Now, that’s not the brain-dead part. That’s just the typical screwed up organizational part that can be found at every level of Detroit administration. Here is the brain-dead part: when I strolled over to ask them if they would be turning off the water on two abandoned houses across the street and one further up the road, all three of which have been spewing water for the last 8 months – are ya still with me here? – they said no, it wasn’t called in, and they drove off.

WTF?

Detroit Water and Sewerage pays three folks to turn off water in houses which do not have the water turned on and they completely ignore the houses which are wasting thousands of gallons of the stuff? And, as for the ‘not called in’ remark, I beg to differ. I’ve called several times and you know what, I’ve found that Detroit Water and Sewerage takes the rudest of the brain-dead and puts them on the phone. I’ve actually been hung up on while trying to save these idiots money.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Detroit, love being back here. I’m a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy and Detroit has become a real seat-of-the-pants kind of town. You want something done here, you don’t bother going through the bureaucracy. Try that route and your grandchildren won’t see the results of your efforts. They don’t have red tape in this city, they have red titanium steel coil encased in red concrete. You want something done here, you say fuck the proper channels and do it yourself. It’s the only way anything gets done around here. The problem is, there are some things you can’t do yourself. Unless, of course, you have the proper tools.

Speaking of which, if anyone has a spare top-loader they’d be willing to loan me, there are a few abandoned houses I’d be glad to flatten.

Let me explain.

There’s this author out there who writes in the same genre as I do. And no, I’m not going to give you a name, or a gender, or a title. For simplicity sake, let’s say it’s a he and his name is Horatio.

I know Horatio in the cyber way as is so often the case today. I read his book when it first came out. It was good. A nice, tight story, good characterization, a bit of a slow pace but slow in a good, tension building way.

Recently, Horatio’s book has been reviewed in top-notch places, won awards, received acclaim and adoration. Am I envious? Jealous? I thought I was at first but soon realized what I was feeling was more anger than jealousy.

This went on far longer than I thought it should. I mean, I like Horatio, liked his book. But I was so angry at all this attention that I ignored his good news, refused to write congratulatory posts on FB and Twitter, refused even to read posts concerning him. Before long this seemed way the hell over the top. Even for me. I know a number of authors who have received big time reviews, won awards. I have a good friend who writes YA and has received awards and recognition up the wazoo and, while I am envious of A. S. King’s skill as a writer, I begrudge her nothing. She deserves every damn one of those awards and more to boot.

So why was I so angry at Horatio?

Is it because Horatio and I write in the same genre? I know quite a few authors who write in my genre and I wasn’t all pissy-assed about them. No, I fear the reason is really far simpler than that – and this is the part where the finger-pointers and head-nodders come out, nodding their collective heads and pointing their collective fingers, the word ‘ego’ on the tips of their tongues – I think my novel, Stealing The Marbles, is a better book.

I’m not going to go into why I think STM is a better book. Really, the quality, or lack thereof, of a given book is up to the reader to decide. I will say that it is not my opinion alone. The reason I’m not going to go into why I think STM is the better book is because that is NOT the point of this post.

The publishing world is changing. Where once there was the traditional route alone, there are now several ways for a writer to become a published author. Of late, the open warfare has been between the traditionally published world and the self-published world. What, in my opinion, is getting lost in all this is the world of the small press.

The small press straddles the fence between the traditionals and the self-pubbers. Like the traditionals, they accept submissions, most often without the requirement of the author having an agent. Most have standards they adhere to in terms of what they are willing, and think is good enough, to publish. Most produce both eBooks and Tree Books. Most edit, proof, design, format and produce books (which isn’t to say many self-pubbers don’t, btw). And yet, despite the many avenues for recognition and sales available, the small press seems to be largely ignored.

I am published through a small press. Horatio is published through a traditional press. It’s one thing to compete and lose to superior forces. I can readily accept that. My ego ain’t THAT big! However, it’s another thing altogether when competition isn’t possible because your team isn’t big enough to warrant notice. That, my friend, is way up there on the frustration flag pole.

An author with a traditional publisher has all the doors to recognition wide open to them: bookstores carry their books, major reviewers fall all over each other reviewing traditionally published books, award givers fall all over themselves giving away awards to traditionally published books. And, because there is big money behind them, traditionally published Tree Books tend to be lower in retail cost.

