Dog chases tail

I finally have the section of LD leading up to where Daniel reaches the cabin in decent enough shape to when I can plow ahead.  He's still a bit too indistinct for me to feel great about this, yet, but now I can see some spine in him and making the whole thing Tad's idea works a LOT better.  It's going to change details later in the story, but this'll do till I'm through it, again.  Then I may follow through with some other aspects I want to rearrange.

Pretty day, today.  I was out and about doing laundry and getting some groceries and running other errands.  I wanted to get my car washed but the line at the place was 10 cars deep so blew that off.  Still, the salt on the roads really clings to your car's finish, and I want it off before it begins to rip through the paint and start some rusting.

I bought Muse's "Revolution" -- and while I like the music, the CD itself is pretty poorly done.  Songs are mashed together that should not be in close proximity, and the opening song cuts in and out while the music is going.  In fact, I'm really surprised at how awkward many of the transitions are.  Neither Depeche Mode nor Enigma never would let such awkwardness onto one of their CDs.

Brilliant blog and on FaceBook!

Check out this NY Times online series dealing with what lead up to the Civil War 150 years ago.  It's fantastic!

http://www.facebook.com/nytimescivilwar

And it's scary just how similar the events from then are to the events of today.

Check this out, too -- http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/02/26/in-love-with-a-lincoln/

Went in to work for a while, today, to try and get a jump on next week's chaos.  That's when over 100 book dealers from the US, Canada and Europe are being picked up to be taken to the California Book Fair in San Francisco.  And way too many of the Euro-boiz have yet to hand in the paperwork needed to get them through customs or have errors on the paperwork they HAVE handed in that needs correcting before it can be submitted.  You'd think book dealers, who live in a world of intelligence and literacy, would be able to read the friggin' instructions they were given, but nooooooooooo...

I have a feeling this will not be a fun week.  So I hereby make a pledge to keep the crap at work AT work and not populate this blog with my angst.

Now it's turkey dinner time...and writing, writing, writing.  Or should I say, RE-writing?

Magical snowflaking

This morning I found my car under a light dusting of snow...not so unusual the last couple months.  I started it up and, as the engine warmed, I brushed off the snow from my windows.  Then I got inside and fastened my seatbelt...and a single, tiny, perfectly white, six-pointed snowflake landed on the glass directly in front of me...and I felt as if I'd slipped into another world, for a moment.

I'm somewhat used to seeing the snow come down in clumps and batches, and sometimes when I look out my window I imagine it to be playful faeries caught in the joy of the breezes dancing around them.  But this time...this time it was as though one had noticed me and stopped to look back at this creature who would not join in the fun.  It was quickly joined by others -- not in huge numbers but a few here and there, each one just as precise and lovely as its companions, and all of them just as focused on me as though they were tiny little beings and not merely slivers of ice.  How could I help but smile at the thought?

I'd always known snow comes down in six-pointed designs, supposedly no two flakes alike, but I'd never actually considered the reality of it.  The simple tender elegance it carries.  The startling understanding that something you've been told exists -- and that you believed and accepted without ever actually seeing for yourself -- it is the honest truth.

I don't know what this means, yet...if anything.  If it really could count as a moment of grace in my world.  All I can see right now is how long that charming, delicate, tiny white thing stayed on my windshield, watching me as I drove on to work...until it became bored and flitted away, joining with the others as they danced in the playful breezes.

God, how I wish I could have joined it.

New book out!

Volume 3 of "Bobby Carapisi" is now available at both Barnes & Noble and Amazon.  I say buy it at B&N if you want it because it's discounted to $12.95 if you're a B&N member (which I am) and I get the same amount in royalties, no matter what.  Amazon doesn't discount until it's shown it will sell decently, which may never happen; this set hasn't done well in sales...but I don't really care.  I did right by Bobby and Eric, and now let Allen tell his own story his own way.  Plus this is the last volume of the story.  Now I can offer it as a box set, if the publisher will go along with that idea.

I've already decided the opening of LD needs a bit more tweaking; it's still too lumpy and dense, to me, and I'm not thrilled with how Daniel's coming across now.  Maybe I'll add more sex to it.  That seems to sell.  I did have a better idea for the ending, one that doesn't wander off but ends with just the right note.  So...no more postings of the story till it and I can figure each other out and be happy with what's being done.

