tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-269861782024-03-08T09:29:32.947-08:00Writer's HearthAn unknown novelist attempting to grow into a little-known novelist. I offer--free of charge--writing tips, anecdotes, short fiction, and assorted ramblings (with photographs and other random tid-bits thrown in for good measure)Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-90192942826344286272022-05-30T05:07:00.003-07:002022-05-30T05:07:44.509-07:00A Short Story (and more to come) at Amazon<p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Agendas-short-story-Trevor-Hambric-ebook/dp/B0B29RXCKN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3TI31CPTVDIZB&keywords=trevor+hambric&qid=1653911074&sprefix=trevor+hambric%2Caps%2C120&sr=8-1"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij565sr3-Oug9RSekiA4PDgshyxyd2RC22xPPx7Laf80g86_FBeLgHVob3E0KLLd033-8_GUE-jWhv4nY31pntDOtMOYqXWyiVTNSIuuk2FZjKlW52BPg3uygYkjsZyz63ZZRoqlri_iPdXQzaaXzY6hYNCbQDiyNq8QJzqpciNLwR3L5Umw/s1553/Agendas%20Cover%20Experiment%20Final%20Crop%20For%20Blogger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1553" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij565sr3-Oug9RSekiA4PDgshyxyd2RC22xPPx7Laf80g86_FBeLgHVob3E0KLLd033-8_GUE-jWhv4nY31pntDOtMOYqXWyiVTNSIuuk2FZjKlW52BPg3uygYkjsZyz63ZZRoqlri_iPdXQzaaXzY6hYNCbQDiyNq8QJzqpciNLwR3L5Umw/s320/Agendas%20Cover%20Experiment%20Final%20Crop%20For%20Blogger.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><h4 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Agendas-short-story-Trevor-Hambric-ebook/dp/B0B29RXCKN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1G9KB5NASGV27&keywords=trevor+hambric&qid=1653912427&sprefix=trevor+hambri%2Caps%2C127&sr=8-1">Agendas: a short story</a></h4><p></p>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-17638247261552634792015-12-12T12:23:00.002-08:002015-12-12T16:44:18.646-08:00Reunion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8em5Vi2Qf98/Vmy_HEXgSgI/AAAAAAAAF0E/b3UOkHX3dbQ/s1600/ReunionIcicleImage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8em5Vi2Qf98/Vmy_HEXgSgI/AAAAAAAAF0E/b3UOkHX3dbQ/s320/ReunionIcicleImage.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Under the shadow of dark, laden clouds, the idling rental truck still faced the pond. Snow flurries, dry and crystalline, shone in the fast-fading light. Snow hadn’t been promised, or even hinted at. A cold, clear night was on tap, and he’d come for the meteor shower. <br />
<br />
“Are we stranded?” Katie asked.<br />
<br />
“Not forever. No.”<br />
<br />
“For how long, then?”<br />
<br />
Her dad shrugged. Two flat tires on Christmas Eve, deep on a rutted New Hampshire road in the hills. “Someone will come.”<br />
<br />
Like Katie often did when she was unsettled in any way, she fingered her silver bracelet and its three dangling hearts, one for each member of what had been a whole family only a year before. “Do you miss Mommy?” <br />
<br />
He turned the heater up one notch. “Of course.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think she misses us?”<br />
<br />
He surveyed the breadth of the sky before them, with its muted painterly colors and softened angles, and then met her look. “Maybe not tonight, Honey.” <br />
<br />
This shocked her. She had asked this question knowing the answer, and this wasn’t it. But her dad persisted through her worry. “I think she’s looking down on us right now. She’s with us instead of missing us.”<br />
<br />
Consideration silenced her. She slid tight to her Dad’s hip and rested her head against him. “Will we see Santa?” <br />
<br />
He pointed to a cloudless patch of sky above the opposite shore, the fringes of surrounding cumulus tinted pink. “If we do, he’ll go streaking right over there. When the sky gets dark.”<br />
<br />
White Christmas came faint and crackly over the radio, as if it were just now reaching them through the decades since it first came from Bing Crosby’s lips. Steam from the idling truck created a slowly-expanding fog bank behind them. He was travel-weary, the moment hypnotic, and soon he was dozing in the Christmas-themed quiet. <br />
<br />
Time passed before he snapped awake to see Katie watching his face.<br />
<br />
“Hi,” she said.<br />
<br />
“Hi.” He flipped the wipers, and with a chittering swipe they cast dry snow aside to reveal a clear but fully darkened sky. Stars shone in the blackness, flickering to the late-night whisper of I'll Be Home For Christmas over F.M. <br />
<br />
Katie gazed at the distant, timid diamonds, studying for constellations. Before she could place anything, starry motion grabbed her attention. <br />
<br />
They spotted it at the same instant, a glowing spec, more yellow than the distant stars, arcing its way from right-to-left in a slow-motion traversal of the sky. Katie let out a little involuntary squeak. “Santa,” she whispered in a tone so reverential she might have been witnessing the ascension. “I think Mommy’s riding with him.”<br />
<br />
A ball of pain and pride constricted her dad's throat. In the distance, through the trunks of a million denuded trees, faint headlights appeared. Their ‘rescuers.’ <br />
<br />
Through an instant’s regret—this wasn’t a moment he’d choose to be saved from, after all—he pulled Katie close and kissed her on the forehead. “Me too.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-76786404542125448012015-07-06T07:00:00.001-07:002015-07-06T07:00:23.347-07:00Learning to Swim Gets a Facelift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-15PNCJP1eqY/VZqJodPcMNI/AAAAAAAAEXw/rjD4wBaUR5k/s1600/LTS%2BNew%2BCover%2BSideways%2BTitle%2BVintage%2BI%2Blike%2BW%2Bsun%2BHigher%2BSaturation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Learning to Swim" border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-15PNCJP1eqY/VZqJodPcMNI/AAAAAAAAEXw/rjD4wBaUR5k/s400/LTS%2BNew%2BCover%2BSideways%2BTitle%2BVintage%2BI%2Blike%2BW%2Bsun%2BHigher%2BSaturation.jpg" title="Learning to Swim" width="263" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_1770657031"></span><span id="goog_1770657032"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-12357354461405433062011-07-20T17:57:00.000-07:002011-07-20T17:57:25.722-07:00Contests are Hard<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Elizabeth Guy at <a href="http://readingwriters.com/">ReadingWriters.com</a> runs a fun recurring short story contest. I like the contest because the judging typically makes sense to me and the first prize includes line-by-line editorial. It also doesn't hurt that I've had some modest success in it. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Below is my entry (unedited save basic formatting) for last fall's <i>Intense Suspense</i> edition. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The prompt for the contest (all the contests there are prompted) had something to do with a cell phone failing at the most inopportune, life-and-death moment. I can't find the exact prompt any more or I'd have included it here. The stories were limited to 1500 words.