Poetry Day: No Mistletoe

Here we are, folks!  December 24th, and my promise to provide you with two posts this month has come to pass.  This is a little something I wrote in high school (you can tell); maybe not festive, but a theme is a theme, and no one loves Christmas spirit like I do!

Another meager sample of my wares for the holiday season.  The subject matter may be sad, but I give this to you with a sincerely cheery Merry Christmas and a hearty Happy Holidays!

NO MISTLETOE

When it snows on Christmas Eve

And pretty snowflakes drift and weave

Knowing me, you shall soon see

No mistletoe for me

Christmas spirit there and here

People giving Christmas cheer

There is no smile, no joyous glee

Nor mistletoe for me

I have no one whom I can love

No sweet and pretty little dove

A loving partner is the key

To mistletoe for me

To hold her in my arms awhile

Warmed and brightened by her smile

Love of my life, where is she

Her mistletoe for me

I see her with her smiling face

A welcome to a wondrous place

“Be underneath,” she sends a plea,

“The mistletoe with me”

Beneath the plant, we share a kiss

Sadly though, imagined bliss

For there is, in reality

No mistletoe for me

Jukebox Day: Christmas Nature

Hello again, and Season's Greetings to all!  Now that I have regular Internet access again, I might just make two posts this month to make up for October.  I'm not sure when, but I'll post again before New Year's.

Hard to believe we're almost at 2014, huh?  People showing up 2 years late to the Apocalypse are probably thinking, " . . . . . . . . not cool! I bought a ticket, where the hell's the show!?!"

But enough about that.

On the subject of Christmas, blending it with the subject of my writing and the subject of my love for music, I'd like to take the opportunity to start a new style of post: Jukebox Day!  As well as books, poetry and short stories, I have also dabbled in songwriting.  So, during a time when I can post the corresponding sheet music (or in the case of today, the corresponding existing song when I can't), I will post the lyrics to songs I have written for Jukebox Day.  Those who can't read sheet music, I apologize, but I have no recording equipment of any kind, and even if I did, I'm a lousy musician.  It's kind of a lousy way of showcasing my talent, but I still feel the need to share something with you all this month, particularly because its the holiday season.  If its not enough, my next post will be better, I promise.

A few years ago, after listening to the Thriller album one Christmas (yes, an album generally associated with Halloween, I'm quirky like that), I suddenly came up with some words that would fit very nicely into the album's seventh track, "Human Nature" (doesn't it kinda sound Christmas-y to you?).  I switched a few things around, kept some of the source material, and the result is what you shall read.  And the best part: if you know "Human Nature", you could easily sing this song.  Feel free to improvise during the repeated chorus at the end.

IMPORTANT: I did not write "Human Nature, or any other song on the Thriller album.  "Human Nature" was written and composed by Steve Porcaro and John Bettis, produced (along with the rest of the album) by Epic Records, and sung by the late great King of Pop, Michael Jackson.  Any words or lines from the original song that I kept in mine are bolded for further differentiation.

As always, thank you for reading, and Happy Holidays!

Christmas Nature

(Sung to the tune of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature”)

Looking out across the snowfall

The city shivers in the cold

Watch the snow fall so gently

Twist and turn and fold

Let me go into the winter

The cold won’t hold me tonight

If your love is your gift to me

Then I’ll be warm all night

(Chorus)

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

Reaching out

Catch a snowflake

Flakes are falling everywhere

See your face smiling at me

Love burns the cool night air

(Chorus)

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

Do I sing it that way?

Do you hear it that way?

Looking out into the sunrise

It’s Christmas morning, can you see?

Reaching out, we feel each other

I dream of you with me

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

If they say “Why, why”

Tell ‘em that it’s Christmas nature

“Why, why

Does he sing it that way?”

Do you hear it that way?

Story Time: Writer, Father

Happy November!

Yes, I understand I'm a month behind, but I have three excuses for this.  One, my birthday was on the 17th.  Two, Halloween, need I say more?  Three, I don't have regular internet access yet.  So, I hope all is forgiven.

On the plus side, I have a new segment I wanna share: Story Time.  Yes, I also write short stories, and the one I want to share with you today is one I wrote years ago for a forum site I frequented once upon a time.  It's not much, but it does go into detail about my feelings as a writer, with a hint of drama thrown in to keep your eyes front.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.  I'll keep posting as much as I can, and I'll keep you posted on my publishing progress.  Thanks for reading!

Writer, Father

Words were his ally. Words were his loyal friends. They weren't just funny marks on a sheet of paper; he believed that words, when used correctly, could change the world in a day. Even then, as the words poured from his pen like a golden river, anticipation lined his skin from head to toe. This compilation of words, this story--better described as his legacy--had been nurtured and encouraged to grow for the past four years, which was a long time for a simple novelette. However, he believed that no amount of time was too great for his own pride and joy, which, if it were to soon meet public eyes, had to be absolutely perfect.

Finally, after four years of arduous labor and tortuous anticipation, the final word was being written, and the document was finally finished. He skimmed through the paragraphs, just picturing the events they depicted in his head, as if a large projector had been activated in his head. The story was filled to its brim with love, fear, passion, adventure, drama, an ever-twisting plot line, a few laughs to keep the viewer entertained, and terror beyond belief. This story, he felt, was like a child to him, and, over these years of completing it, has been treated with gentle care, near-obsessive love, and determined guidance toward the greatness he knew it was destined for. Now that it was finally completed (grown up, as it were), tears welled up in his eyes as he sealed the document into an envelope. This moment, to a writer, was like sending your grown child out into the world ready for all it needs to succeed, then five to ten years later, you learn that the child has become successful in every endeavor it has attempted, and it was all thanks to your care, love, and guidance. This was the moment when the writer would send his completed work to be published. It was a chance for him to shine; a chance to be known around the country, and perhaps even the world.

