Wendago

Again, I say…11 pounds 10 ounces.
22 1/2 inches.
No Epidural. 35 minute hard labor.

I have a tolerate/hate relationship with Birthing Class. I mean where else can you go during your ten months of pregnancy to learn about every horrible Saw and Hostel-like malfunction, deformity and incurable disease that your unborn child will not only be at risk at but most likely contract? Don’t get me wrong, wouldn’t miss it for the world, but sometimes it seems a little overkill. Everyone in the class knows that smoking puts an infant at risk. No one’s stupid enough to actually do it.
But I understand there are many who really really need birthing classes. But I’m not certain Mel was one of them. She didn’t smoke. And didn’t drink. We took breast feeding classes because she won’t even consider formula. And although she’s had some greys trying to show themselves for years, Mel refused to color her hair because our Doc considered it as bad as smoking a pack a day. And bless Mel’s heart, now it looks like she’s wearing a white beanie. But you know what, she’s never looked more beautiful. And why not? Better safe than sorry, you know? Of course this last point drove the owner of the hair salon nuts. She’s the first person in Pacific Grove to reveal the rudeness gene.
During the first seven months we walked to Cannery Row every morning. This was not my idea. I am a fan of starting my day very slow and sluggish. I try not to accomplish anything grand before 3PM on any day. But Mel was on a mission. Walking is healthy for mom and more importantly, healthy for baby. So we walked to Starbucks everyday where she refused to drink anything with caffeine. That’s a four mile round trip. Of course, in the last two months that trip had to be shortened. Walking four miles with that much extra weight was just too taxing. But we still walk everywhere. Every night we walk up and down Lighthouse Avenue. We walk to the grocery, to restaraunts to the post office. And as a result, Mel’s only gained 30 lbs. 25 to 35 is recommended.
And while I’ve been pulling marathon writing sessions, Mel’s been doing everything around the house. She washes the clothes and although I try to stop her from vaccuming, she insists it could bring on contractions and she’s giddy to see her daughter.
And since that’s not enough, on top of our twelve 2-hour long birthing classes, Mel has read just about every birthing book on the planet. Sorry, Izzie Rain, unless Hollywood gives daddy a break there’ll be no Ivy League college for you. We spent all our money preparing for your arrival. :)

…and your wheels.
The lease was up on the Audi nearly 10 months ago. I was giddy as a school girl looking at the many German built beauties who might replace her…then Mel tinkled on a stick and all that changed.
Suddenly owning a sports car seemed…selfish. So with the yet unnamed Izzie Rain in Mel’s belly we returned the Audi and drove home in a Ford, a one car family again. But this was a good thing and allowed us to later buy her the above Bugaboo. Thus Daddy gave up his sports car so Izzie Rain could have the hippest wheels on the block. Welcome to fatherhood and sacrifice. I honestly couldn’t be more pleased.

Back to Birthing Class. Here’s what we loved about Birthing Class. The in your face realization that, “You are not alone”. There were ten other couples in our class. What does that mean? Well, it means people on the Monterey peninsula are big fans of the hokey pokey. Nooky is alive and well on the rock stuck out in the ocean. People are “doin’ it” on the central coast.
Them’s the Gailys on the left. Their showing up was funny. He’s a back cracker and Mel and I were getting our backs cracked (a term he does not like) back when we first found out she was knocked up. Assuming it would never happen we were overwhelmed. We’d fill their ears with our stories of doctor visits and panic attacks. He, of course, likes to take credit for our knocked up state because Chiropractic is magic.
Three months into the pregnancy, I started my string of Shrunk pitches in LA and we just got busy. So we never finished our back cracking sessions. Then during our first Birthing Class, in they walked. And there’s Adrian, just as knocked up as Mel. Although we were droning on and on about our pregnancy they were slightly more stealthy.

