Thank You, Anne Rice

Edgar Allan Poe fascinated me in junior high and high school. Stephen King was natural progression. True, the dark themes were intriguing, especially at that age, but it was their writing that kept me coming back. The way they eased into every scene, taking care to reach all my senses, making it feel as if I stood right there. I found it hard to read anyone else, at least for pleasure. I doubted I’d ever enjoy any writer’s work as much. Then, in college, I was introduced to Anne Rice.

I didn’t simply read her book, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE, I studied it in Contemporary English class. We were covering existentialism. I loved her style and courage, and her plot and character development were flawless. She knew human nature so well, she could weave the supernatural into a story and make it completely believable. And, though at the time I’d never been there, she made New Orleans sound like a place I’d never want to leave. Thanks largely to her, I now spend most of my days wondering when I’m going to get back.

When asked, as a writer, who my influences are, I always mention King and Rice. No doubt the endless summers reading Nancy Drew had a hand in the creation of who I am, but I spent the majority of my formative years with the top horror writers of the 80’s and 90’s. I don’t read near as much as I like these days, but, in my teens and twenties, I gobbled up as much as I could. And it shows. From King, I learned how to craft a story, build suspense, and tell the truth. Rice added to what I’d learned, teaching me the importance of backstory, description, and emotion, and – because she’s a woman – gave me the confidence I needed to believe I could really do this. Her First Street Witches series cemented my love for New Orleans. Her Sleeping Beauty Chronicles took erotica to the next level, stripped away my fear of going too far or saying too much, and showed me how to write sex scenes like no one else. I feel her in almost every word I write. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Today, she inspires me with her Facebook posts. Through the articles she shares on the trends of the publishing industry, I’ve learned more in the past year than I did in the previous 45. Working in a vacuum as I do, she keeps me up on current events, makes me think about politics (even when I don’t want to), shares relevant, “insider” news on the Catholic church (which helps with the Malta book), and shows me every day that a successful author can still be accessible. I might never have considered self-publishing CKR had it not been for her in-depth discussion threads on the subject. If it sells, I’ll have that to thank her for as well.

If we are our heroes, I’m glad I picked good ones. My challenge, now, is to make them proud.

~ Dawn

Preparing to Dive in 3...2...1...

DIVE! DIVE! DIVE! That’s all hear in my head these days. It might as well be DUCK! or JUMP! or RUN! for all the discomfort it’s causing – butterflies in my stomach, hitch in my breath, pins and needles jabbing at my insides AND my outsides. I’m trying not to look like a nervous wreck, but I’m not sleeping well, and hiding the fact that I’m about to publish another book is impossible.

The feeling reminds me of the hours before Mr. Blaine, our middle school principal, announced the winner of the student council president’s race. It reminds me, too, of the day he suggested I sing a solo at our 8th-grade graduation. It’s like the minutes before my wedding (the last one); the moment I learned I was pregnant; the day I received a publishing contract for IB; the hours leading up to a hurricane. Something big and scary is about to happen. It could end up being simply a wonderful memory, a lesson learned, or it could be a catastrophe. Regardless, it’ll probably change my life. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

Something had to give. I’m blessed with the ability to stay home and write because my husband works and travels his ass off. I’m also cursed with a constant guilt that, while I make myself available, 24/7, for him and the kids, I’m not financially contributing. When we moved into a house a couple years ago and took on a bigger mortgage, higher taxes, and totally unreasonable insurance premiums, the guilt became a nagging insistence. I’ve done some editing work, but a single novel can suck up 3-5 days of my time. Between the dog and kids, the husband and the house(s), I already have precious little to spare.

So, I’m diving in. (And yes, for those who’ve been reading a while and noticed, I use “So” a lot when I’m wrapping things up. Sometimes I edit it out, sometimes I don’t. It’s like “just” and “that” – people are creatures of habit. I bet YOU use a few words repetitively, too. So there.) My gut (instinct, little bird, angel on my shoulder) tells me I’m doing the right thing. Given the variety of predicaments I’ve found myself in over these past 46 years, I can’t testify to its accuracy. I have a kick-ass support group right now, though. You, Scott, family, friends, neighbors – for better or worse – are all riding this wave with me. Such an army must surely be victorious. And, with CKR, we’re well-armed; it’s like Kid Rock says:

If it looks good, you'll see it.

If it sounds good, you'll hear it.

If it's marketed right, you'll buy it.

