Man I've had a lot of computers

I remember when I got my first computer, a Texas Instrument 99/4A. My dad got it for me for Christmas (I was a poor student then) for about $125 when TI was getting out of the computer business. It must have been in 1982 or 1983. Here’s a picture:

As you can see, it’s just a CPU with an attached-keyboard. I hooked it up to a 10-inch black and white TV and a standard tape recorder, so I could save stuff, and bought an Advanced C programing cartridge that plugged into the port on the upper right of the computer.

Learning to program on that little computer became my hobby. I wrote a program that simulated a basketball game. I bought a book that listed basketball statistics for the prior year, plugged the data into the program, and played ball. I had a blast but my wife didn't like it because I spent so much time on it.

But, that wasn’t my first experience with computers. While attending junior college in 1976 I took a “computer programming” class. All I can remember is lining up punch cards that got fed into a "computer." Ancient of days.

Then, in professional school, around 1984, I bought a PC with a twenty megabyte hard. Yes, you read that right. Megabyte, not gigabyte. I paid for it with student loan money and as I recall it cost about $1,200. I might be wrong. I remember debating getting the PC or a Mac. The Mac was cool looking but cost too much for my student budget and had only like an eight-inch screen. I bought the PC from a guy who put them together in a storage locker. Here’s what the IBM PCs looked like back then (mine was nowhere as fancy):

It had a 5¼-inch floppy disc drive and an amber monitor, which sat atop the gray metal box that held the computer’s guts. I had to have a printer, of course, so I picked up a Panasonic dot matrix printer with a box of pin-feed paper. It might have looked a little like this one, except I don’t remember it having so many buttons on the front:

The computer ran on DOS but I remember when my brother-in-law gave me a copy of Windows, I think version 1.2, on a floppy disc. I was fascinated by the graphical OS but it ran so slow it was useless to me. 

I used that computer until I went into practice for myself. When I started making a little money, I updated my own computer as well as the billing computer. The next computer I got was a Packard Bell, from Costco, which had just opened up in town. That was about 1991. I used the PB until it broke.

Next up was an all-in-one computer from a local store, in 1998. I needed something portable but didn’t want to shell out for the still-high price of a decent laptop. It had an LCD screen and ran Windows 95, and was one of the most reliable computers I’ve ever owned. It was fast, for those days, portable enough to take on the road when I did out-of-town treatments, and even had a USB port. I just barely threw that computer away.

The company I bought it from offered lifetime free labor. And they came through. They actually replaced my hard drive two years after I had bought the computer, a year out of warranty, for free. The guy who owned the store ran a bang-up business. He sold out to a guy who looted the business’s assets before fleeing to China.

Next was a Dell desktop I still own, running Windows XP. The fan has gotten loud but it’s served me well. I love the Dell keyboard from that time, about 2004. It has a nice click feeling.

After the Dell was an Acer laptop. I wrote most of my second book, THE MIGHTY T, on that computer. I still have it but haven’t turned it on for a few months. The WiFi hardly works and I somehow damaged the “V” key. 

I purchased a Dell laptop running Windows 7 from Costco last October because the Acer doesn’t have enough horsepower to run my new testing software. And, there was the broken “V” key. I liked Windows 7, though I thought XP is easier to use. Probably because I used it for years. I sold that laptop with my testing hardware and software to an acupuncturist this month.

And now I have a 27" iMac. Yes, I’m now a Mac guy. And I’m loving it.

It’s been fun, this trip down memory lane, but it has to come to a close now. On my next post I’ll write about my current computer and writing setup.

Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee, A Writer's Life For Me

Remember this song from Pinocchio?

Hi-diddle-dee-dee
A writer’s life for me
A high silk hat and a silver cane
A watch of gold with a diamond chain

Hi-diddle-dee-day
A writer’s life is gay
It’s great to be a celebrity
A writer’s life for me

Hi-diddle-dee-dum
A writer’s life is fun

Hi-diddle-dee-dee
A writer’s life for me
A wax mustache and a beaver coat
A pony cart and a billy goat

Hi-diddle-dee-dum
A writer’s life is fun
You wear your hair in a pompadour
You ride around in a coach and four
You stop and buy out a candy store
A writer’s life for me!