Each week a different team of couples would bring snacks, representing assorted healthy foods. This team would also give a presentation on the healthy ingredients. We saw PowerPoint presentations, book reviews and so on.
When it came my turn…I did what I do. I wrote a story. The story of the history of Iron and the B Vitamins. I actually hate doing pitches because you can write a script in the same amount of time. But the truth is, a pitch can be fun. So this background certainly added to my turn at the presentation. And here it is. Just imagine if you want, my diving into assorted British and Russian accents:
Medical Science will tell you that a Polish Chemist in 1912 conceived the modern day vitamin. Sadly, this is not the case. Following is the true story of the origin of the B vitamins and Iron.
In November of the year 1734 in the small hamlet of Gillford, south of London, locals awoke at sunrise to discover 27 children missing. Vanished without a trace. Unconfirmed reports ran rampant blaming the disappearances on everything from Bandits to London slavers…even stories of a great and horrific beast from the more superstitious locals. But according to repeated statements made by both the County of Warrington and British Parliament itself…none of what you are about to hear…ever happened.
On the night in question, on the outskirts of town, Dixon and Melisande Leatherby slept soundly in their small cottage near the river. When suddenly they awoke to a thunderous sound, like great oaks falling in the forest, drawing closer and closer. Their first and only thought was that of the safety of their three children who shared a small room at the opposite end of the cottage. The parents had always been protective of their children, born premature they had always been weak and sickly. Dixon, a leatherworker by trade, retrieved one of his many skinning knives and raced to check on his children. When suddenly the entire cottage bucked and leapt as if hoisted right off of its foundation and dropped violently. The next thing Dixon saw was Melisande kneeling over him, rousing him from unconsciousness. Together, husband and wife raced to their children’s room and flung open the door.
The story is told that it was Dixon who screamed and Melisande who went weak in the knees at the sight. The three walls of the children’s bedroom had been ripped from the cottage. Debris scattered down to the river itself. Mother and Father stared in horror at three tiny beds amidst the rubble. Three empty beds. Their loving children missing.
By sunrise the warning bell in the town square sounded but it could not be heard beneath the wailing of so many mothers in despair. Within the hushed whispers there was talk of “The Metal Giant”. The Gillford Elders wasted no time opening the town vault and offering their gold to any hero brave enough to rescued their children. But even heroes know when to turn a deaf ear, for many in the land had heard the terrifying stories of the Iron Beast who lived in the hills. The town’s plea for help went unanswered.
Until that is, the 8 magic dwarves showed up. Again, I remind you, this is a true story.
Dwarven mothers had never been known for their endearing natures and the fact that their children were born in litters of 40 didn’t help matters. As a result the 8 dwarves standing before the townsfolk had been named B1, B2, B3, B5, B6, B8, B9 and B12. Although known as fierce warriors their true passions lie within the field of alchemy. The 8 dwarves worked in perfect unison but took pride in their individual accomplishments.
B1 specialized in a potion that helped with weight loss, emotional disturbances, even heart failure.
B2 constantly boasted of his abilities to cure chapped lips and the sensitivity to sunlight.
B3 was more than willing to help with one’s aggression, insomnia and diarrhea.
B5, widely thought of as a moron by his brothers, was convinced he could cure that sensation referred to as your limbs falling asleep.
B6 had a potion that would deal with anemia, depression and high blood pressure.
B8 could counteract impaired growth and neurological disorders in infants.
B9 swore that his Folic potion could fend off birth defects in newborns.
B12 was known for his work with memory loss and cognitive decline.
All of this was fine and dandy but the elders were only interested in the return of their children. Or did these dwarves have some miracle potion of magic beans that would bring their children home? One of the Dwarves spoke up. “You fink your funny do ya, pokin fun? Now look here, gov’ner, we’re confident we’ll bring yer little ones home. And we’re familiar with this Iron Beast of yours. We even know’eem by name. They call’eem Adkins for it is no secret that he will only eat meat and cheese.”
This of course caused much wailing by both mothers and fathers alike. Thus the 8 dwarves set out on their long journey into the hills of Gillford where they promptly found themselves completely lost. That is, until they heard the singing. 27 tiny angelic voices singing Monty Python’s “Every Sperm is Sacred.” It was like a beacon in the night. It led our dwarven heroes to the mouth of a vast cave where they came face to face with Adkins, the Iron Beast. A creature of metal and rock with massive horns and the leathery wings of a bat. The beast glared down at the tiny dwarves.
BEAST: “Why do you come here to my cave, wielding your weapons of feeble destruction? Do you mean to cause me harm?”
DWARF: “We come from the hamlet of Gillford and we’re here to return them babies before you eat’em all.”
BEAST: “Eat them? I would never. I only wish to be a good mother. I am with child myself but my pregnancy has met with…complications. Fearing the worst I stole these sickly children to raise them as my own.”
DWARF: “What sort of complications you be havin?”
BEAST: “I’ve had nausea and vomiting. I constantly feel fatigue and can’t shake this feeling of lethargy, even depression. I fear for the safety of my unborn child.”
DWARF: “I fink we can help ya wif’at. B6?”
B6 stepped forward and offered the Beast a tiny potion.
“Now that’ll cure what ails ya but if’n you don’t mind me sayin ma’am, this only eatin red meat and cheese just won’t cut it. Potatoes, bananas even a bowl of cereal would do ya some good. Liver, turkey, tuna and a chili pepper or two to add some spice.”
The great Beast was so overcome with emotion that she released the children to the dwarves. And in a gesture of great kindness wrapped a meaty claw around one of her own horns and broke it off offering it to the dwarves.
“These children are sickly. I give you this Iron horn that you might ground it to a powder. Give it to those women from town who find themselves with child. No more than 30 milligrams a day should do the trick. The elemental iron within should keep them from becoming anemic and should stop the on spread of premature births.”
The dwarves and children bid the Beast a farewell and returned to the hamlet of Gillford. Dixon and Melisande were heartwarmingly reunited with their children as were all of the parents in town. A great celebration ignited and according to local legends continues to this very day.
And that is the true story of the origin of the B vitamins and iron.

