FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE

As you went about your life, you may have heard it in the shadows. You heard it just at the edge of consciousness like a fear rising from the fog of a waking dream. It was loudest when you witnessed people caught in the crosshairs of life. Sometimes it was as soft as a child's whimper. Other times it was as loud as a gun fired in anger.

Mankind shares a soundtrack. It is the music of the collective unconscious. Anthropologists, evolutionary biologists, neurosurgeons, and psychologists attest to it. Music is the breath of humanity as a species.

In Sanskrit breath is called prana, the very breath of life. And that breath is filled with vibrations : the cry of a lost child, the wail of a bereaved mother, the shattering of a store window. So many sounds in a single night of terror, creating a haunting melody ... a French Quarter nocturne for a mortally wounded city. Its name?

Katrina.

I was one of its notes.

Though I have a Master's degree in Psychology and a Bachelor's degree in English education, I, like so many others, survived as best I could. And so I found myself working as a blood courier to New Orleans in order to support myself. I used that experience to aid me in writing the speculative Noir thriller, FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE.

Against the backdrop of Katrina's aftermath, an agnostic jazz club owner and his best friend, a haunted priest, engage enemies in the shadows that challenge both their belief systems. But there are two things not in doubt : their deep friendship for one another and the dark threat given license to kill by the absence of the police.

Samuel McCord is the owner of the jazz club Meilori's, a place in which almost anything is likely to happen and in which almost everything has. He tries to live with the loss of his beloved wife while struggling against political incompetence and intrusions by the Russian Mob, European revenants, and an old enemy seeking final revenge. Father Renfield tries to maintain his doubt-ridden faith under the twin barrage of his friend's questions and the overwhelming needs of Katrina's survivors.

McCord's world is internally consistent, his problems are diverse, and his obstacles offer opportunities not only to ride along on a great adventure but to watch from the inside as he confronts internal battles that resonate with real life. FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE offers a three-dimensional world, augmented as it is by various paranormal elements. Since the paranormal facets are subject to limits and rules, the existence of "revenants" and "linked dimensions" doesn't so much produce a deus ex machina as produce a new class of problems by which Sam can be outclassed -- and more rules against which poor Renfield can run afoul.

I believe that the audience base for such a series of adventures is large as attested to by the sales of the works of Jim Butcher, Neil Gaiman {American Gods}, Patricia Briggs, and Charlaine Harris. And like those authors, I toss jokes and inferences that resonate against what the readers know from the rest of their cultural lives.

Also on June 18, 2010, a supernatural western set in New Orleans is scheduled to be released. Jonah Hex stars Josh Brolin and Megan Fox. Its release will spark renewed interest in the legends surrounding New Orleans.

When my Noir thriller is published {I am the original little train that could,} you may find the glimpses of the architecture of New Orleans, along with the little-known facts of its archeological history, interesting. {There was an actual Baroness Pontalba, and the tragic story of her missing fingers is a true one.} The true glimpses of political incompetence and callousness are absorbing in a "train wreck" sort of way.

I have finished FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE as well as the first three chapters of its sequel, NEW ORLEANS ARABESQUE. All that is missing is the agent who loves a shivering supernatural tale of love, death, and what, if anything, lies beyond.

Wish me luck. I'd knock on wood, but my head is sore from me constantly doing it.

Currently, I'm listening to "Icarus Wind" by Thea Gilmore, a British singer/songwriter born to Irish parents in Oxford. Her duet with Joan Baez, "The Lower Road," is haunting. Her website is http://theagilmore.net/ Check it out. You might like some of her music.

Here's a musical view of the heartbreak I saw with my own eyes and felt within my own soul :

WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS

Why the title WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS?

All writers I believe write in the crosshairs. If you have beta readers and have submitted to agents/editors, you know the feeling of being in the crosshairs of their evaluations. Ouch. But no pain, no gain.

But I am thinking of the imagry of the hunter. He fixes his aim at his target, looking through his scope. The image is hardly crisp at the beginning. He must adjust the lens to achieve crisp clarity and the best chance of hitting his target.

Writers are like that hunter. At first the image of our tale is blurry. We tighten the focus with revealing dialogue, vibrant characters, engaging crises, and creative descriptions. Pacing and plot tighten the image even more. Sometimes we get it with dead-on clarity. Most times we don't. No one but Shakespeare is perfect. If you don't believe me, ask Harold Bloom or any university English professor.

It is a tricky endeavor writing in the crosshairs. How do we focus quicksilver humans into concrete mental images? Take flames. They look like objects but are really processes. Humans are like that as well. No human actually is complete. He or she is in the process of becoming.

But becoming what? We answer that question with our choices.

But there is more to my title than that. We all write the movie of our lives in the crosshairs. That endeavor is more tricky. We don't get the luxury of time to reflect, muse, or ponder at leisure. Life is a harsh mistress. As we struggle, she flashes us that "beauty-queen" smile : all sharp teeth and no heart. And in her games of chance, the House ultimately wins.

Like Indiana Jones we must make it up as we go along. We plan and prepare. Life gleefully throws her monkey wrench into our preparations. We must write our lives in the crosshairs of illness, accidents, dysfunctional humans, and our own inner demons. We are all in Life's crosshairs, and none of us know when she will pull the trigger. We just know that she will.

This is what my blog is all about : how to maintain a measure of grace and peace in the crosshairs of Life. I haven't figured it out yet. Let me know what helps with you.

