Public

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Hi, ya’ll!

I have a public reading tonight for HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. At the Ontario, Oregon lye-berry. Or ‘library’ for those that like ole-timey spelling. 

http://www.ontariocommunitylibrary.org/

Halloween Book Reading

So, this week’s episode of The Durrels of Corfu had the eldest son’s book being published. And his family didn’t give two shits in a barrel that he’d managed to both WRITE A BOOK AND GET IT PUBLISHED.

So, his mother, to make up for her own indifference and so forth, arranges a

PUBLIC READING

for this literary newbie. 

Larry and his family show up and one old man. And…no one else. The sister drags someone in off the streets but it’s no good. It’s a fiasco.

Oh Masterpiece Theatre, must ye show me the face of my worst fears? With British accents?! Come on!!

 

UPDATE. THE NEXT DAY. HI.

Well. I’m glad I did it. I feel, and I know ‘feel’ is a word right up there with the C word and the F word but…I feel truly rhino-skinned now and more than capable of facing an indifferent public who are indifferent to my efforts.

Rhino-skinned. That is my new pet name. Masterpiece Theatre, you fucking bastards. You couldn’t show that episode next week?? I take no responsibility whatsoever that I sat and watched it. None. I’m oddly very Republican right now. Bwha ha ha.

 

 

 

 

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PURPLE TRAINWRECK

 

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Three quail looking over a freshly harvested corn field. Malheur County, Oregon.

Purple Trainwreck is the name for a marijuana plant. Anything with ‘blue’ in the title came from the Blueberry strain– which is apparently THE BESTEST STRAIN OF MJ PLANTS EVER INVENTED BY A LOVING AND WONDERFUL GOD.

So, yours truly trimmed MJ this last weekend. It’s legal here in Oregon. And no, it has not always been legal here. My aunt has several plants and a commercial license and a small pot farm. I learned to trim the buds. I had a small pair of purple scissors, rubber gloves and a can-do spirit. Rubber gloves?— you find yourself asking yourself. Ah, because loco weed, in the raw and in the buff, is super-OMG-stickeeeeeeeeeeee. It also makes you itch and sneeze, makes your nose run. Because Weed is also a weed. I get rashes and the sniffles around weeds. I do have allergies to said stuff.

I worked and kept my head down. It was, ahem, Redneck Central and being a Liberal Snothead, yep. I also learned that a sales tax is the same as communism. I…yeah. I listened, a lot, because being around people reminds me that I hate being around people. Mostly, the talk around me was family-friend-people-I-don’t-know gossip. What so and so is doing about so and so. That bitch so and so did so and so and now so and so. I won’t repeat anything verbatim because I can’t afford a lawyer. Not that my ‘family’ would sue me for repeating anything they said or, ahem, did.

I did not go to Mountain Home, for that little gala for Whistle Pig, Volume Nine. Because my instincts said, hey, stay home, bad idea. And I had a quarter, if that, in my little pink drawstring purse I bought in Honduras. So yep, I chickshitted my way out of a networking opportunity with local writers, artists and such. The weather was also bad and it was snowing over in that country…I mean, excuses, I got em.

Okay! Let’s move on to a writing project of mine, shall we? I’d talk some more about my MJ bud trimming experiences, but it’s mostly…grab another stem, strip it, trim little stems, gloves are getting sticky, why is my cousin still with this Bitchmonster Womanbeast who’s been constantly pregnant for the last eighteen months now…

Aftermath is the tender, subtle tale of Hannah Gray, who finds herself in a microcosm that’s run by zombies. Through Hannah’s wacky misadventures, we discover some hard truths about our Present Day Society and how the current GOP dumpsterfucks are trying to re-create that first episode of Mad Men, right down to Don the Dickster Draper telling Jax’s old lady, Tara, that no woman talks to him like that. Yeah, it took me several episodes to figure out that woman that got Don all cheaty on Betty, bwha ha ha, is the same actress that plays Tara on SOA. That first episode before Civil Rights, before the moon landing, before…you know, the ‘good ole days’ that Hollywood writers made up as they did heavy drugs and chugged whiskey like it was going extinct.

Yeah, so.

Aftermath is my title, so far, for my, yes, zombie-infused tale. I know, shhh. Hush. Zombies. I know. But, for some reason, I just keep writing on said tale!

