“In the beginning …” Genesis, the Bible
Well, that seems like a good enough place to start, since this is my first post. If you can look past my ineptitude, I’m sure we’ll become good friends. Who knows, you might even have a smile on your face while you’re trudging through my blog, waist deep in my ramblings. First off, I must warn you, this is not, by any stretch of the imagination, one of those self-help sites designed to actually instruct you in anything. If that’s what you’re looking for then I suggest you turn around and head right back to where you came from. There’s nothing of interest here … unless you feel like laughing today. And if you do find some type of value in this post … well, my bad. These are meant to be postings by a sixty-five-year-old unpublished writer simply sounding off. Hopefully, it will be filled with my frustrations, insecurities, brick walls, personal OCDs, and smattered with the occasional flicks of inspiration, ideas, and musings. Chances are, if you’re a writer too, you’ll find a bit of yourself in my offerings. So if you’re still here, and still awake, let’s get started.
My name is Mike Scherer, and I live in northeast Indiana, USA, with Jan, my blushing bride of forty-five years. (We’re baby-boomers, at our age we use blush to cover-up the liver spots.) Don’t get all hepped up about the thought that I participated in the “sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll free-love sixties. I was only seventeen when Woodstock happened. It was over long before I even heard about it, and I doubt if my dad would have let me borrow the car to go to it anyway. But somewhere in my three hundred plus vinyl record collection and four hundred plus CD collection I’m sure I have the songs of every artist who performed there. I’m a lyric man myself. I think lyricists put our lives in the music. They help us find the voice to say the things to others that we’re too embarrassed to say for ourselves. As a guy, that means anything having to do with my inner feelings. They also reflect the way the world is around us. From the wistful big-band songs of WWII, to the anti-war protest songs of the sixties, to the shake-your-groove-thing disco era, to the soulful sounds of the “gangsta” rap of today. And lyricists can, as if they are in our very hearts and minds, put so eloquently into words, exactly how we feel inside. Just look at “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-haa!” by Napoleon XIV. Need I say more? I do? Okay. How about, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” by Kenny Chesney? Or how about, “May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose,” by Little Jimmy Dickens? Or the immortal classic, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor,” by Lonnie Donnegan? I could go on and on, but that would be too much like work. Google your own trip down melody lane, I have other things to do.
I’ve always enjoyed writing fiction (much like this blog). There’s something magical about putting #2 lead to paper that transports you to a place where no one else has ever been. And if you put your self-doubts away you can take your readers there too. I grew up in a two-story three bedroom house with my parents, a sister, three brothers, and my paternal grandfather. Now that I think about it, Harry Potter’s digs under the stairwell sounds pretty spacious. I was in grade school when I wrote my first “novel”. Nothing fancy. It was about a boy stranded on a deserted island and was saved by putting a message in a bottle and throwing it into the ocean. I didn’t bother with any of the pesky details, like how he got stuck on the island, or where he found the paper and pencil to write the note, much less where he got the bottle from. The only good point at the time was the fact he didn’t have a bunch of environmentalists hounding his ass about littering. I even illustrated it with drawings I did by hand. It was probably all of ten pages. My dad liked it, and that was all that mattered. I’m sure the entire time I was writing it Robert Lewis Stevenson was spinning in his grave as if he were hog-tied to the driveshaft of a turbo charged Corvette. When I was ten or eleven, I was infatuated with anything, and everything, Tarzan (except the book by Edgar Rice Burroughs). I even formed a Tarzan Club with a few of my friends. I made a Tarzan Club newsletter, complete with made-up articles, a word puzzle, and a couple of Tarzan jokes. Since nobody had access to copiers back then, I hand-made a copy for every member. Thank Cheeta, the first edition was also the last. But even to this day, the Tarzan allure still draws me in. Nothing sounds more fun than running around the woods in nothing but a loincloth. Which reminds me of another little tune I sang as a kid. “Ooohhh, there’s a skeeter on my p**ter, brush it off! There’s a skeeter on my p**ter, rub it off!” You get the drift. Continue the same insane lyrics until you’ve found every way imaginable to extricate a mosquito from a male’s privates. Once you’ve done that, you have three options: start over, quit, or (my personal favorite) pick another intimate body part for it to land on.