But...if it's real, you'll feel it.

I might not be ready. But it’s time.

Take a deep breath … close your eyes … and listen for the splash …

;)

~ Dawn

CKR: June 2011

(continued from May 2011...)

 

"CKR" Diary Post No. 61, or Biting the Bullet

Monday, June 06, 2011

June 1st marked the start of hurricane season. It was also the day my husband suggested I commit professional suicide.

Since embarking on this journey toward authordom, I’ve maintained a strong opinion about self-publishing. True, not every self-publishing company is awful, nor is every self-published book. Some (a precious few) sell millions of copies. But the ease with which people can now present the world with their Great American Novel has flooded the industry with bad material, making it nearly impossible for a good, but unknown, writer to be recognized. To self-publish is to say, “My book isn’t good enough for a REAL publisher.” The practice has a bad reputation, and the odds of rising above the vanity print market and scoring a large, big-advance-paying publisher are slim. Getting that phone call from Random House was all I ever wanted.

But Nooks and Kindles are changing the world. And I need to be out there in it. Neither Random House nor Viking Press (or anyone else) has sent a check, and I can’t get an agent to open my email, let alone read and represent my book. Without someone to champion me, publication could take years. I’m tired of waiting – and you should be, too.

Someone from Amazon’s CreateSpace is calling me tomorrow to discuss details. The book was assigned an ISBN last week. I chose Amazon because I didn’t feel like wading through the endless sea of self-publishing companies to find “the right one” (how do you know that, anyway?). I also trust them and have already sold a number of copies of my first book through Amazon.com. With “Immortal Bonds” out of print, it’s that much more important that something be out there. What could be better than CKR?

I don’t know, yet, what the retail price will be. That’s something I’ll determine with the help of the consultant who’s calling tomorrow. The finished product will likely be 250-300 pages, available in both trade paperback and e-book. The process takes about a week. I’m hoping costs don’t run north of $1,500. Too much more than that and I’ll have nothing for promotion.

To say I’m nervous about all this would be an understatement. I’m practically pissing myself. I’ve been talking this novel up since the summer of 2006. Professionally, I have a lot riding on it. But the Kid Rock-inspired, cocky attitude that carried me through the creation of this book has long since been replaced with frustration and doubt. What if no one buys it? What if no one likes it? What if – God forbid – Kid Rock finally reads it and doesn’t like it? What if, after all the hype, I finally put it out there and it bites me in the ass? What would that do to my writing career? What would it do to me?

Despite the doubt, there continues to exist a strong belief in this story. I was driven to write it and forced through one obstacle after another to finish it. Signs throughout the process – some more enjoyable than others – convinced me I was doing what I was supposed to do and, for lack of a better description, I’ve felt all along this project was bigger than me. CKR is a catalyst. What it’s a catalyst for remains to be seen, but the clock is finally ticking (and yes, you’re welcome to say, “It’s about fuckin’ time,” because it is); “Chasing Kid Rock” is coming soon…

(I picked a fine time to lay off the whiskey.)


“CKR” Diary Post No. 62

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Sitting here, wondering how Amazon feels about porn, it occurred to me that it might not have been a good idea to tell the world just now about my intent to publish CKR. “If you wanna make God laugh,” they say, “tell Him your plans,” or however it goes. I’ve already got Mother Nature kicking me in the nuts, I don’t need God’s harrassment, too. The cat’s out of the bag, though, so I might as well roll with it. If something goes wrong – and it wouldn’t be the first time – you’ll at least get to watch me fall on my ass. Again.

The cost to publish wasn’t as high as I thought it would be, and the rep I talked to yesterday made the process less confusing. I uploaded the manuscript this morning. They’ll call me in a day or two to talk fonts, formatting, and retail price. I’m leaning toward $12.95 or so for the paperback. By next week, CKR should be a real, live, click-here-to-order-your-copy book. Unless, of course, Amazon makes me write out the porn. And the irreverent scenes at Disney. And the cursing. And the frequent, unapologetic drug and alcohol use. And the underlying theme that threesomes are… Well, let’s hope they let me leave it all in, or this could take a lot longer than a week.

