Monday, August 28, 2017

Inner Strength

Greetings, WYMOP readers!
Ever have a craving? I did. I was driving around this afternoon running a couple of errands, doing a little food shopping, and it was while I was at the grocery store, surrounded by shelves of food, that the craving hit. But was it for anything I’d find on those shelves? Of course not!
Have you ever heard of Brothers Deli? If you live around here you have. Family-run establishments, incredible home-style food, and portions large enough to make an NFL linebacker look at the plate and say Damn! You want me to eat all that? What I was craving was their chicken pie. Brothers’ chicken pie with mashed potatoes and corn, the whole thing slathered with gravy. Would it be a lot of food? Yes. Did I plan to eat the whole thing? Hell yes!
So on my way back to the house, I stopped in at Brothers in Danvers, got in line, glanced up at the menu board—and froze.
Yankee Pot Roast.
It was right there on the board, and it looked so good. I mean, the words were right there, and the image they conjured in my mind looked fabulous. I’d had it before, of course, and it sure gave the chicken pie a run for its money. It was so good, if I hadn’t come there specifically for the chicken pie, I might have been tempted to get the pot roast. But there was the chicken pie, higher up on the board, and . . . and . . .
And I was tempted to get the pot roast instead. Dammit!
No, I’d come there for the chicken pie, and I’d stick to my guns . . . just like that delicious pot roast would stick to my ribs if I’d change my mind. Just change my mind a little. Because it wasn’t like Brothers was out of my way or anything; there was nothing stopping me from coming back tomorrow to get the chicken pie. Of course, there was nothing stopping me from coming back tomorrow and getting the pot roast either.
No, no, I’d come there specifically to get the pot roast, so if I was going to—no, wait, I meant the chicken pie. Right? The pot roast was my second choice, so if I just went with my gut and got the Yankee Chicken Pot Pie Roast I could come back for . . . no, wait a minute—

Yup, that’s right. I got both. But not to worry, there’s no way I could eat both. Not in the same sitting. I brought these bad boys in and sat them down, just as you see here. I looked them over carefully. I smelled them, felt the weight of them, and pondered. Then, showing an inner strength I’d not exhibited at the restaurant, I slapped the cover back on the chicken pie (shown in all its chickeny deliciousness on the left) and went with the pot roast (depicted in all its carroty-corny-beefy glory on the right), saving the wonders of the chicken pie for tomorrow. I manfully pushed the closed container aside, digging into the pot roast with gusto (translation: with a big pile of napkins at hand, for I am sometimes a slob) while calling up the document I was currently editing on my tablet.
I worked and ate, masticated and cogitated, dined and edited . . . and then the pot roast was gone.
I had a sad.
I pushed the empty plate to the side, opposite the full, weighty, fantastic-smelling chicken pie. With the perfect, poultry-filled pastry on my left, and the once glorious plate of now empty sadness to my right, I pulled the tablet closer in the middle and got back to work on that chicken pie. Excuse me, on the document. My inner strength had failed me while standing in line, under pressure to make a decision, but it had made a serious comeback when I’d pushed that covered plate to my left, and it wasn’t going to fail me now.
I focused on the task at hand, working on the document, scrolling almost non-stop all the way to the end.
 . . .Then I scrolled back to where I’d started when I realized I’d not read a word, so busy had I been not thinking about the chicken p—
No! No, I wouldn’t even think the name. I’d just scroll more slowly this time, focusing hard on the words on the tablet. I leaned closer—so close nothing existed for me for a time but the small screen that had become my world, my everything, my . . . my . . . hey, was it just me, or did my tablet smell like chicken pie?
Perhaps I should move the pie away from me? Put it in the fridge, where I could no longer see or smell it? But no, that would be admitting weakness. What about my vaunted inner strength? What about my vow that it wouldn’t fail me again, as it had in Brothers? That wonderful scent wouldn’t be enough to break my will. Hell, with my strength of character, the sight of the thing wouldn’t be enough to weaken me!
To prove my point, I pulled the chicken pie over in front of me and tore off the lid. See? I thought. Oh, sure, it looks fantastic, and I know it tastes out of this world, but just the sight of it isn’t enough to make me weaken, is it? Of course not! Although . . . with the lid off like this I can really smell it now . . . and it’s, like, right in my face. Wow, I guess it’s a good thing I hadn’t put any utensils with the pie. Of course, my pot roast dish is right there . . . and there’s a spoon . . .


