Night of the twister(s)

Last night was a wild one here in central Illinois.

It all started about 6 p.m. The wife and 12-year-old had gone to East Peoria (some 15 miles away) for pizza with a friend. The wife often does restaurant reviews for the paper, and this time a pizza joint was up for grabs. So she called a friend from the paper and the three of them headed off. I demurred, since I'm on a low-carb diet. Oh, and the Cubs were on television.

All good so far.

At about 7 p.m., the sky darkened and it began thundering. I switched from the Cubs game (on WGN Chicago) to a local station and saw that we were under a tornado warning. At that moment, the lights flickered and several tornado sirens began going off in the distance. Then the siren closest to our house (about half-a-mile away) went off.

Curious but not alarmed, I went out on the front porch with my cigar to watch the sky. (It's something I've always done; sirens go off, people head for the basement and I head for the front porch.)

I called the wife and they were on their way home. She needed to stop at the newspaper to drop her friend Kathy off, so I suggested they stay there until the storm passed. She agreed.

A minute later, several ambulances and police cars went screaming past the house (remember, we live on a blacktop road in the wooded bluffs, just north of the city). Then a firetruck went by, with a loudspeaker blaring: "Take cover immediately. This is not a drill. Take cover immediately!"

Whoa. I waved at the truck and called the wife, who was now stopped at a gas station about five miles from the newspaper. I strongly suggested she hurry up. She agreed.

I went back in the house for a moment to check the Weather Channel and the police scanner (a holdover from my journalism days) and heard that several tornadoes were on the ground nearby, including one right near where the wife and kid were. Oh, and there was one just up the road from me.

I went back out on the porch and lit another cigar. The clouds were among the most frightening I've ever seen (see photos above from pjstar.com; the top one is the Elmwood twister, the bottom shows what was above the city and the newspaper where the wife and kid were). Man, it was a sight. I could hear what sounded like a freight train (the cliche is true, it turns out) just south of here. While I couldn't see the twister, I sure as hell heard it.

By now, the wife and kid were at the newspaper (eight miles away) and the kid was sent down to the fortified basement, where I knew he would be safe. The wife pitched in because the newsroom was woefully understaffed and all hell was breaking loose. Finally, when the scanner said a tornado was literally at the newspaper, I texted her and strongly suggested (ahem) that she and the whole staff go to the basement.

They did.

Anyway, to make a very long story short, it eventually passed and the wife and kid got home unscathed. But 15 tornadoes had touched down in Peoria County (possibly a record) and the town of Elmwood some 35 miles west of here had taken a direct hit. I knew from the scanner traffic that they had closed the town down, blocked off all roads and were gathering people at the high school. I also knew the entire downtown area had been wiped out, as well as the grade school.

At 9 p.m., it was clear the paper didn't have the manpower to staff the hell that was still breaking loose throughout the area (including police digging for the body of Stacey Peterson here), so the wife and I decided to take a ride.

Well, we ended up driving through some of the worst weather I have ever seen. I managed to elude the police barricades and we ended up in Elmwood. With the 12-year-old. Such is the lives of professional journalists.

And what a scene it was. Completely dark. No power anywhere in town. Silent as a tomb. Clusters of people just standing in the roads, in yards, on the sidewalks. In shock. The town looked like it had been bombed. Parts of houses hung from what power lines were still strung up. There was an eerie popping sound and a hiss coming from the blocked-off downtown area -- downed electrical wires sparking and gas leaks from the dozens of buildings and cars that had been destroyed.

If you've seen the movie Twister, you might remember what Wakita looked like. It was sort of like that. Maybe not quite as bad. But you get the idea. Really spooky.

Anyway, the wife did her job. She interviewed survivors at the high school, talked to police and volunteers and all the good people who pitch in when these kinds of things happen. And then came the biggest news of the night:

There had been no injuries. None. It was a damned miracle. I still don't know how dozens weren't killed. The little movie theater was filled with people when the tornado scored a direct hit and destroyed it. Amazing. Just amazing.

We didn't get home until after midnight. What a night. Wow.

And the 12-year-old? He says it was the best night of his life. And he also thinks he has the coolest parents in the world for taking him.

Cool? Doubtful. Dedicated journalists? Yep. A little crazy at times? Sure.

Shine on, you crazy diamonds

I've had a couple of regular blog readers email me lately and sort of casually ask me if I'm OK. As in: Are you losing your freaking mind?

I'd like to think they're just concerned about me, and not making a specific diagnosis about my mental state. But one never knows, does one?

No. I'm not losing my mind. At least, no more than usual. See, I like to write the truth. The unvarnished truth -- warts, wood ticks and all. I tend to be a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Just ask any of my old newspaper editors. I like to stir things up. Free will run riot, that's me.

