A Re-Statement of Purpose

What I wish to do here is find that voice in my head which told me stories when I was bored. I need to share, and to find acceptance, and gain stature with my words. That is the goal for numerous with blogs out there. Many are much more inventive than I can ever hope to be. Today, I wonder where I have landed. I feel as though I’ve reached a milestone; but the paradox for me is exactly where on the map does this place me as I did not know where I would go when I created this blog?

I can suppose that I may have touched a few folks with my writing. My responses from readers have been overwhelmingly positive. This makes me wonder when my dreadful post is coming. There is no way I am that good, I ponder. This notion gnaws at me, controls my lively fingers as they tap away at my keyboard while I fashion another essay or story for posting in this space. I’ll simply do what I am able to, the best I can muster, and hope that I am hearing the correct outcome; that I never determine that I have reached any sort of summit. My objective is and always was to publish my novels, and perhaps I’ve drifted off the trail which can lead me in that direction. The blogging world proffers a brilliant audience, benevolent, and kind, in their feedback. May I never betray you and always be gracious for your attention.

What I need to do is refocus my energy on my larger writing projects. I’ve strayed from this intention and have been relying too heavily on telling personal anecdotes and mining the depths of my sorrow over the deaths of friends and loved ones. I need explore my writing methods and only occasionally invite my readers into my private thoughts with a tale from my past. These stories and other odd posts serve as practice for me, and I need to remember that. I’ve put the cart before horse and it is necessary to back up and reassess my stated purpose; yet, always, yes always, bear in mind that my readers are important to my improvement, and that they deserve the best I have to offer. This is a delicate balance, but one which I need to challenge myself to achieve. My project is clearer now: remain loyal to my idea, explore my craft’s boundaries, be diligent in its practice, and realize that I can always do better. I owe this to myself, and to my wonderful, discerning, and charitable readers. Thank you.





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Tales from the Notebook: Hello Neighbor

Dear Readers, It's time from another Mr. Grudge classic dug from the pages of one of his his old notebooks. This short story "Hello Neighbor" dates all the way back to 1992. I hope you all enjoy this one. Thanks for stopping by.

Hello Neighbor

This is a tale of woe. It began as after my wife and I moved into an apartment after we got married. We rented the top floor of a two family house with our landlords
living downstairs. They were quiet folks never bothered us. The street we lived on was a dead end and had very little in the way of traffic. It seemed to be the type of area where we could lead our own lives in private and be left alone.

That was not to be the case, though. Our neighbor across the street, a short, bald man in his sixties who lived with his mother and his ailing wife, gradually began to rattle our existence. At least mine, anyway.

During my everyday comings and goings he would stop whatever he was doing; raking, washing his car, painting, etc, and stare at me whenever I was outside. The ice finally broke one day, after weeks of this, when I was taking a sack of laundry from the trunk of my car. He was in the street, dangerously close to me, standing next to his car. I couldn’t help but peek over at him when our eyes met.

“Laundry?” he said.
Stunned, I hesitated.
“Laundry?” he said again.
Oh yeah,” I answered. “I just picked it up.” I walked over and stuck out my hand waiting for him to shake it. He smirked and then climbed into his big, yellow Caprice and drove away.

This began a trend. A few days later I was trotting towards my car when I sensed “Mr. Eye Spy’s” laser beams burning through me. I didn’t even look up. My latest practice was to jog directly to my car without even a glance in his direction.

“Work?” he said.
I kept going like I didn’t hear him.
“Going to work?” he asked again.

I had to answer him; I was steeped in Catholic guilt, and my parents taught me to always be respectful to my elders.

“Oh no, I’m off today.” Once again, I headed over to him to make conversation, but he turned and entered his house.

Later, when my wife returned home from work, I brought this up to her. I explained how every time I went out outside it was like dodging sniper fire with this guy. He was everywhere. Even at night at two o’clock in the morning he was on his lawn sitting in a lounge chair making another one of his frivolous observations: “Home from work?’ “Off to work?” “Groceries?” “Books?” ad nauseum.

“You’re paranoid.” she said.

“I’m telling you, the man watches everything I do and always asks me about it.”

“He never does that to me.” she said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him more than three or four times.”

“Well, I see the guy all the time. He’s all over the place. Hell, he might as well come live with us and study me more closely.”

“Now you sound crazy. Go over and talk to the man. He’s probably just lonely. The only people he has to talk to are his sick wife and senile mother.”

“Maybe he’s senile too?” I said. “Anyway, I’ve tried talking to him. He just walks away.”

“Then ignore him.”

