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

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To Be Thankful

While this blog has been used to rant, to promote, and to otherwise ramble, today I would like to write about being thankful.

I've been up since 3:00 AM. Unable to sleep, I watched TV. I played on the computer. I bought a new coffee pot. I wrote. I worked at submitting a short story to a number of magazines. And I contemplated ...

You will oftentimes hear people say, "Life is funny."

They don't mean funny, ha-ha. Generally, they mean, ironic. Sad. Mean. Evil. Yet, they express this by calling it, "funny."

Having failed out of college back in 1989, trying my luck then at community college and getting close to no where, I was able to land a job at Kodak. That job allowed me the comfort of getting married and raising a family.

Then life got funny.

After 19 years with the same woman, 15 married, I suddenly found myself divorced. Not living home with my three amazing kids. This was in 2007.

But the funny doesn't stop there. It gets down-right hysterical.

After 19 years with Kodak, I was let go. Down-sized. Unemployed. I had to give up the studio apartment I lived in, and move back home with my parents.

Yeah. Had to give up a studio. Doesn't that just have you in stitches?

Hard to feel thankful. Harder still not to just feel constantly depressed. Like giving up. Giving in.

In 1995, I had my first short story published. From there, I've gone on to sell nearly 100 short-stories and articles. I penned 9 novels. Two of them won small-time awards.

I did newspaper, magazine, radio and television interviews. I held book signings at over 100 bookstores throughout New York, Pennsylvania, Florida and Indiana. I've been flown first class, had limo drivers, and been treated like a celebrity.

For nearly three years I've been working for the city as a Fire/EMS dispatcher at 911. It's a good, steady job. We're growing. Not shrinking. There is stability with the position. And I am thankful.

My newest novel, PULSE OF EVIL, was just released. It is my ninth. And I am thankful.

But a job, a writing career -- thankful as I am -- are nothing compared to my kids. My family.

Three kids. Teens. All of them.

I am thankful for them. For their health. That they are in my life -- that they want me in theirs. That we are close. That we hug and kiss hello, and goodbye. That we laugh, and talk, and share. That we text and call and see each other often.

I am thankful for my entire family. For parents that are supportive and always there when needed. For brothers and a sister who would do anything for me, and for whom I would do the same. I am thankful.

Life is far from funny. It is unfair and dark at times. It is stormy and violent. Depressing and despairing.

It is important ... no, no ... vital -- it is vital to see the good, to find the worthwhile, to value the relationships that we have.

They can end at any moment.

Be taken from you. Stolen. Stripped and shredded.

It is vital to love. To move forward. To forgive, and forget.

To let go...

It is vital to remember why you are important to someone else -- just as "they" need to know how they are important to you.

There is a purpose behind this blog. A driving cause. It's crippling for me to think about it. And at this time, it is not necessary for me to explain the background. The words above are true. Harsh. Bitter-sounding, but true.

I may hate where I am. Forty-two, divorced, living in an apartment a few miles from my children (yes, I was able to move out of my parents' house after a while and get back up on my own feet -- for which I am thankful).

I don't sugarcoat things. I smile. I always try to smile. I don't say stupid shit like, "There is always a silver lining." That's bullshit. Not true.

But there is always hope.

Hope, and reasons to be thankful ... thankful for something.

Search your own hearts. Find the things you are thankful for -- and make sure your feelings are known. Make sure. Don't let regrets fill the space inside your heart.

. . . thank you for letting me get this out.

Sincerely,

Phillip Tomasso

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Brush With The Law

Ever hear the saying, bad things happen in threes? Yeah, well, my luck tends to disprove that theory.

Back in May, 2009, I was on line at a website called 911tabs. Here you can get guitar chords and tabs to thousands of songs. I was looking up how to play some Jefferson Starship when I clicked on a tab link and was immediately informed that I'd just activated a Trojan virus.

Nice.

What I thought was my spyware software warning me, was actually something called Personal Antivirus. It's clever because it looked just like Microsoft alerts. I clicked buttons to prevent my laptop from getting sick.What I ended up doing was downloading the spyware directly to my computer.