On the self-pub side, reviewers and award givers have sprung up like clover in an empty lot, reviewing and awarding self-pubbed work and self-pubbers themselves tend to be a tenacious, if sometimes obnoxious, lot (not that some traditionally and small press published authors aren’t as well).

From what I’ve seen, and in my own experience, it’s the small press publications that are being overshadowed in all this. Indy bookstores won’t carry their books, the major reviewers won’t review their books, as most small presses are on a threadbare budget, they can’t afford to do a print run so their books are printed on demand. Do you have any idea what the profit margin is on a POD book? Less than $4.00 USD on a $17.99 book and half of that goes to the author. $17.99! When most trade paper goes for $15.00 or less. And, since there can be no print run, there will be no remainders to go for a buck or two in the bargain bin at the local book seller so little or no chance of someone finding you there.

The price is too high for most libraries so there goes another avenue to being discovered. And even at a 40% discount, the price is too high and the profit margin too low for most booksellers and, with a no return policy, most will only order a small press book if A) the author is local, B) someone specifically orders the book.

As for getting reviews, an all important step in the ‘getting recognized’ arena, despite this being the digital age, those reviewers who are not exclusively traditional or self-pub only will only take a Tree Book copy for review (probably so they can supplement their income by selling it on eBay). This is a real kick in the nether regions for the small press as a POD ARC costs nearly as much as a regular POD book and is therefore beyond the reach of most small presses.

Here’s the thing. Over the last year I’ve read a lot of books, most from small presses. These are some of the finest stories I’ve had the pleasure to read in many a year. There are some damned talented writers out there, caught between the traditionals and the self-pubbers. One can only hope that at some point the reviewers and award givers and Indy bookstores take off the blinders and see what they are missing.

In the mean time, I can see how utterly pointless it is to be angry at Horatio. He chose the traditional route while I chose the small press route. Perhaps I’ll go send him a ‘way to go’ message.

Though I still think Stealing The Marbles is the better book.

I’m retired. I’m on a fixed income. I have a credit score that makes zero look high. Despite that, I OWN the house I live in. Back in September of last year, I paid 500 USD for this place. Five hundred one dollar bills. Yeah, strange critters were living in it for a year or two or three before I got here. Yeah, it had no furnace, no hot water heater, the copper was gone – electric and water – and someone had ripped out the back wall of the bathroom to get at the cast iron tube but, and that should be BUT, the house was in solid shape, in a neighborhood that is trying to come back, just as much of Detroit is trying to come back.

And I OWN it, lock, stock and barrel, so to speak. My taxes cost me less than 100 USD a month. Try to find a rental at that rate.

At of the writing of this post, I know of at least 5 houses someone could OWN for less than 5000 USD. Nice places, in neighborhoods that are struggling to come back. Yeah, the crime is a bit higher than elsewhere, but not as much as so many believe it to be. And, in neighborhoods like mine, where the people here give a damn, it’s even less.

5000 bucks American! Where the hell else can you be a homeowner for that kind of money?

So why, I wonder, are more folks not pouring in to snatch this opportunity up? Is it the damn racial thing? Are all you White Folks so damn afraid of all the Black Folks? I’m White folk and let me tell you that’s such bullshit. I have a White Folk friend who lives at 30 mile road, about as far from Detroit as you can get. Her house was robbed. By White Folks. WTF?

You want to own a home. I mean OWN it, title in hand? Do you have the skills to fix it up or, have access to Google to find articles that will detail how to do the things you need to do to fix it up? Can you find a job here that will pay you at least minimum wage so you have the money to fix it up? Leave me a comment or an email and I will turn you on to resources that will aid you in your search.

This city is coming back. It will be, as it once was, a great and powerful city. Come back to Detroit or come for the first time. You won’t be sorry.

Write me for more info. And just for the record, I’m not making a dime for this. I just love this battered old city, see so much opportunity here and want others to get their own.

Hey, don’t be afraid. Detroit ain’t nearly as bad as the media makes you think it is. C’mon on down, buy a place, be a part of the rebirth. I’d love to have you as a neighbor.

500 bucks, 5000. I mean, Dude, how you gonna beat that to own your place? A little sweat, a little inconvenience. How hard can that be to actually own a place of your own?

