Clearing Online Hallways for Books

As a writer, I should embrace Facebook more, with it seeming to be the center of the social network universe. When I finish writing my second book and hopefully have a publisher interested, I will. I'll create a page for the book, I'll promote it widely, and I'll hope that that will bring in more readers.

But I don't like it much. I log in every day, I chat briefly with acquaintances, I begin my daily status updates, of which there aren't many, with "Good [morning, late morning, afternoon or late afternoon, depending on what time it is], life's pleasure seekers. What are your pleasures today?" I believe there should be bigger focus on personal pleasures and that's my way of trying to draw them out. But even though I scroll through the updates on my account, sharing a few funny captioned pictures, commenting on other status updates, and, in the evenings, seeing what t-shirt Teefury will be selling (futilely hoping that it'll be one of the t-shirt designs I've wanted badly for months now), I feel like it's the online equivalent of walking through crowded middle and high school hallways. Look here, talk to this person, avoid that one, try to cozy up to this one, race for this one, see what that one's up to, and make sure you get to class on time. The bell's going to ring. The latter today is about generally not spending too much time on Facebook, lest you don't get done whatever you need to do.

I wasn't very social in middle or high school. I had acquaintances, and my first girlfriend in 7th grade, but I never participated in those hallways. I just watched them in awe, how they could be so crowded five minutes before the bell rang and then just a minute before the bell rang, they thinned out quickly. I was more of an observer even then.

But now I have a choice. I don't have to get to class. And until I have another book to promote, I'm not going to spend as much time on Facebook as I used to. I still need it to search for certain people who worked on any of the Airport movies, or at least family members in some cases, but I can't fathom continuing to walk through those hallways, pretty much watching time become dust.

I decided on this because despite ongoing research for my book, I've been spending less time on the computer. Books have been the cause of this, and not only the ones I've been using for research. I started reading The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty yesterday, and finished it toward late this afternoon. I got much more out of traveling with Smithson "Smithy" Ide on his cross-country bicycle journey than I do with anything on Facebook. This is not going to be a soapbox declaration of how books are so much better than Facebook or more worthwhile than spending so much time online. I'm still getting a lot of use out of the Internet, not just with my work, but also learning more and more about New Mexico. For example, on another New Mexico blog I found, called I Love New Mexico, the blogger, Bunny Terry, also read The Secret of Everything by Barbara O'Neal and says, "Whereas “The Lost Recipe. . .” was set in swanky Aspen, “The Secret of Everything” is set in a fictional town (listen folks, this place is so Taos/Santa Fe you’ll instantly recognize it) in northern New Mexico." To learn that Las Ladronas in the novel actually exists in some form makes me even more psyched to eventually travel throughout New Mexico.

The point of all this is that I want to strengthen that deep satisfied feeling I have when I read books. I'm still debating whether to add The Memory of Running to my permanent collection, because it truly fills the soul with goodness, with a desire to maybe take a trip like Smithy's, but perhaps not so extensive. That wonderful, wonderful novel led into Brimfield Rush by Bob Wyss, caused by Killer Stuff and Tons of Money by Maureen Stanton, about flea markets and antiques. She mentioned Brimfield Rush by Bob Wyss, and I ordered it, along with a novel, Brimfield by Michael Fortuna that she also mentioned. Yes, I read about the real thing in Stanton's book, and am reading about it in detail in Wyss's book, but I want to see what a novelist sees about the biggest antiques show in the United States.

It could also be motivated by the fact that I have a massive load of books in my room that I want to read, but mainly, reading as much as I am right now, I feel like I can do anything with my writing, and I need that feeling to be ever-present. Plus, I want that feeling to be larger than the planet even during the times when I'm not writing a book. This is the best time to get back in the habit of reading often. Not that I don't read enough as it is, but I want it a lot more. It's also why now, I really only watch Jeopardy!, and The Big Bang Theory when new episodes air on CBS. I haven't even caught up on Smash since the pilot, and I only occasionally tune into The Good Wife, despite my previous enthusiasm.

I've always tried to step back into my book world in the past, but it never worked out with shows to watch on TV, spending time online, idly writing. This time, it'll stick.

Outside, In My Head

Rolling the garbage and recycling bins back to the garage yesterday, after the recycling truck lumbered through the neighborhood, there was a slight wind, and I looked around, wondering if Southern California had been better before all this had been built, these houses, these streets, these street lights. Was there more of a sense of adventure on blank hillsides? It felt like the wind was a lament, missing that past, if there was such a past (and some history I've seen of the area suggests that), and mourning a future that can never be. A year after we moved to Southern California, when we were moving from Valencia to Saugus, Dad and I made multiple trips from our old apartment to our new house and back, hauling in boxes that didn't need to be packed in the moving truck. At the intersection before turning right to go up that hill and then back down to Copper Hill (or whatever the name is, since I've only paid attention to such things when I need to take the bus somewhere), I looked to the left and those mountainsides were completely empty. No lights. Then gradually, one housing development popped up, and then three, and then what looked like 40. It's prevalent throughout the region. Build and build some more and build again until you're absolutely sure you can't put another apartment complex in the parking lot of a 7-11. You'll find the past in books, but not in front of you. The museums are tucked away, hidden from view, where they belong.

I didn't begin to think about Las Vegas or Henderson after mulling over all that. In my mind, I went to Baker, to the true beginning of the desert in Southern California, to the Grewal Travel Center, with the gas station out front, the convenience store on one side on the inside, and the small food court on the other side. I thought about that night on the way to Henderson when we found that the food court was closed. Fortunately, we had eaten at Wienerschnitzel in Santa Clarita, and it's lucky we didn't wait until we got to Baker. I'd never seen the place like this, with the counter areas dark, the lighted signs and menu boards turned off. I stared longer than anyone probably should stare at A&W, TCBY, Pizza Hut and Subway signs. Actor/playwright/short story writer Sam Shepard, one of my heroes, has lived in the desert and has it so deeply ingrained in his soul that I thought about him as I looked around, and also thought about the distance outside this food court/convenience store. Who could live in Baker? Who could find enough in the businesses and the landscape to want to live here? This could be where one settles if there's nowhere else to go, but then it has to be a pretty desperate situation.