(Lyrics: Ned Washington, except for my changes)


Not exactly as you remember? Can you spot my changes? Pinocchio had been convinced he would be an actor, not a writer. But hey, at one time I thought that’s what a writer’s life would be. Sort of.

There’ve been no coaches for me, I don’t have a beaver coat, and my hair will never be in a pompadour, so here’s my updated version of what I’d like my writer’s life to be:

I get up early to write. Early is good because the house is quiet and there are no distractions. I’m not tempted by the Internet or Twitter or Facebook that early, for some odd reason. I’m ready to write. After I get my brain to wake up, of course.

I write until my brain has had enough or the muse has left the building. Or both, which is usually the case. That might happen in two hours or it might happen in four. Rarely more than four. I write in my office, which has a lock on the door to prevent others from wandering in to give me a kiss or ask me if I need anything or to tell me they’re going to the store.

I write every day. EVERY DAY. Even Christmas--at least a page--and even on my birthday. Even when my wife and I go away for the weekend. If I’m writing, I’m writing. I can take a break from editing or formatting, but not writing. The muse is fickle and does not like to be ignored. Ignore the muse and she might leave me alone for days or weeks, and that would be bad.

Once I’ve written, the rest of the day is mine. I’ll exercise, spend time with family, cook, read, and maybe even relax in front of the TV with my wife. Maybe do some writing-business like talk to my agent or publisher.

That’s about it for my dream writer’s-life, when I’m creating. If I’m editing, I can do that anywhere there’s a desk. Changes are made on paper then input into the computer later. Easy.


In reality, as I’m not yet supporting my family with my writing and I have a day job, I write at odd times and in odd places. We don’t have a spare room in our condo so I have to leave the house to find the solitude I need.

I can write almost anywhere family or friends are not, because they feel like they’ve got to talk to me even though they see I’m busy writing: the library, a coffee shop, a café, the break area of a grocery store ... Almost anywhere.

When writing in public, I have my noise-canceling headphones--I don’t care if people think I’m being rude wearing them in public--and I write with the either the OmmWriter or iA Writer apps on my iPad. OmmWriter is nice for times I’m writing in noisy environments because it comes with it’s own soundtrack. Writer is simpler to use and links with Dropbox for easy access to my files.

My time is restricted now; I don’t have four consecutive hours for writing every day. I have to take what I can get, when I can get it. It’s almost impossible for me to write in the evening; my brain seems to be unable to focus on writing then. I suppose I could train it to, but I like to spend that time with my wife.

And of course, there is currently no agent or publisher to talk business with; I’m self-published. They may change, or it may not.


If you write, what is your ideal writing day or schedule? What compromises do you have to make now because of family commitments or a day job?

Taco-Truck Tacos and Accuracy

Earlier, near the ranch home of Gus Carlisle, Eric Donaldson and Isaac Roberts pulled into an almond orchard. They shut off the 1968 VW Bug, grabbed their plates of taco-truck tacos and gobbled the food, taking care that nothing fell on the floor or seats.

“What time is it?” Roberts asked.

“Nine-thirty,” Donaldson said. He wadded up his paper plate and foil and threw them into the orchard.

“Better go get that,” Roberts said. “John said not to get sloppy. The cops could get your DNA off that.”

“John can kiss my ass. My DNA’s not in the system and this will be over in a few days anyway. I’ll be sitting on a beach in Fiji, where they don’t extradite.”

Roberts thought about that, threw his garbage out his window and said, “John can kiss my ass, too.” He had no idea if his DNA was in the system.

They checked their 9mm Browning Hi-Power Mark IIIs, removing and reinserting the magazines. While suppressors weren’t necessary in the country, they’d brought them anyway; there was money to burn and using them made the men feel like James Bond.

“Let’s go,” Donaldson said. “I’m sick of sittin’ in this shitty little car.”

