EAST GARRISON & Unknown-The Whitcher Mystery

A Shaker of Margaritas: Hot Flash Mommas

2010-11-04T09:34:00.000-07:00

Looking for a unique Christmas present or something for the woman (and occasional man) who has it all? Check out this red hot collection of shorts fresh off Mozark Press! http://www.mozarkpress.com/publicationsHotFlashMommas

What's it all about? Women going through the adventure of midlife. Twenty-five captivating stories from authors across the U.S. are included in Hot Flash Mommas. Midlife is a turning point for women and whether the pivotal moment involves crisis, romance, intrigue, or sameness, strong women overcome the randomness of fate and move forward toward a new reality. Browsing the titles is the first indication these stories are crafted to share with girlfriends, sisters, mothers, daughters, and the occasional male who just wants to know what’s going on inside that mysterious female brain. Check out the link for more information.

Why am I promoting it? There's a story called House of Wreckers that I wrote (many moons ago) in it. PLUS--After reading some of the shorts (I'm not through reading all of them cause my daughter swiped it from me), I have to say it's captivating, especially for women (even young girls). And it's not sleazy pornography, just good clean fun.

A little background...Mozark Press had a free short story contest that I entered twice: once with my own name and once with one of my pen names. Of course, as luck would have it, my alter ego's story got selected for inclusion in this fresh anthology. So...check it out. It may turn out to be the next Chicken Soup series.

THE ADVENTURES OF UNEMPLOYED MAN

2010-10-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

Unemployed Man by Erich Origen is climbing up the sales ladder, as is expected. Do yourself a favor and check it out: http://www.unemployedman.com/
Turns out the little brother of a jr. high school girlfriend of mine is not only a writer, but his first book, Goodnight Bush, was a New York Times best-selling book! Having read Goodnight Moon to my children, I immediately connected with it, as did many others. Now, Unemployed Man hits the stores. All I can say is wow. It's a dose of what everyone needs...laughter, and lots of it. This is truly a keeper. Being a California native, the narrative rings pretty close to home base. Way to go Erich!

Tom Cruise Demands Gold Toilet Seat!

2010-10-13T08:53:00.000-07:00

I read that in some muck-raking magazine. The thought occurred to me this am while driving in to work in the dark (don't ask me why). Just think about the absudity of such a request--demanding a gold (is that solid gold?) toilet seat for your ass to sit on while you do--well, you get the point. OMG, as my daughter would write. I don't know if this story is true or made up for the sensationalistic nature of such a claim. Sometimes I get the feeling that they're after Mr. Cruise. However, I don't feel sorry for him or any other people who trade their anonymity for fame. But...had to write that today and say...how fucking ridiculous can you get? Excuse my sailor language for those of delicate natures.

Update on the devil-drug prednisone.

2010-10-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Amazingly, I’m down to 2 milligrams prednisone a day, plus 20 milligrams hydrocortisone split 1/2 am/pm. I’ve never been this low in 10 years being on this s @ # t ! By the end of the day I feel like a zombie crawling back into her crypt. In the morning, my whole body aches as if I’d been hit by a semi the night before. But, I’m so close…maybe this time….I’ll be lucky.

At work I keep a note taped to the desk where I hide it with my keyboad: “If I can make it to December.”

I also push on, trudge forward (I like that phrase), with the Whitcher saga. A writing cohort advised to write something each day, even if it’s just a sentence. Good advice for me.

The story remains with me, consuming nearly every thought. I am of the type who has to immerge myself into the story. Since this one takes place in the mid-1800s, that is a difficult task to accomplish.

News Flash!

2010-10-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

Jack Erslager, aka Robert R. Weger, has officially put his rare digest on my website for sale! If you loved Jack, can't get enough of him, or are just curious to learn more about the origins of an ancient symbol that continues to be misunderstood, go to www.gmweger.com and look for a red-colored "New" button to click for more information. Check towards the bottom of the screen, right before the credit links. Enjoy!

Truth versus Fiction

2010-09-21T12:19:00.000-07:00

Almost three weeks ago I gave a talk and PowerPoint slideshow at the National Steinbeck Center about my novel East Garrison. I'd spent a lot of time preparing the slides and thinking about the "motivation" for writing the book, trying to make the talk interesting for the audience. Amazingly, the evening went very well, and I actually enjoyed myself. I'd decided after that talk that I'd put East Garrison to rest and get back to what I really love—writing. But this second book isn't at all like the first. This book is based on a true story, and it takes place in the mid-1800s. I find this so much harder to write. The desire to get the story correct is getting in the way of my writing. Seems like it'd be easier knowing the plot ahead of time, yet to me it's like trying to draw a picture with my left hand. (And I can't draw a stick figure with my right hand!) I'm a believer in nothing worthwhile being easy. If what you're writing is not what you want to write, and you find it difficult and want to quit, its gotta be gold, and you must stick with it until it's done. It'll be a miracle if I ever type "the end" to this story!

The Rat

2010-09-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

With a small Russian tortoise in one hand and an overflowing bag of trash in the other arm, I flew through the gate without even glancing down. After depositing the garbage and "Crunchy," the tortoise, I greeted my big black dog, Boomer, and let out a blood-curdling scream. At Boomer's feet lay a slightly damp, foot-long rat. And it wasn't dead. Yet.
Boomer panted happily; his fat pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. I stood glued to the pavement, feeling kind of silly for over reacting to this obvious non-threat. My daughter yelled from the front door, "Mom? Are you okay?" I had to explain the situation and then, of course, the entire neighborhood ran over to get a look at "the rat."
I kind of didn't know what to do. The children immediately suggested feeding it. That seems to be their first course of action for a sick anything. One of the girls wanted to stab it. That scared me. I rushed into the house to get Boomer out of there and collect my senses.
I wanted to put the rat out of its misery because it surely must be dying, but that isn't something a multigenerational humane person does. I've seen my husband crush a gopher with his boot as easily as if he were stepping on winter leaves.
The kids were making a lot of noise, so I peeked through the window. Now my son and his best friend had joined the group huddled around the rat.
Suddenly, I reached to unclasp the window, already in directorial mode, "I know what to do."
"Mom! He needs food!"
"Let's put him in a box until daddy gets home. I'll be right out."
So we did. One girl ran and got a Nike shoe box and a Styrofoam cup that she'd cut down and filled with water. Perfect. Careful not to touch the rat, I gently nudged it onto a flat-nosed shovel and set it into the box, near the water, and closed the lid. Hours later I looked in the box and the rat had died with its nose in the water.

While driving to work this morning, I ruminated on the former exciting afternoon and lamented the rat's demise. I actually said it out loud to myself alone in the car, "poor thing."
I just read a book about a man (Timothy Treadwell or Tim Dexter was his real name) and woman (Amie Huguenard) who were killed and eaten by a bear in Alaska and didn't have the same reaction. Why?
Then the answer came to me.
Because the rat didn't want to die, and there are much crueler ways to die in the wild. My son pointed out that he could have been eaten by "Riley," our wild caught king snake who we recently let loose in the back hill. That's not a pretty way to go.
Yes, that and a million other ways, I thought.
So, what's the meaning of this rumination into the jaws of death? I dunno, but it sure has me thinking about being a vegetarian.

Spirits & Salinas Valley Today

2010-08-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

I wonder what Steinbeck would say about Salinas today…As I drive by the fields every day, I see the workers bent over and think about how it might have looked a hundred and fifty years ago. The book I've been trying to write is underneath my skin like some kind of parasite I cannot rid myself of, yet I need to do it to feel better. I want to write about the everyday people who came to the valley after the gold rush. Those who started Salinas. So, what is stopping me from doing this? I've researched the story I'm talking about writing. I know it every which way. I breathe the dust of the fields and feel the cool moist air. I wonder though, does anyone care? Beyond the occasional visitor to east garrison's small cemetery who sees the children's graves and thinks a moment before moving on, who really and truly cares? When I go to the library and see the books everywhere, how can there be enough time in one's entire life to read them all? Does the world need another book? But there is some kind of magical spirit in the valley that I drive through every day that speaks to me, pushing me to write this story. I don't know why.

Singing the prednisone blues….again

2010-08-03T15:28:00.000-07:00

I've been on the hell drug prednisone for 10 years now for multiple autoimmune diseases. The highest dose was 60 milligrams (mg), and slowly I've gotten down to as little as 2.5 mg for a short time. That was a year ago. I ended up in the hospital with excruciating stomach pains and finally after about 8 hours of increasing despair, bleeding from you know where. That's called a flare in the world of autoimmune disease. A very bad one. In the hospital they gave me high doses of IV prednisone and, of course, like magic, all is well. Two months later, the same thing happened. I was in another hospital for a week. Then I was back to 60 mg. daily. I've gained 20 pounds, about the weight I was when giving birth to my first child. It disgusts me to look in the mirror. This hell drug has aged me beyond my years. Over the last several months I've been going slowly down again and have made it to 7 mg, but now I feel like I'm in some kind of shock from forgetting to take my 5 mg pill along with my two 1 mg pills the other day. I haven't recovered from that. It's a flu-like feeling and totally out of it. I want to continue to go down and get this shit out of my system, but I'm also scared that by going down even 1 more mg I will go backwards...afraid of feeling the constant pain that wears me down so bad that all I do is sob, and having no energy to work, let alone write or "have fun" with my kids, husband, anyone...... it's a catch 22. Such a tricky game to play once you're on prednisone--you don't know if you're just having withdrawals from the drug or if your disease is getting worse from not using it. I'm putting this up as a warning to anyone whose doctor wants to put them on prednisone. BEWARE!

First Local Authors Live Event a Hit!

2010-07-27T13:34:00.000-07:00

For those who didn't come, you missed a great happening. For those who did, I hope you stopped by to say hello. I enjoyed chatting with everyone. There seemed to be a constant flow of people coming through the barnyard on Saturday. I couldn't believe the number of authors there (61)! Wow! And guess what? The Coast Weekly is putting together a blog of writers too. Soon you'll be able to go to a site online and look up your favorite author(s). I'm stoked about that development! The only complaint I have is not being close enough to hear all the great music. Maybe next year my table will be closer to the band.

LOCAL AUTHORS LIVE!

2010-07-22T08:52:00.001-07:00

Come to the Barnyard in Carmel on Saturday 24th from 12-4pm and commune with over 45 (and some have reported more than 60) local authors and a community of readers. Listen to music from Sidesaddle & Co. and the Bay Belles and don't forget to drop by my booth--table number 30. All profits from my book sales will go to benefit local libraries. For more details about who will be there, see Marc Cabrera's article in the Go section of The Herald today.

Hope to see you there!

Book Number 6

2010-07-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

The sixth book I'm going to list here is an old one that I read way back when I was a teenager. It may have been my first Stephen King novel. I still think it's one of his best: The Stand. The main thing I like about King's work are his characters. To me they're like coming home to a room full of old friends. That might make me sound strange, to relate to characters written by the "master of horror," but I think it's what makes his books good. I haven't read every book he's ever written, and some I definitely like more than others, but The Stand is amongst his best work. And it isn't the story either, which has nothing at all to do with the plot of East Garrison. The Stand is about a final fight between good and evil after a plague kills about 99 percent of the world population.