I'm listening to BRISTLECONE by Trace Bundy, an amazing guitarist who learned to play on his own since he didn't have money for lessons. He's an inspiration since none of us are given many lessons on how to play the tunes of our lives. With no lessons, he has done quite well. Visit his website : http://www.tracebundy.com/.

RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS WEEK

I think that all of us could stand being the recipient of a random act of kindness.

Sadly, it is more often that we are the recipient of a random act of cruelty. I received a "paper-cut" of one Valentine's Day. No, not from a jilted lover ... from an agent I queried. I won't give her name since she is not here to give her side of the tale.

Besides, everyone is having a harder time than they appear so it is best to be kind lest you add to the trauma of someone's already bad day. Valentine's Day is often a hard one for many to endure. Perhaps that was the case for the agent in question. And like I said, it was only a "paper-cut." They sting a bit then you move on.

Her paper-cut? Short and to the point:

"I'm going to pass on this because you can't seem to follow simple instructions. Removing the formatting on a cut-and-paste email is not difficult. Whatever formatting you've used is rending all of the text as gibberish."

Ouch. A bit terse but move on and acknowledge that learning additional computer skills would be a good thing. Odd that no other of the many agents I have queried have mentioned any formatting problem. And there are several agents impressed enough with my work to be considering it.

I feel like the prostitute who was briefly considered as a victim by Jack the Ripper then passed over as "not worthy" of his knife. Like the cat said after having romanced the skunk : "I think I have enjoyed as much of this as I can stand."

Like I said earlier, it is RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS WEEK. The Hershey Company is asking people to go to http://www.thehersheylegacy.com/ and share a virtual Hershey's bar with friends and family. Milton Hershey demonstrated the ultimate random act of kindness when he founded Milton Hershey School to help children in need, then devoted his entire fortune to ensure the school's future.

I am listening to "Chaco Canyon" by Laura Sullivan from her MYSTICAL AMERICA album. If you like Enya, Yanni, and Liz Story, you will enjoy her music, too. You can hear her on Sirius and, of course, on the wonderful http://www.pandora.com/.

May you both give and receive random acts of kindness all this week. Breathe each breath today, giving thanks for each one. Roland

THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS

Hello, Friends

A late night yearning for pizza had me going out into the darkness tonight. As I stepped outside and shivered, I felt warmed. Odd you say. Not really. Not if you knew of the winter I almost died of pneumonia ... and of my mother's tales told to me as I lay coughing in the cold darkness.

My mother was half Lakota Sioux and half Irish. She learned young the harsh truth that sometimes nightmares invade our waking hours to swallow our world. Haiti is just re-teaching that lesson to some of us.

I, too, learned it early in my childhood. My mother and I found ourselves living in a basement apartment during one of the worst winters in Detroit's memory. Money was scarse. Food, too. Warmth even more so. Then, the power went out. For days.

To keep my mind off the numbing cold and my worsening cough, my mother told me tales spun from the legends of the twin worlds of her own youth . As I lay shivering under my blankets in the darkness, a magical world slowly took shape within my mind. And I was lost in wonder.

Souix legends contested with the fae and foe of Irish myth. And the cold became only the chill embrace of Estanatlehi, the ghostly Turquoise Woman. Mother told me that while Estanatlehi's touch was cold, her heart was warm.

So the colder I got, the more it made me feel loved, for I knew that an unseen someone was only hugging me closer. And within the shadows at the far corner of my bedroom, I could almost make out the hulking form of the guardian of all good children, Hibbs, the bear with two shadows.

My mother taught me to love winter. It is a season when you feel the bones of the landscape - the loneliness, the solitude of it. Something waits beneath winter -- the whole story doesn't show -- much like the strangers you meet.

And to tell the tale my mother whispered to me in the cold shadows is why I wrote the 80,000 word Native American/Celtic children's fable, THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS. Her world is one that you cannot reach by car. The mind is the only vehicle that will take you there. The only fuels you need are imagination and the ability to still dream.

May some of your dreams come true today. Roland

Mardi Gras Musings

Happy Mardi Gras Eve

We in Louisiana think we know about Mardi Gras. But it has been around for thousands of years. Certain historians think that ancient fertility rituals performed by some tribes were the roots of Mardi Gras. These rituals welcomed spring's arrival.

Parts of the customs from the old festivals are also found in Lupercalia, a Roman circus-like festival taking place annually in mid-February. The Catholic Church wanted to shift people's attention from pagan festivals so they instituted the festival of Carnival, derived from the Latin word carnelevamen { farewell to flesh.} Or Hello to Lent so to speak.

Mardi Gras came to North America in 1699 when the French-Canadian Pierre le Monye, Sieur de Iberville was exploring the Mississippi River. He and his men camped on a bend of the river sixty miles south of New Orleans on March 3.

Pierre knew that Mardi Gras was being celebrated back in France so he decided to name that spot Pointe du Mardi Gras. And the rest, as Sherman would say, is fra gras. Just don't tell PETA.

Alright, Mr. Peabody, Sherman, and the rest of you, return to the Way Back Machine and set it for tomorrow.

First Greetings

Hi, Everyone :

Roland here. I was born in the BC years. That's Before Computers. So if this blog is ragged, then I'm doing better than I thought I would.

I'm one of those most wretched of creatures : an unpublished author. But I have managed to earn a Bachelor's degree in English education and a Master's degree in Psychology. I can become published. It's just a matter of determination and the willingness to grow.

Of course talent would help. But which of us can assess our true worth? We just gird our loins and jump into the fray. Let others decide our performance as we duck and weave through the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune. And so that is what this blog is all about.

Jumping into the fray.

Wish me luck as I wish you success in your dreams and struggles.