I figure if I'm going to go through the trouble of blogging, then why avoid the truth? We all know writer/bloggers out there in Internet-land who like to pretend they are fit as fiddles, that there's absolutely nothing out of whack in their lives or their minds. Their lives, if you believe their shiny little blogs, are going just swimmingly, thank you very much. Wife (or hubby) and kids are perfect. The car is a BMW. They aren't in the least bit quirky, but instead are very staid and normal and, well, kind of like those plastic women in The Stepford Wives. They chat about recipes and their kids and the PTO and sometimes, rarely, they mention their writing. They seem perfect.

They lie. Trust me. They do.

I mean, come on. They're writers for Christ's sake! It's been my experience that all writers are just a bit off, if you know what I mean.

Unless they're faking it. Unless they really are normal people who are just pretending to be writers. Then I suppose they really don't fall victim -- sometimes on a daily basis -- to the full-on, bat shit crazies. It's possible.

I write this blog to capture the journey. Someday, when I'm rich and famous, some interviewer will ask me if it was difficult to become a published author. And I will have the notes handy (this blog) to show him or her that no, it's not easy.

It was damned hard. And there were times when I thought I was going to quit, or go crazy. Or kick the damned cat or something. There were (are) times when I just want to chuck it all and become a Wal-mart greeter or a fry cook or a grease monkey.

But I don't. I keep on keeping on. Like we all do. The great Pink Floyd once sang: Shine on, you crazy diamonds.

I'm shining, brothers and sisters. I'm shining. Are you?

WRITING UPDATE: I spent the day polishing my query for the one-thousandth time and, once I got so sick of it I thought I was going to throw up, I sent it out to three more agents. I also pasted the first 10 pages of my manuscript onto the email. For those who are counting, that makes six agents queried. The first three were form rejections. Cross your fingers. I know I am.

Also, for those who asked about my eyelid after the vicious wood tick attack -- it's fine, albeit a little red and swollen. Since it was much larger than a deer tick, I'm not going to worry about lyme disease. Not yet, anyway. Of course, the last time I had a fever blister, I was deathly afraid I had come down with lip cancer. So I suppose it's only a matter of time before I start exhibiting symptoms. But for now, it's all good.

See you all tomorrow. Happy writing (for all you real writers out there).

When crazy attacks

Earlier today, I melted down like a tired two-year-old.

I've poured so much of myself into my writing -- into my novel -- over the past three years that I think I've somehow managed to jiggle something loose upstairs, if you know what I mean.

What I'm trying to say is: I think I'm losing my mind.

Bear with me here.

Most of you who follow this little blog know I can get all poor me at times, that I suffer from an extreme case of insecurity. That I occasionally become utterly overcome with the fear that I won't get published, that I quit my job -- my career -- for nothing. I worry that my family will starve, that some guy with a crew cut wearing an ugly tie and a short-sleeved dress shirt (God, I hate short-sleeved dress shirts!) will knock on the door holding some kind of official-looking document and take everything away from us.

No. I'm serious here. Quit laughing.

See, I sent out all these copies of the book to beta readers and as of this morning, I'd only heard from three. One finished it and loved it (my dear father in law, who would probably tell me if he hated it) while the other two are online writer buddies who are slogging through it and seem to like it so far (Shout out to Gina and Kristy; you guys rock!).

But the others? Zip. Nada. Nothing. My God. It's. Been. Two. Freaking. Weeks.

By early this afternoon, I was convinced that I suck more than a hungry anteater. My poor wife, who is the busiest person in the world and who is chasing her own dreams, hasn't had time to read it. Again. For the umpteenth time. The poor woman has already been through the manuscript almost as many times as I have.

But I didn't think about that then. No, I simply freaked out. OK, maybe not completely. Well, now that I think about it, yes, I did. I freaked out. I wasn't angry at her or the beta readers.

No. I was angry at myself. How could I be so stupid as to think I could quit my job, write a book -- a damned novel of all things -- and then just sit back and rake in the big bucks. What an idiot I am. See, I don't think like normal people. I'm not content to just get published.

I want a fucking best-seller. Half measures don't interest me. I want it all, baby. Or I want nothing. See? Told you I was crazy.

Meanwhile, the bastards I worked with and for at the newspaper for many more years than I care to remember have been sitting around having a good laugh at my expense. And what was I doing? Why, I was sitting here at this computer -- pissing my life away.

God, I hate it when people like that are right, you know?

So after my wife (who thank God loves me even though I sometimes act like a madman) went to work, I sat on the deck and sulked. Poor little me.

And then my father in law called. He'd finished the manuscript a week ago and we had already discussed it. But he called today just to tell me again how much he loved it. To tell me how proud he is of me, how glad he is that I married his daughter. We talked for several minutes about the characters in the book, about the possibility of a sequel. When I hung up, my heart was singing.