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Many times when I enter a contest, I know my story has no chance. But in this case, I liked what I'd written and quietly had high hopes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In the end, I didn't win (though I did get an honorable mention). The editor (Ms. Guy) summarized the different ways in which a cell phone failed in the stories. Sadly, mine suffered the same fate as something like 70 other of the stories. I had focused on story flow and, basing the cell phone's death on a real-life event, hadn't even thought to get creative on that count. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know if I'd have won had my cellphone died more creatively. But I'm sure I'd have improved my odds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't think it's possible to over-estimate how bored an editor must get during the vetting of stories for a prompted contest. It's probably best to discard your first few ideas and roam (even arbitrarily) far afield in the chase for a good story. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here's the winning <a href="http://www.readingwriters.com/Verb-Oct10-p5.htm">entry</a>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And here's mine . . . </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Getaway</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> It was the kind of day when the blacktop, rolling off to the horizon, melted in the shimmers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Laurel passed the black Impala on I-10 twenty miles before she pulled off for gas. It had low-profile rims and roughly-applied Bondo down one side, but was worth noting only because it rode for uninterrupted miles on the dotted line. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She’d forgotten the car and its driver’s habits by the time she pulled up beside a pump.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The T-phone, propped in a cup holder, rang the instant she stepped out onto the pavement. It was a pay-as-you-go model, and no-one but Trent had the number. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Even two months into their relationship, butterflies fluttered inside her as she anticipated the sound of his voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Hi, Babe,” he said. “I’m an hour away and already aroused.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Oh, my God, me too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “You naked yet?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She laughed as she moved to the gas pump. “They frown on that kinda thing here in Arizona.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Hurry up and cross the border then so we can get to partying. Blythe awaits.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Just gassing up and taking a nature break, then I’ll be breaking all kinds of traffic laws.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Don’t get caught.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I won’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “See you in a few. You’re too far away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Trent had been the one to suggest a meet-in-the-middle spot between their distant lives. Blythe, a desiccated desert town on the California-Arizona border, was the winner. And this was their third trip in six weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The affair, born of an innocent note on Facebook, had seemed like a near accident. But it brought her to life in ways she hadn’t felt in nearly twenty years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Inside the mini-mart, a weary space weathered by too many years of foot traffic, she gravitated to the candy aisle. She was looking for Altoids but had an odd sense of embarrassment when she saw a little boy digging through the nearby toy section. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Altoids were only mints, after all, and the kid couldn’t know what she had in mind. But <i>she</i> knew what she had in mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The notion of explaining the word ‘fellatio’ to Little Timmy Thompson made her giggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The boy glanced her way and gave an awkward smile as, outside, the Bondo’d Impala pulled up to the pumps. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Over by the beer fridge, a man and a woman--presumably the kid’s parents--were too-intently studying brands of cheap domestic twelve-packs. Studying like the choice might actually matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The T-phone rang again, and she picked up before the end of the first ring. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Are we there yet?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She was distantly aware of a drop of sweat sliding down between her breasts. “You’re crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Happily crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Hang up now, Trent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Hanging up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Turning slowly, smiling at the sound of Trent’s voice (was there anything more enthralling than the days of being smitten?), she sensed more than saw the Impala driver approaching the front door. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Something metallic flashed in the sunlight, and it took her a second to realize it was the man’s prosthetic arm, an animated hook of sorts. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> A soldier, maybe? A victim of a disfiguring accident? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> He opened the door with his manufactured arm. The cold sound of metal-on-metal made her wince. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> He was smiling, but it was the most mirthless smile she could imagine, his eyes going entirely untouched.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She had to fight her instinct to nervousness. Hold your water, she thought. There are scary people everywhere. Some of them don’t even kill people.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She watched the man behind the register tracing the motion of the newcomer with his eyes. But almost immediately, the angry man said something that put a surprised smile on the cashier’s face. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Laurel felt herself relaxing, as well, as the traveler approached the beer fridges. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She had just turned to glance back at the tin of Altoids when a loud pop shook the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She felt it in her diaphragm as much as she heard it. Someone--she supposed it had to be her--squealed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She turned toward the beer-shopping couple when she sensed movement.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The twelve-pack they had finally chosen spiraled in slow motion, end-over-ending until it struck the ground at an odd angle, hard on a corner, the man falling as an afterthought beside it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Immediately, beer hissed from a breach in one of the cans.