Stars

It's 4/20 everybody. You know what that means!

Yup, that's right! It's the day you all celebrate my anniversary!

WOOT! WOOT!

Three years ago today, The Pirate Queen walked the aisle with a mere mortal punk. My life has not been the same since.  And that's a good thing.

How has it changed?

Well I lost 5 pounds in my diet. Thanks for asking.

I've also lost half my body weight in ego. I am not my sun, I am a circling satellite. Accepting light can come from others is a pretty big thing. Especially for me. I used to be my North Star striving to burn every other world with my radiance.  When I was in school I quit theatre after the epiphany that I was not chiseled from Hollywood lead steel. If I were to continue acting, I would only ever fill the roles labeled "character," not "star."

"The winner for this years best supporting actor is Ro—"
"Screw that, give it to someone who thinks lesser of themselves!"

My ego was brilliant, but the Queen changed that. Yes, you all owe her a great debt.

It's not that I feel smaller or less amazing, it's just that I've found someone who shines brighter, who is more deserving. Someone who makes me want to be accountable.

So today, do what
you do to celebrate us. Party in our honor, and when you do, remember that in her light I'm reflected as a better person. And that's something we can all be thankful for.

Shower Thoughts and Shelf Lives

What is the shelf life of a luffa? I have no idea. The Pirate Queen does.

"We're buying a new luffa. The old one is dead."

I never argue with My Queen over items of ships or safety. She knows both.  So out with the old, in with the new.

Our latest luffa purchase leads to my new morning scrub down with a rainbow-tribble of cleanliness. I suds it up, and have to admit, halfway through the first chorus of A-Ha's "Take on Me," the new luffa does feel less scratchy.

I wonder, though, "Is that better?" How can a luffa work if it doesn't scratch? I try posing my question to My Queen, but she only dismisses me with a, "Get inside. Finish your shower and get dressed. You're too old to stand outside in the cold, naked."

A shelf life on my public nudity too? Who knew?

Obedient, I slosh back to my shower to consider my questions alone but for the Norsemen of A-Ha.

Halfway through a thigh scrub and second "Take on Me" verse I lament the Thompson Twins. What ever happened to their songs and why is it four out of five shower singers croon A-Ha instead?

Perfect for scrubbing my manly parts

Shelf life?

A lather and a rinse and I repeat my previous question: does everything have a shelf life?

Yesterday The Pirate Queen and I discussed how some of my family still hardly stomach thoughts of MyEx. Their distaste lasted longer than my marriage shelf life. Me, I've given the marriage and divorce their time, but let them go after the expiration. There are no leftovers in my fridge, good or bad, just memories.

"Remember that pulled pork?"
"Yeah..."

Some people still keep their bundles of bad vibe-meat tightly packed way beyond their shelf life. Why do that? It only makes you sick. My problem isn't letting go. My problem is over analyzing before I throw things out.

"The old luffa was a little scratchy, but the color was nice. I like how it held the suds without losing the lather. Do you think that will ever happen again? I may never have another luffa like that..."

It's like serving a sentence of self abuse. On it goes for the prescribed time, then I'm free.

The Pirate Queen is like me in that she lets go. Her problem isn't over analysis of what's past, though: instead she monitors the shelf life of things she hasn't bought.

"What if the pumice stone makes me  bleed?"
"Do you need a pumice stone?"
"No, but if I bought it, it could contaminate the pork in the fridge."
"You're going to use it on the pork?"
"No. I'm just worried what could happen."
"Why don't we worry about the luffa for now?"
"The luffa can't contaminate pork, silly."
"You're right. I am silly."

And I'm silly in love with a Queen who worries over things she can't control. What's an over analyzer to do? Well, if it weren't for shelf life, this superfluous analyst would analyze why she worries about the shelf life of a pumice stone that she will never buy and eventually come to the conclusion that it must have something to do with me...

See? shelf life serves two purposes:

1.  It lets us move on.
2. It keeps us from adding subtext and creating new problems.

Shelf life frees us to revel in the mini-miracles of the now, by cutting off the past and restraining the future.

So as I hit that final "Take on me!" falsetto I'm glad for my new luffa. I'm in love with the reality I have someone who cares enough to protect me from things expired. Most of all, I'm overjoyed at glorious moments like this that have no shelf life at all.

Valantines and Writers, Part 1: A Brief Fantasy.

