Tag: #RRBC

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Uncategorized Writing

Together We Go

By Billy Ray Chitwood on June 11, 2019May 31, 2019

***Together* *We Go***

“Each writer has a style…”

“Well, now, aren’t you the savvy one? Where are you going with this bit of ‘old news’?”

“Oh, come on, Alter-boy, play nice. Let me show off just a tad. I’m just practicing my Phrase Prompt?”

“Well, you are the ruling member of this august group of two, so sally forth, my main man. This Phrase Prompt thing is what gets you to writing, ain’t it?”

“Alter-boy, don’t you ever again use that pedestrian verb combo. It reminds me too much of my time in the Writer Wasteland. Now, I can’t get rid of you, but I can control your impulses, so I’m going to push the pause button on you. Just stay inside my head and let me know when I’m getting in a writing warp that I should not be in. Just, behave yourself. Generally, I love your good humor and those beady little bon mots with which you suffer me…”

“Hold it, before you push that pause button, don’t you believe you might be using a dab of affectation here, I mean, bon mots, really? Why don’t you just write, quip, or, pun? I know you want to show off, and I’m not going to bother you again, but, get real, son, I live in here, too. You…” Pause button time.

“That’ll hold you a while, Alter-boy. We’ll have a big laugh about all this a little later.

“As I was saying/writing, each of us has a style that goes a long way in identifying who we are. For example, back in college, being an English major and studying one semester American authors who had discernable styles. Take, for example, Edgar Allen Poe, the south’s, Thomas Wolfe, I loved those gentlemen and their writing, styles, but the southern author who was challenging for me to read was Oxford, Mississippi’s contribution to literature, William Faulkner, Nobel Laureate, Pulitzer Winner twice. Faulkner is likely best known for his The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Absalom, Absalom! and The Reivers. I’ve gone back and read Faulkner, and, well, who am I to argue with the literary rankings? William Faulkner was a great writer, but I didn’t particularly enjoy him as much as the almost poetic narrative style of Thomas Wolfe.

My writing was influenced mostly by my study in college of the American Naturalists in literature. Emile Zola, the French writer, was to formulate the naturalist standard in writing, evolving from the so-called Realist writers of the day. Realism and Naturalism began to lead writers away from landscape-style writing to the ugly happenings of the streets, the under-belly of society dwellers. Writers like Jack London, Frank Norris, Theodore Dreiser, Stephen Crane came on strong to pick up from the great early narratives of Samuel Clements (Mark Twain). The Naturalist style of writing appealed to me, and my books likely show that influence.

There are many authors I’ve read and enjoyed over the years, the poetry and writing of an ex-Catholic priest, James Kavanaugh, whose book of poetry, Will You Be My Friend? and There are Men Too Gentle to Walk Among Wolves ‘matched so well with me’ and hearkened me back to my early Appalachian roots. I still remember how very ‘eager to write’ I was after reading Theodore Dreiser’s, Sister Carrie, about a young girl coming to the big city to find her fame and fortune, only to be used by the corrupted moth to light characters of the street. Crane’s Red Badge of Courage and Maggie, Girl of the Streets gave me the same thrill, made me want to write… Do you know Stephen Crane wrote The Red Badge of Courage over a weekend? At least, that’s the anecdote I heard at the time, and never checked it out for authenticity.

One last observation from William Faulkner. He was a self-made author. Faulkner believed and stated, a writer learns to write from writing, from the mistakes you make as writers. He also stated in fairly clear language that a writer had to believe he/she was the very best out there. Pretty bold, but I like it. That’s how I want to think…

So, long story short, I can easily trace my reason for loving to write back to childhood mimicking of singers I liked and childish poetry plus the foregoing influences.

So, each writer has a style, and I won’t be claiming to be in the same league as the great authors I’ve mentioned above. There are always the factors to consider of brain power and latent talent. We are all blessed with some – is it enough to author a best-selling mega-hit?

