When I wrote my first book, MIND PLAY, I started more trouble than expected. I used the first names of family and friends for each of my characters. That wasn’t the bad part. That wasn’t where the problem started.
The problem, you see, came when I informed people of what I’d done.
Unless you are James Patterson (who has ten million books released every year – that he does not write), you cannot write books fast enough to use the names of all your family and friends. Look at my name. Tomasso. Know what that is? Know what that means? Italian. Ever see a small Italian family? I’ve got more aunts and uncles and cousins than Stephen King has fans. See what I’m saying, eh-oh, oh-eh.
Anyway. I try to do my best. I try to incorporate the first names of as many people as I can. The thing is, sometimes, those just aren’t the names I want for my characters. Believe it or not, I put thought into the characters. And they become real to me. I look up the meanings of names. I picture what they look like in my mind. And if they don’t look they’d be named “Jane Doe” because my Aunt Jane Doe is on my butt about using her name, then I can’t in good conscience name that character “Jane Doe.” It won’t work for me. It would shatter the person/character I’d created.
My Uncle Bill used to come to every book signing I had in Rochester. And at each new book signing he’d ask me when I was going to use his name. Finally, I’d sold the manuscript of a novel where I’d used his name, his full first Italian name – Abello (“Bill”). His character was a Mafia Don in the story.
When Uncle Bill got up to the front of the line, he handed me a copy of my book to sign for him. And, of course, he asked, “So, when are you going to use my name in a book?”
So I told him about being a Mafia Don.
You saw it in his face. He was excited. He asked me, “What’s the name of the book?”
I said, “Pigeon Drop.”
He grimaced. “What’s that? That’s crap.”
To this day, I am not sure if he was seriously mad, or just being funny. We Tomassos’ have an odd, peculiar, sense of humor.
My first book was released in 2000. My ninth, Sounds of Silence, will be released later this year – and you know what? I still have not used all the names of family and friends as characters in the stories written.
At work tonight, 2013 – it’s no different. Only, my friends are more aggressive about what they want. Crystal wants me to use her name. Not her last name. Her first name, and … get this – to make the entire novel about her. (You may not realize it – but it was Crystal’s inspiration that inspired my last blog, First Dates & Red Robin Yummm … ).
My point?
There isn’t one. (Is there ever with me?) Except, maybe … be patient. If I can use your name, I will. Promise.
More times than not, I am using your personality. You just may not be smart enough to recognize it’s you you are reading about.
Bada-bing!
Take care,
Phillip Tomasso
PS … Check out my new website:
http://www.philliptomasso.com/
(Still under construction)
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer
Pulse of Evil For Sale
Other titles for sale for Kindle
Other titles for sale for Nook
The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips
Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Friday, November 9, 2012
Table For One
Got an amazing email the other day. A publisher offering a contract for a YA novel I’d written. I forget how long ago I’d sent the query. Maybe close to eighteen months ago? About 6 months back they wrote me asking for a complete copy of the manuscript. I sent it. Nothing to lose.
Nothing to lose, because now – with this contract, I’ve officially sold the work three times. First time was in 2005. I worked with an agent then. She landed a nice deal. Got a healthy advance. It covered some bills with a small chunk left over to feed the family a nice dinner or two.
I worked close with the publisher’s editor and then the publishing company folded.
I won’t lie. Felt a bit devastated. It was a good size press. Hard not to get high hopes for my story. I envisioned awards and a shot at a bestseller list … maybe not the New York Times, but whatever.
Next publisher to offer a contract was a smaller, newer press. Just getting their feet wet. This was about two years ago. Again, I grew excited. I really wanted to see this title brought to life, and was thankful years later the work was still sellable.
The editor and I did not see eye-to-eye on some issues. They wanted too much changed. I refused to make those changes. Eventually, we’d reached a crossroads, and the contract was unfortunately, mutually, shredded. No hard feelings, other than the fact once again my YA novel would not make it to print (or eBook).