Yesterday, I took the “Devil Without a Cause” lyrics out of the manuscript (my only copyright infringement risk), tweaked my personal Facebook page to limit access, and created a “celebrity” page for Dawn Scovill – Author of CKR. I’ve always felt uncomfortable (excessively) marketing to friends, and I can’t imagine I’d be okay with strangers lurking around my profile and studying pictures of my house. And my dog. It’ll be a pain to have yet another place to check messages (in addition to email, Twitter, MySpace, LinkedIn, ReverbNation, Kid Rock Community, Classmates…), but I’m deleting IB’s MySpace page and will eventually learn to incorporate it in my routine…whenever it is that I find one of those. Once the book’s available, promotion efforts will begin with and center around my author page. One of these days, I’ll get back to writing.

In the meantime, your job (should you choose to accept it) is to tell everyone you know who likes Kid Rock, Tony Stewart, NASCAR, talk radio, Daytona, Orlando, West Palm, Disney, Universal, hot, loose women, beer, whiskey, Skoal, or Burt Reynolds to run over and “LIKE” my Facebook page, because CKR is coming – and they’ve NEVER read a book like this.

I guarantee it.

“CKR” Diary Post No. 63 
Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Writing IMMORTAL BONDS was a selfish thing to do from my perspective. Our youngest was 10 or 11, our oldest was struggling in high school, my husband had a long commute and a full time, white-collar job, and I worked part-time at an art museum. Sitting home at a desk for hours at a time meant a lot of housework got neglected. Not that I minded not doing it. At my core, though, I believe I exist to serve, to make the people around me comfortable. Seeing Scott come home from work night after night to needy kids, no dinner or clean clothes, and a messy house made me feel guilty and useless. I broke down more than once and declared I couldn’t do it anymore. Scott wouldn’t let me quit. Then the hurricanes came. By the time IB was finished, a year and a half after I started it, I’d grown to believe writing a book was the hardest part of being a novelist.

After nearly killing myself (literally) to promote my debut novel, I altered my opinion. Being my own manager, setting up book signings, ordering supplies and signage, sending out invites and thank you’s, took its toll. Traveling around the country and looking bright-eyed and interesting when all I wanted to do was curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep for a week was exhausting. Writing, it turned out, was the easy part.

The frustration that accompanies every step of the process pales in comparison, however, to the anxiety of the holding pattern I’m flying in now; writing, blogging, editing, promoting – after five years of pouring my heart and soul into something, NOTHING is harder than waiting for a publisher to say, “Here’s your book.” Last week, they confirmed receipt of the manuscript, and we chatted about interior and cover design. They said they’d get back to me in 7-10 days with two versions of both the interior and exterior. Once I choose, we’ll edit content, then hit print. Waiting for this phone call is…excrutiating. It doesn’t help that I’m not sure if 7-10 days means business days or calendar days. Today marks the 8th calendar day since we spoke, which puts them within calling range and suggests I could be editing CKR before the end of the week. It’s only the 6th business day, though, so my phone might not ring until next Tuesday. If they’re behind, it might not even ring then.

Since a week ago Monday, and completely out of character for me, I’ve been carrying my cell everywhere. When I notice I don’t have it, I panic and worry I’ve missed the call. At night, I lay in bed wondering how long it will take me to scan CKR for errors, and if I’ll be able to resist making changes, and thinking about all the stuff I need to do to prepare for the launch, like create still ads and a book trailer. I need to write a press release and send BBQ invitations to friends and family in Washington with info about where they can find the book. I need to decide if I’m bringing copies with me to Seattle or waiting ‘til next year, after interest’s gathered some momentum. I need to do a lot of things, some now, most after CKR’s released. It’s hard not to think about all of them while the minutes tick by as I wait for this call. (And I wonder why I’m not sleeping well.) I’ll get back to you once I have news…and lower blood pressure.

~ Dawn

“CKR” Diary Post No. 64
Monday, June 27, 2011

It wasn’t a phone call. It was an email…that sat in my inbox for two days before I saw it Friday afternoon. I immediately dropped what I was doing (if I had a nickel for every time…), logged on to my CreateSpace account, reviewed their interior and exterior layout concepts, chose the cover design (they obviously didn’t read the book, but … that works in my favor), and provided back cover text. Now I get to wait another 5 to 7 days for them to respond. This time, I’m checkin’ email.

Next comes the full manuscript edit (whenever they’re ready). I expect it’ll take two or three days to get through it. First thing I look at is overall presentation and format, making sure everything lines up the way it should, then I dig in and read from page one to “THE END,” hopefully catching errors (if any) that managed to elude five years of re-writes. I’ll also have to decide on retail price soon. Lucky for me, I stumbled on a Facebook post Anne Rice put up this morning, linking an article from the LA Times that discussed pricing for Amazon’s self-published books. Can’t say it enough: Facebook rocks. I feel more confident now heading into the next phase.

