Barry James Hickey's new novel The Glass Fence Elicits Tears and Laughter.
http://ping.fm/DnC7s
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Looking for Personal Inspiration Tonight?
Listen to The Spirit Connection
Call in, share your own inspirations!
Explore yourself!
BE WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE! Blog Talk Radio
Thursday Nights - 9pm Eastern Time
http://ping.fm/Bedlt
Discover Spirita and our other wonderful authors at TumbleBrush Press
http://ping.fm/eMTA8
Listen to The Spirit Connection
Call in, share your own inspirations!
Explore yourself!
BE WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE! Blog Talk Radio
Thursday Nights - 9pm Eastern Time
http://ping.fm/Bedlt
Discover Spirita and our other wonderful authors at TumbleBrush Press
http://ping.fm/eMTA8
Friday, June 24, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
THE FIVE PEARLS
CHAPTER FIVE
Big Bill Hogan handed a stack of pictures to the man now know as Battle. “As promised. Pretty good diffusion of light, I must say. Framing’s good, too. There’s some real art in that pile.”
Battle thumbed through the stack. The pictures were mostly mundane snapshots of the Tadpoles hanging around, drinking and smoking by the creek. He lingered on some photos, sped past others. A few made him smile absently, as if recalling memories that had long since faded away. He finished with the pictures.
“Good enough?” Hogan asked.
“For now.”
“Since you are still walking the earth, what is your next command?”
Battle rose from his chair. “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” he decided.
Hogan shrugged. “Unlike you, I have plenty of time.”
www.barryhickey.com
CHAPTER FIVE
Big Bill Hogan handed a stack of pictures to the man now know as Battle. “As promised. Pretty good diffusion of light, I must say. Framing’s good, too. There’s some real art in that pile.”
Battle thumbed through the stack. The pictures were mostly mundane snapshots of the Tadpoles hanging around, drinking and smoking by the creek. He lingered on some photos, sped past others. A few made him smile absently, as if recalling memories that had long since faded away. He finished with the pictures.
“Good enough?” Hogan asked.
“For now.”
“Since you are still walking the earth, what is your next command?”
Battle rose from his chair. “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” he decided.
Hogan shrugged. “Unlike you, I have plenty of time.”
www.barryhickey.com
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Excerpt from my new novel - THE GLASS FENCE: http://ping.fm/evlD4
CHAPTER 1
BOYS AND GIRLS OF COLOR
Note on a napkin:
You reach for the sun.
I'll grab the moon.
It's closer.
"Makeup on, makeup off," Angela Spencer said in a throaty smoker's voice. She wiped down her cracked porcelain face with a warm wet towel. There was no art to removing makeup anymore.
"I may just as well use paint thinner," she complained, sipping straight from the mid-priced wine bottle.
It was far past her bedtime already but there was a new channel added to her cable service that she had to watch after the abysmal date with the paper products salesman. Channel changing consumed most of her regular evenings. She even had a callus on her index finger to prove it. As for the date? Another wasted experience. Mr. Paper was too busy bragging about his entire life ad nauseum to notice that she was chewing on her fingers as an appetizer. She wasn't even playing hard to get with the loser and he was most definitively not the object of any of her many desires. And the coupon at the end! Two-for-one! She'd never had that done to her before. In the foyer of the restaurant, she was blunt with the man. There would be no second date. Pretend you never found me on the web. Mr. Paper was scratched from the short list of dating contenders after the first lap.
"They never seem to ask what I'm interested in," she complained to her overweight cat. (It was sitting on the closed toilet lid). "I admit I was stuck on my decrepit personality and good looks for over fifteen years, but what's a former Miss Amarillo supposed to do? Now that I'm older but wiser, I have plenty to talk about besides airline deregulation, frequent flyer miles and beauty pageants."
The airlines. Old Glory days. She was a world-circling flight attendant with an international carrier before the sky fell and they found a way to put her out to pasture before she became a liability.
"Drunk on the job, my ass," she yelled down at the cat. "Never when I flew! Never!"
