E.J. Eisman's Blog

So every time I update this page I seem to lose my blogs. I don’t know what I keep doing but when I look for my backup it’s never there or there is one but is from when Moses was on the mountain. I’ll do my best to update this thing.

What your opinion is about the afterlife or paranormal?  As a writer I am drawn to it as another facet of the one’s lifespan, what happens when you die?  Where does your energy go? What can you do with it?

Kim and I spend the weekends binge watching Ghost Adventures.  It was about February of this year (2021) that she noticed the sound of my piano keyboard tinkling in the early mornings before I awoke.  I assured her that I had turned it off and there was no way for it to make noise by itself.  But the random playing of notes, first two, then with time passing, five as it was working its way up, piqued our interest.

To give you some background on the house, we have experienced some unexplainable things.  Two that stand out: a clock and a wine glass.  The heavy clock lifted itself off the hook that it had been solidly placed and deposited itself in the kitchen. Falling off the wall, one would think it would have dented or scratched the hardwood floors, but not this.  I heard the noise when Kim was out, and I thought it was just Kim returning.  I was upstairs and thought she had dropped something.  Later, when she returned asked about the clock. The good old sturdy hook was still in solidly in the wall. There were no scratches on the floor below or where it would have had to roll (it is round) and continue into the kitchen some 30 steps, hit the stove and then swizzle around like a coin till it planted itself.

The wine glass is a different matter.  Both of us were home.  Kim was standing at the refrigerator with the freezer door open and we heard a noise.  A drop.  Closing the door she found a upside-down top heavy goblet slid from the rack, do a full summersault and land on its base in a tray between a chip bag and a jar of peanuts.  It wasn’t placed there.  It landed there on its own.  A one in a million shot or it was done with some help.  In the previous house Kim and I have watched a sneaker shoot out of a basket and into the hallway as if it were propelled.  The piano playing is nothing new.

I’ve already had some of my own issues with the keyboard before Kim started hearing it playing notes.  While I play, it will suddenly bang the F# key extremely loud as if a child were trying to get my attention.  It’s a loudness that even I can’t create because I don’t have the volume up that high.  It doesn’t do it all the time.  It doesn’t do it when I hit the key. One of the first times I noticed it, I was playing Here Comes the Sun, and I hesitated. Like a teaching correcting me, it hit the F# which was the note I was to play next had I remembered quickly enough.  The curious thing about this is that my grandfather had an electric organ which I learned to play on.  As the years took toll on it the F key in all octaves stopped sounding like an organ and sounding more like static.  The moment it started happening I immediately thought of that.

It can all be explained. There could be a short in the keyboard.  It could have been just a lucky drop for the wine glass. There might have been some external rumbling that caused the clock to jump 3/8” off the hanger and roll across floor or maybe there is something else afoot.  Well, for a writer, there is always a challenge for more knowledge. The more you know the more you can write about.  As my novels tend to spend time in the spirit world, I thought I chase the ghosts in my home, but what I found, I don’t think I would ever be prepared for. Stay tuned for more to come….

I did a restore to my blog website. It said it was from July 2020 but it wiped out everything from 2015 to 2017. Ouch!

Watching the television, I saw an ad for a GelMate pen, and it made me remember, something from my childhood, the excitement of new ball point pen. You might have experienced it, you are a child of 10, and you have been writing in pencil for the most of your life because you didn’t want to be caught not being able to spell correctly, or doing your math problems, you’d make a mistake and didn’t want to have to find the WhiteOut or cross out, and fix the problem. And then, BAM! You life changes when they PaperMate introduced the EraserMate. Mine was such a shade of blue, not too bright, not too dark. It was the perfect blue and black accents to match my Batman childhood disguise. The best part, erasing ink! I loved that pen for the greater part of my childhood. I must have taken it apart a god-zillion amount of times, fingered the spring, took off the cap, unscrewed the barrel, parked it in my mouth like a cigarette to look winsome while thinking of things to write.

