A Toast To The Immigrants

St. Patrick's Day is coming, and every year around this time I start to think about the people I based my "Rose Of Skibbereen" series on. They are people from my family, my ancestors, and I learned about them through the meticulous genealogy research my mother did. She told me often about her old Irish grandmother, who died in the 1940s, and how she came over to Philadelphia as a young girl and worked as a servant in the houses of rich families. She had three sisters who moved here also, but she left a brother and a sister back in Ireland with her parents, and she never saw any of them again.

It was a hard thing the Irish did, the same as all immigrants do. They left their native land because of poverty, and they traveled thousands of miles to a new country, and often had to start out at the bottom rung of society, scrabbling to make a living the best they could. Many of them never had the money to buy a steamship ticket back to their homeland even for a brief visit, so they never saw their parents or the world they grew up in again. 

I think of that often when I think of my great grandmother, who is the person Rose is based on. She grew up in a rural part of Ireland in the 19th century, a place where there was no electricity, and none of the modern conveniences. I'm sure the first city she ever saw was Cobh, which was the town in Ireland where she boarded the ship to take her to America. Philadelphia, where she disembarked in the 1880s, must have seemed overwhelming, with all its traffic and people and sights and sounds. To make that transition, not only from one country to another, rural to urban, but also to live, like she did, for 60 more years and see all the changes that the 20th century brought, must have been a bewildering experience. When she died the world had been through two world wars, cars and airplanes had been invented, the telephone was a part of daily life, and there were a thousand other changes that must have made the world of her childhood seem like a dream. It's something I can hardly imagine, to see all that change in one lifetime, and even though I've seen some wonderful things in my life I haven't seen that rate of change. 

So, this year on St. Patrick's Day I'll lift a glass and toast my grandmother, and all the other immigrants who lived through so much. Because, through it all, they endured. 

I hope they found peace at their journey's end. 

A Change In Plans

I freely admit I'm not a marketing guru when it comes to this brave new world of digital publishing. I'm a fiction writer, not a shill; I'd rather spend my time creating characters and seeing where their lives take them than sweating over a new marketing campaign.
For that reason I sometimes make mistakes when it comes to marketing my ebooks. Take Rose Of Skibbereen, my newest novel. At first I thought I'd release it in installments, one every week for five weeks, priced at 99 cents each. I thought it was a good way to build readership, because people seem to like reading installments on their e-readers.
But I bailed on it.
I put out the first three installments, then changed my mind. I simply can't find it inside myself to give away my writing for 99 cents. I've been writing my whole life, and I've been doing it for a living since the 1980s. I have a Master's in English literature, I've been published in a slew of places, and I think I'm a damn fine writer. I could not stomach putting out my novel in 99 cent installments.
So, I changed the plan. Now, I'm giving away the first installment for free. You can download it here.
If you like that little taste, you can buy the whole book here for $4.99.
I think that's a fair price for a multi-generational Irish American family saga that has romance, humor, passion, action and heartache, set against the fast-changing world of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These are characters I've grown close to, and I think you will too. So, take a chance and download the free installment. I hope it will be the beginning of something you'll truly enjoy.

Cute And Scary

My newest book trailer is up. I thought it would be fun to use a cute bunny as a spokesperson for my book "Big Chills". He's called Happy Bunny. Some writers write cute, some write scary. Only John McDonnell writes cute and scary!

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Larry The Football Fixer

By John McDonnell

Blinky and Mushy were two of the patrons at Murphy’s bar. You may wonder why they had those nicknames. Well, Blinky was a man who tended to blink a lot whenever he got excited, and Mushy got his name because he could get misty-eyed at anything, including the sound of a clock ticking or the taste of buttered toast.

One day when Larry came to work in the form of Michelangelo, and he was up on a scaffold painting a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling in Murphy’s bar, Blinky and Mushy came to him with an idea.

“You’re an expert at time-traveling, right?” Blinky said.

“Si,” Larry said, putting the finishing touches on a cherub.

“The man’s a genius!” Mushy said. He was starting to tear up.

“Well, we were thinking,” Blinky said, “that it would be a small thing for you to influence the outcome of the Wagstaff State game this week. You could ah, travel forward in time and maybe do something that would allow our team to win.”

“Change the future?”

“That’s it,” Mushy said, tears brimming in his eyes. “Gosh, Larry, it would be the most beautiful thing. Wagstaff hasn’t beaten Crusher Tech in 30 years.”

“I dunno,” Larry said. “It’s not really permitted. It’s against the rules, like eating store bought pasta.”

“Aw, Larry, just this once,” Blinky said, blinking furiously. “One time, that’s all. You’d be making so many people happy, especially if you could arrange for Wagstaff to win by three.”

“Okay, maybe just once,” Larry said.

“I knew you’d do it!” Mushy said, sobbing with joy.