This is all that Baker is. The 2010 census pegged the population at 735. Those people may have their reasons, and I'd sure like to know what they are. But I never will because I don't think I could stay for that long. I need a library, I need things that I love surrounding me. I love desert landscapes, but give me something more to them. I'm not talking about the overgrowth that Southern California has experienced over the years. A desert town is fine with me if there's a connection there, reasons that a population has to keep its town vibrant. That may not be fair to Baker, because maybe it does have those things that I don't see since I don't hang around long enough. But middle of the evening at 9 p.m., getting out of the car and feeling that fierce chill, like opening a freezer door in the frozen food section at a supermarket and stepping inside, how could anything want to thrive there?

But I still feel something. I don't have the desert experience that Shepard has, that compelled him to also write three masterful short story collections that I go back and forth on buying for my permanent collection, but I want to try it. I want to write a play, and I want to set it in the Grewal Travel Center. I have one character sketched out, and three or four more I don't know well enough yet. You would think that it would be useful to take photos inside the Center, but I haven't for three reasons: One, when I looked around, I wasn't thinking in terms of a play, until I was back in our rented Kia Soul, writing furiously in my composition book. We had to get to Henderson, so I couldn't go back inside to take photos.

Second, Dad's reconsidering his strategies in looking for a job in Las Vegas and Henderson, which may include going back there for a few days while he and Meridith are off for spring break, so he can actually meet people, have them see him face-to-face, instead of seeing about jobs from a distance, which is the way it has to be for now since he's working here. I may get my chance to take photos.

And third, I have the full layout of the Grewal Travel Center in my head. I know where both claw machines are, I know where chips and candy are on the convenience store side, I know that there are two regular restroom stalls in the men's restroom and one handicap stall, and I know that on the food court side, A&W comes first on the far left, TCBY in the middle, Pizza Hut near the far right, and the restrooms are near Pizza Hut and to the left of Subway. I also know that there are those coin-operated machines with stickers and temporary tattoos and other cheap doodads, one next to the food court entrance in the back, facing A&W, and another directly across from A&W. I've not found any stickers I want from either of those, but I like seeing what there is every time.

When I began thinking about writing plays in 2008, I had so many fanciful ideas, and I filled up a folder on this computer with every idea I could think of in 37 Microsoft Word files, believing that one of them had to lead me to fame. They would be filled with such dramatic ideas, and monologues that had the power to keep audiences in rapt attention. I would be lauded for my artistic choices and wordplay that goes down so easy, yet gives audiences a lot to think about.

I was full of shit.

One thing I completely ignored back then was timing. No skilled actor could have memorized the monologues I wrote without fainting from exhaustion. An actor has to breathe and so does the audience, yet the audience still has to be engaged enough to want to know what happens next. There are fellow human beings performing in front of them, completely inhabiting their characters, and the audience needs to relate to them by some glance, some line that rings true, some action that might make them look inward, see themselves in any of the characters on stage. And if a character is pure evil or has bad intentions, there still has to be a glint of humanity there. They can't just be faceless like so many bad guys in an action movie. It works for an action movie. It doesn't work for a play.

After What If They Lived? was published, I took a break from my aspirations of playwriting fame to figure out what book I wanted to write next. With that figured out now, I calmly went back into that "Plays" folder and looked at what I had hurriedly written many times over. I couldn't be doing this because I wanted fame in some artform. It's nice, and so is money, of which I still hope to make a decent amount one day (decent, not obscene), but I have to want to write a play because it defines me, it helps me grow as a writer, and it makes the world seem new to me every day, with something different to explore.

Another idea I've had has been done once or twice before, but not how I've thought of it. I researched it and even bought one of the plays that takes place in the same setting as mine (Three one-act plays, actually, making up an evening of theater) to see how it was done. I wanted my play to be two one-acts, with two different sets of characters: A teenaged boy and girl, and a man and a woman. I wrestled with the timeline and originally decided that they'd be an hour and a half to two hours apart, which wouldn't seem to matter in a play, but where these characters are, it does, since one pair meets at 11 p.m., and another at 1:30 a.m., and the event they're at only happens once a year, and just once for the teenagers.

The major problem I had was my initial insistence that these characters be connected somehow, that the audience finds out through one pair that both pairs are related. I wanted to keep the conversation between one pair mysterious enough that when the other pair talks, the audience puts it together. I don't think there would be gasps throughout the theater. Just murmurs of understanding.

But at what expense to the characters? Would I be spending so much time trying to set up the slight puzzle that I ignore the traits to be established in each character to make the audience want to know more? Would the characters just be puppets to my intentions? That can't happen. If the audience doesn't connect with the characters, that's it. You close after one performance, if you're lucky.

Last week, I figured out what to do. I don't want to spend time creating this puzzle for the audience to gradually figure out. I want to spend time with my characters, getting to know who they are, what they believe, what they want, what they still hope for even as regrets pile up. So now there's only one pair. I won't say which pair because I'm still working this out. But I do know that the first act is set at one of my most favorite places in the world, and the second act is at a place that I don't have quite the huge love for that I do for that first place, but which I admire just the same because without it, that place I hugely love would not exist. Obviously, there won't be faithful sets of either one because that would be insanely expensive, but it will be described enough in the dialogue, and have a few props to represent it, that the audience will get a sense of where they are.

Even without characters fully created, I already have the title of this play. I worry about whether the first part of it sounds sarcastic, but I can only answer that once I start writing this play. I know that it works, though. It covers both acts, the crux of the plot, and even suggests hope where there wouldn't seem to be any in light of years that have passed and disappointments that have been experienced.

In my mind, as I watch the trees rustle from the wind, I'm at both settings for this play, and I'm also thinking about what I can look forward to: Months spent reading two-character plays. I love the thought of it, particularly because I bought a few when I had thought up this play in its previous form. I hadn't opened them then, just stored them away, but I had a good excuse since I was co-writing What If They Lived? at the time. Even while working on my second book, I want to start on this, and try simultaneous writing projects. I'd like to be surrounded by words all the time, and not just by reading.

So maybe Southern California preferring to ignore its past and make a future full of endless housing developments isn't so bad. Until I'm gone from here, it lets me dream widely just by spending a bit of time outside.

