• On 9 December, 2012 by

    A Holiday-ish Story For You.

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    This isn’t actually a holiday story. In fact, Christmas carols get mentioned, and that’s really the only thing that makes it even remotely holiday-related. But it’s a good story. I read this at a group reading in Flagstaff, AZ a few years ago; it helps to read this while envisioning a New York accent coming from the narrator’s mouth.

     

    Tom’s Sweaty Headphones

    By Dan Cavallari

    Growing up has got to be about the dumbest thing a person can do. I know, I know…I guess I didn’t even really believe that, neither. Not until I met Tom, and boy, Tom would know. I’d be lyin’ if I said I knew the guy good, but from what I could tell, I’d be willin’ to bet if he had it to do all over again, he’d just stay a kid. Most people would say that’s impossible, but really, it ain’t that impossible. Okay, so your body would have to grow, but who says you have to grow up in the brain? Or in the heart? They put people like that away in the crazy house or in jail if they’re so kid-like that they don’t even know they’re hurtin’ someone, but Tom wasn’t like that. Tom turned into an adult, but one day he just decided it was better to be a kid. So maybe he didn’t exactly go back to bein’ a kid, but he figured out step one, got himself to the first slob on the line, like we say down at the factory. Yeah, you’re not believin’ me, I can see that, but I know why. It’s simple: you’re jealous. If you could do it, too, you would. I know I would.

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  • On 21 October, 2012 by

    Where Inspiration Comes From.

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    I can’t stop writing about the east coast.

    Easier to write about it from the outside looking in.

     

  • On 20 October, 2012 by

    Start Thinking About Words. A Story Will Surely Follow.

    Halloween’s coming. Joshua Allar says hello.

  • On 30 August, 2012 by

    Men Waiting For Sleep Synopsis

    Hey all,

    I just posted the synopsis for “Men Waiting For Sleep,” my newest novel. You can read the synopsis by clicking on the MY BOOKS tab at the top of the page. Or, you can be more efficient and simply CLICK HERE.

    Like any manuscript, this one is not done and won’t be until it’s printed and in your hands. It’s an evolution, a process, a tooth extraction. I like the novel, though, and I think it has dramatically improved since the early drafts. I feel comfortable sending this sucker out to agents at this point, which is a big step.

    For those of you who’ve been following along at home, you already know how much of a struggle this novel has been for me. I wrote my first novel in 2004 and it took four months; I wrote this novel starting in 2008 and it took me the better part of four years. The writing process became a lot more personal for me as the years passed, which means each word carried with it a deeper gravity.

    I have a good friend who mentioned to me the other day he was worried about me because I seem like I can’t catch a break, like I’m never satisfied, like I’m never happy. That, to me, is what writing is. You can never be satisfied. You can never be happy. If you catch a break, it has to lead somewhere bad. That’s the rules of plot, is it not? Character A needs to get over there, but Character B is standing in his way. Conflict. Plot.

    What passes for unhappiness in my book is complacency, and boredom. I will admit I got bored over the last few years, and that has led to unhappiness. My work, my words, has never made me unhappy, but I am willing to sink myself into the unpleasant in order to understand it, and record it on a page for the sake of the story. After we’re all dead and gone, what else do we have but the story?

    The futility of writing can become overwhelming, I will admit that too. I sometimes feel like I’ve got a really large shovel, shiny and new, but I’m digging at shallow puddles. No one’s reading. No one’s paying attention. No one really cares about books anymore. No one cares about writing. No one wants to take the time to really examine and understand. Yes. Complaints I’ve made in the past. The shallow puddle. Does that mean I should throw my shovel away? There have been times when I’ve thought about it.

    Writing is a lonely business, which often means I’m left to my own thoughts. That can’t be good…but if it produces the words I need, and when I’m dead and gone the words are still there waiting to be read, maybe it’s more than just good. Maybe it’s what this life is for. Who knows. I guess I won’t know for about a half dozen more decades, if I’m lucky.

  • On 13 August, 2012 by

    Just a Little Start and Stop

    I haven’t been writing much lately because my wife and I have been focused on moving north to Denver…every spare moment is devoted to packing boxes, and then transporting them to a friend’s garage where they will languish until we find a place of our own. I was rummaging through my laptop tonight, however, and I found a story I started and never finished. It is sort-of-autobiographical-but-not-really. Thought I’d share it with you.

     

                I hadn’t meant to ride my bike through Circus Circus. That is to say, I had intended to, because I did, but I hadn’t planned it. It wasn’t even my bike anyway; why the hell would I own a bmx bike? This was Mikey’s bike, but don’t ask me why I was riding someone else’s bike through Circus Circus. Just seemed like the right thing to do, and I’m a man who fulfills his obligations whenever possible.

    The amount of pink in that place is enough to make you want to puke up cotton candy on a clown.  This occurred to me, of course, as I rode past the slots and toward the craps tables; I wheelie-dropped off a set of two stairs and landed with a thud that was harder than I expected—bmx bikes are heavy, and rigid—and kept rolling until two security guards stepped in front of me.

    “Sir, there’s no bikes in the casino.”

    “Sure there is. There’s one right here.”

    They don’t like smart mouths, it appears. I get off the bike because they are ready to take it, and it’s not mine. I have half a mind to explain this to them, but I think they’d be a hard sell for caring.

    “Are you drunk?” They ask.

    “Of course I’m drunk,” I don’t say.

    They let me go, and they watch me as I roll the bike next to me toward the elevators. They even follow me for a bit. Once I get into the elevators, I get back on the bike and start hopping around until the cab stops at my floor. I ride out and skid across the fucking pink carpet , leaving a streak that ends at the door to my room. A giveaway. Fuck it. I won’t be staying there long anyway.

     

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