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The prone man was all lifelessness. His wife, still upright at his side, stood lifeless in her own way. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Even in her heart-throbbing confusion, Laurel was moving now. She could tell that Trent was still talking, yelling most likely. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> In a thoughtless blur, she grabbed the stunned little boy standing next to her and rushed toward the back of the store.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The toy he was holding, a space-age squirt gun, clattered to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Another pop rang out, and again she flinched. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> A thin, warped door blocked her way to the back; it swung feebly when she yanked it aside. The stink of mildew and stale beer assaulted her as she hauled the boy into the darkened stock room, its contents more fit for a garage than for grocery. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Off to the left, a door to a narrow bathroom. To the right, neglected yard implements and a stack of mismatched boxes piled high.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She knew that the shooter would come for her and the boy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Two shots out front most likely meant two dead people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Inside the store, itself, only one target remained.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The volume of Trent jabbering at her seemed to fill the quiet back room. She thumbed the mute button and rushed to the open bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> In the tightness of the sweltering room, she set the boy down. As soon as he was on his feet, she put a silencing finger to her lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> After closing the door behind them, she unmuted the phone, planning to dial 911.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> But before she could, the boy began to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Trent’s voice came over the line again, “Laurel? Say something!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She reached out to touch the boy, to reassure. But in that motion, the phone, still clutched in her hand, bumped free. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> It struck the rim of the toilet and somersaulted off the porcelain before its plunge to the bottom of the bowl, the sound of Trent’s questioning voice coming incoherently over the line until splashdown. For only an instant, she stared into the bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Then her hand went to water. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She shook the phone violently, thinking only briefly of the filth painting her arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Her attention went immediately to the little window above the toilet. It was hinged on top and swung outward. The boy would fit easily, but she was convinced she couldn’t wedge her hips through that space. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> From the front, a third shot rang out. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Trent’s voice came again, his words unrecognizable through the watery murk around the speaker. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Panting heavily, she lifted the boy and pushed him up by his bottom, forcing him through the window. A small cry came a second later when he hit the ground outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Run,” she said as forcefully as a whisper would allow. “Hide.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> On the phone, more panicked sounds from Trent. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Trent,” she said. “Call 911.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> But only gurgling noises returned before a clear, “Damn it, Laurel, you’re sca--” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She tried then to hang up, to dial 911 herself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Every button press went unrewarded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> And then, nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> It was dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Entirely dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She knew only that she had to hide, to tuck herself in any possible crevice and pray. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> After twisting the lock on the bathroom door, she exited and slammed it shut behind her, hoping to distract. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She hurried to the back of the stock room and wedged herself between wall and boxes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Within seconds, the door to the stock room swung open. Dust flecks, upset by her movements, floated in front of her, glowing in the sidelight from a tiny nearby window. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The room was silent now save the shooter’s heavy footfalls and rapid breathing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> As he approached the bathroom, Laurel felt herself relax, if only slightly. But the relaxation collapsed when, in a blur of motion, he raised his gun with his flesh-and-bones hand and lashed out with a booted foot, shattering the jam. The door slammed against the toilet with an angry clank. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She watched his silhouetted profile as he studied the empty room, his eyes soon moving to the open window. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> He grunted and fired a shot at the toilet, the explosion painfully loud in the dark, hot room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> With a curse, he turned toward the front as the sound of water streaming onto the cement floor continued. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> His walk was painfully slow, and Laurel held her breath as he moved. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> He was finally in the doorway when he slowed and turned back for one last look. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> And then it came. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Trent’s voice--the ‘dead’ phone still clutched in her hand--clear as day. “Laurel, say something!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> As the shooter’s legs came to a halt, Laurel closed her eyes and whispered, "I love you, Trent."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">### the end ### </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-26340551595215514002011-05-31T20:39:00.000-07:002011-05-31T20:47:43.046-07:00Sunrise/Moonset from My Driveway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y-UBoc9zuwM/TeW0WGtYucI/AAAAAAAAAlM/jmz1ZBxgEik/s1600/3-phase-moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y-UBoc9zuwM/TeW0WGtYucI/AAAAAAAAAlM/jmz1ZBxgEik/s400/3-phase-moon.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-23813796825851796642011-03-04T19:31:00.000-08:002011-03-04T19:31:27.087-08:00Kindle Publishing: Baby StepsSo my novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Learning-to-Swim-ebook/dp/B004MME22O?ie=UTF8&tag=widgetsamazon-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Learning to Swim</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=widgetsamazon-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B004MME22O" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />, has been up at Amazon and Barnes and Noble for a little over three weeks now. Sales have been very modest, but the feedback has been as good as I could possibly have hoped for.<br />