First thing to note…Izzie Rain ain’t the best pillow. She freaking won’t be still. Daddy cain’t take no nap if she keeps kicking him in the jaw.
And I’ve been in need of naps. Suddenly I find myself overworked and well underpaid. I finished the spec, Medieval. My writer buddies read it and thought it was strong.
Currently the world or horror is all Saw and Hostel. “Real Horror” as the executives and producers like to refer to it. Horror that could really happen. So I sent it to my managers and agents. I’m not a fan of doing what’s already been done. That doesn’t really interest me. I don’t want to cash in on the current status quo. I want to take things to the next level. I want to be the evolution of horror. The managers didn’t agree.
So, I’ve a decision to make. Do I stick to my guns and go out with the spec I like, knowing that their enthusiasm clearly won’t be behind it? Or do I make their changes? What a crazy business. It’s tough enough to get any movie made. Tough to get past the gate keepers out there. Tougher when you struggle getting past your own teammates. I’ll most likely make the changes. Sigh.

Tom sent over the art and lettering for Alien Pig Farm…which I simply adore. And the artwork looks amazing. I’ve gone through the first two issues adding captions and tweaking as needed. Two issues to go. I’m also writing another comic for Tom. Alien Pig Farm was so enjoyable it was hard to pass up. He came to me with a rough outline and I loved the world. I’m also writing a Graphic Novel for David Wohl. David co-created Witchblade and we’ve worked together off and on for years. I’m chasing a video game as well. Thursday I met with the developers, Gearbox. Good guys. Smart too. They have two game concepts I love. Either would be a blast to work on. Of course, my competition is David Goyer. So, if I get one of the gigs it will most likely be the gig he don’t want. Such is the life of the working writer.
It always cracks me up that there are those out there who think Mel and I are rich. Nope, I’m a working writer. I get paid, I pay my bills. That big mansion buying gig has yet to happen for us. I’m always hopeful. I gotta think statistically it’s bound to happen because there are few out there who outwork me.
Then there’s Dean. His Nightmare Academy went out to New York publishers last week and he’ll hear something this week. As a result his house will get bigger and his artwork more expensive while my hate grows more and more complete.
Edit: as I’m writing this he’s IMing me and the offers have started coming in. Uh…yeah. His house is about to get bigger and his artwork more expensive. :)

As we blunder into 39 weeks we’re still walking by the ocean. Izzie Rain’s still as strong as an ox. Which means Mel gets kicked. Alot. The doc measured a femur last week which somehow resulted in the statement that Izzie Rain is around 8.5 lbs. That was last week. Since they gain a pound a week at this stage, she’s over 9 lbs.

And we’ve had a couple of false alarms. One was due to the worry that something was wrong. I won’t get into the minor details cuz they’re sort of…more than you want to know. But there’s this fear that infants will sometimes make a poopie within the womb. When that happens there’s a chance the little one could inhale this thick tar like poopie. Obviously the result can be bad. For one reason or another we thought this may have happened. I was IMing like mad with Dr. Lorey, not due to his medical prowess, but due to the simple fact that he’s gone through two births. In the end he said just go to the hospital. Better safe that sorry and that’s what they’re there for. So we went and they hooked Mel’s belly up to a heart monitor allowing us to hear Izzie Rain’s heartbeat in surround sound.