So. Like I was saying. The email came with a contract. Looked good to me. Talked about a paperback and eBook release. I’d already gathered endorsements from key people and a handful of reviews over the years. And now, I’m feeling pretty good. Pretty hopeful.
I posted about it on Facebook, Tweeted it once or twice. And . . . after work that night? I’d be off for two days. It was the start of my weekend. Can you imagine getting an awesome email at the start of your weekend? First thing you think, first thing I thought, was, “I’m celebrating.”
Right?
I’m going out. Karaoke! Eat some grilled and greasy food with friends! Do it up right. Not much of a champagne drinker, not when there is beer available, but hell, I tossed around the idea of buying a bottle.
Why not?
I’d sold the same book three times in 7 years. Same book. Three times. Seven years.
Third time’s the charm. I’ve heard that. You’ve heard that. It’s an old cliché. Third time’s the charm. It’s what I should call this post. Third Time’s The Charm.
But really, honestly … remember when I started this blog? I said I was not going to hold back. Posts would be honest and raw. I’ll admit I’ve done some holding back. And while honest, posts haven’t been as raw as they may have been medium rare. One main reason is I’ve found I have younger readers checking in now and then. And it is important me to be honest and as raw as I can be without being offensive. You may have noticed a blog-post or two missing. Pulled ‘em. Had to. Anyway . . .
This blog is not about selling a 10th novel (since 2000). It’s about the fact that my weekend (a Monday and Tuesday night) celebration turned out to be little more than drinking cans of beer from the fridge, watching Netflix and ordering a pizza (which covered many meals over the next two days).
You know why? Because divorce sucks.
I don’t miss my ex. Not at all. Please don’t misunderstand what I am saying here.
But—at the time—I actually enjoyed being married. Loved my family.
Still love my kids!
But when that got stripped away in ’07, battling life has been an endless and emotional strain. It really interrupts and interferes with, well … everything.
Even though my ex was never supportive of my writing, never understood why I wanted to keep selling stories I’d written, manuscripts I’d slaved over—why I wrote in the first place, when I did make a sale (regardless), or even when I finished writing a novel—we’d all go out an celebrate. Every time.
Pack the kids in the car, we’re going for dinner!
I remember doing that a lot in the 90’s when I was pounding out short-stories like mad. In ‘00, when my first novel sold, and ’01, twice in ’02 … and on and on.
I miss that.
Family. Closeness.
At first, I tried contacting a few friends; see if they wanted to go out. Most work day jobs, Monday through Friday, and don’t go out until the weekend – the real, normal, weekend; or they work opposite wheels from the one I work – so if I’m off, they’re working, and vice-versa.
Bottom line, at one point I stopped trying.
It turned out to be a tough weekend, despite being excited about a sale. It hit me, hard, the fact that I had no one special to share any of this with.
God forbid my mother or anyone in my family read this.
Eh-oh, oh-eh!
It has nothing to do with them. They were all very excited for the contract, and would gladly have celebrated the night (or entire weekend) with me. But listen, between us (sorry if you are reading this, Mom, Love You), but singing Garth Brooks karaoke with your mother – just not the same kinda fun, you know what I’m sayin’?
Is this post about selling a 10th novel in 12 years? I don’t know. Maybe. Or about selling a novel 3 times? Kind of, yes. Or is it about the fact that, even when it looks to someone else like someone has all their shit together, that looks are usually deceiving?
You know what I have to say to that, smile on the outside, my friends. Always smile on the outside. Because letting them see you cry on the inside – what good does that do? None. It does no good.
Take care, and keep an eye out. Got a two-part blog coming at you soon. It will be about writing, Not heart-on-the-sleeve stuff, promise. I call it, Writing Is Like Going To The Gym. Great title, right? Whatever J
I’m out …
Phillip Tomasso
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer
Pulse of Evil For Sale
Other titles for sale for Kindle
Other titles for sale for Nook
The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips
Nothing to lose, because now – with this contract, I’ve officially sold the work three times. First time was in 2005. I worked with an agent then. She landed a nice deal. Got a healthy advance. It covered some bills with a small chunk left over to feed the family a nice dinner or two.