Good thing I'm not in NYC, right now.  I'd be stuck.  It's funny -- I enjoy the snow and don't mind driving in it so much, though my car's really filthy and needs to have the salt washed off it, soon.  I don't even mind the occasionally bitter cold.  It's warm where I work and live and my car's heater does good.  One of the smartest things I ever did was buying my little Honda.  It's been a blessing.

Just for fun...

I'm posting the rewrite I just did of the first six pages of LD, if anybody wants to see how they've changed in the space of 24 hours.


"The Lyons' Den"

Y‘know, Daniel never should’ve agreed to help Tad (excuse me, Theodore J. Bentley, the Third; he’d snarl in disgust without the full and flowing exclamation of his name) but the little shit knew exactly which buttons to push, and he hit every damned one of them with a sledgehammer. You see, the two of them had been a couple for a couple years and had only broken up six months ago, and Daniel was still raw from it. I seriously think that if he’d let his brain do the thinking instead of his dreams, he’d have seen straight off that this was a catastrophe in the making. But the way Tad rushed in, breathless, his ice-blue eyes projecting fear and need and horror on top of that hint of a quiver he can get in his voice, all but begging, “Danny, please, help me,” -- well, it would’ve crushed the first wall of any defense. So now he and Dan-O were seated in a downstairs booth, in a back corner of the diner’s faux 1890’s decor, and Tad was trying to explain it all.

Now Master Bentley was one of those young, perfect East Coast types who’s en route to being perfect on the West Coast (as in Hollywood, baby, since he’d already produced and had broadcast one whole cable movie; helps to know the sociology of the natives). So because of that movie, he was now considered a player by both coasts. It helped that the thing was based on “High-Heeled Moccasins,” a quirky mystery novel featuring yours truly, Ace Shostakovich, private eye extraordinaire and written by our one and only Daniel (excuse me, Daniel J. Bettancourt, tho’ I get to call him Dan-O).

Meaning, yes -- I’m not real. But if you think it’s weird a fictional character is telling this story, you ain’t seen what happened, yet.

Overall, Daniel has six of my mysteries to his credit, each one selling better than the last. But just being published don’t mean you’re making enough to live on in New York City. So while Tad was flying high playing Mr. Producer, my guy was still tending bar at two different jobs. Until this...well...problem arose.

You see, Little Sir Great-and-glorious had optioned two more of Dan-O’s books -- “The Dr. Pepper Tryst and Tristan” and “Cadillac Criminal Mind” -- aiming to start up a crime series for cable. Then he’d gone and hired this overpriced twenty-one-year-old-Cheeto-eater (who people SWORE was the hottest writer in Hollywood since Orson Welles; and look, I got nothing against Cheetos, just the idiots with dicks that think they’re a food group), well, anyway, Tad had given him free reign to adapt them into eight fifty-five page scripts, something to show the money boys at HBO. And he’d just gotten them. And believing the hype around that screenwriter, he’d arranged to meet with the “yea or nay” guy at HBO on Monday. And only then had finally sat down to read the damned things -- and had watched the crash and burn of his fledgling career scream across his designer contacts.

Seems the Cheeto-eater’d had so little interaction with reality (since birth, probably), he was incapable of making fictional characters act like real ones instead of second-rate film noir clichés with crap dialog. But just as he was about to pretend to toss himself off the balcony of his 45th floor condo, great-and-glorious-producer remembered Daniel worked Friday lunches at a diner that was just blocks away, so raced over to catch him. And now his wailing and gnashing of teeth was caught in this non-stop loop of, “ALL the scripts are crap, all fuckin’ eight of them, including the Bible.” (“The Bible” not being that book of Christian conflict but one that outlined the direction the characters and story would take; also helps to know the lingo of the natives, in cases like this.)

“Tad!” (Daniel being the only one allowed to call him that.) “I write books, not scripts.”

He was sitting across from the twerp, nursing a hunger headache since he hadn’t had a chance to eat before work and now it was after four.

“But they’re based on your books! And you’re the one who was always telling me, A story’s a story.”

“A script isn’t a story,” Dan-O growled, “it’s a desecration.”

“Danny!” (And Tad was the only person allowed to call Daniel by that name.) “I told you from the outset, you can’t fit everything from a two-hundred and fifty page book into an hour and forty minute movie. And don’t forget, reviewers still said we stuck really close to your story.”

