All things come, to those who wait.

I’m not particularly good at waiting.
I don’t ‘do’ waiting very well.

That’s not to say I don’t know how to kill time, or spend time, or waste time, or invest time. I can do that.

I’m just no good at waiting.

To my mind, there are two kinds of waiting. One, the type I’m good at, or at least have some facility for, is filling in the time between. Imagine you’re waiting for the train to arrive, or the test results to come in. There is an assigned “end point” for your waiting. Be it in two hours, or next Thursday. You know (as much as such things can be known) that the end of your wait will come at that point in time. In such cases, it’s easy to fill the time with other chores, busy work, idle amusements, and peaceful contemplation. Even if you’re awaiting possible dire news – it’s still some comfort to know that by “Next Friday” – you’ll have your answer. There will come a time when you will “know”.

This sort of waiting, I can handle.

It’s the waiting for the unknown that drives me bug nutty. Waiting for someone else to control your destiny by making a choice on their own time is maddening.

“We’ll get back to you…” “We’ll let you know…” “Things will happen, as soon as THEY make a decision…”

My life is full of the later point right now.

I’m waiting for someone to make a decision on funding the script I’ve optioned. “Hopefully we’ll know soon.”

I expect more rewrites will be needed. Someone once said the script isn’t finished until the movie premiers. And even then, the “Director’s cut” will be included on the DVD. (Unless the director IS the screenwriter, there’s never a ‘writers cut’.) Knowing that this particular script might require my complete and undivided attention – likely with a deadline attached, I am loath to invest any creativity into writing a new script. And yes, I do have ideas for new scripts.

When I was young and hitchhiking across America and Canada – I used to sit on the side of the road with my back pack and thumb out. I could only sit a short while, before I’d pick up my pack, and carry it down the road on my back. Sure, maybe I’d only get a mile or two closer to wherever I was going. But at least it’s movement.

And so I’m writing this little essay, while I wait. At least, I’m writing.

Returning to the Scene

I haven’t been very active on this, my personal blog and website, for… well hell, it looks like over a year.

As the last post indicated, it was simply easier to communicate with “The Internet” via FB, than post here, and have my insights and pearls of wisdom ignored and by-passed by the virtual Super Highway of comments that is Face Book.

The recent developments regarding Cambridge Analytica, Facebook, and the entire toxic political discourse, has given me pause regarding my FB presence. Is it really conducive to staying in touch with friends, family and business contacts? Hell yes. Is it really conducive to spending quality time in creative endeavors? Hell no.

So, I’m going to start paying more attention to this blog. I won’t be posting pictures of my dinner plate, or cat memes. I think this is more suitable to essays and musings on the creative process. In fact, I’ve got some professional developments going on, that ARE going to require more of my time and focus.  I will post more about those, as they develop.

Right now, if you’re a friend of mine from either the “Real” world or the virtual, why not leave a comment to this. Just a note saying “I’ll keep an eye out”.  Nothing too creepy.

I need to manage the comments section, cull the spam crap out.  One more thing to manage.

Peace out.

Back in the saddle again

Riding in New Jersey

Riding in New Jersey

It has been over a year since I’ve updated my website. I can only offer the usual excuse, “Life happens”.  Last year was very busy, full of major life changes. To top it off, most of it was spent on the road – directing and performing medieval jousts once again for Noble Cause Productions.

In the middle of all that – I turned sixty and optioned a screenplay.

I’d like to say I simply didn’t  have the time to write. Or that I wasn’t in a place where access to the internet was cheap and easy. (Though often that was the case.) Instead, what I’m forced to admit is that FACEBOOK is the great carnivore of my creativity.

I love it because it allows me to feel connected to lots of friends and family scattered across the globe. It’s great to get updates about  things both important and trivial that occur in the lives of my loved ones.

And it’s all too easy to post a quick photo – and dash off a clever paragraph or two about  something important or amusing that has just occurred in my own life. A quick hit of “ENTER” – and I’m likely to have a ‘Like” in a minute or two – sometimes a good long stream of comments and suggestions might follow. On the rare occasion – even an exchange of points of view, without name calling.  For someone who is a performer at heart – having a response of any kind from an invisible audience is all too addicting, I’m ashamed to admit.