“I tried that.”

“Really honey, you’re making a big deal over nothing. And, quite frankly, I’m sick of hearing about it.”

“But…” I stammered.”

“No buts. If I hear another word about this, I’m going to have you checked out.”

I didn’t respond. She was right. Maybe I was blowing this all out of proportion? After some thought, I decided that he was just some lonely old man who wants to make friends but doesn’t know how. I shouldn’t let him get to me, I thought.

A few days later I came home from the supermarket with some things for a special dinner my wife was going to cook for us that night. I was at the door with my arms fully laden with grocery bags and struggling with my keys. Suddenly, the door opened and “HE” appeared. I learned later that he was visiting my landlords. Surprised by his appearance, I tumbled backwards and my bags spilled everywhere. Luckily, I landed on the lawn, but my groceries didn’t fare so well. Everything hit the walkway and shattered or was dented. He walked up to me, careful not to step in the puddle of goo forming on the brick pathway, and looked down.

I raised my arm so he could help me up.

“Fell, huh?” he said. Then he stepped over me and strolled across the street to his house.

That night I told my wife the latest. Even she was miffed by his callousness. She speculated that even if he was physically incapable of lifting me up, he should have at least acted concerned. She did maintain, however, that with or without him there, I probably would have dropped something anyway being as that she thinks I’m a total klutz.

After dinner when my wife wasn’t looking I pored over the real estate section of the newspaper looking for a new apartment. My plan was to convince my wife that even though we were saving to buy a house, we should rent an apartment closer to where we worked to save money on gas. Yet, I was too chicken to bring this up. Somehow she’d make the connection that I wanted to move just to get away from the jerk across the street. Plus, I was afraid that she’d start ranting again about me being obsessed or crazy. Also, I was afraid that she was right.

About a week later I was leaving for work for the night shift. I was making my usual sprint across the front lawn to jump into my car before “HE” appeared. I made it to my Honda and was putting the key in the door when it dawned on me that he was nowhere around. Then, I heard a strange, gurgling sound, like someone choking. The noise came from his yard across the road. I walked over in complete defiance of every convention I laid down for myself.

By the bushes in his side yard, I could make out the figure of a man laying on the ground in the darkness. It had to be him. After going back to retrieve my flashlight from the trunk of my car, I entered his yard and ran over to him to try and help. His face was so pale it seemed to glow in the dark. Sweat poured off him and he was clutching his chest. For the first time, I looked into his eyes and saw vulnerability.

Stricken with panic, I stood there with my mind racing. Should I call 911? Start CPR? I was confused.

Then, total calm came over me. I stepped closer, got down on one knee, looked him squarely in the eye and said “Heart attack?”

Then, I got up and went to work.

His wife, good woman, made some tasty sandwiches after the funeral.

The End





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November 13, 2007 Update on "It's a Movie!"

Recently I posted about a young director and her cinematographer who both are making a short story I wrote over twenty years ago into a movie. This will be a lengthy process expected to take several months and I didn't expect to get an update in so soon. However, I am happy to report that I met with the writer/director today, and she said she was well on her way into writing the first draft of the script. Wow, this is actually happening!

movie cinematographer director script short story

Special Announcement: It's A Movie!

I have a special announcement to make which has been in the making for a few months now. One of my short stories is going to be made into an independent, short film. The filmmaker, a young woman who graduated from a respected college for film, read two of my short stories and selected one for her next independent project. Her cinematographer, a young man who won an award for a short film of his own production, will work with her on the filming of the story, as well as in post-production.

The final run time for the film version of my short story “Hello Neighbor” will run approximately 7-10 minutes and most likely be entered into various independent film festivals. This is not a million dollar production, but professional actors and actresses will be used as well as state of the art studios and equipment. I don’t expect this project to be completed any time soon, as the young writer/director/filmmaker just picked up my draft of the story yesterday. She has to create a script, cast the actors and actresses, scout a location for the exteriors, budget the film, story board, etc, etc, etc. In addition, I’ve noticed that the world of filmmaking comes with many variables that us lay people aren’t privy to. When I saw both her and her cinematographer yesterday, their cell phones were ringing and they were busy giving instructions to others who were assisting them in another production they currently have underway. Still, she was excited about making this particular film because as she put it: “I absolutely love this story.” Hopefully, if this works out, she will absolutely love some of my lengthier works.

