Chirpy Has A Life Of His Own – Writer’s Beware.

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This little guy is my boy Chirpy.

Chirpy

Chirpy

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Chirpy is a character I created when I wrote about a wild bird that was trapped in my basement in 2013. It was just a throw away of a blog post. An acknowledgement that God does listen when we pray. That each creature (except the pigeons next door) is special.

My wife loved the story. For months she asked if the little birds that came by the table where we enjoy the yard was Chirpy. I’ll be honest – all fat little sparrows look alike to me. But it was obviously important to her.

I asked my artist friend Lauren Mattson to create a drawing of Chirpy. I presented it to my wife as a gift this last fall. She was over the moon with joy when she saw the picture. For the first time in years there was little delay in getting something framed in my house – it was up on the wall within a month.

The moral of the story is that you have to take your creations as seriously as God does his when you’re a writer. You never know when that character you create will touch a heart. I’ve written about the death of some of my characters and found myself sobbing. (No, my mancard isn’t in jeopardy.) It’s tough to kill someone you’ve grown to know – and those characters are real to writers. Now, with that in my mind, and Chirpy on the wall, I’m doubly sensitive to how I deal with my characters.

I can’t kill them in a gruesome way, no matter the payoff – ah, that’s a lie. If the payoff is big enough I’ll do it in a heartbeat. But I will examine the cost/benefit more closely when I do it. I don’t want to put anyone into a funk because I need a plot device. And Chirpy? He’s safe. Now that darned turtle I created ten years ago – he’s fair game.

Enemy To Footstool In 14 Months.

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Stormy is snoozing on the couch right now. But she was snoozing on my lap a little while ago before I wandered over to the computer to write. She’s made an amazing journey that just keeps getting better all the time. Once again, it’s time to share/bore you with a Stormy story. 20140210_114927

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When she came to our house it was clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. She tolerated Kip, but I was her enemy. Not in the snarling/fangs/attack sense, but she feared me as someone who would do her harm. It took a few months for her to warm up to the point where she’d come within arms reach unbribed. (Is that a word?)

Last night I was lying on the floor watching television. Kip was on the couch and Stormy was on the floor nearby. After about thirty minutes she wandered over and stared at Kip. Moments later she was using me as a step ladder to get up on the couch. I thought that was pretty funny. It became even more comical when I realized that my wife was not involved in the nonsense – Stormy was trying to get at a cookie on a plate that was on the couch.

That’s remarkable progress for a rescue animal to have made. She knew, deep in her heart, that she was safe in stepping on me to get at that cookie. She didn’t get it, but she did come back twice to try. It was only on the third try that I realized what she was up to in putting her paws on my abdomen. The fear was gone. I was safe.

This morning we got up at my insanely early start to the week. I decided to watch a movie before heading out to breakfast. She hopped up on the couch and snuggled up against my leg. Sound asleep in five minutes. Snoring, running in her sleep, the whole deal.

When I returned from my breakfast she was right back on the couch, right up against me for the duration. Comfort flowed both directions.

How did we get here? We both gave space and time a chance. I think it will continue to grow more and more into the love I hope for given our mutual efforts to trust and be gentle with each other. I also promise not to try and use her for a footstool – that’s a one-way street.

Dogs – love with paws.

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Go Buy The Wedding Game By Amy Matayo – It’s .99 This Weekend

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There. That was straightforward. The Wedding Game by my friend Amy Matayo is less than a buck for the Kindle version this weekend.

It doesn’t get better than that – unless it’s free. Or, if Amy sent you a jar of jam with it, or something. I don’t know. I do know that if I were a woman I’d be Amy Matayo.

On second thought, that didn’t come across quite right. If I was a woman, but good looking and funny I’d be Amy. That may still miss the mark a bit. Let’s just say that she’s one of my favorite female authors because she’s as nuts as I am. Ah, that may fit the bill exactly.

The review is here. Don’t use the links on that page, I think one is broken. Use this link to buy the book. And buy her new book Love Gone Wild while you’re at it today.

Seriously, she’s funny and the books are fun. I’m done shilling now. Get reading. And have a great weekend.

I Am 54 Going On 12 – And I Can Prove It.

