Buddy Cushman Art

engaging stories of hope and joy


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Winding Down and Up

This notebook is winding down in terms of filling up. It’s usefulness that is. An iron vessel of haphazard recordings. From somewhere in my head. Do things truly improve with age?

 

Guitars I gu20160127_144054ess, if solid wood. Wine? Gave it up back in the 80s. How many notebooks have been filled and here’s a better question — where are they now? Is something lost in the transcription from mind to lined paper? Or gained? Beats me. I just hold the pen. I walk down into the pitch-black cellar, I reach for the horseshoe nailed to the archway, any feel might bring me luck. I’m already lucky I’m still here, another day of these morning pages. No white chalk outline yet. My next word ought to be obligation. If I’m still here, even in the dark, if I’ve fingered the lucky horseshoe one more day, I’ve got to owe something. I mean it’s been gravy through the late 20s — mine — I mean how many times can you throw up sound asleep, every extra day like I step into a vehicle and drive through the city streets passing out presents. Ho ho ho. Glad to report in this notebook. I’ve never been all just a taker.

 

Einstein said we serve others, is what we do. Our purpose here. Glad I’ve gone along for the ride. I wish I’d learned better words along the way, and seen more, even in pitch-black basements, who knows, maybe especially there. I guess I’m okay in sunlight. I like to read poetry, now, before I come to these notebook pages. Stir all the stuff in a bowl. It’s really good when I can forget — even for the extended moment — who I am, let someone else carry that baggage for a while. My obligation, maybe the only one I’ve got, is to show up here and write. We always use to say suit up and show up. So, it’s something like that.

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The Writing Was the Easy Part

I am a technological toad. As in, I can never find the right place to put the thumb drive into the computer. Or if I luck out, figure how to get stuff from the computer onto the thumb drive. I need to haul my step-daughter down into the basement – amidst her giggles – and beg for help. Not just one time – every time.

Imagine, then, my journey into the world of self publishing. I thought writing the story was the hard part. But…….no. It’s the uploads and jpegs, the mobis and pdfs. It’s trying to understand the step-by-step directions, having been assured as to their ease of that understanding. It’s the asking for help on my Facebook writer’s group, asking to have it explained to me like I’d just dropped onto the planet and understood not a word of its language — and still not having a clue when people have coddled me and easy does’d me, it all still sounding Roman.

I read and heard that I could self-publish for free – after having sent my first ever novel (kind of a 52K word novella) to five publishing houses – start spreading the news in NYC and cheerio to London – and when I received rejections and/or silence, I turn to the pay-us-and-wewb_cushman_front_1600x2400‘ll-publish-it-for-ya publishers and was bullied a little here and there, and didn’t have the money for that anyway, it turns out.

By the way, that’s my first novel right over there on the left side of the page. It’s titled “Ring Around the Rosy” and it began as a short story submission for an on-line magazine requiring an apocalyptic setting and at least one character with a disability, but quickly raced past the word limit, and slowly, very slowly, with a six-month break in the writing during a big lifestyle change, it got done, now with three characters with a condition considered a disability, apocalypse or not. Or, don’t dis my ability.

So, anyway, I was strongly encouraged to turn to CreateSpace, a free self-publishing entity part of the Amazon world, for both paperback and ebook publication, and stumbled upon other similar services including IngramSpark and Draft2Digital. Well, as I’ve indicated above, I was simply incapable of figuring out how and doing the simple things they asked me to do. With the story collecting (internet) dust, and remembering a conversation I’d had with a friend in Oakland, CA when I visited back in the spring, I turned on-line to an outfit called Fiverr. It basically a business that offers the services of people from all over the planet to do their thing, whatever thing it is that you need them to do. For me, to get going, I primarily needed help with creating a cover (my skill level – none) and formatting my Word document for pdf and mobi uploads (moi skill level – ditto).

As fortune would have it – and doesn’t fortune smile on techie toads – I hired a woman in England, name of Victoria, to create a cover, including the spine (wouldn’t have thought of that) and back cover. That’s it up there, the end of the world as we know it landscape with Rosy in her chair, Teddy with his Down Syndrome, nerdy Matt the attendant, Felix, Marvin, well, all of them. It’s quite beautiful and it thrills me to look at it, and it coast me $25. Then I was fortunate to find another young women, Beenish Qureshi in Pakistan, to create the appropriate formatting for both paperback and ebook requirements ($50).

The writing of the book extended somewhere beyond a year and a half, and the finding and messaging back and forth with the Fiverr women has been going on maybe five or six weeks now. As I write this, January 12, 2017, my book – My Book – is live for sale on Amazon as an ebook for Kindle,and a couple of glitches and proofs away from a paperback you’ll be able to hold in your hands, sink back in an easy chair, and join the kids’ adventure.

Someone must have kissed this toad.

(By the way, they’ve given me an Author Page at Amazon and you can find the book there – www.amazon.com/author/wbcushman )

(One more By the way – the writing was a lot of work. It wasn’t, in fact, easy. Just way easier than all this other stuff.)

 

 

 

 


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Taffy – My Hometown, My Friend, My Dog, And Changes

There are eight million artist stories in the city. This one is mine. This is called “Taffy”.

A few days agoI wonder if everyone can say that their home town has changed a lot? Or really a lot? Not to the point where it is unrecognizable, because how could that be. They can’t change the shape of the river as it curls under Main Street and heads north toward the old nail factory. They can’t change the fact that Route 6 runs smack through the middle of town, on it’s merry way from Provincetown, MA to Long Beach, CA. Or that there are beaches all over: Little Harbor; Briarwood; Pinehurst; Indian Mound; Onset; Parkwood; Swifts. They can change a lot of the houses – more bigs ones, less cottages – and remove the old corner neighborhood stores and put up more “private” signs and make streets one way and charge more for parking. And they can say goodbye to old bowling alleys and movie houses and say hello to another bank and another bank and another bank. But they can’t change the way the river swoops into the harbor from the bay, and kisses three or four different beach communties along it’s way under Route 6 and off toward Oakdale and Mayflower Ridge and, if it could climb the steps, up into Mill Pond and beyond.

But I will tell you about one part of my old hometown that changed, changed from when I was a kid, 11 and 12 years old, back when I would ride my bike all over town, often with a fishing pole dangling behind, joking with my friend Donnie on our way to another day of few fish and priceless memory. The place that changed so much was in back of Donnie’s house, just off Gibbs Ave next to the Everett School, because that’s where the woods were, unending and unbroken, an old fire road a half mile in, scrub pines and taller pines and oaks crowding together, pine needles on the ground like a golden rusty blanket. There are houses now and streets and lots of activity and action. But back in the day, our day, it was just the woods. And it was just Donnie and me and my dog Taffy.

I believe that every small town has at least one haunted house. I can’t speak for cities, but that is my thought. At least one. In my hometown I was aware of two. One was on Fearing Hill Road, in West Wareham, just before it crossed County Road into the town of Rochester. Light grayish blue clapboards, windows that reflected the sun but never let you look in as we drove by on the way to the farm Royal Davis’s family owned in Rochester. And it seemed like we would be in a car with his parents driving by one way or the other and it was always twilight. That place was spooky. The other haunted house was different. This one was deep in the woods behind Donnie’s house, way past the fire road, following on a smaller, less traveled dirt and pine-needle road about as wide as one car. Maybe I shouldn’t call it a haunted house because people lived in it. Maybe a scary house. People that lived way back in the woods. Major creepiness for an 11 year old.

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