"Why do they [write] for their money? Why do they [work] for short pay? They ain't getting nowhere and they're losing their share. They must have gone crazy back there." — Michael Burton (paraphrased)
Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, December 31, 2016, 10:54 a.m. It’s the final day of 2016. The year will soon be tucked snugly in bed, and all the Trump partisans will have sugarplums dancing in their heads, that is, if they can get to sleep amid all the fireworks. That’s my metaphor for Year of Our …
Continue reading Not a Fond Farewell but a Farewell, Just the Same
As I don’t have a heap of money – and it’s been a while – a limited number has constituted the recipients of my Christmas gifts this year. Therefore, I feel obliged at this time to do something modest to express my appreciation for what you’ve done for me this year. No telling how many …
Here are a few things I believe. I'm sure I'll leave out many. I'm sure many people in the history of this old world have said the same things. I didn't read them, though. They may not be original, but they're original to me. Or from me. Whichever. The truth is seldom more evident than …
I raced right through Winter Solstice, a compilation of short stories by Kindle Press authors. Part of the reason I raced through was that two of the stories, “Strange Bedfellows” and “Chance Chills,” are mine. I’m lying. They were the first two I read. When an author reads stories he wrote, and he hasn’t …
I awakened this morning, and my mind was alive. It was aliiiiiive. Like Frankenstein. Then I staggered into the living room, and before I even put on some coffee, took my meds, and answered the alarms in my innards, I grabbed a pen and a notepad and wrote "appeasement" before my racing mind left it …
It’s probably a little aggravating to follow me on Twitter. My main account, @montedutton, covers a lot of territory because I cover a lot. Many of my followers are NASCAR fans. A reputation lingers after 20 years traversing the beat as a reporter and columnist. I still write a few columns each week from afar. …
I’m just about to dive into the 21st chapter of my next – and sixth – novel, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, which is a few paragraphs shy of 50,000 words in its first draft. Italics will be added when it’s published. But first! A warm-up. La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lah! Get the old digits cranking like pistons! My urgency …
It's nothing new. It's why prisons are called "correctional" institutions. It's why toilets are located in "restrooms." It's why a 24-year-old is "a senior writer," and why people become senior, associate, assistant, consultant and undersecretary. In lieu of a raise, of course. People say Blazing Saddles couldn't be made nowadays. Yet A Million Ways to …
It was a long week. Most of Tuesday was a sinking feeling. Wednesday was two lines from The Bridge on the River Kwai. My God, what have I done? Madness. Madness! Most of the time since, I’ve been numb. Playing a few mournful songs on guitar. Washing dishes, or bagging trash, or folding clothes, partly …
Every day has its ups and downs. Okay, not every day. It seems as if mine are seldom mediocre. Either everything goes right, or vice-versa. This one has gone wildly erratic. Let’s highlight the positive, though. My fifth novel, first western and second historical, is impending. Today I approved the proof. I’m delighted with the …
Nightrider's Lament 