I worked close with the publisher’s editor and then the publishing company folded.
I won’t lie. Felt a bit devastated. It was a good size press. Hard not to get high hopes for my story. I envisioned awards and a shot at a bestseller list … maybe not the New York Times, but whatever.
Next publisher to offer a contract was a smaller, newer press. Just getting their feet wet. This was about two years ago. Again, I grew excited. I really wanted to see this title brought to life, and was thankful years later the work was still sellable.
The editor and I did not see eye-to-eye on some issues. They wanted too much changed. I refused to make those changes. Eventually, we’d reached a crossroads, and the contract was unfortunately, mutually, shredded. No hard feelings, other than the fact once again my YA novel would not make it to print (or eBook).
So. Like I was saying. The email came with a contract. Looked good to me. Talked about a paperback and eBook release. I’d already gathered endorsements from key people and a handful of reviews over the years. And now, I’m feeling pretty good. Pretty hopeful.
I posted about it on Facebook, Tweeted it once or twice. And . . . after work that night? I’d be off for two days. It was the start of my weekend. Can you imagine getting an awesome email at the start of your weekend? First thing you think, first thing I thought, was, “I’m celebrating.”
Right?
I’m going out. Karaoke! Eat some grilled and greasy food with friends! Do it up right. Not much of a champagne drinker, not when there is beer available, but hell, I tossed around the idea of buying a bottle.
Why not?
I’d sold the same book three times in 7 years. Same book. Three times. Seven years.
Third time’s the charm. I’ve heard that. You’ve heard that. It’s an old cliché. Third time’s the charm. It’s what I should call this post. Third Time’s The Charm.
But really, honestly … remember when I started this blog? I said I was not going to hold back. Posts would be honest and raw. I’ll admit I’ve done some holding back. And while honest, posts haven’t been as raw as they may have been medium rare. One main reason is I’ve found I have younger readers checking in now and then. And it is important me to be honest and as raw as I can be without being offensive. You may have noticed a blog-post or two missing. Pulled ‘em. Had to. Anyway . . .
This blog is not about selling a 10th novel (since 2000). It’s about the fact that my weekend (a Monday and Tuesday night) celebration turned out to be little more than drinking cans of beer from the fridge, watching Netflix and ordering a pizza (which covered many meals over the next two days).
You know why? Because divorce sucks.
I don’t miss my ex. Not at all. Please don’t misunderstand what I am saying here.
But—at the time—I actually enjoyed being married. Loved my family.
Still love my kids!
But when that got stripped away in ’07, battling life has been an endless and emotional strain. It really interrupts and interferes with, well … everything.
Even though my ex was never supportive of my writing, never understood why I wanted to keep selling stories I’d written, manuscripts I’d slaved over—why I wrote in the first place, when I did make a sale (regardless), or even when I finished writing a novel—we’d all go out an celebrate. Every time.
Pack the kids in the car, we’re going for dinner!
I remember doing that a lot in the 90’s when I was pounding out short-stories like mad. In ‘00, when my first novel sold, and ’01, twice in ’02 … and on and on.
I miss that.
Family. Closeness.
At first, I tried contacting a few friends; see if they wanted to go out. Most work day jobs, Monday through Friday, and don’t go out until the weekend – the real, normal, weekend; or they work opposite wheels from the one I work – so if I’m off, they’re working, and vice-versa.
Bottom line, at one point I stopped trying.
It turned out to be a tough weekend, despite being excited about a sale. It hit me, hard, the fact that I had no one special to share any of this with.
God forbid my mother or anyone in my family read this.
Eh-oh, oh-eh!
It has nothing to do with them. They were all very excited for the contract, and would gladly have celebrated the night (or entire weekend) with me. But listen, between us (sorry if you are reading this, Mom, Love You), but singing Garth Brooks karaoke with your mother – just not the same kinda fun, you know what I’m sayin’?