Pens in my life are something of a history. My first love was my grandfather’s multicolor pen. Clicking and unclicking, trying to decide which color to use, what to write, where to write it. It was like being part of royalty to have a pen like that. And the few times I was allowed to use it, made me think twice about wasting the green or red ink. They were too special to waste on doodling or nonsense. These were reserved for great observations of a young child, or Christmas lists or the drawing of toys I wanted to present to my grandparents as a subtle sales hint; robot, calculator, pocket radio, remote race car. Black and blue were saved for prose. Immediately, I hated blue, it was so common! Bic was big back then. Cheap and plentiful. But I wanted something special to match me. From then on I would seek out to write in black ink, like a real writer, or so I imagined.

But then the EraserMate came along. Blue ink. How could I love this pen so much? I could erase my poor spelling, a concession would need to be made. There was something so innocent about those days, that I missed, seeing the GelMate commercial. I used to be excited about a new pen. I used to find wonder in the world unveiling itself in front of me. My world then was of school, friends, home, and parents, not of hate and disenfranchisement. Feeling older, worrying about money, and health and the world, I want that childhood wonder and my EraserMate back.

The Godfather



I found it enlightening, to the Godfather saga. There were little tid bits about Mama Corleone/Kay/Jonny Fontain/Tom Hagen that the movies didn’t explore, but I see how they wouldn’t fit with the Michael narrative. I’m sorry the movies missed the line “Life is beautiful” the dying words of Vito. If you liked the movies, I would recommend reading the book.





Loitering With Intent (The Child)



I love Peter O’Toole so when I found out he had written his biography, I had to get it, all three volumes. This first one goes into his childhood avoiding jail and the war, going into the merchant marines, and on the brink of an acting scholarship. It is funny and sad, but always a great read. I love to read his stories, you can almost hear him reading them to you.





The Spy that Loved Me



If you’ve seen the James Bond movie this is completely different. It’s written from a woman’s point of view, who is a caretaker of an Inn in upstate NY that is about to be burned down for the insurance money. The torch men thought they’d have a little fun with her until James Bond shows up. It’s not a typical Bond, but it does have action.





The Thin Man



I loved the Thin Man movies so I had to see how it stacked up. It more than satisfies. Nick and Nora are pushed into solving this murder and you love every minute of it. Keep the martinis chilled.





Slaughterhouse Five



I’ve always heard about this book is a classic, so I had to read it. If crazy was what happened to people in the war, so is what happens in this book. I loved it. From the present to the future to the past, there is humor, grizzly atrocities, and aliens. Reading is a must!





As I Lay Dying



So I saw this on the classic rack and I had to read it. It’s a great study of a 1900’s family trying to bury their dead mother as told from multiple person perspective. This version was kept in the original writing, so some of the language was hard for me to understand, as some of the characters spoke in the vernacular.





The Maltese Falcon



Another Dashiell Hammett book. It’s a classic crime drama and if you ever want to write in the genre this is where to start. It was a great movie, and great book.





The Big Sleep



No one can write like Raymond Chandler, not even him. It’s a classic Philip Marlow, with all the precise description you can handle in the LA world.





Farewell My Lovely



More Marlow, course language and definitely not politically correct. But I loved the twists and turns of this one and especially how it all fits together in the end.

I was at a late lunch at a restaurant with Kim this weekend. We were enjoying our time together, as of late she’s been able to go out shopping, walk around, and was getting back to normal after her two knee replacements. So as I said, just got our non-alcoholic drinks when this woman walks up to us, whom I recognize from the car parked next to us, even if she had her head buried in her cell phone, texting.

“I just want you to know you damaged my car when you carelessly got out and hit my passenger door.”

I knew she was lying, but I wasn’t she was not going to be challenged in her advanced state of anger. I am more than compensating so as not to get out of my car “carelessly.” I go out of the way not to bump other cars, it’s the way I was raised. Living in apartment complexes most of my adult life, I’m old enough to know not to damage anyone else’s vehicle, lest ye be damaged as well.