Back in Detroit. Think I’ve mentioned that before. Here there are four distinct seasons. Winter, overall, is hard to forget. Cold. That, along with too long, about sums up winter in Detroit. It’s been a mild one, this my first winter back but still, anything less than 60 degrees sucks.

It’s March and I’ve been remembering March. The howling winds, the tug-of-war battle between Winter and Spring. Winter with a right cross, Spring staggering but coming back with an uppercut. 35 degrees one day, 60 the next. Back to 35 again. In like a lion, cliche as it is, pretty well describes March in Michigan. One hopes for out like a lamb but Winter ain’t over til it’s over.

I remember one March, back before I left this city 30 odd years ago. It was a brutal one, more Winter than Spring. Toward the end, though, Winter tired and began to fade. That last week of March was as lamb as lamb could be. Then, April 1st, the city woke to a massive ice storm that took down power lines, felled trees, collapsed roofs and caused the commute from hell. Winter’s parting shot. April Fools, people. I’ll be back.

Look down upon me, Jesus. This city is in the toilet. Is that the way it should be?

Seen fire. Seen rain. Detroit in the toilet? Yeah, kind of saw that coming. Happy about it? Maybe once upon a time ago I might have given it a thirty second laugh. Now? Not so much.

Detroit is a grand old lady brought low by greed and avarice. There are great people here. People who stayed because they had to. People who stayed because they wanted to. And those of us few who returned because we love this dirty old town, this wheel-spoke layout of a city that refuses to die despite those who stab it at every turn.

My stories roam from town to town, state to state, country to country but all have their roots here. Danny Samsel, hero, thief, protagonist of Stealing the Marbles? An old, brief, friend in an old neighborhood that died and remains dark and forbidding as I write this. Strange as it may be, his house is one of the few still viable on that street, a street I spent my entire kidhood on. He died across the street from where I grew up.

Miss you, Danny. You’d get a kick out of this shit.

Teller? Protagonist of Meter Maids Eat Their Young? The story may well be, roughly, set in Mt. Clemens, but Cat was born and raised west of Burt Road, South of 5 mile.

Spike, a temporary name to be sure, protag of my current WIP, was born and raise there.

All writers have a well from which they dredge the flotsam they decorate their stories with. Detroit is my well, my deep deep well. All my pain is here. All my joy.

Gonna clear this shit up. Write it.

Have at it Detroit. I’m ready.

Not that I mind all that much. Well, the writing part is a bit irritating. I tend to go a little batshit when I don’t write for long periods of time.

Work on the house has progressed well, though. About half the house is wired. Friends of my son gave me a refrigerator, a stove, a washer/dryer, a table, a couch and a chair for which I am eternally grateful. After a great deal of cursing, I have hot and cold running water upstairs in a temporary sink in the kitchen. Oh, and a flushable toilet. What a joy!. Despite the cold weather and my lack of a furnace, I’ve been keeping fairly warm, hunkered down in a small back bedroom.

All in all it’s been fun. Many an idea surfaced over these last few months. Ideas for stories, ideas for a non-fiction book, thoughts about the next novel. I did manage to finish the update to Secrets of the Golden Gate Bridge and get it uploaded to Amazon. Hit a hangup with the upload to Smashwords. They want me to dumb-down the look of the book to fit their silly restrictions for distribution. More on that, and many other things, later.

Happy 2012, everyone. And, if the Mayans are right, we won’t have to worry about a 2013.

Detroit has a bad rap. From Motor City to Murder City, an urban landscape of burned out and abandoned houses, empty, trash strewn lots, crime and crack-heads. But there is another side to her, a side not often acknowledged in the if-it-bleeds-it-leads mentality this country seems so enamored of.

There was a time when I took the Dudes everywhere I went. Alas, they are barky little critters and show their disapproval of my absence in the most vocal of ways. Thus, I have begun to leave them home if I plan to be somewhere for longer than it takes to run into the grocery store and back.

The other day, my son called and invited me to go pumpkin picking. This was a chance to meet the granddaughter I’ve never met and see the grandson I haven’t seen since he could fit in the palm of my hand. We spent the day at Blake’s Farm picking out pumpkins, drinking cider and stuffing ourselves with donuts. Afterward, I spent an hour or so watching Monster House with my granddaughter curled up at my side while my grandson watched warily from across the room (I’m not sure he quite knows what to make of this longhaired, bearded grandfather he’s suddenly acquired), then a fine dinner and I headed home.