King likes to write in first person, but this novel is written in a rotating omniscient third person. It's the same technique I used in EG. I like to switch from character to character, giving each some time at the wheel. To get into the characters, I literally have to become them, even when it's hard on my family. I can see why writers don't want to write certain kinds of books. It's exhausting to be a pregnant emotional basket case for months, but essentially it has to be done to get it right (for me).

What this means to me is being honest. King talks a lot about writing honestly. All writers try to do that, but it doesn't always come off. When it came to writing EG, most of the characters were easy because I did know them all. Not to say it's easy to write a book. I've never been pregnant and attacked by a mountain lion! So what do you do then? Research! Research! Research!

King's The Stand deserves reading because the characters (and there are many of them) are unforgettable. You'll relate to them. This is particularly true if you grew up on 80s rock, which he always uses. It sets the mood well and tells you a lot about his sense of sick humor. (Ever read "Survivor Type"?) Don't be put off by the size of this book. It goes fast when you're in King's company. You'll enjoy taking a road trip with the cast of The Stand. Take a walk on the wild side and try it.

Book Number 5

2010-06-11T10:43:00.000-07:00

"To Build a Fire" a short story by Jack London, first published in 1908, is the fourth story that helped inspire East Garrison. It's about an inexperienced protagonist, accompanied only by a dog, who struggles unsuccessfully to save himself from freezing to death after a series of mishaps across the Yukon Territory near Alaska. London brilliantly depicts themes of fear, death, and man versus nature. Written with short, to-the-point sentences, the story paints the stark, harsh setting extremely well, and tells a simple, moving tale of a man's foolishness in trying to survive against an adversary, nature, over which he has no control. I simply love this story.

In some ways, the protagonist in "To Build a Fire" is a lot like my character Jack in East Garrison. At first he is filled with the arrogance of his assurance that he is capable of surviving an extremely cold, dangerous journey with just a dog for companionship, even when he'd been warned by an old-timer that "when it is seventy-five below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire," and also that "no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below." But he believes "any man who was a man could travel alone." Eventually, when the man builds a fire and it gets put out because he foolishly built it underneath a snow-covered tree branch, he thinks, "The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right…after fifty below, a man should travel with a partner." Soon after, in the end, as he's falling into a deep sleep from which he'll never awake, he says, "You were right, old hoss; you were right."

I wanted to reproduce something of the unforgiving environment of London's story, but East Garrison cannot compare to Alaska in any way. Instead, I compromised by adding a situation of life and death with a baby newly born after an animal attack, and then the mother's need to survive to keep her baby alive. For her to do this she resorts to doing something that most people have never heard of a woman doing, but it is something people actually do even when they are nowhere near the kind of desperate situation I put Tracy and her newborn in. This particular scene has been mentioned to me many times; Some people hate it, some love it, and others merely mention the fact to me I guess as a "conversation starter." When it came to writing that particular scene, it was never a question of whether or not to put it in. It was just something that Tracy did to survive. I imagined that would be what any mother would do. In the animal world, it is what mothers do. I apologize to those who don't get that. Look it up.

If you have not read "To Build a Fire," google it. You can read it numerous places online. The story is merely 12 pages, but it's gold, pure gold.

SHAM SHAM SHAM!

2010-06-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

Is there any honor in the publishing world anymore? Ok, I admit I'm jaded, but I have every right to be! It's proven to me time and time again, just now, only moments ago, how many traitors and parasites are in this "new world of publishing." You've read it before, how basically 'self-publishers' work off writers' dreams. Well, they do more than that. They eat the bread out of starving artist's mouths. That's where the evil lies.

Let me tell you a true story. It's about a writer, a good one, who had a dream to become a working writer. So, she did the work required to learn her trade, many years of it, and then began the harder work of writing many stories with a mentor, sending them off to hundreds of publishers and agents, waiting months (each time) to hear if they'd been accepted for publication, and then she even made use of the rejection slips. She wallpapered a closet with them. Most were standard photocopied slips sent to the masses without any personalized words of encouragement at all, but some had small hand-written notes that did provide her with hope. She'd read many times that such tiny gestures on the part of editors were to be taken as good signs, meaning her stories showed promise. Therefore, she kept at the dream, publishing a few stories here, winning a contest there, until one day she'd completed her first full length novel. Again, she went through the right processes, sending the manuscript or proposal or cover or whatever was asked off to agents, small publishers, even contests, but could not find anyone willing to take on an unknown writer. After much careful consideration and research, she decided to publish her novel with the help of a "reputable" company who would give her everything a BIG publisher would (for the money), and if the book was good enough, she believed it would stand on its own merit and her dream would come true. And the "reputable" company, BP (not real name for reasons of liability), agreed that this is how it's done. (Note that these are opinions biased by personal interest.)

Foolish child. It's not about worth and merit. It's much simpler than that! It's connections and already being a celebrity! You either have the connections or you don't. You're already a celebrity or you're not. Simple. But she didn't know that for some time. She did her best promoting her book once it came out, got good, even rave reviews, press coverage, interviews, and had book signings. In fact she did everything right, yet nothing came of it. BP failed to live up to its contract with her and began billing her. When she refused to pay, they deducted her book sales from the money they said she owed them. So, she began selling her own books on consignment out of several local stores and even made some money, all of which she reinvested to try to further promote her book. The dream still there, eventually she tried a few writing contests, thinking that if she won a contest, she'd get publicity and who knows what more would come of her book. She did win one and got a HUGE article in one of the big local papers. Still, no agents called, no big publishing houses, no interviews outside of her own small pond.

After her win in the contest she began receiving offers to help her promote her book (for a price). She looked at all the offers, but knew she could no longer "invest" in her dream. The last twine of hope broke just a few minutes ago when she went to check out an offer that sounded too good to pass up. This one from the sponsor, JG (not real name for reasons of liability), of a contest she'd entered and not won called the IPPYs or the Independent Publisher Book Awards. They'd offered her placement in a catalogue, "Foreign Rights Connect," which they supposedly send out to over 6,000 foreign publishers, agents, etc. for a fee of over $100 for one time placement. She'd asked to see the catalogue, and they'd sent her four pages of a simple pdf. file filled with 16 books. She took one author's name from two of the books in the catalogue and sent an e-mail inquiring about the catalogue and if the author had received any bites. But this author had never put his book into this "catalogue," and, in fact, offered wise words like "it's not worth the money." The word "Sham" came to her mind. It's all a bloody sham. And poof, just like that, her dream died.

Yes, it's a sad tale, but sadder still the fact that the same story happens all the time. More and more people are buying into this same dream and are being scammed. Maybe it's not BP, but another so-called "reputable company." And I'm here to say STOP. Don't give these slick snake oil salesmen your dreams. Don't do it. Spare yourself the heartache, not to mention your hard-made dough. There has to be another way. A right way. At the moment the answer escapes me. All I know to be true is that this concept does not work. Maybe it's the economy. Maybe it's that no one reads anymore. Maybe we just have too many bloody writers. Whatever the truth is, the world doesn't need any more writers with their hearts torn out, stomped on, and dreams shattered. Put your dream on the shelf for now. Don't do anything EXCEPT keep writing. It doesn't have to be read by anyone. For now.

East Garrison wins National Indie Excellence Award for Regional Fiction!

2010-05-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

Book Number 4

2010-05-26T09:01:00.000-07:00

House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus II has some obvious similarities to East Garrison: its title, the book's cover, and the narrative's repeated mention of fog. Other than that, it is NOT about the American Dream gone bad, as is the basic plot summary of House of Sand and Fog. Dubus's novel spoke to me on many levels through its stark prose and unwavering portrayal of reality. But what influenced me most were the setting and one of the main characters, Kathy Nicolo, a self-destructive alcoholic who cleans houses for her meager living.

I not only read Dubus's novel, I've lived it. I put myself through many years of college by cleaning people's houses. And I know too well the devastation alcoholism brings having been raised by two alcoholics and done my share of the same. I've lived most my life in the East Bay Area and now on the Central Coast. Mist and fog are as familiar to me as are snowstorms and ice to people who live in the Midwest. Fog is a great mood setter. Fort Ord's climate is misty and cloudy 99 percent of the time. It's precisely for that reason that the land made a terrific Army base. Cloaked in its own microclimate, it's difficult to detect what's going on just behind that layer of dense, wet air.

Dubus's novel mounts tragedy upon tragedy until the tension is almost unbearable. A series of mistakes (similar to the Donner story) take on monumental meaning as the narrative moves the characters into a final position against a wall from which they cannot escape. House of Sand and Fog's inevitable conclusion is painfully dark, but honest—both traits that I admire in writing. This is not a novel for everyone, but what book is?

Book Number 3

2010-05-12T15:46:00.000-07:00

The third book that influenced East Garrison is Tom Wolfe's novel, A Man in Full. This humongous 742-page satire is about sixty-year-old real estate mogul, “Cap’m” Charles Croker whose world is collapsing amidst racial tension in Atlanta, Georgia. In the end, “Cap’m” Charlie is saved from a moral dilemma by Stoicism, a school of Hellenistic philosophy founded in Athens in the early 3rd century BC. Each chapter is told from the point of view of one of a handful of characters, primarily “Cap’m” Charlie, young idealist Conrad Hensley, and up and coming African American attorney Roger White II.

Basically, I loved the structure of A Man in Full and used it as a model for East Garrison. Wolfe's story goes completely full circle with “Cap’m” Charlie and Conrad Hensley, who are not just chronologically and geographically miles apart, but also portray extremes of rich and poor. Eventually, through a looong series of coincidences the two meet, and young Hensley, a recent believer in Stoicism, teaches “Cap’m” Charlie its basic tenets. The characters, setting, story, and particularly the dialog in A Man in Full are all spot on, hilarious, and unique. Wolfe is a master with dialog, which is something most writers admire. The implausibility of “Cap’m” Charlie and Hensley finally connecting is one interesting, fun ride. Although East Garrison isn't an epic like Wolfe's novel, not even close, I tried to follow the basic structure of having characters in a setting where they’re unaware of the other’s presence, yet seemingly their lives are revolving around each other, and eventually all end up together.

In my story, I had the father Jack, the antagonist, become the hero of the story in a most unlikely turn of events. There’s also a convoluted philosophy which isn't Stoicism, but a unique blend of the Theosophical society, numerology, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and an ancient symbol, the swastika. “Cap’m” Charlie goes from riches to rags, and so does Jack. That’s about where the similarity ends. Wolfe’s novel is a satire. I consider East Garrison a modern horror story. But it helped to have a structure that I liked and seemed to work well while writing my first novel. If you haven’t read A Man in Full, I highly recommend it.