Back to Work After Wriggling Out of Work

After reading Monday Mornings, Dr. Sanjay Gupta's first novel (Very good, and I hope TNT picks up the David E. Kelley pilot titled "Chelsea General," which is based on Monday Mornings, as long as Kelley keeps to what makes the novel satisfying in Gupta's clear-eyed descriptions of his characters, which show off how CNN might have influenced him, since those descriptions could very well have been written by a talented reporter), which capped off a slew of non-work-related reading, I finally got back to doing research for Mayday! Mayday!: The Making of the Airport Movies.

What took me so long to return to the work? I did eight hours of research at the Margaret Herrick Library on January 10, transcribed my notes almost a week later on the 16th, and then nothing. No continuing City of Dreams: The Making and Remaking of Universal Pictures by Bernard F. Dick, no searching for, and contacting, actors and production crew involved with all four movies (Or at least the families of those, in the case of Airport, some of Airport 1975, and less and less with the last two), no thinking of more questions to ask them if they agree to an interview. I have to contact the Gage Group again to let them know to let Stephanie Zimbalist know that she can contact me whenever she's able, so that I can interview her father, Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., who played Captain Stacy in Airport 1975, who was blinded by the mid-air collision.

It's not that I don't want to write this book. I want to be the one to write it, what with how obsessed I was with all four movies when I was in my teen. I have months more research to do before I even write a paragraph. I've written what sounds like the first sentence for my first chapter, but that's all I can do right now. I need to see what information I can get and form my chapters around that, the stories I unearth as I go along. I want them all to be as interesting as learning from George Kennedy's memoir Trust Me that he got to taxi the Concorde that Universal rented for $40,000 an hour for Airport '79. That's the exact story that made me want to write this book.

I shouldn't be screwing around with time like this for two reasons: Once March 21 hits, my deadline of being published again by the time I'm 30 begins. I'll be 28 and have two years left. The second reason is that I have at least seven more nonfiction books I want to write after this, and one novel. This is the only life I have as a writer and I don't want to waste it.

I don't think I really squandered January, though. Ok, in the sense of getting more work done on my book, I did, save for that research visit to the Margaret Herrick Library. But writers and all other artists need inspiration from elsewhere. I've been reading other books, I've been blogging, I came up with ideas for that Walt Disney World-related book and a novel that I think will work out better than the first idea I had for a novel (At least right now, since I have to read the source material that the first idea would be based on), so it hasn't been all in vain. Oh, and there were those two days in Henderson, which were necessary to get to know my new home and get used to continually being happy where I live, so those two days were good training in order to refamiliarize myself with that feeling.

I have to return to self-discipline, though. I finished reading City of Dreams: The Making of and Remaking of Universal Pictures yesterday, I transcribed the notes two hours ago, and I have a yen to read Burt Lancaster: An American Life by Kate Buford not only for the tidbits it has about Airport, but for all of his career, since I read a good deal of it back when there was the possibility of a book of essays from members of the Online Film Critics Society, and I wrote an essay about The Swimmer, starring Burt Lancaster, which made necessary not only reading Buford's book, but also watching a great many of Lancaster's movies. When I did the research for my essay in 2006, I over-researched. I didn't need to watch all his movies; I only needed to know what his career was like in the decades previous to The Swimmer. I did too much for what eventually became 1,477 words. Also, I didn't just read John Cheever's short story on which the movie was based. I tried to read everything he ever wrote, as if something would be revealed that would make it all so easy to see. I was so obviously a neophyte.

When Phil Hall offered me a co-author credit for What If They Lived? and I accepted, I had to throw myself into research right away because at the time, I had a little less than a year to pull everything together and write the essays. The quiet stress of that was horrible, like being back at The Signal as the interim editor of the weekend Escape section. I liked the experience because I could put whatever I wanted in that section, but I couldn't stand that time crunch. It's why I won't go back to journalism, also because I'd be poorer in pocket than I am now. Because of that, I vowed that for my next book, if there was a next book (I didn't have any ideas after I was done with What If They Lived?), I wouldn't let myself be pulled and crushed and tangled up like that. I would work steadily through the research, write the book, and that would be it.

Well, here I am. Second book. Where's the steady workload? I don't see it yet beyond those solid eight hours at the Herrick Library, but I know I should go easier on myself. I had a few necessary and good distractions in January and it's because of this book and the books I want to write in the future that I get out of bed every morning, read, and blog. I want to keep myself limber and enjoy what I'm doing and I'm meeting my personal requirements for both. So I missed a couple weeks last month. The puzzle pieces are still spread out, and just like with my essays on Brad Renfro, Aaliyah, and Heath Ledger for What If They Lived?, I've got to put the puzzle together, which is also what made me want to write this book because I loved having to put the puzzle together for those three essays. I loved gathering information from various sources, and that there wasn't any one solid source from which to draw the information, as there was mostly for my essays on James Dean, Judy Garland, and Marilyn Monroe. I get the chance again to do all that for this book, and, looking at my future book list, for my next seven books.

This is why I'm here. This is what I do. So it's time to continue doing it. An occasional break is fine, but much shorter than what I gave myself in January. That won't happen again. After all, it takes time to put together puzzles like these, and that time is best spent finding the pieces.

Not Writer's Block. More Like Writer's Molasses.

I keep thinking that I should avoid this type of entry, that it seems too self-centered, too egotistical, and by doing it, aren't I writing anyway? It does count, doesn't it?

But then, this is my blog. I can say anything on here. So I say this: I haven't been able to think of anything to write in two days.

I intended to follow up my entry about the Fiesta Henderson with one about Regal Fiesta Henderson 12, continuing my Henderson series, but I haven't felt that urge to as I do with many other things I write about. I realize now that it's because in my mind, I haven't spent enough time in that hallway where all the auditorium entrances are. Just one hallway. I need to see it as clearly in my mind as when I was there and then try writing about it. Because it was an impressive hallway. I need to show it off, but I want to do it properly. Properly to me, anyway, not trying to impress the world with wordy prowess, which sometimes I have, but tonight, I don't feel it.

I think I know the trouble, though. After we got back from Henderson, I tried continuing Everywhere That Mary Went by Lisa Scottoline, hoping I could become interested in it, because I love Scottoline's essays, but despite a legal setting in this first novel, nothing grabbed me. I then grabbed Hail to the Chef, the second novel in Julie Hyzy's White House chef mystery series and devoured it. Give me the White House and the people in it and I will happily read for hours, like I did with that one.

