West of Mars

There is beauty in this world. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my hand and spent days simply staring, drinking it in. I’ve made beauty through my music, music that sounded like an angel’s song and pleased the maker as much as any other angel’s song could.

I was an angel. I made beauty.

And then the adoration started. There was beauty in that, too. Beauty in their faces as they looked at me, worshipping me as they’d worship a real angel. Beauty in their awe, their respect, their need to be around me.

I stopped feeling like an angel and felt like a god, instead.

It came with a price. A bigger price than simply making music had brought. That had been easy. The price was the need to make more music, to sing higher, louder, more and more. To let my guitar say all those things I never could. To forget about food and people and everything but the music.

I had people who took care of me. There was beauty in them, too. Beauty in the way they cared. In the way they did everything so I didn’t have to. “C’mon, Soul, you need a shower,” they’d say, and they’d take the guitar out of my hands.

They were beautiful. I loved them.

They went away, pushed away by the fans. The fans who took my guitar and handed me a bottle. At first, there was beauty there. Beauty in the things I saw, things I’d never see when it was me and the Oracle.

The beauty turned ugly. And here I am, stuck. I set fire to my guitar, to my precious Oracle every night. I can’t bear the noise it makes now, when once it made music. But it comes back, again and again, my Oracle. Looking for more. Looking for me. It wants to sing the songs of angels again.

I try. I try and try. But the song has left me.

And there’s no more beauty in my world.

***
For more beauty, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Trevor pointed out to me that since the Demo Tapes (both of them!) are available through Barnes & Noble, he’s quite available for a little bit of nookie. At less than five bucks for each Demo Tape book, you’re getting the steal of a lifetime.

Yep, it’s true. Trevor Wolff. Appearing at a B&N near you.

I hope I’m the only one who gets nightmares from that idea.

**This offer only applies to the e-book versions, in case the price didn’t tip you off.

1. My Sunday Scribblings this week was the story of Mitchell being allowed a chance to play the famed Oracle guitar. From the scant comments, most of you missed a doozy.

2. The Oracle used to belong to Soul Bendorff.

3. Read more about Soul here.

4. Like his dark blue suede vests, the Oracle was his trademark.

5. He set one on fire every night, at the end of every set.

6. He used that guitar to redefine music.

7. The magic Soul created was part of what made Mitchell pick up the guitar in the first place.

8. The Oracle disappeared for many years after Soul’s death.

9. It finally reappeared at a Christie’s Auction.

10. It sold that first time for $300,000 or so.

11. The MBA developer-cum-memorabilia-collector named Jeff bought it for more than that. But less than it’s currently valued at.

12. Which makes me wonder why he’s offering to give it to Mitchell. But he is. It’s a sincere offer.

13. Just more of the magic of music.

When challenged by the anonymous (but oh, so smart) editor Moonrat to come up with my list of 2009 Best Books by Women, I realized quickly I had a small problem.

That problem is how few books published in 2009 that I’ve read. Period. Doesn’t matter the gender of the writer; I don’t read nearly as many current releases as I’d like to.

That’s partly because I have books that have been on the TBR Mountain Range since (this is embarrassing) September of 2005. I’m trying to read those first. Many of them were published well before 2005, even. In today’s publishing climate, these are dinosaurs — without the scientific value and the cool factor. Maybe these are corpses best left buried. I don’t know.

Regardless, this list will feature the women authors whose books I’ve read so far this year. Sad to say, the list wasn’t as robust as I’d expected, mostly because this was a big year of multiples for me. I caught up on Charlaine Harris‘ Sookie books, for example. (And I have to say that I found Dead & Gone to be disappointing, so don’t be surprised when it’s not on the list). I read all three of Hank Phillippi Ryan’s books. Two by Lisa Marie Wilkinson. Two by Kathy Reichs (beware; her website has auto-noise!).

Here’s the list of books by women authors I’d suggest you read.