It was well past dark and I was worried about the critters. I’ve never left the Dudes for this long a time and one of my Cats, Eudora, had gone outside the night before and hadn’t returned by the time I headed over to my son’s house. When I pulled up in front of the house, I could hear barking. Not unusual. The Dudes sit in the window and watch for me and when I appear, they go ballistic.

Problem was, the barking was too loud, too close and too singular.

I looked out the window and there was Horton, racing across the yard toward me. I freaked, thinking all kinds of horrible things and praying that Tennessee was in the house. As I scooped Horton up, my next-door and across-the-street neighbors stepped outside. Lafayette, my across the street neighbor, mentioned that the Dudes been out and about all day and then said I should come over and meet a friend of his. Seemed an odd thing to say but I was in a bit of a panic as there was no Tennessee to go with Horton so I gave it no thought as I hustled Horton inside the house and began calling for Tenn.

Nothing. My worst fear. It was nighttime and one of the Dudes was missing.

I raced back outside and Lafayette once again insisted that I come in and meet his friend. Not wanting to be rude and both wanting and dreading the coming search, I figured do it, get it over with and begin the search. So, I followed him in and there, on the couch, was Tenn.

I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to say. I got the whole story then.

The day had been a windy one. As Eudora had still been outside when I left, I set the cat door to in only. Seems the wind wanted in as well and kept pushing the door open. The Dudes, being the smart little critters they are, figured out they could duck out, presumably to look for me, and so they did.

Lafayette and Drey tried to round them up but they are wary Dudes and kept getting away. Finally, Lafayette brought out some turkey meat and managed to coax Tennessee in the house where he spent the day sitting on the couch and watching TV. Horton wasn’t going that route so he stayed outside, in the my front yard, protecting the house while waiting for me to come home.

Murder city, huh? Burnt out houses, empty lots, a population that doesn’t care? Yeah, you can believe that bullshit if you want. The Dudes are curled up next to me as I write this. In a city that didn’t care, they’d likely be dead and gone.

Thanks Drey, and, especially, thanks Lafayette.

I grew up in this city, spent nearly my entire kidhood not eight blocks from where I now sit. There were a few empty lots back then, overgrown and wild, nestled between the order of trimmed lawns and brightly painted houses. They were our fantasy worlds, our heart dark jungles, an ever changing tableau of Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, GI Joe war games long before there was a GI Joe.

These empty lots were transitory things; one day an overgrown playground, the next cut and cleared with pipes poking up from a cement pad. Men and material would follow. The sound of hammers and saws would echo through the neighborhood. A house would appear and soon, new neighbors, perhaps a new friend.

Melancholy thoughts on this foggy morning walk with the Dudes. The block south of here has more empty lots than houses and of the houses, only eight of the fourteen are occupied. Two of the empty ones are boarded up by a security company. The rest are returning to their former elements, bit by tiny bit. Raccoons, feral cats, brown squirrels and opossums scamper about here, their scent driving the Dudes wild. Turn a certain way and it’s like walking in a vast woods with city sound effects piped in through hidden speakers.

One could easily find despair here, lament for a once great city. And there are moments of that, I must admit, as I struggle to pull this house together on little more than a wing and prayer. It doesn’t last long, this despair. There is opportunity here if you look past the fearful image Detroit has acquired, however rightful that image might once have been or may still be. Opportunity if you’re a seat-of-the-pants kind of thinker, wouldn’t mind an extended urban camp-out, am able to tolerate chaos for long periods of time and can think outside the box … way outside the box.

I own a roof, four walls and a basement for less than the cost of a new hot water heater. Here is what it looked like before I arrived. The electricity was, finally, turned on last week and I’ve begun rewiring the place. The back bedroom is completely rewired, there are several lights and outlets in the basement and overhead lights in the bathroom, kitchen, landing and a motion sensor light over the back door. There’s a new door on the front, the old front door is on the back, complete with kitty door for the critters.