The stripped away, aging face confronting her in the vanity mirror looked like melting wax on a mannequin. No amount of creams could save her. Her bored cat slid off the toilet seat as she rubbed her eyebrows down to a wirey gray. Full round lips became thin-set strips that seemed to guard her cigarette-stained teeth. No doubt about it, the pretty days were gone.
Now Angela Spencer was the front desk supervisor at the fabulous Windamere Resort and Hotel. She didn't enjoy these one-on-ones with herself anymore. She didn't like talking to a bitch. The poor cat was a captive audience. She fed him, cleaned the shit from his litter box and kept him safe inside. He was a male cat. Declawed. Harmless except for his short sharp teeth.
She reviled him.
"Men think the battle of the sexes is a big chess game," she scolded the cat. "But the truth is, women play the game to collect as many pieces as they can, never wanting to actually end the game!" Angela giggled at the memories of her high-flying days when all the boys were wrapped around her finger. Pilots and co-pilots and the occasional straight stewie and all those married businessmen in hotel lobby bars... Some were lucscious.
She picked up the wine bottle and finished it off. A nature-made competitor to a cabinet filled with synthetic anti-depressants.
"How did it get like this?" she asked the unfeeling cat. "Once upon a time I was so pretty but then I wanted the next boy and the next and the next and now look at me. I look like a cartoon and there are no boys of any age worth pursuing anymore. What horrors have I done? Is it my fault? Am I so out of sync? Mr. Paper used a coupon for god's sakes! Did he use it on purpose to show his disdain for women? Was he angry that the online picture he found of me is ten years old? How many broken-hearted men out there hate my living guts now?"
The answer was a lot. There were three broken engagements and she was married twice. Vegas didn't count.
"Vegas never counts," she rationalized. Angela stumbled over the cat and wandered into the bedroom, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. She noticed the suitcase of sex toys in the pink round hat box sticking out from under the bed and kicked it - kicked it hard in the face like an old, cheating boyfriend.
"Enough of you, stupid box!" She coughed angrily. She kicked at the suitcase again, stubbing her big toe. Angela sat on the bed and burst into tears. She hated living alone, hated being alone with herself and the constant idiotic chatter she provided for her own ears. "The next man's the ticket, you'll see. Oh, to find a friend in a real man again," she lamented. "A man with magic who will put up with my bullshit for more than a dinner date!"
Her cat approached from the bathroom, purring at her feet for attention.
"Oh, shut up!" Angela chastised it. "You only pretend you like me. Otherwise you will starve to death, you clawless fool!" She dropped down on her knees to the floor and looked the cat in the eyes. "Just remember itty bitty kitty; you don't have any money and you're a bore!" There. Angela had said it. "The cat is out of the bag," she laughed. She pushed the feline aside and crawled up onto the bed, a small pool of drool collecting in her mouth.
The cat hated her right now. Hated her more than bathtub water and dry food. Hated her more than cat cartoons and Meow Mix commercials. Hated her enough to ram a fur ball down her throat to shut her up.
"I know what you're thinking, kitty cat!" Angela wagged her finger at him. "And if you're not careful I just might buy a dog yet! A pit bull to terrify you night and day. Or maybe I'll make you sleep outside on the apartment deck so you can watch for the coyotes below. You're their favorite food, by the way. You won't sleep a wink. Then you'll be as miserable as me."
The cat would never forgive her for her harsh words. Some cats are that way. They either forget everything that happened in nine hours or mistrust their keepers for eternity. The cat slinked off to shit in the litter box. Angela crawled under the covers of her bed, listening to the scratching sounds of the cat burying its excrement. The male cat would be back as soon as Angela fell asleep. It would sneak up on the bed and lay by her pillow and stare at snoring Angela's aging face, feeling dissatisfied that a former Texas beauty queen with man issues was his only companion.
Angela's muddled memory brought up the rhinestone-studded plastic tiara that she wore twenty years ago on what should have been the greatest night of her life. One of the judges chased her around the motel pool after the evening pageant. He said he expected compensation because he had been the swing vote for Miss Angela Spencer. When she turned a wet corner by the deep end, the crown slipped off her head and shattered on the concrete into a dozen pieces. Fleeing as she was from the obese city councilman, she didn't stop to retrieve them.
