I was born in a small town


When I was a young boy I was positive that a big chunk of the world resided in my little town.

I knew there were other places. I saw them on the news, on a map or pictures in a book. Sometimes I’d see a faraway town in a movie and wonder if it was real.

Burlington was 80 miles north of Seattle, Washington. Every now and then we’d take the trip south to the big city and visit relatives.

Seattle was a different world full of magical roads and fast walking people. The cars were faster, the trucks bigger and the buildings touched the stars.


I knew I didn’t belong in that city which explains why there was always a fear that I would be left behind.

In my valley I was certain only two towns existed besides my own. The big town across the river known as Mt. Vernon and our border town, Sedro-Woolley.

Sedro Wolley

In many ways Sedro-Woolley felt like home. It had a history similar to Burlington where a lot of my family use to live. But there was something else. I could feel it welcome me like an old friend.

My hometown took care of me. Every day I was safe and everything around me was mine.

The trees belonged to me. The river and fields knew my name and our rocks were one of a kind. Amazing, don’t you think.

Burlington 1

During the summer days my town smelled like strawberries, our butterflies danced to the breeze and we danced in the backyard until our legs couldn’t move.


At night everyone ate corn on the cob and cucumbers smothered in vinegar and pepper. And just before we fell to sleep we searched the sky for a new star.

Once a year we traveled to a far off country called Canada. The locals looked like us and dressed like us. Their money was pretty and their trees looked the same. But I could tell we didn’t belong.

Our sky was the bluest in the summer and the prettiest in the winter.



During the spring the blackbirds would come to visit and nest in our tallest tree. They were the only blackbirds in the world and our trees were one of a kind.

One day I was told a secret that the caboose would be sad if I didn’t wave as it passed by our house. I made a promise that it would never be sad as long as I was around.

Burlington 2

Our train was the only one in the world and a busy one at that. It raced west and east disappearing into far off places. Sometimes the engineer would wave at me and that was the greatest thing ever.

 It was a time when the world was small and young like me. Where the sound of the train and the warmth of its tracks were full of wonder and surprise.

I have a feeling I write about my town in everything I do. The home I grew up in, the people I knew and the feeling I had will always draw me near.

My town was one of a kind and I have a feeling it was just like yours.



Happy Friday Everyone!!!

Book Two – What I have learned so far

The Things I’ve Learned

Sully 1

As you know I’ve been working and reworking on my second novel. Earlier this week I put together a complete first draft of Part 1 and was able to add a few pages in Part 2.

I’m already seeing a difference.

The protagonist is funny, clumsy and at the same time kind of unlikable. He’s clueless to the mess he’s created and has yet to learn to take responsibility.

He’s in his late 20’s, maybe 30 and is what we would call a man-child.


A Mystery

Sully 2

This guy is a challenge. He may be the biggest challenge of any character I have written. It’s as if he’s daring me to get it right. Sometimes I wonder if he wants me to wave the white flag and walk away.

Or maybe he wants me to try harder.

When I original wrote him I gave him a tragic story. His young son was killed in a convenience store robbery leaving him full of guilt, depression and suicidal.

It was a long brutal first draft leaving me and the reader sad and unfulfilled.

When I rewrote the outline this summer I came close. He started to make sense to me but as you know the plot sunk.

Now that I have a new plot things are beginning to make sense. I can see him. He is now in a world where he belongs and as a writer I am too.


Forgetting the Past

My biggest challenge was forgetting who he used to be. His voice, his look and his past were completely new. It’s easy to forget we can change these people and mold them into someone much better.

If only life could be that simple.

Now that the story is ticking I am having fun. I can see and feel the adventure. The pieces of the puzzle make sense.

I will always be amazed at how this works. The art of storytelling is full of tiny sprinkles and spice.

I am not much of a cook but I have a feeling a chef feels the same way.

 As I write this first draft I am reminded by the words of a car mechanic I knew in my high-school days: “There’s a good car in there,” he use to say. “I just need to find it.”

Truer words ever spoken.

As I begin Part 2 I have to wonder – Is there a good book in there and if so will I find it?

Time is going to tell but one thing is certain: I’m finally having fun with this puzzle I am building. 

Sully 3



Mister French

A long time ago I stepped into a foreign land known as the friend zone.

It was uncharted waters. Mountains yet to be climbed, coupons soon to be clipped…yes, I’ll stop.

Like any kid new to the game I had no idea such a thing existed and when it ended I was positive I was the only one in the history of human existence to live through such a thing.

As time passed I was grateful for the experience. I was the type of kid who made a mistake, learned and stopped myself from repeating it.

Fool me once as the old saying goes.


What’s in a name?

Years later it happened again but this time there were no games. She was a great friend and I was the luckiest kid on the planet.