It started off as a short story. Some of you know this one. Where you sit down to write a short, brief, to the point take-down on modern society and feminist politics. Because we gals, amirite? Hallelujah and praise Jayyyyy-sus!

And this little flash fiction piece wannabe bloats, bwha ha ha, into some epic that MUST BE A THOUSAND PAGES LONG. Because you got stuff to say, man. You got stuff to say!

Or whatever you have to tell yourself. You remember, vaguely, that so and so was supposed to be a short story, not a modern political treatise barely disguised as a three-book zombie romp. You obsess about What Happens Next as you trim marijuana plants while your cuz talks about…uh huh.

Why is this called Purple Trainwreck? Because stoners name it. The more you know, right?

Back to Aftermath.

Actually, it’s where Hannah wakes up at a desk office after cutting her wrists during the zombie apocalypse. She’s understandably confused. Suddenly, she’s in sedate, boring office clothes, and ZOMBIES run everything. Except you can’t call them zombies. They’re…well, if I ever get this one anywhere near a publisher, you can read what zombies prefer to be called.

I’m just letting myself write. I’m just having fun with it. I’ve started it over. I’m at about thirty thousand words.

Oh. Also been editing my old blog posts. Yep. Someone was picture happy! Why did no one inform moi that moi was picture happy? You sonsabitches.

I need to go hang posters for my reading for next week. I have a real horror of leaving the house, interacting with others. It’s very nearly at the phobia stage. I am already considering how to get out of holiday gatherings. And then realize I’m an adult and I can choose to just not go.

So, the next time someone tells me how quiet I am, during the next tedious shitday spent trimming loco weed, I’m gonna totally agree with them and say nothing beyond that. Yep, I sure am. End it there. If they persist in ‘chatting’ with me…oh fuck, my stomach hurts now.

 

SEPTEMBER 22

 

 

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September 22 is when House on Clark Boulevard makes its debut. Now you know. Mark your calendars, write it on your hand, engrave it on a pet rock.

I, sullen and full of fogs and low tides, went to see about securing a second public reading for HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. At Second and Wine, the lovely little restaurant/wine bar in Ontario, Oregon. Now, the friend helping me with publicity and so forth…did not show up. [I am assuming this person had something come up or something happened at work or…?] So, I waited a bit, then, stomach churning, went into the joint and clumsily brokered a deal of sorts to maybe read, maybe, in October. I left a little packet of stuff and things– excerpt from actual book, bio about yours truly and my contact info. Hallelujah, I still have some moxie left. Not much, a smidge. But hey, a tiny sparkle of boldness still sparkles somewhere in the region of my left toe.

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Clark BLVD. Oregon wildfire smoke

The wildfires here in Oregon. Yeah. The haze here in extreme Eastern Oregon has been Mordor-ish. It just looks foggy all the time. We get inversions here, so that look is rather familiar but still. I’ve also seen what these fires are doing to Montana. Over a million acres. The Columbia Gorge on fire, set off by kids with fireworks. That’s the Eagle Creek fire, for those keeping score at home. We’re waiting here, on the far other side of the state, for our own set of out of control savage flame festivals. So far…nothing. But the surrounding surfaces hold tall growths of cheat grass and such, dry as Thanksgiving turkey. We had those gigantic snowfalls and the weeds loved it…and we’re waiting for that one strike of lightning. A thunderstorm moving through that deposits a few drops of rain. Where the thunder rolls and the lightning sparks hundreds of little fires, and perhaps one or several take off…yep. Or a careless sort who drops a ciggie or a spark from the undercarriage of an ATV or some sort of off-road whatchamacallit. Bango! Smoldering evil coal! BOOM!! Wildfire.

 

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Actual Clark BLVD. Pretty close to the actual house I based my novel on. 

There was a big fire here, I remember it. Watching the flames munch the dry hills, it was both awesome and pee down your leg terrifying. We were told to evacuate and went to my aunt’s, high up on the hill overlooking our little bit of the Treasure Valley here. You could stand outside, with the ash drifting down, and observe the line of the fire as it threatened to turn our way, to engulf everything…but kept going sideways, parallel to where we all stood. I remember the local farmers stayed to protect their equipment and buildings, my dad and brother included. This was years ago. Memory says I was a ‘kid’.

