Notes from the Red Bird House

I'm going to start this one with a tennis analogy. I know, right? What a surprise! Seriously, though, bear with me and keep reading. I promise it'll be worth it once we get where we're going. Three years ago this week, I rediscovered the game of tennis. En route to losing her second round match at the All England Club (to Arantxa Rus of all people), Samantha Stosur unwittingly caused me to fall in love. With her game. With her arms. And with tennis. I'd been gone awhile, maybe a decade and a half. I played only occasionally and I never, ever, ever watched. Some where along the line, tennis had become boring. Or maybe I just needed a break. Then an incredibly athletic woman (who didn't grunt) hit a forehand and I was hooked. I was a fan again and I had a new favorite player (Steffi Graf had retired so I needed a new one regardless). Tennis became my thing. I followed Sam religiously. I DVR'd matches. Stayed up late to watch her in big matches in wacky time zo

This past weekend my girlfriend and I celebrated our one year anniversary. One year. Granted to most people this isn't a significant achievement. I have many friends who have been in multiple relationships that spanned five, ten, or even twenty years. For me, though, it's nearly uncharted territory. You see, I'm now in only the second longest relationship I've ever been in. Just one other relationship, my first ever with a woman, lasted longer - two years, one month, and one day. Third, fourth, and fifth places? Ten months and some change, ten months and a little less change, and eight months and a couple weeks. The rest (I may have dated thirteen or so other women) lasted on average two months. I'm forty-six years old. There are sixteen year olds with better dating history. I'm fond of saying that I'm just not cut out for dating and/or relationships. Truthfully, I give all the credit for my current success to my girlfriend. Sure, she may be forgetful a

It looks like I'm going to have to do some reading. I've got a story brewing and I need to fill in some blanks. Sadly I can only fill in those blanks with research. And thanks to my Masters of Liberal Arts degree, I know how to research and how to turn that research into halfway decent fiction. Means I'm going to have to bite it and read. Fucking read. God, how I hate to read. Abandon the story? Sure, sure. I could do that. And let the character who so graciously entrusted his story to me die. Can't do it. Even if it means I have to read. I usually write what I know (reference my collection of short stories about tennis) and I know this. I know my topic. I don't think he would have given me his story to write if I didn't get it on some spiritual level. It absorbed most of my late childhood and early adulthood. I'm pretty sure I read every book in the Poway Library on the topic, back when libraries were the place to go for books. Back when I read. I'd

I used to write all the time. I posted to the blog nearly every day, some time several times a day. I wrote about everything in my life. Seriously everything. Some might say I wrote about too much. Topics appeared out of nowhere and the words followed. Hell, I used to even capitalize The Words. I wouldn't dare to presuppose anything so grandiose at this point. It's not that I don't have them. I do. Many are fictional which presents other issues. Blogging is easy. Fiction isn't. Well, it can be. After proper time and thought. And so I guess we have arrived at Excuse #1. Excuse #1  - I'm too busy hanging out with my fictional characters  to just write. Blogging and miscellaneous writing doesn't advance my stories. And it's my stories that will eventually get me where I want to go. While we're on a roll, let's just get on with the excuses. Excuse #2 - I now have high maintenance dogs and no backyard to toss theme, in when they get annoying. When I us