A recent tweet / twit / twat (whatever the heck you call it) over at my Twitter page has got me thinking about the deaths of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Walter Cronkite, and many others. Not to be a gloomy Gus or anything, but all the heroes I grew up with are now either getting on in years or moving to permanent, subterranean boxed housing. I’ve found newer, younger heroes in the years since, but you know how it goes. They’re not the same. There will never be another Andre Norton, Ray Bradbury, Johnny Carson, Stanley Kubrick, or Vangelis.
Closer to home: There will never be another Aleksas Trotter, one of my creative consultants during the writing of Heroes’ Day, and a celebrity in his own right. I so wish he was still around to offer up his zany take on Make It or Break It.
Even closer to home: the deaths of two of my friends’ parents. One was a veritable bodybuilder in his early fifties; the other was a sunny, vibrant caretaker in her late forties. Sudden, unexpected cancer in both cases. Fucking cancer.
Not that I’m brooding over the above-mentioned subject matter (it just so happens I’m mentioning this in the same post), but I’ve decided to take a break from novel writing. With my previous publisher having gone under, I’m left to self-publish, and that’s just not economically feasible at the moment. Instead I’m going to focus on screenplays for the next year or so. My brother has a fancy camera, Adobe Premiere, and a slew of actor / model friends willing to work for cashews—but he needs a writer. I’ve volunteered. The logic is that since I can’t attract attention from the major publishers with my novels, maybe I can break into a Hollywood outhouse with one of my scripts. Or at least get an indie film made that can help promote my books and my brother’s production company. So, no new novels from me until late 2010, at the earliest, though I’m still going to experiment at random intervals with blog fiction (read: SuperMegaNet).
Goodbye OpenOffice, hello Celtx…
(Oh, happy birthday, Sean!)