September 22!! Did I mention House on Clark Boulevard comes out then?

I’m going to tackle the Betsy Devil shit in a separate post. Because siding with the MRA shits, Betsy, should go against all your so-called inner Jesus urges. Michigan is now among the bottom of the states in education due to their embrace of charter schools and ‘choice’ thereof for the kiddies. Devos brings nothing but destruction, and a return to unless ‘she’s a virgin, she deserves to be raped’ fun. Once upon a time, not that long ago, you had to qualify as a ‘good’ rape victim. [ Boys just gonna be boys, right? And yes, men get raped, but not in the numbers women do. ] Oh, yeah, there’s still that ‘she deserved it’ narrative and ‘what was she wearing’ and ‘if she’d made better choices’ and…uh huh.

Rather like ‘earning’ an abortion– rape or incest only, gals!

So, I’ll fuss and fume about all that in a post I probably  won’t post. Because it will prolly turn into a single solid block of cuss words and pics of  raised middle fingers. WWJD? Cuss like a sailor and write blog posts in these here modern times! I did promise to make September about the writing process or share smoogens of projects. Smoogens– agonized over liftings from various writing projects. The more you know.

 

September 22. Let’s finish off this shameless self-promotion and side-trip into wildfires and Betsy Devil with a shoutout to moi and her book. Now books!

Oh– I took a tiny trip, a nostalgic drive, back to the actual Clark Boulevard. Evening, twilight, the smoke making everything very eerie and oh so atmospheric. Still enough daylight to snap some snaps of the road, old houses, farmie stuff. I looked for the old house…I think it’s gone. I might have had to drive further up Clark but I don’t remember living that far from the main highway between Vale and Ontario. Memory, lies to you all the time…!

But. I made a pilgrimage, of sorts. Is that not what counts? You really can’t go home again, especially if that home seems vanished like a meat fart in the breeze.

The road looked suitably spooky. The old house I took a picture of looked just right. The sign, with the smoky sky behind it, ah, something out of a Dario Argento film. The haystack had an air of menace! The people living on that road probably still wonder who the nut in the GMC was. What is that weirdo doing? My self-consciousness, always there to turn me into a scaredy-cat!

Oh– on an uplifting final note, uplifting for me and this blog is all about me, me, me– my short story, Maybelle, got into Whistle Pig, which is out of Mountain Home, Idaho. In their October issue. I’m thrilled. I sat and wrote this little tale on a Sunday afternoon, about an elderly woman and her doll. I am glad, after schlepping it to many another, to see it find a home. Sometimes there’s an acceptance of your work. And then the crushing avalanche of rejections, of course, that crush you and crush you and crush you. Yay!

September 22. Get that tattooed, on your cheek. So others will stop and ask you why you have this date inked permanently on your skin. You can reply– That’s when Ann Wuehler’s House on Clark Boulevard arrived!

They’ll be politely puzzled and forget promptly all that information but you, at least, tried. You can just write it with a ball point pen, too. If you don’t wish to commit fully to this sort of advertising. I’ll understand.

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The House on Clark Boulevard!!

 

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THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD IS FULL OF LADYBUGS.

That is a line from my latest stab at the third book of my ‘trilogy’. Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice. The second is done– Alice in Oregonlandia.

I’ve started that third book over X amount of times [at least four] and have stumbled upon…well, will do a whole blog post on that. I am determined that September will be ABOUT WRITING AND WHAT I’M WRITING OR ELSE I’LL EAT MY OWN HAT. I have two hats. One is from Thailand. I won’t eat that one. Because I got it in Thailand and I need to remember I was once a brave little world traveling cookie.

American politics, at the moment, make me want to write snarky comments under news stories and start my own religion so I can get a megachurch, too. The Church of Annabella. I’ll preach on America First, everyone else can just suck it and why guns are holy and in the Bible. 

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Hence, the focusing on the gentle art of writing and the gentler art of promotion of said writings. Yippee skip, my cowpokes and cowladies. Mostly because anything I write that way– [I edited out a mini-rant on AmeriJesus running over SJW’s in a chariot. Uh huh.]– makes me a bit, well, unfocused and scattershot. So!! Let’s get promotin’!! Isn’t this fun?

The first leg comes out in September. The House on Clark Boulevard.

