Chapter One

Okay, I wasn't going to do this, but I felt the need to post something this month. So here it is in all of its shittiness. I'm half way done, but I'm about a day behind on the pacing. Not too bad. I'll catch up as long as the holidays don't screw me over. It's pretty cool writing this way as it instantly turns off the internal editor. I'll be writing and think, "No, that doesn't sound the way I want it to sound," but I will just keep on going as I realize that this isn't the time for revision. Thus, I'm at 25,000 words rather than 250 words, where I would be if I didn't just keep writing.

Without further ado, I give you Chapter 1 of The Fifth Henry ...


-1-
It was an office like any other home office. It was small, cramped, and filled with gadgets. There was a desk with an old computer on it, a bookshelf that contained many pictures, magazines, and stacks of papers, but no books. A window looked out onto the back yard with the unused play set and the old charcoal grill. On the far wall of the office, a row of neatly lined portraits spanned the open space of paneling. The pictures were framed in a hodge-podge of purchased frames ranging from fake metal to stained wood. With the exception of the first, that is. That crumpled black and white photograph of a man seated on a velour settee possessed an air of grace and sophistication. The velvet jacket embossed with a coat of arms, the meticulous haircut, and even the man's posture screamed to the viewer, "Here is a man of substance." However, the following portraits incrementally declined in finery and in distinction, yet each man struck the same pose as the original. The man resembled, at least in some aspects, the fourth portrait; although, in the portrait, the man’s confidence shown through. At the base of each portrait lay a slim brass plate - Henry I, Henry II, Henry III, and Henry IV. The four aligned figures, stern and serious, stared irritably across the room at the man hunched behind a massive Ikea desk.
The desk was strewn with newspaper ad sections, classified ads, and mass mailings. Notes in red marker were written on the ads with arrows and circles everywhere. On top of the pile of ads was a single photograph. The photo showed two men locked in arms as you might see in old pictures of war buddies. The men were wearing bowling shirts and obviously loved whatever it was they were doing. The larger of the two was the man stooping over the desk. The other, clearly a man of south - Asian descent, whose eyes were as black as his hair, looked into the camera with a stunning alacrity.
The man behind the desk picked up the picture, turned it over, and whispered, "Thanks for showing me the real America! Your friend forever, Sharma". A minute, maybe ten, passed as the man just stared at the writing, repeating, "Your friend, Sharma." Suddenly, he ripped the picture and tossed it into the trashcan.
"Bull shit!" he said as he sat back in the chair. After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. "Come in," barked the man. The door opened quickly and a beaming, thin man walked into the room.
"Monty, we're in!" he said as he plopped into the chair opposite the desk, his hands, tapping, finally settling on the armrests.
"Really, Westy?" said Monty. His mood changing from one of melancholy to one of sheer joy. "We got it! How'd you do it?"
"Well, it seems that our friends, the Percy's, convinced the Clear's to sell. Old man Clear was a bit hesitant, but the last offer and some timely persuasion from Percy's boy, Henry, and his crew convinced him it was time to move on to greener pastures.” Westy grinned and awaited Monty's reaction like a dog waiting for a bone.
Monty sat in his chair, a ragged smirk creeping across his face. "Excellent." He leaned farther back and the smirk turned into a full-blown smile. “Do you know what this means?” he asked, rhetorically or to Westy it wasn’t clear, nor did it particularly matter. What mattered was that the final piece of his puzzle was now in place. For over a hundred years, the Monmouth family had been in decline. From generation to generation, the clan fell from the grace of corporate baron to stock boy, but no longer. Now, with this acquisition, it solidified his place in the community and would make a fine partner to go with the last one. And then an image of the smiling Sharma flashed through his head. Yes, the last one. Uneasiness overwhelmed him, and soon regret began to creep. He couldn’t allow himself to let this happen, not now, not in front of Westy. Forcibly, he tried to see the look on Old Man Clear’s face when he finally caved. What was it that that young hothead Percy had done to “convince” Clear to change his mind? Better not to know. The ringing of Westy’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey there, my man!” Westy shouted into the cell phone. Monty shook his head wondering why Westy had to shout every phone conversation he had. Oh well, at least he knew Westy had no secrets. “Yeah, I told him the news, I’m with him right now.” A long pause was almost enough for Monty to return to his thoughts, but it was suddenly interrupted by Westy’s stuttering reply. “No, man, that ain’t gonna work.” Another pause and it was obvious now that Westy was starting to sweat. “No, you can’t just do that. A deal’s a deal!” Westy’s shouting rose to an unbelievable pitch. Who would have thought a guy that small could yell that loudly?”
As suddenly as it started, it was all over. “Well?” questioned Monty. “That shithead doesn’t know who he’s dealing with...the little Percy wants to renegotiate the deal. He says that he went above and beyond his share and he wants in on the partnership now.” Westy waited for that famous Monmouth anger to erupt out of Monty, but instead he just smiled.
“Man,” Monty said, “that kid’s got some balls on him, ain’t he?” He leaned forward and placed both elbows on the pile of magazine ads. “I like that kid. He’s what, 18?”
“Almost 18,” Westy answered cautiously.
“Yeah, 18, about the same age as my Henry. The only difference is that this Henry Percy has got something going for him, meanwhile my shithead’s out partying his ass off the whole time I’m rebuilding the family name. God, if only our kids had been switched at the hospitals. That would have been what should have happened.” Monty pursued that idea, but gave it up as just wishful thinking. “Anyways,” he continued, “get that kid in here with his old man. He may have some balls, and I like that in a kid, but I think they may need to be broken. He needs to realize that in this area I’m the king.” He laughed at the thought of him, Henry Monmouth, king of the township. That seemed more and more a likely possibility now.
As he walked Westy out of the room, a piece of the torn picture floated onto the floor. Sharma’s face looked towards the ceiling, smiling in brotherly love.