Larry got down from the scaffold, wiped off his paint spattered hands, and closed his eyes. The air shimmered and he disappeared. In a matter of seconds he was back.”

“The deed, she is done,” he said. “Now, I have to finish this ceiling. The Pope wants me to paint his bathroom next.”

The Saturday of the big game Murphy’s bar was packed. The word had gotten out, and there was a rumor that a lot of Murphy’s patrons had taken a financial interest in the outcome. As the game progressed the mood quickened, because Wagstaff State was actually holding its own. It seemed that Crusher Tech’s best players were coming down with a stomach virus that required them to spend a lot of time in the locker room, and the second stringers who replaced them were not doing as well. Larry intimated that he had placed a small colony of viruses in the team’s Gatorade.

By the fourth quarter the game was close, and the excitement was palpable. Mushy had had several crying jags by now, and Blinky was blinking so much he could hardly see the TV set. The game came down to one big play, with Wagstaff State lining up to kick a field goal that would win the game for them.

“This is a historic day,” Blinky said, blinking three times in succession.

“I can’t believe I’m here to witness it,” Mushy said, choking back tears.

You could hear a pin drop in the room when the players lined up. The ball was snapped, the kicker strode forward, swung his foot, and --

the ball disappeared.

There was a gasp from the crowd and then a shout, as a football appeared on the bar and the crowd realized it was the same ball that the kicker and his teammates were searching frantically for on the field.

“Larry!” Blinky said, jumping up and down, waving his arms, his eyelids moving like hummingbird wings. “What’s going on? Is that the game ball?”

“This is terrible,” Mushy said, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, this is horrible!”

There was pandemonium in the bar, with people yelling directions to the kicker, others cursing, Mushy crying, and Larry turning into an 8 foot ostrich and running about madly in search of a hole to stick his head in.

Then the ball disappeared from the bar and reappeared on the field 25 yards from the kicker. He ran after it as it bounced crazily down the field, followed by the other 21 players.

Then it reappeared on the bar, and the crowd screamed, groaned, cursed.

Then it disappeared and reappeared on the field, this time in the lap of a Mr. Charles H. Hungadunga, who was sitting at the 50 yard line, and the teams charged into the stands after it.

Then it was back on the bar.

Then it was back on the field.

“Folks, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” the TV announcer was saying. “In all my years of doing the Big Game, I’ve never seen a disappearing football.”

Finally it ended up on the bar again, and the gun sounded that ended the game. Crusher Tech fans rushed the field, the Wagstaff State fans sat in shock, and the mood in the bar was funereal. Mushy was sobbing, Blinky was staring into space (his eyelids seemed paralyzed) and Murphy watched in horror as his patrons lost their thirst and started filing out of the bar.

“You know, the first official football game was between Rutgers University and Princeton, in 1869,” Larry said, from the ice bucket where he’d stuck his head. “It was played under soccer style rules. Rutgers won, by a score of 6 runs to 4.”

“Interesting,” Murphy said, pouring himself a beer. “Do you think they had a  disappearing ball in that one?” 

THE END

Dolores, Larry, And A Naked Kim Kardashian. A #fridayflash story.

By John McDonnell

Murphy awoke to the shock of cold water splashed on his face, and a very angry wife hovering over him.

“Cornelius Fergal Murphy,” she said, hands on hips. “I want to know what Kim Kardashian is doing, naked on my living room sofa.”

It took Murphy a few seconds to process this information, and he lay there blinking and moving his lips, but no sound came out. Finally, he remembered bringing the alien home last night.

“That’s just Larry,” he said. “No need to get upset, Dolores.”

“THAT is not a Larry,” Dolores said. “I don’t know what her name is, but it’s not Larry.”

“I can explain,” Murphy said.

“I can’t possibly imagine how,” Dolores said, “but I’ll listen.”

“Well, you see, he’s an alien. That’s not really his true form.”

“An alien. Now I’ve heard everything.”

“I swear, Dolores, it’s the truth. He came into the bar last night and had a little too much to drink--”

Dolores threw up her hands. “I should have known! Didn’t I tell you to stop bringing these lost souls here? I’m sick of taking care of these misfits from that hole-in-the-wall bar I told you not to buy.”

“This is different, Dolores. He’s feeling abandoned, and--”

“Let him see a psychiatrist then. I can’t afford to feed another mouth.”

“I don’t know if he has a mouth, actually. Although he likes pink fruity drinks.”

Dolores rolled her eyes. “I’m just glad my mother sleeps like a rock. If she had seen that naked woman on the couch--”

“Dolores, dear,” came a voice from downstairs. “We have a visitor. Come and see.”

Dolores cursed under her breath and ran out of the room, followed by Murphy, who ran downstairs in only his undershirt and boxer shorts.