Daniel had no real answer to that. The fact is, the movie had turned out nice enough...but it just wasn’t...well, it wasn’t right. He’d have kept Ace (me) less cynical and made sure Carmen (oh, she’s my sexy secretary), well she’d have been more important, like in the book. But there’d been enough money in selling the rights to pay down a couple of bills and get a better apartment, so he couldn’t bitch too much. And since this series of scripts were based on his books, he probably did have a pretty good idea of what they’d need to work.

It helped that a perky little waitress who had a crush on my guy whipped up with a steaming cheeseburger and fries, and he popped out with, “Bless you,” before he could filter the words. She beamed and backed away, muttering something unintelligible as Dan-O hauled out the ketchup and mustard. I just shook my head and sighed, “Dude, if you were a horn doggie, you’d be set for tonight.”

My guy just growled and shoved a steak fry into his mouth.

“C’mon, Danny,” Tad whined, “you’re the guy who always said -- and I mean you said it every time you got stuck on a story -- ‘My characters’ll work it out; Ace’ll take care of everything.’”

“Gotta admit -- he’s right, for once,” I sneered.

“Which you said made me sound crazy!” Dan-O snapped.

“Since when did you pay any attention to anything I’d say?” Tad snapped.

Dan-O dug into the burger to hide his snarls as he said, “I remember everything you said, Tad.”

Tad rolled his eyes in that way that always pissed my guy off. Not so much because it was condescending or dismissive, but because he looked so damned good when he did it, the little shit. Even when he shot back with crap like, “Yeah, well, it’s true -- I’ve seen you say things” (his words, honest) “that would’ve put you in a padded room, fifty years ago. But I’ve also seen it work. I -- I should never have said that, Danny. I’m -- I’m sorry.”

Which floored Daniel. Tad really was one of those perfect people who never admits error in anything, and who has the looks, attitude and charisma to pull it off. If he says the sky is green, it sorta-kinda would be -- even when it’s really blue. If he says the world is flat -- hell, not even the horizon will argue with him. But here was big, bad, beautiful Tad -- oops, Theodore J. Bentley, the Third (I keep forgetting, one must have one’s moniker correct, you know, and...and...oh, the hell with it; let him snarl) -- here he was, admitting error.

It knocked Daniel off center just enough for the bastard to jump in with, “It’s just -- Danny, this series -- it’s only as good as the scripts I hand over for those jerks with the network to mangle with their notes and suggestions and stupid-shit ideas and -- and, you -- you’ve got six books out there, all nice and neat and selling and all yours and -- and all I got is my ass on the line, putting more money into this project than I should’ve, hiring that twerp and -- and the meeting’s Monday! At noon! If you don’t do this, I’m fucked. I’m totally fucked. I’ll get sued and put in jail and spend my life bankrupt. Please help me, Daniel Bettancourt; you’re my only hope.” Aw, jeez, the “Star Wars” reference!? That was below the belt! 


And it will continue to change till I'm done with it.  I can polish my work to the point of madness.

NYC is not to be

And I'm beat, and did some more l writing...and here's the new direction for LD's opening. Hope it's better.

The Lyons' Den

Y‘know, Daniel never should’ve agreed to help Tad (excuse me, Theodore J. Bentley, the Third; he’d snarl in disgust without the full and flowing exclamation of his name), but the little shit knew exactly which buttons to push. And he hit every damned one of them with a sledgehammer.

You see, Master Bentley was one of those young, perfect East Coast types who just KNOWS he’s meant to be perfect on the West Coast (meaning Hollywood, baby, since he’d already produced and shown one whole cable movie; helps to know the background of the natives). And because of that one movie, he was already considered a player by both coasts. It helped that it was based on a rather successful mystery novel written by Daniel -- “High-Heeled Moccasins,” featuring yours truly, Ace Shostakovich. And the crème-de-la-crème was that he even had an option on two other books of Daniel’s to make into a crime series for cable. Also featuring me.

Meaning, yes -- I’m the lead character in them books. But if you think it’s weird somebody who’s not real is telling this story, you ain’t seen what happened, yet.

Overall, Daniel (excuse me, Daniel J. Bettancourt, but I get to call him Dan-O) has six of my mysteries to his credit. Unfortunately, being published don’t necessarily mean you’re making enough to live on in New York City. So while Tad was flying high playing Mr. Producer, my guy was still tending bar at two different jobs. Until this...well...”problem” arose.