And suffice to say, we were just overreacting first time parents. If you look up healthy in Webster’s there’s a picture of Izzie Rain’s ultrasound. It’s her momma and daddy who could use a chill pill or two. Above is pretty much a perfect heart rate. And those little black dots represent Izzie Rain’s continual kicks and punches against her momma’s organs. And that’s a good thing. Means she’s strong. And feisty.

So, we swallowed our embarrassment, came home and went for a jog. Rest assured I shall continue to complain about my on and off again career but I take comfort in knowing that 100 percent of our good mojo is funneling into our unborn child. She’s safe. She’s healthy. And her momma and daddy love her very much.
Although through the discomfort of being 38-39 weeks…we got nowhere to make a pottie.

Our bathroom was leaking into the garage. Workers took a peek and informed us that our shower was soon to crash onto the hood of our Explorer. So in came the workers.

The downside is that the whole bathroom is begin done. That means no pottie. No shower. The job was supposed to last a week. It’s been a week and a half and we’re still at least a week away from completion. I feel horrible that my wife and daughter are forced to waddle next door for those multiple trips to the bathroom that come standard with any pregnancy, but…I swallow my pride and embarrassment at not being able to buy a house with a white picket fence and/or a place with at least two bathrooms.

And Mel’s folks have arrived in hopes that Izzie Rain will show up during this last week. Which means we have company and we’re all going to pottie next door.
“Your life is a sitcom,” said Dean Lorey.

Since our trip back to the South had to be cancelled we never had a shower. My mother’s high school friends got together and sent us a gift card from Target so the four of us headed inland to the local Target to buy those last minute diapers and wipes and whatever came to mind that we might need.
Mel’s contractions which have been fairly consistent since Thursday came to a head that night. So we loaded up the Explorer and humped it to the hospital.

False alarm. She’s been having three different kinds of contractions. And although the three types were all spaced properly, it’s the painful back and tummy contractions we should have been timing. Mel was only 3 cm dilated so once again we were being overreacting first time parents. :)

So we came home and went for a walk. :)

A big congratulations goes out to the adorable Dean Lorey. He’d been sitting on a fantastic idea for a couple of years while he crawled through the Film and Television trenches of Hollywood. After being treated like garbage on his last feature project Dean retreated to the safety of his office, took a couple of months and wrote down his idea as a novel.
He had no extraordinary expectations. It was simply a bold little story that he wanted to write down for his children. Dean would have been amazingly happy if one day this little book could somehow find its way to becoming a published novel. But Rob Carlson, Dean’s agent and brass balled warrior of many years, saw far greater adventures ahead.

With Dean’s unpublished novel in hand, Rob took Hollywood by storm. What happened next was one of those situations every writer dreams of. A list directors were loving it left and right. Studios and producers were calling around the hour wanting to read the little book for themselves. It was an exciting week and even as a bystander I found myself caught up in the wave.
At the end of the journey the project was sold to Universal with Stephen Sommers (The Mummy movies, Van Helsing) attached.

So lift your glasses my friends and let’s make a toast.
Here’s to you, Dean Lorey,
We all hate you.
:)

Welcome to my office. It’s invasion of the daddy snatchers. The color pink is spreading like a virus. I remain stubborn. I continue to pound away at my keyboard as this force of pink overtakes everything in its path.

Even the cats, as resilient as they are, will one day fold under the demands of young Izzie Rain. I can only assume that I’ll be the first to go. A daddy and his iMac forced to stalk the lowly coffee stained halls of Starbucks. I’m surprised that I’ve been able to maintain as long as I have. To write those uplifting stories of disembowelment and severed heads while surrounded by the pink and fluffy is a true testament to the greatness of me. But the end is near. My office space demise has been prophesied.

Six hours north of LA translates into a nine or ten hour drive to San Diego for ComiCon. That seems cruel and unusual for Mel’s eight month knocked up status. And flying was out of the question. So we chose Amtrak. We would leave at 11AM and arrive in San Diego around 2AM. We were told there may be delays.

Delays. Just assumed that meant an hour or two tops. Shows what I know. The train finally arrived in the late PM and we were on our way by 9PM. Of course, the food car closed at…9PM. You try telling an eight month pregnant woman that there’s no food to be had. So, we snacked on energy bars Mel had been smart enough to pack in case of emergency…

… and we accepted the fact that we would be paying for an empty room at San Diego’s Omni since we’d be sleeping on Amtrak.