Larry was sitting on the sofa, this time as a full grown silverback gorilla, watching a game show on TV with Dolores’ mother Edna, who was dressed in a turquoise off the shoulder gown, gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil that would have looked chic in 1947.

“He’s got a perfect score in Jeopardy,” Edna said, grinning as Larry picked insects out of his chest hair.

“As long as they stay away from questions about particle physics I’m good,” Larry said.

“Dolores, this is Larry,” Murphy said.

Larry grunted, and Dolores stood there with her arms folded across her chest, sizing him up.

“You didn’t tell me we were having visitors, dear,” Edna said to Dolores. “I wasn’t properly dressed, so I went back and put on my dressy clothes.”

“I didn’t KNOW we were having visitors,” Dolores said.

“Larry, can I talk to you privately?” Murphy said. He pulled on Larry’s hairy arm and led him to the kitchen, where he closed the swinging door so Dolores wouldn’t hear.  

“Listen, Larry,” Murphy whispered. “Dolores doesn’t handle change very well, and if you’re going to stay with us you have to find a form that works for her.”

“Oh, sorry,” Larry said, and in a flash he was Kim Kardashian again. “Interesting body dynamics,” he said, moving unsteadily on his feet. “Balance has to be recalibrated, because of added weight in lower extremities.”

“No!” Murphy said. “Not that form! Dolores won’t like that one.”

“Oh, yes,” Larry said. “Territorial human females. Primitive response. What do you suggest?”

“Well, first I would suggest that you move your lips when you talk, instead of doing that thought transference thing,” Murphy said. “Second, what about something cute and cuddly, like a--”

Larry transformed into a six foot tall Emperor penguin. He waddled back and forth, smelling of salt water and fish, and said, “Penguins are cute, according to a recent survey of human affectional impulses.”

“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Murphy said. “No to the penguin! Something else.”

Larry turned himself into Jesus, complete with a long white robe and a halo. “Is this better? You mentioned Jesus.”

“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I’m coming in,” Dolores said, from the hallway.

Murphy put his head in his hands. “Say your prayers, Murphy,” he muttered. “You’re going to die soon.”

He wasn’t sure what happened next, but when Dolores came through the door she was met by a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan, in a tuxedo, and smelling of a minty cologne, showing his teeth in a blindingly white smile.

“Ah,” Dolores said, stopping in her tracks.

“Mmm?” Pierce Brosnan said.

“Oh, Lord,” Murphy said.

THE END

The Diversion -- a #fridayflash story

By John McDonnell

Petey and Muggs sat in the back of the Orpheum Theatre and watched The Great Mesmeroni and his assistant, the lovely Fifi, perform magic for the matinee crowd.
“I hope he don’t saw her in half,” Muggs said. “I don’t like to see a girl get sawed in half.”
“It’s a trick,” Petey said. “She ain’t really going to get sawed in half.”
“How do you know? Maybe she will.”
Petey sighed. “Don’t you know it’s all done with mirrors? It’s a trick, that’s all.”
“Well, she’s a pretty girl, and I wouldn’t want to see her get sawed in half.”
The girl wore a red sequined gown that shimmered in the stage lights, and long red gloves, and she had a mane of cinnamon colored hair. She had a ballerina’s posture and graceful arm movements. 
The Great Mesmeroni pulled pigeons out of his top hat, yards of silk handkerchiefs out of a shot glass, and playing cards out of the air. He got giggling audience members to come up on stage and he pulled coins from behind their ears. For the finale, he wheeled out a large polished black box and put the lovely Fifi in it, then sawed her in half. Muggs did not look at this, holding his bowler hat over his eyes.
Afterward, Petey led the way back to the dressing room, and Muggs followed, anxious to make sure the girl was all right.
She wasn’t in the magician’s dressing room, however, and Muggs was disappointed. The Great Mesmeroni was taking his makeup off, and was sitting naked from the waist up at a dressing table in front of a greasy mirror. He looked smaller without his tuxedo on, and he had a potbelly.
He was not happy to see them.
“Gentlemen, please,” he said. “This is my dressing room.”
“We just came to talk,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan sent us.”
“I know very well who sent you. I told him my answer. I don’t work for gangsters and bootleggers. I am a man of integrity.”
“Now, that ain’t very white of you,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan loves your act, and he thinks you’d be a big hit at his club.”
“You can inform Mr. Donovan I’m not working at his speakeasy. Why is that fellow staring at me?”
“That’s my friend Muggs. He don’t like the way you treat women.”
“Why’d you saw that girl in half?” Muggs said.
“My dear boy, I didn’t saw her in half. You saw her standing upright at the end of the show, didn’t you?”
“Muggs closed his eyes,” Petey said. “He couldn’t watch.”
“Well, I’m sorry you believed it. It’s all a trick, my boy. It’s about smoke and mirrors, about misdirection, about putting up a diversion so the audience doesn’t see what you’re really doing.”
“You’re lying,” Muggs said.
“God help me, I think you mean it,” the magician said. “Well, I’ve no answer for stupidity. Now get out of here, the both of you.”