Each of us must determine that for ourselves…

“Well, isn’t that obvious?”

Oops, I accidentally hit the pause button.

“Okay, you want to have dialogue with me, Alter-boy? Go for it!”

“Want a drink?”

“Yeah, a highball. You, pouring?”

“You know, that’s an amusing question. To each his own!”

Billy Ray Chitwood – June 11, 2019

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Uncategorized Writing

Writing: Is It The Pits?

By Billy Ray Chitwood on June 8, 2019June 8, 2019

Writing: Is It The Pits?

There is no earthly or worthy reason why you should heed any advice I might give on the topic of Writing. Oh, I can claim to have taught briefly a course in Advanced Writing to high school seniors on their way to college, and, only my Deity can explain it, but I have written nineteen books and am working on the twentieth.

Having written those books, I’ve done little in the way of marketing them. I’ve deliberately eschewed seeking out a publisher because of the rejection slips I received many years ago when I was writing my six-book ‘Bailey Crane Mystery Series’. When self-publishing came into popularity, I went crazy and madly published too many books too fast, subliminally thinking readers were going to gobble them up. Talk about Chutzpah.

Okay, the truth is, I’ve always been frugal with money – except for the very large and expensive things in life, like, cars and luxury homes…yes, I like luxury living and won’t give it up. Well, there’s more than one truth. I spent most of my earlier years in the neon lights of lotus-eating, getting married, getting divorced, getting married, getting…you get the picture. So, some common sense came via ‘air mail’ to the left-side of my brain (Or, is it the right-side?) somewhere around the Gail Sheehy’s ‘Forty-Plus Crucible’ stage in Passages. I married a lovely down-to-earth lady with the common sense I never had and have somehow metamorphosed into that sensible place…well, for the most part. I’m still dilettantish to a fault.

Now, I just write, literally, write – blogs, novels, romance, mystery, thrillers, memoirs, even inject some fantasy occasionally. To the exclusion of, say, keeping up with the social media mélange of tips for writing, how to get an agent, how to write the next great novel, common mistakes made in writing, how to market your book, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, really, need I go on? I just WRITE.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered that I was likely never going to get discovered by a publisher or by an agent who could get me published, so, I WRITE. No, the sales of my books are not making me zany with joy, far from it – think of an antonym, like ‘zensible’. Think of the smallest grain of sand. That’s I, me, or my nineteen books – under a tall and wide five-ton pile of pebbles. So, I WRITE.

I’m in Twilight now, and I use that descriptive word so as not to admit to an age I don’t feel nor care to reveal…ah, see, a rhyme. I’m amazing, to me, I’m amazing. You don’t have to think so. You might think so if you read one of my books, particularly, if you read Dominique, or, Daddy, No! or, Mama’s Madness, or, Stranger Abduction, or…well, just go to https://billyraychitwood.com and pick one. Many of my books in the Mystery genre are fiction from fact, because evildoers have always held a morbid fascination for me, you know, how could any person do some of the hideous crimes we see on TV and in daily newspapers? Many of my books are in the Romance genre, love stories with some suspense and intrigue.

Finally, with all I’ve written here, here’s a writing tip that works for me. If you have the penchant for writing, feel like you can write, you might try it. Here’s what I do: I look over at my lovely wife and say, “Hey, honey, give me a phrase, any phrase, known, not known, just give me a phrase.” She’s reluctant because I’m taking her away from her book-reading or her genealogy, but I pick on her enough until she finally gives me a phrase.

From that phrase, I will write a blog post. That post might one day become a full-fledged book. That simple phrase unlocks my mind and the words flow. Maybe, in the scheme of things, my blog posts are not so great, but I like them, my wife likes them, my friends like them, and maybe that must be enough. That phrase gets me to writing, and the more I write the better wordsmith I believe I become. Hopefully, it can work for you.

So why not leave me a phrase in the comments below, it might form a blog post, or, trigger another new book.