They got out and walked through the orchard to Carlisle’s house. While doing surveillance, they saw Carlisle enter the house only through the front door, never the side door, which is closer to the detached garage. They would cover both doors to be sure.

Roberts took up his position in the back yard while Donaldson went to the front. They swatted at mosquitoes and waited.

When I first wrote this scene, I had Roberts and Donaldson grabbing their bags of taco-truck tacos. My wife read the draft and said “Taco trucks sell plates of tacos, not bags.”

I wouldn’t know that because I don’t dine at taco trucks. Growing up, we always called them “gut trucks” or “roach coaches.” I don’t know if they have to be licensed and inspected by the health department; if they don’t, I don’t wanna eat their food.

My wife eats their food, though, and she feeds it to the kids. So far they’ve survived. I chalk it up to their iron stomachs that undoubtedly produce copious amounts of strong hydrochloric acid.

Apparently taco-truck tacos have become so popular that local sit-down Mexican restaurants have put them on their menus. I ordered them once (at a sit-down restaurant, one clearly displaying the date of their latest successful health department inspection). They weren’t bad, but they weren’t anything special either. Meh.

My wife will eat taco-truck tacos but she won’t eat sushi. Go figure. Aren’t they about the same?


I had to change the text in my novel because I’m a stickler for accuracy. But really, who would have caught that? Would I have gotten angry fan mail that said “Hey Powers, taco-truck tacos are served on plates you moron! Get your facts straight!”

Using (Poor) Grammar to Help Dictate Pace

In my last post here, I introduced Fred Reese and Jim Waterman, two oldtimers from my novel CANALS. In that post, we learn Fred is upset at how the country seems to be awash with rude people.

Here's another excerpt from CANALS, also featuring Jim and Fred. I've ignored some rules of good sentence structure in the final paragraph to change the pace of the narration, to let the reader known something might be about to happen:

“All volunteer personnel are to move fifty feet away from the canals immediately,” the radio clipped to Fred Reese’s belt said.

Fred had another cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and he held a fishing rod in his right hand, at least in his mind’s eye. He didn’t ordinarily smoke so much, but because he knew it really bothered Jim, he kept one going. He mostly just let them burn down; no need to inhale to get Jim’s goat.

He knew he’d have to remove the earplugs sooner or later, but right now later sounded better than sooner. He cast out with his imaginary rod.

Jim heard the radio crackle but was too far away to make out the words and too stubborn to cross the street to find out. “He’s wearing the damn thing, let him answer it.”

The light flickered again: Jim walked back to the battery, kicked it, walked back to the railing and heard the radio again, turned his head to yell at Fred and walked into the thin stand holding the light, knocking it over the railing. He reaches and catches the stand but a bolt pops off and the light falls and is dangling two feet above the water, held only by the wire attaching it to the battery. He grabs for the wire, hears glass breaking followed by a brief blinding flash, then everything is black but the yellow-orange circle of light in the center of his vision where the bursting bulb has seared his retinas. He swears and gropes for the wire.

Then:

Jim Waterman’s vision had just returned when he found the wire. He hesitated and considered letting the damn thing go. What, would they dock his pay?

Just then he felt something sharp prick his hand. He quickly jerked the hand up, looked and blinked, squeezing his eyes shut before reopening them: his hand wasn’t cut, it wasn’t there. Blood squirted from his wrist and arced into the canal.

He leaned over the railing to look for his hand; it would need to be reattached at the hospital.

Three black heads came out of the canal, their mouths agape, showing silver blades that glinted in the ambient light. One bit down over his head but did not decapitate him, the other two latched onto his shoulders: Jim Waterman was pulled him into the water before he could make a sound.

It doesn't end well for Jim. Oh well, that's what you get for having a minor part in a horror novel.

But back to the pacing. An editor or my high school English teacher would love to attack the last paragraph of the first excerpt. They'd add commas and break sentences up and get rid of most of the "and"s and ... Well, they'd muck with my pacing.

I think a fiction writer can ignore some of the basics of grammar to dictate pace, or even mood. In fiction what matters is, what effect does the writing have on the reader and are you entertaining or enlightening them? I don't seek to enlighten, I seek to entertain. I think I do that well.

