What makes a professional?

I read a post about what makes a writer a professional writer. Although some attribute lofty requirements, the gist of most, was getting paid. I thought about this a bit. I am paid for my novels and short stories, by the reader, via amazon. Not a lot, though the royalty percentages are good, you still have to sell. Also, there is some expense, so to be a 'professional', must you see a profit? And, is any profit, no matter how marginal, the litmus test of being a professional?

I'm an RN. A member of a profession. There are serious requirements. You must know medications, be aware of the side affects and correct dosing(just because a doctor prescribed it does not relieve you of the responsibility, should it be incorrect). Additionally, you must continually assess your patients, note changes and keep the doctors informed. There is a

long list of things you must know and do, like most professions.

Sometimes, you have to clean butts. I'm paid for this so I suppose you could call me a 'professional butt cleaner'.

I thought I was until I helped an aide with this chore. This person has no degree, just a certificate, but is paid, though if you've ever observed what they do, it's not nearly enough.

I watched this person perform the task quickly, thoroughly and in my eyes, like a master artist. This butt was cleaned gently, powdered, bedding changed and all the while, kept the patient comfortable, warm and at ease.

I felt ashamed and from that point on, made it my goal to be the best 'butt cleaner' I could be. I remain clumsy in this endeavor and will probably never achieve the level of the aide. Still, I aspire.

So, what makes a writer, a 'professional writer'? I really haven't a clue, but I think there must be a level of care and aspiration. As in any profession, a level of knowledge and skill must be applied. And, getting paid isn't bad either.

I may never reach the level of  'butt cleaning' as the professional I witnessed. I may never attain the level of writing as the successful authors I've read. I have errors and bad habits, so ingrained, they most certainly will seep into my work. Yet, I aspire to be better, and I care, for the story, the characters, and the readers.

I guess this makes me just 'a writer'.

THE ORNAMENT IS LIVE ON AMAZON. GET YOUR CRY ON!

http://tinyurl.com/lu3g87h


The Ornament is live on Amazon, just 99 cents, click on above link.

THE ORNAMENT LIVE ON AMAZON 12/12/14

The Ornament will go live (He said optimistically) tomorrow, Friday 12/12/14. This was intended to be a short story, but grew, and grew and...well...it's around 65 pages. There's mystery and romance and family. I must say writing it was a revelation for me and I hope for you that read it as well. 

Merry Christmas.

At sixteen, Riley Fowler was

lost, wet and cold.

She sought only shelter,

but found a loving home.

That was four years ago.

Now, she strikes out on her own,

A Christmas ornament stirs memories.

She dreams of the birth of her daughter

and losing her, all in the same day.

A journey begins.

She is determined to take back

what was torn away.

Deceit and danger block the path,

but the quest reveals a wealth

of love standing by her all the while.

She has only to receive it.

THE ORNAMENT: COMING TO AMAZON.COM THIS WEEKEND!

                         At sixteen, Riley Fowler was

lost, wet and cold.

She sought only shelter,

but found a loving home.

That was four years ago.

Now, she strikes out on her own,

A Christmas ornament stirs memories.

She dreams of the birth of her daughter

and losing her, all in the same day.

A journey begins.

She is determined to take back

what was torn away.

Deceit and danger block the path,

but the quest reveals a wealth

of love standing by her all the while.

                                                 She has only to receive it.

Look for my new Novella this weekend on amazon.com.

HOW DO YOU FIGHT YOUR MUSE? DON'T!

: Left-2013 Christmas Story

: Right-2014 Christmas Story
















ABOUT THE ORNAMENT:

I've been on a writing binge for the last three days and I can smell...I mean tell. I've come up for air to play on FB a little The problem is a decision I made last year, after writing a Christmas short story, to publish one each year. Innocent enough, Huh?

Then the monster got loose. Most short stories average between 3-5 thousand words. Last year's story hit 9k. This one is really misbehaving. 17000 words (around 50 pages) and I am only now glimpsing the end. The characters just will not shut up.

And, you know what? I'm through trying to stop them. They and the story deserve not to be stifled.

So, for the few of you that read my work, be patient. It may not go live until Christmas Eve. But they and I (the characters) will rest little until at last, I can type, THE END.

I guess I'll have to change the cover to a '...novella by DREW ADAMS.

HELL, ME? NO PROBLEM, I'VE GOT A RESERVATION!

This actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.





It was a pretty Sunday and I didn't go to church. I'd started maybe a month earlier. That afternoon I got a call from one of the members.

"Mr Sweet, this is Front Pewzilla. We didn't see you in church today?"

Now, some of you that know me, or have read me, are aware that I am already revving up the restraint.