Because of Hail to the Chef, I got a heavy, frantic craving for presidential books and began FDR by Jean Edward Smith, 800+ pages which I obviously can't polish off in one day. It still rests at 105 pages, not out of boredom with it, but because I looked inside one of my box bookshelves and noticed The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth by Alexandra Robbins, about why those students who exist on the fringes of social circles are usually the ones who make great strides in the real world. I'm on page 239 and will probably finish it by the time I go to bed.

Then there's my research for Mayday! Mayday!: The Making of the Airport Movies, which hasn't yet progressed much beyond me receiving in the mail photocopies of the documents I requested be photocopied at the Margaret Herrick Library. One of these documents was a call sheet from The Concorde: Airport '79, detailing what sets were being used on stage 12 at Universal that day, the actors required on set, the times they were expected in makeup and then on set, ready for the day, which, on Tuesday, January 30, 1979, began at 9 a.m. Looking at this one sheet, the treasure out of all the pages I requested, I'm thinking of seeking permission to use this as one of the photos in my book. It ties right into what I intend my book to be, and people, especially those who know these movies and who are into movie production or aviation, should see these.

To continue the research, I should dig into the stacks of books I have for it. But I haven't done that either because my rhythm's off in two ways: One, that trip to Henderson interrupted my work for good reason, and I haven't gotten back into a routine that helps me do as much as possible each for my book, and two, I have to deluge myself with books, and I've spent more time online this week than reading. And not even for any useful purpose such as finding contact information for those actors I want to interview for my book. Just wandering in and out of book-related sites I've bookmarked, reading Disney park message boards, watching the pilot of Smash (As masterful a pilot as The West Wing was, and this could very well be my new West Wing), and ordering a few books I want to read.

The obvious solution here is less time online (save for when I want to write an entry here), more time reading, more time with my research (How else will this book be written?), and probably not being so hard on myself just because I have writer's molasses. I don't like it, but it does happen. I'm betting that going out tomorrow evening to pick up more groceries will help, since I haven't been out all this week (No campus supervisor at La Mesa needed a substitute). This valley isn't ideal living, but different air and scenery ought to help, even though it's eight-year-old scenery. Getting my favorite lemon yogurt ought to trip something in my mind, spark new inspiration, and certainly the atmosphere of a Friday evening ought to help too, the universe feeling like it's aligned.

But first, less time on this computer, starting now.

The Randomness of a Tuesday Night

I don't have enough for a full-course, meaty entry tonight, so there'll be some randomness, which is suitable for a Tuesday night that feels like it's simply whirling through outer space. Not a great deal going on; I read some of one of the books I'm using for research for my own book, still have to read the rest, and this is still as specific as I'll get for a while, at least until I have two chapters written and can pitch it to publishers and search for an agent, in order to try for the big publishers.

I'm thinking of seeing Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, day 4 of my four-week pleasure cruise, on Friday. I love the high praise I've read from critics who demand that you see it in IMAX because of the action sequences. I won't. I'm not paying $18.50 for IMAX. If those critics want to pay for my ticket, I'm all for it, but I'm happy with seeing it on a regular screen. That's all I need.

Every other day or so, I check the movie schedule on the Lakeview Cinemas website, the two-screen theater that's inside the Hacienda Hotel and Casino outside of Boulder City, on the way to Hoover Dam. This casino overlooks a vast ocean of desert, so imagine Jack and Jill playing there, as it is right now. It's a shame, but if makes the Lakeview Cinemas owner some money and keeps the theater running, that's fine, because it just reopened after a months-long closure. I really wish I could be there on Christmas Day because It's a Wonderful Life is playing at 3 p.m., just once that day. Seeing it in that setting would be most memorable, but I'll have to settle for DVD for my first time, probably tomorrow night or the day after.

Speaking of Christmas movies to watch, I've also got the original Miracle on 34th Street, as well as National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, my favorite Christmas movie. Any Christmas movie that has a SWAT team at the end is my kind of Christmas movie, along with a dog yakking up a bone under the Christmas dinner table, which is the one scene that makes me lose it, laughing until I can't breathe.

During Dad's time off from work, which lasts until January 17, since it's a combination of winter break and required furlough days, I have to go to Beverly Hills for a few hours, to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' Margaret Herrick Library. This will be for research for my book, so I'll be allowed in and I've memorized their procedures and rules. They have shooting scripts for all four of the movies I'm writing about, as well as a transcript from a 2006 Academy screening of the first movie, featuring actors from it. I need it all. I've memorized the movies, but I know there was an extra hour shot for the three sequels for television broadcast, and I'm hoping the scripts for the three sequels have that, because I can't find most of the footage on YouTube, and those extra hours were never released on DVD. I'm excited about this experience because I'll have history in my hands that means a lot to me, scripts from when those movies were in production. Mom read the procedures on the website today and looked at the hours of operation and suggested a Tuesday would be the best day to go because they're open until 8 p.m., whereas on Monday, Thursday and Friday, they're open until 6, and closed on Wednesdays and Saturdays and Sundays. Tuesday would be best because while I can skim past the scenes I know so well, I want to make sure I get everything out of the scenes that are rarely seen now, and the most out of the screening transcript for details about the making of that first movie.

After What If They Lived? was published, I was in awe about signing up for an author's profile on Goodreads, which became my main account. I didn't realize until early this evening that I could do the same on Amazon. I signed up for an account through their Author Central, and my awe is triple what it was for Goodreads. Click right here for it!

I started reading No Place Like Home by Barbara Samuel on Sunday, intending to read as much of her work as I can while impatiently waiting for The Garden of Happy Endings, which she wrote as Barbara O'Neal, which will be out in April. I love what I've read so far, another novel that takes place in Samuel's beloved Colorado, but I'm still only on page 19. My research comes first, but I want to find a balance that lets me read other things too, if only for 20 pages at a time. However, considering that I spent much more time reading other books rather than the ones for my now-aborted previous project, it's understandable right now that I've not yet gotten back to No Place Like Home. Today, I received Samuel's A Piece of Heaven, which takes place entirely in New Mexico, so I want to get to that one soon. I'm hoping it strengthens my desire to visit New Mexico (Created by reading O'Neal's The Secret of Everything), not that it needs any help, as I've been reading a lot about New Mexico, learning about its culture, and interested in Georgia O'Keeffe's experiences there.