All these warning popups appeared, demanding my attention, telling me my computer was infected. That my personal data and passwords were being sent to an offshore IP address.Personal Antivirus wanted me to purchase their spyware. Did some research. Turns out, Personal Antivirus does this. Infects your system with their "fake" viruses. Nothing was going anywhere. But the virus wanted you to think differently.

It worked so that so that popups continually interrupt whatever you are doing to make you panic, thinking your computer is infected and needs their software to heal it.

So, that was how the day started.

Got in my car later. It made a rattle sound. Like something was loose. Being not at all mechanically inclined, I fixed the problem by turning the up the volume on the car stereo. Deep inside, however, my mind was going over new bills I'd be incurring in the near future. Fix my laptop, and taking the car to a garage.

Anyway, I was on my way to pick up a friend. We'd made plans to go to the drive-in. Vintage, in Avon. Demons & Angles and Star Trek was showing on screen 3.

I told her about my day. I explained that something else would go wrong. Had to. In writing, we call this foreshadowing.

We found a good spot in the third row--and per the Vintage employee's direction, parked close to one of the white poles. The poles indicate parking spots. At one time I am sure they housed speakers for viewers to listen to the movies. (All done by car radio now, in case you were not aware).

It was after 2 AM when Star Trek ended. I went to pull out of the parking spot. Forgot about the white pole, and ran the driver's side along it. Screamed. Backed up, raking the pole, again across my door. Nothing quite like the sound of metal against metal. Makes nails along a chalkboard sound like a chorus line of Glee characters singing on stage. (Not that I watch Glee. Just heard they sound pretty good, lol).

Laptop. Funny car noises. Scratched the car on a stupid pole.

One. Two. Three. If laws of murphey were correct, I'd be all set. Could call it a day. Knowing, I was three-and-out. No more worries. But nope. Not me.

Once on I-390 North, we saw two police cars had pulled someone over. I slowed from 65 mph, to 50 mph. Road between the two lanes, and both my friend and I developed rubber-neck as we peered at the guy in his car being questioned by two police officers.

We commented. "Some one's in trouble."

Next thing I know, a moment after we pass the traffic stop, a cop is behind me. Lights on. No sirens. But approching fast. I pull to the shoulder.

I looked at my friend. "I know I wasn't speeding," I said.

The officer came to my door, flashlight beam played into the car. Over the back seat, into the front, and stopped aiming directly into my eyes. "You just drive by where we had someone pulled over?"

"Yes."

"You brushed the other officer," he said. "Sent him onto the hood of his cruiser."

My stomach dropped. "There's no way," I said.

"Were you driving in this lane?" He shown his light on the right-hand lane. Then brought it back to my face.

"I was."

"Yeah," he said. He had one hand on the butt of his gun. I saw this, despite his best attempts at forever blinding me by burning out my retina with his flashlight. "You hit the officer."

"Sir," I said. "There's no way. We slowed down to like fifty. I even moved over into the left lane some."

"You were in this lane," he said, again showing me the right lane with his flashlight.

"I was," I said.

"Yeah. You hit him." He walked around my car. Looked at the front passenger side. Came back. "How about your license and registration."

I gave it to him.

"Sit tight," he said and walked back to his cruiser.

I looked at my friend. (I would name this "friend", but recently we had a situation. Got somewhat out of control. She no longer speaks to me. Which is a shame. But not my fault, entirely. So I think sharing her name would only infuriate her. Which is fine. She's the one who deleted me off everything). "There's no way we hit him and didn't know it."

She agreed. We laughed. The situation was not funny.We could hear the officer talking. Laughing seemed like the only option. I've seen way to many movies where some guy is arrested, but innocent. For real innocent. Not convict jail talk -- I'm innocent, know what I mean? Regardless, I did not want to be that guy. The one passed around in jail cells like a Raggedy Ann doll. (Why would toy makers choose to call a female doll, Raggedy Ann? And then, surprise-surprise, the doll is isntantly a classic! Loved by kids. You'd think those Anti-Male women groups would have been up in arms! Fighting for their rights to vote, earn an equal wage, and have Raggedy Ann removed from toyshelves across the country ... ah, but I digress. I do that. Often. Digress, that is.)