My Last Duchess...err...post

Okay, one day till NANOWRIMO, so this is it as far as the blogs go for a month. I'm filled with nervous energy, and I'm not really sure why. I mean, this is really nothing. It's not as though a publisher has put a deadline out for my novel. I think that this is one thing that I'm not so sure I can do. I mean, 50,000 words is a lot of words in such a short period of time. Well, what's the worst that can happen?

So, this is what I've decided on for my novel's basic plot. There is this guy who has finally achieved success, albeit in an underhanded grab of power. He tries to rationalize his actions by talking about how he saved the company and that his family has been slaving away there for so long, it's time somebody salvaged the family honor. However, underneath, he's crushed by the guilt of what he has done. He tries to think of ways to gain some atonement for his sins. Unfortunately, some of the dispossessed are plotting their own power grab.

On top of this, his son, the hero of the story, is not living up to his father's expectations. He reminds his son everyday as he leaves the house, "Remember who you are." To the father, this is a reminder of family honor and the family's new-found prominence. To the son, it's a reminder that his father has no idea who his son really is. The son falls into a group of trouble-makers, many of whom use the son for his wealth and power. The son refuses to do anything illegal, at least anything that will get him thrown into jail, reasoning that someday he will assume his proper place, and he won't have anyone blackmailing him. Not such a great friend, but an honorable person.

That's the basic idea. I'm still working out the details about what happens between then and the ending where the son has to face his opponent, the son his father wished he had.

It's a loosely based tale from Shakespeare. I don't want to rely too much on the Bard, but in a pinch, I'll pilfer as well as the Poet did!

Wish me luck. You can check here once November hits to see my most recent word count. I think you'll have to refresh the page, though.

Sentimental Cynics

I had an interesting experience this past weekend, one that caught me unawares. I had gotten up early on Friday, and as I was reading a journal for school, Journal of Adolescent Literacy -- great reading, Nate appeared around the corner. After having his idea of playstation shot down, he conceded to lying on me for a little while. So, he snuggled up on my chest, we pulled a blanket over us, and he fell right to sleep. I could feel the glow of paternal instincts as I wrapped my arms around him and smiled. "If I died right now, I would have lived the perfect life," I thought to myself, enveloping my heart in the moment. Suddenly, a grating voice from the back of my head shouted, "No you wouldn't have, you moron! Of course you wouldn't be thrilled to be dead. The kid would be scared, and you would have died a young man. I'm not sure you've ever thought of anything more stupid!"