ComiCon used to be a small artist/writer gathering. But as most things that eventually show a profit it has gone Hollywood. It’s worth making an appearance but there is so much to see that after a short time your brain goes numb from overkill.

Although it’s a great place to reconnect with friends of old. Bernie Wrightson stopped by Allen Spiegel’s booth to say hi. We started and ended most of our daily visits at Spiegel’s booth for the simple reason that Allen is our next door neighbor back in good ol’ Pacific Grove. Small world.

Mel and I ran into Jim Isaac and his all grow’d up daughter at the Lions Gate booth. Jimmy was there with Stan Winston signing and answering questions about their upcoming movie, Skinwalkers.

Jon J. Muth, a buddy as well as writer and artist of the children’s book, “Zen Shorts” (and several dozen others), painted pictures for fans from the Spiegel Booth. Jon started out in horror so I can’t help but appreciate the journey he’s taken.

Artists Kent Williams and Phil Hale.

Spiegel chatting with fans and artist Thom Ang.

And, of course, my good buddy, Stormtrooper Elvis. No ComiCon would be complete without him.

Every night was a different party. First was the Scholastic party. Them’s the folks what brought us Harry Potter. It was fun last year and fun again this year. And the liquid was free.

Of course, anytime you partake in too much liquid you may find yourself vulnerable. I’m fairly certain Scott, Spiegel’s nephew, accosted me.

Dean showed up on Friday and the three of us ended up at a pool hall where I taught him how to play and even let him win a few so he could feel good about himself.
Of course, it wasn’t all play. While there I had a string of meetings but it really was more meet and greet than anything else. It’s nearly impossible to get any work done while there. I met with the Tokyopop editors on “Sleepers” as well as FJ and Michael from Comic Book Movies. And later we joined them all for a party at the W…

…where we ran into Mark Wheaton and his group of friends. Wheaton’s in the center next to Mel and was the 3rd writer on “The Messengers”. I worked on it while it was still called “Scarecrow” and still at Revolution. Stuart Beattie followed me and the story saw some drastic changes based on Revolution head, Todd Garner’s notes. I thought Stuart did a great job based on the notes he was given but it still ended up in turnaround. Going into turnaround is never a good sign. It means the studio that started the process doesn’t want to make the movie and puts it up for sale. But it eventually found a home at Ghost House. Raimi and his team changed the story drastically and Wheaton was brought in to make those changes. After Wheaton it saw four more sets of writers before the shooting wrapped and one additional writer who came in before reshoots.
Mandate, the company that umbrellas Ghost House, sent out their recommendation for credits. They’re suggesting I get “Story By” and Wheaton gets “Screenplay By”. I could, of course, arbitrate for the “Screenplay By” credit because it does translate to a decent chunk of money down the road. But I read the shooting draft and the reshoot draft and after 7 other sets of writers…well it’s the same tone and idea but it’s a much different movie now.
Will it be any good? Should they have just shot my draft?
Well, once the movie is released I’ll post my original draft and let anyone bored enough to read make that decision.

After the Comic Book Movies party we hopped a bike with Tony Bedard, a comic book writer. I assume there’s a proper name for these bikes that roam the streets of San Diego so here’s a better pic.

As Chewy is so kindly demonstrating, you basically pay a dude to huff and puff you around town.

Once at the Hyatt we shared liquid with dozens of other comic writers and artists and it was around this point where my memory blurs. I vaguely recall running into my old buddy David Wohl (creator of Witchblade) and Eric Larson, a Spiderman artist from years back who now runs Image Comics. And I must give props to my knocked up wife for staying sober and getting me back to the room alive.

And I wasn’t the only one getting some work done while there. Mel has dove into the world of children’s books with passion. And took advantage of being around our buddies who have successfully battled those raging seas. One should never pass up the opportunity to hang out with those in life who are where you want to be. Because success is a puzzle and everyone’s puzzle is different. And you never know where you’ll find that missing piece of the puzzle that you need.

Sunday morning found us saying bye to Vader and the boys and standing in front of the train tracks at 6AM waiting on Amtrak.

Once home it was back to writing and preparing for Izzie Rain’s arrival. We explored the Monterey Birthing Center. It was a part of our class. You see, we have been taking classes to learn how to give birth because anyone who knows anything knows that it is pure luck that the human race has been able to continue for thousands of years without taking birthing classes. Last week when we told them we had to miss a class because we were going to San Diego they looked at us as though we’d just been caught drop kicking newborns down the hospital hallway.