The part of my brain reserved for blog entries is dry, so I think I've covered everything.

Here's the Inside of My Head

Remember the kids science show Beakman's World from the '90s? I grew up on that. I had a Saturday morning bowling league when my family and I lived in Coral Springs, Florida, and Don Carter Lanes was just over the city line into Tamarac. It was on at 12:30 on CBS, so I always made sure to tape it just in case I wasn't home by then.

Watch at least this first part of The Best of Beakman's World: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7QvOKFm3wg

See those backgrounds, all that space filled up with all those props and those set designs? That's what the inside of my head looks like.

My Old High School Isn't Enough. I'm Going to Disney World!

During one of the best days of my life the Tuesday before last (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/10/rosh-hashanah-and-furlough-days-off-day_04.html), I listened to the entire soundtrack of Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress on my mp3 player while my family and I were at Fry's in Woodland Hills, the one with the Alice in Wonderland theming.

As a Disney fanatic who went to Walt Disney World every weekend and sometimes during the week just for dinner when he was a tyke, who owned a great number of Disney movies on VHS back then and now the same great number on DVD, whose favorite childhood movie was Flight of the Navigator and whose favorite movie is Mary Poppins, whose parents have Mickey and Minnie-shaped mirrors and a Mickey telephone, and a Mickey lamp that sits on a shelf in our house, this is normal for me. I could never let go of what I loved back then, and in the same vein, I also have the proper soundtrack for the Tomorrowland Transit Authority in Tomorrowland at the Magic Kingdom (not the stupid "Let's explain every single attraction in Tomorrowland that you've already seen as you were walking around before you got on this ride for a 10-minute break" soundtrack that's currently being used) on my mp3 player, as well as the narration for the Walt Disney World Express Monorail. I am happily incurable.

On Monday night, done with the freelance writing job newsletter I compile, and not feeling like doing much of anything to advance the writing projects I'm working on, I wandered through my memories on YouTube. I found video of the Carousel of Progress from 2010, exactly how I remember it, and video of the Tomorrowland Transit Authority. After we moved to South Florida, we only visited the Magic Kingdom occasionally, never going to EPCOT or then-Disney-MGM Studios (Now it's just Disney Studios), and we had only been to Animal Kingdom once and that seemed to be enough. We had a deeper connection to the Magic Kingdom being that since we went so often when I was little, the monorail drivers recognized us, and performers in the parades stopped by on their routes to say hello. What more could my growing imagination want?

Even though Andy Rooney was the one who pushed me headlong into writing, I think Walt Disney World helped create the sparks in my imagination that started the process. In 2000, when Dad wanted to go to the Florida Educational Technology Conference (FETC) at the Orange County Convention Center, Mom, Meridith and I went to the Magic Kingdom in the morning on the second day of his conference (He met us in the park later, or, likely, Mom and Meridith), and because we were allowed in along with the other hotel guests (Even though we weren't staying at a hotel on the property) for Early Entry, I rushed right to Tomorrowland and rode Space Mountain, my favorite attraction there, three times before it began to get crowded. But I didn't leave Tomorrowland after that. I had no reason to, because Tomorrowland contained everything I loved, in Space Mountain, the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, the Carousel of Progress, and the arcade seen after you exit Space Mountain, which had a CD jukebox. Put money in, choose your favorite songs, and they're heard all throughout the arcade. I also loved that through one window in the arcade, you could see the train pass by. Incongruous, but terrific fodder for my imagination.

The Tomorrowland Transit Authority was never crowded, always seen as a way to take a break from the bustle of the park, and I rode it many times. Vehicles used to pass by one another and I always waved at those who were on the other track, even though I didn't know them. I've always toyed with a story or a play involving that.

It was also fun to sometimes see Space Mountain with the lights on, since you rode adjacent to the hulking structure, which always looked like a jumble of metal when it wasn't working. And the soundtrack, oh that blessed soundtrack, always with proclamations such as, "Now approaching: the Tomorrowland Interplanetary Convention Center," (It was first home to ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter, and now houses Stitch's Great Escape, which is a waste, even though Alien Encounter really scared me when I went on it during Silver Trail Middle's 8th grade end-of-the-year trip. Now, listening to the soundtrack for Alien Encounter, I appreciate the detail that went into such an atmosphere) and the model of Walt Disney's city of the future, called EPCOT after the first tight turn of the ride where you could see Cinderella Castle from there.

Now the Tomorrowland Transit Authority has "PeopleMover" added to the name, though it will always be as it was for me. For me, spending the entire day at the Magic Kingdom inside Tomorrowland and among Space Mountain, the Carousel of Progress, and the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, there was such a wealth of imagination. And I also remembered my toddler self in a stroller with that sky blue top watching Mickey and Minnie in shiny gray space costumes at the Tomorrowland Theatre Stage when my TTA car passed by circular windows that offered a brief glimpse of the shuttered stage, which I think has now been demolished.

Watching videos of the Tomorrowland Transit Authority on YouTube that night, I decided that in writing my future books, in needing to be somewhere in my mind that's peaceful, that offers up a lot of thinking space, I'll keep not only Flanagan High School in 9th grade at the portables site in Pembroke Pines, near our condo, but also add the TTA via YouTube, to have those moments of remembering sitting in one of those vehicles, parts of Tomorrowland passing by, my mind fully active and energetic because of all that was around me.

The Only Job In Which I Can Amble, Mosey, Wander and Stroll

Given a two-day stretch as a substitute campus supervisor, I'm at my best on my second day. Whenever I'm called for the job, it's always a few weeks or sometimes a month in between, and my body is accustomed to the relatively slow pace of my average day. So the first day is always the hardest as my body's not sure what's going on, but this can't be right! All this walking? All this communication with other people? This sudden air of authority? Something's wrong!

Because my hours for this particular campus supervisor, Alex, were 9:30 to 3:30, I had time in the morning to go online and read. On Thursday, I spent those two hours (Dad, Meridith and I get to school at 7:30 or a little past) online, trying to catch up on the latest transcripts of arguments before the Supreme Court in its new term, which I've vowed to follow at length because of my interest in the institution. SCOTUSblog (http://www.scotusblog.com/) provides transcripts in .pdf form at day's end when there are arguments before the court, and I've just found out that The Oyez Project (http://www.oyez.org/) provides the audio, along with transcript follow-along. I think I'll wait at the end of each argument week for the audio because I'd like to read the transcript as the audio goes along. I'd like to listen to the justices' questions, vocal inflections, as well as those of the people arguing these cases.