Well, if my inner strength isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, at least I know it’s not weak from hunger, right?
Incidentally, this blog post has turned into a request for aid. I’m currently trapped at the table, unable to move. I’ve tried calling out for help, but I’m so goddamned stuffed I can’t draw a full breath, and the only noise I can make is a wheezy sort of moan that sounds just a touch like Stephen Hawking being kicked in the nuts. If there’s anyone with a tow truck, or a winch, or, hell, even just a strong back, who could drag my incredibly overfull ass off to the bathroom before things get desperate, I sure would appreciate it.

Talk to you later!

Monday, July 31, 2017


Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Recently, Handsome (my son) and Miss D (his girlfriend) had their first anniversary. If you’ve read my post about the break-in we performed last Christmas morning, you may have some idea what lengths Handsome will go to to surprise and impress the girl. He plans in advance, gathers his materials, makes sure of his timing, and executes. I sometimes help out in these little ventures: with regard to Miss D, I am the Robin to his Batman, the Watson to his Holmes.

So it was no real surprise to me when, for their anniversary, he had a plan. Since it was summertime they could spend the whole day together, followed by dinner at a local place they both like. After dinner the day would culminate in a romantic little picnic dessert at a nearby park with a public rose garden—dessert he would bake himself.
Most of the women reading this just made a little Aww sound, didn’t you?
The big day was on a Saturday, so the baking happened on Friday. It was my weekend off, and his mom was away, so it fell to me to make sure he didn’t burn the house down. Actually, all I did was sit at the dining room table and work on some editing while he destroyed the kitchen. Ingredients we had purchased and packed neatly away days earlier (none of that boxed shit for Miss D, no sir) came out and spread themselves around—sometimes way around. There were pans and pots and bowls and spoons—no two spoons used twice, apparently, just grab a fresh one—and, of course, food.
I did help out in the middle, when he needed an extra pair of hands. Hard to make three different desserts, pretty much at the same time, when you’ve barely ever baked before, in a small kitchen, all while thumbing rapidly back and forth between three recipes downloaded to a phone. He was doing it, though, so I helped out where I was asked, tried to get the pots and pans he claimed he was finished with into the dishwasher and out of his way, and went back to my editing.
I’m a pretty good sidekick. Narf.
By the time he was done, even with my efforts to tidy a bit mid-process, the kitchen looked like food had just had a frat party. The chocolate chips lay passed out on the counter with the baker’s chocolate, looking like one or both of them had a walk of shame in their future. The flour had thrown up on the floor. Twice. What was left of the eggs huddled, cartonless, in the corner like high-schoolers who’d crashed the party, realized they were in over their heads, and never made it out. The measuring spoons were assaulting the measuring cups, the tsp raised and waving in the air as the whole set let out a drunken “Whooo! Whooo! Whooo!”