You see, Little Sir Great-and-glorious went out and hired this overpriced twenty-one-year-old-Cheeto-eater (who people SWORE was the hottest screenwriter in Hollywood since Orson Welles) to do the adaptations of those two books into scripts. Give him something to show the money boys. And Tad had just gotten the screenplays. And he’d arranged to meet with the “yea or nay” guy at HBO on Monday. And only then had he sat down to read the damned things -- and had seen his fledgling career crash and burn before his designer contacts. Seems the Cheeto-eater’d had so little interaction with reality (since birth, probably), he had problems making fictional characters act like real ones instead of second-rate film noir clichés with crap dialog. But just as he was about to fake-toss himself off the balcony of his 45th floor condo, great-and-glorious-producer remembered Daniel worked Friday lunches at a diner that was just blocks away, so raced over to catch him.

At this point I should make it known, Tad and Dan-O were a couple for over two years. Fact is, they’d broken up only six months ago and my guy was still raw from it, so anybody with half a brain could’ve told you that this was a catastrophe in the making. But the way Tad rushed in, breathless, his ice-blue eyes projecting fear and need and horror on top of that hint of a quiver he can get in his voice, as he all but begged, “Danny, please, help me,” -- well, it would’ve crashed the first wall of any defense. So now he and Dan-O were seated in a downstairs booth, in a back corner of the diner’s faux 1890’s decor, and Tad was going on with, “ALL the scripts are crap, all fuckin’ eight of them, including the Bible.” (“The Bible” not being that book of Christian conflict but one that outlined the direction the characters and story would take; also helps to know the lingo of the natives, in cases like this.)

“Tad!” (Daniel being the only one allowed to call him that.) “I write books, not scripts.”

“But they’re based on your books! And you’re the one who was always telling me, A story’s a story.”

“A script isn’t a story,” Dan-O growled, “it’s a desecration.”

“Danny!” (And Tad was the only person allowed to call Daniel by that name.) “I told you from the outset, you can’t fit everything from a two-hundred and fifty page book into an hour and forty minute movie. And don’t forget, reviewers still said we stuck really close to what you wrote.”

Daniel had no real answer to that. The fact is, the movie had turned out nice enough...but it just wasn’t...well, he’d have kept Ace (me) less cynical and made sure Carmen (oh, she’s my sexy secretary) stayed more important, like in the book. But he’d made enough money off the rights to pay down a couple of bills and get a better apartment, so he couldn’t bitch too much. And since this series of scripts were based on what he’d written, he probably did have a pretty good idea of what they’d need to work.

“Besides,” Tad said, “you’re the guy who always said -- and I mean every time you got stuck on a story, ‘My characters’ll work it out. Ace’ll take care of everything.’”

“Which you said made me sound crazy!”

“You know what I meant,” Tad snapped.

Dan-O slipped into a sulk. “Did I? Did anybody? Really?”

Tad rolled his eyes in that way that always pissed my guy off. Not so much because it was condescending or dismissive, but because he looked so damned good when he did it, the little shit. Even when he shot back with crap like, “Yeah, right, I’ve seen you say things” (his words, honest) “that would’ve put you in a padded room, fifty years ago. But I’ve also seen it work. I should never have said that, Danny. I’m -- I’m sorry.”

Which floored Daniel. Tad really was one of those perfect people who never admits they’re wrong about anything, and have the looks, attitude and charisma to pull it off. If he says the sky is green, it sorta-kinda is -- even when it’s really blue. If he says the world is flat -- hell, not even the horizon will argue with him. But here was big, bad, beautiful Tad -- oops, Theodore J. Bentley, the Third (I keep forgetting, one must have one’s moniker correct, you know and...and...oh, the hell with it; let him snarl) -- here he was, admitting error.

It knocked Daniel off center just enough for the bastard to jump in with, “It’s just -- Danny, this series -- it’s only as good as the scripts I hand over for those jerks with the network to mangle with their notes and suggestions and stupid-shit ideas and -- and, you -- you’ve got six books out there, all nice and neat and selling nice and steady and all yours and -- and all I got is my ass on the line, putting more money into this project than I should’ve, hiring that twerp and -- and the meeting’s Monday! At noon! If you don’t do this, I’m fucked. I’m totally fucked. I’ll get sued and put in jail and spend my life bankrupt. You -- you gotta help me, Daniel Bettancourt; you’re my only hope.”

Aw, jeez, the “Star Wars” reference!? That was below the belt!