<br />
Now it's time to work on doing what I can to build an audience for the book. Tonight, I'm ordering Moo Mini cards, which are playful, odd-sized business cards that allow for a distinct image on every card. The side opposite the image supports one color (red in my case) with textual information (book title, e-mail address, and where it's available).<br />
<br />
The images below were part of my first, abortive attempt at getting a group of them printed.<br />
<br />
They failed mainly because the title didn't fit in the 'safe' cut-off box that Moo doesn't tell you about until you've uploaded. The two top images have one other handicap, as well, though I actually love them; neither speaks directly of a distinctly lakeside story.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I've reformatted and gone with a different font, this time taking into account the safe area for title printing. I'll post those images in the next few days.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-sgu93QP-HmY/TXGrYxZtxoI/AAAAAAAAAkc/RyskcxcnOkA/s1600/Artistic-Blur-Horizontal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-sgu93QP-HmY/TXGrYxZtxoI/AAAAAAAAAkc/RyskcxcnOkA/s320/Artistic-Blur-Horizontal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-6_FaGWOwPlo/TXGrZomwBcI/AAAAAAAAAkg/S2N0HOqxiR0/s1600/Artistic-Blur-Horizontal-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-6_FaGWOwPlo/TXGrZomwBcI/AAAAAAAAAkg/S2N0HOqxiR0/s320/Artistic-Blur-Horizontal-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IFN3-Lx63Z0/TXGraOTgppI/AAAAAAAAAkk/OCJBcAlumC4/s1600/Fog-on-water-horizontal-sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IFN3-Lx63Z0/TXGraOTgppI/AAAAAAAAAkk/OCJBcAlumC4/s320/Fog-on-water-horizontal-sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(the photos I took in New Hampshire, where the book is set)</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As soon as these things arrive, I plan to start passing them out and talking the book up to anyone who gives me the slightest indication that they might have interest (I have, for example, seen countless people on lunch break with a Kindle). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have no idea how successful this effort will be, but I'll let you know. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-89153292236124716892011-02-15T18:37:00.000-08:002011-02-15T18:38:56.532-08:00My First Interview For the Book<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1607065775"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></a></div><a href="http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2011/02/kindle-author-interview-trevor-hambric.html"><span style="font-size: large;">Kindle Author </span></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*actually, my first interview for any reason :>) </span>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-64791694882043807172011-02-08T17:59:00.000-08:002011-02-08T17:59:15.762-08:00Learning to Swim Goes Live for $2.99 US<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TVHtjJfSPVI/AAAAAAAAAkE/Ty5R-RvLiQg/s400/Learning-To-Swim-cover.jpg" width="300" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;">Here's the description I used for Kindle and Nook:</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><i>Hannah Sullivan is not looking to have her beliefs challenged. She is not looking to fall in love, either. Her only ambition, when she and her daughter, Lily, take their first summer trip to New Hampshire’s Squam Lake, is a restful, scenic vacation. But she will soon learn that the world has another offering. Within minutes of their arrival that first summer, they meet a man named Aidan Heron. His is a gift that will teach them both, with an easy humor and a nearly fearless penchant for adventure, that life has more to offer than they'd ever understood. Shaped by tragedy in her youth, Hannah has learned to live a timid, closed life. And without realizing it, she has taught her daughter to do the same. But Aidan, a man who has experienced his own tragedy and responded very differently, will show them both a new way. Through ten years of shared summer vacations, Hannah will experience enthrallment, love and heartache. She will be challenged and will learn to challenge herself. And in the course of meeting these challenges, she will learn how to truly live.</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><i> </i></b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * *</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">After what seemed like it would prove a never-ending battle to whip my novel into shape, I'm finally happy with the manuscript. As challenging as the editing process turned out to be, and as anxious as I was to get to publication, it was truly satisfying to see the story come together a little more with each iteration. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Formatting for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Learning-to-Swim-ebook/dp/B004MME22O/ref=sr_1_27?ie=UTF8&qid=1297192970&sr=8-27">Kindle</a> proved more challenging than I would like, but in the end I think it turned out well. I'm hoping the experience will teach me better for next time.</span></span></div><br />
Formatting for <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Learning-To-Swim/Trevor-Hambric/e/2940012162168/?itm=1&USRI=trevor+hambric">The Nook</a> proved much simpler, thanks to its easy willingness to accept a Word Doc as input (while I had to export to html and do meaningful cleanup of that source for the Kindle). <br />
<br />
In the next few days, I'll post about the process of editing, packaging and formatting for the two e-book systems.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-4532759178164639272011-01-26T17:46:00.000-08:002011-01-26T17:46:54.412-08:00What the scenery looks like<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TUDNCFFtu9I/AAAAAAAAAj4/pwyYlIrljjg/s1600/Lookin+Up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TUDNCFFtu9I/AAAAAAAAAj4/pwyYlIrljjg/s400/Lookin+Up.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">New Hampshire Fall, looking up from a hammock</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By this time next week, I'll have pushed my novel set in New Hampshire up to Amazon and Barnes and Noble. This picture gives a small taste of what the place feels like at its most scenic. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-39628578319601046492011-01-17T20:55:00.000-08:002011-01-17T20:55:43.175-08:00iPad for Writers: Second First ImpressionsSo, I've had the iPad long enough to develop a more meaningful impression of how useful it is to me as a writer.<br />