"It was a Cobalt? A red Cobalt?" We heard the officer. Not sure who he was talking to. But it is what he said.  And while I was indeed in a Chevy. It was not a Coblalt.I drove an Aveo. Looked similar.

He returned to my window. Handed back my license. He was on his cell. To me he said, "You seem like you're telling the truth," he said. "A few red cars drove past us. Have a nice night."

I tucked my license back into my wallet. The officer pulled back onto the expressway, and gunned the engine.I sucked in some air, realizing I might have been holding my breath. Not at all sure if my crotch was sweaty, or if I'd peed some. Either way, I felt a little wet.

All I could think was, Laptop, funny noise, scraped the paint, and accused of hit-and-run.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Nice.

I guess if I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all, huh?

And people always ask, "Where do you get ideas for the stories you write?"

My pat response: "They just come to me."

Have an awesome day!

I'm out!

Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso

First Daze of School: Gates-Chili (Part II)

So hopefully you read part one of this blog, First Daze of School: Cardinal Mooney. If not, read it. I’ll wait. Go ahead. Seriously. I’m waiting.

Read it? Comment on it? No? Go back. Comment on it. Anything. Praise. Hated it. Whatever.

We good? All set?

Good. Now. I am working like a dog. Freshman and Sophomore year. I’m basically working to pay my tuition, and expenses to a Catholic High School, Cardinal Mooney--but you already know this. You read Part I, right? Of course, right. Still clocking in up to forty hours a week. While going to school full time. Of course full time. Not many high schools offer a part-time status. They might. I just never heard of it before.

Naturally, working all these hours, and going to school, my grades tend to suffer. I wind up on academic probation for most of the two years I attend. C’s and D’s and the occasional F plot the pages of my report cards each quarter. I don’t go to parties. I don’t go to football games. I mainly socialize at work with the people I am spending 40 hours a week with. I hardly know any of the students at Mooney. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends at school, just never got to bond with them outside of the institution.

I realize as I am completing my sophomore year that, I am indeed retarded. I can go to Gates-Chili for free, and be banking, or at least enjoying the thousands of dollars a year I am making as a kid fifteen years old. (Not to mention I am saving for a car. But that car, that first car—that’s an entirely different blog yet to be written).

So I decide to make the change. I head on over to Gates-Chili. I register. I tour the campus. I ask the advisor all kinds of important questions. “And jeans? I can wear … jeans? And T-shirts? How about sneakers? Can I wear sneakers?” Having to wear a tie since I was five years old, the idea of going to school without one, baffles me. Doesn't seem possible, really.

As that summer ends, and my junior year looms on the next calendar page, I go back-to-school shopping. No more cowboy boots for me! Nope. This year I buy Guido boots. These are like cowboy boots, but they are only ankle-high, and zip up along the inseam. I also purchase a pair of two-tone jeans. White on the front of one, leg, grey on the other. Then opposite that on the back. Grey and white. I grab a turquoise mesh tank top, and a gray cotton sport coat—one where I can roll the sleeves up to mid forearm. I’ve grown a bit of a mullet, with naturally curly hair, and don’t look too different from John Oats from Hall and Oats, while mentally thinking I look more like Don Johnson from Miami Vice. And if you are too fucking young to get these references, google them.

Always plagued with a touch of O.C.D., I drive myself and my brother to school in what is my new car. A 1976 Plymouth Valarie. It’s 1986. And this car never should have made it off the assembly line. But it’s mine. It runs. What more does a 16 year old want, besides a black Trans-Am with T-Tops and buck-seats?

Early, my brother goes off with friends and I slink around hallways, completely lost and looking for the cafeteria. (I am not worried about my locker. I found where it was the day before. And I had mastered Master combination locks. Could open mine in mere minutes now! Three to the right, two to the left, once to the right! That’s right. I got it). There are a few people inside the cafeteria. I mosey into a short line, pick up a tray. Select a doughnut (this is long before the bagel craze ruptured the doughnut spotlight), and a thingy of chocolate milk.