1. ShapeShifter: The Demo Tapes: Year 2. No author name needed; you ought to know this is my book. Of *course* I’m going to include it in my list! (And a resounding Fuck You from Trevor if you don’t like seeing it here.) And if you’re holding back ’cause you haven’t read Year 1 first, get over that. They stand alone.

2. Song of the Seals — Christy Yorke. I loved this tale of a small fishing town. Loved the thick, foggy atmosphere. Loved the way these characters interacted. And I loved the ending.

3. Hank Phillippi Ryan — Okay, so Hank’s not a book. That’s good thing. But her books were reissued this year by Mira, and I didn’t want to hog three spots on this list for them. Not that they don’t deserve to be listed separately. They do. To be brief, I am loving this series about investigative news reporter Charlotte McNally. I can’t wait for the fourth, Drive Time, to come out. Call me fangirl.

4. Possibly hogging two more spots is author Lisa Marie Wilkinson. DEBUT author Lisa Marie Wilkinson, for a few more months yet. I loved her Fire at Midnight because whenever it could have veered off into cliche, it went in another direction entirely. I’ve read her second book, Stolen Promise, and it’s darker, but there are similar themes — and even more non-cliche fun. I hope it’s huge for her; she deserves it to be.

5. I already did a whole blog about how much I loved Laura Fitzgerald’s Veil of Roses. Go read it and save me the need to repeat myself.

6. Colleen Gleason — The Bleeding Dusk. I’m behind in the brilliant Gardella series, I know (in fact, Colleen’s ended it). I don’t just love this because Colleen gives me a thanks in the credits. (Yep, another author I’m a fangirl of.) I love it because she doesn’t let her characters off easily. She makes them do reprehensible things. She makes them face the dark side of life — and the dark side often has nothing to do with vampires so much as it does choices of right and wrong. I adore this world Colleen’s created. I may cry when I read the final book.

7. Sara Gruen — Water for Elephants. Yeah, I know. I’m the last person on the planet to have read this book. I’m an idiot, too, because I simply adored it. What struck me most was the plotting, although the characters were stong and the setting and world-building vibrant.

8. Lorelei James — Long Hard Ride. After knowing Lorelei for years online, I finally was in a spot where I could justify buying one of her books. Good choice on my end; I often get tired of the erotic romance that turns out to be sex, sex, and more sex. Oh, and total dominance by the man. Yawn. Lorelei gives us real, fleshed-out characters with worries and desires and ambitions. And really good sex.

9. Donna Lea Simpson — Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark. Okay, this book was totally NOT what I was expecting, which was a humorous romance. What I got was a mystery with a romance. And a cliffhanger ending! Beyond that, while I didn’t love this book the way I loved some of the others on this list, I’ve found myself thinking about it, months after I finished reading it. I’ll be picking up the next in the series, most definitely.

10. Geraldine Brooks — People of the Book. Yet another one that people raved about, only this time, I didn’t reject it out of hand. Instead, I brought it to my book club, only to discover they were as excited about reading it as I was. This wasn’t nearly as good as Year of Wonders, but Year of Wonders might be among the best books I’ve ever read. Members of my book club felt that in parts, it tended toward cliche and okay, maybe it did. But it was a fun imagining, nonetheless, and given the subject matter — a Haggadah, the book we Jews use at our Passover seders — it’s a book I’ll think of for a long time to come.

**
And now for the stupid disclaimer shit: I bought very few of these. Traded for a bunch online. Was sent more from the authors. No one expected me to do anything but read ‘em. The raving’s, as always, my own creation.

If you use any of those links to Powells.com, I’ll get a few pennies. Once those pennies add up (by the time I’m 120, it *might* happen), I’ll buy you guys, my readers, something you want.

If you buy the Demo Tapes, I get a royalty. But I bet you figured that part on your own. If not, don’t tell me. I hate being scared so early in the morning.