<br />
What do I use the iPad for?<br />
<ul><li>reading fiction</li>
<li>writing fiction</li>
<li>writing my journal</li>
<li>casual gaming</li>
<li>occasional listening to a computer-read recording of whatever fiction I happen to be working on</li>
</ul>The Kindle reader on the iPad is nice, and I used it frequently until I got the actual Kindle hardware. As a physical reader, the iPad comes in second to the Kindle for me. This is true because it isn't as easily hand-holdable as the Kindle. It is both wider and much heavier (though not heavy).<br />
<br />
I'll have more to say about the Kindle soon. <br />
<br />
Editing on the iPad is clumsy. Even with the keyboard, there are many times you need to stop and touch the screen. Cut and paste is clumsy enough that I avoid it whenever possible, instead waiting 'til I've gotten any writing onto my Macbook.<br />
<br />
<br />
Like I said in my first <a href="http://writershearth.blogspot.com/2010/06/ipad-for-writers-first-impressions.html">iPad impressions post</a>, I bought Apple's word processor, called Pages but don't use it much. Instead, I mostly use Evernote for simple text entry. Even when I'm working on the book, I simply use the iPad for data entry, then transfer the work to Scrivener on the Mac or Word on the PC.<br />
<br />
Evernote is incredibly handy for its ability to automatically sync among multiple machines, including Android phones and iPhones. It's also free. <br />
<br />
I was, however, wrong about Pages' inability to easily scroll through a long document. There's an oddly implemented feature that allows you, as you get near the right gutter, to drag your way quickly around a book-length document. <br />
<br />
For heavy text entry, I bought a wireless keyboard and a neoprene case to contain both it and the iPad. The case is a generic zippered thing and very useful. <br />
<br />
When I've got no heavy typing in mind, I don't bother to take the keyboard out. But for serious writing, I have to resort to the keyboard.<br />
<br />
At approximately $80 US, the keyboard was a good purchase. It's tiny and surprisingly pleasant to use.<br />
<br />
One very annoying bug is the fact that it has no 'off' switch and has many times brought my iPad to life in the case when one of its keys gets accidentally pressed. There are three ways to avoid this possibility, all of which stink. You can turn the Blu Tooth off on the iPad, rendering it deaf to the keyboard. You can turn the iPad, itself, entirely off, ruining one of the great benefits of having an iPad . . . its instant-on capability. Third, and worst, you can remove the batteries from the keyboard. <br />
<br />
In the end, the iPad is a very flawed but still useful device for me. It's multi-purpose abilities and terrific battery life make it handy in ways no other computer can claim yet.<br />
<br />
Now, if they'll just port a decent version of Scrivener to the thing.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-42116760732691796302010-10-25T21:51:00.000-07:002010-10-25T21:51:47.724-07:00My First New England Fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TMZbknhIe-I/AAAAAAAAAjg/EP5o1gTx_18/s1600/NH+Fall+2010++448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TMZbknhIe-I/AAAAAAAAAjg/EP5o1gTx_18/s400/NH+Fall+2010++448.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The novel I've so long neglected talking about hasn't died, I promise. It's simply in limbo as I decide how to handle the feedback I've gotten from different readers. <br />
<br />
In the next couple weeks, I'll be attacking whatever re-writing I ultimately decide to do. And soon after that, I'll start posting again.<br />
<br />
For now, I'll post a few photos.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TMZd9NDt8cI/AAAAAAAAAjs/WNNEksQlmXg/s1600/NH+Fall+2010++428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TMZd9NDt8cI/AAAAAAAAAjs/WNNEksQlmXg/s400/NH+Fall+2010++428.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-44013421011244152102010-07-25T06:47:00.000-07:002010-07-25T06:47:02.729-07:00(nearly) Time to Shift Gears<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TEw-4VhYnfI/AAAAAAAAAjM/bWzgWb9U9Ak/s1600/Novel+Draft.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TEw-4VhYnfI/AAAAAAAAAjM/bWzgWb9U9Ak/s320/Novel+Draft.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I've got a draft of the novel out to a small group of readers. This is the first full print-out of the book. Nice to have it in hand as a touchable thing that takes up space and weighs down the table a little bit.<br />
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I also have a version of my query ready to go and several agents selected for a first approach.<br />
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The early feedback on the story has been good. But still I have to be patient.<br />
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I need to hear from everyone and make any more changes their impressions demand.<br />
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As soon as that's done, I shift into sales/marketing mode. It's a part of the process I haven't done well with, historically. Like most writers, I think, my instinct is to sit in a corner and write while someone else handles all that messy stuff. But I've finally figured out that <i>there is no one else</i>.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-13044447282901450372010-06-23T21:20:00.000-07:002010-06-23T21:20:08.842-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TCLc5PyGLeI/AAAAAAAAAjA/T106s2BiII4/s1600/Hail+On+Pool++358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TCLc5PyGLeI/AAAAAAAAAjA/T106s2BiII4/s320/Hail+On+Pool++358.jpg" /></a></div>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-22180760148164724282010-06-13T20:45:00.000-07:002010-06-13T22:06:13.736-07:00iPad for Writers, First ImpressionsI just last week bought an iPad with the intention of developing software for it.<br />
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I wouldn't, as a consumer alone, have made the purchase. But it's important as a developer to really get to know the eco-system, to become a real user in order to understand how such applications would be expected to behave, to lean what's already possible, and to find out what users might need.<br />
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Almost immediately, I really like the device, like it far more than I expected to.<br />
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Here are a few early impressions for potential iPad buyers. This will look nothing like a formal review. I've never done one and don't figure to star now. <br />