Writers totally make out on Valentine's Day!

Who started that myth? It could have been a writer trying to get lucky but I doubt it. Writer's know there's no such thing as luck. Unless it's that hack blogger who just got a six-figure publishing deal.

He got lucky.

In love, there is only fantasy. Whether your fantasy comes in Princess Leah bikini gold or Fabio-licious oils, there are more than fifty shades to tell the tale, and every writer has lived enough heartache to fabricate them all.

Writers are students of the art of the heart, and great practitioners of the what not to do. That's why I'm so surprised to find people actually believe we've mastered the dark arts of "woo."

If I had to guess, (and lets face it, in must things love I'm always guessing) I'd say this misconception started with romantic poets, and was fueled by romance novelists. Probably even earlier than that, though, because ever since Shakespeare slammed some "You are" iamb into his flowery pentameter the writer's myth was writ.

The reality writer bachelor is a little more pathetic.

In school the writer never got the girl. He only wrote that story cuz something—anything—had to be better than crying alone into his pillow. Writing down dreams felt good. It took his mind off the reality that Jock, his French roommate, was enjoying a Valentines date with the muse for whom our writer penned his dreams.

Ask any scribe and he'll tell you: all the women he's known ended up with the wrong guy—except the last one. She got it right.

For me that's my PirateQueen. She's the reason I take heart on Valentines, but is the homemade amateur movie as good as the book? If you're the lucky PriateQueen bagging a writer booty, is it everything you've read about?

Like I said, there is no such thing as luck. Fantasy and reality are never the same thing. For the rest of the week I'll look at love and writing. For today I'll leave you with this tease and tickle to tomorrow's promise and "book 2."

Back to Work

Finally starting to dig my brain out of the cold. Today I'm digging my soul free of last week's obligations. I'll write something more meaningful when I can see my desk. 

Otherwise, the Robert Boyd Starbucks office is open for business and it's good to be back!

Sick Day

Last week, the PirateQueen had a head cold. As is the duty of the first mate, I nursed her back to health. 

And yes, this week the cold belongs to me. 

I'm doing my best. I'm trying to work, but my brain has sprung a leak. All firing synapses lie beneath a pool of mucus. 

There's an infomercial on now. Maybe I should buy something. 

Yay me!

At least I have the cats...

They want me to open the tuna closet. Maybe I should. 

The Time Had Come. The Time is Now.

Tomorrow we see if all my prep work has paid off. It's SDSU time. Hopefully I can make some quality contacts. 

I'll keep you posted!

For now, it's early to bed, early to rise, cuz I got a plane to catch before the sunrise. 

Yah, now you see why I'm a novelist, not a poet. 

See you on the SoCal side!

The Other Half

Today I'm in the office. Not my office: my wife's. My home-time Pirate Queen is a day time marketing admiral. Her vessel: GalaxE Solutions. So she's a space pirate. 

But that's not why I'm here. It's just part of what makes her cool. That and her wicked smile. Oh, and her nachos...

No, I'm here because we have personal business mixing in our daily business. While I normally soak up the Starbucks, today our two cat one car family sops in the corporate--sans cats. All while handling personal stuff.  

It's life. 

And today I watch hers in action. My Queen dances from meeting to meeting to phone meeting to conference table. I jitter just following the frenzy with my eyes. Or, maybe that's the coffee. 

Either way, I'm amazed. She could power a laptop with that motion. I suggested that to her. She gave me a suggestion of her own. 

I explained that if I could do what she suggested, I wouldn't have time to write. 

She just gave me a pirate scowl. 

I think it's time to write now. 

Of Broccoli and Chocolate

Inspiration. We all have it. Whether we write books, paint figures, or arrange numbers into balanced rows of black and red; someone, something, or some ethereal force struck against us and sparked a flame. Elizabeth Gilbert talks about her muse, not as an origins story, but as an inner voice piloting her from project to project. Okay, I'm oversimplifying her words just a bit, but for my purposes, this version will lead you through the hanging jungle of Rob-thoughts without dangerous distraction.

Distraction is the serial killer—murdering many one-offs as well. 

Four out of five creative spirits agree: for every amazing inspiration, there's an even better distraction awaiting fruition. The fifth spirit? He's chasing the siren swell of his other voice—a new genius; he can't be bothered with silly questions about inspiration. 