We had houseguests and a wedding over the weekend, and I’ve been busy working on a 30-second trailer, so I’ve kept my mind occupied with other things as I (again) wait for the publisher to proceed to the next step. Blood pressure’s still holding; my chiropractor made it official this morning. I didn’t care for the disapproving look on his face. Looks like I’ll be adding more to my daily routine than a cup of dandelion tea and a quick swim with the dog. Whoever thinks working from home is stress-free should consider spending a day with me…

Stay tuned.

~ Dawn

(to be continued...)

CKR: May 2011

(continued from April 2011...)

May 2011

“CKR” Diary Post No. 60

Wednesday, May 23, 2011

Writing love scenes while my daughter texts me really blows. Just sayin’…

“Tell me you have no passion for me, Moncado,” she said, “and I’ll let you go.”

*Beep* mom, chillin with friends at mcdonalds, can you pick me up?

*Type* take the bus.

[Where was I? Oh, yeah…] “He’d awoken every morning to thoughts of her. Imagining when and where he might see her again, and the mounting anticipation that accompanied such imaginings, more often than not consumed his thoughts every minute of every day until…”

*Beep* missed the bus.

*Ignore*

[Damn. Where was I again?] “Moving his hand from in front of her neck to behind it, he pulled her lips to his and wrapped his free arm around her torso...”

*Beep* got a ride

*Expletive!*

And so forth.

But writing ANYthing while being repeatedly interrupted by ANYone can be a pain in the ass. Unfortunately, life won’t stop just because I’ve sat down at the keyboard. The baby dog (now around 75 pounds) still needs exercise and attention. The kids (though 17 and 25) still need supervision. And, unlike either of them, school will be out soon. I’m grateful the boy has a car and a job – albeit the night shift – but the teenager can (legally) drive only to work…and she’s currently unemployed…and looking forward to her senior year next year. All you parents out there who’ve served time as the family taxi can guess at how much writing I’ll be doing this summer.

In the meantime, I’ve submitted my first novel, IMMORTAL BONDS, to a new publisher. After getting my rights back last month from that “other” publisher, I’m now searching for someone to print it in paperback. With the rise of Kindle and Nook, etc., I also can’t afford to miss the growth spurt in e-books. Until I find a new publisher, IB will be considered “out of print” and unavailable to the public. That sucks.

For what it was worth, I mentioned CKR in my query letter. Being such a departure from IB and the prequel I’m working on, and given a few scenes’ proximity to porn, I’m not sure the story’s appropriate for them. I’d also prefer to score a bigger, more prominent publisher (no disrespect intended). But I thought I might as well ask. Since tornadoes ravaged her house, the entertainment promoter who recently, graciously agreed to read the manuscript has a few other things on her mind. And Kid Rock’s not blowin’ up my phone.

I’ve also forwarded the manuscript to my friend, Josh. Long-time Diary readers might remember him as the musician who recorded the strip club chapter for inclusion in the package sent to Rock’s manager a while back. He was also one of the “kids” who showed up at the concert in South Beach, where we all ended up with passes to the after-party, but got velvet-roped for violating the dress code. With his knowledge of the music industry, I’m hoping he can offer suggestions as to how to go about getting attention. I’m at a loss. If nothing else, it will be nice to have another creative mind on-board. I’d like to see this damn thing in print before I’m 50.

So, that’s where I am this month, only five and a quarter years (that’s YEARS) after embarking on this project and writing the first words of CKR. Thinking of writing a novel? Think again. And don’t quit your day job.

~ Dawn

Through Mr. Greene's "Hour Glass"

My friend has been away from his wife and home this past week, watching his father die. Alongside his mother in a Hospice care center, he wrote a few paragraphs each day and posted them on Facebook. Those of us reading his words felt as if we were standing right there beside him, holding his father’s hand, watching the last breaths of a great man slip quietly away as his ‘hour glass’ emptied. It’s been the most touching and real and raw and remarkable thing I’ve read in a long time. A very long time. The experience was an honor. I can’t thank Don enough for his strength and courage, I wish him and his family endless love and peace.