Happy Writing.

Billy Ray Chitwood – June 8, 2019

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#memoir Writing

Close Call

By Billy Ray Chitwood on June 1, 2019May 29, 2019

Close Call

Just a bit tipsy when I left the Cannery Row bar, the hour was Ten PM, and I knew there were business calls to be made in Monterey the next day just as there was with this day ending. I walked down the lighted street until I came to the alleyway where I earlier parked my car. It was a short alleyway from the main street into a relatively small unlighted parking lot between a cluster of tall brick buildings.

The thought did occur to me that I could be an easy prey in this special part of the California I once knew. Maybe it was more than a thought. Perhaps it was a premonition.

John Steinbeck made this little piece of the world famous with his book, Cannery Row, in 1945, a story set during the Great Depression about the ‘earthy’ people of the author’s memory going back to 1930 of the men and women who lived bawdy lives, drank, and died. 1945 was the year the ‘seiners’ brought in 250,000 tons of sardines, the final year of such heavy yield. The following year was 25,000 tons of sardines. Despite the warnings from marine biologists, the sardine cannery and sardines would be seined out of existence.

Back to my woeful tale, I stepped from the alley into a parking area of pitch-black darkness. My tie was loose around my neck and my white shirt was slipping out of my trousers all rumpled. I looked the part of a drunken sot, but without the weaving and swaying. To some extent, that rumpled image can be taken as true…just a bit too much entertaining the clients seen that day.

So, into the blackness I went. Suddenly, from the darkness came two young men, each grabbing an arm, the one to my right was consistently punching me just above my bicep.

“Give us your wallet, mofo!” one thug whispered with emphasis that begged to be heeded.

Dumbfounded, I complied with the demand and handed over my wallet. The hoodlum on my right was still punching me above my bicep while gripping so tightly I could only feel the jolts.

Just as quickly as the two bad boys grabbed me, it was over. They ran quickly away into the blackness, while I stood momentarily staggered with incipient anger and frustration building. It quickly dawned on me that all my credit cards and some hundred-plus dollars were in my wallet.

I hurried from the parking lot down the short alleyway and called the police. When two officers arrived, I gave them the information that I had which was precious little, gave them my temporary lodging address – the Casa Munras, in Monterey, if memory serves correctly.

It was only when I returned to Casa Munras and began to pull my suit coat off that I noticed my blood-soaked right sleeve. The young punk was not punching me. He was stabbing me with a pocket-knife. The police prior obviously figured I knew about the bloody coat arm.

My wallet was found sometime during the next day in a street near Cannery Row.

Thankfully, my credit cards were all there. The money was gone.

I love John Steinbeck, studied him in college along with Ernest Hemingway and other notable American novelists, but, John, I won’t be visiting Cannery Row again – except through the pages of your classic book.

Incidentally this little scrap of a story is true of a younger me during my educational rep days.

Billy Ray Chitwood – June 1, 2019

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Flash Fiction Romance Uncategorized

Save That Dream

By Billy Ray Chitwood on May 28, 2019

Save That Dream

The colors were devastating, people sharply defined, the music from the band magically soothing, and my boldness stronger with each sip of the Manhattan on the rocks. It was my third and I was entering that stage of liquid laxity that was both delightful and dangerous, a moment that needs little elaboration for the lotus-eater that controls my moments of merriment, and, good golly, the big band was playing a slow tune. The song was ‘Theme from a Summer Place’, an all-time favorite of mine, one of those marvelous tunes that makes dancing with a lovely lady so very special…so, where was the lovely lady?

It was a special ‘Spring Dance’ in honor of the city’s sesquicentennial, and I was a resident author invited because of my philanthropy, that is, spending so much money in the pubs throughout the city, many donations to various civic causes, and in serious search for a wife replacement. Now, that’s rather blunt, but it’s the truth. A successful author in his prime, having divorced one trophy wife for taking her flirting activities too far, searching all anew for another trophy wife… I’m a bit like Brigham Young, you know, I don’t care how you Bring’em, just bring’em young. One other thing, about the resident author, successful author, let’s keep that between us. I wouldn’t want that to become public knowledge. You likely get my ‘drift’, people bugging me all the time for autographs and free books…I’m sure you know what I mean.