This is very exciting for me, and I am extremely flattered by this. I’ve been to screenings of films made by these two talented individuals and have been impressed by the professional quality of their filmmaking as well as their writing. They are up and coming stars in their field and their current workload proves this. This is something which I hope will happen to every writer out there who pours their heart and soul into their work. I am flattered beyond words.

film cinematographer filmmaker actors production independent film short story

An Old Short Story: Baby Boyfriend

Dear Readers,
I’m taking a huge risk here. Digging through my old notebooks, I found a story I wrote all the way back in 1987. The few people who read it thought it was okay. Now, all these years later I’m publishing it on my blog where I’d have more success getting others to read it if I spray painted it on the side of a building. Anyway, the story is called “Baby Boyfriend,” and it was inspired by a relationship I had with a girl I dated when I was a young, nerdy, college kid who was a sucker for any woman wearing a tube top. By the way, because one reader who commented asked me this, Richard, the protagaonist, is not an actual baby. I was referring to his demeanor. It’s both nostalgic and frightening to unearth articles and stories which I wrote in my youth. On the one hand, I rediscover something which I may, or may not be still proud of. On the other, I kind of hope I matured as a writer. I never used so many exclamation points before, or since writing this one. Hope you like it.


Baby Boyfriend


Well Doctor, do you want to hear my story? It’s kind of long and boring, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind being as that I’m paying you to listen and all.

Gina brushed her hair in long, even strokes as she spoke aloud. Those big, quizzical, brown eyes of hers wandered aimlessly around her messy, little bedroom. Finally, they settled upon me. I was sitting on the edge of her bed counting the number of times I could kick one of her slippers back and forth between my feet without breaking my rhythm.

“Don’t you think so, Richard?”
“Huh?” I answered, startled.

She was actually asking my opinion on something and I wasn’t paying attention.

“Well Gina, I don’t know, really.” I said. That was my standard response in those situations. She could get very annoyed at my daydreaming; and, that left me wide open for plenty of her whining and complaining about me not caring about her pathetic, miserable life. I decided it was best to look at her as she continued to ramble on about whatever the hell she was prattling on about.

This was typical of our relationship. She’d invite me over to her apartment with the suggestion that anything could happen; and me, the “Strike-out King” would arrive at her front door before she had a chance to hang up the phone for another libido-killing, monk-making evening centered on Gina’s monologues. No detail was too small or insignificant to be left out. Soon, I was on intimate terms with all of the players in Gina’s wild world of semi-evolved relatives, circus-geek girlfriends, and a long list of ex-boyfriends who are targets in the federal war on crime.

“I was talking to Billy before you came over.” She continued. “He’s leaving Little Billy with his ex-girlfriend’s fiancé to come over here because I owe him five dollars. I told him that I’m not giving it to him unless he gives me Little Billy back.”

“Oh really?” I chirped. I became more alert. Billy is her on again, off again common law husband, who also just happens to be her step-brother from her mother’s former marriage to his ex-foster father. No one is actually sure who Little Billy, their son, belongs to biologically. But, Gina’s mother, who is equipped with the only active brain cell in the entire brood, swears that it is impossible for Gina and Billy to go off to one of their week long, hippie, drug, love-ins and return as the proud parents of a three year old boy. But, since they honestly believe the kid is theirs, or, they wrongly think they brought him there in the first place, and since nobody is claiming the boy, they now have a son. You figure it out.

“He’s coming here?” I asked in horror.
“Sure.” she said. “And, I need you to stick up for me.”

My God, it was serious. I had every reason to fear this bruiser. The last time I saw Billy, he said the next time he saw me, he was going to turn me into one of those springy, horsey rides you see kids bouncing on in the park.

“He’s coming here?” I asked a bit more frantically.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him?” she snapped.
“Afraid of Billy? No, no. I can get along with him, I guess.” I was stammering. “Hey, look at the time. I told my neighbor I’d help him plunge his toilet.”

“Listen…” she cried. “Don’t be such a wimp. You can take him. You’re both the same size.”

I said nothing as I sat there and hugged myself while rocking back and forth.

“Hey,” Gina said as she leaned over to me and lowered her voice. “Do you want a knife?”

“Knife?” I yelped. “No knife, no knife.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Actually, there was a lot of banging at the door. I sprang to my feet and Gina ran down the hallway to answer it.

My worst fears were realized. It was Billy. I could do nothing but stand in silent terror as the two of them screamed at each other at the tops of their lungs. Then, he smacked her, real good too. She hit him back and he just roared in loud, mocking laughter.

“Help me!” she cried, “Help me!” I was her cavalry; her own little General Custer.

Billy stopped laughing and shot me a cold stare.

“What are you going to do, wimp?” he said.