Kerri paused, struck by the reverence with which Mitchell reached for the guitar. His hands were soft, cupped, his arms strong. As the Oracle was placed into his hands, they swayed slightly, as if allowing it a harsh meeting with his palms would be an insult.

His manner was probably the same as that of a True Believer who was accepting communion, Kerri figured. She immediately began sketching as Adam’s shutter began snapping.

To Mitchell, there probably wasn’t much difference between this guitar and holy communion. The Oracle had once belonged to Soul Bendorff. The Oracle wasn’t the guitar he’d set on fire at the end of every show. Hell, the Oracle hadn’t been allowed on the road. It had been the original prototype for the Soul Bendorff model. It had been Soul’s guitar, the one he’d bent sounds with and broken barriers with.

And now Mitchell held in it his hands, thanks to a private audience with a rock-and-roll memorabilia collector named Jeff. He’d first claimed to be a ShapeShifter fan, but a few sneaky questions had proved that the guy was mostly interested in the publicity the photo op would bring him.

Mitchell carefully set the Oracle on his leg, his hands instinctively finding their spots: one ready to strum, the other to chord.

“Here,” the collector, Jeff said, jumping forward to plug the guitar’s power cord into the solid-wood body. He fiddled with the knobs for Mitchell, who lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, when Jeff stepped away, Mitchell began to play.

Kerri had still been sketching as all that took place, but as Mitchell’s notes turned from tentative to assertive, as he began playing first an old Soul Bendorff classic and then his own song: Behold Me, she got as caught up in the music as Mitchell. She didn’t get lost in it as often as Mitchell did, but right then, she was entranced.

At the end of Behold Me, Mitchell grimaced and shook his head. “I ought to give this back. I don’t want to abuse it.”

“I think it needs to be yours,” Jeff breathed. He wasn’t much older than they were; maybe a year. Maybe. He’d gotten his MBA and ran his father’s development company out here in Omaha. A company that bought foreclosed farmland and built towns on it. Kerri knew how Mitchell felt on the subject, how he’d have ordinarily refused this sort of connection. Too many ShapeShifter fans had been thrown off their land — but just as many had benefitted from the towns that had been built.

But this was the Oracle. It had once been Soul Bendorff’s. And guitar players like Mitchell Voss owed a lot to Soul Bendorff.

“Really, man,” Jeff said. There was more heart to his voice; wherever the music had taken him, he was coming back from it. “This guitar… it needs something. You can feel it, you know? Maybe what it needs is you.”

Mitchell ran his hands over the side of the body facing up. He didn’t say anything.

Kerri realized she was holding her breath.

“I want to give it to you,” Jeff said.

“Give it to me.” It wasn’t a question. Kerri breathed again.

Jeff held his hands out and backed up a step, as if Mitchell was trying to return the guitar and he was refusing it. “Give it to you. No strings attached. Ha-ha. Strings. Get it?”

Mitchell nodded, frowning. “I get it.” He stood up and set the Oracle gently back into the stand Jeff had taken it from. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”
“Dude,” Jeff said, suddenly Mitchell’s best friend. “We don’t need to do that. Here. Take it with you.”

“And have you scream about how I stole it? Maybe not today or next week, but a few years down the road when you’re hard up for cash and you think about what you gave up? No. If you want to give this to me, then fine. We do it right. I’ll have my lawyer call.”

He stood up. Kerri and Adam, the photographer, walked out of the room with him.

“Are you sure?” Kerri asked softly as they left.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “We do it right or we don’t it.”

“You’d kill for that guitar.”

“Yeah,” he said through an exhale. “I would. And that’s the problem.”

Kerri nodded. She understood.

OEBD? Operation e-Book Drop. I’ve mentioned it to you before. One month ago today, in fact. (I’m so slick!)

I’m bringing it back up today because two really cool things have happened that I want to tell you guys about.

First is that I did an interview for the Pittsburgh Literature Examiner about my participation in OEBD. This link will take you to an older article about it, but now you can add it to your reader and keep an eye open for it. I will, of course, let you know when it goes up.

