Signs…

Writing is hard.

And fun.

And hard.

A couple of years ago, at the time I wrote my first book, I wrote some tongue and cheek blogs about the industry and my shock at what it looked like when you pulled back the veil. It’s just like every other business, hobby, occupation or criminal activity. It ain’t nothin’ like what you expect it to be – under the hood.

It’s sleazy and slimy and crawling with grifters and self-impressed clowns who want to suck the life from you. If you are fortunate, like I’ve been, you also run into some incredibly helpful people who guide you along the way.

I’m getting to the signs part in a minute.

I think every one of us who decides to take a slide down this slippery path secretly harbors a fantasy that their book will be a major overnight hit.

Publishers and movie agents will be beating each other to get to your door. You’ll never have to market or promote – Hell, you’ll never have to work again. Me, I was headed to Key West to hang with Hemingway’s ghost, with an occasional side trip to visit Faulkner’s haunts in Pirate Alley in New Orleans…

But that’s not how it works…

I’m getting to the signs thing…

You know when you first fall in love or someone you love is sick and dying, you may be like me and have a really loose grasp on the whole eternity/God/Creator of the universe thing, or you may be a deeply spiritual, even religious person.

Regardless, signs pop up all over the place right? Signs emerge that show you that THIS lover – number who knows- is THE ONE, or you’ll get a sign that the loved one is going to a better place… and even if you don’t buy into this stuff there is a comfort in the signs, right? It may be secret and private and known only to you, but, you got your sign. You get your comfort.

So, anyway, I wrote another book. I think it’s a great book. My editors didn’t tell me – yet – to burn it, but I’m a realist. My first book is doing ok, but I’m not quite ready to take up residence at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West…

I have good, maybe even high expectations about the success of my second book, but I’m keeping it contained.

This book is dark, it’s about a friendship, it’s about death and crime and drug smuggling and self-examination. The main character, Richie, he carries with him his entire life a stolen Smith and Wesson .38 snub-nosed police revolver. This gun has a history all it’s own. Maybe a life all its own…

Richie always has 5 bullets in the chamber of six. He’s at times been known to play Russian roulette.

I’m getting to the signs part…

So the other day I’m walking out of a place and I’m frustrated and angry and I see behind the rear wheel of my Mustang – my most prized possession – this thing with all these spikes pointing up. Mad, I kick it aside. How dare this spiky thing attempt to puncture the tires on my Red Ford.

It lands under another guys tire. Not being a complete jerk I can’t let him get a flat, so I crawl under his car and pick it up. Flipping it over I realize it’s some kind of a replica of a .38 chamber – with one missing – after some googling, I find that the device when new has all six chambers full. I also find it’s a grinder for weed. Kind of fitting.

So here is sit, with my weed grinder, 5 in the chamber and wonder…

Was this a sign from the universe that my second book is going to be a rousing success, or did some doper just drop his pot grinder behind my Mustang?