In the midst of this chaos, however, on the counter beside the (nearly unrecognizable) stove, lay two pans and an egg carton. The pans contained two kinds of brownies (blueberry and frosted zucchini—and yes, the frosting was made from scratch), while the egg carton—aside from explaining why the eggs lay exposed on the counter—contained chocolate-filled strawberries, each nestled into its own little cup. The boy looked happy. The boy looked tired. The boy looked about the frat-party kitchen and his expression went a little less happy.
“Sorry, kid,” I said with a grin. “The cleanup is part of the process.”
I helped clean up some, right at the end. I’m still a good sidekick. Narf.
The next morning was the big day. I was writing in the dining room while Handsome played video games. Time passed. Handsome appeared at my elbow.
“D just texted,” he said. “Her mom should be dropping her off in about a half an hour.”
“Roger that.”
The boy jumped in the shower, got dressed . . . and then broke out a bunch of tupperware, a knife, some brownie pans, and the picnic basket. He’d done all the baking, then all (okay, most) of the cleanup the previous day, but neglected to cut up and pack away his homemade treats in preparation for the surprise picnic—something that might be hard to do once Miss D was actually in the house. He made two cuts, and popped out a single brownie.
“They’re here,” I said.
You know that thing you see in cartoons, when someone is surprised, and their eyes get so big they actually pop off their face? I had no idea that was a real thing.
“They’re here,” I repeated, pointing through the window to the SUV parked in the driveway, Miss D already slamming her door and waving goodbye to her mother.
Those huge eyes shot down to the knife, picnic basket, two brownie pans, and four tupperware containers scattered across the counter, then back through the window to where Miss D was running up the front stairs.
Panicked hilarity ensued. There was grabbing, there was tossing, there was desperate whisper-shouting. There was the juggling of tupperware and a quick sprint to his old bedroom, right off the kitchen, where everything wound up sprawled on his old bed and the door slammed. I stalled Miss D in the kitchen while Handsome washed brownie off his fingers in the bathroom. There was barely controlled breathing and Oscar-caliber acting while Miss D was greeted and escorted downstairs to watch a movie before they actually went anywhere.
I breathed a sigh of relief and got to work.
Ten minutes later the boy came bounding up the stairs. “I told D I had to use the bathroom,” he whispered as he passed me washing my hands in the kitchen. “Can you help? I have to get everything done before she comes looking for me.” He dashed into his old room. He came out a second later, looking confused.
“Where is it?”
“TV room,” I said.
He dashed into the TV room, then came out, still confused. “Where?”
I walked to the doorway and pointed in. “There.”
He looked over my shoulder, starting to sound a little panicked. “Where?”
I walked across the TV room to the corner where the couch and loveseat butt together, leaving a void. I pointed down. “There.”
Nestled into the void, invisible unless you were looking almost straight down at it, was a neatly-packed picnic basket full of tupperwared brownies. He looked down at it, then up at me. “I guess fourteen years of being the Easter Bunny paid off,” he said, and then he hugged me—and he’s a big kid, and an excellent hugger. “Thanks, Dad.”
And he went back downstairs to watch the movie, take his lady-love to dinner, and surprise her with a sunset picnic in a rose garden, said lady-love none the wiser.