Is this post about selling a 10th novel in 12 years? I don’t know. Maybe. Or about selling a novel 3 times? Kind of, yes. Or is it about the fact that, even when it looks to someone else like someone has all their shit together, that looks are usually deceiving?
You know what I have to say to that, smile on the outside, my friends. Always smile on the outside. Because letting them see you cry on the inside – what good does that do? None. It does no good.
Take care, and keep an eye out. Got a two-part blog coming at you soon. It will be about writing, Not heart-on-the-sleeve stuff, promise. I call it, Writing Is Like Going To The Gym. Great title, right? Whatever J
I’m out …
Phillip Tomasso
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer
Pulse of Evil For Sale
Other titles for sale for Kindle
Other titles for sale for Nook
The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Been There (Still Haven't) Done That
Back in 2001, an independent film company optioned the movie rights to my novel TENTH HOUSE. The back cover blurb reads:
"Private Investigator, Nicholas Tartaglia, is hired to stop a satanic cult before they sacrifice another victim. Amidst a mysterious web of deception and conspiracy, Tartaglia's investigations has him chasing a shadowy, elusive figure -- the cult's high priest. The search for answers turns into an urgent race against time when it becomes clear who the next victim to be sacrificed will be. Tartaglia must save the chosen one before the demented cult leader and his followers hold their next ceremony."
Lynda Carter was looking at the lead female role for the film. The scrtipt was started. And then, just when it looked like the ball was really, really going to get rolling, it died. The project stopped. The film company went under.
The cool thing was the fact that I'd made it that far. Not too many authors can say their novel was almost turned into a movie.
Here I am again. Same place. Hoping this time it will actually happen.
A film company is looking at the possibility of turning my novel JOHNNY BLADE into a movie!
It's a bit more gritty and hardcore of a story.
The back cover blurb reads:
"When a whoring, violent drunk loses everything--his job, his wife, his kids and his home--he quickly becomes enraged, and vengeful. He focuses his energy on killing prostitutes. When a college graduate winds up with a job on the city’s newspaper writing obituaries, it does not take much for him to spot opportunity. Taking a part-time job as a cook at a diner where the victimized hookers hung out, the journalist gets close to those closest to the murders. The journalist falls in love with one of the prostitutes, turning his world upside-down. When Johnny Blade takes this particular streetwalker for a ride, it is up to the journalist to save her life."
At this point, it's just talking.
The film company has the info on the book. A working script has already been written by my good, and talented friend Greg Palmer. They have that, too.
The company claims they want to make a go of this project. So while my fingers are crossed, I am apprehensive about holding my breath, just yet.
People never believe me when I say writing isn't about the money. Of course I'd love to do this full time. Love to leave my job and stay in a bathrobe all day writing. Who wouldn't? (Maybe someone who doesn't own a bathrobe?)
It isn't about the money.
I am a storyteller. A writer. Dare I say, an artist?
What matters most to me is creating, and then sharing that creation.
Regardless of a movie deal or not; of hitting the best seller list or not; of having to work a full time job or not ... I write because I love it. Getting published is icing on the cake.
Getting paid, or landing a movie deal ... well, my firends, that's getting to eat my cake, too!
Know what I say? Don't wait for the movie. If you haven't read JOHNNY BLADE (which, by the way, won a Bloody Daggar Award in 2002) -- read it now! Love to know who you "picture" as actors for parts in the film!
Take care,
Phillip Tomasso
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer
Pulse of Evil For Sale (Just click on the book cover)
Other titles for sale for Kindle
The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips
"Private Investigator, Nicholas Tartaglia, is hired to stop a satanic cult before they sacrifice another victim. Amidst a mysterious web of deception and conspiracy, Tartaglia's investigations has him chasing a shadowy, elusive figure -- the cult's high priest. The search for answers turns into an urgent race against time when it becomes clear who the next victim to be sacrificed will be. Tartaglia must save the chosen one before the demented cult leader and his followers hold their next ceremony."
