulary as a young man, reading High Gygaxian English many years ago from the AD&D rulebooks. He could have given Shakespeare a run for his money. Okay, maybe not Shakespeare, but definitely Milton.

Since I've been gone so long, I thought I'd offer a freebie to the loyal readers who have still come by on occasion. It's an excerpt from a short story I wrote a couple of years ago; the full version is available in the Universe of Possibilities book, available now on Amazon.

THE RAVEN

March 16, 1937

            “Run, Johnny!” shouted Jerome as the two scurried away from the menacing figure before them. Johnny tripped over a garbage can and sprawled on the ground. Jerome ignored his fallen friend and ran for the alley entrance. He had almost reached the street when he felt a cord fall over his head and around his neck. The cord grew tight, and he fell to the ground, frantically trying to get the cord off. A black bird landed on his chest and pecked at his face, and he screamed as he tried to beat the bird away.

            Johnny scrambled to his feet, fumbling for his gun. He tried to draw a bead on the trenchcoated figure before him, but his hands were shaking with fear. The strange figure jumped up into the air and landed astride his chest, knocking the gun out of his nerveless fingers. A sharp punch to the jaw put him to sleep.

            Jerome kept swatting at the bird, which nimbly hopped out of his reach, fluttering just above him. Then the bird disappeared, replaced by the mysterious figure that was now reaching for Jerome’s collar. Jerome was yanked to his feet and lifted off the ground with a single hand. Desperately, he tried to pull the iron grip apart without success.

            “Please, don’t hurt me!” he begged.

            “That sounds familiar,” whispered the figure before him. Jerome saw a black mask over the man’s eyes under a black fedora, with dark eyes that pierced his soul as he whimpered in terror. “Isn’t that what that man said before you pistol-whipped him, Jerome?”

            “How—how do you know my name?” said Jerome, even more afraid than before.

            “I know all about the scum that infests this city,” replied the masked man. “And I want you to take a message to your boss. Tell Roscoe Travis that his days of running the Irish underworld are coming to an end. Tell him that all the money and power won’t save him from me.”

            “I—I—”

            The masked man drew Jerome even closer, his eyes as hard and black as the hardest coal. “And tell him that he’s enjoyed his place in the sun long enough. The night is falling, and so is his empire.” He threw Jerome to the ground beside the unconscious Johnny. Then a flash of light exploded around him in a puff of smoke. Within seconds it had dissipated, and the masked man was gone.

            Jerome looked around the alley wildly, but saw nothing other than a small note left on Johnny’s chest. With a trembling hand, he opened it. Written in a florid but legible script were the words:

            “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”

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