Sitting at the bar looking over the crowd, there were a few possibilities that I could see among the bodies standing at those temporary tables that are used for events such as this. My bartender buddy was an old drinking pal by the name of Paulski – at least, that’s what I had always called him, even though his name was, Paul. The noise in the big room was a constant mix of laughter, talking, music, and Paulski had to nudge me to get my attention. He leaned over the bar and spoke, “Don’t look now, but you’re getting the eye of one hellava looker, brunette, starboard.” Then, he moved away to serve a drink.

I dutifully obeyed Paulski and casually raised my highball glass to my lips and ‘took a look’. Good Lord, how did I miss that beauty. Damn, she was right off the cover of a women’s magazine, hell, make that a ‘Playboy’ magazine. All of a sudden, I’m smitten and bitten by an impatient lust…I’m sorry, folks, I’ve got to call it what it is. It is not something new with me. It’s been a life-long struggle for me, some warped genetic-thing that eats me up when I see a lady so confounded beautiful.

Then, she looked at me and smiled. The bar was horseshoe-shaped, and I felt like leaping over all the booze and mirrors and landing on that empty seat next to the lady. I gentlemanly snapped my fingers to get Paulski’s attention, then yelled at him finally because of the roar in the place. He saw me, finished the order he was working on and came to me.

“You saw her?” he asked with a wide grin.

“Saw her? Hell, Son, I’ve already had her twice while attempting to get your attention. Please, go ask her if she is unencumbered and, if so, may I join her for a drink.”

“I’m on it, Gerard. You owe me, son.” Yeah, we were in Texas, where all the Texas gents call a buddy, ‘son’. It just becomes habit after a time. Paulski was heading back my way with his eyes flicking and a grin a Texas mile long.

“She knows you, son, at least that’s what she says, and she’s read all your books. Get on over there. I’m fixing her a drink and another for you. Go, man, go.”

Her name was Terri, and I did not know her but was doggone happy she knew me and had given me the eye. Man, you don’t know what a ‘headwind’ that gives a feller seeking treasures in femininity. Sure enough, she read all my books, and loved them all, she said. She teasingly told me, “You know, I fell in love with your picture that appears on all your books.” Terri was just about to burn me up with all her lovely chatter.

Okay, I’m going to deny you the scenes that are better left to the imagination. After all, an author has his reputation to maintain. I will only tell you that Terri and Gerard spent the weekend together, then booked a cruise on that Norwegian Cruise Line, got themselves the ‘Van Gogh Suite’, and pretty much kept their butler busy with food and wine orders. We stayed in that lovely suite the whole cruise, except when we were out on our big private deck. Funny how food tastes so good on those cruises. Ahem.

Here’s the shocker… The Captain married us while we were docked in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Terri became my fourth and last wife. Remarkable how you can go traipsing through life being ruled by the writing gods and looking for love in so many places. Then, you find the magical one in your own backyard.

People are fond of saying, ‘don’t be looking for love in bars’, but I’ve got news for those folks: I’ll match my statistics with any man looking elsewhere.

We’re in our thirty-fifth year of marriage as I write this. We never tire of each other. Our big nights out are short and uneventful.

We see Paulski at his own bar every anniversary.

Terri still reads every book I write. I’m hoping one of these days, some other people will join her…

Billy Ray Chitwood – May 28, 2019

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#BookLaunch Books Murder Uncategorized

“Daddy, No!”

By Billy Ray Chitwood on May 19, 2019

Daddy, No!

In a Colorado upscale community near Denver in August of 2018 there were acts of violence so vile that I thought not to write about them, but, then, changed my mind. The desire, nay, the need to write about these brutal homicides was too strong for me to ignore.