But on Thursday morning, I finished reading the transcript of Maples v. Thomas, which SCOTUSblog, on its page of the case, puts in plain English: "Whether a defendant is prohibited from arguing in federal that his death sentence is unconstitutional because his lawyer missed a filing deadline in state court."

My maternal grandfather was a lawyer, passionate and dedicated, and though I don't remember a great deal about him, I picked up on this somehow, just as I did with a brief interest in boxing (He loved boxing) that led me to write recaps of fantasy boxing matches years ago when the Internet wasn't as advanced as it is now. However, I've no intention of following my grandfather. I'm happiest as a reader and writer and the Supreme Court is one of many interests.

Thursday was without radio calls from various members of the school administration to bring kids to the office. I walked around during the day, made sure everything was ok, supervised the kids during brunch (15-minute break) and lunch, made sure they got to class when the bell rang between each period, and made sure they left as swiftly as possible at the end of the day. But because my body wasn't used to such activity, I was completely worn out after the day was done. At Walmart Supercenter, where we went to pick up a few things, I felt like everything in me had been scooped out and I was left with a hull of myself. Zombie feeling.

I've started something new whenever I have this job. I love it, but I also make sure to pick out one thing to look forward to when I get home. Yesterday, it was dinner from Wienerschnitzel. Meridith and I went in and we ordered dinner for all of us to bring home, and I ordered a pastrami sandwich and ultimate chili cheese fries, which includes diced onions and sour cream. I had been good with my diet throughout the day, and this was worth it. Wienerschnitzel produces some satisfying chili cheese fries. It's a solid comfort food, even when you're not looking for comfort. Today, I looked forward to a shower in the evening. And it was worth it, naturally.

Today made all the difference. My body knew what was to come, since I had gone to bed at 12:30 a.m. again (I made no attempt to try to go to bed earlier, since I had to make my lunch for the day and shave beforehand), and I was ready. I had my Cheerios in the toy racecar in which you open the back and put them in; I had my Silk Very Vanilla soymilk, my favorite lemon yogurt, a few slices of Swiss and Provolone cheese, previously-frozen strawberries, blueberries and blackberries now thawed out in a plastic container; spinach, cherub tomatoes, and carrot chips in another plastic container; two rice cakes in a plastic baggie, and a Quaker oatmeal raisin granola bar. I gathered it all in a plastic bag and we were all off to work.

I spent time online after we got to school like I did yesterday, except for after the bell rang. Since the special education class that Meridith's an aide for was in Dad's classroom for first period, there aren't as many kids during that time, so I had a computer for myself. This morning, full up, so I went upstairs to the teachers' lounge to lie on the couch and read through most of Books by Larry McMurtry.

The newest feature in the teachers' lounge, right in front of that couch are book racks for teachers to bring in books they don't want anymore, for others to take. When I was substituting for Liz, one of the other campus supervisors (I was substituting these two days for Alex, who's also a football coach at Canyon High), I took my fair share of books then, including Night Fall by Nelson DeMille, All in One Place by Carolyne Aarsen, and someone must have been giving away their John Grisham collection, because I found The King of Torts, The Brethren, and A Painted House. It was funny finding all those Grisham books on the shelves (Bleachers was also there, but football doesn't interest me) because in 3rd grade, Mr. Dexter called my parents in for a conference because I was bringing John Grisham novels to class to read. And I could read them.

Yesterday on those racks, I spotted Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden, Stiltsville by Susanna Daniel (set in 1969 Biscayne Bay, Florida), a much cleaner copy of Love in Mid Air by Kim Wright (I had ordered it online and received it in the mail, and after bringing that better copy home, I put the other one in the Goodwill box), and The Broker by John Grisham. Of course I grabbed all of them. Today, the same Nora Roberts and two Sue Grafton novels still sit on those racks. But the next time I'm called in, I'm hoping there's more great possibilities like those finds.

Before I continue fawning over this wonderful day, there are two cabinets in the school library, one under the magazine racks and a bigger one next to those racks with the labels "Discarded Books." These are books that are no longer needed in the school library and are free to take. Being that books are my life, these are wonderful portals, and in the smaller cabinet, when I was substituting for Liz, I found All Creatures Great and Small and All Things Wise and Wonderful by James Herriott. Today, substituting for Alex, I found The Cherokee Trail by Louis L'Amour, and Goodbye, Mr. Chips by James Hilton, both with "Accelerated Reader" labels on them. Good enough for me!

Lying on the couch, I read a good portion of Books, and marveled at where I was in my life. Before work, I got to read. I stopped at a few points in the book to revel in that. I got to read, since I was starting at 9:30, and it was 8:30. All I want to do in my life is read and write, so this fits easily.

After I signed in on my time card and wrote down the hours, and picked up a walkie-talkie from the head campus supervisor's office, I walked around campus, and my mind went right back to thinking about Las Vegas, about Henderson, about how I can reinvent myself once I'm there. I intend to remain as I am now, but no one knows who I am. No one knows what I'm about, and I can strive to make the best impressions every time. In Henderson, I'd be entirely different from the person I was in Santa Clarita, happier, and from the person I was in Florida, much more grown up, but only in age.

That's what I love about this job: I can think about anything. I've had random song lyrics come to mind, I've thought about if I'd want to date again (I'm not sure I'd want to give up all this reading time), I've mulled over my writing projects, especially my new one which has me very excited. It's a solo foray into 1930s movie history, but not what's typically known. I've thought about possible angles for it, and that unlike What If They Lived?, whose format was already set for me (Phil Hall, my co-writer, who created it, already had everything laid out when he asked if I wanted to join him), I have to write an outline for this book. But I don't mind it because that's the skeleton for the book. Everything else to do with the book will emanate for that. It'll be fun. And it'll get me closer to editing, which I enjoy more than writing. I like to write, but I love to move around words, sentences, rewrite paragraphs, and shape a book to become what I'd want to read.