Well, I disagreed. Her voice was so sure that I was the only culprit of this dastardly deed.  She acted like how could I ever live with myself or even enjoy food from now on knowing that I was a cold blooded door damager.  After some more of me denying and her trying to convince me I suggested we walk out to our cars and assess this great injustice that has befallen her. I had insurance and was willing to swap information if there was something I was involved in.

Well, we walk out, and she points out a small dent with a scratch on front top of the front passenger door on her white Nissan Altima, on a diagonal from her mirror, no more than a quarter inch, that was already oxidizing. If we were in some tropical salt air climate instead of a cool day in Pennsylvania in February, she might have had some credence. But for it to oxidize so soon, unless heat was involved, it wasn’t going to happen within fifteen minutes from leaving the scene. Her vitriol was so strong, again, I wasn’t going to challenge her with effects of chemical composition to given the dry, cool air and time for something like this to happen.  It was so high on her car door, I was almost sure there was no way for my car to do it.

I opened my car door, and bam. The hard rubber molding that runs down the middle side of the car like a bumper first hit her car door, much lower than her scratch and about two to three inches short of this proposed  wound. The top and bottom corners of the door were nowhere in proximity to the scar. Physically, unless there was a black line running down her car door where the bumper would have rubbed off, and about an inch of car door also sawed off, there was no way for me to have done this damage.

“There is no way it could have happened. Look.  The bumper would have stopped it.”

She was not happy with this set of facts presented to her, and the Goth pixie-haired woman stomped away without a word.

I stood alone in the parking lot wondering what her motives in this were?  Such a tiny scratch and dent, hardly even something to look at.  It might even have been caused by a rock kicked up from the road it was so small. Why would she go through all the trouble of tracking me down when she had to know I didn’t do it?

I haven’t been on here lately. I’ve been busy and really didn’t have anything to talk about.  Not true. Last year with the presidential campaign, you couldn’t say anything without pissing off someone. I’ve held my tongue and will keep holding it. I’m sure you aren’t interested in listening to what I think. That’s just one of the things that we will just have to keep to ourselves. Politics brings out the worst in people because everyone believes and is right on some level.

The election was swift retribution for either party. Whether the Russians were involved in some fashion is moot when more than half of electorate didn’t show up to decide who was going to hold the highest office. Why would two major parties pick candidates whom most of the country hated?  I’m sure historians will explain this in the future.

I’ve been working on Girl, Friend. It’s a fun little romp that needs a lot of work, but as of today, I’ve finished the third draft for printing. I’m hoping to pick it up for reading later at the Mifflin Writers Group.

Mariline came back from the editor. There is something so grounding as getting a piece of work back from your editor. As much as I worked on it, they found a lot that needs to be added, changed, edited, etc. I always think I’ve written the perfect book and when I get it back, it has twenty or so plot holes and all 400 pages of line edits. I can’t even imagine sending it to an agent. They would throw it in a pile with the rest of the crap. But I’ve resigned myself that some day I will write the perfect novel, maybe not this year, but I have a whole ton of years left to realize my dream of being a widely published author. I’ve tried being the hare, now I need to work on being the tortoise.

Happy New Year!

EJ

Girl, Friend: Rodger Atkins, an ex-boy band member from the eighties, is thrust into international intrigue in Key West after he goes broke, befriends a local bookshop keeper and his friend is assassinated. Stopping World War Three is maybe just another day at work for some people, but for Rodger, it’s the key to his keeping him out of jail.

How many times in your life have you said these words?  I hear it all the time with writers, “I’m not good enough to write a novel/short story/poem/book/screenplay/etc.” Many writers have this fear. Everyone has had this fear. If you read bios of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck, some of their greatest classics would have never made to the publisher if they fell to this distortion of themselves.  There is the classic story of Steven King, after going through so many drafts of Carrie, throwing the manuscript into the trash, only to be rescued by his wife. Not good enough. I’m not saying writing is easy, it’s not, even for the most masterful. There will be times when you will want to throw things, goof off, check your Facebook status, but one thing you can’t do is quit.