"Wonder Woman wears a tiara," she mumbled. Mentally exhausted, Angela inhaled deeply through clogged, wheezing nostrils and finally passed out. The male cat jumped up on the bed and joined her.
CHAPTER 1
BOYS AND GIRLS OF COLOR
Note on a napkin:
You reach for the sun.
I'll grab the moon.
It's closer.
"Makeup on, makeup off," Angela Spencer said in a throaty smoker's voice. She wiped down her cracked porcelain face with a warm wet towel. There was no art to removing makeup anymore.
"I may just as well use paint thinner," she complained, sipping straight from the mid-priced wine bottle.
It was far past her bedtime already but there was a new channel added to her cable service that she had to watch after the abysmal date with the paper products salesman. Channel changing consumed most of her regular evenings. She even had a callus on her index finger to prove it. As for the date? Another wasted experience. Mr. Paper was too busy bragging about his entire life ad nauseum to notice that she was chewing on her fingers as an appetizer. She wasn't even playing hard to get with the loser and he was most definitively not the object of any of her many desires. And the coupon at the end! Two-for-one! She'd never had that done to her before. In the foyer of the restaurant, she was blunt with the man. There would be no second date. Pretend you never found me on the web. Mr. Paper was scratched from the short list of dating contenders after the first lap.
"They never seem to ask what I'm interested in," she complained to her overweight cat. (It was sitting on the closed toilet lid). "I admit I was stuck on my decrepit personality and good looks for over fifteen years, but what's a former Miss Amarillo supposed to do? Now that I'm older but wiser, I have plenty to talk about besides airline deregulation, frequent flyer miles and beauty pageants."
The airlines. Old Glory days. She was a world-circling flight attendant with an international carrier before the sky fell and they found a way to put her out to pasture before she became a liability.
"Drunk on the job, my ass," she yelled down at the cat. "Never when I flew! Never!"
The stripped away, aging face confronting her in the vanity mirror looked like melting wax on a mannequin. No amount of creams could save her. Her bored cat slid off the toilet seat as she rubbed her eyebrows down to a wirey gray. Full round lips became thin-set strips that seemed to guard her cigarette-stained teeth. No doubt about it, the pretty days were gone.
Now Angela Spencer was the front desk supervisor at the fabulous Windamere Resort and Hotel. She didn't enjoy these one-on-ones with herself anymore. She didn't like talking to a bitch. The poor cat was a captive audience. She fed him, cleaned the shit from his litter box and kept him safe inside. He was a male cat. Declawed. Harmless except for his short sharp teeth.
She reviled him.
"Men think the battle of the sexes is a big chess game," she scolded the cat. "But the truth is, women play the game to collect as many pieces as they can, never wanting to actually end the game!" Angela giggled at the memories of her high-flying days when all the boys were wrapped around her finger. Pilots and co-pilots and the occasional straight stewie and all those married businessmen in hotel lobby bars... Some were lucscious.
She picked up the wine bottle and finished it off. A nature-made competitor to a cabinet filled with synthetic anti-depressants.
"How did it get like this?" she asked the unfeeling cat. "Once upon a time I was so pretty but then I wanted the next boy and the next and the next and now look at me. I look like a cartoon and there are no boys of any age worth pursuing anymore. What horrors have I done? Is it my fault? Am I so out of sync? Mr. Paper used a coupon for god's sakes! Did he use it on purpose to show his disdain for women? Was he angry that the online picture he found of me is ten years old? How many broken-hearted men out there hate my living guts now?"
The answer was a lot. There were three broken engagements and she was married twice. Vegas didn't count.
"Vegas never counts," she rationalized. Angela stumbled over the cat and wandered into the bedroom, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. She noticed the suitcase of sex toys in the pink round hat box sticking out from under the bed and kicked it - kicked it hard in the face like an old, cheating boyfriend.