I pay, exit the line, and choose a table near the cafeteria entrance. And why not. I’m looking good. Decked out in new duds. About 5’8”, 110 pounds. Lean with muscle from busting my ass at the party house. The zippers on my Guido boots are un-zipped, because I saw cool kids in the mall wear them that way, and dammit, I’m cool too. I keep my car keys on my cafeteria tray, because if I put them in my pocket, no one is going to know I have a car – and didn’t have to take the bus to school like some common surf.

Looking around the cafeteria, scoping the babe situation, I shake my chocolate milk carton. I grab onto opposite ends of the waxed tabs and pull …

And by pulling, I really mean, jerk.

And when I mean jerk, I actually mean, flounder with little show of muscle control.

The carton parts, splitting open – to me it is in slow motion, so everything should be fine. However, this is not what happened.

Instead, I pulled open the corners so hard that chocolate milk exploded from the mouth of the container. Stains covered the white of my jeans, the stomach of my mesh tank-top and the rolled forearms of my sport coat. Spots of chocolate spray the lenses of my glasses, hiding from immediate view the new horrors bestowed upon me and my fashion statement!

I pick up my keys, the tray of untouched purchases forgotten, and lumber Frankenstein-ish out of the cafeteria in search of a bathroom – of which I have no clue where a one might be!

Eventually, I do find one. And, despite five minutes until homeroom, douse paper towel with water and attempt to rub out stains, ignoring the fact that I am soaking my pant legs, so that it looks like I just finished thoroughly pissing in my pants …

And like my first day at Cardinal Mooney – unfortunately for my readers – the remainder of that day of school is blacked out, blocked from my memory. Beatings? Might have happened. Stuffed into a locker? Surely, it’s possible. Swirley’s, I don’t recall …

Till next time …

Love,

Chase N. Nichols

--Follow me on Twitter, or don’t. I don’t really care!

First Daze of School: Cardinal Mooney

I thought it only fitting that since school is starting I would tell all of you about my first two days of high school. Not consecutive days, mind you. See, growing up I went to a Catholic elementary school. St. Theodore’s. From kindergarten through eighth grade. Now, where I live there were three Catholic High Schools to consider, and only one public school. My choices, in order of price-tag were, Bishop Kearney – which was an all boy’s school – was immediately scratched off my list; Aquinas – also at the time an all boy’s school, cheaper admission than Kearney, but still all boys – was scratched off the list as well; and Cardinal Mooney. Then there was Gates-Chili. Free.

Gates-Chili seems like the obvious choice, right? Wrong. The idea of going to a public school after spending nine years in a Catholic environment scared the hell out of me. I’d heard horror stories. Looking at a kid passing in the hall the wrong way surely led to beatings, or books pushed out of your hands, or cafeteria food trays slapped from your hands, wedgies, swirlies, being stuffed into your own locker … That’s the kind of thing I heard happened at public high schools. And me, I wanted no part of it.

Money was tight. My family was far from rich. They seemed to go broke trying to put me and my three younger siblings through St. Teddy’s. I wanted to continue that education – private school. If only to save my ass from unnecessary, and what sounded like, humiliating torture, I planned to pick up where my parent’s had left off. The only plausible way to accomplish this was to help pay tuition costs.

At the end of eighth grade, I turned 14. I contacted a family member who owned a party house, and applied for a job as a bus boy. Tuition was $1,200 a year. This was back in 1984. I made, I believe just over $3.00 an hour, or just under. I can’t remember, and am far too lazy to research labor laws to see what minimum wage was back in 1984. Regardless, if any labor laws had been followed at this unnamed party house, I’d never have made enough money to buy cigarettes without a loan. Thankfully, I worked fifty and sixty hour weeks all summer long. Fifteen hours per week on the books. The remainder paid in cash. No time-and-a-half available, apparently. Maybe the thought of paying a teenager $5.00 was too much for a Mob-facility, pulling in hundreds of thousands a year. Whatever.

I took and pass the entrance exam to Cardinal Mooney. I worked my butt off all summer to save for tuition costs, clothing, and books. And as September rolled around, figured I was golden.

