Writing a Will

Last week our lawyer hand delivered the Last Will and Testament that my wife and I plan to sign, giving direction to our vast estate and land holdings as well as our twenty-five year old Tupperware set (burp less). We've now had a chance to read over the Will and we only have one question:

Who was the idiot who created this "legal language" and why, in the name of Crab-apple Cove (M*A*S*H*) do we continue to use this god-forsaken method of writing incoherent legal babble?

Believe me, I could write more coherent sentences in my sleep . . . and this after I have quaffed two quarts of Johnny Walker red (if I were so inclined to drink hard liquor). I don't know law, and I certainly don't have any designs on being a lawyer, but I have to wonder . . . do they teach English in law school?

After reading our Will, and picking up on words like "Executrix", my wife thought our will sounded too sexy. I, on the other hand, kept looking for any pick up lines I could use. I've tried talking in a baritone and asking my wife if she wanted to be a "party of the first part" and "execute" certain moves upstairs, but she told me that I needed two unrelated signatories and a Notary Public if she was going to go that far with me. I'm checking with my lawyer now to see what my next course of action might be. He's suggesting I sue for "breach of promise", but actually, my wife has never promised me anything, not even on our wedding night, and I brought my lawyer along to the hotel for that gig, too.

I don't understand legal language. I'm a straight talker . . . or I try to be. I just tell my wife what I want (licorice, donuts, nookie twice a year) and she usually fills a cart at Wal-Mart or tells me she has a headache. I'm not built for communicating with my children and (someday?) grand-children about my demise. Our Will is set up so that, in the event that my wife and I die simultaneously in a buffalo stampede or are hit by a meteorite, our children inherit everything and split the junk cars 50-50. If I go first (which I won't), my wife gets everything, including my underwear and sock drawer. If she goes first (which she will), I get it all, including my wife's jewelry, which I purchased on birthdays and anniversaries, and which I will sell quickly at a Pawn Shop in Speedway for the down-payment on my second wife's engagement ring.

All of this is in the Will somewhere . . . I'm sure of it. I just have to figure out how to interpret it.

Used Books

I like used books. I would rather buy a used book than a new book. Reasons? A used book has a history. Other hands have handled it, read it, dog-eared the pages, marked it, abandoned it. I like to imagine where a used book has been, who the previous owner was, and the path it has taken to get to my hands.

Among my many used books, I have found copies from many states. I've got books that were originally in libraries in California, New York, Oregon, Vermont, and many points north and south. I've got paperbacks and hardbacks. Many are inscribed.

I like used books. When I buy a new book, I feel that I'm buying a piece of the publisher (not a bad feeling in itself), but a used book offers a unique affinity with a reader and the author. There is an exchange of ideas and history.

This week I read that Louis L'Amour had a 17,000 volume personal library at the time of his death. I've got a library of some 3,000 books, and a long way to go to match Louis. I doubt my wife will allow me to collect many more without selling a few. I don't want to be absolutely buried in books.

But then . . . being buried in books wouldn't be a bad way to go. Cheap burial. And that way I wouldn't be at a loss for words.

Reading Chekhov

Earlier in the week I noted a small volume at home that I had neglected: The Stories of Anton Chekhov. Chekhov was a Russian writer of short stories, widely considered one of the masters of the form, and I decided to read his stories afresh this week.

I have.

But I prefer Mr. Chekov. Mr. Chekov is far more entertaining. He sits on the bridge of the Enterprise and says, "Warp factor one, Captain" or "I cannot reach Mr. Spock's landing party, Captain, I'm picking up interference from 101 FM!" Chekhov, on the other hand, says things like, "Mr. Maronavick died of dysentery and his body was thrown into a Siberian garbage heap."

Mr. Chekov is fun-loving and lovable--he's a Russian chipmunk. Chekhov is dark and foreboding, and even as a Christian, for the love of Mary, the guy actually lived in Russia and survived on Vodka.