I’m reminded of a time when I really wanted to learn how to play piano out of high school. I struggled for years. I didn’t have money for lessons, but I got myself a keyboard.  I knew chords from playing my grandfather’s electric organ, I thought how hard could it be. Playing chords is easy. Keeping the baseline with my left hand was like learning brain surgery. I practiced and started making up songs when I could play. A chance evening of boredom had me watching an infomercial on playing piano changed my life. I sat back down the next day, and things changed. I picked up playing rhythm guitar after.  I played for many years, afraid to go anywhere and afraid to play with anyone. I wrote songs. I wrote a musical. I tried my hand at just about everything except playing in front of people or with others. Cut to age 36. I started a band. Was I good enough? I was about to find out. The first person I interviewed was a lead guitarist, Ron.  Ron was much older than me and he had been playing in bars since he was thirteen and lied about his age. I picked up a lot of what he did, just by watching, hearing. We played together for some years as others in the band dropped out or moved on. I had a ball. Was I good enough? I got the greatest compliment from him when he said I wasn’t, “that bad.”  I tried. I learned. I was good enough.

The moral of the story is if you don’t try, you will never know. What if you had said that as a child learning to walk? We’ve all witnessed children learning to walk and know their first steps are tenuous at best. With repetition, we learn to walk. Learning to talk is the same way. It’s when we interact with others we begin our fears. That’s when we create our doubts that we are, “not good enough.” What is your definition of good enough?  New York Times best seller good enough?  Article in the New Yorker good enough? How about you’re worthy of your own praise good enough? Isn’t that what we are all looking for?

If you write, you are already good enough. You just have to have some faith in yourself, learn all you can, and don’t stop. Someday you will realize that you’ve always been good enough.

How many times in your life have you said these words?  I hear it all the time with writers, “I’m not good enough to write a novel/short story/poem/book/screenplay/etc.” Many writers have this fear. Everyone has had this fear. If you read bios of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck, some of their greatest classics would have never made to the publisher if they fell to this distortion of themselves.  There is the classic story of Steven King, after going through so many drafts of Carrie, throwing the manuscript into the trash, only to be rescued by his wife. Not good enough. I’m not saying writing is easy, it’s not, even for the most masterful. There will be times when you will want to throw things, goof off, check your Facebook status, but one thing you can’t do is quit.

I’m reminded of a time when I really wanted to learn how to play piano out of high school. I struggled for years. I didn’t have money for lessons, but I got myself a keyboard.  I knew chords from playing my grandfather’s electric organ, I thought how hard could it be. Playing chords is easy. Keeping the baseline with my left hand was like learning brain surgery. I practiced and started making up songs when I could play. A chance evening of boredom had me watching an infomercial on playing piano changed my life. I sat back down the next day, and things changed. I picked up playing rhythm guitar after.  I played for many years, afraid to go anywhere and afraid to play with anyone. I wrote songs. I wrote a musical. I tried my hand at just about everything except playing in front of people or with others. Cut to age 36. I started a band. Was I good enough? I was about to find out. The first person I interviewed was a lead guitarist, Ron.  Ron was much older than me and he had been playing in bars since he was thirteen and lied about his age. I picked up a lot of what he did, just by watching, hearing. We played together for some years as others in the band dropped out or moved on. I had a ball. Was I good enough? I got the greatest compliment from him when he said I wasn’t, “that bad.”  I tried. I learned. I was good enough.

The moral of the story is if you don’t try, you will never know. What if you had said that as a child learning to walk. We’ve all witnessed children learning to walk and know their first steps are tenuous at best. With repetition, we learn to walk. Learning to talk is the same way. It’s when we interact with others we begin our fears. That’s when we create our doubts that we are, “not good enough.” What is your definition of good enough?  New York Times best seller good enough?  Article in the New Yorker good enough? How about your worthy of your own praise good enough? Isn’t that what we are all looking for?

If you write, you are already good enough. You just have to have some faith in yourself, learn all you can, and don’t stop. Someday you will realize that you’ve always been good enough.