I hesitate to say I’m envious of  his circumstances, but saying it’s not an apt description would be a lie. Since last weekend, when I first read Don’s words on Mother’s Day, it has been impossible for me to live these moments with him and not think of my mom and wish I’d had a similar, more loving and poignant opportunity to say goodbye. She died of a heart attack in November, 2007, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. It was a shock, but not a surprise as we’d known something was wrong for some time. Mom continually denied anything serious. Amid the confusion of those first few days, when we learned our lives weren’t what we thought they were, and although my brother and husband whipped up the most memorable Thanksgiving dinner to date, I felt robbed of a lot of things – we all did – including the one thing we needed most at the time: grief. That’s where Don’s story strays from mine.

My sister has recovered, I think. And Dad seems to have made peace with it all. A couple of us are still on the fence, though, struggling to reach that place where, when Mother’s Day rolls around, we can glide through without a knot in the pit of our stomach, a bitter taste on our tongue, and a litany of unanswerable questions that begins with, “How could you hide all that from us?!” It’s such a waste of energy, and it’s extra baggage I’d prefer not to drag along with me.

I’ll likely never understand, but I’d like to get over it. When someone says, “I’m sorry about your mom,” I’d like to not have to consciously remind myself not to gnash my teeth. I’d like to respond with, “Thank you, I miss my mom,” and really miss my mom like we’re supposed to, with memories of french toast and Disneyland. I’d like to curl up in a ball and cry and grieve for her, for the pain she was obviously in, for the years of unhappiness and regret and guilt she obviously endured, and for me, for the loss of that one person you’re always supposed to rely on to pick you up when you’re down. I’d like to forgive her, for dying too soon, for the lies and the secrets, the favoritism and the martyrdom. I’d like to…but, there’s too much. Just too much.

The tears do come. Like on Mother’s Day. Reading Don’s portrayal of his mom as she remained at her husband’s side hour after hour, they’re impossible to hold back. I missed my mom the day she died. The news was paralyzing. I was overcome with sorrow, for me, my dad, my sister and brothers, our kids, my mother’s family. We flocked to Dad, clung to each other, and rode out the storm of sadness and horror and loss together. Our bond was the strongest it had ever been. Then everything changed, or, rather, we discovered the truth. Sorrow turned to anger, anger to resentment. The bitterness still stops my tears shortly after they start.

It’s said grieving is a process, and I’m nowhere near the end, but through Don’s pain I’ve found a measure of healing. Seems an odd and wondrous thing to be thankful for. In his words, I feel a peace I so desperately wish I could find for myself. It’s close sometimes, right there in front of me. As I read the stories he tells about his childhood and his dad, I almost believe it’s possible I could apply the same reverent eloquence to stories about my mom.  Then I remember the questions, grief remains elusive, and so goes any type of reverence.

But, Don’s ‘Hour Glass’ has given me hope. Each time I allow myself to become immersed in the outpouring of love he and his family shared in his father’s last days, I feel a little bit closer to letting go. I wish he hadn’t needed to endure what he did, and I wish life’s lessons didn’t have to be so hard to learn, but at least on some degree we’ve walked through this together and have emerged on the other side, bruised but not beaten. A better friend to accompany me on this journey doesn’t exist. Thank you, Don, for showing me the road. And thank you, Mr. Greene, for living your life with integrity, passing on with grace, and leaving such a wonderful family in your wake. Even as the tears fall, my heart is full.

~ Dawn

CKR: April 2011

(continued from March 2011...)

APRIL 2011

CKR Diary Post No. 58, or "Chillin', refillin' and flyin' high"
Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Kid Rock said the first time he met Gretchen Wilson she told him – with attitude – “I wrote a song with your name in it, and you need to hear it.” Too bad it couldn’t be that easy getting him to read a 300-page novel.

I wish I could report that I met him, told him about the book and the ride that brought me (and you) here, and placed a copy in his hands. In the end, approaching him didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Instead, I simply enjoyed the occasional sightings and reveled in being on the same boat for four days … plus I begged the event company (aka Sixthman) to pass along a hard copy for me. They have a “no gifts” policy, so I had to pout a little. It was better than doing nothing, considering I almost didn’t take the manuscript at all. Until my best friend Vicki called and told me to grow a pair. If anything comes of this, I’ll have a reason to love her that much more.