Don't overdo it, though. If used too much it can tire the reader and/or lose its effectiveness.

The Country Is Awash With Rude People

“What’d they say?” Jim asked Fred, yelling across the street through cupped hands. Their road was busy and a steady stream of cars whizzed by.

“They said turn the lights on and leave them on all night,” Fred called back.

“See, I told you they thought we were a bunch of stooges! They think we’re so stupid we have to be told to turn the lights on.”

Their lights had been on for ten minutes and their canals were well lit. Fred stood and looked over the railing into the water. At first he’d been intrigued by their assignment, thinking they might be doing something important, but so far they were batting five hundred; four pairs of jogger/walkers had heeded their warning, but four others had not, and they had been rude. He was used to kids being rude, but adults? Couldn’t they see the city was serious about this?

His mind wandered and he thought about the state of society in general. People were rude now. No one used turn signals anymore, they just drifted into your lane when they felt like it. No one held doors for others and men didn’t give up their seats to women. When he was young, that was automatic. He blamed women’s lib. And the cell phones: he couldn’t have a meal in a restaurant or watch a movie without two or three of them going off. Worst thing was, the idiots took the calls, yapping at their table as if everyone wanted to hear the details of their pathetic lives, or, if they were at the movies, they would rush out of the theater whispering, as if they were neurosurgeons being summoned to perform emergency brain surgery.

The country was awash with rude people.

Fred worked himself into a funk and thought about packing up and going home, or anywhere he wouldn’t have to listen to Jim Waterman complain. Or put up with rude people.

Instead, he lit a cigarette. People of his generation saw a thing through to the end. If a guy said he was going to do something, he put in his time and finished. He didn’t leave the ballgame in the eighth inning to beat the traffic, he waited until the last pitch was thrown.

He puffed and heard Jim yell, “I can smell your stinky stick all the way over here, Reese!”

Fred wished he had brought earplugs, then remembered he had. Gladys made him tote one of those ridiculous kits around wherever he went: Band-Aids and tweezers and gauze and disinfectant and a little tin of Tylenol and ... yes! Ear plugs.

He popped them in his ears when he was sure Jim wasn’t looking.

He smiled and puffed. Let the fool talk all he wanted.

This is a scene from my horror novel, CANALS. Fred Reese and Jim Waterman are two senior police volunteers, part of the "geezer squad" called on by Captain Bozeman to keep people away from the canals, where a nasty monster was biting and eating people. As you read, they were batting five hundred, which, for you non-sports people, means they only succeeded fifty percent of the time.

Fred has a lot of time to think, and because of his unpleasant partner, Jim, his mind drifts to the sad state of things in the country.

I admit there's some of me in this scene. I'm not a geezer (except to my teenage daughters) and I don't smoke, but I loathe rude cell phone users, which is almost every cell phone user, and I hold disdain for bad drivers. Quite frequently, the two are the same.

Adding to the list of rude people I dislike, which may well show up in my writing, are:

People who leave their shopping cart in the middle of the isle while they comparison-shop brands of canned green beans. What's the difference between a $.79 and a $.89 can of beans, other than ten cents? I don't know but I'll have the answer in twenty minutes. Why don't you use the other isle; can't you see I'm busy?

People who drive railcar-sized vehicles they pull in front of you at the gas station as you pump the final gallon into your tank. They're so big you can't get around them and so have to wait fifteen minutes while they pump forty gallons. Your revenge? It cost them $130 to fill their tank.

People who have no idea what they want, even after standing in line for ten minutes. This happened at the ticket counter of a local arts center. A woman made the cashier explain every show and exactly where every seat was located, while we waited behind her. The cashier called another lady out to help us, and we had to move the rude lady's purse because she'd left it front of the second register.

People who let their children, even encourage, yell and scream and jump on the furniture in your doctor's office reception room. No explanation is needed.

A little bit of myself crept into my second novel, THE MIGHTY T, too. How could it not?

Back Story and Flawed Characters

Think this guys has some character flaws?

