I’m reporting live from the Florence Festival of Books, where I arrived to find a crowd waiting at my booth! I should mention it also happenes to be located next to the restrooms. Apparently, someone had forgotten to unlock the door, so the crowd quickly dissipated once the janitor showed up. Still, I have gotten one pre-order, which I think is a reflection of may marketing savvy…
As an extra enticement, I am offering a bite from the corners for anyone who orders two or more copies of Humor at the Speed of Life. Needless to say, I expect those corners to go fast.
I will be bringing you live updates throughout the day, using my scone as a measure of my success. If you’re in Florence this afternoon, stop by for my reading at 3 p.m. If you’re not in Florence, start driving now…
I don’t know if it’s the change of the seasons, the approaching zombie apocalypse or a tainted batch of Lay’s Chicken and Waffles potato chips. Whatever the reason, a lot of folks have been asking the question, “How did you get started?” Not to sound presumptuous, but I assume they mean “as a columnist,” and not “as a father” or “turning grey” — which, I’d like to point out, are directly related. Because of this, I thought it might be a good time to revisit my very first Nickel’s Worth on Writing, which covers the basics on how to get a jumpstart your rejection letters writing career. I should point out that some of today’s best-selling authors got their start after reading this post, prompting writers like J.K. Rowling to call Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing, “Just the advice I needed to realize my potential within the food service industry. You know, until the book thing came along.”
When I first started querying newspapers about carrying my column, I was getting one or two rejections in my email box every week. In frustration, I turned to the Internet and discovered, with a little planning and organization, I could be rejected by every newspaper in the state of Louisiana all in one afternoon.
In 2002, I began my unofficial “Internet promotional tour” across the United States by emailing a basic cover letter and a few sample columns to newspapers here in my home state of Oregon. Today, the column is running in 60 papers in 11 states and Canada. What follows are a few simple truths, mixed with some suggestions, that will help distinguish your email query from the hundreds of male enhancement offers editors receive each day. Continue reading Getting started as a columnist (or why I avoid Rhode Island)
This is my brain on caffeine and AC/DC. See? Nothing. I often listen to AC/DC when I’m writing, especially if it’s early in the morning. At this particular moment, “For Those About to Rock” is thundering toward its big finish as guitars, vocals and drums whip the live audience into a frenzy. On most mornings, that — along with coffee, and lots of it — is enough to engage my brain. But the moment I tried sticking the ear phone jack into my left ear canal instead of my iPad, I knew something was wrong, and that even AC/DC wasn’t going to help me this morning.
Some of you know, in addition to being a columnist, I’m also a volunteer firefighter. Though it’s been quiet lately, last night we had two tap outs. The first was at 10 p.m. for a small wildfire that took us a couple of hours to put out. The next call was a structure fire at 1 a.m. that turned out to be a false alarm. Final bed time: 1:45 a.m.
When my alarm went off at 4:45, I put my pants on backwards and slid my feet into my wife’s high heels.
Before we get to this week’s Nickels Worth on Writing, I have been told by the U.S. Postal Service that sending me your nickels taped to postcards is not acceptable. Apparently, it really messes with the sorting machines, which mistakenly re-direct them to the “Clothes for Miley Cyrus Fund.” So, until we get this figured out, hold on to your nickels; my NWOW is on the house!
Does that mean my advice, gleaned from 15 years as a columnist and referred to by some of today’s most influential writers as “the fertilizer in the garden of writing,” will be any less insightful?
Of course not.
Money or no money, I promise you my weekly advice could not be any less insightful — which is why authors like Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, John Grisham and E.L. James receive this post in their spam email every Friday, and why this weekly feature was recognized by Writers Digest magazine as “One of the few blogs that illustrates, with absolute clarity, why writers such as Hemingway became alcoholics.” Continue reading Zombie apocalypse or writing world: survival skills are essentially the same
The Door: Guardian of historic journalism; protector of commode privacy… It appears Keith Morrison has given up pursuing an exclusive on The Door (of Shame, Blame and Brilliance) here in our newsroom. There were no creepy messages from him on my voicemail this morning and, after throwing his back out lifting a water jug, he is no longer posing as an Arrowhead Springs water delivery guy in order to gain access. In addition, we’ve stopped jumping whenever the fax machine goes off now that Morley Safer has stopped sending booty faxes with the warning You Will Crack! written on them.