Lynda Carter was looking at the lead female role for the film. The scrtipt was started. And then, just when it looked like the ball was really, really going to get rolling, it died. The project stopped. The film company went under.
The cool thing was the fact that I'd made it that far. Not too many authors can say their novel was almost turned into a movie.
Here I am again. Same place. Hoping this time it will actually happen.
A film company is looking at the possibility of turning my novel JOHNNY BLADE into a movie!
It's a bit more gritty and hardcore of a story.
The back cover blurb reads:
"When a whoring, violent drunk loses everything--his job, his wife, his kids and his home--he quickly becomes enraged, and vengeful. He focuses his energy on killing prostitutes. When a college graduate winds up with a job on the city’s newspaper writing obituaries, it does not take much for him to spot opportunity. Taking a part-time job as a cook at a diner where the victimized hookers hung out, the journalist gets close to those closest to the murders. The journalist falls in love with one of the prostitutes, turning his world upside-down. When Johnny Blade takes this particular streetwalker for a ride, it is up to the journalist to save her life."
At this point, it's just talking.
The film company has the info on the book. A working script has already been written by my good, and talented friend Greg Palmer. They have that, too.
The company claims they want to make a go of this project. So while my fingers are crossed, I am apprehensive about holding my breath, just yet.
People never believe me when I say writing isn't about the money. Of course I'd love to do this full time. Love to leave my job and stay in a bathrobe all day writing. Who wouldn't? (Maybe someone who doesn't own a bathrobe?)
It isn't about the money.
I am a storyteller. A writer. Dare I say, an artist?
What matters most to me is creating, and then sharing that creation.
Regardless of a movie deal or not; of hitting the best seller list or not; of having to work a full time job or not ... I write because I love it. Getting published is icing on the cake.
Getting paid, or landing a movie deal ... well, my firends, that's getting to eat my cake, too!
Know what I say? Don't wait for the movie. If you haven't read JOHNNY BLADE (which, by the way, won a Bloody Daggar Award in 2002) -- read it now! Love to know who you "picture" as actors for parts in the film!
Take care,
Phillip Tomasso
Pulse of Evil Book Trailer
Pulse of Evil For Sale (Just click on the book cover)
Other titles for sale for Kindle
The Molech Prophecy for sale on Nook/Paperback -- writing as Thomas Phillips
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
PULSE OF EVIL (Teaser)
Pulse of Evil (PROLOGUE)
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” The dark confines of the confessional room felt like a coffin.
“And how long has it been since your last confession?” the priest asked, his features and voice obscured behind a mesh screen.
“Years? I don’t know. Since high school,” I said.
Silence. My hands wrestled with each other in my lap. I shivered, suddenly cold. Squeezing my eyes shut did nothing to ease the pain that throbbed inside my skull.
“What are your confessions?” he asked. The monotone voice masked boredom or interest. Such a simple question. If I wanted forgiveness,redemption, salvation all I had to do was list the things I’d done wrong since my last confession.
More silence.
This time, it was up to me to break it. I brushed one hand though my hair, and pushed my bangs to the side so I could see. Seemed pointless. There was no light, just the smell of wood polish and the sound of the priest breathing evenly on the opposite side of the wall that separated us.
“This isn’t easy,” I said. My bottom lip rolled into my mouth. I bit down.
“Admitting sins committed rarely is.”
“This isn’t easy,” I said. My bottom lip rolled into my mouth. I bit down.
“Admitting sins committed rarely is.”
It felt like my heart had left my chest and was now fighting for space alongside my brain—beating, beating, beating. I dropped my elbows to my knees as I bent forward, my hands clasped together, extended out in front of me. “Father,” I said, or thought, I can’t be sure.The silence that surrounded me, seemed to pulse—throb—in my ears, in counterpoint with the beating of my heart. The tempo wracking its way through the inside of my head was draining and intensified. “Father, I witnessed a murder. Two. And I did nothing to help,” I said.