So what keeps the creative spirit tethered? After our initial "AHA!" moment, what stokes the fire, inks the pen and brings us back to the well until mission accomplished?

For me, it's two things:

1. Responsibility.  I'm sharing a vision that no one can see until my work is complete.
2. Surprise. Even though I've plotted the path, every day characters still bring something new. 

Responsibility is the job; surprise is the calling.

It's broccoli and chocolate and most of us hate vegetables. That's why we're so easily distracted in air a waft with sweet scents. Only an altruistic creator can foster life from responsibility. I'm not that good. Yes, responsibility is one of my return reasons, but it's only the tug on my guilt strings; those ties can always be cut when sweet will is weak.

Surprise. That's what keeps me tethered and grounded. It's finding something new. It's seeing how things turn out. Its when Hypnomatons corner Michael on Inspiration Point, and not knowing how he escapes, despite the three page outline I already wrote. That's my chocolate for writing all the in-between broccoli.

But that's me. We all answer our own call. What's your broccoli? Your chocolate? What inspires passion in you and draws you back day after day to do what you do?

Day in the Life.

I read a platform site that said that good author webpages share personal experiences. They give insight to creative process, making me more real. Okay, I'll bleed for my craft. Here goes.

First, let me preface a few Rob Boyd fun-facts you don't know and probably should (at least for the purposes of this post—you can scrub them from your mind without harmful side effects later):

• I walk two miles a day. I leave the house, write, work out at the gym, then return home to greet my wife with an exhausted sweaty kiss at the end of each day.
• My daily needs accompany me in an overstuffed (also sweaty) grass-green  LL Bean backpack.
• I live in the north Midwest. Winter night temps peak around 10 degrees when it's balmy.
• In college, a police officer pulled me over and, after blasting a flashlight in my face, requested backup before searching my car.

Hopefully these Rob snapshots will enhance your experience. Now, let's continue. 

My walk home from the gym is about 3/4 mile. Most of that is without sidewalk, but, even in snow, I can trudge the berm without stepping into traffic. The only exception is a 10 yard stretch following a T-intersection. There, the T-base dips beneath a concrete railroad bridge, leaving room one car, each direction, and one skinny pedestrian to pass without overlapping.

Overlapping is bad, especially for the pedestrian. As said pedestrian, I am fastidiously careful crossing under the bridge as I am also very un-thin. I walk on the left side, hugging the wall and gauge oncoming traffic for overlapping potential. Not much I can do if there is. I'm a writer, not Spiderman. I can't climb to safety, but still I watch—and pray.

Last night I prayed and crossed under the bridge. I wound out and off and up the road, working along a snowdrift when a polished black Escalade approached from behind and stopped. The front window was even with my shoulder.

Not knowing how to prepare, I stopped too.

Was this a ride?

A mugging?

Questions for directions?

The window whined down and Ms. Mother-of-the-world pressed her face against the cold. "We can barely see you!" The icy wind is a burden born by the vigilant reprimander. From the looks, I'm not too worried about her burden: the ice across her face is far warmer than the stuff in her veins.

Muttered amongst my previous prayers for not getting run down were also pleas about not hurling sarcasm at crazy people. God has heard, and here he tests my resolve. Thoughts like, Well if you stay on your side of the road you'll miss me for sure, and I can strip down if you'd like to see more, race down from my brain.

A simple, "okay..?" is what wins my lips, sounding like, "and you expect me to do what about this?"

Her post-PTA hair-nest ruffles with rats of exasperation. Rob the street pedestrian has not paid proper homage. She continues."Black, is not a good color."

I know millions of Americans who would disagree.

I consider turning the reprimand to a mirror. Why not ask what sane person stops their car in the middle of the night to confront a stranger in the street? Are those kids in the car with her? I am not the face of evil, but in the light of a street-side dressing-down that doesn't matter. If I were armed with more than the burn of facial scruff and a tired leer, I could drive away in her prestigious automobile, warming her face with exhaust fumes from the SUV.

Not Rutger Hauer from the Hitcher, but enough to frighten a wayward Hobbit.

Instead, I shook my head as the window rose, hiding my ignorance. Either silence or my refusal to change clothes bored her. The engine revved and the world's mother accelerated her brood away.

When I arrived home, my Pirate Queen shrugged. "You thought they only existed in California?"

No, apparently not. I quickly jotted the experience in my notebook. Now she also exists amongst my character profiles too.