"Enough of you, stupid box!" She coughed angrily. She kicked at the suitcase again, stubbing her big toe. Angela sat on the bed and burst into tears. She hated living alone, hated being alone with herself and the constant idiotic chatter she provided for her own ears. "The next man's the ticket, you'll see. Oh, to find a friend in a real man again," she lamented. "A man with magic who will put up with my bullshit for more than a dinner date!"
Her cat approached from the bathroom, purring at her feet for attention.
"Oh, shut up!" Angela chastised it. "You only pretend you like me. Otherwise you will starve to death, you clawless fool!" She dropped down on her knees to the floor and looked the cat in the eyes. "Just remember itty bitty kitty; you don't have any money and you're a bore!" There. Angela had said it. "The cat is out of the bag," she laughed. She pushed the feline aside and crawled up onto the bed, a small pool of drool collecting in her mouth.
The cat hated her right now. Hated her more than bathtub water and dry food. Hated her more than cat cartoons and Meow Mix commercials. Hated her enough to ram a fur ball down her throat to shut her up.
"I know what you're thinking, kitty cat!" Angela wagged her finger at him. "And if you're not careful I just might buy a dog yet! A pit bull to terrify you night and day. Or maybe I'll make you sleep outside on the apartment deck so you can watch for the coyotes below. You're their favorite food, by the way. You won't sleep a wink. Then you'll be as miserable as me."
The cat would never forgive her for her harsh words. Some cats are that way. They either forget everything that happened in nine hours or mistrust their keepers for eternity. The cat slinked off to shit in the litter box. Angela crawled under the covers of her bed, listening to the scratching sounds of the cat burying its excrement. The male cat would be back as soon as Angela fell asleep. It would sneak up on the bed and lay by her pillow and stare at snoring Angela's aging face, feeling dissatisfied that a former Texas beauty queen with man issues was his only companion.
Angela's muddled memory brought up the rhinestone-studded plastic tiara that she wore twenty years ago on what should have been the greatest night of her life. One of the judges chased her around the motel pool after the evening pageant. He said he expected compensation because he had been the swing vote for Miss Angela Spencer. When she turned a wet corner by the deep end, the crown slipped off her head and shattered on the concrete into a dozen pieces. Fleeing as she was from the obese city councilman, she didn't stop to retrieve them.
"Wonder Woman wears a tiara," she mumbled. Mentally exhausted, Angela inhaled deeply through clogged, wheezing nostrils and finally passed out. The male cat jumped up on the bed and joined her.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Excerpt from Chasing God's River. http://ping.fm/aDt80
Katie Jones shook her head, ever so slightly, coming out of the bruises of a crystal clear dream. Next to her, Wade was sound asleep, his head buried face down in a pillow. She looked at the quartz bedside clock. Three a.m.
Another angel dream.
A messenger this time. She laid her head back on the pillow, savoring the dream, hoping to find meaning. The angelic messenger was a young man, handsome and strong. His skin was a pale white marble. He had a sad innocent smile on his lips. She was standing by his side on a riverbank near the bottom of a tall waterfall facing up together.
“Here he comes,” the angel said.
The bow of a long kayak made of whalebone, driftwood, and sea lion skins appeared at the top of the waterfall and hung there.
Katie couldn't see who was in it.
The angel extended his left arm, palm up and open, as if holding the kayak in place.
“What is your wish for the passenger?”
“To find his way,” Katie responded.
“Then he must fall,” the angel said. The angel dropped his hand.
Katie watched as the kayak shot out from the waterfall, nose down in free fall. Wade was in the boat, dressed in animal skins, his eyes alert that real death was at hand. A powerful arm of evil water reached out from the base of the waterfall, grabbed the boat like a child's toy and sucked the kayak into a deep pool of wet death.
And Wade was gone.
Startled, Katie sat up in bed. “Why?”
In the darkened room, she heard the messenger's whisper. “Men are supposed to die.”
She felt the angel leave the room, like the soft evaporated whist of a breath withdrawn. Katie laid next to her sleeping husband, smothering him with the spooning warmth of her frenzied body, her hands reaching out, clutching his.