Mr. Chekov has known pain. In The Wrath of Khan, an insidious earwig-type creature ate a path through his brain stem. But did he complain? Heck, no! He knew McCoy would drop by with his little blue box, would wave it over his head and he'd be fresh as a daisy in spring. Chekhov writes about pain. He revels in stories about TB, genocide, and the gulag. His characters all die horrendous deaths, their extremities frozen, their faces frostbitten into sneers. This is the way Russia should be. We've come to expect it.

Mr. Chekov smiles and lives happily in some future century where good always triumphs and Captain Kirk dyes his hair. He's a happy Russian with less brains, but he's a genius when it comes to pressing buttons. We fancy he's a hot lover. Chekhov is dour. His author photos, as they exist, betray his nationality. "Good God, he's a suffering Russian," we say when we see his portraits. Chekhov is frozen in a Stalingrad-expression of hopelessness and that's the way he writes.

Mr. Chekov is your pal. He never dates but that's all right with him. He is okay working alongside Mr. Sulu, who is gay. Relationships are much different light years from now. Chekhov is an anti-Semite. We fancy he hates gays. Heck, he hates everybody. It's what his Christian faith tells him to do. He drinks more Vodka to survive.

Mr. Chekov or Chekhov? I've known them both. What was Gene Roddenberry thinking? Had he actually read Chekhov? If he had, he would have probably changed his character's name. We might know him today as Mr. Dostoevsky.

Signing Contracts

Publishing is rife with contracts. From books, to essays, to articles--even poems and meditations--publishers large and small want to insure their rights and make the author sign on the dotted line.

I've signed quite a few of these documents of late. Most are one page contracts, easily readable, and are simply meant to insure that I've written original material and that I'm not plagiarizing or submitting previously published material. The contract also outlines the author's rights (usually assigning rights back to the author once the material is published first run in the magazine). Pay is mentioned, too. Although, in most cases, there is no money exchanging hands. At least, I rarely get any.

Yesterday I received payment for a poem that an editor in Ventura, California accepted for a Fall literary journal: a year's subscription to the journal itself. My first issue just arrived. I shelved it immediately and went back to writing. I now have a small library of these complimentary subscriptions. It seems one arrives about every week. But I'm not complaining. I get nice handwritten notes from the editors who tell me things like, "Loved this one!" or "You're the man!" or "Next time I read something this well written I'm sending you cool million."

But I'm not a legal eagle and contracts are not my bag. That's why I have an agent who handles my larger-mainstream book material. She reads all of this gobbledy-gook and tells me, "We won't sign this!" or "I'll ask the editor to make another offer" or "Let's hold out for a bucket of chicken gizzards and a pint of mashed potatoes." I love her for this. If not for her, I'd sign anything. Publishers would have my liver and one of my kidneys by now if not for her dedicated oversight of these contractual matters.

As for the small contracts for essays, articles, devotions, poems, columns, and humor--all of which I continue to write in great swelling masses--I'll sign at will. Essentially, I write for free. And the editors know it.

Next time I sign, however, I might make one concession. I wonder if I could work in a letter to my wife? The editor would be required to write her a personal letter on my behalf, telling her what a swell guy I am to work with, and how I have personally saved the magazine from extinction, and would she consider making love to her writer before he burns out?

Hey, it's worth a try.

Best Wishes

For the past year I've been working hard at collecting first editions of books. I think I can say that this endeavor, in some respects, has become a bit more than a hobby with me. I've not fallen into the obsessive form of bibliophilia yet (I don't steal books from libraries or bookstores, for example) but there is a kind of fever that can overwhelm a person who is in the collecting mode.

But used books are very cheap. And since most people no longer read books and few people want them in their homes anymore, I'm finding first editions everywhere . . . and most for a buck or two.