Hello, inner-cynic. Although I'm not much of a cynic, it soon dawned on me why so many cynical people are miserable. They refuse to allow themselves to believe in the moment, to get lost, to surrender. Sometimes, it is truly blissful to just lose yourself; to believe your own lies, as the cynics might say, and just fall for your own traps. What would it have hurt to just revel in the belief that at the exact moment that life was perfect? It WAS! How would I be harmed if I did believe that I was a happy, content man and that if my life ended, what an appropriate place to end? Because, believe me, that was how I felt. Maybe I was being disingenious with myself, but who cares!

I'm reminded of a poem by Hafiz called "Tripping Over Joy". Here the poet really captures the joy in surrendering to that which the cynic can not. Hafiz was talking religion, but the idea is the same.

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?

The saint knows
That the spiritual path Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter And saying, "I Surrender!"

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.

NaNoWrMo

What do the following numbers have in common: 1, 30, 720, and 50,000? Give up? Well, these all have to do with my latest obsession. My next big event is coming in November, and, no, it isn't another marathon (IT Band took care of that one). No, my next "marathon" is the NaNoWrMo (aka the National Novel Writing Month event). That's right. One Novel -- one month -- 30 days -- 720 hours -- 50,000 words. It's a pretty cool idea, really. In one month you write an entire novel (no need to obssess over quality here), and the motivation is to get it done before midnight on the 30th. Sounds cool, doesn't it?

Actually, there is more to this than just a crazy idea. I've always wanted to write. I write short stories and have all of these stories and characters in my head. My problem has always been actually doing it. I guess that's why I never made a real go of it as an author, not enough balls. In my dream world, I get paid to write. People actually want to read what I write, and anxiously await to hear my thoughts on topics. In college I almost tried. I guess in this case, my blue-collar work ethic and my gotta-pay-the-bills logical brain said that getting a job teaching made a whole lot more sense than taking a shot in the dark as being a writer. I suppose that puts me in the same lot as most everyone else. Most of us are too chicken to really take a shot at our dreams, to take a risk to see what might happen. Maybe it's fear of failure. Maybe it's the fear of coming back with our tail between our legs that makes us stay at home and be safe. Whatever it is, I'm fighting back now. The marathon proved to me that I'm not too old to change, too old to try something new.

So, I'm going to give it a shot. I expect that what comes out of the event will be slightly less than shit, but that is not the point. The point here is to just do it. It doesn't matter anymore if I write the great American novel. It doesn't matter that critics aren't going to hail my arrival on the literary stage. It doesn't matter that people will ever actually read my stuff. No, what matters now is that a try to accomplish something that I've never done before. That's enough, I think.

Illiteracy in the USA

Two little factoids came across my lap this week. The first came from Scientific American in which they summarized a recent National Department of Education study. Up until 1993, we gauged our nation's illiteracy rate by simply asking census-takers whether they could read or write. Traditionally, this set our rate at 1%. In the early 1990's, the NDE decided to check a little deeper and actually ask some respondents to demonstrate their reading abilities. The result? 34% of the 27,000 could read at the basic level or lower. What's worse, when they did the study ten years later, the scores were dropping across the board (except for African-Americans). If we were still living in the mechanized society, this would not pose a problem; however, in an information society, where so much is demanded of citizens and employees, this is a huge problem.

The second bit of information came from this week's Time magazine. There, they reviewed another recent study on television watching. The average American household now spends 4.5 hours a day watching TV. 4.5 hours!!! That's longer than some people's work week (31.5 hours a week if you've watched so much TV that you've lost the function for multiplication). That's 19% of their week, nearly one-fifth of their week is being inactive receptors of mostly mindless entertainment.

I wonder, could there be a connection here? This is a personal bandwagon issue for me, but I have to say that TV could undermine this nation unlike anything in history. Could we possibly self-destruct as an empire simply because we don't know how to think or interact anymore? Could TV be our downfall, not communism or terrorism or any of your -ism's? I wonder. I will lead the revolution. Down with the television! Down the new axis of cable, satellite, and aerial! Down with the multi-national entertainment moguls who are trying to rule the world! Vive la revolucion! Vive the book!