Interruptions

I worked late so ate late so everything's off schedule, and tomorrow I'm going in early to find out if my trip to NYC is off.  Little late; I already have the plane tickets.

Still nothing on RIHC6v1 with Amazon.  Or from my publisher.  It's ALL available on B&N, both volumes, both electronically AND in paperback.  So how much of a dick do I want to be?

So...being in a mood, I watched another episode of "Dexter"...and wound up shaking my head.  This is episode 4 of season 1 and while the series is interesting in some ways, it is so dumb in others.  A serial killer breaks into Dexter's condo to get ideas for a "game" they're to play together, and Dexter, who's supposed to be really smart and amoral, doesn't t check to make sure everything he owns is intact.  He only stumbles upon clues left in his home as he stumbles through trying to catch this taunting murderer.  Also, a man is kept bound to a gurney for 3-4 days, bits of him being cut off every 24 hours to send messages to Dexter, yet when he's found he looks clean and healthy, not dehydrated, not filthy from his own urine since he's obviously not catheterized but had no place to pee, not delirious from loss of blood or the fact that he's now a double amputee or shock or anything, untouched by the rats shown running about the place.  A very Catholic woman praying in a church gets up and goes straight to see someone when a true Catholic would pause at the aisle to kneel in respect before turning her back on the altar (I'm not even Catholic and I know better than that).

It's dumb little things like this that take me out of a story by killing the truth of it, and that's often why I dislike movies other people like -- such as "Mystic River" and "Atonement" and "Pulp Fiction."  They pull stunts in those films that I just plain did not believe.  Hell, I didn't even like "Sophie's Choice" because it was so much of a set-up movie (meant to make you FEEL and come to certain TRUTHS through deliberate mash-ups of absurd characters), I yawned at the denouement.

And yes, I know, I seem to violate a story's truth, too, at times...but in my case it's usually at the service of the story (not always, but far more often than not).  I got comments that some of the people in LD don't act correctly for what they purport to be...and they're right; they don't, and in such a way as to seem ridiculous.    But it was all to a specific point -- that Daniel might be going crazy -- tho' I guess I should make that a bit clearer.

I'll get back to it, tomorrow and hopefully have a first draft of a third draft done before I head out to LA.  Then I'll work on the second draft of the third draft and then the third and then...who knows?

Tomorrow's the SOTU Address by Obama.  I've got better things to do that listen to him turn more Republican than even Reagan was.

Startling truths...

Of a writer's worth in Hollywood.

And that's if you're lucky.  But at least this guy has the right idea...if he doesn't mind.  (I get the feeling he wants to direct, due to the storyboards in the BG.)

My problem was, I was stupid enough to think you can't make a movie without a script, so the scriptwriter is most important.  It took me years to realize I was in this "Alice In Wonderland" world where up is down and left is right and value is measured by who's willing to blow you in order to get ahead.  No wonder I never "got" the game; nobody wanted to even kiss me.

I've reworked the opening chapter to LD and by doing a bit of reversal achieved a number of things --

1.  Daniel is no longer as needy as he was.
2.  I establish earlier that he tends bar to make ends meet while Tad is a trust fund baby.
3.  The whole set-up is Tad's idea from the outset, with him offering to take Daniel to Bermuda as the carrot and Daniel losing out on the $100K if the project fails as the stick.
4.  Ace jumps in sooner to introduce himself and Carmen.

I THINK it's become more dynamic with a definite forward motion...but you never know.  I may post chapter 1 in bits once I've gone back over and proofed for typos and missing words.  I'm bad about that when I get running.  I also need to make sure I keep track of which version I'm dealing with.  I think I sent out an unproofed version of the story to a couple of people I'd asked for feedback.  Dumb.

I've begun watching Season One of "Dexter" on Netflix.  It's available for immediate viewing; none of this waiting for the disk to come.  So far I'm enjoying it more than I did "True Blood" but it does seem a bit casual about reality...even within its own universe.

Woo-Hoo

ALL of my books are available at Barnes & Noble (see link at bottom of page) and four of them are in Nook format!  They've even linked to the anthology that holds my novella, "Perfection."  Amazon won't even CONSIDER doing that.  In fact, they're still dicking around with putting back up the paperback of RIHC6v1 and have yet to post the electronic edition of RIHC6v2.  So I'm still buying my stuff from B&N.  Amazon is just too much of a pain in the butt.