"Hi, Mrs. Pewzilla, I'm sorry, one of those mornings."

"Well, will we see y'all next Sunday?"

"We'll try."
 "You'll have to do more than try, Mr. Sweet."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Okay, I'm off the phone now and quite proud that I had maintained my cool. 

Next Sunday came and I was sitting outside, dressed for church, I'm thinking it was around eight am. I went inside to get the phone.

"Hello," I answered agreeably."

"So, Mr Sweet, are y'all going to be in Church this morning?"

It's a good thing I had not buttoned my top shirt button and tightened my tie. I expect my head would have exploded.

"No, Mrs. Pewzilla, I'm thinking I will be watching the Cowboys and drinkin' a few beers."

There was silence and fear entered my heart. What if I'd given her a coronary?

The quiet was short lived. "You know you're going to hell, don't you?"

Coronary be damned. "Don't worry, Ma'am, I've got a reservation. You on the other hand will have to stand."

I hung up and changed out of from my Sunday go to meetin' clothes.

Thank Jesus for forgiveness, because the smile on my face had to be a sin.

Police called for exhibitionist next door.

This is an old one folks:

The police arrived at the ladies house and followed her to her laundry room.

"Right next door. The man's in his bathroom,fully naked."

The two officers looked out the wash room's window. Next door was indeed a man who appeared to be shaving in his bathroom.

One of them turned to her. "Ma'am, all I can see of him is from the shoulders up."

She gave them a look of consternation, then moved a stepladder in front of the window. "Here, climb up on this and you can see all of him."

HAVE YOU READ SOME DREW TODAY?

TWO NOVELS-TWO SHORT STORIES

 http://tinyurl.com/m5qy96t

http://tinyurl.com/ndcl75h

http://tinyurl.com/lmlbqto

http://tinyurl.com/nm8cx6d

                                                                                                                                  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Posting comments on my blog...try now...fingers crossed that I have it fixed.

Seems most that want to comment on my blog are having difficulty. Spent some time researching on the help forum and I think I have it set. Anyone should be able to post without a problem. Give it a try and let me know.

Happy Veterans Day!

For our freedoms, let us not take them for granted. Dear blood bought these rights that are so often touted as an entitlement. 






I was so young, but I was a husband and I was a father. New to both and particularly new to this military life which had been thrust upon me. I noted in an earlier blog that I was one of those...the last group, I believe, to receive that 'infamous letter' in which the first line said ''Greetings". Now, in the words of the song, "it wasn't me that started that ole crazy Asian war, but I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore." Proud, well that would be a stretch at the time. Scared sh!@less would have been more accurate. Nevertheless, I did it and looking back I wouldn't have missed it and I am proud.

I did my service in the Military District of Washington. Just imagine! But, that is another story.

Fort Ord, California is where I did my basic training. And the day had arrived. We were going to throw our two live grenades.

Wow, what boy in his childhood had not played army and hadn't thrown some make believe grenade.

Okay, I admit, really tossing one of those bad boys is a little intimidating.

The range had a concrete wall from which we would toss our implements of destruction. We were given detailed instructions which I paid close attention to, particularly the part about not releasing the clip once you pull the pin. No second chances here. We were told the unfortunate incident, where a trainee pulled the pin and released the clip...thought oops, I guess, and pressed it back, then taking a throwing stance with the grenade in is hand, next to his ear, and well, you know the rest of the story.

So, there I was, grenade in hand, ready to send it spiraling like Staubach zipped a football. 

Textbook I thought, as I stooped below the wall. (I mentioned the training, did I mention we were suppose to assume a prone position following the toss?) We were and the drill instructor emphasized this forgotten detail with a blow, from his massive forearm to the back of my neck.

I, of course was read the riot act. I wanted to say...hell, the wall is four feet high. Why go all the way to the ground. The thought that on the field of battle, there might not be a four feet concrete wall didn't occur to me at the time. What I did say was "Yes, Drill Instructor!"

Second Grenade, same as the first, and I proudly went to the ground, full prone, snappy, like I meant it.

In the drill instructor's way.

He was yelling at me the whole time, as I ran around the viewing bunker. Once there, one of my comrades said, "Hey Sweet (for those of you who don't know, Drew Adams is my pen name. My given name is Andy Sweet) come check this out. 

They had periscopes back there. I peeked in one. The drill Sgt. was still jumping up and down, filling the air with expletives.

I want to thank this man, whoever he is, or was. At this age I can appreciate the job he did and the real danger he faced daily, trying to teach knuckleheads like me.

Also I'd like the thank all the instructors who teach and train our soldiers. They are most often the reason our loved ones return to us.

Happy Veterans day.