Book Number 2

2010-05-03T07:45:00.000-07:00

The second book that influenced East Garrison is a classic: Jaws by Peter Benchley. This fiction book put a name to the fear we all have when in large pools of water. My own fear was already there while being forced to learn to water ski when I was about 8 years old. If you don't know how to water ski, I'll break it down:

1. Alone in the water with a pair of skis and a rope tied to a boat.
2. You give the "thumbs up," meaning you're ready to try to get up on those skis.
3. If you're lucky, you get yanked out of the water the first time and away from the evil lurking below you. (I always pictured a green and slimy white hand grabbing for my ankle in the wake of the boat as I skied off.)
4. Eventually you fall or have to let go of the rope. (There's no other known way to get back into the safety of the boat without going back into the water first.)
5. You wait alone in the water until you're rescued, praying the boat will come back quickly. For me, this was the worst part. I'd try to lie perfectly still on top of my skis, praying the unnamed beast would mistake me for a floating log until the boat returned (which never failed to take an eternity) to save me.

After Jaws came out, and we all saw the shark's point of view under the water, with our legs thrashing, looking so helpless, swimming became a terrifying experience. Hell, even the bathtub was a place of horror for me. I still can't shake the image of my white legs underneath the water.

While writing East Garrison, a number of rare mountain lion attacks happened in California, and naturally one of North America's biggest predators became the antagonist. Not just a mountain lion though, a female mountain lion with cubs. This paralleled Tracy, the pregnant protagonist. This lion wasn't randomly killing people, like in Jaws; she was just protecting her cubs, but I did keep in mind the way Benchley wrote Jaws, particularly in the prologue and the epilogue. It is, after all, a classic.

Stories that Influenced East Garrison

2010-04-28T14:05:00.000-07:00

Stories, so many stories. That's what makes us human, isn't it? We like to tell our stories. Many are pretty forgetable, but some stick someplace in your brain forever. It's those stories that influence our writing. For me, there were many tales, both fiction and non-fiction that made me want to write East Garrison. I'll begin with one and try to add another each day or so.

The first is a true story that happened to a group of American pioneers in 1846-47. The Donner Party story took place in the northern mountains of California called the Sierra Nevada, so maybe that's why I learned about it early in my life, but it’s also a classic story that would resonate with anyone who has ever been to the snow. The one time I've come remotely close to understanding the cold and fright of being lost in the snow was when I was about 15 years old. My older sister and I went skiing in Lake Tahoe, which is right next to where the Donner Party spent one very cold winter in the 1840s. My sister had taken acid and failed to inform me. She suggested that we go off the main trail, something that is strictly forbidden, for obvious reasons, but we were teenagers. Need I say more? I was never a very good skier and didn't have any ski gear. This day I was wearing what was then the fashion: elephant leg blue jeans. Of course, I fell in the powdered snow off the main trail, deep in the woods, and couldn't get up. My sister, tripping, laughed her ass off as I tried and failed to retrieve my runaway skis. I ended up walking through the snow, which was waist deep, and filled each pant leg up to my hips. Somehow I made it to the main runway and took a tram, or whatever they call it, back down. By that time my legs were frozen. I was so shaken up, I couldn't ski. To this day, I haven't gotten over my fear. I suppose that I thought I was going to freeze to death.

Essentially the Donner Party's story stemmed from two things: taking the wrong trail, one that wasn't proven, a kind of cut-off to get to their destination quicker, and two, bad luck. They missed getting over the mountain by one day. The epic tale is filled with tragedy followed by tragedy. There were 87 people who began the journey from Independence, Missouri; only 48 survived. Of course, all anyone seems to recall about the Donner story is that they had to resort to cannibalism to survive, but there is so much more to the tale than that. Check it out! And if you ever get the chance, go to the state park and take a tour. You won't forget it.

If you want to read the latest up to date information on the Donner Party, which is in the news again, go to http://donnerblog.blogspot.com/

THIS AIN'T NO PLACE TO LOOSE YOUR MIND...

2010-04-25T18:16:00.000-07:00

Is it a blessing or a curse to be an artist? I think the latter. Long gone are the days of easy success, if ever there was such a thing as "easy success," but I do long for the days when a writer could walk into an agent's office with manuscript in hand and wait until it's read. Then, voila, instant success. This, by the way, is a story told by mega-famous writer Truman Capote. Not today. No way Jose. There are those, I'm certain, who do luck out though. Just look at J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter Series. But I don't fall into the lucky category. I need all the luck I can get. I suppose that's why I cling to good luck symbols, hoping some will rub off. I can't even get a story of local interest covered in the community papers. Okay, well, if East Garrison were true, not shades of both (called fiction), it'd have a better chance. But there was a tiny problem with that: I wasn't attacked by a mountain lion while nine months pregnant, so I had to make up that part.

Today people want REALITY. I understand the frustrations of a writer by the name of James Frey who wrote "A million little pieces." He couldn't sell his novel until he changed it from fiction to non-fiction, fitting nicely into a category aptly named misery memoir. (Hey! I can do that!) You know the story don't you? Oprah loved the book, Frey got his fame, but then the little matter of truth came out.

So, what's my beef? Guess I'm having a "This ain't no place for the weary kind" of day. (This is the title song from "Crazy Heart," by the way.) Writers relate. People with chronic diseases relate. I'm in both categories, so my misery is doubled. With that in mind, knowing all this changes nothing. Stephen King, my mentor before I had a mentor, wrote "be true to yourself." I gotta do what I do. No fakin' it. The misery memoir I'm currently writing has a hell of a lot of truth in it, but the fictional part is there too. Has to be. That's what I do. East Garrison was the same. Lots of reality, lots of made up parts.
That's what makes writing fun.

Is this the fun part? Are we having fun yet?

NEWS FLASH! Another Jack Attack!

2010-04-21T10:20:00.000-07:00

My fictional anti-hero, Jack Erslager (or as screenwriting teacher Bobbi said, No! He's not the anti-hero; He's the nemesis!) in East Garrison can't get a break. He continues to rub a certain person (let's just call him Dick) the wrong way and thus, since Jack ain't around, I get blamed for his bad behavior. Well, I guess I created him, so why not blame the writer? You're wondering here, what the hell is she talking about? Hey, it's a long story…I'll cut to the chase; Jack is a little mixed up. He's delusional from pickling his brain with alcohol + his vacation in Vietnam. He can't stop smoking that wacki-tobaki and obsessing about what he believes is suppressed information about that most misunderstood symbol, the swastika.

Another wacko, Dick, a live, educated middle-aged man, has confused me with a "bad person who posts Nazi swastikas" on my blog. He's already blacklisted me to a library committee and the local chapter of the California Writers' Club. Now he's trying to kill anything I try to get the papers to print, even if it's not about me. Example: me and another woman are trying to get a monthly local writers' open mike started at a great spot on Fisherman's Wharf called Paluca Trattoria. Our first night shined on our little corner of the pier. Of course, since I was the featured reader, Dick didn't want word of our new monthly event supported in any way by the paper he works for (as a journalist!). I have a friend who works at the same paper, so I got the inside scoop. My initial impression is--IGNORAMUS! Would this person think the same thing if he saw a Buddhist monk wear a swastika? Would he point and shout, "Bad person! Nazi swastika!" In Buddhism, the swastika signifies auspiciousness and good fortune. The swastika is an ancient symbol found worldwide, but it's especially common in India. It can be seen in the art of the Egyptians, Romans, Greeks, Celts, Native Americans, and Persians, as well as Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists. (http://www.religionfacts.com/buddhism/symbols/swastika.htm)

I'm disturbed by this "knee-jerk reaction" to the swastika. I swear, I'm not a bad person, and I don't post Nazi swastikas on my blog. So, if I catch wind again of anything remotely resembling defamation of my character, and not fictitious Jack, I'm going to get happy with a lawsuit. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Dick.

Oh, how it hurts...NOT!

2010-04-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to promote an open mike for local writers on Fisherman's Wharf. One of my writer friends, Pat Hanson, has always wanted to emcee such an event, and somehow I got involved after reading a "pregnant with danger" story in our local paper, Monterey County Weekly. After reading their 831 story about a couple who get lost while hiking in big sur while the woman is pregnant, I wrote to the Weekly. That's about the gist of it. I didn't find the article very compelling at all, but it did remind me of my own book about a very pregnant woman who comes into close contact with a big mountain lion in an area of the base that has been closed to the public for over a decade. This place, as well as the book, are both named East Garrison. So, naturally I sent off a letter to the paper, (who incidentally is the ONLY local paper who has not written anything about my book or me), saying essentially "if you want to read a heart-pounding pregnant with danger story, why don't you review my book?" To date I havn't received a reply from the paper. Once, a while ago, when I hounded them about getting a review, I did get an answer, and I'm paraphrasing here, "You've received enough coverage in the other papers." Hmmm, I wonder why they keep doing stories on Clint Eastwood...hasn't he gotten enough coverage Internationally? Why not help promote local writers, the little guys and gals who live here and write about the area? Isn't that what local papers do? Alas, it is, as they say, out of my hands. I have a crazy idea though, that if I were to win a prize or sell the rights to my story for a movie, something like that, they might want to do a story...

OUTSTANDING 1st Local Writers' Open Mike at Paluca Trattoria, April 8th, 2010

2010-04-12T08:19:00.000-07:00

A huge wooden lion sitting by the bicycle rack at the corner of Fisherman's Wharf pointed the way to the writers' meeting. The bottom rectangular portion of the sign had pictures of famous local writers. Over a dozen writers sat around a huge outdoor table overlooking the boats and occasional beast bobbing in Monterey Bay. One obnoxious seagull squawked his approval as writers read. Gwyn Weger, alias G.M. Weger, was the evening's feature local writer. She talked a little about her experience publishing East Garrison and introduced characters from her novel. Throughout the evening excerpts were read from Weger's thrilling "pregnant with danger" story to Pat Hanson's poignant "Invisible Grandparent" project to Wanda Sue Parrot's hilarious acting out of a creative rendition of Rapunzel. Each reader was given 5 minutes to read, except for the evening's feature writer. Weger read selections of East Garrison, including a few parts from the beginning chapter set on our own Fort Ord, where the protagonist's father, Jack, is introduced. Jack, the most controversial character in the novel, and some may say the most interesting, is a homeless messianic Vietnam veteran living in his van with his dog, smoking pot, and searching for truth in hieroglyphs and numerology, which he believes he's found in the nine points of the swastika. His daughter, Tracy, estranged from him for many years, is about to give birth for the first time. She's searching for resolution with her father. Weger also read from a section where Tracy and her Goddess-loving friend, Angela, go to the East Garrison (where the police don't patrol) looking for her father, Jack. Instead, they have a close encounter of the feline kind. Although Weger didn't give away the ending, she led the group up to a heart-stopping heroic moment before Angela is about to tackle her very large opponent to save her pregnant friend.

