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Monday, January 23, 2017

The Writer's Life 1/23 - Addition to Vocabulary

Although I'm hardly a sports fan anymore, I'm still occasionally fascinated by what occurs. Whenever I was experiencing a bad round of golf, here's one of the things I would say to myself: "If it happens to the best, it'll happen to the rest." While the top tier of golf pros have been postings phenomenal scores the first three weeks of 2017, those playing on the tour, the equivalent of AAA baseball, have been struggling mightily in high wind conditions in the Caribbean. Yesterday one man, who I will not name, had a 15, the highest score in that tour's history, on the last hole, a par five. I think the worst I ever had was an eleven, although there may have been occasions when I was so demoralized I stopped counting. Believe it or not, there's a word for it - decuple bogey. Who knew? The score was an aberration, as the gentleman finished 74th on the money list in 2016, qualifying for the finals. Last season he failed to break 80 just once.

Here are reasons I find to be cheerful as a Nor'easter bears down on NYC. All my numbers were excellent at the doctors this morning... The bust of Winston Churchill has been recalled to the White House by President Trump. Thank you, sir... An old friend/teammate posted a brief review at Amazon of what I believe is my best novel. "Loved Killing. The story had me on the seat of my pants. Love a happy ending. Mr. Fortezza has rekindled my love of reading." I'm blessed.

And here's a brief excerpt of what has been my most disappointing seller, Rising Star, which is at least profitable. Each chapter begins with a quote from a rock song, in this case Jethro Tull:
3 "... Skating away on the thin ice of a new day...."*
   Susan saw herself gliding along a long, narrow strip of ice that stretched across a pond near her home. Bonnie followed, laughing hysterically. Suddenly large, warm waves were splashing over them. They were breathless from laughter. Susan wanted the pleasurable assault to continue, although she sensed it would eventually become harmful. "Stop, stop!" she pleaded, howling as waves continued to pound them. She didn't want it ever to stop.
   She was awakened by the ringing of the phone. She sprang to a sitting position and gazed about, trying to determine her whereabouts, panicking. Someone groaned beside her, bringing her back to reality.
   "Time to get up," she said, nudging him gently, sliding out of bed, reaching for the phone. "Hello?" She stifled a yawn.
   "Miss Klein? This's Paul Ranga of Rising Star."
   She paused, trying to recall which band that was.
   "John Doe."
   "Of course -- how could I've forgotten that?" she said ironically, reaching for a cigarette. She was irked, having truly forgotten, not merely pretended in order to impart an impression of success. "Sorry. I've seen so many bands lately they've blended into each other."
   "Can I stop by your office today?"
   "No, I'd rather get out of here. I've been cooped up all morning. I'll meet you in front of the Eighth Street Playhouse in an hour. Gotta go. I have another call."
   Her guest groaned and rolled over.
   "Hey...." She was stopped cold by thought. She tiptoed to the sofa and went through the pockets of the pants lying there. She quickly spread a line on the table, indulged, and put the packet back in place. "Weeee," she said with restraint, chuckling as she recalled the dream, imagining herself sliding along the strip of ice, bombarded by warm waves.
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Vic's 5th Novel:'s 4th novel:
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