In the early morning hours of that day in August, a man strangled to death his wife, then smothered to death his two daughters, ages 3 and 4. They were crimes that captured the attention of the entire nation – perhaps even, the world. My need to write about these awful murders can hopefully be forgiven, but I wanted to get inside the head of this monster who would commit such atrocious acts. My novella is not a ‘long-dwelling account’ of the crimes themselves, but of the fictional prison life being lived currently by this family slayer. The book’s narrative is an attempt at understanding the sociopathy, psychopathy of this ugly form of humankind. It can be said accurately that I am playing ‘clinical psychologist’ in this book. Whether these humble thoughts can come near to that professional league, no way, but, at least, I get to relieve some anger and angst.

The following two paragraphs from the beginning of ‘Chapter Four’ in Daddy, No! just might create the terrifying atmosphere for the book. Superfluously, this novella is fiction, but many of the details therein come from truth of this tragedy. The following has truth as well.

Chapter Four

Sobbing in small choking gasps the little girls wrap their arms around each other, their tiny trembling bodies absorbed in these moments of terror, their short body-quakes synonymous with the gaping flairs of their eyes – wide with the unknown evil outside their bedroom door. With each audible wall bump, each stifled scream, and demonic moan, they tighten their grasps of each other. Their anguished faces are scarlet red and moist from their prolonged fear, their eyes darting hither and yon in nervous expectations of an unknown, impending danger. It is sheer paralyzing, catatonic disorientation, a manic madness their young lives have never experienced.

The darkness envelops them but the light-shaft from a bright moon at their bedroom window portrays grievous images of two tiny huddled masses compacted in terror so visceral it might absorb them in a maelstrom of madness. The twisted sheets upon which they now lie entwined are wet with their bodies’ waste. The blankets they are seldom without in the night are damp with the wetness of their mucous and their tears. Their eyes are swollen from the crying, chafed and red with the steady rubbing. Their hands, their bodies tremble in the horror that has joined them in the bedroom.

With the world’s population living among those who cut-off heads of people who believe contrary to their so-called religion, with evil perversions of all kinds on our planet, perhaps there is nothing left that can now shock us. Perhaps my skin is too thin, but the factors of these homicides stunned me, and I needed to prowl my mind and soul to find my own truths about this father from hell…herein Daddy, No! they lie.

In any event this my nineteenth book, a novella of 36,000 words plus. It is my hope you will read its contents and leave an Amazon review.

You can Order Daddy, No! on Amazon when the review is over: Paperback or Kindle, or, both. Thank you. The book was just listed.

BR Chitwood – May 19, 2019

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Poetry

Introducing ‘Twenty-One Jack’ Poetry

By Billy Ray Chitwood on May 13, 2019May 7, 2019

Introducing ‘Twenty-One-Jack’ Poetry

Might I be so bold as to introduce you to my ‘Twenty-one Jack’? Simply put, it is a poem of your choice with twenty-one lines: rhyme, no-rhyme, free verse, simply, compressed poetic thoughts and feelings. I give you here my first attempt and hope you might enjoy trying it yourself.

“Ah, The Sting”

Ah, the sting of memory,

The gasp, the dip in sorrow,

All the loves of yesterday…

Time, the arbiter, the squire

Upon whose donkey for me

Rode the night’s pleasure…

Twas all a moment’s fancy

There in diluted memory,

All gone in morrow’s dawn…

Yet, still would I so linger

Among the music and mist

Perchance one dalliance left…

For fools exist for pleasure’s

Hopeful lingering at the trough

Of Bacchus eve’s merriment…

Only, now, wrinkled fantasies

Visit in grotesque dreams

That deny a relevance…

Still, tis good to know that

One’s life does not foretell

Mysteries yet beyond the veil…

Billy Ray Chitwood – May 13, 2019

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Dreams Uncategorized

Westward, Toward the Light

By Billy Ray Chitwood on May 6, 2019May 4, 2019

Westward, Toward the Light

There was magic borne on the wind that carried my assorted and disassembled dreams westward. Go West, young man, go west! was the mantra that kept playing softly on my harp of hope, onward to dispel the cravings of a life so unspent, so emotionally charged, to find a place of peace and refuge.