Yes, things are quiet here; the calm before the storm.
I say that because today’s post will likely put me in the crosshairs of one of the most powerful men this country has ever purposely been made to forget about. In fact, his systematic disappearance after leaving the White House was so complete that I can’t even remember where I was going with this…
Wait! I remember, thanks to this newspaper clipping, which illustrates the importance of The Door, and why journalistic icon Geraldo Rivera has called it “The Al Capone’s Vault of journalistic treasures. No really, I MEAN it this time!” and why rearviewed… oops, I mean revered… journalist Anderson Cooper has referred to The Door as “A revealing look at journalism, depending on who comes out of the commode.” Continue reading After today, Dick Cheney will probably blow up… The Door
Yep, that’s me, learning about the dangers of smoking . I come from a long line of alcoholics. Truth be told, the roots of my family tree are probably located in a beer garden. For this reason, I was determined to break the cycle and be the first member of my family to remember most of his 20s and 30s, not develop a beer gut and actually know who all of my kids are. I was genuinely frightened of carrying a gene I assumed had its own alcohol content — which is why I didn’t crack open my first beer until I was 20; in a moment of weakness; working under the blistering Texas sun; because there was no water or soda; and I had just read about spontaneous human combustion.
The second drink of my life came a year later when I was given a shot of peach Schnapps on my 21st birthday. It was quick, painless and not noticeable on my breath when I left for my second job. It was also the last drink I had until I was 30, when a friend started making strawberry lemonade spiked with Absolute. It was the third drink of my life, and the first time I had more than one in single night. I went from sitting to crawling, and eventually lying on my back laughing before falling asleep. Looking at the big picture of my life, I can only hope that’s the way things eventually play out for me: Sit, crawl, lie on my back laughing, then just fall asleep.
It wasn’t until my 30s that I began to understand how, in spite of my efforts to the contrary, alcohol had still become a factor in defining me — through my nearly obsessive efforts to avoid it. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I feel like I missed out on something by not becoming an alcoholic. But I’m well aware there is an entire right-of-passage experience I was not a part of and can’t really relate to because of the fear I had of opening Pandora’s six pack. The drunken parties, crazy nights waking up with someone else’s pants on, singles bars and dance clubs, as well as the bonds created through those experiences — I have no frame of reference. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen The Hangover and American Pie, but I’m still left with a certain level of naiveté when it comes to conversations of “the old days” among friends, not to mention what to anticipate from my teenaged kids.
God help me.
Or them; I’m not really sure which.
What I do know is that I can hear the “phssst” of a bottled beverage from 50 yards away. So kids: good luck sneaking a Dos Equies out of the fridge. That’s right. I eventually overcame my fear of drinking, right about the time my oldest daughter became a teenager. By then, I had been divorced and a single father for two years; if I hadn’t become an alcoholic by then, I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to. I also recognized that other fears I had carried with me — based on the mistakes of my father — weren’t coming to pass. I don’t smoke or do drugs; I’ve never been to jail; and I’ve never struck my wife or children. It’s with no small sense of irony that, after 47 years, I am becoming the person I hoped to be by following my father’s example… to the contrary.
I honestly can’t say whether my father did things with absolute purpose or recklessness. I can tell you he was a heavy smoker, yet I credit him for being the reason I never picked up the habit. Not because he preached against it, but because he started telling me light his cigarettes for him when I was 11. Admittedly, I thought that was pretty cool at first. And by “at first” I mean the first time I lit one up, inhaled, and then threw up what seemed like everything I’d eaten since graduating to solid foods. He had me light him a few more that day, just for good measure.
I wouldn’t even touch candy cigarettes after that. The illusion of coolness associated with smoking had effectively been snuffed.
Was that his intent… with everything?
I’ll never know for sure; he passed away long before I had the courage to pose the question.
While I spent a long time resenting him, I’ve begun to realize — like my fearful and obsessive avoidance of alcohol — the end result is a two-dimensional life that only offers a reflection of what you don’t want to be. To live three-dimensionally, you have to be more than a reflection: you have to cast your own image.
Writing naked is a great way to challenge yourself. It can also get you a private cubicle. That unmistakable sound of jingling pocket change on Friday can only mean one thing: It’s time for Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing! Unless Friday is your laundry day. Or the day you treat yourself to breakfast from the vending machine at work.
