Saturday, December 22, 2012

Here's a tease of my first novel, "Good All By Myself."  (Spring, 2013.)
Chapter 1:

I tried my best to not allow the drama unfolding in front of me spoil my warm memories of Mom and Dad.
“Bitch, I’ma kill you!”
I blinked, shook my head, told myself that that drama couldn’t possibly be real. While my eyes were clenched, I heard a crash that vibrated the floor beneath my feet.
Before that fight had broken out, I’d been cruising memory lane.
I’d imagined my parents, saw them clear as day. I’d watched them, felt the warm memories, remembered the love they had for each other, a love so strong that I always felt it too. I’d recalled the advice they’d both given me:
Sean, aspire to be the kind of man your father is.
Sean, if you find a girl like your mother, hold on to her, son.
 It felt as if they were in the room amongst us. They were glorious visions, snapshots from yesteryear, two silhouettes dancing, smiling, laughing, re-living the love they once shared, a union that thrived until the ground opened beneath them, leaving them standing on opposite sides of eternity.
Now, here they were, together again, together but very different from each other. Dad was in full focus, dressed in a black tuxedo, looking very much as he did when I saw him earlier that day. 
Mama was ethereal, glowing, like a manifestation of Dad’s love reflecting back at his smiling face.  She was young, beautiful, and perfect, how I’d imagined her back when they first met, just like he always told me she was.
Then a woman screamed as she crashed atop a banquet table. Then the women seated at that table screamed as well.
My nostalgic memories wobbled and disappeared like an old movie on an even older TV set that had just been pre-empted by the business end of a sledgehammer.
                “My dress! You fucking whore!”
                The partiers looked back and forth, alternating their open-mouthed expressions between the warring hellcats in the dark at the back of the room, and me, under the spotlight, at the front of it, as if that public scene was somehow my private issue.  I jumped on the stage and tried to take command of the situation. My requests over the microphone for someone to break up the fight were met with shrugs. I adjusted my tie, then offered nervous reassurances to the room as I watched the other men roll their eyes and shove their empty hands deep into their deeper pockets.
I climbed back down from the stage and asked Janet, my date, to stay put, out of harm's way. Then I bumped my way through the crowd, towards the commotion.  At first, I’d assumed that Jackie, Sandra and Monique, my three loud-mouthed friends with whom Janet was chatting before she came to dance with me, had started a fight, but I couldn’t quite tell.
                Those three were signed to the guest list under my name. If any one of them was mixed up in this mess, it would be a problem, an embarrassment which could have long consequences. There’s a saying that goes, one monkey don’t stop no show, but three monkeys is a show. 
Most of the radio station’s staff and management were in the room, as were many of the company’s corporate big wigs. Fate followed me through the crowd, twisting through that throng, slithering along behind me, her voice in my ear, delightfully mocking me, whispering condemnation in a voice dripping with condescension.
Don’t these types of things always happen to you, Sean?
Don’t you just wish you never even bothered, Sean?
                I ignored the voices in my head when I saw my three guests. Jackie, wearing a dress which draped her thick curves in thin, form-fitting red material, stood to my left; Monique stood next to her wearing a greedy expression, with a drinking straw connecting her large, puckering lips to the bottom of a large margarita glass as she slurped loudly. Sandra stood behind them, wearing a gray pantsuit, the creases in her slacks matching the creases in her brow.
                Jackie smacked her lips. “See, Sean? Can’t take some Negroes nowhere.”
                Then I heard another crash, and another scream.
                The crowd parted and allowed me to finally reach that cat fight. Fate spoke again, whispered questions I couldn’t answer, made accusations I couldn’t defend. I did what I always did. I ignored fate.