“Be safe, my love.” She kissed him on his cheek and he smiled in his sleep.
Katie Jones shook her head, ever so slightly, coming out of the bruises of a crystal clear dream. Next to her, Wade was sound asleep, his head buried face down in a pillow. She looked at the quartz bedside clock. Three a.m.
Another angel dream.
A messenger this time. She laid her head back on the pillow, savoring the dream, hoping to find meaning. The angelic messenger was a young man, handsome and strong. His skin was a pale white marble. He had a sad innocent smile on his lips. She was standing by his side on a riverbank near the bottom of a tall waterfall facing up together.
“Here he comes,” the angel said.
The bow of a long kayak made of whalebone, driftwood, and sea lion skins appeared at the top of the waterfall and hung there.
Katie couldn't see who was in it.
The angel extended his left arm, palm up and open, as if holding the kayak in place.
“What is your wish for the passenger?”
“To find his way,” Katie responded.
“Then he must fall,” the angel said. The angel dropped his hand.
Katie watched as the kayak shot out from the waterfall, nose down in free fall. Wade was in the boat, dressed in animal skins, his eyes alert that real death was at hand. A powerful arm of evil water reached out from the base of the waterfall, grabbed the boat like a child's toy and sucked the kayak into a deep pool of wet death.
And Wade was gone.
Startled, Katie sat up in bed. “Why?”
In the darkened room, she heard the messenger's whisper. “Men are supposed to die.”
She felt the angel leave the room, like the soft evaporated whist of a breath withdrawn. Katie laid next to her sleeping husband, smothering him with the spooning warmth of her frenzied body, her hands reaching out, clutching his.
“Be safe, my love.” She kissed him on his cheek and he smiled in his sleep.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Barry James Hickey – Chasing God’s River Interview
by Cathy B Stucker
SellingBooks.com
q: Tell us a bit about the book.
A: The bond of marriage is tested when a husband in mid-life crisis returns to Colorado for the summer to kayak and find his virility again. He doesn’t expect to meet his former coach, an old college sweetheart and a mysterious teenager. Each wants something from him he can’t provide. And then there is the whitewater of the Arkansas river. It wants something from him, too. Maybe his life.
q: Tell us something about yourself.
a: My life’s journey is fodder for my books. I started writing when I was twenty. As a kid, I hitchhiked across America many times. I was a singer in three bands, acted in a dozen plays. A handful of commercials. I started in Chicago, then Colorado, a Los Angeles film career and back to Colorado. I have had a long list of odd jobs in-between: steelworker, elevator operator, desk clerk, canoe guide, movie studios, realtor, school teacher, car salesman, publisher to name a few… Four colleges… I did the Hollywood thing for 15 years as an actor, writer and producer. I’ve traveled to odd places – Greenland, India, Thailand, Greece, the Philippines to name a few.
q: What inspired you to write this book?
a: I’m in my mid-fifties. Everyday I’m confronted by broken people. Some by their own hand, others by the world they live in. I write stories about common people overcoming the sometimes-extraordinary obstacles of everyday life.
q: How did you choose the title?
a; The river is a metaphor. How many of us chase what isn’t there anymore or long for what will never be in our short lives? Our time on earth is limited. We have to accept that.
q: What obstacles did you encounter in getting this book published? How did you overcome them?
a: I’m still learning about the publishing world. I spent a few thousand dollars in postage and paper pursuing agents for my first three books. Since I’m not in the big leagues, there is no financial benefit to having a publisher besides the validation that comes with someone accepting my work. If I win a lottery, I will probably hire a publicist, marketers, and a management team. I’ve learned that the marketing is all on me. My publisher, TumbleBrush Press likes the spiritual offerings in my books.
q: How did you know you wanted to be a writer? How did you get started?
a: I was twenty, operating an old-fashioned Otis elevator at night in downtown Chicago. Lots of free time. I started with poetry. “Cold thoughts spring from the winter fountain.” I have two boxes of index cards from those days – outlines for two books; The Sons of Marco Polo and Voyageur. I sent queries to thirty agents and realized my first rejection letters. That was 35 years ago.