But it has also become a place for long diatribes on political topics, and endless rants about cultural mores. It wearies me. Sure, I don’t always agree with the viewpoints espoused by some of my family members or friends – but I find myself pausing before responding. Asking myself, “Do I really want to engage in ‘slow motion’ dialog where nuance and subtlety of tone will be lost? Do I want to spend my day – checking back to see if my point has been made… to see if I’ve changed someone’s mind – or been misunderstood?” No. It is, as I say, a carnivore of time. Time I could spend creating something more lasting and creative. A new book. A new screenplay. Or even rewriting an old one.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I’m hoping to reboot this website. I plan on posting longer pieces here. I’ll soon be embarking on the creation of my first feature film. I hope to write updates while on the set and post them here. I’ll also blog a bit about the events of last year – the jousting and the festivals, the move from California to Texas and back.  It’s my hope that utilizing THIS space for my blogging – will force me to discipline myself, and be more thoughtful about my efforts. The same way shooting with film forces oneself to compose images more carefully than shooting digitally.

Plus, it’s a new year. So there’s that.

Watch this space.

All Hallows’ Eve

“The Christmas Closet” is a coming-of-age Christmas story. But that doesn’t mean its all about Christmas – or that it even takes place entirely during the Christmas season.

Think back to when you were a kid. Remember how you marked time? You kept track of important dates and times. Christmas – certainly – the ‘most important date on the Kid’s calendar’ to paraphrase that perennial favorite “A Christmas Story”, was at the top of the list. But other dates are important too. “The Christmas Closet” explores that theme, by starting on the last day of summer. It examines the excitement and fear of the first day at a new school, and it incorporates  both Trampas’ and Jenny’s birthdays – perhaps the second most important date in a kids calendar.  Thanksgiving is in there, but also that special holiday that every kid looks forward to with ghoulish delight. Halloween.

With All Hallows Eve nearly upon us, I thought I’d post an excerpt from Chapter 15, one of my favorites from the novel. It also inspired the photo I shot for the back cover of the book, utilizing a local Victorian mansion as a stand-in for the house in the story.

What was YOUR favorite costume, when you were a kid? And is there a ‘perfect’ age for Trick or Treating?CC-Banner

The Christmas Closet –  Available via Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble


It was a perfect full moon. The sort of crystal ball moon that loomed so large and clear, it made the night sky glow like a Maxfield Parrish painting. It rose behind the Morgan Mansion, casting the façade in darkness.

On the street in front of the house, shadows darted in and out of hiding. A low moan drifted on the air. The sound came again, louder this time, as it rose in pitch. Two figures stumbled along the sidewalk, lurching and reaching forward, their hollowed eyes rolling in their heads. A tiny princess and superhero screamed in fright, and darted away from the staggering zombies.

“Dude, did you see those kids run?” Marcus chided Sam.

“Yeah, but they didn’t drop their candy. Man, I still say we should just grab some sacks and head out,” Sam suggested. He scratched at his face, certain the makeup was causing him to break out.

“No way, we’re too old for trick or treating. Let’s head over to the community center. They’re supposed to have a band and a haunted house.” Mention of the haunted house caused the pair to look up at the Morgan Mansion.

The old cast-iron gate was chained and padlocked. No one knew who last held the key. The lock itself was from an era unfamiliar to anyone on the block. The full moon projected the dark outline of the cupola across the yard, shading the overgrown brick path leading up to the rickety old front porch. The looming presence of the old Victorian mansion stimulated the boys’ imaginations. They pressed their faces against the gate. A stiff breeze blew dry leaves across the lawn, causing a creaking groan to emanate from the rickety porch supports.

“Aieee!” a Banshee’s howl pierced the night. The boys screamed in unison and spun around to face their terror.

Jenny stood behind them, dressed in black, her face whitewashed into vampire makeup, with a streak of blood artfully painted on one corner of her ruby lips.

“Jesus, Jay! You scared the crap out of me!” Sam laughed.

Jenny smiled with wicked delight. “Did I?”

