Ah, finally, my first blog post. Because I'm so good with technical stuff, it only took me a year or so of research and fumbling around like a lunatic to get my first two books published and this website sort of built. A humble beginning and a lot more to do, but I had to start somewhere.
If you haven't already grabbed your free copy of Breaking Good from the home page, I have one question for you: What are you waiting for? I promised some serious laughs! Or don't you enjoy laughing?
With my side job as reporter, I'll be posting lots of fake news and interviews, many of them with President Trump, but what goes into my first blog post? I've noticed most new authors like to tell their readers about their writing journey and I'm no different. Not to brag, but I've been writing since learning in school. Not novels, but still. . . After filling in my share of coloring books, I realized something: I was no artist. When Mom forbade me to sing along with nursery songs I realized something else: I was no musician. So, I turned my artistic sights on writing.
Naturally, I'd start by writing the next great American novel. Unfortunately for readers everywhere, my first grade teacher/horrible literary agent Miss Crabby, had other ideas for me. As if filling up the blackboard with derogatory remarks (about myself) was gonna sell a lot of copies. Like many budding artists, I felt stifled by authority. I sensed a budding spirit of rebellion.
Jousting with angry teachers was one thing, but home life? I still cringe with nostalgia thinking about that repressive regime. Let me just say, with CIA spies for parents it was hard to get away with anything. Mom would say, "We have eyes in the back of our heads!" Then she'd lift a flap of hair off her mutant head and give me a wink to prove it. Dad was no picnic, either. Born with no sense of humor and dressed like Uncle Sam, he epitomized The Establishment. Obsessed with nuking Commies and grounding me, Dad did not appreciate it when I went off to college and started marching for peace. Nor was he on board with the whole sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll thing. Same when I ditched law school, moved to Hawaii to have fun and lead a life of adventure. "Fun?" He seemed stumped by the concept. "Well, whatever the hell that is, it's highly over-rated, Mister." "It's me, Mike, your son." He sighed with the reminder, murmured, "Unfortunately." Then, "You need to get a haircut and a job. Straighten up and fly right."
See what I was dealing with? Naturally I ignored him, but believe me, ignoring a mad scientist in charge of the CIA's Secret Weapons Department had some serious side effects. Getting hit with a shrink ray, laser beam, or the Transmogrifier made a bad LSD trip seem groovy. One upshot of Dad's vendetta was the frequent trips to far off corners of the world during escape attempts. Traveling in the Third World, the perilous home of unspeakable veggie plates, uninhabitable hotel rooms, strange people, bizarre customs, deadly transportation, and even deadlier diseases, provided a plethora of story material. Much of which I plan to share with you over a series of novels.
Over time, my stories evolved from dubious memoirs jotted in travel journals, to crude first drafts, to finished books. When I think back to writing on Miss Crabby's blackboard, well, like the Grateful Dead sang, it's been a long, strange trip.
Baffled readers have asked, "Are these stories really true?" Like Socrates said, "What is truth?" Unless that was someone else. Like Einstein might say, "It's all relative." So, to readers with a copasetic attitude and free spirit, I say, "Sure, they're true. Sort of." To any authority figures, I say, "It's all a bunch of bull. Don't believe a word. Hey, put away those handcuffs. . ."
Be sure to grab a free copy of Breaking Good and enjoy the wild ride. Also, check out the book page to view sample chapters, great images, and funny scene descriptions.