I wasn’t ready for tears. It seemed I had no choice. As they fell, I allowed them, refusing to wipethem away. “I didn’t try to stop it. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t do a thing!”
Did I hear the priest suck in air?
This had to be sodifferent from what he was used to hearing people confess. Bad words. Bad thoughts. Not informing a clerk you’d received back too much change at the check out.
“How far away from the murders were you?”
Did I hear the priest suck in air?
This had to be sodifferent from what he was used to hearing people confess. Bad words. Bad thoughts. Not informing a clerk you’d received back too much change at the check out.
“How far away from the murders were you?”
In the middle of them. “Close. Too close.”
“Does anyone else know that you witnessed these murders?”
“The killers. They know I was there.”
PULSE OF EVIL
Wings ePress Books
http://www.wings-press.com
Copyright © 2012 by Phillip Tomasso III
ISBN 978-1-61309-084-8
AUGUST 2012
--Be sure to check out my previous novels available for KINDLE!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
A Short South Bend Story
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You all have no idea who I am. Not for real. I know that.
Well, my last novel was published in 2007. Wow. Has it been that long? It has. Pathetic.
Anyway, the publisher booked me on a live morning television talk show. One of those Good Morning America types, without the ratings, or viewership.
I packed a bag. Went to the airport and and flew, first to Chicago, and then over to Indiana.
A limo met me at the tiny airport. And by limo, I mean black Lincoln Town car. The driver held up a sign.
It would have been really cool if more than three people were in the airport.
I stayed at a hotel not far from Notre Dame's campus. In fact, I was told it was walking distance from the hotel.
Seeing the campus would have been awesome, I imagine. But by the time I arrived at the hotel it was nearly 7:00 PM. It felt like it was ten below zero. Everything was frozen solid. I wasn't going to walk--I didn't have clothing for it. I had a leather coat and jeans, that I came in, and a suit for the show in the morning.
Instead, I found a Chinese place that delivered, and watched television in my room.
I did the show the next morning. It went all right. Was cool being on the set of a morning show. The background was just that, background. The set sat in the center of an almost black-wall warehouse. Camera's and cables all over the place.
This isn't a blog about the show, though. Not even a blog to promote my novel -- because you don't know who I am. But a blog about going home.
Ah yes, going home.
After my interview a taxi whisked me back to the airport. This was awful, actually. It was barely 9:00 AM, and my flight wasn't until noon.
But it didn't make sense to go back to the hotel.
I had a book with me. Figured I'd get some coffee, lunch, sit and read while I waited.
So I get back to this tiny airport -- which resembled the airport on the old TV show WINGS, more than a real airport. But I am not well traveled. Maybe the was the norm. Rochester International Airport is a good size, but it resembles a ghost town any time I've been in there ... But I digress.
I buy a sandwich at the ONLY open sandwich place -- and pay Airport prices for it, despite airport size -- and find a comfortable chair among the three in the lounge. Reading is going well. Eating, equally well. And then I look at the time. Still over three hours till my flight.
I think.
My plane tickets are my bookmark for the novel I'm reading.
I look at them.
Hmmm. Seems I am going to fly out of Indiana at 12:20. Won't get back to Rochester until almost 5:00 PM. Have a stop with another couple hours lay-over in Chicago.
I would arrive in Chicago at ... 12:05.
My stomach drops. My PR person at the publisher messed up my flight. Thank God I found the error!
I gather my things and wheel my suitcase up to the airline counter.
The woman behind the desk smiles. "How can I help you, sir?"
Maybe I am tired. I know I am upset with my publisher. Either way, I feel this entitles me to sarcasm.
With that entitlement, I ask, "Ah, yes. My ticket says my plane leaves here at 12:20 and will then land in Chicago fifteen minutes before it even takes off. I only have some college, but I am not sure how is that even possible?"
Without missing a beat, the woman -- still giving me that big smile -- says, "You fly through a time zone ... sir."