There were a few calls for a campus supervisor today, two kids going home, one dismissed curtly by a P.E. teacher who wanted me to take him to the principal's office, and another to be taken to see one of the assistant principals. Some kids are easy to talk to as we walk, some I can sense that silence is best as we walk to the office. It's easy to know.

Because Liz wasn't there today (she always seems to take Fridays off), I drove the golf cart to the basketball court with the mesh basketball bag hooked in the back, giving out the basketballs and taking IDs in exchange at brunch and lunch. There wasn't much action on the court at brunch. The only interesting part had been a kid giving me his backpack as collateral for a basketball. I'm ok with that, because if a kid wants to play basketball, my favorite sport, he's going to have the chance to play.

But at lunch, holy god! There was a 4-on-4 game going on that was the most intense, the most talented I have ever seen in the years I've been a substitute campus supervisor at La Mesa. These kids played hard, one kid fell on the blacktop, but was ok, and they were laser-coordinated. There was a clear love of the game among all of them, and one kid in particular threw a hook shot a few inches off half-court and it went in! I was stunned and the other kids were floored as well. Naturally, he tried it again merely two minutes after and didn't make it. Never attempt a sequel so soon after. Build up again, and then do it. After checking on the kid that had fallen on the blacktop, I enthusiastically complimented the star player on his shot. I love watching basketball (and only shooting hoops. No full-on games), and that was great basketball. There was no showmanship ahead of the shot. He just concentrated and did it.

After I had collected all the basketballs, one kid from that game limped up to me, having twisted his ankle, and he wanted to go to the health office in the front office. He got into the golf cart next to me, we went to the office, and I walked him in. Later, I found a jacket left near the office, brought it in to put into the lost and found pail, and went into the health office to see how he was doing, telling the woman working there about his great feats as part of that game. He was a great player as well. Devotion to the game is what I like to see first, and all of those kids had it.

Later in the day, while walking around the campus yet again, I looked at the cement blocks near the library with the poles planted that hold up part of the walkway roof, and I couldn't see how the golf cart could drive through that space, even though Liz and John, the head campus supervisor, had done it before. I went back to where the golf cart was, across from the campus supervisor office, put in the key and drove to that part. And it was like the space had widened. I drove through that easily.

I did two circuits around the campus, then parked it where it was, and a little later, drove it around again. I wanted the practice, and I did well. And since John was sitting in the health office at that time while it was lunchtime for the woman there, no one needed the golf cart, so there was my chance.

Those were the major parts of the day. I have other ideas for potential careers in Henderson, but I'm seriously considering this for a full-time career. I have easy access to strong recommendation letters, I have the experience, and I have a feeling that since you have to make your life work in whatever way you're looking for, being that you live in the desert, being a campus supervisor would be even better. And I wouldn't mind helping with traffic crossings at the end of the day, the roads being easier there. Traffic crossings at the end of the day at La Mesa are crazy. Those who pick up the kids are in a rush, don't care about others, very nearly run you over since they're not paying attention, and it's frustrating. I have the feeling it may not be that way there.

This is the good life. I have opportunities to read before I start work, during lunch, and during the day, walking around the campus, I can think about my writing. In fact, I thought of the title of this entry while walking past the classrooms in the 200 section of the school (Room 222, 234, and so forth), and spent some time thinking of the arrangement I wanted for those four words. This could be where I belong.

Where I Go When I Write

"Funny how you could be in one place and, a split second later, be in another place entirely, I thought, pushing my hands deeper into my pockets as I picked up my pace." - Lindsey, The Opposite of Me by Sarah Pekkanen

When I read books in middle school, I wasn't in Atlanta at the time of Gone with the Wind nor in any of the locations set forth by other novels. Inexplicably, in my mind, I was always at the P.E. fields at Riverside Elementary in Coral Springs, Florida, where I attended the second half of second grade to fifth grade. There was the kickball field at the back, the basketball courts next to it, separated by high chain link fencing with an opening in the middle, and miscellaneous fields near the outdoor area that had concrete flooring, with a roof over it. If this was an office building, that area would have been the loading dock. Behind that building was the playground with tetherball poles and monkey bars.

In high school, all that was gone. When I got into a book, I was wherever the characters were, whatever the author was describing. I imagined it all.

The quote from The Opposite of Me by Sarah Pekkanen is Lindsey thinking about where she's gone in her life, from being fired by the prestigious advertising firm she worked for in New York City to being one-half of a dating service with a woman named May, intent on making her a full partner so she can travel to India as she's always dreamed. Lindsey is obviously thinking about the split-second impact of life, going from the life you thought you were supposed to have, to a life you never even envisioned. But for me, that quote is about where I am in my head when I'm writing. Not like I am now, but when I'm deep in my writing projects, working to hopefully be published again by the time I'm 30.

When I co-wrote What If They Lived?, I was always on the second floor of the now-formerly-named "M" building at College of the Canyons, the media building, near the door to the screening room that served many film classes, especially when I was writing my James Dean essay. I think that was because even though I enjoyed those film classes that I took only for credit (and which were always easy A grades), I was always on the outside, being that most of the movies shown were ones I had already seen many times, and when the teacher (who was also the golf coach for the girls' team) left for the period after putting on the movie, I left for the library, preferring to spend my time amidst worlds I didn't yet know.

So now I'm thinking of where I want to be in my head with the writing projects I have stacked up, and especially a new one that cropped up over the past week, which will tap into what I partly learned about the machinations of the studio system while writing What If They Lived?, but examined differently. I need a place that's full of good memories, that is relaxing all the time, that puts no pressure on me. A safe haven, where I can just walk around in my head, unsnarling problematic passages, mulling over what I've found in my research, figuring out how best to tell the stories that I've thought about.

And I've hit upon it. Before it was known as the 9th grade campus of Flanagan High, the campus of portables in Pembroke Pines, Florida (near the condo I lived in in Grand Palms) was home for a time to the 7th grade class of Silver Trail Middle before the school was fully built. We were there for the first half of the school year and then, over winter break, Dad and the rest of the teachers moved everything necessary into their new classrooms on the permanent campus. I spent part of my winter break with Dad doing exactly that, so I got a preview of the campus and knew where all my classes would be before the other kids arrived for the second half of the school year and tried to figure out where everything was.