Talk to you later!

Monday, July 3, 2017

Ding-Ding Punching The Heat Miser

Greetings, WYMOP fans!
Okay, it’s July. It's been hot. And humid. And hot. And gross. And did I mention hot?
To kind of get our minds off all that hot humid grossness, I’d like to share an excerpt from one of my stories in the recently released anthology, Insanity Tales III: Seasons of Shadow. We were writing about seasons (hence the subtitle, duh Rob), and I happened to pen a winter tale, called “Tracks in the Snow.”
Snow, get it? No gross, humid, or hot.
So, to place you in this story, some schoolchildren have noticed a set of mysterious sled tracks on the snow-covered hill outside their classroom window, just two days before Christmas. They’ve brought them to the attention of their teacher, Mr. Garabedian—the oldest teacher in their school—and he’s settled in to tell them the story of the tracks in the snow.
~ ~ * * ~ ~
“Back in 1965—yes, ancient history, I know—before the hill even had a name, there was a little boy named Willie. He was eight years old, as I recall, and curious, as are most boys of that age. In his snooping about the house in the week prior to Christmas, he discovered a cache of presents his parents planned to give him on the morning of the holiday, and in among the other toys was a sled: a brand new Flexible Flyer.”
He shook his head at us. “You probably wouldn’t understand, with your sleds of today—flat sheets of soulless plastic—but the sleds of my boyhood were things of beauty, with bright red runners and the wood polished to a high sheen, a red arrow running the length of the deck and the words Flexible Flyer emblazoned across the steering stick in vivid blue. They were the kind of thing to catch the eye and capture the imagination, and for young Willie it certainly did both. Though he didn’t let on to his parents that he knew about his coming prize, it seems to have preyed upon his mind, and lured him into foolishness.”
He gestured toward Bobby. “Just like today, Mr. Urabus, it was two days before Christmas, and snow was expected in the night. I don’t know what’s going to happen this evening, but back in 1965, we got snow.”
“Wait,” I said. “You mean you’re from Willowdale, Mr. Garabedian?”
“Yes, Mr. Acadia,” he confirmed, mildly annoyed at my interruption. “I am. The snow started before Willie would’ve gone to bed, and it is presumed he lay there, awake, watching the world outside disappear beneath its own wintry blanket. The snowfall, combined with the draw of the beautiful sled, proved too much for the boy. One imagines him listening to the house fall silent as first his older brother, and then his parents, went to bed. He gave them enough time to fall soundly asleep, and then he was up and dressing, pulling on snow pants and winter boots, donning his parka, hat, and mittens, and sneaking into the basement to fetch his new sled and take it for a ride.
“He came to the hill you see right outside—it was one he knew, the children all went sledding here, even then—and it was far enough from his house he may have thought not to get caught. And right out there, in the dark of night, little Willie took his new sled for a test drive. And it was dark. I want you to understand that. The school did not look as you see it today: in 1965 there were no floodlights mounted on the building, illuminating the schoolyard and its environs through the night. And the neighborhoods to the far side of the hill, where many of you now live, did not exist. This school stood on the edge of town back then, and where now there are streets and houses, fifty years ago there was nothing but forest for miles. Willowdale has grown in the past five decades, and the forest has shrunk, but there was still quite a wilderness about in my youth.
“There was a great deal of discussion about it afterward, and a great deal of conjecture, but it’s assumed little Willie thought he’d be all right as long as he could see the school; he’d still be able to orient himself and find his way home.
“It was also assumed that, though Willie was aware of the snow, he was thinking of it in the same terms as our Mr. Urabus, here”—he pointed to Bobby—“as nothing more than a day off from school. He was not, we think, paying attention to the actual weather reports. What began as enough snow to sled in rapidly became what would eventually be called ‘The Blizzard of ’65.’”
He paused, staring out at the thin parallel tracks in the snow, and his blue eyes looked unfocused. “It was the worst snowstorm in Willowdale’s history,” he said, almost speaking to himself. Then he looked at the class, as if remembering we were there, and raised his voice again. “Whiteout conditions, the kind of weather where you can’t see your hand before your face. By the time he realized it, Willie must’ve lost the school. Rather than going home, he struck out in the wrong direction, found himself instead in the woods, and then became completely lost. When his family woke on the morning of the twenty-fourth, it was to find Willie’s bed empty and his play clothes and new sled gone.”
Mr. Garabedian paused, eyeballing us.
“He never made it home.”
~ ~ * * ~ ~
And things go downhill from there (ba-dum bum).
Sorry. I couldn’t resist.
But you see? Cold, wintry, snowy thoughts. Did it work? Did you feel the chill? Or do you still feel like punching the Heat Miser in the ding-ding?

