Authors Electric

  Metropolis' Maria Futura comes to life, 1927 ... was the word. As I posted earlier, I'm amidst a third rewrite of my latest Frank Ritz noir Hollywood murder mystery. I had run into a wall about halfway through the novel, that draft the product of numerous revisions itself.  No matter. It dawned on me that my roadblock didn't originate ahead of me but back at the beginning of the process. I had gone with the big idea - the case of a famous, missing Hollywood prop that had led to murder - but had neglected Frank Ritz and his complicated personal life. I had made the assumption that readers knew him as well as did I. In the process, I neglected what is turning out to be the novel's most compelling stuff - not the case, nor a high-profile murder, nor the movie-biz clients, but a crisis in Frank's personal life involving his daughter Annie and his on-off lover and dogged reporter, Phyllis. So here goes. I offer this sample for your consideration:  -------------------...

 Herb Caen This marks seven years that I've been throwing blogs against the wall here at Authors Electric, the pioneering collective of distinguished independent writers that welcomed me as a member in May, 2015. A lot has happened since then - more than I could ever cover, but I've done my best to vary the menu. I was a mere 78 years old and Obama still was President. Beyond personal and public events, I've written about my books here, about writing, the peeves and bigger questions that bedevil independent writers like ourselves in the new era of digital publishing and its contradictions. Mainly, our issues remain the same as always: deciphering the creative process, and figuring why it seems to stall out sometimes. Most of all, however, its not been a one-way street., I've learned a lot from what our 28 other members have been writing here every day along with our guest bloggers - a lot more than I could on my own. I wish I could be like my self-disciplined colleague...

  Ma and her lasagna, c. 1973 'Tis the season to be eating. In our family - as in others close and extended - we've always celebrated the holidays with food -- replete with traditional dishes prepared joyfully, savoured to the lively music of conversation. We gathered smiling - sometimes overcoming discomforts -  from near and far. Each year I've enjoyed such meals with the fine wines of cherished memories that stretch unbroken, from my own childhood through the growing up of my daughters, arrival of grandchildren, with ups and downs, joys and sorrows well into my dotage. I name the chapters of my memoir - ever in progress - after memorable entres -- from childhood in Boston: my nonna's ricotta-stuffed ravioli and braccioli in rich ragu, as a struggling dad in Los Angeles and San Francisco: my own lightning linguine al le vongole from scratch : segue into pesto from garden-grown basil, and in California's Central Valley home-made Christmas Tamales. Time and pandem...

Death came calling not long after my last Authors Electric blog post on February 3 in which I remembered a recently departed friend and colleague. Prophetically, I had entitled the post " Death and the Writer , Within a month I was hospitalized with congestive heart failure and other critical problems from which it was touch and go. Doctors brought me back thanks to the wizardry of modern medical technology. But no silver bullet, magical pill or micro-surgical technique could reverse the change this episode brought to my state of mind. Overnight, A sickly kid who became a 10K daily runner and adult adventurer who hardly ever caught colds, I went from seeing myself as a robust, healthy chap to a wheezing heap of ailments and conditions, whose every step required maximum effort. Overnight, my body seemed to give way to the multiple insults of age, each of which requires medical tending. It makes one realize one's luck to be alive with each breath, easy or hard. Avoidance doesn...

Ask me what I've been doing lately and chances are I'll rattle off bullet points like a Ted Talker. I recognize that the questioner is only making conversation, but I feel compelled to provide you with at least a semblance of substance - without overdoing it I hope. In turn, I may ask: "How about you? Any pancakes on the griddle?" But what if I respond: "Nothing! Nada! Zilch! Bupkis!"? Honest, perhaps, but sounds rude. A brush off. What a curmudgeon, that Tosi guy, a prima donna ! Worse yet, it comes off as feigned humility. Shrug. Gee. Little me? He's so humble, that Tosi guy.  Still worse: Instead of bullet points, I give you a full accounting, a quarterly report on my works-in-progress, launches and lunches, with recipes.  God forbid, you should think that I am really doing nothing. You should find me out as an idler, a time-waster, an Internet triva-addict, a gamer, a social media gabber.  You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one t...