To say the past ten days have been awesome would be like describing Elvis as “a talented musician from Tupelo.” Having five days to hang with my brother, his wife, and my niece had my happy dial cranked to 10 from the minute their plane touched the ground. We held the best Fire Pit Saturday ever their first night here and introduced them to some of the most wonderful people we know. On Monday, while my niece visited the most gigantic high school she’s ever seen with my daughter and my brother battled the Atlantic Ocean with Scott and the pyromaniac fireman from next door, I spent my 46th birthday at the Jupiter Beach Resort and Spa with my sister-in-law; at only 40, she’s beaten breast cancer, ovarian cancer, and a heart attack, as well as countless residual conditions brought on by their “medical treatment,” AND she’s NEVER had a massage or pedicure, let alone the opportunity to visit a spa. It was a treat and a pleasure to share the day with her. I couldn’t imagine how life could be any better. Then, after too few fishing trips, beach days, Florida rain storms, and drinks at the Square Grouper, Scott and I flew to New Orleans and stepped onto a boat.

My husband had reservations. Had I not guilted him into it by posting a public note on his Facebook wall, we might not have gone. But I couldn’t resist. It was KID ROCK, for cryin’ out loud – we’ve followed him for 13 years, and he’s followed us (albeit unknowingly) for the past five. The boat set sail three days after my birthday – from NEW ORLEANS, a city I adore and will NEVER get enough of. And did I mention my best friend Vicki lives 45 minutes from there? It seemed like a no-brainer.

As with the undeniable, cosmic push to write CKR, I felt driven to go. And along the way, also like with writing CKR, I kept running into signs that convinced me I was doing what I was supposed to do. My husband thinks I’m crazy and has, on more than one occasion, told me to stop reading too much into things. But – back me up on this, all you CKR veterans – even skeptics can’t deny the unusual abundance and frequency of coincidences I’ve stumbled onto while writing and promoting this book. Remember, we traveled to Malta (that little, tiny island in the Mediterranean, just south of Sicily) to get AWAY from him – and he’d stayed in our freaking hotel! Case in point: When I booked our cabin on the cruise, most of the rooms were sold, so I had limited options. I picked the 8th floor because it’s my favorite single-digit number (which, for future reference, is part of my favorite double-digit one, 28), and the computer generated a list of rooms. I made a conscious effort to pick a number that had significance for BOTH of us – the cruise wasn’t just about me. I clicked on Room 8384, because I graduated high school in ’83, and Scott graduated in ’84. The confirmation popped up: 8383.

Our first Kid Rock sightings occurred at the port terminal. From the second-floor window, we watched his arrival curbside, then saw him enter the room upstairs. A few minutes later, we were maybe twenty feet away from Rev Run when he walked in (for those living under rocks, that’s Reverend Run, as in Run DMC). Immediately after embarkation – an experience we shared with a couple from Detroit who’d been on the previous year’s cruise – we stood in line and had our picture taken with the man, himself. He greets everyone. It happens fast and you barely have enough time to say “hi” and “have a nice cruise” before it’s over. But wrapping my arm around him was a thrill. As was speaking to him and feeling his hand on my shoulder. I was grateful the bar outside the door had Jack.

We followed that up with a visit to the Lobby Bar (which would become “Scott’s favorite bar”), where we ordered the first of many drinks and listened to Big Sam’s Funky Nation, a band out of New Orleans. We were instant fans. Shortly thereafter came our first Gretchen “THE Redneck Woman” Wilson sighting. We were at another bar, she and her family were chillin’ with the crowd on deck chairs by the pool. It was Mardi Gras night, so I was very glad my bag (and our beads) arrived before the evening’s concert started. After eight years, I finally got to wear that “Fuck You, You Fuckin’ Fuck” shirt I bought in the French Quarter.

Kid Rock and Twisted Brown Trucker played on the Lido Deck stage as the ship slowly sailed down the Mississippi River toward the Gulf of Mexico. We watched from the port side balcony, so we could see the sun set over Louisiana. When he played “Cowboy,” the first Kid Rock song I ever liked, the 3,000-person crowd joined him in shouting the weekend’s anthem of “I’m on a boat, motherfucker!” And I lost it. I turned my back to the crowd, grasped the railing, and sobbed. My brother’s first visit to Florida. Bonding with my sister-in-law. Watching my niece swim (and swim and swim and swim…) in our pool. The Big Easy. The boat. Kid Rock. I was on happiness overload. Getting it out felt good. A couple cruisers saw me and rushed over to give me a hug. I told them it was hormones. If they only knew.