When we showed up at the Birthing Center to check in, we were met by Nurse Fembot. Now, I have no proof that she was mostly machine, but I find it hard to believe anyone that old could stand on her own without being mostly rebuilt by Oscar Goldman’s Bionics. Anyway she told us to make sure we touched the big toe of Dennis the Menace when we entered the Birthing Center because it was a statistical anomaly that those who did would have twins.
Needless to say, when we passed Dennis the Menace, Mel and I hugged the opposite wall and never got near the nasty little creature. Can you imagine the germs?

Chris and Dean came up this weekend to celebrate Pacific Grove’s Feast of the Lanterns. But before their arrival, Dean finished his novel. You see, I’m not the only writer whose tummy turns at the current state of Hollywood politics and looks for other ways to write and be happy. I read the little novel twice last week and it’s amazing. So amazing that it went out to a string of A List directors this week. I shant go into further details because Dean has his own blog now and I got better things to do than to write his unofficial biography. I say he should tell the story.

The four of us…or five if we include Izzie Rain from her snug compartment…played us some black light putt putt.

Which proved that even under nothing but black light Mel’s boobs are huge.

That night we hit the PG block party. Ages ranged from newborn to 147.

If you question the merits of a small town block party being fun then just feast your eyes on Mel and Chris learning to Square Dance. I wish I was kidding. Of course, it was misting slightly that day thus the tiny dots on the picture…but no one seemed to care.

The Feast of Lanterns consists of a couple of days that build up to a huge fireworks show down at Lover’s Point. PG planned it pretty well. They basically wait until after the 4th for the prices to drop and then snatch up a ton of explosives at a good price.

Residents and visitors start claiming land the day before.

And those plots of land start filling up by noon on Saturday.

We had no plans of fighting the crowds but did have to hang out long enough for Chris to run through the obstacle course seventeen thousand times.

Then we rented ourselves a four person bike and huffed it over to the Wharf for lunch.

That night, rather than fight the crowds, the 4 1/2 of us joined Spiegel and went to a party at Don’s house for a smaller and slightly more intimate gathering.

We viewed the explosives from Don’s rooftop balcony.
The following morning we broke bread with Chris and Dean before they set out for San Francisco and the second leg of their journey.

And we slept.
On the work front, I’m writing two specs. One a straight nasty horror and the other a fantasy. I’m up for a couple of remakes, one I’m actually pretty excited about, but I have bantered on enough for now.

I still marvel at the idea that Melanie has a baby in her belly.

I have now successfully made the complete emotional journey. At first I just assumed I’d have kids one day. I wasn’t planning on it. I wasn’t not planning on it. Just assumed because that’s what humans do. They boink and eventually the fellas make the journey with or without your consent. Just figured it would happen. One day. Once we got our ducks in a row as the Southerners say.
Then we found out we couldn’t have children. Our dirty bits weren’t working properly. Or were they? A debate for later.
I guess to some degree I started rationalizing at that point. I started saying, we’ll travel the world. We’ll be able to go and do what most couples can’t. And eventually not only did I accept the idea but oddly enough I became an advocate for not having kids. Questioned my abilities to even be a father or more frightening…my abilities to simply provide.
And so our childless adventure continued. High highs and low lows. Mel and I have made just about every mistake a couple can make. And you may say, all couples make mistakes. Nope, you’re not even close. You gotta think more outside the box. We did. We never stabbed one another but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I read somewhere that the two overriding reasons for divorce were money and/or sex. Untrue. Insecurity is the main reason. And we excelled at playing on each other’s perfectly. Some of it can be blamed our our pasts. We came into our relationship with mounds of baggage. Mel’s alone was monumental. The majority of men would crumble if they were faced with a fraction of what Mel has had to overcome. So, we had already proven that we could survive whatever life threw at us. That much was a given. What we couldn’t survive is what we threw at each other. In the end, after twelve years, we separated and tried to move on without the other.
Words just don’t describe how horrible that was. I could go through the motions, do what was expected of me. I could fake it. Because if you lie to yourself long enough eventually you’ll believe it. At least that’s the theory but it wasn’t working. Every day was like waking up to find your arms and legs had been amputated in the night. My vision was blurred, my hearing distorted, my taste buds were muted, the air smelled stale. And it was no better for Mel. We were both miserable.

