Munk on Sabbatical

"Piss on the fire, call in the dogs, head it on back to Bowlegs."

Munk needs to focus less on blogging and more on noveling. This post, therefore, is the last you will see posted on my blog for what may be a very long time, years even.

Yes, of course I will miss your comments. And yes, of course I care. I will try to stop by your places from time to time, I promise. Please stop looking at me that way… oh, damn… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry… gimme a sec…

Okay, I'm back, but I just can’t keep blogging guys, my family and work justifiably take the lion’s share of my time, and the truth is, Booker is in trouble—he needs me.

So, here’s the deal, should you wish to converse, and/or share critiques on queries or manuscripts, email me at munkdavis@gmail.com. I would love to hear from you. For any new visitors… here are a few popular bygone posts… Sweet Munk Nothings, Emperius Rapturius, and Damn that Munk, and a couple of posts on writing… Munk Rules, and Love-a-Roll-a-Coasta... and then, of course, there's this one... Bubba.

If anyone asks, tell them I’m writing.

Munk’s opening line…

By turning the page, he had turned on the world.

Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk

Music: The Nerny-Nerny-Nert-Band: Bowlegs

Munk out.

Hey Baby, What's your Genre?

What is your genre? What is your line?

Fiction and diction, coarse or divine?

Commercial for fun or classical prose?

The Code of Da Vinci or Name of the Rose?

Vampires you say! Why not call it romance?

Where zombies and werewolves all come to the dance

Dramedy, comedy, horror, and gore

Mystery, history, tales of yore

Yoga, Pilates, organics, and health

Follow my teachings and find instant wealth

Home repair? Don’t despair, fixed in a jiff

I’ll write you a book about making it stiff

Fantasy’s fun... but don’t write on a lark

You first must decide if it’s light or it’s dark

For lollipop-fairies might get quite a start

From leprechauns dining on unicorn heart

Pay homage to comics; no longer cartoons,

with mutants and heroes and high school buffoons

Now graphical novels sell fine-art with type...

Is the art any finer or is it just hype?

I once knew a bloke, who called sci-fi a joke

And said later Han Solo was his kind of folk

And what of the man who “pays thrillers no mind”

But thinks Lisbeth Salander is so very fine?

By now you must know my tastes are diverse

It’s less about subject and more about verse

I can cozy with spies or golems or ghouls

As long as the teller sticks to some rules

Character, plotting, and scenes are a must

As are pace and the voice of an author I trust

And though some may define me a maudlin mope

I just can’t do themes with no glimmer of hope

So write genres you love, and love what you write

Mix 'em and match 'em, let stories take flight

Throw three in a blender and give 'em a spin…

Say….

an epic-gay-western with magic thrown in?

Munk’s Opening line,

With the brim of his ten-gallon Stetson pulled low on his brow, Jake’s blue eyes glistened in the residual silver light—a mumbled incantation and the deed was done.

Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk 

And lest you consider what I write poetry...

This week’s music: Joe Pug...an old soul in a new vessel... Hymn 101

Priorities

I am willing to do most anything in pursuit of a noveling career: writing, reading, reviewing, revising, kissing ass, querying, blogging, tweeting, social networking, anti-social networking, white-lying, dark-magicking, or simply munkeying around, I’ll do anything short of bold face lying, stepping on my fellows, or sacrificing my family’s needs.

I am dedicated to having a writing career: I therefore write, read, review and revise my work while blogging and tweeting to build a platform and never losing sight of my family's needs.

In order to create a better experience for my readers, I write, read, review, and revise my work. Blogging and tweeting are also important. As always, my family comes first.

I am willing to do what it takes in pursuit of becoming a better writer, husband, and father.                                                                                                      I'll try to blog

Compelling stories, compelling lies. I love my family.                                            blog 

Create the unforgettable. Love thy family.                                                                    blah

  

Love thy family, love thy writing.

Love thy passions.

There... that’s better. 

What are your priorities?

Munk's opening line
The depths to which Lucifer fell, 
can no more be judged by meters or miles, 
than his hell can be measured by mercury's rise.
Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk

Susan Kaye Quinn gave me a nod this week and here's a hearty nod back... she has a book release planned for November 1... Open Minds is the first title in the Mindjack Trilogy... I'm ordering one. Are you?

This week: rock as it was meant to be rolled.
Bob Seger, Get Out of Denver (Baby Go)
Up walked a Baptist preachin' southern funky school teacher... (I think)

Drink Up

For whom do you write? When you sit down and scribble or tap, who is your inspiration? Not that it matters really, there is no write answer (as it were), I’m just curious.

I used to think writing was just and noble, but it didn’t take me long to realize that, for me, writing is an addiction. Hearing kids giggle is my perfect drug, a powerful and addictive intoxicant with few negative side effects. The worst of which being the one where I measure my writing against everyone else’s in the entire world… everyone’s… everywhere. I can’t stop.

My wife hears it all. I’ve become a walking critique machine without a power button… don’t need one… the power is always on, good, bad, indifferent, it doesn’t matter; I’m spewing opinions. And I don’t leave it at a simple “good” or “bad”. My critiques are long-winded and sometimes arbitrary diatribes, “This stupid serial killer serial has become so serial, I think I'm gonna kill someone,” I might yell, followed by, “this is the silliest premise I’ve ever heard… the people of the United States are way too safety obsessed to allow their teenagers to fight to the death… not without your bike helmet and elbow pads Katniss! And for God’s sakes take the Purell or you’ll get a nasty infection,”—and then—“Damn, a futuristic Count of Monte Cristo… why didn’t I think of that? I could make him gelatinous with the ability to transfigure--ate.”