He dated enough to quell most rumors he was gay. Sex was okay but too messy, too intimate. And sex usually took place in the bedroom, where shoes are kept. Daniel had eighty-two pairs, a fact he preferred to keep private. He was sure that once a woman learned he had a thing for shoes she would leave and tell him to never call again. Few people saw the inside of his apartment and no one, ever, went into his bedroom.

All-in-all, Daniel Lawless was an odd man with strange passions, but not so strange that he couldn’t fit in. He discovered he could have his shoes and his music so long as he enjoyed them quietly. He was content and prepared, if necessary, to live out his life alone.

He was not, however, prepared in any way for the horror that was descending upon him and the people he had sworn to serve and protect. Modesto needed a Dirty Harry, a man of action who carried a big gun he wasn’t afraid to use, but what they got instead was Daniel Lawless, a man who carried a small gun he preferred not to use, a man who liked shoes.

When I completed CANALS, it weighed in at a hefty 200,000 words; a bit much. It was the first novel I’d completed and I thought I was the new Stephen King.

In CANALS, I did something authors are strongly advised not to do: I dumped all of my main character’s, Daniel Lawless, back story into one chapter; an “info dump,” they call it. When editing, I chopped a lot of the back story out, but left it together. I split the back story up in my second book, THE MIGHTY T. I think the story flows better that way because when you give back story, you’re interrupting the plot and you want to keep that to a minimum.

What is back story? It’s when an author explains what happened before the timeline of the book. It’s usually used to explain why someone is the way they are, why they’re motivated to do whatever they’re doing in the book.

In CANALS, Lawless is a cop who’s always mindful of what’s happening to his shoes. He kicks a dirt clod in frustration, and immediately regrets doing it because it left a mark on the leather. When he’s finally alone at the scene, he pulls a small shoeshine kit out from under the front seat of his cruiser and makes a quick repair, buffing the mark out. That behavior is a bit odd, don’t you think? I do.

Characters with quirks, or flaws, are more interesting than characters who’re perfect, or think they’re perfect. Which reminds me of a story . . .

When growing up, my older brother (and my only brother) appointed himself the family narc. I’m fifty-four now so I’ve forgotten most of the times he ratted me out, but two memories remain.

When I was about five, our family had a burn barrel for trash; we burned all our paper trash on designated burn days. I was a budding arsonist then and had been warned that if I was caught near a fire again I’d get a whooping. Some time later, on a burn day, I noticed the fire was going to go out before all the trash was burned, so, to help the family, I stirred the fire with a stick so all the paper would get consumed. I was just trying to help, right?

My brother saw me and said, “You’re not supposed to play with fire. I’m telling.” Rat! I’d hoped my mom would do the whooping because her whoopings barely hurt, but no such luck. Shortly before my dad got home, I hid in the back of the closest, which was a mistake as it made him madder to have to hunt me down and pull me out.

(Mind you, if we kids were whooped, it was always on the bottom. His paddle of choice was a foot-long ruler from New Zealand, made of ridiculously hard wood apparently only found in that country. I wanted to throw it in the burn barrel . . .)

Flash forward to age twelve-ish. I had a Daisy BB gun I used to keep the bird population in the neighborhood in check. I was told to stop shooting birds, but how could I? I was sure they were plotting to take over the block by pecking out our eyes. My brother saw me shoot a bird and ratted me out. I was relieved of my BB gun.

My friends and I used to call him “Mr. Righteous,” because he thought he was the conscious of the family. We mostly disliked him. He’s a great guy now, though. A really great guy. Go figure.

When writing Lawless’s character, I wanted the reader to think he had no chance against the monster. He’d always avoided conflict when he could; he wasn’t a womanizer, at all; he liked shoes; he drank wine instead of beer and hard liquor—he wasn’t a macho cop. And here comes this monster, an unstoppable killing machine. An impossible setup.

Modesto needed a Dirty Harry, but what they got instead was Daniel Lawless, a guy who liked shoes. Can he rise to the occasion? You’ll have to read CANALS to find out.