A book, a goal, and a temper.

I was in the mood for a good Western.

It might have been some kind of personal record, reading 850 pages or so in a week.  I would have finished in a matter of days, had that pesky work not intruded on Lonesome Dove.  I'd heard my father speak fondly of the television mini-series, was familiar with Larry McMurtry's name, but was rather ignorant of the novel.  This should be required reading for anyone who fancies themselves 'a reader.' 

And it's not a subjective thing.  You'll finish and agree.  It's size is intimidating, but once you're in, you'll be surprised at how quickly everything moves.  Dove is original, heroic, tragic, and devoid of any Western-Gunslinging-Male'centric' cliches.  McMurtry's women are independent, intelligent; the men, young and old, are immature and flawed.  The players are incomplete and therefore completely believable; there wasn't a landscape I couldn't imagine in my mind or a loss that didn't hurt.

Please read this book.  However, skip the author's introduction.  McMurtry includes a sentence or two about the book's conclusion which dampens one of several surprises.

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Several beginning-of-the-year writing goals include finishing three new stories by mid-year and spending the second half of the year working on one long story, that will, most likely, turn into a novel.  Should any of the stories (unwritten or those three currently waiting with fingers crossed) be accepted anywhere, I thought that might be a reasonable occasion to create a damned Facebook page already.

But, then again...I might not.

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Lastly, there's been an interesting development with my youngest son, Jack, which I'm certain I haven't detailed.

Little ones get frustrated quite easily.  Either us foolish adults can't understand what they want, they don't understand our rules and regulations, they don't like the way our food tastes, don't feel like being tickled at such a serious time, or there are times they would just rather be difficult.  They'll cry, collapse on the floor, throw things, attack, slam doors, etc.  But not our little Jack.

He growls.

No, I'm not kidding.  He throttles whatever action figure he's holding, and you can hear the anger build in his chest and burn up to his throat.  Then, he'll stare us dead in the face and growl.  Like a wolverine.  Here's a sample:

US: What, Jack?
HIM: mumble, mumble, mamapapajoejoe.
US: Buddy.  Do you want a snack?
HIM: Face turns red, and he looks cross.  No words.
US: Milk?
HIM: Grinds his teeth and the growl bursts loose.  He is trying to rip the action figure in two for no apparent reason.
US: We look at each other and wonder if we should laugh or be afraid.  And from another part of the room, the older brother jumps in to help.
JOE: Jaaaack.  What's your problem? A giggle.

Jack turns on his brother and the fighting begins.

Fun times!