<--Old Door New Door-->

I’m hunkered down in that small back bedroom, insulated against the coming winter. A makeshift kitchen and entertainment center sits in what will one day be my dining room. I’ve done the measurements and, when the Witch of November comes calling, I can move it all into that small bedroom.

Now that I have some light, it’s time to start working on the water problem.

Structurally sound, it sits on a slight rise from the street which has helped to keep the foundation strong and the basement dry. Two bedrooms on the ground floor and a long, low-ceilinged bedroom upstairs, it has a huge living room, a tiny kitchen and an extremely damaged bathroom. Damage-wise, the bathroom is the worst of it. The entire back wall is torn out. I guess, if you’re going to steal a bathtub, it’s easier to tear out the wall then to drag the thing out the smashed-in backdoor.

Did I mention there is no electricity? Not that it would matter as all the wires in the basement have been stolen. Ditto the copper water pipes. Ditto the furnace and hot water heater. Kitchen sink? Bathroom sink? Gone as well.

Surprisingly, except for some water damage in the living room and one bedroom, the upstairs is intact. Maybe the thieves exhausted themselves lugging all those heavy objects from the house and decided to return at another time to rip the copper wires from the wall. For some reason they didn’t return, leaving the upstairs intact. I like to think they didn’t come back because they were run over by a Greyhound bus on their way to fencing their loot. A satisfying thought, though not likely to have happened.

In a way, they did me a favor stealing the electrical wire. It was the old, two-wire, cloth-bound stuff which was more or less fine when all you had to power were a few low wattage lights and a radio or two. I would have ended up replacing most of it anyway. Now, I just have to replace all of it.

Now, stealing the furnace, sinks, bathtub and water pipes, that doesn’t please me so much. C’est la vie. I’ll deal with all that when the time comes.

The electricity will be on by Tuesday evening, the water by noon the following day. That is when the real work begins. In the mean time, I’ve been lessening the chaos as much as I can and cleaning the place up. Mowed the lawn, cut down all the weed trees. The place is looking a hell of a lot better than when I got here.

All in all, the next few months should be interesting.

Oh, and did I mention what this place cost me? Three bedroom house, full basement, garage.

$500.00 USD. I paid more for the car I drive.

Back in late 81 – or was it early 82? Winter in any event – I packed up the last of the luggage, tossed the cats in the back seat of the Volkswagen and headed southwest, out of Detroit to parts unknown, the vow to never return trailing behind like the sleet and slush and ice bound streets I was escaping from.

Never say never.

It’s nearly thirty years later. The last six have not, overall, been pretty. A few highlights here and there; my novel Stealing The Marbles has been published, my second, Meter Maids Eat Their Young, will be out before Father Time sweeps his scythe across 2011 but, in general, it’s been a downhill tumble from California to New Mexico to this bug infested junk yard in the armpit of Florida.

Never say never.

For reasons I have yet to comprehend, Detroit has been calling me of late. Funny, that. Detroit is the boogeyman used to frighten adults. Mention the city and watch folks recoil in fear. The Motor City turned The Murder City. White-flight, abandoned, stripped and burnt out houses, a city in decline. And it’s calling me home.

And I’m not sure why.

Writers, I think, are superstitious. I am, about certain things. And skeptical as well, especially about superstitions. Signs and portents and cities calling to us are sought after yet questioned when they seem to appear. Last week, a friend sent me an ad for a rental in South Warren I could afford, at a place called Shadylane Estates. Don’t let the name fool you. It’s a bloody trailer park. What she couldn’t possibly have known is the significance of that ad, of her sending it to me at this time.

Life is like a story in that it has a beginning, a middle and an end. It starts at birth, ends at death and pretty much everything in between is the middle. Stories are rarely that linear. What would be the point of backstory if they were?

If I were to write my ‘story’, something I would never do in full, it would not start at birth. It would start in a place called Shadylane Estates for reasons I have no intention of explaining. It just would. Because that is where it did start.

Signs and portents. The superstitious me has had a field day with that rental ad.

Thomas Wolfe said you can’t go home again. He was probably right. Still, nearly everything that is not in storage in Albuquerque is now packed and ready to roll. I have no idea where I will land but soon, very soon, it and I and all my critters will take flight, into the cool and the dark, heading toward the unknown once again, only this time it won’t be to parts unknown. It will be to home unknown.

Could make for an interesting story one day.