“Oh God, he sees me.” I said with a gulp.
“What did you say, punk? You some sort of tough guy, supposed to beat me up?”

“Get him!” Gina yelled. “Get him now!”

“Shut up!” Billy roared, and he smacked her again. Gina ran from the apartment with her bathrobe open and nothing on underneath. Billy started toads me, slowly at first. He kept flexing his muscles saying: “Come on punk, show me what you got.”

And then, he charged at me, full speed ahead. I had no other choice but to jump out the bedroom window from three stories up. Lucky for me a guy delivering balloons for a birthday party broke my fall.

So Doctor, here I am. By he way, Billy and I are on good terms now. He couldn't stop laughing at the way I hit the ground with the balloons popping and all. So, now we’re pals because this caveman thinks I’m hysterically funny and I’m only being kept alive to entertain this goon.

Also, Gina and Billy are back together. They’re suing the landlord for not having protective bars over the windows of the apartment. They’re cutting me for a third of the settlement s long as I agree to watch Little Billy while they go to another one of their week long, hippie, drug, love-ins.

Do you want to sign my cast?


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The Toughest Thing To Write, Was Not

Writers are often called upon to perform unpleasant tasks, such as write an obituary, or to report on a tragic news story. For me, the most emotional, yet easiest piece I ever wrote was the eulogy for my mother. For many years, she battled both cancer and systemic Lupus. Unfortunately, there was plenty of time for her and the rest of us to contemplate her death. There was no hope, as the oncologist told her: "Ann, there is nothing we can do for you."

As I and my family kept vigil at her bedside, there was no avoiding the fact that she was going to pass on. Somewhere in my mind, I began to formulate the words which were to become her eulogy. As morbid as that sounds, she was my mother, and in those final, meditative moments of her life, I had time to summarize all that she meant to me and to the rest of us. From there, I was able to envision my thoughts and emotions, and ultimately put them on paper.

In fact, because I am one of those fiction writers who often insert my actual memories into the many pieces I author, I was able to steal a vignette from a short story I typed out on an old Smith Corona typewriter before I was married. On the way home from my parents house on the night my mother passed away, that scene played out in my head just as I wrote it all those years earlier, but the reasons why I opted to put it on paper were just as valid then as on the day she died when I chose to put it into her tribute.

The scene in my short story was crafted from a memory I had as a small boy. I couldn't have been older than the age of five because my little brother was an infant then. I can still see myself sitting in a chair at the kitchen table of our home as my mother cooked dinner for all of us. She was tired and her back was hurting, but she seemed happy. Dad came home from work, and he walked up behind her and kissed her on the cheek. When he walked away into their bedroom, my mother began to sing, softly to herself. I don't think she knew she was singing, or that I was there watching her, in awe of her beautiful voice. The song she sang was "Ave Maria." Perry Como would sing it on his Easter special every year, and my mother would never miss a performance. At times, she would sing along with him, the light from the television reflecting on her face, revealing her misty eyes.

She stayed like that in my mind for decades with her bright red hair pulled back, and with her family all coming home to enjoy her delicious cooking. She was at peace with herself, and I always look back on that moment whenever I’m feeling depressed or going through a hard time for inspiration.

My mother suffered a myriad of illnesses for most of her adult life which can now be attributed to Lupus. Her fight with cancer lasted well over ten years, and she needed at least three surgeries on her spine. Still, just being home and cooking for her family was enough to make her smile and sing the only song she loved so much it made her cry.

It was natural then, on my ride home the night she died, that I chose to immortalize that memory and share it with all of our friends and loved ones who came to show their respects for her at her wake. I removed that scene from that short story, in effect killing the fictional character that lived it in typeset, and returned it to its rightful owners. You see, I was the young voyeur that day, watching from my chair as she inspired me with her beauty and toughness. However, she was the one who lived through the pain and discomfort and became the example to us all. Her eulogy then, was easy to compose, as I had been writing it for my entire life in all of my stories and essays. She was one of my major influences, and she was my inspiration for that short story which was actually all about her in the first place.

As an author, I imagine everything, and yet, create nothing. As for every project I begin, I start from my birth, borrowing from all of my experiences until I've completed my latest manuscript. With the toughest assignment I ever undertook, it was, ironically, the easiest, because my writing was always inspired by my mother. I merely needed to summarize everything she was and will still be to all of us who remain. One day, when my own story ends, perhaps someone will be kind and pen a few words about me. Hopefully this won't be difficult for that person, as I wish to live my life with dignity and leave a proper example for my children, just as my mom did for me.

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