But let’s assume you’re here for my weekly writing tip, which is offered up from 15 years as a newspaper columnist. And let’s further assume that kind of writing pedigree was extremely impressive. Then you would understand why some of today’s most respected fictional writers and equally fictional educators have referred to my NWOW as:
Advice you’d expect from someone who is indeed a professional. Wait, I said in need of a professional…
and
Required reading for my students whenever I’m mad at them or too hung over to actually teach…
Admittedly, I am a bit embarrassed. Not only by those gushing accolades, but also because I am writing this post while naked — which brings us to this week’s Nickel’s Worth. At this moment, you’re probably asking yourself, “Why is he writing naked?!” Unless of course — and this is understandable — you didn’t actually notice. I should clarify the sum of 5 cents and my being naked aren’t related. At least not directly. What I will say is this: If I were a stripper, I would be the only one with a change belt instead of a money pouch. And we’ll just leave it at that. Continue reading Occasionally, you need to write naked… or at least out of your comfort zone
The Door in our newsroom: Sentinel of journalistic history, protector of bathroom privacy. It seems as though ABC reporters Barbara Walters, Morley Safer and John Quinones have finally given up on gaining an exclusive to The Door (of Shame, Blame and Brilliance). It’s been nearly a week since Safer has faxed any threatening images of his booty, which we began handing out for a new children’s coloring contest. Interestingly, there seems to be a 50/50 split between children who believe it is the image of a dense forest surrounding an abandoned well, and those who are think it is the Death Star exploding.
In addition, Walters is no longer leaving angry messages such as “Your CAWEER is HISTOWY!” on my voice mail, and Quinones has stopped Tweeting “@Ned Hickson: What would YOU do? Give me an exclusive before you become a Dateline Mystery!”
Which brings us to this week’s entry from The Door, and the latest reporter to begin hounding us for an exclusive to what Anderson Cooper has called “A journalistic milestone of unparalleled significance, not counting my decision to wear Dockers that were a size too small during broadcasts.” Continue reading Keith Morrison latest reporter to knock on… The Door
If you are at this very moment digging between the couch cushions for coins, or replacing the Tooth Fairy change under your child’s pillow for an “IOU,” then you already know it’s time for Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing.
OK, sure. It could also mean you’re short on cash for a Starbuck’s, or trying to scrounge up gas money for your morning commute. Whatever the reason, please stop immediately because this week’s NWOW is on the house.
That’s right! You can save your nickel towards that next mocha Grande!
I realize some of you are looking at me as if to say:
Is this going to be like the time I “won” a free getaway weekend and ended up buying a time share in Rotgut, Alabama?
No. I assure you this week’s Nickel’s Worth is absolutely free. So don’t bother taping that nickel to a post card and sending it in. Why? Because last week many of you were left standing nickel-in-hand after I failed to get my post up. This has never happened to me before. Although many of you told me it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, and that it happens to everyone from time to time, it’s never happened to me — and I felt the least I could do is offer an apology with a complementary look at my NWOW. Continue reading Four members every good writers’ group should avoid
The Door in our newsroom: History sentinel and commode shield. Though we have received a small respite from the constant barrage of angry Barbara Walters phone calls, emails from Brit Hume and booty faxes from Morley Safer seeking an exclusive on The Door (of Shame, Blame and Brilliance), today’s post will undoubtedly change that. As regular readers of this weekly feature know, The Door is home to newspaper clippings posted by reporters here at Siuslaw News since the 1970s, highlighting the best and worst examples of print media moments for nearly four decades. It has been called a journalistic mecca; a reporter’s Rosetta Stone; or as Anderson Cooper so eloquently stated, “A sentinel with an impressively large door knob, waiting to be twisted.”
Today’s entry, however, is a first — and something that will undoubtedly have Barbara Walters putting us back on speed dial. But before revealing today’s entry, we must follow a protocol of tradition by joining hands and repeating in a monotone voice similar to Barbara Walters under hypnosis:
The Door is a beacon, dwawing us into the jagged wocks of journawism…
I will be bringing you live updates throughout the day, using my scone as a measure of my success. If you’re in Florence this afternoon, stop by for my reading at 3 p.m. If you’re not in Florence, start driving now… 
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