Carlos Mencia has more of my undying devotion than he had before (you’re not a beaner, man, you’re a patron!). We fell in love with Heather Luttrell and The Rhythm Yard out of Atlanta. I’ve never seen ANYONE play a banjo like Zach Daniels, nor have I witnessed a drum performance quite like the one Chocolate Milk of the Funky Nation delivers. I’d like to see Drake White again. Watching Kid Rock and Rev Run perform “Walk This Way” was a highlight, as was being mooned by the whitest beaner ass we’ve ever seen, spending time with Li'l Jess, the author of "The Real Deal: Kid Rock" (we're gonna go a long way, baby!), and having our vows renewed – in the Rio Lounge along with about 100 other couples – by “The Honorable” Gretchen Wilson. That girl ROCKS! And I learned all you have to do in Cozumel to get fed shots and felt up by a hot chick is ask Juan.

Over the course of the weekend, we saw a few bands three or four times, some a couple, some only once. Kid Rock and TBT performed two free shows on the Lido Deck and two ticketed shows in the 1500-seat Rome Lounge (we picked Show 2 – Carlos wasn’t seated far from us). We saw him and other musicians frequently, mingling with the crowd and enjoying the cruise. Everyone was approachable. It was an incredible four days. I got drunk AND passed out early only one night, the last night, watching Heather, her dad, Zach, and The Rhythm Yard. I was really sorry I missed the last half of their show on account of my perceived invincibility – BUT very glad Scott got me safely to the room and went back to enjoy the remainder of the night.

Vicki met us in the Quarter Monday morning at Jax Brewery. We had café au laits and beignets at Café du Monde, walked INSIDE St. Louis Cathedral – a first for all of us – I had a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s (because Scott and Vicki have better sense), we toured the Royal Sonesta’s courtyard and rockin’ bathrooms, had lunch at Acme Oyster House (I can’t begin to tell you how much I’d looked forward to a roast beef and gravy po-boy, and the gumbo – and the chargrilled oysters! Aaah!), then drove past Lake Pontchartrain to the outskirts of Baton Rouge to watch a little league baseball game (Go, Gilder!!) and enjoy the company of old friends. It was the perfect end to a perfect vacation.

Given the aforementioned 3,000 attendees, what are the odds – where have I heard that before? – of exiting the ship with the same couple you climbed aboard with? We took his business card. I’ll be sending them a note first thing in the morning. While Scott checked us in at the kiosk in the terminal, I wondered to myself if I’d done all the right things or if I’d been stupid to think any of it would be worth the effort. Glancing quickly at the Delta screen, I noted the current temperature in West Palm was 83 degrees. I smiled and thought, all the 83’s are nice, but it’s not the same as seeing my favorite number. Then the screen changed and I saw the temperature again, this time noticing both the Farenheit and Celsius numbers. Who knew 83F was the same as 28C? Our flight into Atlanta was uneventful. Our flight out took off from Runway 28. We passed a small sign with a number 8 on it as we accelerated.

I’m not fuckin’ crazy.

I won’t pretend to know what it all means, nor can I say with any guarantee I’m closer to publishing this book and selling more copies than Paris Hilton and her dog. But, the Carnival ship we sailed on was the TRIUMPH and, since those first four days back in ’06 when Kid Rock “chased” us from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando and Daytona, I’ve believed with all I am that SOMETHING is going on here. If you’d like to ride along, you’re welcome to – though I suggest you stick close … and hold on.

~ Dawn

P.S. If I may, I’d like to wish my favorite soldier a HAPPY 25TH BIRTHDAY!! True, he’s home now, and safe, and not a soldier anymore, but that’s how I’ve been referring to my son for the past 4 years … plus, I’m still proud of him and old habits die hard. ;)

“CKR” Diary Post No. 59

Monday, April 25, 2011

Cruising around Facebook over the weekend, I noticed a Joe C. tribute page. Not familiar with who maintains it, but a few of my friends are mutual friends, so I clicked “Like” and spent some time reading wall posts and scanning videos. Then I read the “About” section (shown here with permission):

Joseph Calleja (November 9, 1974 in Taylor, Michigan – November 15, 2000 in Taylor, Michigan), better known as Joe C., was an American rapper of Maltese descent. He became popular as part of Kid Rock’s band.

Maltese. Really? Really.