So we started again. And this time without the insecurities. We’d both seen what it was like without the other and suddenly squeezing the tube from the middle didn’t seem so life shattering. We stopped trying to change each other and just…lived. Accepted. Enjoyed.
Happiest times of our lives. This was the Holy Grail. It’s what we’d always wanted but had spent years sabotaging. Somehow, as crazy as this sounds…we grew up.
Medically, we didn’t do anything differently. We would still never have children but that was okay now. We were together. We were happy. We’d reached that point in Jerry Maguire where I told her she completed me and she told me I had her at hello.
And that’s when she got knocked up.

This pic was taken at a Monterey coffee shop on Christmas morning. It’s important because unknown to us, there was a bun in the oven.
I keep marveling over that simple fact. Our dirty bits didn’t work! This was not supposed to be possible. But it actually makes sense to me now. You see we’ve always been blessed. In the early days, when we were down to our last 40 bucks in the bank with rent due, money would show up. This didn’t just happen once. It happened constantly. Any time life threw us a curve, we were always provided with the talent to knock it out of the park.
And this God or Angels or Universe wasn’t just watching out for us, He, She or it was watching out for what we would one day create. Because unlike so many couples who bring a little one into a dysfunctional family or those who have a baby in the selfish attempt to fix their miserable relationship…we were simply not allowed.
It was only after we accepted each other, fixed ourselves, that we were allowed a child.

And oh, what a child she will be. When her daddy puts his ear to mother’s belly, she kicks him in the head. How perfect is that? She tolerates classical but loves Rap. And her sense of humor is already developed beyond most. I love sausage. Melanie hates it. She loves bacon instead. But little Ms. Izzie Rain won’t let momma eat bacon, instead forces her to eat sausage. A freaking comic genius, I say.

We took her to her first concert. The White Album Ensemble would play “Let It Be” and “Abbey Road” in album order.

And of course, Izzie Rain loved it.
I bought her IzzieRain.com last week. Mel put a quick site together where the story can be told from Momma’s point of view, as well as links to our registries, pictures and the like for family and friends. When Izzie Rain is a young teen we’ll give her the site and let her do with it as she pleases.
Izzie Rain. My daughter.
I saw a pregnant woman at the coffee shop a few days back. Told her my wife was expecting too. This coffee lady told me she was having a little girl. Us too, I proclaimed. She told me they were naming their daughter Brenda Jane and asked if we’d picked out a name. I told her…
Izzie Rain.
She looked at me like I’d kicked her in the gut. Her face paled. Satan rose over her shoulder, her eyes glinted envy and hate. “That’s…that’s a great name,” she said then turned to fetch her hot tea from the counter. I felt confident she would soon be going home to kick her rather dull and unsuspecting husband in the balls.

I got a pretty good life.
So what’s up on the work front?
Shrunk is in the hands of the agents. The pitches are done and although we’re still in play at a couple of places, it’s out of my hands for the time being.
Don is doing the art work for book two of Alien Pig Farm.
We’re waiting on art samples for Sleepers.
Psychopath is turning to a new developer. Game first, Film to follow.
I’m in bed on two other projects with Foxhoven. Outline is complete on one, still working on the other. It’s trickier but I love the genre.
I’m chasing two remakes. One I’m holding off on hoping a buddy, Mark Haslett, can bag the job. The other, is a Japanese flick. Awaiting the details from my agent. Want to make sure they have money to pay for a script before I go down that road. Not in the market for a producer development gig at this point.
Witchblade has been put on hold for the moment. Variety ran an article stating that one of the producers dropped. Gonna wait for the smoke to clear before I dive back into the outline.
I’m working on a string of specs.
One is called, “Once Upon a Time in Hell”. It makes me giggle.
Another is called, “Rude Behavior”. It makes me grin.
Riddle is out to a couple new places and I’ve put Past Tense on hold for the moment.
Then there are string of other ideas I need to solidify. The agents and managers want to see the working list before I dive into the specs. It’s a precaution more than anything else. The agents just want to make sure there aren’t projects out there that are similar. It’s an attempt to stop me from wasting my time. The managers would like to be a bit more hands on with the story. But I’m thinking, “nah”.
I’m sure there’s more but that’s off the top of my head.

My brother Aarek returned alive from his trip to Mother Africa.

He went there doing Missionary work. He’s the one on the left.
For now, that is all. Warcraft’s patch 1.11 went live today which means Mel, Dean and I have a guhzillion addons to update.
Be safe, heroes.