Harold Fendeneez, Esquire

William Kenney sent me this.  It's a drawing of one of the main characters in my novel, Escaping Entry.  Isn't it great?  I always pictured Harold as foreign.  North African, or Asian.  Or maybe Indian.  (With a fondness for swords and porcelain teacups.)

I have to say, it's very neat seeing someone else's rendition of a character I created.  Odd as well.  For this Harold is no longer 'mine'.


Makes me wonder what it's like for an author when he sees his story on the big screen.

He Used to be Someone

Happened across this photo of American actor, Edwin Booth.  Can you believe it's 140 years old?

Surreal.

I wonder, while posing, if he ever thought people would be still looking at him so far into the future? (him posing, not me posing. I'm slouching)

It's things like this that start me thinking.  I mean, everyone alive in the world at the moment that photograph was taken is dead now.  Even the babies.  Makes me ask, 140 years from now, when everyone I know is long buried, will people be looking at images of me?

(btw, his brother's the man what shot Abraham Lincoln)

Simple Pleasures

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

Meekius Meu-Meu (or Mickie, as she's known by the sycophants in her writing circle) is the award winning author of 'Oinkus the Pig' and "Butterfly on my Bum'.  The funny thing is I didn't know she was a writer until she offered to proofread the final draft of my debut novel.  (for a fee, of course)  Naturally, I was skeptical; Miniature Pinschers are bred to attack things with their face, not edit novels, but after discussing it with my wife, I decided to give it a go.

It took roughly two weeks, and when I got my story back, I was surprised to discover my manuscript chock full of little post-it notes filled with remarks (sarcastic, mostly) on how it could be improved.   It turns out Mickie is not a fan of my work.  In fact, she hated everything about it, from the plot right down to the characters' names.  I'll admit: I was devastated, but I eventually recovered, to the point where now when she brings up my story, I swat her on the bum and tell her to quit pooping behind the television.

12 Days of Christmas

Confessions