Throughout the evening beverages and a variety of food were served by the restaurant's excellent staff. Paluca Trattoria proved to be a perfect location for the event, which will be held monthly on the second Thursday from approximately 5:30 until as late as 8:00, depending on the number of readers, although this first night's readings didn't begin until 6pm and writers stayed until the restaurant's owner, Sal Tedesco, reminded the group to finish their orders because they were closing down. The last stragglers left after 9pm.
Note for those who want to attend next month: The parking lot by Fisherman's Wharf has free 2 hour parking for locals (living in Monterey County). All you have to do is show your ID. The people who stayed longest, 4 hours, group organizers Pat Hanson and Gwyn Weger, paid $2 to park in the lot.

REQUIM FOR A FREE-THINKING DREAMER

2010-02-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

A letter to Dad, my constant character

I miss you.
Never thought I’d say that after you were dead. That’s the farthest thing from how I thought I’d feel. That I’d remember you and be relieved you were no longer around as a constant worry on the top of many other worries, yes. That I would, perhaps, no longer feel overwhelmed by your never ending needs as your disease progressed, of course. I even thought I might finally get back my life. But a funny thing happened. I gained an appreciation of your unorthodox point of view and unique character and realized that I would never again be able to have a conversation with you about anything.
I asked a friend, “How many fathers can you have a conversation with about pot?” Did I think I’d miss that? No way. I had taken on the parent role in your presence, shielding my children from their grandfather’s ‘wicked ways.’ My husband often chastised you. In the end, you finally “got it” and, after reaching automatically for one of your pipes (one for tobacco; the other for pot), you would suddenly stop and look around. You became less selfish and noticed others. After 46 years knowing you as the ultimate selfish person with eccentric theories, I couldn’t accept your new found observations of blemishes on my face or my tired appearance. One day close to your death you said out of the clear blue, “You know Gwyn, I love you very much,” and another, when you finally relinquished your ATM card for me to take care of your money matters, “I know you’re capable of doing this, Gwyn.”
To really understand you I had to watch the old Disney movie “The Three Cabellerros.” The tale of Donald Duck in South America, filled with beautiful Latin women, romantic music, and, of course, silly Donald Duck in love. This was YOU pre-marriage and kids, the war memorabilia business, alcohol, and sailing to Hawaii and back when you quit drinking, took to smoking weed, lost your sailboat, business, and home. After that came the period I wrote about in “East Garrison.” The crazy father period when you became obsessed with numerology, Egypt, hieroglyphs, and seeking the truth. This was the father I could never connect with.
I’m alone now, an orphan in the world. I’m responsible for raising my own children, and I can focus entirely on them, but I miss you dad. All of you. I never realized how much it would hurt to not have you in my life. It wasn’t a relief for you to die. I’m sorry I never told you how much I love you too.
If there is a heaven and you are in it, please watch over me, Dad. I need you now more than ever before. I’m barely hanging to this life by two umbilical cords. You gave me reason to live--to take care of you. Now that you’re gone, I’m lost. Help me to find my own way again.
I’ll love you forever,
Your Penguin

LUPIS (OR LUPUS) and the emerald witch.

2010-01-25T19:26:00.000-08:00

The allure of absinthe has me in its seductive grip. I've now tried two brands, or really only one, called "Lucid." It's magnificent! The other one is pictured and is not absinthe. It doesn't louche. Tastes, literally like Scope mouthwash, and is artificially colored and sweetened. Yuck. Can I say more? But, as can be seen, isn't the bottle cool?
:-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

LUPUS AND THE EMERALD WITCH

2010-01-20T18:28:00.000-08:00

Sorry fans (if there are any??), but I must remove Lupus & the emerald witch for reasons unexplainable.

BOTTLED MADNESS

2010-01-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

The masks we wear have become so ingrained that we don’t even know that we are wearing them.
Remember Elenor Rigby? Wearing a mask that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?
The Frida Kahlo painting I dislike the most, and that’s saying a lot because I LOVE Frida, is one called “The Mask.” Hayden Herrera describes it thus: “In The Mask Frida hides behind a weeping purple-haired mask that expresses her feelings of craziness. The disjunction between the masked and the real Frida is more disconcerting than in other self-portraits, because here the real Frida watches us through holes in the mask’s eyes.”

And so, I’ve decided to let you, the reader, watch me, the writer, through your anonymous mask of the Internet, as I unveil, LUPUS: and the emerald witch.
Rules to follow.

EAST GARRISON'S GONE OVER THE BORDER

2010-01-13T07:32:00.000-08:00

That's right! East Garrison is now available in Santa Cruz County at the bookstore Capitola Book Cafe! Stop by their awesome store, have a cup of java, and marvel at their calendar of events. They're located at 1475 - 41st Avenue Capitola CA 95010, at the corner of 41st Ave. (off Hwy 1) and Capitola Road.
Of course, you can always go online and order a copy from one of a hundred places, but there's nothing like experiencing a local bookstore. I also encourage everyone to support their local businesses.

STILL IN PURSUIT OF THE DREAM

2009-12-16T12:11:00.000-08:00

Thinking back over the last 12 months, I thought I'd highlight some of my writing/publishing wisdom in "A Christmas Carol" sort of way. I've been visited in 2009 by many ghosts of my past, present, and future. However, as I began writing about my lost year, I lost interest. I mean, what a ride this year has been for me! Instead, I decided to write about something that happened to me in November that opened my eyes to my little corner of the world.

In September I'd been invited to read from my book, East Garrison, at a local library event that had been put together by a couple people who I knew through the Central Coast Writers club (CCW), a branch of the California Writers Club. The reading was scheduled for November 12th. On November 8th, my father and model for the homeless Vietnam veteran character in my book, died. A few days later, I was UNinvited to participate in the library reading due to material I'd posted on my blog. To be blunt, specifically the use of werewolves, vampires, and the swastika. The persons who objected to me didn't know that they were depriving me of my basic right to freedom of speech and, in fact, were censoring me. I was told that I just "wasn't a good fit." Nightmares of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 began to haunt me.

I never gave Bradbury's book much thought before. I mean, I live in America and have the right to freedom of speech. That's something I read about in history class. Fahrenheit 451, was published in 1953 (ten years before I was even born) and critiques what Bradbury saw as issues in American society of the era. In the twentieth century, book burning was considered the same as irrationality. The beginning of Fahrenheit 451 has been written about as being "contagious with the period of Nazi anti-intellectualism during the late 1930s." The novel also appears during the era known as the McCarthy period, characterized by blacklisting, and censorship.

Well, I was really, really hurt by the misunderstanding these two people were making. I mean, literally, my book and material on my blog have nothing to do with vampires or werewolves, and the swastika is an ancient symbol for good fortune. But the facts didn't make a difference. I became a scapegoat as this incident was brought to the attention of other CCW members and a lawyer/writer friend of mine who tried to "fix" the misunderstanding.

What happened? The person resigned from CCW and from putting together reading events at the library, but not before writing letters that weren't altogether truthful about what had happened. As I read his letters of lies about me, I became, at first, extremely angry. But anger isn't an emotion I'm comfortable with, I grow ulcers instead, and soon I found myself curled in the fetal position in bed.

What did I do? Nothing. The energy required to defend myself against the lies overwhelmed me, and I cried. I thought about Shakespeare's quote about protesting too much and let the issue die.

I now know what it feels like to be a scapegoat, and have also learned something about people that my father knew. He had spent a good two decades trying to educate the Western world about the true meaning of the swastika, and had come up against the same resistance. I'm still surprised that anything I've written and posted would need to be suppressed by anyone.

Fahrenheit 451 ends with the same premise as Dickens' classic Christmas tale. The society the protagonist knew has almost completely collapsed and a new society must be built from the ashes, like the phoenix rising. It's unknown whether this new society will meet the same fate, but it's implied that the book-keepers will begin to build mirror factories (mirrors are a metaphor for books) to show people who they are, what they have become, and how they can change with time and knowledge.

The year 2009 has come full circle. It has been a year filled with writing and publishing wisdom for me. Unfortunately, wisdom comes at a high price. I see the future if I stay this course, but I'm hopeful about 2010 and intend to make BIG changes in my life to interrupt what I see as my fate.

I hope the New Year brings good fortune to you, and may God (feel free to insert whatever word suits you) bless us, every one!

OUT TO LUNCH

2009-12-02T09:32:00.000-08:00

I fear my mind is going south for the winter. My modern "Christmas Carol" is already on my website! If you want to read, or even LISTEN to the rest of the story PLUS see the creepy illustration of the three visiting "spirits" drawn in a pencil sketch for Nth Degree Magazine by brilliant artist Billy Tackett, go to: http://www.gmweger.com/works_the_rationale.html

God Bless Us, Every One!

LATEST REVISION OF DICKENS' CLASSIC HOLIDAY TALE IS THE BEST YET

2009-11-29T18:25:00.000-08:00

This weekend my family and a couple extra kids went to see Dickens'
"A Christmas Carol" in 3D. The one with Jim Carrey as Scrooge. Well, at least his voice. I simply loved it.

When I got home, I pulled out my illustrated copy that was printed in England, and peered at the drawings of various scenes. I'm not entirely certain, but the pictures look an awful lot like in the movie I'd seen a few hours earlier.

I wonder how many times "A Christmas Carol" has been revised. Even I have taken a shot at it, although, at the time I wrote the story (below), I don't recall thinking about Dickens.

So, in honor of Charles Dickens enduring, delightful, and immortal "A Christmas Carol," I'm posting my contemporary-horror version in three parts. Enjoy! G.M. Weger

THE RATIONALE

2009-11-29T18:14:00.000-08:00

My modern-horror version of Dickens' classic, "A Christmas Carol."

The Rationale by G.M. Weger

In the early morning hours I awoke from a dream, and he was standing in the doorway. He had his father’s olive skin, green, catlike eyes, and wavy golden hair. There was something familiar about him, so I didn’t scream. He came and sat at the foot of my bed.

“Do you know me, mother? I’m your son, Aaron.”

I was speechless. He was so close that I could smell his salty skin and grease-stained hands. I thought that I must be in that state halfway between the waking and the sleeping. Last night was All Hallow’s Eve, the night where it is said that the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted and one can speak with their departed loved ones. I laid out my offering of crackers and cheese, ham, carrots, some truffles, and shots of rum - things I thought my relatives would enjoy after their long journey across the worlds. I set out pictures of my mother and grandmothers, - my grandmother’s engagement ring, my mother’s pearls, an embroidered tablecloth made by my maternal grandmother - things that reminded me of them or once were theirs, and three small stuffed toys for my lost babies.

“Am I dreaming?” I asked the young man.

“No mother, you’re not.”

“Why have you come?”

“You invited me.” His manner was direct, matter-of-fact, short.

“How did I do that?”

“You put the blue bear on the table for me and asked that I come.”

“Are you my first?”

“Yes.”