Personally, I’d kind of like to ding-ding punch the Heat Miser. But that’s me.

Keep cool! Talk to you later.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Shopping Happy, Driving Crappy, New Book's Snappy!

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

I have two things to mention this week: a little fun, and then a little business.
First, the fun:
I was having a good day, and I was grocery shopping.
If you’ve ever been grocery shopping with me when I was having a good day, you probably understand what that means, but for the less shopped-with, I’ll elaborate: there was singing and whistling along with the music from the overhead speakers, plus the occasional surreptitious dance move when I thought no one was looking.
Yeah, I’m one of those guys.
I’d whistled my way through check-out (yes, the people around me were most likely wishing death upon me, or maybe an aneurysm, or at least that one of my goddamn lips would fall off), told my cashier to have a good day, told my bagger to have a good day, told the grumpy-looking woman who blocked my exit for a couple of minutes while she reorganized her coupons to be ready for next week’s shopping trip to have a good day (I think she was one of the lip-falling-off-wish people), and was strolling out to my car behind a half-loaded shopping cart. I’d consciously decided to stroll, rather than get a running start and jump on the back of the cart, riding it across the lot yelling “Weeeee!” and making vroom-vroom race car noises; it was a fine, sunny day, and I wasn’t in a rush, and besides, there was a big old car coasting down the aisle toward me.
The big old car stopped, and its directional started flashing. I saw a little old woman behind the wheel of the big old car—she was more than mere knuckles on the steering wheel, but not by much—and noticed she was waiting to turn into one of the three vacant spots to the left of my car. I wouldn’t have been in her way even if I were loading up my trunk at the time, but she had no way of knowing that, and she was being nice enough to wait for me to pass (unlike the sour-faced coupon woman). I pulled my cart to a halt and waved her on, letting the sweet little lady get on with taking her space and getting in the store.
Now we enter a very subjective part of my day, a sort of slowtime, where one second seems like ten, and ten seconds can last forever. Fans of The Matrix know what I’m talking about—if someone had fired a gun at me right then, I’d have had plenty of time to watch the bullet soar slowly past because my mind was cranking along at roughly the speed of light on crack.
All in the space of an actual second, though it seemed more like a minute, I noticed four things.
  1. She wasn’t going for the spot to the far left of me, or even the middle space available; she was trying to snug her battleship right up beside my defenseless little Mini—a Mini that’s already been hit twice by other drivers, both times right in front of me.
  2. Either she’d not pulled the wheel quite enough, or the gunboat she was piloting was designed to have a turning radius a third again as wide as every other car in existence.
  3. The right front bumper of her car, the point even now lumbering toward my innocent, unsuspecting little vehicle, bore a dent wide and deep enough that you could have shoved a football helmet all the way into it and wiggled it around a bit and with no risk of even scratching the paint job on the brain bucket. Either she’d been the victim of a howitzer attack (that building she was driving could have been mistaken for an M1 Abrams), or she’d missed this kind of turn before. Maybe lots of times.
  4. And I believed in Jesus, because I started talking to him right away.
“Oh, Christ!”
That was as far as I got, because I burst into a case of fear-sweat so profound it sucked all the spit from my tongue as fuel. “No!” I rasped, but no real sound came out, and because of the slowtime effect, it seemed to come out as a wheezy “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . . .
I watched, frozen, as the monstrous machine swung closer . . . closer . . . and the bumper of my little car passed right through the void left by the howitzer attack, actually passing into, and then out of, the enemy car.
If I hadn’t already fear-sweated myself into a state of extreme dehydration, I might have wet my pants. She exited her car and tottered past on her way into the store, and I returned her friendly wave with a short chop of my own shaky hand. I filled up my trunk and drove home in silence; even hours later, when I tried to whistle along with a song my son played on his sound system, I lacked the saliva to produce a single note.
Damn those lip-falling-off-wish people. Those curses work.
That was the fun part; now on to a little  bit of business . . . which is also fun.
Insanity Tales III.jpgI’m all kinds of happy to announce The Storyside (the writers’ collaborative I belong to) has a new anthology coming out tomorrow, June 6, 2017. It’s called Insanity Tales III: Seasons of Shadow, and if you read my Writer in Progress post two weeks ago, you know I have a couple of stories in there. “A Bee,” and “Tracks in the Snow.”

What you may not know (because I have yet to mention it anywhere) is that my two favorite stories in this book aren’t my own, and that may tell you something about the terrific stories in this book. My favorite stories in Insanity Tales III—and it was a two-way tie for favorite—are “Eat Your Vegetables,” by Stacey Longo, and “Over the Gulfs of Dream,” by David Daniel. If you like dark fiction that hangs around on the suspenseful side of things, give Insanity Tales a look-see. You won’t be disappointed.

I'll talk to you later!

Monday, May 8, 2017

Moving On . . . Sort Of.