Troubled Minds

I am having such a tough time getting this post started. I want to come up with some clever and witty opening, but I don't know what I want to say, which does make it hard to be clever and witty. Now, I could just resort to the lowest common denominator and fart a few times, or I might say a few choice words or tell a dirty joke. Nah, that doesn't work as well in print as it does in other media. I think that what I really want to get at is the frustration I'm feeling about the direction my school is heading.

This is the week where teachers are preparing for the opening of school. For me it is the most stressful time of the year, hands down. Why, you might ask? Is it the need for bureaucrats to justify their lofty salaries by insisting on jamming useless and pointless information down our throats in lengthy power point presentations? Yep. Is it the fact that it's Friday, students arrive in my class on Monday at 7:30 am, and I haven't had more than two hours all week to get my room arranged and my lessons planned? Yep. Is it the fact that today I get to hear for the tenth time that I'm not to touch bodily fluids? Yep. Is it that fact that an entire summers worth of work was flushed down the toilet because the principal has promised no duty-time to too many teachers? Yep.

I could go on and on and on. I think what bothers me the most is the level of distrust between administration (my school and up) and the teachers. Teaching is such a weird profession because if you are good at teaching, there is no way to get promoted except to leave the classroom. So, you have a wonderful classroom teacher, and if he wants to earn more money he has to quit teaching. Great plan, huh? Anyways, I digress. Administration worries so much about treating everyone the same that rather than dismiss or confront those teachers who would abuse the trust that all professionals seem to have, they just distruts all of us. Ahhh, bring on the kids and get the adults out of my life!

Lasting impressions

All good things must end at some point, and so to must this latest adventure. This trip was unlike any I have taken in my adult life because for a change it was less about discovery and more about bonding. Memories of England fill my mind, but the lasting feelings will revolve around our visit with the Griffins. I learned that no matter how many miles separate you or how much time has passed since you last saw each other, good friends can pick up their friendship as if nothing had ever parted you. I loved watching Nate and the kids play non-stop, and mind you, Nate may not really remember them ever being in the states. Drinking wine with Ian and Maria felt so natural and normal even though it has been more than two years since we last did that. When you truly look at it, this was a trip about strengthening a friendship -- not about sightseeing. It may be years before our paths cross again, but two truths are now evident. We will see each other someday, and we will act as if we had just seen each other the other day. That is friendship.

However, I can't end this log without giving a highlight of some of my fondest memories.

• Watching Merope walk out of the school and instantly recognizing her.
• Having Hope great us at the door with that shy little shrug she does.
• Having Gus walk in and immediately want to play.
• Hiking the hills of sheep, rams, and over-protective cows.
  
• Searching for Sylvia Plath and visiting the Brontes on the same day.
• Wading in Trafalgar Square.
• Fish and Chips every night (Nate's favorite)
• Seeing Big Ben, Parliament, and Westminster Abbey all at the same time.
• Traveling the River Thames.
• So much history in London -- Especially the gravings of the condemned.
• The HEAT -- My kingdom for an air conditioner!
• Fancy ladies passing out -- the Queen despairing about what the heat is doing to her...lawn.
• Knowing what it feels like in Hell -- it's the 20 mph hot train to Oxford.
• The friendly postman in Oxford -- Nate's new buddy.
• The search for Doc Martens.
• The view from the Roman baths -- ancient Rome, Medieval England, and Victorian England all in one little view.
• Overpriced pizza in a priceless plaza.
• Shakespeare's town -- goosebumps at every turn.
• Having a pint in a tavern from 1623.
• Driving on the left!
• Blackpool beach -- Donkey rides (and droppings) and the ocean.
• The emergency room in Rochdale -- nationalized health care at its finest!
• Friends who are more like family.

It was a great trip, and I'm looking forward to our next adventure. Nothing is ever dull when we're around; even if it doesn't seem like we're doing much. Isn't life grand!

Drive on the left! Drive on the left!

Everyone remembers the great scene in European Vacation where Chevy Chase gets stuck in the round-about and can't get out. It gets much funnier once you've actually tried to navigate an English round-about. In fact, driving in England itself is quite hilarious once you've driven down a teeny-tiny-skinny road, on the left side, at 60 miles per hour!