As much as I’d like to separate my third book from the second, it seems the cosmos (continue to) have other ideas. SO, the historical novel I’ve set in Malta in the 1500’s will soon have a new character: Joseph Calleja. How could it not? The pressure’s on now to do him right.

In other news, I’ve stuck my neck out (aka bowed my head and slipped my tail between my legs) and sent messages to a couple “industry insiders.” One’s a musician we met on the cruise, the other’s an entertainment promoter who was on the cruise, but (like so many others I should have met) I didn’t meet her. It’s not the first time I’ve said “What the hell” and sent a message to someone. This time, however, I actually got a “real” answer, AND it was an offer to help. I almost fell out of my chair. Every other message-letter-email-FedEx-candygram I’ve sent to industry people has been ignored. Maybe I’m finally about to get somewhere. They’d like to read the manuscript first, which is appropriate and fine with me. That’s all I ask – and that’s all it’ll take, in my (sometimes not so) humble opinion; I wouldn’t be out here talking it up if it was crap.

Next step is to wait – while working on the Malta book, which I expect to do most of this week. That is, when I’m not taxiing the teenager to work (no car, long story) or running after the baby dog to retrieve the latest seat cushion or pillow or plant he’s dashed across the yard with. Hopefully, I’ll knock out a chapter or two while Scott’s out of town. Stranger things have happened. And it’s not like it’s unpleasant, sitting up here in the trees, listening to the owls and the wood ducks. I might just stay in the office ‘til Thursday. Wonder if the kids would notice? Something tells me they wouldn’t mind.

~ Dawn

(to be continued ...)

Do Unto Others ... Everybody Else Does

My brother, Jack, claims I stuck a pair of scissors into the back of his leg when we were kids. He said I threw them from across the room. On one hand, I have no recollection of the incident and can’t believe I was that stupid and cruel. On the other, the idea that – as a child – I could fling a pair of scissors across a room and hit a moving target is impressive. Maybe I missed my calling. I could have been a Ninja.

Barring that and other childhood follies I’ve mentally blocked, I consider myself to be a reasonable, courteous human being. I return my shopping carts; park between the lines, not over them; hold doors open for people behind me (and I know they’re there because I check); almost always tip 20%; pick up after my dog on the beach; turn off lights when I leave a room; replace the roll when it’s empty; and buy Girl Scout cookies from everyone who asks. Not that I’m perfect (heaven help the asshole who tailgates me on the freeway) or feel in any way superior doing it, I just feel better being nice. [Sidenote: I’d hoped to pass along some of that sense to my children, but it turns out leading by example only works on people who value your opinion (what does “Mom” know?). Imagine all the wisdom I’ve wasted!]

I know others like me are out there – and I thank you – but there are days when I feel the extra effort is not only wasted but given the finger. I follow someone into a convenience store and catch the door inches before it hits me in the face. I gesture to a pedestrian that it’s safe to cross in front of me and wait as she and her trailing children walk diagonally to the last car in the row. Handicapped spaces are full of discarded shopping carts. Ashtrays – some atop garbage cans – are full of garbage. Public restrooms are … well, I suppose I don’t have to tell you about those.

Granted, if everyone was nice, ALL the time, we’d have fewer people to laugh at. News anchors and bar bouncers would be out of a job. I wouldn’t have anything to bitch about leaving Costco (or Home Depot or Ross or Walgreen’s or…). But it would be cool if just a FEW more of us, just a LITTLE more often, chose to be courteous instead of self-centered. Spent a few more minutes a day smiling instead of pouting and complaining about the things they can’t/don’t have (or pissed away). Offered a friendly, sincere smile that said “Welcome” instead of “Get your shit and get out.” Took the time to wipe off the seat.

It’s hard not to be disappointed with the human condition. I know some spectacular event will eventually come along to lift my spirits and change my mind – like a visit from my brother (in 8 days!) or a cruise to Mexico with Gretchen Wilson, Rev Run, Carlos Mencia, and Kid Rock (in 13 days!) – but today, like too many others, I’m questioning the Golden Rule. If I’m so rarely treated as I treat others, what’s the point? And why ARE so many people clueless to courtesy, or just plain shitty? Is there a benefit to it that I missed? Is it more satisfying to steal candy from a baby than help an old lady cross the street? Is there a rush? Does Progressive give a discount for that?

Just a few of the many questions I’ll be pondering throughout my life … as I wait for the toll operator to hang up his phone …