In the Packard on the way home, Muggs said, “He shouldn’t saw girls in half.”
Petey whistled, long and hard. “I didn’t know you could bend somebody’s arm at that angle,” he said. “He ain’t going to be sawing nobody in half for quite a while now. Mr. Donovan won’t be happy.”
“She was a pretty girl.”
“Aw, you big ox, you just don’t get it, do ya? Everything about show business is fake. I know a guy who works at the Orpheum, and he says she’s 60 years old if she’s a day. With all the face paint she wears, and the wig, and the stage lights, they make her look 30 years younger. She’s long past being a girl.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Petey shook his head. “It must be nice to be so thick-headed. I bet you believe in Santy Claus, too.”
“I ain’t sayin’.”
Petey shook his head. “Gimme that flask, willya? I need a drink to take the edge off.”   

THE END  Copyright John McDonnell 2010

My Flash Fiction Story Is Live Today

I recently started writing flash fiction again after a three year hiatus. My first published story from the new batch is live today at Flashes In The Dark magazine. It's a dark fantasy/horror/spec fiction called "Tick Tock". I appreciate any feedback you give me, readers. Also, if you're reading this after February 23, it will probably be archived. You can either search for it under Recent Posts in the right column, or under Archives for February, or under my name. I hope this is the first of many new stories that I will be publishing.

One big favor you could do for me, if you like the story, is to click on the icons at the end of it and submit the story to some social networking sites. Thanks!

My first eBook

Well, I did it. I'm officially an eBook author now. My book is called The Christmas Gift, and you can read a sample of it here. It's at Smashwords, and my author profile is here.

It's a short little book, only six thousand words, but it's a good read for both children and adults.

Let me know what you think.

John

100 Best First Lines of Novels

The editors of the American Book Review have published a list of what they say are the 100 Best First Lines of Novels. I love first lines of novels almost as much as I love first lines of short stories. The first line of a good short story hits you like a slap across the face, and then pulls you along to the conclusion. The novel is a longer form, of course, and the first line is more like an invitation to enter the world of the novel, something that piques your interest enough to make you want to spend some time in this new world.

The list from American Book Review has some classic first lines in it, and some that left me baffled. Some of the first lines are as long as a short story, and that's not my personal taste. I like the short ones, like "Call me Ishmael". Now, that's a great first line!

Writing The Old-Fashioned Way

I heard crime novelist James Ellroy interviewed on NPR this morning, and he said he doesn't own a cell phone or computer, and he's never been on the Internet. Plus, he does all his writing in longhand. He's not the first fiction writer I've heard of who spurns technology. Elmore Leonard, a pretty successful novelist himself, writes his novels in longhand. And William Gibson, author of Neuromancer, the first great cyberpunk novel, claimed for years that he didn't own a computer and even when he did finally get one, he didn't use the Internet.

Is this possible? Isn't every writer obligated to be plugged in these days? How can you write whole novels in longhand, with that most ancient of writing instruments, the pencil? Isn't that a really slow way of writing?

Well, yes. But it's actually a very satisfying one. When you write with a pencil, you have to slow your thoughts down to the pace of the scratching of the pencil on paper. It allows you to examine each individual thought, hold it up to the light and see what it's really made of. You're not in this mad rush to get your thoughts on the computer screen, your fingers flying across the keyboard almost faster than your mind can think.

And writing, good writing, is all about thinking. Gibson once said in an interview that he composed much of his first novel while sitting in a rocking chair looking out a window at his house. He worked it all out in his mind first, then wrote it down. Maybe that's why his vision of the future, written in the early 1980s, has been so eerily prescient. Gibson predicted networked computers, the Internet, virtual reality, and many other technological innovations that have since come true. He took a look around at his world and then thought deeply about it, and came up with a vision of the future that has been amazingly true.

I remember reading a story about the novelist John O'Hara, where late in his career he went on a vacation to Bermuda. He wanted to get away from writing, so he didn't bring his typewriter, or even a notepad. However, he got an idea for a short story, and it wouldn't leave him. He began to work it out in his mind while at the beach, and on the last day of his vacation he asked the hotel he was staying at if they could provide him with a typewriter. When he got the typewriter he sat down and wrote the story, word for word, from the mental work he had done all week. He typed rapidly, as if he was just taking dictation, and when he was finished he didn't change a word. He had written and edited it in his head, and there was no need to change a thing. It was published shortly thereafter.

A well-trained mind is still a writer's best tool. It beats a computer any day.

Lessons From John Updike

Here's an article I wrote when one of my favorite writers, John Updike, passed away this year. I took some lessons from his long and productive career, and offered them to readers. Here it is:

How to Write Like John Updike