I remember the tacky upstairs apartment I lived in with his father. The passionate fights we used to have. How he would push me around so violently, throw me up against the wall, just short of hitting me. I remember making up after the fights, how good the sex would be, the orgasms, like a surprise. I remember the hurt when Mike wouldn’t go with me to have the abortion. I was so young. It meant nothing to me to get rid of it.

“Is this how you would be if I had you or how I want to see you?”

“This is the truth. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

Aaron looked older than his 24 years. It was in his eyes – pain, defeat, anger, defiance - things that weren’t supposed to be in a young man’s face. The eyes tell so much. Looking at old school photos of my sister I could tell what happened that year just by looking at her eyes. They went from childlike, happy, and innocent, to pissed-off and stoned. Lost was the sweetness of youth. But where did it go? When was the exact moment that the eyes changed? Was it when I was born and took the attention away? Was it the first time I betrayed her by going out with Mike?

“What do you want, mother?”

He didn’t want to be there. I could tell by the way he was sitting close, but with a wall between us. “Just to see you, I guess. I’ve often wondered what you would have been like…if I’d had you.”

“Yeah? I’ve got some questions for you too.” He stood up. “Like, why was I born.”

I was too young to be living with a man. He was the quintessential bad dude - a drug-addicted whore who’d do anything for pleasure. I don’t know how we rented our places to live, but we did – two of them. It was in the second one that I got pregnant. By that time, in addition to pot and booze, I’d either smoked swallowed or snorted quaaludes, valium, seconal, acid, cocaine, morphine, crank, angel dust, mushrooms, and pretty much anything I could find in a medicine cabinet. The time spent with Mike is a blur of drugged-out scenes.

“But you weren’t born. I aborted you.” I finally answered, confused.

“You didn’t want me then. That’s worse.”

“How can it be worse when the life I would have given you was so…insane?”

He glared at me and turned his head toward the window. I could see it then. It wasn’t visible on the left side of his face – a lovely, clear complexion with the smooth, olive skin of his Portuguese father. The right was different, like the front side of a cheese grater – angry purple craters – the scars we gave him from our sexual ignorance, and he wore without choice. They were his warrior marks.

“It’s like saying that it’s better not to try because you might fail. You took away my life.”

“It’s complicated Aaron.” I suddenly felt drained. How could I justify my choice to him? I was just a child without thought for what precious life was growing inside me.

He left then. Just turned and faded into a zillion black specks that fell away like so much flea dirt. I wanted to shake it off of me and leave it there, having been its host for too long. I closed my eyes. Silence, how I longed for it.

End part I.

Stand-in war correspondent

2009-11-20T20:43:00.000-08:00

Until the imminent writer, G.M. Weger, returns to her BLOG from her repose, Filbert Von Den Haagen will be standing in to entertain readers.

Once upon a time in a place far away called Lafiregret. You may have heard of it in the East Bay Area. The date: 1974. The business? Delta International -- a tiny, unmarked, second-story building sandwiched between a flower shop, a gift shop, a laundromat, and a rowdy cowboy bar.

For five years there has been speculation and rumor about the mysterious operation. The owner, Bob Weger, is friendly with the neighbors in the busy downtown district, but there never was much talk about what went on upstairs. From the top floor apartment, boxes of military memorabilia are shipped virtually all over the world to collectors. Weger said his clientele has included "everyone from young to old, from professionals to Hell's Angels, and pro-American historians."

Chapter 1 of RAID ON DELTA INTERNATIONAL complete with maps and illustrations to follow.

SORRY...LAST MINUTE NOTICE...

2009-11-10T12:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve been uninvited to the PG reading on the 12th of November.
I TRULY apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

GM Weger
www.gmweger.com
gmweger@gmweger.com

Nov. 12, 2009 PACIFIC GROVE BOOK SIGNINGS/READINGS

2009-11-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

Book COMMUNITY EVENT/Signings/READINGS
When:
Thursday, November 12, 2009, 7:00 PM

Where:
Pacific Grove Library
550 Central Ave
Pacific Grove, CA93950
For more information call (831) 648-5760

Details:
Local Authors’ Readings at the Pacific Grove Library

ALL SALES PROFITS WILL GO TOWARD THE COST OF BURYING ROBERT WEGER THE WAY IN WHICH HE WANTED TO BE BURIED. HE WIL HAVE A FULL VETERANS FUNERAL WITH TAPS. DATE IS YET TO BE DETERMINEED.

Good night Dad.

2009-11-09T17:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my father took his last breath in our world, and entered immortality.

May you be free from pain now, Dad.

You will be remembered for many things, and I will love you forever.

Your loving daughter, Gwyn

*** PS: For those curious about the "There is no religion higher than truth" picture. The drawing is a Greek geometric rendition of a symbol of symbols that represent the Five Civilized Religions, i.e. religions that have left behind written languages. One of these religions is Judaism, the Star of David; the second is Islamic, the Crescent and the newest religion; the third is Buddhism, the Sanskrit Swastika; and the fourth and fifth are Christian, with the Cross, in combination with the oldest Civilized religion: the Egyptian Ankh with the circle-on cross.

FUNDRAISER FOR SERRENA THE CENTER FOR INTEGRATIVE THERAPIES

2009-10-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

18 October; 3 to 9 pm Monterey Plaza Hotel

“Applause,” a celebration of music, hope, and giving, fundraiser for Serrena, a non-profit organization offering integrative therapies to people with chronic illness, will feature a silent & live auction, raffle, and music by the fabulous Sirenz and Erin Gray, and the White Album Ensemble.

For their silent auction I decided to donate a copy of East Garrison, INCLUDING the Prologue and first chapter of my next novel. I’ve had a lot of fun putting together the pages for that lucky highest bidder. Whoever that is will get the very first “taste” (no pun intended) of my second novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, “Lupus.”

For information about the event call (831) 566-3712 or go to www.serrena.org.

EMPTY HANDED HEART

2009-10-05T08:17:00.000-07:00

I woke this morning with one of the Z’Man’s lyrics on my mind. It’s from a song called Empty Hearted Town…Nothing matters much but love and money. So, I had to locate the song amongst my Warren Zevon collection and make it a Z-fest today. Warren wasn’t recognized by many music lovers for his absolute genius. In fact, the ONLY song of his most people know is Werewolves of London, which immortalized him at least every Halloween. The funny thing about that song is how long he said it took him and a few others to write it. Something like 15 minutes. It was the silliest song he wrote, and his biggest hit. But he wrote a ton of great songs and each one tells a story. He also wrote the very popular song “Poor poor pitiful me,” one of Linda Ronstadt’s biggest hits, which you probably have heard. My personal favorites are French Inhaler, Carmelita, and Genius, and oh, there are so many!

Take a listen, if you haven’t. If you have heard of Warren Zevon, and are a fan, go to his website and sign a petition to help get him inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: http://www.warrenzevon.com/index.htm

Check out Warren’s words to “Empty Hearted Town.”

Ain't life strange
Ain't it funny
Nothing matters much but love and money

Things don't work out the way you reckoned
Money comes first
And the love comes second

Cigarettes make the sun come up
Whiskey makes the sun go down
And in between
We do a lot of standing around
It's all I can do
To make it through the day
She wrapped it all in darkness
And I can't find my way, and

I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town

It started out alright
Ended up all wrong
Shoulda done, shoulda done
That's my song

Now the night is falling hard and fast
All dressed up for the masquerade
And the lights of the city stretch as far as the eye can see
Look what wonders man has made
Look what wonders man has made

I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town

I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And something more to say

LUPUS

2009-09-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

The word “lupus” is the Latin name for wolf. Lupus is also short for “systemic lupus erythematosus,” a chronic autoimmune disorder, because, before the days of drug treatments, the skin part of the disease could eat away at the face and leave destructive injuries, as if the person had been attacked by a wolf. Lupus can affect the skin, joints, kidneys, and other organs.

Some animals, such as wolves, bite off their own limbs to free themselves from a trap, but the animals will die anyway. With autoimmune diseases like lupus, the body destroys itself. Normally, the autoimmune system is designed to keep the body safe by protecting it from foreign invaders. Think of the immune system as a little army inside your body that stands in defense against anything that’s not supposed to be there. When a person has lupus, that army, like a trader, attempts to destroy the body it was designed to protect.

People often mistake lowered immune conditions like aids or hiv for autoimmunity. In fact, both impair the immune system, but think of lowered immunity as your personal army with its hands tied--it’s unable to fight very well, but when your army attacks itself, it’s a very confused situation. Believe me, lupus frequently stumps even the doctors.

Exposure to sunlight often triggers lupus attacks. Photosensitivity or abnormal sensitivity to sunlight, teaches lupus sufferers to avoid sunlight. So, I often feel like the fabled vampire hiding from the sun and rejoicing in the cool of a darkened room.

Warren Zevon’s most famous song, "Werewolves of London," just finished playing. If you’ve read my column for a while, you know how much I LOVE Warren Z. So I’ll end this post with his line, which feels very true to me and the topic of lupus: “Werewolves of London. Huh, draw blood!” (Change “London” to Salinas.)

BLOOD OF LIFE

2009-09-22T11:52:00.000-07:00

I’m a little behind the times. Vampire novels have been hot forever and have been in everything from television to literary horror novels, yet I just came up with an idea last week that’s been extremely popular lately in a television show (based on a series of books) called “True Blood.” My idea didn’t come from my imagination though. It’s more like a realization based on personal experience.

I was given a blood transfusion.

I’ve had anemia of chronic disease from autoimmune diseases for over 20 years now. I just turned 46. A few weeks back, I had terrific gut pains and started bleeding. My husband took me to the hospital. Long story short, I ended up having a blood transfusion. Merely one unit of blood, yet the color came back into my face, and, like a magical potion, I appeared younger. I felt better, more energized. More vital. More alive.

Ironically, in the month’s prior, I’d been formerly requesting my health insurance to pay for two different treatments for anemia of chronic disease after they turned me down.

They said no again.

Then, I ended up in the ER and got a transfusion of someone else’s blood.
And it truly is the blood of life. It got me thinking about a story, as I usually do when something finally occurs to me to be true. My writer friend said, “Oh, yeah honey, that’s what True Blood is all about.”

Reminds me of Sheryl Crow’s lyrics, “It’s a black fly in your chardonnay. It’s a death row pardon one minute too late. And isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”

But then, no story is original. Everything’s been done before. It’s the writer's personal slant on it. His or her (or them's) voice. One's individual voice. That’s what we fall in love with when we read. At least that’s what I do. I fall in love with that particular's writer's placement of words on a page. There's nothing new about words. And there's nothing like reading an entertaining story. One that endures like "Dracula" in its many individual interpretations is testament to the fact that a good story cannot be over told.

Maybe I will write a story about a new breed of vampire called vampireanemiacs.

LIFE IS NOT A GAME

2009-09-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

In the game of Monopoly, if you land on a bit of bad luck, you go straight to jail. You don’t pass go. You don’t collect $200.