Ghosts. Holiday meals. Human sacrifice. Will Nancy ever get those Christmas cards written? How can a housewife get a kid potty-trained if she’s fighting the forces of darkness? Who is Mr. Peepers and just why does Mr. Blue do what he do? Who will get up to let Fred in? It’s certainly not Art! Will that turkey ever cook?? Is Calgon far more magical  than that company let on? Find out these questions and more!!

The House on Clark Boulevard.

The street is real, by the way. That house, which is one of the characters in this book,  was one of my childhood homes. I was just a little older than Alice Stockhorst when I lived in the actual house on Clark Boul-de-bard. That’s how I said it, because I was, like, four or five.

We were living in Washington State by the time I hit first grade…Paterson Elementary, where you could spend your whole recess watching barges go up and down the mighty Columbia if you so wished. We took field trips to McNary Dam [giant man-eating catfish!] and to Tri-Cities [Pasco, Kenniwick and Richland] to see the ballet. Memory, it cleans up those images you wish to be sparkly and nice, doesn’t it. Oh yes.

Oh, I made my grandmother–the real Grandma Joan in my about to hit the market book, whose middle name was Joan– drive us past the dead bull when I lived in that house. A dead bull they had not yet taken away. Yes, one of the truly darker parts of that happy fantasy friendly barn yard picture some of you hold dear in your heads. What happens to large dead animals? When they get all ripe and stinky and very very very dead? La la la!

It fascinated me, that gas-bloated dead behemoth, and she indulged my morbid tastes, like any good granny does. Kids, they love death and gooshy stuff. That shiny, balloon-looking carcass we had to visit as long as it remained a fixture of the landscape. Back then the roads had not yet been paved and the ruts shook her little car.

A Lynx. Or maybe that car came later, maybe she had another car before that, there’s so few left to ask. And I find I’d rather romanticize than ferret out the boring make and model of whatever car she ACTUALLY had at that period of time. I remember her silver Lynx, a Ford. I remember the bull and my grandmother driving us by it so I could get a good look. That much is true. That much will go in the documentary called What Ann Wrote. It will be produced two hundred years from now when people ‘discover’ my writing and there’s fan clubs and…

Oh look, there’s me not being a total unicorn-happy butterfly of positivity!

Sorry.

Back to this book about to TAKE THE WORLD BY STORM. Yay!!!!

A friend of mine has helped me set up readings. In Ontario, Oregon. At the local library and possibly, at this little wine place that features ‘local talent’. Second and Wine is the name in case you’re ever in Ontario, Oregon. Chefs, authors, foot models, who knows. I don’t get out and about, I am not in the loop, even the tiny Eastern Oregon/Western Idaho loop. I’m nearly a total recluse at this point in time.

So, the reading/s.

There might even be a Boise, Idaho one. Big city, bright lights, fellow babies. I know, Boise is relatively ‘small’ when compared to, say, Los Angeles or Hong Kong, but I am not getting on a bunch of planes to go to Hong Kong. That takes more than the seven dollars I have in my purse at the moment. Just saying. There might be ‘some places’ in north Boise– which is apparently the arty end?

If you know Boise at all, that’s mildly funny. If you have no idea what a Boise is or have never heard of the state of Idaho, well. Maybe that’s God’s will working wonders in your life, who can say at this point in the narrative. I’m being totally, like, sarcastic, so let’s return to our regular blog post road, shall we?

Being a grad school grad, I’ve had public readings of my stuff.

Oh yes. I’ve seen my work done on stage, either really well or so badly I actually died a little. I’ve had to sit and take criticisms that were more about tearing me apart than addressing my work. I’ve gotten great stuff from actual enemies who hated my guts. I’ve gotten many a neutral ‘good job’ from actual friends who perhaps didn’t wish to hurt my feelings.

So I’m not shaking over reading a few pages for the public’s amusement/boredom. I probably will be a lot more nervous once actual dates and times are nailed to that cross of public speaking, oh yes. But it will be more about– what do I wear, my hair should be murdered with a nuke, should I just shave my head or what and what did I do with my beige iridescent lipstick? [A shout out to the real Dirty Dancing]

Oh hey, I have a new book coming out!! You can buy Oregon Gothic!! I also write plays, so produce them!! I’m fabulous!!

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