                Then I saw two beautiful women grappling like a pair of sumo wrestlers, each trying to out-maneuver the other, each trying to flip the other, pin her down and make her cry for her mama.  These two women had no doubt started the evening off as stunning as most of the rest of the dressed-to-impress crowd had, but now there was weave, broken high heels, large fake eyelashes, and contents of purses strewn about while they tried to dismantle each other.
                “Oww! Bitch let go of my gattdamn hair!”
                “Bitch, I’ma snatch yo trifling,’ cheap weave-wearin’ ass bald!”
                In moments, I watched a furious volley of windmills, expletives and feminine bravado go back and forth, along with a record-setting number of times the word bitch was used to sign their insults to each other, as if they were auditioning a new line of Fuck You greetings from Hallmark.
                Never understood how it is that women are so deeply offended at being called bitches, yet it’s always the first thing they like to call each other in anger.
                Women.
                One of the two hellcats glared in my direction. I knew her. The other one raised her head to see what had caught her enemy’s attention. I knew her too.
                The two women were familiar because I’d met them each, each when my best friend Eric paraded her around me like a hunter showing off a prized pelt that he’d nailed, then nailed to the wall above the fireplace of some log cabin man cave.
                Eric had told me earlier that they were both going to show up looking to party with him, each knowing about the other, but each unaware the other would be there. He’d asked me to keep them on separate ends of the party until he could get there, said that it was the least his best friend could do for him. I declined to be his referee.  I told him that it was a corporate event, and that we station employees had all been told that the actions of anyone on the guest list under our names would reflect upon us directly. Fair or not, that was the company’s mandate, to absolve themselves of any liability in the event of drama just like this.
Eric expressed his disappointment, said I was right, said that the company policy was something he could understand, said that even though their names remained on the final guest list, that he would see to it that their invitations would be rescinded.
Apparently, he changed his mind.
Predictably, both women arrived, each setting her sights on the other, each resolving to give ugly memories to her beautiful competitor.
                Fate whispered her mocking recommendations.  I cursed fate.
I scanned the crowd of folks who stood around just watching. They were mostly good looking, good intentioned, well dressed, well-to-do social climbers whose sunny, Sunday morning resplendence belied a suddenly dreary Friday night fight scene. Their ranks varied; there were those who were enthralled at being there, and those who felt entitled.  Most were social butterflies whose drunken revelry had devolved into smirking, gossiping, opportunistic, camera phone-assisted voyeurism. 
As lights flashed and shutters clicked, I cursed my best friend. I cursed Eric for being a living, breathing, walking, selfish, chauvinistic caricature.  I cursed Eric for his philandering, for his nonchalant attitude about it. I cursed him for inviting his drama to my doorstep, to my job, to my night with Janet.
Then my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, checked the display. The light from the image of a cocky, shit-eating grin invaded the space around me like bad music and the smell of piss in a broken MARTA station elevator. The name under the image read ERIC.
I answered and snapped, “Where the hell are you, man?”
                The two women stopped grappling. Somehow, they had heard my words, then in unison, they projected their angry reaction to those words back at me.
Yeah, Sean, where is that motherfucker?
                Fate laughed in my ear, her fiery breath crawled across my flesh, mocked my ill-fated flights of romantic fancy. Happy memories dissipated like morning haze under a sweltering, noonday Georgia sun.
                Nothing that transpired earlier that day would’ve given me any idea of the chaos to come that night.