But my fondest time in those portables was in 9th grade. Flanagan High had the 9th graders there because the main campus was overcrowded. In my first weeks as a 10th grader there, I thought I saw parts of the buildings bulging.

It was amidst those portables that I met Sara Mangan, who was my first serious crush. She was more mature than a healthy majority of the girls on campus, and I was impressed by that. She was incredibly smart, and I could sense a fellow voracious reader, and it was no wonder that there were many others during that year who gravitated to her. Unfortunately, she let me down easy when I got to the point where I thought I could let her know how I felt, because she was in a long-distance relationship that she wanted to stick with. It was worth the hug, though.

Nevertheless, we remained friends, still are, and she's a most trusted voice when I'm batting around writing project ideas. Currently, she's in her first year of law school at Florida State University, looking to fight human trafficking, and I think she's going to be one of the greatest lawyers the profession has ever witnessed. In a recent e-mail, I asked her what jurisdiction cases were, since she mentioned on her Facebook profile that she was studying them in class, even as the "FSU plague" made its way around the school (Colds and all), and she explained it so clearly to me that it was as if I was taking the same class alongside her. Back in late August, she sent me the first page of a story she's writing, a hobby to keep during the "madness that is the first year of law school," as she expressed it, being told that it's important to keep hobbies during that time, and I want more of that story. What better inspiration to have as a writer than a fellow reader and writer? I also remember her friend Stacey (or Stacy) back then, who let me borrow her VHS tapes of Tomorrow Never Dies, which introduced me to James Bond and set me on a course of the entire series becoming my Star Wars, and Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, taking much of its comedic inspiration from the Bond series.

But it's not only those events that make me go back to that campus with this new project and the other projects still in play. It's because of the peace I found there, of those wide-open fields, of those walkways between clusters of portables. There, I don't worry about what books have already been written about the subjects I want to cover (I don't worry about them anyway, but they are something to consider, finding what wasn't answered and attempting to answer it on my own through what I find), I don't think about my goal to be published again by the time I'm 30, I don't think about anything dealing with the book business. I just set about writing the book I want to read, which is possible since I have much more fun editing than writing. I enjoy writing, but I love playing around with words while editing, moving sentences around, deleting what doesn't work and replacing it with new words, sentences or paragraphs. I find an all-encompassing peace by being on that campus again in my head. My world is wide enough as it is right now, but it's even more vast over there again. I stroll over those walkways often, thinking about what I've written, wondering what more I can add, or what I don't need in my book. It's a constant inspiration.

And this is coming from someone who partly grew up going to Walt Disney World every weekend and sometimes during the week just for dinner.

The Silence That Envelopes the House

11:05 p.m. My time. My parents are asleep, their bedroom located behind the living room, while my sister, saddled with a cold, will be asleep soon, if the Disney Channel doesn't knock her out first. I like to think the audiences for "Zack and Cody: Don't Mug Like That or Your Face Will Freeze" are paid something to laugh that loud and that often.

And I've just come back from walking our dogs, Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound) and Kitty (part miniature pinscher, part terrier), where outside is the most piercing cold I've ever felt not just in the five years I've lived in Southern California, but even in all the years I lived in Florida. Frost on cold nights in Casselberry, near Orlando, was bad enough to kill the tangerine tree that was next to my window, as it is for orange crops as well, as seen on the news around this time of year. But the cold here, throughout the night hours, is the kind that immediately preys upon your vulnerabilities. With me, no gloves on my hands and no ski mask on my face. I refuse because I'd look ridiculous, even in a neighborhood where no one cares, where you live right next door to whomever and only wave at them once in a while. Not exactly a neighborhood where you try to get friendly. They might call the cops, concerned.

Having defrosted from the cold outside, I love this time of night. There is a silence that has gotten into all corners of this house, in between the couch cushions, in my bedsheets which I won't slip into until near 5 a.m., in the space between the refrigerator doors, and I'm sure it's gotten to the silverware and dishes too. For me, it's the kind of silence that lingers, never questioning, never suggesting, but at times, making me think about what I'm doing at the moment and whether I should be doing something else.

I'm nearly done with the newsletter for the night, but what next? Reading through the various Word files I've created with ideas for plays and even some dialogue written? More time spent with the first volume of Neil Simon's plays, studying structure at the same time I sigh with admiration over his dialogue and wish I could write like him? I haven't written any new reviews for Film Threat lately, so what about those DVD screeners from various independent filmmakers? There's one that I've wanted to see for a while, a documentary called "Humble Beauty," about homeless artists. I should contribute to my annual review tally with the Online Film Critics Society, of which I am a member and also on the governing committee. 50 reviews a year, as stated in the bylaws. Or maybe I should retreat to my journal for the night, reading what may sound so simplistic now. Is there anything else I could add that would balance it out?

I don't know what I want to do yet. But the silence rests above and all around, patiently, making me think further. Maybe a novel. Lord knows I've checked out enough of them on my library card as well as my sister's library card. I've got that collection of novels by Carson McCullers and only vowed to continue watching "The Member of the Wedding" on the Tivo in the living room after I finished reading the novel of the same name. There's also the early Steinbeck novels in one collection too. Maybe just the radio? KCRW? Lot of music there that I haven't heard yet, and I could listen and mentally add to my list of city music, that which feels city-like, specifically Los Angeles. I haven't even started a list for Las Vegas yet, and I should, considering how badly I want to be there already, if not for the dire reality of this economy which renders the Clark County School District there unable to hire my father yet as a business education teacher. That's a whole set of entries for another time. More to add to that physical list.

The time to just lay on the couch doing nothing passed long ago. I can't very well lay face up and stare at the marginally high ceiling. It's not a popcorn ceiling like I had in various houses in Florida (we moved a lot), so it's not as easy to find different shapes and scenery in it. Impossible to do that when there's so much read and watch and write about.

The silence can make you think about so much. It can send you right back to better days in memory. It can put you right back on the road toward Northern California, to Casa de Fruita in Hollister where there was a bakery that had the best peach pie in the state, and the most stunning views of the greenest hills you'll ever find, if you stay within the United States for your entire life. England might have greener ones.

I should finish this newsletter, archive it, and set it up to have it sent automatically to 680 subscribers. The newer subscribers are probably on that free trial week offer, and I hope they subscribe right after. Then, I'll answer the silence with what I plan to do. I'll think of something.