Sharing imaginary friends since 1985

My name is Chuck Waldron, and I’m a writer. I love to write. Previously, a professional mountain climber, if you view work as climbing mountains, I now spend most of my time trying to make sense of what to do when the plot bunny bites. Having so many imaginary, yours truly is not afraid to use them. They allow me to use their voice, on occasion even demand it. Who can ignore the shouting? That leads me to write thrillers mixed with mystery and action, character-driven stories spiced with plot twists. Besides shameless self-promotion, the intent of this blog is to share the baffling task of writing. And, to find readers. I’m in awe of readers. They have the power to give a story “thumbs up” and what writer doesn’t want that? But what about thumbs down, oh no! Well, smart writers learn a lot from that too. The reader is the ultimate judge. Credentials? Does one need a license to get creative? When I found out I didn’t need a permit to write a story, it was simple. I simply started. Reading a story in the local newspaper, I signed up for a class in writing short stories. It…

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The Thin Black Line, by M. Brogan (final of three parts)

The Thin Black Line   Part Three   The boys stared at the TV, which hung from the ceiling in a corner above the bar. It wasn’t on before, but now they watched as a reporter stood in raging water and pointed at tree limbs rushing passed him. He wore a giant blue raincoat and glasses that were fogged up and riddled with rain droplets to the point you couldn’t see his eyes. “He’s going to get swept away,” said Demi like she was seriously afraid for his life. “They said it’s going to rain all night,” mentioned Gabe. “We got water back here!!” yelled Nancy suddenly from the kitchen. “Fuck me running, we got water!” The urgency in her voice made the men rise to their feet and gallantly go back into the kitchen where they started talking sand bags. “I don’t have any fucking sandbags,” said Nancy. This was the old bartender in her coming out, pragmatic and razor sharp. I looked over at Demi as she stood in the middle of the diner, lighting up another cigarette. “You can’t smoke in here,” I said with indignation. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” “Go open up a door…

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I stumbled on an article about questions most asked of a writer. Surprised? Sort of. I know that if I had a chance to sit down with John LeCarre, James Lee Burke, Margaret Atwood — insert the name of any famous writer of your choice — I wonder what three questions I would ask. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be the first two questions. THREE (3) QUESTIONS MOST ASKED HOW – LONGHAND/TYPE/COMPUTER WHEN – MORNING/NOON/NIGHT? WHERE DO THE IDEAS COME FROM?   THE FIRST TWO DEAL WITH PROCESS IS CURSIVE A DEAD LANGUAGE? A young writer came up to me after a workshop and asked me if I could read cursive. I said, “I’m quite fluent.” He told me his goal was to keep cursive alive. TYPEWRITER? You may find one in a museum. I have one for display. After all I did write a novel about a typewriter, a Remington. I purchased a 1937 Remington typewriter online. My winning bid was $17. The shipping cost $54. But it does make a dandy display. TIME OF DAY? Anytime an idea needs to be put on paper, morning, noon or night. Each writer has an individual writing rhythm, but who hasn’t thrown…

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