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My subscription to MAD Magazine ran out over 40 years ago, but I still harbor most of those juvenile traits deep in my soul. Sometimes they are so close to the surface that it threatens to give me away to the public. I have followed many scandals in the last few years about authors accused of plagarism, nepotism, cronyism, pedophilia, drunkenness, and other sins. I figured it was time to out myself as a miscreant child. Some of you may have already realized this, but I figured I better clue in both of the other readers before they found out in the news.

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I am the guy who walks past the blood drive poster at work and can barely contain the urge to run to my desk, get a Sharpie, and make sure that everyone in the picture has a mustache and horns before I return to work.

I am the guy who can sometimes resist, sometimes not, the urge to write my name in the snow bank in my back yard with leftover tea from my thermos. In letters 2 feet tall. Northerners will understand the joke.

A beloved former pet of mine has a very high credit rating. When I get calls for him I take them quite seriously. I never lie. I am always polite. When they hang up they send me more credit cards. I never knew a sheepdog could be good for 50K in credit. Not once did I lie about anything, they just keep sending cards. He joined AARP last year. Only fair, he was about 153 in dog years. His card is in the corner of the frame that holds his picture.

Telephone solicitors will regularly have me ask them what they are wearing. I do it in my very worst Arabic accent. It upsets them. I speak Arabic a lot on phone, almost always with people who don’t speak Arabic back. It does cut down on return callers. Not one has ever wanted to know how I’m dressed. They always hang up.

I am overly amused by Hellen Keller jokes. Yes, it’s terrible. My wife is a saint.

I am up to level 20 on my current tablet video game. I can shoot up tanks with the best of them. I make KAPOW noises, quietly, while I blow up trucks as well. I do this in bed, lights off, like a 5 year old caught reading books after lights out.

I call your desk phone as you leave to go to the bathroom. I hang up when you get back to your desk, but before you can read the caller identification.

I draw stick figure cartoons.

I enjoy life immensely. And if that makes me 14, 12, 9, or even 5 years old in the eyes of some, I’ll take the hit.

Now, where did I put my whoopie cushion?

Today We Talk About Death

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Okay, for the four of you still out there, it’s not as heavy as all that. I wanted to talk about 3 deaths that impacted my life of late. Let’s start with a dog picture. My boy Edzell:

Edzell, A.K.A. "Bugsy"

Edzell, A.K.A. “Bugsy”

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I was enjoying the first really nice day in a while around this horrible part of the globe (long winter) and thought about my boy. This is the first time in the millenium when he hasn’t been here for spring. I chuckled over his nickname, Bugsy. Every spring he’d go sticking his snout into the garden, under the flowers and plants growing there, and come away with bugs on his head. Usually beetles or mites of some sort. Nothing that gave me any trouble. It was kind of amusing to ruffle the white spot on the top of his head and watch the critters jump around. It passed in a few days, he didn’t care, and I didn’t mind. It was always a sign of new life – mainly on his scalp, but in the garden as well. My spring and summer will be a little less joyous without the old fellow this year. He was a good friend.

The next death is that of my father. Oliver Courtemanche died 6 years ago today. He’d be ticked to get second billing to a dog, but I’m strictly going chronologically here.

Dad's watch.

Dad’s watch.

When my dad died, he left behind a family in tears. Now, six years later, it’s a bitter-sweet memory for all of us. I’m actually glad for him, he beat the rap on the last year of emphysema by his passing. Besides, his final words were, “I think I see Jesus.” Doesn’t get better for a Christian. Today I’ll pray for my mom and think about my dad. That watch is my big keepsake, I had a bigger band put on so I could wear it. Today I will do so in honor of him. Semper Fi, Staff. I’ve got the watch.

The final deaths to be covered are the ones that took place this week in 1986 when the Libyans bombed a disco in Germany and we gave some free landscaping in return. We lost pilots, they lost people. But it shut Khadaffi in his box for a while and put him on notice that things could get ugly if he kept it up. This attack, and our response, weighs heavily on a service member very close to me. They feel responsible for those deaths in Libya because of their role in the intelligence community. I’ve tried to tell them that it’s not their doing, they were an honorable person who was doing their job to defend the country. That’s small comfort to a Christian who feels guilt for those days and comes to tears and sadness each year on the anniversary.

Three different deaths: One a good memory of a buggy friend, one a father whom I miss, one an attack fomented by a terrorist strike against our people in Europe. All a part of my life. Death, a part of each of our lives.

I hope today you can spare a moment or two to pray for my mom. She lost her best friend six years ago today. Someday they will be together again. Until then, the love continues temporarily unrequited.