All this, just to hear a kid giggle; the more I think about it, the more I think Monster’s Inc. got it right. Why didn’t I think of that?

Munk's opening line:

Yeah. I was worried—worried for the bare nekkid mole rats.

Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk.

This week's music: Randy Newman, If I Didn't have You...

Cadence

I have recently lectured on details and place

So today I submit a treatise on pace

Your stories may ebb and your stories may flow

But how do you tell when to rush or go slow?

Cadence depends on your goals for a scene

Such as hatred or passion or  feelings between

Shorten your phrasing for action and fights

But shake out Roget’s for fanciful flights, of love… of love… of wonderful, lovingful, chummingful love…

Go charging ahead with hard-rocking words

Like rockets and rackets and thundering herds

Then slow with the gentle of feathers and fluff

With kisses, caresses, and mushyful stuff

This poem may be poor, but you shouldn’t be sore

Based on the price that you paid at the door

Something for nothing is something said I

And it far exceeds herpes or a stye in your eye

What's your cadence?

Munk’s run-on opening line,

After changing his name to Jack, Jake married Jill, but Jill ended up liking Jake better so she divorced him, Jack that is. 

Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk

Did everyone read Suze’s post regarding rejection over at Analog Breakfast this week? Loved it.

This week's music Nancy Sinatra--These Boots are Made for Walkin'

You keep lying when you ought'a be truthin' 

Just Skidding

Existence as an unpublished author can feel like living in a vacuum. Not a “vacuum” as in the appliance you push around the house sucking up dust bunnies, but a “vacuum” as in a vacuous state of null where queries giggle and flit before drifting away over the Seas of Submission.  Hello? Is anyone out there? Anyone? Oh yeah, that’s right, sound doesn’t travel in a vacuum... and it’s cold, so very,very cold.

To fill the vacuum, I write. That is unless I work. The work I get paid for has been demanding sixty-hour weeks as of late. And though sixty-hour weeks aren’t what I consider grueling, they are decidedly not conducive to writing. Not when I have loveables at home with whom I want to spend time. For I stand convicted, I shall not compromise my family time for writing.

So… you ask, what’s a Munk to do? Take a day off, of course.

Tuff Truck Rhinoplasty

And what a day off it was. Saturday, when others crowded into massive football stadiums to watch overpaid “amateur” footballers battle it out on the gridiron, the Davises played soccer, toured a Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian home, and ended the day rooting for Tough Trucks and Trash Cars at a nearby redneck cultural center known as the Willamette Speedway. Drive it like ya stole it Earl!

NASCAR may hold the record for left-hand turns, but watching a good-old-boy behind the wheel of a smoke-belching, 1988 hatchback play dirt-track-fender-tag with his drinking buddies… now that’s my kind of distraction.

Tomorrow I write.  What's your distraction?

Munk’s opening line.

The ghost in the machine was broken.

Munk’s opening line is yours to keep, use it.

This week’s music… Rapid Roy (The Stock Car Boy), Jim Croce

You ought’a hear ‘em screamin’ for that dirt track demon in a ’57 Chevrolet.

Life Sentence

I was at the gym on Monday. I was going big and not going home, pumping iron, tossing weights, maxing out, gettin’ ripped, and building mass… well I was at least drinking my electrolytes and watching other folks do all that when the DJ came on the radio and called me out. He spoke to my soul.

A retro-DJ with no relation whatsoever
to the DJ in my story.

“Yesterday,” he said in his radio voice, “was 911 and I had a few hours for reflection as a good friend of mine died last week and I attended his funeral. I stood in the sun and considered all of the wonderful things said about the man. How he was gracious and giving, and how he’d be missed. I asked myself then,”—the DJ went on—“as I ask myself now… why do we wait? Why don’t we tell people how we feel about them today, rather than wait until they are gone? For you folks listening, go tell someone how much you appreciate them today. Tell them how you value their friendship. Tell them you love them. It is important that we say these things when we feel them, so don’t hesitate. Go do it now… or not, if you don’t want to.”

Or not, if I don’t want to?! …What the hell? No, no, no Mr. DJ man, no! You just dropped your conviction on the way to your point. You had me. I was poised and ready to go hug a big sweaty workout buddy when your conviction just up and lost its balls.

Imagine the hangover if JK Rowling’s grand plan of “love conquers all” cruised into the wrong bar and got all staggery-drunk on magic? Or if Dorothy and the Tin Man and the Lion and the Scarecrow learned that to find their respective home, heart, courage, and brains, they just need apply for a VISA gold card (because everyone knows that The Emerald City doesn’t take American Express)?

C’mon folks, all of you DJs and writers and anyone else with a story… get yourself convicted. 

How is your conviction going?

Munk’s opening line…

Upon careful examination of the ape’s dead caterpillar, Mynce knew the real culprit was a small, left-handed child, three to four inches in height, and proficient with mint-waxed dental floss.

Munk's "Opening Line" is yours to keep, use it. Munk

Today’s music is dedicated to TJ Riles and Jayne, both of whom I expect are future (or current) fans of the Avett Brothers, I am not choosing the most accessible cut from the bro’s Emotionalism CD, but I love this song because of its breadth, its banjo (yes Jayne, the banjo takes stage-center), and its obvious pop leanings (think Pet Sounds gone Americana). God only knows… Paranoia In B Flat Major. 

RIP TM.