Second is that a mere few hours after finishing the interview and sending it to Holly, I got a note from the kids’ school. One of the fourth grade classes has been writing letters to a serviceman stationed in Afghanistan. This year, the teacher has drafted the other fourth grade teachers to help put together a care package for the Troops.

I’ve got a ton of stuff here: lip balm, thanks to my friend Hank Phillippi Ryan (she sends me a new one with every book that comes my way); sudoku books I’ve never touched; playing cards that the Tour Manager won’t use again for poker.

And then, I’m going to print up some coupon codes for my books over at Smashwords and tuck them inside notecards that include my usual letter — and also offer an explanation of OEBD and how they can get more involved. With 220+ authors at this point, there’s got to be something for every serviceman out there. (The other side of this coin is that with 220+ authors, it’s harder to make Trevor stand out. But we’re dwelling on Only the Good here, right???)

I’m jazzed. I’d love to see OEBD turn into something as routine as those programs that provide books for prisoners. But mostly, I feel a little more connected to this group. Even though it’s not my kids who are writing to this troop, this hits close to home (as does the continued disappearance of Morgan Dana Harrington, but again! Only the Good!). This connection exists within my community.

When I think about all the shit in this world (see above.. Morgan, come HOME, dammit!), it’s these little connections that make me think there’s hope and merit in small acts of tikkun olam — to heal the world.

If you’re an author, why not look into making your books available for OEBD? If you’re not (or if you are; I don’t like to exclude people), please continue to support me and the Trevolution. Giving away free e-books may not cost me anything but time and a few e-mails, but on the other hand, it was you guys who brought The Demo Tapes to life. The bigger this thing gets, the more gestures like OEBD mean.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Holy shit, I’m old. When an icon like Sesame Street is younger than you are, you are OLD. Maybe my dear friend Toby is right and I AM older than dirt.

Or maybe I’m lying about my age.

Doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Sesame Street turned 40.

I have vivid memories of:
1. Mr. Hooper. What a funny thing to think of first.

2. The street itself. The dirty, gritty street that was clearly not the TV set. I always knew it was shot somewhere else. The streets of New York? Didn’t matter. Those city streets were very different from my own suburban white-bread upbringing.

3. Oscar. Man, I love that grouch. Maybe there’s part of him in Trevor.

4. Cookie Monster! I remain envious at the sheer number of cookies that muppet has access to. In my next life, I want to be Cookie Monster.

5. The Count and his organ. I think I liked the organ better than I liked the counting. (See? Music junkie at a young age!)

6. Gordon and Maria. They were so nice. I think the lessons of their different ethnicity were lost on me. Or maybe that explains why I don’t get the fuss about people of other ethnic backgrounds.

7. Bert and Ernie. Gay? Fuck no. Best friends.

8. Big Bird. Big, yellow, feathered … and while others may say he’s a true innocent, I always sort of thought he wasn’t that smart.

9. Grover. I never really got Grover. I just sorta tolerated him, the way you tolerate a goofy friend.

10. “Sh..” “..eep” Remember those word mashes? And the lips that spoke them?

11. MUPPETS. Oh, man. Nothing on that show impacted me more than the muppets did. I adore the muppets. I adore all they stand for: making life a party, and laughing, and caring. Dance your life away, worries for another day… or however the Fraggle Rock song goes. I shouldn’t even be singing it ’cause it wasn’t on Sesame Street.

12. Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! Those of you who recall my character of Kermitt Ladd, intrepid rock reporter, will maybe, hopefully, finally get the joke.

13. Rubber Duckie. Enough said.

Happy birthday, Sesame Street. Here’s to 40 more years of you raising our kids right. Assuming you all think I came out right…

You going to see my favorite real-life band tonight? You people in Grand Rapids (Michigan, for those you more geographically-challenged) are in for a treat.