I must back up a bit as I've gotten ahead of myself. We left London at the absolutely hottest it's ever been there. Mind you, it's not as hot as it was in the states, but the complete absence of air conditioning anywhere made it much, much worse here. The temperature on our train to Oxford was around 120! To make matters worse, there was a fear of a black out of power, so the train couldn't turn on the AC, and the windows were so small a chipmunk would have to work at squeezing through. Then, because of the low power, the train had to maintain no greater speed than 20 mph, when it was not waiting for another train to pass. The 90-minute trip took over three hours, and we were reduced to little more than puddles when we arrived at the Oxford station.

THEN, we got out car. I've never been so frightened in my life as I'm trying to navigate a busy city street, while driving on the wrong side of the road, and shifting gears with my left hand. Luckily, we got onto the highway quickly, and the hotel (non-air conditioned, again) was near the road.

Driving the next day was one of the few thrills that I won't be so eager to repeat. The speed limit on back country roads is somewhere around 60, so you can imagine how exciting it was to fly over these windy roads, which would be single lane roads at home, all the while repeating my mantra, "Drive on the left!" By the time I hit a curb and ran the passenger window across some bushes, I'd started to get the hang of it; in fact, I'm concerned about driving at home now.

As for the three cities we visited in three days, all I can say is lovely places to visit, but it would be hell to live there. Oxford, Bath, and Stratford-upon-Avon were so chock-full-of-tourists that I was sure I was in the states somewhere because of the familiar accents. Bath was my favorite town, mostly for its beautiful architecture. The Roman Baths were fantastic, and Nate actually enjoyed walking around them. Stratford was my sentimental favorite for obvious reasons. Seeing where Shakespeare was born and died was an incredible experience. The fact that most of the houses there now are the same as the ones that were there when Shakespeare walked the streets gave me the chills (I know, I'm weird). We ate at a thatch-roofed pub that has been a tavern since 1623!!!

The end of our adventure is nearing, and I'm happy to spend the last few days winding down with our friends. I'm not looking forward to the drive through Manchester to return the car, though. City driving -- on the wrong side of the road -- sounds truly terrifying.

Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament

Well, we're here in London, and we have been moving! Since we shortened our trip by a day because of the train fares, we have crammed so much into this day that it is crazy. But, before I start in on all the sites, let me tell you about how much I miss air conditioning. In case you've never been to London, nothing is air conditioned. Now, usually that's not much of a big deal as the normal highs rarely get over 80. Lucky for us, we're hitting record highs. So, our hotel room that was the most inexpensive we could find was roasting! We cracked the window, which is all you're allowed since the have safety locks on them, and prayed for a breeze. Too bad all we got was the TRAIN!!!! We were so exhausted, though, that we didn't notice the trains pass by. Today was even worse, and we felt it as we traveled in the subway and on the double-decker bus (I loved that!). The headlines for today was, "Record Highs on Underground and Buses." Lucky us!

Besides the heat, though, London has been very exciting. In less than thirty hours we have seen: Big Ben, Parliament, The London Eye (where a protestor climbed to the top and shut it down just so we couldn't get on it -- damn Brit), took a boat ride down the Thames where we saw the new Globe Theater, London Bridge, Tower of London, Tower Bridge. Today we spent several hours at the Westminster Abbey (awesome), Tower of London (really cool), and Buckingham Palace. We walked down all the trendy streets and ate, what else, Fish and Chips!

One of the really odd things has been how familiar and foreign this place feels. Really, if nobody spoke you would think that we were in an American city. Yet, there is definitely a feel about the place that is very different. The people have different mannerisms, and the architecture is way different. It's nice to be able to read everything too!

Well, I promised Nate time to play on the computer, and I only have ten minutes left.

Off to Oxford tomorrow (shouldn't my parent be so proud to hear that?)

PS Sent off post cards, but I bet we beat them home!