Hmmm. A little added emphasis on, sir?
Ah-yeah. I heard it. Deserved it.
It was the longest ten yard walk from the counter back to the chair I'd been sitting in.
Only now, I don't want to sit there. I want to hide. Sit someplace else.
Guess what? There is no where else. Think WINGS. One sofa. A few chairs. I'm waiting for Tony Shalhoub to walk in, partly as Monk, partly as a Taxi driver ... whatever.
So then, just as I sit. Just as I open my book and use it as a hand-held wall to block the woman at counter from seeing the red in my face ... I hear, "Sir? Excuse me, sir?"
I slowly lower the book. Eyes dart around. Trying to find out, One--is someone talking to me? Seems logical, since I'm the only one here. (Di Nero anyone? Anyone? No? Ok?) And Two--if someone is talking to me, then who is it?
But I know, One, someone was talking to me, and Two, who it was.
I recognized the voice. Last thing it said to me was ... "sirrrrr". Hard to forget.
"Ah, yes?" I say. Stand. Set my book down.
"We can get you on a flight to Chicago. Leaves in twenty minutes, and then a flight from Chicago to Rochester -- have you in Rochester by 2:00 PM, if you'd like?" Smile is still there. It might have been painted on. I am not sure I saw her lips move when she spoke.
"Um. Yes. Okay. Ah-yeah. That would be great." Then I became Jerry Lewis.
I went up to the counter.
"I need your tickets, sir."
I spin around. Hands pat my shirt. There is only a breast pocket. I pat my dress pants. Nothing.
I smile at the woman. And spin again. A One-Eighty. The tickets are sticking out of my book. I walk toward over, slide them out from between the pages. Head back, hand them over to the woman.
"And your suitcase?" She says.
I try to smile. "Of course."
For whatever reason -- maybe because I was too fucking stupid to recognize time zones -- I pat my shirt.
No suitcase in that breast pocket.
I go back and get my suitcase. Wheel it over. Smile.
I smile, not to be friendly. But because my book and suit coat are still over on the chair. I have to head back there a third time.
I will not spin, I think. I will not spin.
I wait until she tells me I am all set, hands me my new tickets with instructions to Gate 1, because best I can recall -- that was the only gate and I can see it from where I am -- but I sure as shit am not going to say anything sarcastic. No way!
That is when I return to the lounge for my book and suit coat, and I wave and thank the woman as I head to Gate 1, anxious to be home, but thankful to be out of Indiana's airport!
Hey you know what? That's the end of the blog!
Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso
Well, my last novel was published in 2007. Wow. Has it been that long? It has. Pathetic.
Anyway, the publisher booked me on a live morning television talk show. One of those Good Morning America types, without the ratings, or viewership.
I packed a bag. Went to the airport and and flew, first to Chicago, and then over to Indiana.
A limo met me at the tiny airport. And by limo, I mean black Lincoln Town car. The driver held up a sign.
It would have been really cool if more than three people were in the airport.
I stayed at a hotel not far from Notre Dame's campus. In fact, I was told it was walking distance from the hotel.
Seeing the campus would have been awesome, I imagine. But by the time I arrived at the hotel it was nearly 7:00 PM. It felt like it was ten below zero. Everything was frozen solid. I wasn't going to walk--I didn't have clothing for it. I had a leather coat and jeans, that I came in, and a suit for the show in the morning.
Instead, I found a Chinese place that delivered, and watched television in my room.
I did the show the next morning. It went all right. Was cool being on the set of a morning show. The background was just that, background. The set sat in the center of an almost black-wall warehouse. Camera's and cables all over the place.
This isn't a blog about the show, though. Not even a blog to promote my novel -- because you don't know who I am. But a blog about going home.
Ah yes, going home.
After my interview a taxi whisked me back to the airport. This was awful, actually. It was barely 9:00 AM, and my flight wasn't until noon.
But it didn't make sense to go back to the hotel.