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Yup. I’m moving. Sort of.
Yeah, this is going to be weird, but this’ll be my last WYMOP post for a while. Now, before you get all teary-eyed, let me explain.
Wow, how to explain . . .
I started While You’re Making Other Plans way back in—hold on, let me check the actual blog—May, 2011; pretty much six years on the nose. I’ve closed WYMOP down before, temporarily, because I was too busy with other writing, and to be honest, that is part of this sort-of move.
Anyway, I started WYMOP back in 2011 mostly in response to the people around me. I’d begun writing about seven months earlier, and what was coming out of me was a little on the dark side. Ghost stories. Stories about bad things happening to good people. Stories about fear. Not the kind of things you’d expect from a happy person—though I am a postal worker, so there must be something wrong with me. A few people asked me if I was okay; mainly family at first, but then a few friends, including one who lived 3,000 miles away.
I was fine, I told them. I still like to laugh and make other people laugh. I’m not depressed (at least, I think I’m not, so I’m sticking with that story), but when I sit down to write there’s a certain dark little twist to what winds up on the page. Some people still seemed worried, though, and I assumed that they assumed my writing was some sort of window into my subconscious.
To be fair, it pretty much is, but not in the way they thought.
So I started a blog where I could reassure them, where I could write down some of the other stuff that occurred to me. I was shooting for funny, or if not funny, at least amusing—hell, maybe even touching and serious; just not horror. And I was writing as me, not some character, so it was even more of a pipeline from my subconscious, right? So I was writing over here as myself, and it would have nothing to do with my fiction, and it would reassure the hell out of everyone. That was the plan, and I stuck to it.
For while, anyway.
But I’ve done a lot, writing-wise, in the past six years (the technical term may be a shitload). As I’ve worked on getting better at it, writing’s become more and more a part of my life, to the point where I was having quite a hard time not writing about writing. I know I’ve slipped up here and there along the years—especially recently—and I apologize for that if it wasn’t what you were here for.
The problem is time.
Time changes things. Handsome, once a huge part of this blog because we did so much together, is almost fifteen now. He has school, and homework, and computer games, and a girlfriend, and a lot less time for hanging out with Dad. Besides, you’d be hard-pressed to find a teen out there who wants to hang out with their parents. I remember being the same way—it’s like we’re genetically programmed to be embarrassed by family members over a certain age once we hit thirteen.
My job at the post office used to be a big part of my blog, but time’s changed that as well. I used to like my job, but as things have become more corporate and less local, the focus shifting from the people and customers to the numbers, I’m not all that fond of the place I work anymore. I could write about work every week, but most of it would be me bitching and complaining, and even if I tried to make it all funny it would get monotonous pretty damn quick—for you and for me.
There’s also my website. Did I mention I have a website? I do. It’s about me as a writer, and it’s where I direct people if they want to find out more about me. It’s included in the bios I send in to anthologies that publish me, and in the back of my own books. I mention it whenever I do an interview, either in text or audio . . . and it needs work.
Serious work.
Here’s the thing: publishers, when they’re thinking about working with you, take many things into consideration. One of the things they look at (I have been told, by people who would know) is your web presence. They look at your Facebook page, your Twitter account, and your website, if you have one. I do have one, and I’m directing people there all the time, as I said, but from the look of my website I’m a lazy guy who doesn’t keep up his own URL, so how hard am I going to work for this hypothetical publisher who’s looking into me?
Not only that, but people who read my work, and like it, and are looking for more of it, they don’t want to see that all I have going on at the site I sent them to is a six month old blog post. Did I mention there’s a blog on my website? Well, there is, and compared to WYMOP it’s pitiful. Anemic. Emaciated. And it’s not doing anyone any good.
The whole site isn’t doing me any good, and that’s a problem. At the moment I’m working on two novellas, co-writing a novel while another waits in the wings, polishing a couple of short stories, writing a monthly movie review column, working as part of a writers’ collaborative, and I’ve helped edit two books in the past six weeks with S & L Editing—but according to my website, I’m a bit of a shlub.
So here I have one blog where I’ve got a few readers but I’m running out of material, and there I have this separate website that I probably have more material for, that’s actually a little hurtful to me at the moment. I need to fix this, but to fix it I need time, which is one of those things in limited supply. So here’s the plan—and it’s a flexible plan; I just hammered some of it out less than an hour ago: I’m changing and cutting back on my blogging.
Rather than posting to WYMOP once a week, I’m going to be here once a month. Once a month I’ll also be posting on my other blog, Writer in Progress. A post every other week, on alternating blogs. Sound confusing? Yeah, to me, too. Look, I’m just writing all this down on the fly, trying to write to a deadline that’s 12 minutes away.
If I’m blogging over at The Storyteller (my website), even just once a month, it’ll show some activity to anyone looking into it. And those two off weeks, when I’m not blogging? Well, hey, I can use that time to pump my decrepit website back into shape—and if there’s any time left over, I can spend it on the writing all this is supposed to help promote. This sort-of move will be win-win for me (I hope!), and is something I kind of need to do if I want to look like I’m taking my writing seriously.
And believe me, I’m taking it seriously.
So if you usually get to While You’re Making Other Plans via the link I throw into Facebook each week, I’ll see you in about two weeks with a link to a new blog post over on Writer in Progress. I’ll be the same guy, whether I’m writing over here or over there, so if you’ve liked WYMOP you’ll probably like that, too. Please give it a chance. Either way, I hope to see you back here next month, when I’ll be once again typing Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Until then, I’ll talk to you later.

P.S. Oh, and feel free to check out the decrepit website—there’s a link to Writer in Progress up there in the navigation bar, and from there you can, of course, get to the whole Storyteller site. There’s no new content over there, but I’m working on revamping the whole damn thing, so a bunch of it may change, hopefully soon. Poke around if you like. See what’s what. Be my guest—I’d love to have you.