The story would have ended beautifully had it not been for one tiny wrinkle:

Her father’s name.

He may have told me his first name the day we met or she may have said it at another time or place but for the life of me I could not remember.

A simple solution would have been to ask. An explanation that I’m terrible with names. We should all have a permanent name tag embedded in our forehead. Don’t laugh, I think it’s a great idea.

A little messy but great.


I’ll take Mr. French’s first name for $100 

The problem would have been solved in seconds. An embarrassing laugh and a promise to remember her father’s name would have smoothed out the embarrassing wrinkle.

But who says I’m a problem solver?

I was known in her family as the polite boy. The only one who addressed the father of the house by his last name.

Sure, I knew her mom’s first name, her sisters, the cats and dogs and the rabbit that liked to nibble on my shoe.

Name 2


But her dad’s name was a no-show

I tried to be creative. I would ask people around town if they knew him. I would listen closely hoping his name was called out. Every ounce of creativity and imagination ended in epic failure.

As time has passed I have made it a mission, a bucket list if you will, to solve this pesky mystery.

Yes, I can hear say, why don’t you simple ask but where is the challenge in that?


I don’t do cemeteries

Sadly, this good man died twenty years ago. Yes, I could pay a visit to his grave but I prefer memories instead.

That in of itself is a post of its own.

So the question is this – Do I really need to know his first name? Will that mystery take away the spark of who he was?

He was an excellent father to my friend and her sisters, a wonderful husband and a good friend to me. He also liked rabbits.

But damn it! What the hell was his first name!

On the bright side I will go down in history as the polite kid and if I can walk away with that, I’ll take it.

Name 1


Happy Friday Everyone!!!!

The stories that won’t go away

A while ago I described the epic destruction of my second novel What if your story is boring?. For starters it was a solid idea. Sadly the storyline was not. 

Shred Pic 1


It was tough to shred months of hard work but it is what it is. I am a firm believer we didn’t choose this line or work, they chose us.

Monday morning was a new beginning. I was cautious in a way one would be if they were stepping on glass. But it wasn’t the story I was cautious with.

I was cautious with myself.


Can I sell it?

If I believe in something I can sell it. Just ask Sears when I worked for them during my college years. I could sell you a hammer in your sleep. But there was something in this story that I couldn’t sell and the person I couldn’t sell it to was me.

There was a doubt I couldn’t shake. A feeling that my balance was a little off. The shirt was a bit too tight. The hat to loose. You get the idea.


The audience wasn’t buying it.

cautious 1

Some writers can get past this. They put their head down and plow through to the finish line. I envy you if you are the one reading this.

Unfortunately for me there’s no plowing. There is no knocking over boulders and there’s no finish line. If I can’t feel it I can’t write it.  

When I completed my Monday morning writing things were different. There was no frustration. No regret. I started feeling the same way when I wrote book one.


It was exciting.


I could finally see the protagonist. I could feel him and in some ways I could relate to his troubles. That’s a good thing.

I saw him stumble and laugh when he was tossed out of his comfort zone. It didn’t take long for the confidence in me to come back. That tiny smile you and I have where we say – I got this.

I always understood the supporting characters but now I know where they fit. As we all know this is a puzzle we’re creating and sometimes we choose the wrong piece, or worse, the wrong box.

In this crazy journey sometimes the story chooses us. I’ve always envisioned pockets of stories floating around like clouds and every so of often they rain down on one of us.

That’s what this story has done to me.

It entered my mind years ago. A crazy scene that made me laugh. That little moment is all it took for the cloud of ideas to appear.


I am grateful it hasn’t given up on me.

It seems to know I messed up but a pat on the back and a promise for better days is all I really need. I am amazed at its patience.

This story reminds me of a best friend who looks past a bad moment and sees the big picture. They know what we’re trying to do and they’ll make sure we achieve it.

So here I go. Draft one all over again but this time it’s a much better feeling. I’m traveling along a far better road. The conversations are a whole lot livelier, the scenery a tad bit brighter.

I’m curious where this idea is taking me. It’s funny, I’m not the most patient guy in the world but times are a changing.

Rainy books


Music and Diaries

Piano 2

I am a firm believer that music has a soul. It touches us with its magic and buries itself deep inside to a place no one else knows.

I’ve had a special relationship with music since I was a kid. My earliest memories are filled with guarded secrets, buried deep inside the grooves that carry the sound.

These songs are diaries full of memories of people and places, some no longer here and others I haven’t seen in a lifetime.

I was thinking about this the other day when I was driving through town. I had on a local radio station that played the hits of the 80’s and 90’s. It was a normal day. The sun was a little hot. The traffic a little thick and a truck rudely cut me off.

The commercial ended, the music played and suddenly a memory came to life.


A band called The Sunday’s played and a beautiful song packed full of heartache followed.