First impression of England

In all of the novels that I've read about the English countryside, I never quite expected what has met us in Todmorden, a town about an hour from Manchester. Although the novels of Austen and the Brontes all depict these quaint villages and farming communities, I never really grasped the expansiveness of it all. Here, as far as the eye can see is field and stone fence, steep hills and sheep. The buildings are all made of stone with slate roofs. We have been here four days, and we've gone on four hikes into the hills. The kids took us exploring up to a very high point at which we could spy into the town and stare off into the miles and miles of hills and farms. While the children were in school on Friday, the adults and Nate went for a tour of Bronte country, the Brontes lived and wrote not far from here, and went to find the elusive gravesite of Sylvia Plath. Nate was not very impressed with the literary excursions, which doesn't bode well for several other planned stops, but we shall see what happens.

The highlight night has been last nights pub stroll. The Griffins arranged for a sitter, so we could all enjoy ourselves in an adult setting. It was great fun, and the English pub is really an interesting phenomenon. Basically, there is a moving party all night. You stop at one place, have a pint or two with your mates, and then move to another pub. You don't do this just once but all night long. We were ahead of the pack for each time we entered a pub it was empty, but by the time we left it was filled. However, there were two disappointments I found. First, the only American beer offered was Budweiser. No wonder everyone over here thinks that Americans have no taste in beer! Second, it wasn't as English as I expected. There was discoteque/club/house music blaring, and it was quite loud. Perhaps that's all pubs everywhere, but in my mind it was a quite little place where people went to chat. Besides that, we had a great time, and we stumbled home in the dark walking along the canal -- surprisingly, nobody fell in.

We've made one change to our plans. We are extending our stay in Tod for one more day so that we can save some serious cash on the train to London. If we were to leave today, it would have cost us £145 (about $250). If we travel Monday, it will cost us £45 total (about $80). It was an easy decision to give up a day of site-seeing.

Well, that's it for now. I'm still trying to work out my observations about the English and England. I'm not one who can quickly articulate what I'm feeling. I'm getting some serious vibes, but I can't quite put my finger on them.

Cheers!

Marathoning for life

I'm inspired. I'm crazy. I'm lucky. I'm inspirational. I'm nuts. I'm an addict. I am a marathoner, or at least I hope to be one. I recently ran my first marathon, God's Country Marathon in Coudersport, PA, and I think I am hooked. I loved the experience from the training to the race. My life has become better because of this race, and I can't see me not competing for as long as the legs will hold out.

I approached my cousins with the idea of running a marathon way back in December. They all shrugged it off with a response that ranged from raucous laughter to a vague "maybe". That is, everyone except Dave. My elder cousin gave a wishy-washy "sure," which soon turned into a "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'm in". Although we only got to train together one day over the next six months, it was motivational to know that I had to run when I was tired or sore because Dave was out there doing it. We started training together and we finished the marathon together. In between was four hours and nineteen minutes of talking and one enormous hill. Believe it or not, it was great because I don't get to see my friends as much as I used to, so to have that time to share and reflect was pretty cool thing to do at this point in our lives. The miles slipped by as we talked, and it really helped to forget the increasing pain in the legs. When we finished, I didn't have the rush of accomplishment that others talk about feeling when they finish a marathon. Maybe that's because I never doubted that I could do this. Maybe, it fits more with my philosophy that extols the importance of the journey over the value of the destination. Who knows? What I do know is that I'm hooked on marathoning.

The question that I have to ask myself, though, is why? I'm not a fan of solitary sports, nor have I been a runner all of my life. No, I think that the reason I'm so hooked is because I accomplished something through sheer will power. For the past thirty-five years, I've just sailed along the river of life, following the current wherever it took me. I let life dictate events -- the marathon allowed me to dictate life. It's exhilarating to imagine the possiblities of doing things that I kept putting off. I have finished a marathon because I willed myself to do it. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm in control of myself. It's not a new job or career that did it. I didn't inherit millions of dollars that liberated me. I freed myself. I now look around at my life with a new intensity and happiness. I don't grovel in regret. I feel closer to God than I ever have, and it's all because I am free to make choices. Going to church and communing with God is done out of choice not out of habit. Running is a choice not a doctor-directed mandate. I am madly in love with my wife because I want to not because society says I have to. I play with my son because I like to spend time with him not because some TV shrink says it's my job. I quit worrying about my job and now embrace it because that is my choice.

I don't think that running the marathon made all of those things happen. No, it's just evidence of what you control in your life, and what happiness comes from realizing the potential that life offers. It's just a matter of seizing it.