Evil Tides on the Tilikum

It has taken many years to write this novel. Terry the Terrible Troll . In fits and splits, it burns long and deep. I type a chapter as it comes, then shelve it until inspiration draws me back into the muse. Just before COVID-19 strangled the world with fear, I drove a Line 9 in Portland over the Tilikum Crossing. One of a kind, open only to transit and bicycles/pedestrians, it's a shining beacon along an overly-bridged body of water separating the largely-residential/industrial West vs. East Willamette River District. This newest bridge boasts bicycle counters on either end. Westbound crossing the river into downtown, the counter showed a significantly-larger number of bicyclists than it did on the outbound side. I considered this intently as I drove eastward toward Gresham. Plaguing me, I searched within the river's tidal pull for creative reason. Suddenly, it came to me as I passed over the bridge again toward downtown. There's a troll under that bridge. He eats bicycli

For the past several months, I have not had the ability to write fiction. So much non-fiction drama clouds our lives it's often difficult to imagine otherwise. Therefore, this story has smoldered in the fires of my back-mind. They nag me, these characters and story lines. Never fear, dear readers. Terry the Terrible Troll lives on. He's simply awaiting my final thrust to push him to the probably-bloody, possibly-hopeful finale. The story is 2/3 written. My goal is to finish it before this year reaches summer. Meanwhile, I have been reading what happened so far, formulating ideas as to how Terry will progress. Each of us has incidents in life which cause a pause. As any serious writer can agree, mine are less vital excuses to finish a story which burns within. It's more a failure to launch than anything else. Self-doubt, fear of what lies behind these fiery fingertips, even more the frightening reality that very few writers achieve our ultimate goal: to grasp the imagination

Hi Folks, For nine years, I have allowed myself to blog as a bus operator. Now, I have moved on. There's still so much for this driver to say, but my soul is begging to finish my novel. The pull between the two has been a fierce battle. But one truth has won the battle, even as I struggle with the truth.  My writing self hates to let loose of bus blogging, but the readership is no longer there. Once upon a time, thousands read blog posts on FromTheDriverSide . Now, I'm lucky to see a few hundred. Perhaps the voice became monotonous, harping on themes already sung. Whatever, it seems the driver gig is getting old. People move on, or are no longer interested in that old band which plays different songs to the same chord. It's a tough tune to pick weekly, like a group who's known for one song and the audience simply tires of hearing it. That's why, during my sleepy Friday roll of a 35, that I decided it was time to make my own lottery. Almost four years have passed sin

Author's Note: You may ask what happened with my book. The literary lull was simply recovery from a pseudonym which left me angry and disillusioned. Kept me from writing fiction, after having written the truth about my life for decades. Now I'm mostly free from my self-imposed, half-assed "secret" self. Having this freedom, I can finally resume writing this story.  Here's another teaser, a Tale of the Tilikum Troll. * * * * * Thomas heard the entire conversation. Although the entrance was effectively closed, he furiously clawed the sand where his daughter disappeared. Thinking password, he uttered everything he could imagine. Then he fired his service revolver twice into the embankment. Nothing, except displaced sand and loud reports. After a few moments of realizing he couldn’t rush in to save Char, Thomas stood quietly a moment. Then, he heard voices. Concentrating, he realized he was not hearing , but registering them. In his mind. He sat down, covering his

A novel is a massive undertaking. It takes time to nurture, like a child. It evolves from the ether, the mist of imagination. It is demanding. If the proper time is taken in creation, it results in even more editing and consideration. Each character reveals itself in new forms without the slightest provocation. The joy in writing something from what was once nothing is indescribable. Passion outplays planning. Characters act in ways the writer must adapt to, rather than simply react. There is no cadence in pure creativity. It must be tamed, but always allowed to roam. There is no timetable here. I have to read what was written in what can only be described as a trance. It must be felt, then allowed to expand. Once the first draft is done, it will undergo massive transformations. Situations which unfold from nothing require the utmost focus to become sharp. Characters must adapt to what is to come. Charlemagne, a name wholly derived from another favorite Steely Dan tune. Deke you alread

Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to a place where nobody knows what is real, what is about to happen, or why. Just beware riding your bike alone on the Tilikum... Have you ever noticed an anomaly on the bicycle counters on either end of the Tilikum Crossing? I have. Numbers vary widely from the downtown-bound to the outbound. When I first noticed, I wondered why more people would pedal into downtown than those who ride eastbound. Now, the truth is clear. Cyclists are disappearing there on a regular basis, but their demise does not appear in news media. Why?!? Is there a coverup happening at the highest levels of local police and government? Is the truth itself so terrifying the "public interest" is best served by intentional misdirection? Through thoughtful consideration and observation, I have determined there is a troll beneath that bridge, and it eats bicyclists. It is masterful in disguise, nearly impossible to see. But a Kid saw it, so she says. I cannot pinpoint an