One of the reasons I've resisted purchasing a Kindle (though I'm sure I'll buy one this year) is because digital books don't have editions. Odd as it may sound, I have always read the flyleaf or copyright page of a book first. I study it closely. I enjoy finding out when the author was born, for example, and many times the dedication of a book reveals subtle nuances of relationship and form. And the numbers on the copyright page also reveal the edition . . . which in turn offers insights into how many "copies" of the book have been printed or perhaps will be printed. A low edition means that this reader is, indeed, holding something very special and "limited" in his hands.

With digital books, "print" is on demand, and there's no limit to the "first" edition. In fact, one could say that editions are all "first" since the "print" can be downloaded in a flash and there's no need to keep track of copies. Naturally, someone in the publishing firm is keeping track of copies, and the respective authors do, in fact, get paid a royalty on the download. (I know, as I receive a few pennies each month from the various Kindle copies of my books . . . but compared to print, the author's take is even less. One wonders why, in the future, authors will continue to write books at all if there's no money to be made and if all writing is created equal . . . the good, the bad, and the unreadable?)

I also enjoy first editions because, from time to time, I find the author's handwriting on the flyleaf or copyright page of the book. "Best Wishes" he might write, or she might scribble "All Best". Try finding that on a digital book! In fact, how can an author sign a digital book? Publishers are probably working on this, and maybe no one cares, but I still enjoy the unexpected discovery of finding handwritten connection with the author of the book. It's personal. There might even be some author DNA on the page. And if I go to a signing, I can meet the author and shake her hand.

Yeah, I'll get a Kindle soon. But I'm going to continue to stuff my house with volumes before there are no more "bookstores". The days are coming . . . and quickly. But until then, I know there's another first edition out there waiting for me to find it.

Writing With the Missus

PHOTO: Todd (with some woman he picked up in Napa Valley, CA) circa. October 2009

In my latest blog series I put my writing life up for auction, but since no one placed a bid on any piece of my life, I can assume my life is worth nothing. Now I can get on, as they say, to more important matters.

A few months ago my wife received an invitation to submit a personal essay for publication in a book. She wrote back, asking the general editor if she could write the essay in conjunction with her husband (ME) and submit the work under the collaborative moniker. He agreed. And I did, too . . . but reluctantly.

Last week, while I was trying to auction away bits and pieces of my life, Becky and I finished our project. It was hell.

"Why don't you write another paragraph?" my wife would suggest. "I think you can do a better job of weaving our thoughts together if you can change the tone of the piece."

Yeah, well, kiss my grits.

Actually, Becky is a good writer. She's produced mega-papers over the past two years and my editorial hand has been very light. She's blogged with the best of 'em. And when the essay does finally go to press and we get our contributors copies of the book and receive our massive paycheck in the mail . . . we might go to dinner and celebrate.

I hear Wendy's has an affordable menu, and we can plot our next book project together while we split a burger. After all, marriage is 50-50.

My Auction Lot #7

Lot #7 Description: Black licorice strips (4).

History: These pieces of licorice were discovered only last Tuesday underneath the author's computer. No visible mice nibbles or other defamation make these whips a remarkable treat. By the time this blog entry goes to cyberspace, the author will have probably eaten all of them, although they were discovered board stiff. Good example of the black licorice which comprises the bulk of this author's diet. He's made entire meals (even breakfasts) on fare such as this. And now you can own a piece of this history.

Background: red licorice is NOT licorice. Sorry. The red junk is pure candy and cannot be compared to old-school black licorice, with its distinct taste and odor. Black licorice never goes bad. Sure, it'll get hard and might even sit in a candy dish for two and half years . . . but the author says he'll get around to chomping on it sooner or later. His wife forgets to pick up groceries, he'll make a repast on the four year old whips from the attic. No problem. This author also attributes his prolific abilities and his iron-clad digestive structure to black licorice. Put these pieces under glass and you'll have a remarkable art deco piece.

Quote from the Author's wife: "You're not going to eat those, are you?"

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