It was a gift from God, that call was.

And then I heard from another beta, who told me he's reading it and for me not to worry.

And then I heard from yet another, who stayed up last night to finish it. She absolutely loved it and she talked excitedly for a long time about the characters and the book and how proud she is to know me, etc. Her husband is reading it now and she wanted to know if it was okay with me if her mother and a friend read it next. She thinks they will love it.

So I called my wife and apologized for being a jerk. And then I went back outside on the deck and smoked a cigar. And I damn near cried like a baby.

See? I'm losing my mind. And I blame all this writing stuff. Either that, or all the drugs I did back in the day. But that's a whole other story.

Nice guys really do finish last

First off, let me say this: I'm not a golf fan. I don't play the game anymore, not since one memorable Saturday afternoon when I sheathed my clubs, told my best friend I was never playing again and came home.

Let's just say I had a bad day on the links and we'll leave it at that.

Eight years later, the clubs are still out in the garage. The only time I've even touched them was to clean the garage, and trust me, that doesn't happen nearly as often as it should.

I did not watch the Masters. Not during baseball season. Not when I can watch my Cubs once again snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. All day today, I was wondering what I could blog about, since I'm not about to whine again about how nervous I am that eight people out there are reading my manuscript -- and the silence is deafening.

Aaaarrgggghhhhh. I suuuuucccccckkkkkkk!!!!!!

There. I feel better. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, golf, the Masters. Tiger Woods. Phil Mickelson.

See, everyone thought Tiger Woods was a nice guy. He sure seemed like he was a nice guy, with that boyish grin of his and all. But no, it turns out he's nothing but a lying, sneaking weasel of a guy who treated his wife and kids much like I treated my golf clubs (although I'm pretty sure Tiger didn't heave one of his children into a duck pond like I did my putter. But that's another story).

Tiger came back this weekend and played the Masters. And he was doing pretty well, considering all the time he's spent in rehab lately. I mean, when did the guy actually find time to play golf? Sheesh.

But today, Tiger choked. And Phil Mickelson won. And, by all accounts, Phil Mickelson is a nice guy. Doesn't cheat on his wife (who has cancer), is a great dad, a good guy, smiles at fans, etc. You know, a regular guy.

So a good guy finally won.

Of course, the last time I checked, Phil Mickelson didn't have multi-million dollar endorsement deals. And then I saw this headline on Twitter tonight:

Tiger Woods finishes fourth; Mickelson wins Masters.

So poor Phil Mickelson, the nice guy, the damned winner, plays second fiddle in a headline to a cheating bastard who finishes fourth? Really? And to add insult to injury, he doesn't even get his first name mentioned in the headline?

So I did some checking and guess what? Tiger gets top billing pretty much everywhere. Now I'm hearing rumors that Tiger Woods is thinking about writing a book. How do you think that's going to go? Think he'll sell a few million copies?

It'll probably be right there on the shelf at Borders next to books by that weird couple that crashed the state dinner at the White House and that damned Kate Gosselin.

Oh, and that bizarre unmarried woman who had a gazillion kids and just signed up for a reality show, as did the weird dinner-crashing couple.

What a world.

NOTE: I'm a little crabby today. Sorry for the rant. :)

Whip it. Whip it good.

Sorry for the late post tonight. It was a hectic evening, one of those nights when every family member had something going on -- all in different parts of the city.

I attended a Mexico mission team meeting tonight. We're getting ready for our annual recruiting lunch a week from this Sunday. The team members each give a little talk about what the trip meant to us, then we show a 20-minute DVD of the trip. And then we eat Mexican food. A lot of Mexican food. Yum.

The 12-year-old had play practice at his school (about the only thing he's allowed to do these days), so I had to take him there after we all met at a restaurant for dinner earlier, then rush to my meeting on the other side of the city, then leave early and go get him, etc.

And where was the lovely wife all this time, you ask? Well ........

She was at tryouts for, get this, a new women's roller derby team that's forming here! That's right. My wife, a thoughtful and educated journalist, wants to be a roller derby babe. All 5-feet-1-inches, 110 pounds of her. Personally, I think she's nuts, but hey, who am I to judge? We both seem to have this bizarre death wish that leads us to all kinds of crazy things. We've both jumped out of airplanes, for instance. And of course, there's my treasure hunting trip to South America. And the mission trips. And she does some pretty crazy things, too.

Go figure. We read about the roller derby team in the Sunday paper and, boom, she was there!

Anyway, she won't find out if she made the team for a couple of days. Part of me doesn't want her to get hurt, but part of me kind of hopes she makes it. How cool would that be?

So. Have a great night and we'll connect tomorrow.