Three days came and went, and still no reply. He became more and more nervous as the days rolled by. Do they love it? Do they hate it? Did they get it at all? The incessant questions pelted his mind continuously. Finally, after he had waited anxiously for a week, a letter addressed to him arrived. Upon seeing it, he nearly fainted; it was they're answer! He hardly dared open it at first, fearful of what awaited him, fearful of a sad and pathetic rejection, fearful of failure. Then, without even thinking, his finger slowly dragged itself through the top of the envelope, opening what contained his 'child's' fate. He hardly believed what he was doing, but a small voice in his head softly, but firmly coaxed him, I have been working on this for four years! I've been waiting for a response for days! I don't want to wait any longer! He swiftly grabbed the letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and closed his eyes as he held it up to eye level. Gently, his eyes peeled open to see what the future had in store for him. The letter, once he was capable of seeing it, read:

Dear Mr. Gallagher,
We are pleased to inform you that we are more than willing to publish your submission. With your permission, we shall send to you a contract, honoring certain agreements between author and publisher. The contract will reach you within the week of your approval.

Congratulations and best wishes,
Andrews Publishing, Inc.

Poetry Day: My Carnation

Happy September, folks!

I know it's been awhile, but I've been busy working on various things: a couple of new novels, a book series, a spin-off of Camp Aconyte, and the materials for my potential publishers, just to name a few.  While I have you good readers roped in, I thought I'd keep your interest by introducing a post I like to simply call "Poetry Day".  This is when I post a poem of my own for your consideration and reading pleasure.  Granted, I'm no Poe, but I'd like to think there's some inspiration buried under the emotive muck.

This is the first true poem I've ever written, entitled "My Carnation".  I wrote it in high school, and even entered it into the school's "Poetry Slam" contest (no, sadly, it didn't place).  I got the inspiration from the custom of my high school (and perhaps many others), during homecoming, to give a white carnation to the one you plan on asking to homecoming.  Typically, the Homecoming Dance is (from what I've been told) supposed to be easy to get a date for.  With this in mind, you can understand where my sadness comes from in the making of this poem.

I hope you enjoy my work, and let it be a mere preview of things to come.  Thank you for your time, and for your eyes.



MY CARNATION

Searching for so very long

And crossing every nation

Desperately to try to find

My sweet divine carnation

All the others have their own

And make the declaration

Deepening my strong desire

For my own carnation

My life is empty, void of life

A bad to worse gradation

But it would seem much brighter

If I had my own carnation

Sadly though, I am alone

Mankind’s abomination

And no one seems to want to be

My beautiful carnation

Myself at best, I am a weed

I face the degradation

Of loneliness in the garden

Of the cold and cruel carnation

I have no hopes, I have no prayers

But dreams are my salvation

For in my dreams, I have waiting

My love, my all, My Carnation

     -- J. A. G. 

Humble Beginnings

Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, esteemed readers and lexophiles alike.  Welcome to my blog!  After strong suggestion, it was decided that I branch out and network more in order for my work to be reached, so here we are.

For those who know me not, let me explain.  I am an amateur novelist, and I am on the cusp of making my next big publication.  My first published work is a novella called Camp Aconyte, released in 2008.  I have just finished my second manuscript, and I am currently building a reputation by establishing my "platform", so to speak.  This is where I will provide you with updates on my progress, as well as little snippets of my work for your personal enjoyment.  I will be buckling down on making myself into a celebrity within my small community, and if you are interested in taking a ride, follow along!

Camp Aconyte, my first published novella, was released in 2008, as I said.  The story centers around an awkward young man named Jerry Riker, who takes a trip to summer camp with his obnoxious younger brother Quentin, and meets the girl of his dreams, Lisa Sable.  The camp seems normal enough, but when night falls, something prowls the campgrounds.  Something stalking the young campers, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack, kill, and feed.  Something with a pair of horrific yellow eyes . . . .

I, being a foolish kid close to graduating high school, made the mistake of rushing into the publishing process, and submitted my manuscript to a vanity press in Maryland.  Needless to say, it wasn't the success I dreamed it would be, but the experience has taught me many valuable things.  The most important of these things: when searching for a publisher, do it right.  Therefore, here we are, you reading a bit of my history, and me providing you with enough worthy material to gain your fandom.

The process has been strenuous, and will surely continue to be so, but I am determined to make my dreams a reality.  And to all who read, I am truly grateful for your support, and if you are interested, feel free to pick up your own copy of Camp Aconyte, by J. A. George, at any online bookstore.  I, meanwhile, will continue to strive on my quest for status, spreading the word of my endeavors and building the reputation I need to break through in the business.  I will keep you up to date on all that goes on, and when my manuscript is submitted to a publisher, I will make sure you all know the details.

That's all for now.  I must begin marketing my work, and because my next manuscript is set in high school, I need to get in touch with all the high schools in my area.  With any luck, I might be welcomed to speak on behalf of my manuscript and gain notoriety.  Wish me luck!

Thank you for your time, and for your eyes.

     -- J. A. G.