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I bought the cheapest version of the iPad I could get (the 16 gig WiFi version), because I don't intend to pay for 3G every month (I have a WiFi connection available enough of the time), and I won't be loading the thing up with media. Applications and data alone won't come close to burning 16 gig.<br />
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Another aspect to consider is that Apple will certainly be updating this thing in a year, leaving whatever you buy today sadly in the dust.<br />
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I bought the EcoVue for iPad case and like it so far. It's a leather notebook-style folio that protects the iPad well when not in use and allows standing it at a low angle for onscreen typing. It also has an elastic strap for one-handed holding when you're simply reading a book or browsing.<br />
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Whether you buy the EcoVue or not, you <b>will</b> want some kind of protection for you iPad. The glass screen presents a large target, and the naked device is slippery. The first time I held it in a store, it wasn't three seconds in my fingers before I nearly dropped it. <br />
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The iPad feels heavy (a little heavier than I would wish but not truly burdensome). It's screen is lovely and bright, though too reflective in direct daylight for reasonable reading.<br />
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Default brightness settings were too bright for me (and likely will be for the average user) unless I'm using it outside. This setting is easily adjusted.<br />
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Don't expect to fire up the iPad as you're walking it from the store. You need a machine with an iTunes account to bring the thing truly to life. After the first connection and a software update, it's possible to do software downloads, browse the web, and check e-mail without a connection to another machine.<br />
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Battery life, on first blush, seems pretty decent, though I haven't stressed it enough to see if, during my everyday use, I'll get the promised 10 hours. Some users are claiming to do even better than that. <br />
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There are a ton of free applications of all stripes. Do a search for something like 'Must-have iPad applications' and you'll get a bunch of useful lists.<br />
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I bought <i>Pages</i>, Apple's word processor, for $10. I also purchased a mind-mapping app, a relatively sophisticated drawing app (neither of which I've used enough to comment on), and a dictionary/thesaurus combo that looks promising. <br />
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It's too early to tell how well <i>Pages</i> handles short story and novel writing, though I can say that it isn't really tuned for long documents. There is no useable scrollbar that I can find, so the only way to navigate is to scroll by swiping (painful) or to do a Find on words that you know are in a scene you care about. <br />
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The process of purchasing and downloading applications to the device is simple and quick.<br />
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I have big hands and won't be able to type seriously on the iPad's onscreen virtual keyboard. E-mails and short notes will work fine. For more than that, however, I'll want to have a wireless keyboard (Apple makes a small version that looks pretty decent).<br />
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Several of the free and inexpensive games I bought for my iPod Touch work well with no updates on the bigger screen of the iPad. In fact, this device is a huge improvement in terms of usability.<br />
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I've just started syncing iCal with Google Calendar. This feature seems to work well and is incredibly handy, though I haven't yet found out how to use Google's tasks (a sort of ToDo list feature and an offshoot of the calendar proper) in iCal.<br />
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The application I've used most so far is the Kindle app. It is free, easy to use, and presents a nice reading experience. Within a couple seconds of having bought a book through Amazon's Kindle store, assuming you have a connection on the iPad, your book will be downloaded and ready to go.<br />
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If you have multiple devices with the Kindle app installed, you can jump among them and your bookmarks will remain in sync.<br />
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The application allows enough customizability of screen brightness, font size, and screen colors to tune things to please any reader I can imagine.<br />
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It's my impression that writers will come to love iPad. It's always-on nature (no waiting for boot-ups) and its un-computer-like impression is bound to please. The array of applications a writer might find useful is already impressive and is bound to grow quickly.<br />
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Next time I'll talk a bit about this device versus the Kindle hardware, about my continuing experience with software, and about any other new impressions I have.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-78476736252773328112010-06-05T08:27:00.000-07:002010-06-05T08:27:20.472-07:00Not Dead. Just Moving Slowly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TApsf31rWoI/AAAAAAAAAi0/ww0r3xvS06g/s1600/IMG_1760-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/TApsf31rWoI/AAAAAAAAAi0/ww0r3xvS06g/s320/IMG_1760-3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The final stretch of coming up with a draft of the novel that makes me really happy has been painfully slow.<br />
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But I'm very close now to the query letter stage and will post about that process as I go through it.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-91437965922785321822010-05-12T21:20:00.000-07:002010-05-12T21:20:12.477-07:00Shaken Confidence, Muddy VisionNovel writing is a humbling experience. <br />
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In my final stretch of working on my current book (I hope), I'm struggling to make the kind of improvements I really want to see.<br />
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I have more than enough words, and the basic dramatic structure seems to work okay, but the scenes I feel need to be exceptional don't yet move me the way I want them to. <br />
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I'm sure, as I plod along now, that part of my problem is snow-blindness. I've been looking at these scenes too many times in quick succession to be able to truly see them any more.<br />