I had/have this tiny bald spot on my head. It began to itch. Went to the doctors and learned a layer of “skin” had grown over the spot, and needed to come off. My grandfather took me. The procedure was performed in the office. Two days before school.

I focused on the fact that I no longer had to wear strict elementary Catholic school uniforms—the yellow shirt, navy blue tie and pants. That I could now wear any color shirt, tie and pants—as long as they weren’t jeans. Wow the freedom of individualism!

And while the doctor jabbed ten times into my skull needles filled with Novocain, I cringed, and maybe cried, and possibly cursed. When the doctor said, “Oops,” and “Hmmm,” I closed my eyes. Pretended not to hear him. Figured it was my overactive imagination. I mean, everyone dreads hearing a doctor say “oops,” and sound perplexed. It can’t just be me.

“Son,” he said. I was not his son. In fact, we were not related. “The needle is broken. None of the Novocain is coming out. I’m going to have to do this over.”

Uh-huh. After a total of like twenty stabs to the head, my skull numbed. I was informed I’d feel scraping, tugging and some pulling, but little pain. I didn’t believe him. He was right though. The procedure was painless. Then. When I have nightmares about it now, it hurts like hell. So the doctor was only half right. But that also makes him half wrong.

Afterward, he wiped the blood that dripped all down my face and the back of my neck, and with gauze, wrapped my head. And cringed—more than when the needles were used—as he told me I’d have to change the bandages, and keep it wrapped like this for the next three to four days. No showers.

School. The first day of high school. As a Freshman. At some new school. Two days away.

Oh, the horror! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Of course, this guy was a pro. He’d wrapped my head tight. Looked like a Mummy head, on the scrawny, awkward body of a teenager. The morning of the first day of school, my mother and I wrapped my head. Hair jetted out between strips of gauze. Tufts billowed here and there. I also wore glasses—making this tremendously shameful headgear that much more nerdy.

So with slick cowboy boots (yes, cowboy boots. Up to just below the knee. And no, we did not live in Texas, Arizona, or any southern state where cowboy boots were acceptable. And for the record, I am Italian, with more Mafia in my blood than cattle rustler…), corduroy pants, a white dress shirt, and a tie that looked corduroy and was the same color as my pants (no clue what color. Possibly some shade of maroon), and gauze that resembled what might happen if I let a blind person bandage me, snaking my skull, I went to school.

I will tell you, unfortunately, I do not remember much at all about that first day. I do not recall one second of the bus ride. Or any of the classes. The only thing that stands out is the lockers in the hallway. Mine was right near my homeroom. At St. Teddy’s we didn’t have lockers. We had desks. They opened. We stuffed are junk in there, and in the cloakroom—a dark alley in the back of each classroom, with rows of hooks for jackets and book-bags and lunch boxes.

Next to me was, I would later learn—after the bandages came off and the memory of having seen me wear them voided from people’s memory with the help of the mind eraser Will Smith used in M.I.B.—was Debbie. So as I struggled to figure out how the hell to work a combination lock, figuring out left from right without actually pretending to pledge allegiance, and refrain from kicking the damned door—she seamlessly scrolled through numbers, and unlocked her Master. And then helped me with mine. I’ll give her credit. And for a moment it worked. She smiled at me as she helped.

I thought I was almost clever by not knowing how the hell to align three numbers under an indicator arrow. As if I’d planned it. A slick way to meet women.

Until I realized two things. I pathetically attempted the lock unsuccessfully and frantically for too long to be cool. And I looked retarded.

In watching Debbie Release Her Lock (that is not a movie title, the caps just make it seem so), and then stepping aside to watch Debbie Do My Lock (again, not a movie title—just saying), I completely forgot that on top of my head was a Greek Medusa of gauze and flailing fingers of hair …

Need I say more about that particular first day of school? Ah, no. I think not!

(Look for Part II of First Daze of School: Gates-Chili, Junior Year)

Till next time …

Love,

Chase N. Nichols

--Follow me on Twitter , or don’t. I don’t really care!