I had a book with me. Figured I'd get some coffee, lunch, sit and read while I waited.
So I get back to this tiny airport -- which resembled the airport on the old TV show WINGS, more than a real airport. But I am not well traveled. Maybe the was the norm. Rochester International Airport is a good size, but it resembles a ghost town any time I've been in there ... But I digress.
I buy a sandwich at the ONLY open sandwich place -- and pay Airport prices for it, despite airport size -- and find a comfortable chair among the three in the lounge. Reading is going well. Eating, equally well. And then I look at the time. Still over three hours till my flight.
I think.
My plane tickets are my bookmark for the novel I'm reading.
I look at them.
Hmmm. Seems I am going to fly out of Indiana at 12:20. Won't get back to Rochester until almost 5:00 PM. Have a stop with another couple hours lay-over in Chicago.
I would arrive in Chicago at ... 12:05.
My stomach drops. My PR person at the publisher messed up my flight. Thank God I found the error!
I gather my things and wheel my suitcase up to the airline counter.
The woman behind the desk smiles. "How can I help you, sir?"
Maybe I am tired. I know I am upset with my publisher. Either way, I feel this entitles me to sarcasm.
With that entitlement, I ask, "Ah, yes. My ticket says my plane leaves here at 12:20 and will then land in Chicago fifteen minutes before it even takes off. I only have some college, but I am not sure how is that even possible?"
Without missing a beat, the woman -- still giving me that big smile -- says, "You fly through a time zone ... sir."
Hmmm. A little added emphasis on, sir?
Ah-yeah. I heard it. Deserved it.
It was the longest ten yard walk from the counter back to the chair I'd been sitting in.
Only now, I don't want to sit there. I want to hide. Sit someplace else.
Guess what? There is no where else. Think WINGS. One sofa. A few chairs. I'm waiting for Tony Shalhoub to walk in, partly as Monk, partly as a Taxi driver ... whatever.
So then, just as I sit. Just as I open my book and use it as a hand-held wall to block the woman at counter from seeing the red in my face ... I hear, "Sir? Excuse me, sir?"
I slowly lower the book. Eyes dart around. Trying to find out, One--is someone talking to me? Seems logical, since I'm the only one here. (Di Nero anyone? Anyone? No? Ok?) And Two--if someone is talking to me, then who is it?
But I know, One, someone was talking to me, and Two, who it was.
I recognized the voice. Last thing it said to me was ... "sirrrrr". Hard to forget.
"Ah, yes?" I say. Stand. Set my book down.
"We can get you on a flight to Chicago. Leaves in twenty minutes, and then a flight from Chicago to Rochester -- have you in Rochester by 2:00 PM, if you'd like?" Smile is still there. It might have been painted on. I am not sure I saw her lips move when she spoke.
"Um. Yes. Okay. Ah-yeah. That would be great." Then I became Jerry Lewis.
I went up to the counter.
"I need your tickets, sir."
I spin around. Hands pat my shirt. There is only a breast pocket. I pat my dress pants. Nothing.
I smile at the woman. And spin again. A One-Eighty. The tickets are sticking out of my book. I walk toward over, slide them out from between the pages. Head back, hand them over to the woman.
"And your suitcase?" She says.
I try to smile. "Of course."
For whatever reason -- maybe because I was too fucking stupid to recognize time zones -- I pat my shirt.
No suitcase in that breast pocket.
I go back and get my suitcase. Wheel it over. Smile.
I smile, not to be friendly. But because my book and suit coat are still over on the chair. I have to head back there a third time.
I will not spin, I think. I will not spin.
I wait until she tells me I am all set, hands me my new tickets with instructions to Gate 1, because best I can recall -- that was the only gate and I can see it from where I am -- but I sure as shit am not going to say anything sarcastic. No way!
That is when I return to the lounge for my book and suit coat, and I wave and thank the woman as I head to Gate 1, anxious to be home, but thankful to be out of Indiana's airport!
Hey you know what? That's the end of the blog!
Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso
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