Anyway, my life followed a different path. After getting married eight months out of high school, a family soon came along and life took over. Through the years that followed, because of more important things happening in my life, I only wrote for my own personal amusement. (Kind of like masturbation, only without the icky mess when it’s done.) But now the kids are grown, I’ve retired (three years now), and I’m getting on my wife’s last nerve. So now I thought I’d try to annoy the rest of humanity. And what better way to do that than with a blog about me? I suppose it could be worse, I could follow a cat around 24/7 with a camera; catching every little minute cute thing it does and post it for posterity. I did that once, posted a cat video. Since I never had a cat, I had to go out and find a stray cat to tape. It’s hard to believe how skittish a cat is when they don’t know you. Anyway, I finally found one that didn’t take off like a bat out of hell when I approached it. It was just lying there by the side of the road. Everything was going fine, I was getting hits up the wazoo. I was expecting it to go viral until Animal Control came along and scooped him up with a shovel. I found out later, people aren’t as interested in mangled squirrels and unrecognizable raccoon carcasses.
Before I retired I began writing an epic novel. “Dream big!” was the catchphrase my old employer used to drum into us. So I did. An epic novel! What in the hell was I thinking?! The Intersection at Falcon & Skinner. It’s only nineteen chapters but each chapter is a novella in length and three novellas equal a novel in word count. So that’s … three goes into nineteen … six novels. I’ve got six chapters completed, sporadically working on two more, with ideas for five others. However, at the rate I’m going, I should have it completed about ten years after I die. So don’t expect too much from those last six chapters, once rigor mortis sets in typing is going to be a bitch. You know what I just thought of? (Sick-O alert! Sick-O alert!) I could have some LED lights installed in my casket (They could be plugged into an extension cord, hooked up to an electrical outlet installed in my tombstone. Can you imagine how they’re going to bury that line?) Then I can post me doing cute stuff 24/7. Just like the cat I found. Although, I don’t think this plan will be as interesting if I’m cremated. But on the bright side, I probably won’t get scooped up by Animal Control either. Anyway, it’s just an idea. Now back to what I was talking about earlier. I have, however, completed another novel titled “If Onlys”. The working title was “Shoulda―Coulda―Woulda”. But that became a pain in the pa-toot. Whenever I discussed the book with any of the Beta readers, it soon morphed into a ten minute Abbott & Costello routine of: Is Woulda on first, or is Shoulda on second and Coulda on third? But I’m happy to report, the Beta readers said it was fantastic. Of course, they were obliged to like it, my Beta readers were my wife and kids and a couple we hang around with. But I don’t think they’d lie … too much. I mean they’re noses didn’t grow or anything. Anyway, I’m currently working on a collection of stories related to a general theme. What theme, you ask? (Feel free to read this next part in some crazy-assed accent, or perhaps with the nail of your little finger held to one corner of your mouth.) Murder? Mayhem? Mystery? Mayhap all three, with a little humor and horror thrown in for good measure. You’ll just have to wait and see. (I don’t know how to write the sound of an evil laugh, so just go ahead and make it. Thanks.)
But I do enjoy writing. I can do without editing, that job sucks. But writing is fun, when I finally force myself to shut off the inane computer games I’m addicted to. As I said at the beginning of this blog, I’m loaded with more insecurities and self-doubt than this article is with punctuation errors. And I have more stories and ideas than I have time left in my life to write them. But, like Maya Angelou, still I rise. I’ll keep working at it. Practice makes perfect. Nothing ventured; nothing gained. The early bird gets the best seat at the suet trough. I’m beginning to sound like one of those kids who has to write a 500 word essay and writes a one sentence story using the word “really” 490 times.
Well, that’s it. Thanks for sticking with it till the end. Keep an eye out for my other blogs. I promise they’ll be just as irreverent and as irrelevant as this posting was. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading my feeble attempt at humor. And your feedback will encourage me to continue writing or convince me to take up compost gardening. Either way I look forward to hearing from you.