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As I've been doing some diversionary work on a <a href="https://mail.google.com/">Smashwords</a> book (a collection of short stories and photos), I've read many of my early short stories and found some stretches of writing that strike me the way I hope to have the novel strike me.<br />
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I'm considering taking a break from this particular book to work on a short story to submit to <a href="http://www.themysteryplace.com/eqmm/">Ellery Queen</a> magazine. The size, genre, and tone of this story are different enough that it may, with the simple help of time, clear my vision.<br />
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I hate to move away from the story when I've already blown past my self-imposed deadline, but a good outcome is more important than my deadline, and this feels like the sensible thing to do.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-2639873404279754412010-05-01T13:24:00.001-07:002010-05-01T13:26:02.024-07:00Subtle Sunrise, Catalina View<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S9yOLacpsZI/AAAAAAAAAio/HqdEp0KWP3U/s1600/Freighter+And+Catalina++358.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S9yOLacpsZI/AAAAAAAAAio/HqdEp0KWP3U/s400/Freighter+And+Catalina++358.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466400374450139538" border="0" /></a>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-16636317287175412702010-04-25T21:53:00.000-07:002010-04-25T22:11:02.286-07:00Slow and PainfulI'm still working through <span style="font-style: italic;">Story</span> by Robert McKee and still finding it helpful.<br /><br />I've spent a lot of time noodling on the issues of my story, knowing that it didn't have the necessary dramatic drive, considering what that meant and where repair might come from.<br /><br />This stage has been far too slow-going. I've felt at times both dispirited and incompetent.<br /><br />Finally, I've come up with an entirely new opening chapter that I think will help set the tone for a stronger main character and a better-driven story. In order to make the change pay, I've also got to perform surgery on a handful of scenes scattered throughout the novel.<br /><br />As much as I wanted my first serious draft to work at all the fundamentals, I'm thrilled to have found problems and to be--however painfully--solving them before I put the book in the hands of an agent.<br /><br />My main goal, when I set out to write this book, was to get to the point that I was truly proud of the work before I inflicted it on anyone in the publishing world.<br /><br />When I'm finally finished with this draft, if it too turns out to be less than I'd hoped for, I'll be back to work, continuing this cycle until I'm truly happy with the novel.<br /><br />I'm anxious, still, to get to work on a query letter. But for now it has to wait.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-64799038051041818382010-04-18T11:36:00.001-07:002010-04-18T11:37:21.441-07:00A Long Ago Tree<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S8tRUmXz4RI/AAAAAAAAAiY/zxJg_eT62d8/s1600/DSCF1177.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S8tRUmXz4RI/AAAAAAAAAiY/zxJg_eT62d8/s400/DSCF1177.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461548387456508178" border="0" /></a><br />Removed to make room for a new high school.<br /><br />Could I maybe have the tree back?Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-4503249973881786262010-04-18T10:15:00.001-07:002010-04-18T10:15:25.235-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S8s-JMIMfgI/AAAAAAAAAh0/XbZYWJBrMTY/s1600/TAH_1271-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S8s-JMIMfgI/AAAAAAAAAh0/XbZYWJBrMTY/s400/TAH_1271-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461527300712201730" border="0" /></a>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-25111553854390741892010-04-17T12:53:00.000-07:002010-04-17T15:27:26.114-07:00Woody Guthrie Was a Genius<p style="text-align: left; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Fine writing comes in many forms. In recent days I've fallen utterly in love with a Woody Guthrie song that makes the rotation occasionally at Starbucks. My affinity for the song only grew stronger when I took the time to actually listen closely to--and ultimately read--the lyrics.</p><br /><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">California Stars </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight<br /> On a bed of California stars<br /> I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight<br /> On a bed of California stars<br /> I’d love to feel your hand touching mine<br /> And tell me why I must keep working on<br /> Yes, I’d give my life to lay my head tonight<br /> On a bed of California stars</strong></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>I’d like to dream my troubles all away<br /> On a bed of California stars<br /> Jump up from my starbed and make another day<br /> Underneath my California stars<br /> They hang like grapes on vines that shine<br /> And warm the lovers glass like friendly wine<br /> So, I’d give this world just to dream a dream with you<br /> On our bed of California stars</strong></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong></strong></span></p><p style="text-align: left; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Simple language creating touching, undecorated imagery.<br /></p> <p style="text-align: left; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Billy Bragg and Wilco</span> did a wonderful job with music and presentation.<br /></p> <p style="text-align: left; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I can't hear this song enough.<br /></p> <p style="text-align: left; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Here's a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhm27uXG6bg">YouTube version</a>. Ignore the awful, hamfisted video, itself (it's all I could find aside from the live version, which is recorded badly enough that I don't enjoy it). Just listen--loud--to the song and read the lyrics.<br /></p>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-64537926151068546192010-04-17T06:56:00.001-07:002010-04-17T07:15:10.104-07:00It Resisted For a ReasonRecently I noted that I'm struggling to get through the final third of my novel, to craft an ending that brings things together in some satisfying fashion (<a href="http://writershearth.blogspot.com/2010/04/resistence-is-futile-stupid-novel.html">Resistance is Futile, Stupid Novel)</a>.<br /><br />My difficulty revolves around the fact that the story doesn't have nearly enough story drive for my satisfaction. I like the characters. I'm happy with several of the important scenes. But in the end, a story must have a compelling narrative drive.<br /><br />I'm not there.<br /><br />In my frustration, I bought <span style="font-style: italic;">Story</span> by Robert McKee. I wasn't in the mood for yet another paint-by-numbers writing book, or any damn writing book, for that matter. But this one has shown up so frequently, in so many disparate places for me lately that I felt I needed to give it a look.