The hay straw still showed behind each ear as the journey took my meager belongings toward the unknowable, the fancy of a young man’s flight. The salt air of an ocean reached and settled sweetly in a naïve mind, its aroma a quiet compelling elixir of jangled thoughts filled with youthful wonder, wild imaginings, and a nervous sense of doubt and fear from an inconsistent past.

So began my adventure into the world where youth gave way to the neon lights, adventures built from beach sand and romance, with but a glimmer, always, but a glimmer to a dream that might come true. Aided by Bacchus’ soothing near-miraculous stirring of spirit, my reach, my grasp, were temporary, daring me to the very edge of some total climactic and thunderous denouement.

And, so it was for a lifetime, this chase, this forever search for some reasonable continuity of existence and purpose. Along with the virginal beginning and the tempest days of debauchery, there came the muse who perchance reached into a soiled soul of enraptured, uncaptured, carousel of desires and bade me be a scribe to all I see, sense, and embrace.

Thus, here I be with the only gauge of my existence, my mind free to roam all expanses, sullied only by its depth and cognition. How much of me is obsequious, imaginary, existent, is not for me to say. ‘Why can you not say’? One could ask. Because I do not know would be my answer.

No long white beard announcing Socratic wonders, still, here in the bosom of old age, I wander down the paths of my mind, still, emotionally, searching, plotting courses uncharted in this, my minimal odyssey.

BR Chitwood – May 6, 2019

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#humor Flash Fiction Uncategorized

‘A Meeting With The Shrink in Silly-Town’

By Billy Ray Chitwood on May 2, 2019April 29, 2019

[Image by Macela Laskoski]

‘A Meeting With The Shrink in Silly-Town’

The Psychiatrist asks, what’s the problem? to the fink.

I’m apathetic, brain-drained, and want a drink!

Well, what’s your problem, do you think?

You hard of hearing, or, what? I didn’t blink!

But that’s what I do, dumb-ass! I get paid to think!

Well, why am I here, almighty Shrink?

You already gave the reason. Is there more to the link?

You, guys! All you do is ask questions that stink!

Well, what exactly should happen, do you think?

Know what? Your questions drive me to that drink!

Then, we’ve accomplished something here, I think.

Yeah, sure, you made $150 bucks in an eye’s blink!

Now, now, relax. How ‘bout that amount with a chink?

How much of a chink, do you think?

Ah, what the heck, I’ll give a 5% chink.

You’re a loon! 5%? You belong in the clink!

You’re testing my good nature, I think.

You think, you dink? I’m gone for a drink.

But, wait, my fee with a 10% chink?

Up yours, shrink, with a chink, to the clink, I think.

Your truly, Billy Ray Chitwink

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Love Poetry Song Uncategorized

Hey, World!

By Billy Ray Chitwood on April 29, 2019April 24, 2019

-Hey, World!-

Hey, World,
Look at my girl…
She’s standing right here
Beside me.
Hey, World,
I’m in a whirl…
I’ve found the girl
For me.

She’s lovely,
And, Wow!
Those Eyes…
She’s Lovely,
She’s Paradise,
She’s Lovely,
Just One of a Kind,
Hands Off, World,
She’s All Mine!
*
She moves with the grace
Of an Angel,
She’s Diff’rent in her own
Special Way.
All that I’ve longed for,
A lady with Style,
Hey, World –
Outta my way!
She’s lovely,
Just One of a Kind…
Hands Off, World!
She’s All Mine…

An Up-Beat Stylish Song by: Billy Ray Chitwood

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