q: Do you have any writing rituals?
a: I have to work other jobs to survive so I write early in the morning and late at night. I like to meander on weekends with a notepad for new inspirations. I visit the library, a bookstore, a coffee shop.
q: How do you come up with the names for your characters?
a: When I see a character fully, I recognize the name. Some names are allegorical.
q: Did you learn anything from writing and publishing this book? What?
a: If I didn’t write I could afford vacations and increase my income in other ventures. I seem to have stepped away from the pleasures of local culture since my mind is always on my work. I also realize that it is very difficult being a stand-up guy with so much temptation.
q: If you were doing it all over again, what would you do differently?
a: I would have enjoyed singing in big auditoriums with a big band. But there is no do-over in life.
q: What types of books do you like to read? Who are your favorite authors? Why?
a: I read all sorts of books. This year it’s been John Irving, Larry McMurty, Robert Parker, John Grisham, Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Norman Mailer, Mario Puzo, Carson McCullers. James Michener's Alaska this week. I started several other books by various writers but put them down halfway. I just couldn’t punish myself to finish them. I discovered a small gem in Neither Wolf nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. My favorite authors are Mark Twain, Jack London, Carson McCullers and Leo Tolstoy.
q; Are you working on your next book? What can you tell us about it?
a: The Glass Fence was released last week. Next is Waking Paul Bunyan. A modern day family resuscitates their giant uncle and Babe the blue ox. If I don’t get too misanthropic, it should be a humorous and poignant story about how American values have been suffocated by big government and materialism. Poor Paul has to face age discrimination, his disabilities as a giant, the utter loneliness of being a freak of nature and social outcast. And have you seen the cost of tomatoes at the local grocery?
q: What is the best advice you could give other writers about writing or publishing?
a: Publishing is a crapshoot. Write well and follow your moral compass.
q: Who is the perfect reader for your book?
a: Chasing God’s River is a modern love story with action and adventure. I think it appeals mostly to women over thirty. All of my books do. Maybe I’m a sensitive guy.
q: Where can readers learn more about you and your book?
a: I have a website. www.barryhickey.com. I’m on Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace with interviews on Youtube. My books are available at www.tumblebrushpress.com or on Amazon.com and Smashwords in print or as a download.
by Cathy B Stucker
SellingBooks.com
q: Tell us a bit about the book.
A: The bond of marriage is tested when a husband in mid-life crisis returns to Colorado for the summer to kayak and find his virility again. He doesn’t expect to meet his former coach, an old college sweetheart and a mysterious teenager. Each wants something from him he can’t provide. And then there is the whitewater of the Arkansas river. It wants something from him, too. Maybe his life.
q: Tell us something about yourself.
a: My life’s journey is fodder for my books. I started writing when I was twenty. As a kid, I hitchhiked across America many times. I was a singer in three bands, acted in a dozen plays. A handful of commercials. I started in Chicago, then Colorado, a Los Angeles film career and back to Colorado. I have had a long list of odd jobs in-between: steelworker, elevator operator, desk clerk, canoe guide, movie studios, realtor, school teacher, car salesman, publisher to name a few… Four colleges… I did the Hollywood thing for 15 years as an actor, writer and producer. I’ve traveled to odd places – Greenland, India, Thailand, Greece, the Philippines to name a few.
q: What inspired you to write this book?
a: I’m in my mid-fifties. Everyday I’m confronted by broken people. Some by their own hand, others by the world they live in. I write stories about common people overcoming the sometimes-extraordinary obstacles of everyday life.
q: How did you choose the title?
a; The river is a metaphor. How many of us chase what isn’t there anymore or long for what will never be in our short lives? Our time on earth is limited. We have to accept that.
q: What obstacles did you encounter in getting this book published? How did you overcome them?
a: I’m still learning about the publishing world. I spent a few thousand dollars in postage and paper pursuing agents for my first three books. Since I’m not in the big leagues, there is no financial benefit to having a publisher besides the validation that comes with someone accepting my work. If I win a lottery, I will probably hire a publicist, marketers, and a management team. I’ve learned that the marketing is all on me. My publisher, TumbleBrush Press likes the spiritual offerings in my books.