<br /><br />Robert McKee (his seminar, not his book) is the target of funny ridicule in the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Adaptation. </span>I came to the experience with some hope but low expectations.<br /><br />I have, to put it mildly, been pleasantly surprised.<br /><br />This is no paint-by-numbers horse-manure. It isn't even strictly a screenwriting book. Most of its example are from the screen, it's true, but its notions are much broader, much more usefully applicable than that.<br /><br />It has one of the more coherent discussions of types of plot, their possibilities and audience expectations that I've seen.<br /><br />It also talks a great deal about what does and doesn't make a story compelling, why some stories fall flat while others don't. And it does it in a way that makes sense to me.<br /><br />In the reading, I've come to understand why my story lies flatter than I'd like it to. I don't exactly have the cure figured out yet, but I have a sense of where I should be looking and the kinds of surgeries I should be attempting.<br /><br />That realization, alone, makes the book a worthwhile purchase.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-49644837024624461002010-04-15T13:08:00.000-07:002010-04-15T13:26:58.369-07:00How To Shake HandsOkay, this whole <span style="font-style: italic;">shake like a flaccid dead mackerel</span> thing has got to end.<br /><br />Fingers extended limp and lifeless do not a handshake make.<br /><br />A good handshake should be applied with the same force you'd apply when giving a caring hug. But unlike a good hug, you owe it even to a perfect stranger to shake with conviction.<br /><br />In other words, you don't want to spill guts with your squeeze, but you want to prove that you care enough to activate the muscles in your forearm. This goes for women as well as men. The rules are not different. Prove that you're alive, and then stop squeezing.<br /><br />A strong handshake implies confidence and, believe it or not, confers warmth.<br /><br />A weak handshake projects timidity and blows a chill breeze into the a room. Don't do it.<br /><br />Even if you have no interest in impressing the person in front of you, a weak handshake projects a weakness that does you no good.<br /> <br />For the hypochondriacs among you, take your 5000 iu of D3 a day and get over it. You’ve touched, anyway, you might as well go all in. If you’re going to shake hands, do it correctly.<br /><br />Is it possible to overstate the case? To exaggerate the damage done by a wimpy handshake? Of course it is. But why risk starting with a weak impression. It’s such a simple thing to get right.<br /><br />So, do the world a favor . . . save the dead mackerel to fertilize your garden and bring some conviction to your handshake.Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-45094757686977660102010-04-11T07:37:00.000-07:002010-04-11T07:45:04.078-07:00Fighting the Hero's UrgeI have a tendency, when I don’t like the progress I’m making in some area of my life, to make bold pronouncements to myself about the fixes I’m going to make. I will correct--pronto--everything I believe to be broken in myself.<br /><br />I don’t stop there, of course. These things aren’t magically gonna fix themselves because I, at one time, willed them to.<br /><br />I make urgent plans. I give myself pep talks. I set ridiculous timetables.<br />I behave, in other words,<span style="font-style: italic;"> like a complete loser</span>.<br /><br />Successful people understand, even if it’s not entirely conscious, that sporadic fits of heroic action don’t make for a successful life.<br /><br />Our guidance systems, when we’re in a panic, tend to underperform.<br /><br />I’ve read the book <span style="font-style: italic;">Wooden on Leadership</span> a couple times, and a major theme of John Wooden’s* leadership is the idea that there are no big things. There are only a whole bunch of little things that, by accumulation, add up to something much larger.<br /><br />The man is famous for, on the first day of practice each year, teaching all the new recruits how to put socks on correctly and how to tie their shoes. Many of the players he coached assumed it had to be a joke when they first had the experience.<br /><br />The idea is that you must get all the basics--all the little things--right in order to be a successful basketball team. Socks incorrectly applied lead to blisters, which hinder performance.<br /><br />And how do we choose which little things we will pursue?<br /><br />They must be the building blocks of a much bigger goal. Building blocks that ultimately make something we value.<br /><br />If I were, for example, trying to lose 30 pounds, I wouldn’t make a loud proclamation that I’ll have it done in 30-days and begin with a fast to launch the endeavor. Instead, I might toss the Ho-Hos I have stacked high in my pantry and choose to start eating my cereal out of the smallest bowls in the house, even throwing away the larger ones, if necessary.<br /><br />The first approach involves hopeless magical (heroic) thinking, the second breaks the problem down to tiny, unintimidating actions. Which path is more likely to succeed?<br /><br />Consistency in all these well-chosen little things ultimately--and often in less time than we imagine--will take us where we want to go.<br /><br />One beautiful side-effect of this kind of attack is that it erases the need to conjure some kind of giant magical cure for your ills. It removes the need for the heroic entirely and turns self-improvement into an exercise of making incremental, approachable changes that move you in the direction you want to go.<br /><br />We aren’t heroes, and we aren’t magical. Pretending to be only guarantees failure and self-loathing. We can, however, reasonably hope to make what seem smaller, even mundane changes in pursuit of our goals.<br /><br />The point of self-improvement is to create sustainable progress. Heroic efforts aren’t sustainable; magical ones aren’t achievable in the first place.<br /><br />So consider starting with how you slide on your socks in the morning. And then get the shoes correctly tied. Let the hero off the hook for today; Metropolis may need saving.<br /><br />Good things are bound to follow.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />* for the uninitiated, he was the finest college basketball coach who ever lived and legendary for being an impeccable gentleman the whole way.</span>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26986178.post-18604323431893381292010-04-07T10:09:00.000-07:002010-04-07T10:10:34.946-07:00Moon and Contrail<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S7y8eLopIMI/AAAAAAAAAgI/Llt2LTnkmGI/s1600/IMG_1344.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eZAqw-mtotg/S7y8eLopIMI/AAAAAAAAAgI/Llt2LTnkmGI/s400/IMG_1344.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457444075171553474" border="0" /></a>Trevor Hambrichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01775912895601762368noreply@blogger.com0