Friday, December 21, 2012

WriteSpeak

My name is Carey D. Conley.

Hello, brand new writing world.

I would imagine similar sentiments expressed at Plymouth Rock, or when the Eagle landed on the moon, or how the first visitors to Mars will feel one day when they step out onto the surface of a strange hostile new world with pressure suits the only things standing between them and instant transformation into beef jerky.

One major difference for me, though. Writing is not really so new for me.
 .
Anyone who knows me knows my history, but what most folks I've met during my adult life may not know, is that before my days as a broadcaster,  before the voice overs, the audio book narration, I was a writer. I won awards for poetry and short stories in grade school. Plaques, trophies, and slack-jawed disbelieving gawks went along with the honorable mentions, the article published in a national student magazine in high school, and the articles, editorials and comic strips which I authored for my school papers in both junior high school and high school, and the original comic books I authored and illustrated and gave to my less-than-appreciative cousins when we were kids.

In my early adult life, I got away from writing as I pursued a career in broadcasting. God decided to bless me with a pretty great voice, and after hearing "Gee, if you were on the radio, I'd definitely listen to you," dozens of times, I decided to get on the radio. I did radio for many years, until automation, syndication and consolidation caused the jobs in that field to dry up like a marker with a missing cap. One day in the summer of 2000, while working at my last full-time radio gig, a listener called me and asked me how it felt to be replaced by a syndicated show - while I was still on the air. Not the first time I'd experience the truth behind the saying that, when you're fired, you're usually the LAST to know. As the end became more apparent each day, I could only laugh at the idea that as a Christian, I was being replaced by a program with a name inspired by a biblical harlot, and I was certainly no Samson.

I managed to remain on the fringes of my broadcasting life with voice over work, including the occasional commercial, small internet stations, and audio books. In fact, if you do a search for audio books by T.D. Jakes or Dr. Myles Munroe, you'll likely see my name attached.

Yeah, that was me. When I started doing audio books, it was long, tedious work, and the pay was good, but one day, the the company I did those books for suddenly stopped calling me, stopped returning my calls, stopped answering my emails, forgot I existed. And I tried for a long time.

After a long while, I finally reached the publisher, for whom I'd worked directly and asked him if there was an issue; he assured me there wasn't.  He also mentioned that he was coming to town in a few months and suggested that we should hook up when he did. I agreed that I would be cool with that. He said he'd call me as that time approached. After not hearing from him for many more months, I sent him a message, to which he informed me that he'd come to town and left some time ago and was 'sorry' that he'd missed me. I know, convincing, right?

Finally outside of the broadcasting life which I thought would be my career, I found my way into the rat race along with the majority, working jobs which were contrary to my talents, and were in fact a drain on them. Several of them were pulled from underneath me, with no warning, no explanation, no justification.

In the midst of all this, I decided to come home to writing. Thank God for technology. If we were still doing this with typewriters, I'd be somewhere working on a wellpointing crew, carrying quarter-inch thick, seven- foot pieces of galvanized plastic pipe that was as much as two feet in diameter, uphill through two feet of snow, while getting muddy and wet removing ground water from construction sites in sub zero weather. (No, wait, after the broadcasting career dried up, I did that too. I even worked a day picking up trash at a trash dump. Seriously.)

My point is, it's too easy for others to take something away from us, even if we're good at it, even if we deserve it, even if we need it, and leave us to kick rocks, shovel shit, or both.

Do you think the people who owned that radio station cared if could pay my mortgage or not?
Do you think the guy who ran the publishing company I did the audio books for even cared if I was still alive?

Do you think the folks who ran the wellpointing crew I worked on - which was filled with racist rednecks - cared if I dropped dead of a heart attack and landed face down into a frosty mud puddle, as long as I didn't keep them from taking care of their families?

If you  answered yes to any of those questions, I need you to send me ALL of your money...TODAY. You know the Mayans said you were going to die today anyway, right? Since you can't take it with you, you could let me take it with me.

Like one prominent minister once said, while he was ladder climbing, he knew that he could never get to the top of someone else's ladder, thus he decided the safe bet was to get his own ladder.

So my pursuit, my new passion, my new career, my new ladder, is my oldest one, writing fiction.

As an author of fiction, I won't pursue a traditional print deal with some publisher who'll keep the lion's share of the profits of my work, and essentially pay me a commission, while owning me. I know several authors with publishing deals who have no say over the titles their books get, their covers, or any final changes. To top that off, if they want to publish something apart from their publishers, they must use pseudonyms, because their contracts with their publishers prohibit it them from "competing" with their publishers.

Think about that. They can't even use their own names, because their publishers own those too, along with the rights to their likenesses.


I've done lots of work for other folks in my lifetime, and I've watched other folks make most of the money for it. No more. Whenever I write a book, rest assured:

I'll publish it. (I'll own the publishing company)
I'll OWN it. (I'll own the ISBN numbers.)



It will be mine one hundred percent, my residual-producing intellectual property, which no one can ever take away from me and my family on a whim, as I've had other things taken from me before, and I'll be dead before the rights to my freaking name will belong to someone else.

So here I am, writing. Again.

It's good to be home.

Stay tuned.