In real life, it’s been 5 weeks since little Sebastian Balch was killed by chronic drunk driver Dion Thomas Gussner, who is expected to receive 16-years in prison when he’s sentenced in two weeks. Mr. Gussner is 31-years-old. Ironically, Sebastian would have just been turning 21 (the legal age to drink alcohol in California) by the time Mr. Gussner is eligible to get out of prison. Considering Mr. Gussner’s prior like offenses: dui and reckless driving, I feel this sentence is too light. Will we all be safe from his obsessive need to drink and drive? Yes, for a time. But what kind of message is this to others who have the same addiction? And yes, it’s also true that there’s no way to bring Sebastian back. Does that mean our criminal justice system is equitable? Does it hold people to task for their crimes? I have to say no, and I’ll tell you why.

I’ve had my share of driving problems. Yes, I’ve been in accidents. In fact, too many, however, the only thing I hurt was myself and my car and never while intoxicated. Because of my 2 speeding tickets (and accidents) I pay around $200 a month for the privilege to drive. This penalizes me in the one place that really hurts every month-- my pocketbook. The accidents won’t drop off for 5 years; the speeding tickets, 3 years. If you add up all the money I’ll be paying for insurance over the next 5 years, the monetary cost to me is right around $12,000. Do you have any idea what it will cost US to imprison Gussner? The price to house every prisoner in the state of California is around $30 grand a year (that doesn’t apply to geriatric and sick prisoners who cost much more). You don’t have to even be a third grader to see the problem here. Call me crazy, but it would be a lot easier to have MY meals made for me, a place to sleep, FREE healthcare, and NOT to have to go to work every day. Excuse my sailor language, but that doesn’t sound like punishment; it’s a fucking vacation.

Many moons ago I studied law enforcement and wanted to be a cop, but once the Department of Fish and Game hired me as a warden, I suddenly realized the truth of what I’d be expected to do: go out into the middle of nowhere and approach hunters with loaded weapons. I wasn’t comfortable with that scenario, so I went back to school to study something more appropriate for me. Still, I received a decent background and degree in our administration of justice system. It simply doesn’t work. The kind of punishment for taking a 4-year-old’s life, for taking any life, except purely through no fault, should be one’s life. I believe in the death penalty for many reasons. Sure, swift, and harsh punishment is the only deterrent to criminal behavior.

Interestingly, the book I’m currently working on (Unknown: The Devil’s Corral) includes a real person, a man named August Vollmer, who is known as “the father of modern law enforcement.” He didn’t believe in putting anyone behind bars, and that doing so only made the person more likely to commit further crimes once he/she got out of prison.

I used to feel that way, but no longer. What changed? Me, I guess. I grew up. It’s easy to train a young child, but once that child grows into adulthood it becomes much more difficult. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. This kind of aphorism didn’t come from outer space. Those are honest words. As I get older I realize the truth more. It’s always inside trying to tell me if I listen to myself. And it knows right from wrong.

I wonder if Mr. Gussner heard his own mind warning him not to drive on that day he took Sebastian’s life. After all, he’d done it before, been caught, slapped on the wrist, told not to do it again, and he still threw five shots of whiskey down his throat before getting into his truck. I suppose it doesn’t matter because he didn’t listen to himself, his past, or anything else. We can all relate to that, I’m sure, and feel sorry for our poor choices, but death is final. It’s not a game. You can’t get a Get Out of Jail FREE Card.

Well, maybe in California you can.

NUMBER NINE IS DIVINE

2009-09-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

From somewhere in the back country of Fort Ord, I hear Jack Erslager’s disembodied voice telling me today is special. It’s 9-9-09. Remember, number 9 has magical properties. And the swastika? It’s the only symbol with nine points. Oh lucky day. Unless, of course, you’re in Japan. People from Japan attribute bad luck to the number nine (kind of like how Americans think about the number 13).

Recently, I browsed through Jack’s book about the history of the swastika and looked through pages of black and white glossy photos of good luck tokens, all with that most misunderstood of symbols, pre-WWII swastikas. One token in particular captured my attention: a mystical seer gazing at a crystal ball with the numeral nine floating in the middle of it. Other good luck symbols covered these tokens: a rabbit foot, four leaf clover, wishbone, and, if I remember correctly, something Egyptian, like a pyramid or all-seeing eye. The tokens, once owned by Jack, were from all over the world, which leads me to the conclusion that in the not too distant past, we were believers in luck. I wonder how many people carry tokens like this today. Jack did. He carried one in his wallet: the hovering “9” in the middle of the seer’s ball.

I don’t believe in luck. I think we are the makers of our own destiny, our own luck. Yet, whenever I write out the date, or see an address, phone number, etc., I count the numbers. Through osmosis I’ve learned to do that, even though I have no idea what number four means, or five, but I remember being told about numbers many times. The only one that stuck is 9.

May the four winds from the four corners of the heavens, ever upon you gently blow.

IN PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER # 12

2009-08-27T07:17:00.000-07:00

It’s been a year since beginning this column, “In Pursuit of a Publisher.” I succeeded in getting my book, “East Garrison” published on my own terms, without the help of an agent or traditional publisher, and, although anyone can do it, everyone shouldn’t do it.

The story started from my imaginings, staring out my foggy office window on the former Army base, Fort Ord. I drove and hiked around the eerily-empty decrepitude and wondered what it would be like for a woman to be stranded on part of the deserted base (where even the police don't patrol) under the most physically difficult circumstance I’d been through (having a baby), and then I added a mountain lion protecting her cubs. A screenwriting teacher summed up the formula well, "I got my protagonist up a tree and then began chucking rocks at her."

However, what began as crazy musings quickly became a personal study into my deeply disturbing relationship with my father, who inadvertently materialized into my main character. Yes, I’m sure it sounds cliché, but it’s not. I grew up with a would-be Nazi who had me removing “Made in Japan” stickers off Gestapo badges and antiquing German battle flags in the washing machine with Rit #1 yellow dye, then stamping the edges with bizarre numbers and letters. I knew the words to the Nazi Party anthem, Die Fahne hoch (the flag on high) before I ever heard The Star Spangled Banner. I recognized Adolf Hitler from his picture and bible Mein Kampf (My Struggle), but had no idea who was the president of the United States of America. I had no clue what my father was doing, although I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the strange looks. My feelings of not “fitting in” quickly turned me into a candidate for the suicide hotline.

Only now do I understand why I grew up with a keen sense of “outsiderdom.” East Garrison’s plot is fictional; many of its characters are not. And I’m fairly certain that my childhood was unusual. Hopefully people will want to read it and will, in fact, enjoy it.

In my next column I’ll tell you about my media training in Texas with my PR team—Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists. In the meantime, visit my website, www.gmweger.com for upcoming events near YOU.
To be continued…

MARY & SEBASTIAN

2009-08-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I discovered a tombstone out at the Whitcher cemetery in East Garrison on the former Fort Ord Army base. This grave marker didn’t have the name “Whitcher” like the four other tombstones did, and the year of death wasn’t even in the same century. The simple marble marker reads: Mary H. Pearson 1899-1935. I began investigating the Whitchers and Mary. It didn’t take very long to learn that Mary had a second grave marker in another, much larger cemetery in Monterey. After much digging (pardon the pun), I acquired Mary’s death certificate with yet a third place of burial: Mission Memorial. Mary’s story might be the makings of a novella or even a book one day, because there’s much more to her story than what I’ve written here, but she comes to mind because of her cause of death: a chronically drunk driver crashed into her automobile. This happened 74 years ago. Her murderer received three months probation.

On Sunday evening (9th August, 2009), another drunk driver caused the death of a much younger person, a four year old boy named Sebastian. He was strapped into his car seat, probably sleeping (I pray) as his mother and younger sister waited on River Road, less than a mile from my home, maybe for the traffic light to turn green.

Late Monday afternoon I realized that Sebastian was my son’s playmate. They’ve spent the summer together in the same wonderful daycare. I last saw Sebastian on Friday when I picked up my kids.

All day Monday, the 10th, my son knew something was wrong because his caregiver cried and seemed sad. At the end of the day, he asked his father what was wrong. When I came home my son’s eyes, swollen and red, gushed tears as he ran to me and wrapped his skinny little boy arms around me. His wiry body trembled as he sobbed over the friend he would never play with again, and Sebastian’s two-year old sister, Ava. He worried about Ava, who was also in the car. “Will she be okay?” he asked. “Is she hurting?” he wanted to know. Then, “Is Sebastian really gone forever?”

I comforted him as best I could, yet, as the evening progressed, my son didn’t feel better. In fact he awakened four times during the night afraid. He cried and cried, unable to understand why this had happened. He said, “That bad man.” I said, “Yes, it’s a terrible thing to take someone’s life. That’s why you should never get into a car with anyone who has been drinking or doing drugs. This man will go to prison for the rest of his life.”

But then I thought about Mary and how the man who killed her got off with just a few months. Today, three-quarters of a century after Mary’s premature death, how much worse will the punishment be? Still, what ever it is, four-year old Sebastian will NEVER play with anyone again. Can there be ANY suitable retribution for that and the grief that will forever haunt the family?

PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER #13

2009-08-06T07:48:00.000-07:00

In late February 2009, I went to Texas for media training with my publicist, Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists (P&P). I flew into Austin where my campaign manager Shelby Sledge waited holding a sign with my name on it. She dropped me at a nice hotel.
The following morning Shelby picked me up and brought me to P&P's offices where another author already sat schmoozing with one of the trainers. P&P first took us on a tour of their facility, which consists of a number of offices and spacious rooms filled with books and posters of their more successful projects proudly displayed on the walls, and introduced us to many of the people I‘d dealt with over the past year by telephone and e-mail. There are seven publicists on the team.
The area where we spent the day was set up with two long tables, one for each author, a Media Training Guide binder, a copy of our book, and a list of sample questions. Before beginning class, we both sat in front of a camera and spontaneously answered a few questions. It was meant to show us how much we DIDN'T know prior to training. When asked the million-dollar question, “Tell us about your book,” I did, in a rambling sort of way.
Then we started with Workshop 1: Developing Your Message. Each of the five workshops had different teachers, and in every session I learned A LOT. Advice ranged from how to sit during an interview, thanking the interviewer, branding yourself as the “expert,” gaining third party credibility through endorsements, speaking in 10-second catch phrases or sound bytes, and being sure to answer four questions: what is my bottom-line message, why is my book unique, who makes me the expert on the topic, and where can the audience go for further information. We did mock interviews on the radio and television, which were critiqued.
As the day progressed, I didn’t get any better at answering questions. I actually got worse. There was simply too much instruction for me to take in and work with in one day. So, by the end of the grueling training sessions, when the camera was once again stuck in my face, and Shelby asked me to tell her about my book, I actually couldn’t.

PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER

2009-08-05T12:47:00.000-07:00

For a few years I’ve been writing a column for the Central Coast Writers Branch of the California Writers Club. It chronicles my efforts over the years to publish my first book, “East Garrison.”
A colleague in my writers’ group (who I highly respect and admire), suggested that I re-publish this series on my blog. After some consideration, I decided to do this, but instead of starting at the beginning, I’m going to start at the end of “Pursuit of a Publisher.” I’ll post a column twice a week. Hopefully it will both entertain and educate. Coming soon as I can find my files! Why can't I be more organized with my writing?#@!

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL ARTISTS!

2009-07-29T08:31:00.000-07:00

This summer hasn’t been much fun. I suppose that some day I’ll look back and think about it differently, but today all I’m obsessing about is what I have yet to do to promote “East Garrison,” what I’ve already done and can’t “un-do,” and what I could and should be doing to get the word out about my book.

When I first started writing the story and developing the characters, I had no idea how much work it’d be after it was done, and that I was in the midst of the actual “fun” part…writing it. I imagine most of those who haven’t been through the publishing grind go through this, yet it’s like having children. No one told me how hard it would be every day. And so, this venture has given me an education—one which I didn’t want when I started on this road. (I’ve already paid my dues in college.) I thought the adventure would be like the biographies I’ve read about my favorite writers from the early 20th century. But that era is long gone. Being a hermit writer doesn’t work today, unless your desire is to write a diary.

In this era, in order to succeed in the publishing world, you must be good at marketing (a fancy word for selling), and promotion of your SELF. Not only that, but people don’t want to take a chance on a writer who hasn’t already hit the BIG time. In my experience during this summer of economic hell, the general public would rather spend three bucks on a corn cob on a stick, than ten for a book written by some unknown. And so, the dilemma continues. Just like the rich getting richer, the writers who’ve already made it keep cranking out their formula books, and the small time artists go on struggling, like the salmon swimming upstream to spawn, and eventually give up. Supporting your local artists is important.

GODDESSES AND CHILDBIRTH

2009-07-20T09:36:00.000-07:00

Roberto Canessa said, “Make plans to live a hundred years, but you may die at any moment.” He survived the Andes plane crash in 1972. His story was made into a very successful book and movie called “Alive.”

This is the underlying premise of East Garrison: A pregnant woman, Tracy Dade, about to give birth to her first child, is making plans, hoping the best for her baby, but she’s worried too. All new mothers are terrified about their child’s future, amongst other obvious things. Tracy wants to be tough and deliver a healthy baby. Her friend, Angela, tells her that women have been giving birth for thousands of years without the use of pain medication. She gives Tracy a book, Heart of the Goddess, and shows her the pages about Goddess Tlazolteotl, who is fearless, posed naked in a full squat, with a baby diving out of her. This Goddess of fertility is the epitome of strength to Tracy. She wants to be like Tlazolteotl and tries to emulate Her courage by surrounding herself with images of strong women, but inside Tracy knows that she won’t be able to do it. She gives up without even trying.

When I had my children, I tried to give birth without pain medication. I thought that was very important. Since then I’ve learned that birth is but a moment in time, and is quickly forgotten afterwards. My children, now 9 and 10, are healthy and happy. There were no negative effects from the epidurals I had when giving birth, but I had a choice to have pain medication (at least the second time). The first time I didn’t because it was a cesarean birth. With my second child I tried to give birth “naturally” and couldn’t relax through the labor pains. My body wouldn’t do what it was supposed to do while I was stressed out by labor pains. Once given an epidural, I relaxed and gave birth. But I had a choice. For thousands of years, women did not have that option.

In East Garrison, Tracy is forced into having to give birth without pain medication and no hospital, AND she survives. Actually, she does more than that, but I don’t want to spoil the story for those who haven’t read the book. The point is that we are all capable of doing more than we think we can do. There is strength in adversity.

I don’t think many people will find themselves in Tracy’s predicament. So, remember ladies, when having a baby there are just four words you need to know:
I WANT MY EPIDURAL.

MICHAEL JACKSON'S FASCINATION WITH NAZIS

2009-07-16T14:21:00.001-07:00

I picked up a copy of a national gossip magazine, which I never do. You know, one of those filled with pictures of celebrities doing their thing. For weeks, most magazine covers have been of Michael Jackson, and I look at the headlines, and may thumb through a copy while waiting at the check stand, but never buy one. BUT this particular mag mentioned MJ's fascination with Nazi memorabilia, so I had to take a look and didn't have time to read it before the cashier began ringing up my groceries.

Funny, I never thought any "normal" person would be interested in that kind of dark stuff, but surprisingly, according to this mag, he was. If what I read is true, he kept this dirty little secret private, but his uniform-style dress was supposedly inspired by Nazi uniforms. Apparently, he was obsessed with the power Hitler held over people. MJ stashed his treasures away from most people. I wonder if this collection was authentic or replica, and if the later, did any of it come from Jack's business way back when? It's pure speculation because I will never have access to this collection, but Jack was the first to reproduce Nazi memorabilia. Much of what's still out there floating around is Jacks's. Only he could tell originals from fakes. Jack was the greatest fake-maker.

J & S Military Supply in Moss Landing (also in East Garrison) is one of the places I remember going to as a young girl with my dad (Jack) to peddle his “militaria.” The place is still there along highway 1. I decided to check it out and pick up some camo pants. In the 1970s and early 80s the front counter display was filled with Nazi memorabilia, which they now call “foreign military” and keep in a small stand alone case by the front door. It’s no longer the predominant attraction in the store.

I stood at this miniature display, examining the Nazi patches, medals, pins, etc., almost all of which I’d handled so many years ago. How many orders used to come in for iron crosses, Hitler Youth pins, and Waffen SS patches? Hundreds, even thousands. My dad made so much money; he hid it in shoe boxes, and eventually Swiss bank accounts. And then, like I wrote in East Garrison, he pissed it away on booze and sex, lost everything he owned, except for his van, which he lived in for over a decade.

As I leaned in closer to the glass separating me from the merchandise, I remembered all the times I’d been in that store and many stores just like it. How I’d go to gun shows with my dad, and walk amongst the primarily male attendants. I have to admit I loved the stuff, even though I still can’t identify most of it. There is something about the uber masculine military that makes a person feel strong, and isn’t that what we all want to feel?

MJ was no different.

FUBAR

2009-07-10T08:29:00.000-07:00

A writer friend went to BEA (Book Expo of America) a few years ago and brought back a souvenir. She’d saved it for just the right person. I’d been wondering what it possibly could be since she mentioned it to me at Operation Tie a Yellow Ribbon. Yesterday I got her package--a dog tag with “FUBAR” on one side and “WWII slang” on the other side. For those of you who don’t know military acronyms, “FUBAR” means Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

I work for the military and should have immediately known what it meant, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. Once I realized, I hung it on my rearview mirror. Although I’m not what you’d call a follower of rules, I can relate to FUBAR in more ways than its original intention, which is basically to be quickly understood in difficult circumstances.

I also have an appreciation and admiration for soldiers and what they do. Somewhere along the line I must have picked up my father’s fascination with military uniforms and memorabilia. It was so easy when I had to wear a uniform to work. In a way it’s nice to fit in, like a herd of indistinguishable cattle. Where I work there’s a dress code that forbids jeans (except on dress down Fridays), and that’s just about all I own. In fact, not too long ago my boss came in to tell me that I couldn’t wear “those kind of jeans.” It was a Friday. I was wearing my “holey” designer jeans where the holes are placed strategically to look cool. So, when my boss said that, well, it kind of made me laugh because those holes cost me a couple hundred bucks. In many ways it’d be much better for me to have a uniform to wear to work.

If you’re curious about other interesting military (slang) acronyms, here’s a list:

DILLIGAS - Do I Look Like I Give A Shit
DILLIGAF - Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck
FIDO - Fuck It-Drive On
FIFI - Fuck It-Fly It
FNG - Fucking New Guy (used for all new people in a squad)
FUBISO - Fuck You Buddy, I'm Shipping Out
FUMTU - Fucked Up More Than Usual
JAFO - Just Another Fucking Observer (guy who sits in the back of the vehicle)
JANFU - Joint Army-Navy Fuck Up
LLMF - Lost Like a Mother Fucker
SNAFU - Situation Normal: All Fucked Up
SNAFUBAR - Situation Normal: All Fucked Up Beyond All Repair/Recognition/Reason
SOL - Shit Out of Luck
SRDH - Shit Rolls Down Hill
SSDD - Same Shit, Different Day
SUSFU - Situation Unchanged, Still Fucked Up
TARFU - Things Are Really Fucked Up, or Totally and Royally Fucked Up
Charlie Foxtrot - From the phonetic alphabet letters C and F, meaning Cluster Fuck

MEET & GREET

2009-07-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

I’ve set up several book signing events and readings throughout the summer, including one at the National Steinbeck Center, probably the first Friday in September during Old Town Salinas’s Art Walk.

I’m also working on a schedule of readings at some of the branches of Monterey County Free Libraries, to whom I’ve donated copies of “East Garrison.”

On the 14th of August, I’ll be at Luminata Books & Gifts at 7:30 giving a talk, reading, and signing. This event will focus more on the Divine Feminine aspect of “East Garrison.”

All of these events will be posted on my website soon. I hope to MEET YOU at one of them.

OPERATION TIE A YELLOW RIBBON

2009-06-29T08:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday June 27th I participated in Operation Tie a Yellow Ribbon in support of our troops. There were something like 160 silent auction items, and at least 25 raffle goodies, including three signed copies of "East Garrison," plus many more donations of much needed stuff for the troops. I’d never been to a “silent auction,” which is quite different from the many livestock auctions I’ve been to, and a lot less smelly. If you've never been to a livestock auction, GO. Bring your kids. It'll be an experience they'll never forget.

I enjoyed the patriotism at Operation Tie a Yellow Ribbon, and appreciate all the men and women who have and are putting themselves in harm's way.

La-Fi-Regret part III

2009-06-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

Tracy Dade, Jack’s daughter, struggles with her feelings about her father. Her worst fear is that she is like him or that she will become like him. The sad truth is that she is already like him and doesn’t know it. And even if she did know, she couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Children are molded collectively by their genetics and experiences. Some would say, that’s where free will comes in, but I know there are other things too, like hormones, that can take over one’s will, especially under stress. That’s what happens to Tracy in East Garrison. Already emotionally handicapped, she becomes a walking time bomb during the last trimester of pregnancy.
When I was about to give birth to my first child, it felt as if I would die if the baby’s room wasn’t perfect. OMG. I’m not just talking feelings here either; I’m talking tears and yelling. Emotions out of control.

Jack would say people should have to be screened before having children. Take a test. Like getting a license to drive. It’s a privilege, not a right.
Tracy’s reply would be that then HE would not have passed the test, and therefore, she would not have been born…Tracy has still not forgiven her father, even after he saved her life.