q: How did you know you wanted to be a writer? How did you get started?
a: I was twenty, operating an old-fashioned Otis elevator at night in downtown Chicago. Lots of free time. I started with poetry. “Cold thoughts spring from the winter fountain.” I have two boxes of index cards from those days – outlines for two books; The Sons of Marco Polo and Voyageur. I sent queries to thirty agents and realized my first rejection letters. That was 35 years ago.
q: Do you have any writing rituals?
a: I have to work other jobs to survive so I write early in the morning and late at night. I like to meander on weekends with a notepad for new inspirations. I visit the library, a bookstore, a coffee shop.
q: How do you come up with the names for your characters?
a: When I see a character fully, I recognize the name. Some names are allegorical.
q: Did you learn anything from writing and publishing this book? What?
a: If I didn’t write I could afford vacations and increase my income in other ventures. I seem to have stepped away from the pleasures of local culture since my mind is always on my work. I also realize that it is very difficult being a stand-up guy with so much temptation.
q: If you were doing it all over again, what would you do differently?
a: I would have enjoyed singing in big auditoriums with a big band. But there is no do-over in life.
q: What types of books do you like to read? Who are your favorite authors? Why?
a: I read all sorts of books. This year it’s been John Irving, Larry McMurty, Robert Parker, John Grisham, Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Norman Mailer, Mario Puzo, Carson McCullers. James Michener's Alaska this week. I started several other books by various writers but put them down halfway. I just couldn’t punish myself to finish them. I discovered a small gem in Neither Wolf nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. My favorite authors are Mark Twain, Jack London, Carson McCullers and Leo Tolstoy.
q; Are you working on your next book? What can you tell us about it?
a: The Glass Fence was released last week. Next is Waking Paul Bunyan. A modern day family resuscitates their giant uncle and Babe the blue ox. If I don’t get too misanthropic, it should be a humorous and poignant story about how American values have been suffocated by big government and materialism. Poor Paul has to face age discrimination, his disabilities as a giant, the utter loneliness of being a freak of nature and social outcast. And have you seen the cost of tomatoes at the local grocery?
q: What is the best advice you could give other writers about writing or publishing?
a: Publishing is a crapshoot. Write well and follow your moral compass.
q: Who is the perfect reader for your book?
a: Chasing God’s River is a modern love story with action and adventure. I think it appeals mostly to women over thirty. All of my books do. Maybe I’m a sensitive guy.
q: Where can readers learn more about you and your book?
a: I have a website. www.barryhickey.com. I’m on Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace with interviews on Youtube. My books are available at www.tumblebrushpress.com or on Amazon.com and Smashwords in print or as a download.
Barry James Hickey's The Five Pearls captivates and inspires, lures and hooks you. John Battles' struggle to atone for his past resonates with readers young and old. Amber and her loose gang of tadpoles touch on issues that all teenagers face and you find yourself rooting for all of them as they struggle towards adulthood. Hickey has written a novel seeped in today's most compelling issues and written a story to inspire us all - Tonya Norton.
The Five Pearls: http://ping.fm/GrK2q
The Five Pearls: http://ping.fm/GrK2q
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I Missed Doomsday Again
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Friends - My new novel The Glass Fence is finally available for guilty summer reading pleasures. A bouncing cultural mystery set at a luxury hotel with troubled romances, cracking friendships, my twisted humor, the spirit of life and plenty of subplots . It is available at Amazon in print or ebook and Smashwords. Please take a peek. Links below...
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Listen to The Spirit Connection - Inspirations - Honoring Soul with Barry James Hickey.
Listen to internet radio with SpiritConnection on Blog Talk Radio
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Barry Hickey hosts The Spirit Connection tonight at 7pm mountain time on blogtalkradio. Tune in!http://ping.fm/yONac
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Join Barry Hickey, Christine Blackburn and David Torres on The Spirit Connection thursdays at 7pm (Mountain Time)
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
Friday, May 6, 2011
My Dogs Are On Facebook
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
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