Instantly it was 1990. August to be exact and The Sunday’s – Here’s Where the Story Ends  flowed through my speakers. In an instant the emotions and memories of that song came to life.

My mind took me back to that summer evening. I was knee deep in a shouting match with my best friend. I made my point. I won the argument and just as I was about to celebrate I watched as she cried and ran to her car.

Piano 1

The victory was short lived but the guilt that carried with it came back 28 years later.

Why this song, I asked. Was it playing that night? Was it on the radio, a CD or was it MTV when they use to play videos?

Whatever it was that song became a mark in a diary forever etched in my mind.

Sometimes I wish I could listen to a song and not be thrown back to a certain place and time. I wonder what it’s like to listen to a tune and simply enjoy it.

Sometimes I do. Not every song is like this. Some of it is high adrenalin and nothing more while other songs are pleasing to my ear.

But there are those that will always carry special meanings. They are a circle on the calendar reminding me of a time that otherwise would have been forgotten.

After listening to The Sundays I started thinking of ways to use it. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a curse. Maybe it can be an advantage.

I’m about to start Book Two. Like every story I write it will be packed full of emotion. There will be days where I will search for that emotion and at times I’ll come up empty.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.

I could take these songs that I hold dear and exploit them. Ring the towel dry as they say and use them for the memories and emotions they are.

I have no doubt it’ll be exhausting.

Take Super Tramps Give a Little Bit. Something happened with that song. I don’t know what it is but whenever I hear it I have the greatest zest for life on has ever known. The cloudy days are full of sunshine. I’m as excited as a five year old on Christmas morning.

You get the idea.

Not everyone can do this. Maybe they’re the lucky ones but since I have this crazy relationship I might as well find a place for it.

If I need to be sad I’ll search out a Journey song from 1982 – minus Don’t Stop Believin‘  – who could possibly be sad to that?

And if I want a beautiful memory I’ll simply punch in The Cars – Just What I needed. I can still see her smile and taste the M&M’s. Especially the green ones.

So I guess it’s not all that bad. Looks like I’ve got some work to do.

Piano 3


Happy Friday Everyone!!!

Clueless in Critiquing – The things that I learned


I remember the first time I critiqued someone’s work I was nervous. It was my first writers group and I wasn’t sure I belonged. It was not because of my writing it was because I had no clue how to critique.

I remember it was a nice story. Not something I would actually sit down and read but it was nice and the person who write it was nice.

There were parts that could have been better. Certain scenes, I remember, that could have been explained or drawn out and there were some areas that were not necessary.

When my time came, I sat up straight, cleared my throat and gave a sixty second mumble, stumble, rambling mess.



Offhand I haven’t a clue what I said but I do know that those sixty seconds dragged on for the longest time. 

Luckily as time went on I improved. I stopped putting feelings ahead of the critique and the more I did the more confident I became.

But it took a while.

I’ve learned a lot since those early days. I think a lot of it has to do with listening to others who were way better than I was.

The way some of them could turn a story inside out and see details I couldn’t see fascinated me. It always amazed me how a person could grab a scene and see it in a way that captured an unknown light.


Teachers among us

coffeshop writer

The biggest lesson was watching them when they worked on my story. The way they could chop a paragraph in two or expand a sentence. It not only made my story better it taught me how to critique like them.

The most valuable lesson I learned was that it was not my story. For the longest time that was my biggest challenge.

I kept seeing their stories in my voice and in my eyes. By doing so I tried to turn their story in my direction. It took a while but in time I learned to drop that dreaded habit and respect the writer.

One of the hardest things to do when critiquing a writer’s work is pushing away the temptation to make it your own.

It’s tempting to take a chapter and advise them to redo it your way. Along the way I learned to turn off the switch and force myself to see the story in the writer’s vision.

When this finally happened I knew I had a chance to actually help them.


You did good my son (daughter)

The other thing I learned was compliments. It’s so easy to concentrate on mistakes we lose site on their excellent writing. It’s easy to scan for improvements while ignoring the good stuff that’s already there.

I try to point out a scene I like. The reason is not so much a compliment as it is to high-light good writing. It’s my way of telling them their story needs more of this.

When I first started I had no idea critiquing would help my writing. I always figured it was a one way street.

I was wrong.

It allows me to see the different ways a writer will explore a scene. More often than not, critiquing is a classroom where every day I come away with something new.

Try to find time to critique someone’s work. Not only will it help them it will make you better.

How perfect is that!

writing 2



One Hundred

I never post on a Tuesday but this is the exception. I just received my 100th follower and I want to thank every single one of you for following this crazy little blog of mine. 

I started out with an idea to write about things that made me laugh and think. I never realized I’d meet so many cool people. You are smarter than I’ll ever be and you make me laugh and think every day. 

THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


hug 4