I'm currently reading Stephen Sondheim's " "Finishing the Hat" and it's fun...but it's not as detailed about how he made his greatest musicals as I thought it would be.  I bought it because "Cyber-Tribes" (my update of Aristophanes' "The Birds") wants to be a rock-musical.  I even have songs I'm using as templates for it -- like "Undisclosed Desires" and "Uprising" by Muse on their "Resistance" album.  Man, I'm building up a backlog of works to complete; I better get down to it and stop sitting around whimpering and whining so damn much.

Keith Olbermann either quit or was forced out at MSNBC, probably due to Comcast buying them out or merging or something; I'm not clear who's after whom, here.  The right wing assholes are crowing because the few liberal voices on the air are being silenced, one by one.  Rachel Maddow is probably next.  I've already begun to refer to America as the US-STFU-A since the rich have become owners of the whole fucking country and its treasury, and thank you so fucking much, Obama, for helping them.  One term, asshole.

We've had that happen before -- beginning with Grant's administration running right up to Teddy Roosevelt...more than 30 years of GOP theft with Democrats acquiescing -- and we'll wind up just as screwed up as we were then.  Hell, one US Rep in Congress has actually said that child labor laws are unconstitutional (they aren't; he was referencing the wrong Supreme Court Decision...but I wouldn't put it past Scalia and Thomas to agree with the bastard if it was brought before them, again).  And most of the dickwads who put us there will never admit just how wrong or stupid they were to help that happen.  The devil has taken hold, again, and will not let go till he's done.

Okay, I've ranted for the day and now will focus on rewriting LD.

Does dyslexia extend to thoughts?

Sometimes I start in on a story thinking the characters are who they claim to be but then begin to realize I've got them backwards.  Not something as simple as thinking they're good when they're really bad or vice versa, but motivations and intentions and meaning can suddenly be reversed and make a hundred times more sense in the whole schematic of the tale being told.  It doesn't happen often, but when it does I get lost for a little while and have to thrash my way back out of the forest into the sunlight to regain my bearings.

I have some examples...but I honestly don't want to share them because I think they'd mess with people's ideas about my writing.  Well...I do have one I can reference -- Curt in "How To Rape A Straight Guy."  When I first started writing the book, I built him up as a dangerous man on the verge of madness, with a rage that is overwhelming him, and that is still in there.  Plus I knew it was heading for a nasty showdown but didn't know exactly what until he suddenly made a connection with one of his victims that startled even him.  Then he shifted from a rabid dog into a wounded animal and his life was opened up to me, even though he really did not want it to be.

No question what happens in the story is still way out there, but Curt's reversal took the book back from being mere erotica and into something more meaningful.  Well, to me, anyway.

This has me wondering if I was always meant to write books and just got myself focused on movies because of my art background.  In school right up through college I took classes in art.  I sketched and painted and fought with teachers over my work and could see myself as a starving artist out to be the next Picasso or even de Kooning.  But in high school I began to write and draw out odd little comic books that I never finished.  I also wrote short stories in long hand, in pencil, on a yellow pad -- including one about a serial killer that my English teacher really liked.  I was heavy into mysteries at the time and especially liked the Ellery Queen series.  I'd just finished reading "Cat of Nine Tales" and tried something similar, and he felt my story could have been a full-fledged book.

But then I just stopped and kept on with the art.  And then with film.  And then with screenwriting.  Paying minimal attention to the narrative writing except on rare occasions.  I can see why; I'm a visual person, sometimes tactile but not really very intellectual or honestly aware of how life functions.  I mean, I'm not incapable of coherent thought, it's just not my first choice...rather obviously, at times.  But now that I write books I'm finding myself trying to build an artist's image with movement and sound in the mind of a reader and have no idea if I'm really being successful because I don't have the reference points most people carry to tell me when I'm being an idiot and when I'm not.  I just have this gut reaction when something's right in my work, and I could no more explain why it is than I could quantum physics.

I guess my point is...by finally focusing on my deepening dyslexia, I'm seeing things I didn't see before in my writing.  And wondering if I've been neglecting it for no more reason than part of my brain just isn't where it needs to be.  It's just vanished.  So if anyone sees it running around, would you please point it back in my direction?  It would be nice to be whole of mind, again.  For a while, anyway.

And if you think this whole post is meant to mean anything, then you should have YOURSELF checked for dyslexia.