Remember THIS Roadie Poet piece? (Holy smoke, it’s from 2007!)

If you’re too lazy to click through and read it, well, shame on you. At least open the link in a new tab so you can read it after you read this post. For you lazy-asses, here’s the lowdown: Roadies wear black. Someone’s girl shows up in pink. Scandal!

Tonight in Grand Rapids, roughly 90 members of the local crew who’ll be working the Metallica show will be in pink shirts instead of the traditional black. Yep, it’s a breast cancer awareness thing, which Trevor’s fully in favor of. (Healthy breasts are his favorite kind, don’tchaknow. And he’ll be glad to help you examine yours!)

(Uhh, women only, please. But men, remember, you CAN get breast cancer, too!)

I wish Roadie and I could be there to see this sight. I might have even put those pink stripes back in my hair for the occasion.

Glass.

If he closed his eyes, that’s what Mitchell visualized. Shards of glass, poking their pointy, broken ends into his throat. His sore, tender throat. The one that needed to be able to sing for two and a half hours.

Last time he’d felt like this, Amy had sent him medicine. It had worked just fine on his throat but fucked with the rest of him. Not in a good way for a guy on the road. Eric hadn’t minded the extended guitar solos the first two nights, but when it dragged on for eight, not to mention how it’d slowed down their travel with Mitchell’s constant need to stop, even the guitarist, the most tolerant of all of them, had had enough.

As if Mitchell hadn’t. After all, it was his body the medicine had fucked up.

He wasn’t calling Amy so fast. Not if she was going to do that to him again.

Still, he had two interviews to give before the show later that night. Sucking on lollipops helped a bit, but not for very long, and it was hard to talk with a sucker in your mouth. That wouldn’t work with the press, even if most of them were dicks. It wouldn’t wash later, during the show, although it might be fun to flick a sucker from your mouth into the crowd, just to see what would happen.

Probably fall in that safety zone between the fans and the stage.

“Dans? Where’s the honey?”

The drummer crossed the room; he’d been primping for an interview of his own and the dressing room felt empty with just the two of them in it. Eric would show in another hour, to give some face time himself, and Trevor would appear… whenever King Trevor felt like it.

“Right there, by your right hand,” Daniel said, surveying the catering table set up in their dressing room.

Mitchell figured that was how it went. He was busy looking at the set-up for the tea, the bags and the sugar and the powdered flavored creamers for coffee, the real milk in the ice tubs with the beer and Gatorade. The honey was… there with the ketchup and shit. Made perfect sense.

It was one of those honey bears. They were fun to fuck around with; Daniel was constantly coming up with new things to do with the stupid things. Mitchell picked this one up, turned it ass-up, and poured a dollop of honey directly onto his tongue.

“Slick,” Daniel said.

Mitchell swallowed and shrugged. And then he closed his eyes and swallowed again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

He set the bear down — near the tea and coffee shit this time — and eyed the back of its head. That same spot he liked to whack Trevor in. He swallowed again, and gave the bear an affectionate pat.

It may have been an old wives’ tale that honey soothed a sore throat, but those old wives sure knew a thing or two.

Whoever the fuck the old wives were.

“Mitchell, ready?” Charlie asked, sticking his head in the dressing room. “I’ve got one reporter on the hook for you, and a quiet spot for you to inflict the torture.”

Mitchell turned to go, then stopped. He twisted and picked up the bear. It could come with him. Maybe he’d have some fun with it and the reporter.

Maybe the reporter would know who the old wives really were.

Honey on glass. He’d take it.

1. Trevor wanted me to tell you
2. That this week’s Thirteen
3. Is going to be lame.

4. That’s because
5. I spent the day
6. Working on the follow-up
7. To Trevor’s Song,
8. the novel all about him.
(and it’s ALL about Trevor!)

9. When I finish this draft
10. Of the follow-up,
11. I will bring you
12. Trevor’s Song
13. In print and digital versions.
(At least, that’s the plan)