La-Fi-Regret part II

2009-06-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Yes, children are the most vulnerable to attacks of any sort, not just mountain lions. Probably human beings are the biggest threat to little kids in a variety of ways. In “East Garrison” Officer Will Dade of the POM Police drives by a memorial to a murdered little girl. Sad truth--This is based on a real story. The offenders of the horrific crime (to date) have never been identified. And it is only one of many throughout the world. Jack would say, “At least cats do it out of physical survival.” Jack didn’t care much for humans. He lived in a world inside his mind. In Layfayette (La-Fi-Regret), we’d say, “he’s a legend in his own mind.” Completely egocentric. And thus, later in life, having had this role-modeled for her, Jack’s daughter, Tracy, starts down the same path.
To be continued…

JACK'S BOOK

2009-06-15T09:05:00.000-07:00

I've located copies of Jack's book. Most are yellowing on the cover from age because of the paper stock he chose to use when having them originally printed. This happened to be his final brilliant idea and is literally where he sunk his last penny, so it is the one and only edition.

The entire book is black and white with many rare photos of pre-Nazi swastikas, like on the belt buckles of American Boy Scouts, if you can believe it, and a picture of Jackie O. wearing a Native American costume with a swastika on it. There are also many postcards he collected with messages of Good Luck! because that is, after all, the true meaning of the symbol.

Drop me a line if interested in getting a copy: gmweger@gmweger.com. I'll only charge for the postage and mailer to send it. I think they may even be signed. I'll have to take a closer look.

Next, part II of LA-Fi-REGRET.

LA-FI-REGRET, Part I

2009-06-11T12:31:00.000-07:00

I am listening to World War 2 Music & Variety when “If our will is strong enough, then nothing can fail. Germany, Sieg Heil!” is spoken by Adolph Hitler in his native German tongue. I am unwillingly yanked back to strange memories from over four decades ago, memories of my father and his world of Nazi war memorabilia and eccentric friends. As you can imagine, Nazi stuff attracts war nuts. This combination creates an assortment of scenarios, kind of like a Fellini movie. This one takes place in middle class white America in the 1970s, in a town named Lafayette. We came to call it La-Fi-Regret. I have no idea who started calling it that, but it has stuck all these years.
One of dad’s friends owned a leopard which he kept in a cage in his garage. I called this friend crazy Ken. He used to get in the cage with the leopard and wrestle it. One of Ken’s hands had just a few intact fingers amongst stubs from a fire cracker explosion. He liked to dress up in full Nazi regalia, go into bars, and start fights. I remember Ken’s high voice and his daughters, and the way that the leopard’s eyes followed my every move…
From research I did to write East Garrison’s cat scenes as accurately as possible, I now know that big cats have a fascination with little children. Invariably children are most vulnerable to attack.
End Part I

Jack Attack

2009-06-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

Jack Erslager, one of the main characters in East Garrison, and somewhat the antihero, has captured the attention of a few members of my writers' group. Jack's a homeless wandering messiah in search of the truth, and a rubber tramp, or one who lives in his vehicle driving from place to place. He believes he's found "the truth" in the mystical swastika symbol, numerology, and hieroglyphs. He discovered magical properties in the number nine (9 points in the cross). He lives in his van with his German shepherd, Blondie, and sees ghosts in the form of, amongst other things, his prior U.S. Major Army General Fritzsche, who is a Nazi. Fritzsche barks orders at Jack in German as he pops Benzedrine inhalers. Jack smokes pot and hand-rolled cigarettes. He doesn't eat much. And he's growing marijuana in an unexploded ordnance range area of Fort Ord. His daughter's married to a federal cop who finds his plants. I don't want to tell much more about the plot for those who haven't read the book yet, but Jack is a character who doesn't want to die, metaphorically speaking. This is so much the case that in another book, a continuation of East Garrison, I've developed a new character named Randy who is a former buddy of Jack's. Randy also has a dog and is somewhat homeless, but his dog is a white Samoyed named Garfish. One writer in my group thinks Randy is too much like Jack, but he's not, at all. He'll give me the opportunity to get into Jack's background more, vicariously, through Randy, who in many ways is the opposite of Jack. So, for your pleasure, I've put up a picture of "Jack," the antihero of East Garrison.

Ghost Tales from East Garrison

2009-05-27T08:12:00.000-07:00

I recently heard a story about Fort Ord toward the end of WWII, when it was a POW camp and held, amongst its many other prisoners, Nazis. A group of them dug a 20-foot tunnel under the East Garrison trying to escape. Good old USA soldiers discovered their plan before they were able to execute it. Somehow, and I'm not clear about the details, which have been buried (no pun intended), a Nazi found some gasoline, poured it onto a soldier working under a tank, and lit him on fire. The military police made this prisoner dig his own grave, in the Whitcher cemetery, and executed him. I'm told he's buried out there with the Whitcher children, and who knows how many others.

Normally, I'd take this anecdote as a fairy tale, but when I told my ex-firefighter husband (who worked on base for years) about this story, he remembered it too. One character in my book, "East Garrison" is a Nazi U.S. Army Major General named Fritzsche. Another character, Jack Erslager, a wandering Vietnam veteran with post traumatic stress disorder, sees Fritzsche barking orders at him throughout the book. This appeared to me whilst writing "East Garrison". So, you can imagine when I learned about this particular POW…is this the ghost Fritzsche? Did I make a psychic connection? Or did I hear this story in the past and although my conscious mind forgot it, my unconscious mind stored it away for later use? I think that's how writers' minds work.

Frequently I dream of houses with rooms within rooms within rooms. That's my visual of a writer's mind. Or at least my mind.

Another Foggy Summer on the Central Coast.

2009-05-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

It's a week before Memorial Day, well, almost, and the clouds over the sand hills of Fort Ord are shades of gray. Although most people hate the weather, I LOVE IT! I'm a BIG fan of Warren Zevon, whose favorite color was gray. This says a lot about me, much more than the fact that I hate hot weather. I'll let the reader figure that out. Warren Zevon was one of the greatest song writers ever, and if you have yet to discover him, educate yourself. He considered himself to be a very successful folk singer, rather than a rock star, and he loved writers. Known by most people for his song "Werewolves of London," probably because it was his first commercial hit, his music usually encapsulated stories from Jesus to Elvis and modern day warfare. His last album, written while he was dying, has one of my favorite rock songs on it called "Disorder in the House." The album is titled "The Wind," and it has many of Warren's friends performing with him--Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, even Billy Bob Thorton. A writer friend is teaching me how to play the guitar because I want to be able to play Warren's songs. Listen to his clever lyrics. You'll find them, at the very least, entertaining.
So today, as I look at the gray-covered sky, I'm reminded of a man who also loved the color gray.

Never Give Up!

2009-05-13T06:15:00.000-07:00

Wise words to a writer. One of the questions I'm often asked is to give advice to new writers. I'm often tempted to say, like Rodney Dangerfield in the movie Back To School, "Don't do it!" What kind of masochistic person would knowingly bash their brains against a never yielding wall? But then I know whatever I say won't matter because if you are a writer, you will write, no matter what. You can't NOT write. And that should be the only reason anyone pursues the writer's journey.

I believe every single person has a special gift. It's something you're good at and love doing. Follow that to your gold.

2009-05-11T08:22:00.000-07:00

Happy belated Mother's Day to all you mothers! One of my favorite bumber stickers is "My Goddess Gave Birth to Your God." Before becoming a mother myself, I, like probably every other mother in history, had no idea how difficult of a job it was going to be TO BE A GOOD mother. No one can be perfect all the time. Is there such a thing as perfection, after all? However, once you take on the role of being a parent, the object of the job is to teach through modeling. With our busy worlds, and often competing roles of worker and mother, the object isn't always in the forefront of our minds. Still, we must not try, but do, and when we fail, instead of behaving like we haven't or could never fail, we must explain to our children and apologize for our imperfections. Most importantly, we must tell the little ones that it isn't their fault, because to a child, everything is about them. That's how they're wired.
My Mother's Day was mostly spent waiting for an interview from Canada, which went very well, I thought. The half hour just flew by. In the next few days it should be up on my website under EVENTS, along with a couple others. If you're interested, check it out: www.gmweger.com
Be well. Be Happy.
G.M. Weger

2009-05-07T07:33:00.000-07:00

Today is a very "Planet Ord" kind of day. Can't see two feet in front of me. The fog drops quickly this time of year, a little-known secret when the touristas storm the coast in the coming summer months.

Day after tomorrow (May 9th, 2009) is my first book signing at Borders Books in Sand City from 2pm to 5 pm for my debut novel "East Garrison." I'll be bringing an assortment of mountain lion stuff to share, including two skulls, pug marks, flexible casts of paws, a claw, sounds, and various free brochures about this most misunderstood predator. Case in point, yesterday the LA Times reported on a dog who saved his owners when a mountain lion crossed their path. I say the lion is the scapegoat here. I highly doubt that any attack happened. More likely is that the cat ran, was chased by the dog, and then it turned to protect itself. But the heroic dog story makes better headlines with the familiar dog pitted against cat. The fact that Fish and Game called off the hunt for the lion says it all. Read between the lines (lions).

Invasion of the lions!

2008-03-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

There have been more mountain lion sightings in the last year than ever before. I hear reports all the time about seeing the majestic cats in back of the DOD building where I work, and even in the suburban neighborhood in Salinas where I live; but I've never been lucky enough to see one in nature.

2007-11-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

2007-11-14T08:31:00.000-08:00

In Aug 2004, eight years into my job in Central California, I was exploring (as usual) the closed Army base once called Fort Ord during lunch time, when I spotted a tall white cross protruding through the fog, and then what looked like a cemetery. Always fascinated by the macabre, I pulled my car onto the gravelly road across from several large cement buildings and hiked down the hill to a tiny cemetery I didn’t know existed. In it were five gravestones.

Floria Elvira Whitcher
July 19, 1866 – February 17, 1875
“Returned to God, who gave her.”

Harry Whitcher
August 5, 1875 – September 16, 1875
“Quit acheing.”

Ned Eliger Whitcher
November 8, 1862 – April 29, 1879
“Ceased Breathing.”

Mary H. Pearson 1899 – 1935

And the initials H. W. on a baby-sized marker set in concrete. At first I thought the “quit acheing” epitaph marked the final resting spot of some odd fellow with arthritis, but on closer examination discovered that a child was buried there. The unknown cemetery was intriguing enough for my thirst-starved imagination, but the inscriptions were maddening.

Truth be told, it took 132 years for Thomas Rose Whitcher’s life to be known. He once owned 2500 acres of land across Monterey County, even the land John Steinbeck wrote about in Pastures of Heaven, and the short story, The Murder, in The Long Valley. In 1914, Cecil B. Demille filmed a movie, Rose of the Rancho, on his land. Part of his original farmhouse is still there in a privately owned exclusive subdivision called Markham Ranch. It’s a gated community. No one’s allowed in unless they live there, and the homestead can’t be seen from Corral de Tierra Road, except in a small book called Steinbeck Country-Exploring the Settings for the Stories.

I can tell you his story though.