“Not me. I wasn’t scared. I knew you were there,” Marcus said. Jenny and Sam rolled their eyes. Just then, a spotlight hit the trio.

Two younger children, swinging their sacks of treats walked by, followed by a mother carrying a flashlight. She paused to regard the older kids, and then swung the light up at the old mansion. “You kids stay away from that house, now.”

“Yes ma’am. We will.” they mumbled assurances. After the woman and children had passed, Marcus turned back to the gate and looked at the house.

“That’s a great idea! Let’s break into a real haunted house!” He was already examining the lock and chains on the gate.

“No, that’s a dumb idea. Let’s just go to the party,” Sam replied. He tugged on Marcus’s tattered zombie suit coat and was shrugged off in response.

“We’re supposed to wait for Trampas,” Jenny offered.

“Screw him. Let’s go!” Marcus dared them. “Are you guys afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid. I mean, not of ghosts, or monsters or anything. But, you know, we could get arrested for trespassing or—”

“Chicken!” chided Marcus.

Jenny tried to derail the challenge. “Come on, let’s go swing by Trampas’s house and then go to the party.”

“Why?” Marcus sneered. “You got a hot date with your boyfriend or something?”

“You want another kick in the face or something?” Jenny bowed up in front of the older boy.

“Hey, guys. GUYS!” interrupted Sam. “I think I saw something in there.” He pointed through the gate at the house.

“What?” Marcus spoke to Sam over his shoulder as he eyed Jenny. He was a little afraid to turn his back on her. And there was something strangely alluring about her makeup.

Jenny broke her staring contest with Marcus. “A ghost?” she asked Sam.

“I don’t know. Like somebody was inside the house, looking out maybe.”

Marcus turned back to Sam. “Bullshit. You didn’t see nuthin. The windows are all boarded up.”

“No…I think on the porch, in front of the windows.”

“Come on, let’s go to the party,” Jenny tried in vain to refocus their attention.

“Y’all are a bunch of chicken shits,” Marcus pronounced. Grabbing the iron gate, he jammed one foot into a cross bar. He hoisted himself up to the edge of the gate, and swung one leg over the top, then the other. Marcus dropped down to the path on the other side. “Chicken—both of you,” he taunted. “Go to your baby party. Go stick your hands in jello and pretend it’s brains. I’m going real ghost hunting.”

“You’re as stupid as you look,” Jenny announced with astonishment.

“Go on baby. Go find your fairy boyfriend,” Marcus pressed his face against the gate.

“That’s it!” Jenny lost it. She scaled the fence like a possessed vampire, leaping from the top to confront Marcus.

“Guys, guys!” Sam shouted, as he looked about the street.

Marcus took a step back, moving out of Jenny’s kicking range. Sam was having more difficulty scaling the gate. “Wait up, guys,” he huffed.

One of the gate spikes snagged the tatters on his zombie jeans and ripped the pant leg clear off, dropping him unceremoniously on his head.

“Crap!” he shouted.

Jenny stifled a laugh, but Marcus didn’t bother. Sam pulled the tattered pant leg off the gate and tried to replace it like a sock on his left leg. Jenny finally laughed aloud.

“Leave it, doofus,” Marcus instructed. He turned his attention up the path. “Okay. So, uh…let’s see.”

“There’s nobody inside,” Jenny insisted.

“How can you be sure?” asked Sam.

Jenny shrugged.

“Well let’s just go see.” Marcus began to stride boldly up the walkway. The other two kids followed him. Moonlight made their shadows dance on the old laid-brick pathway. As they neared the porch, they entered the deep shadows.

“What if somebody sees us?” whispered Sam.

“Nobody will see us on the porch,” hissed Jenny. “I can’t even see us.” The three stepped carefully up onto the old wooden steps.

The porch creaked and groaned as they approached the door. They huddled together to look at the padlock hanging from an old, rusted-iron hasp.

“Locked, see?” whispered Sam. “Nobody inside. Now let’s go.” His voice was full of tension.

Marcus put a hand on the old lock and gave it a solid jerk. The hasp ripped off the door and remained dangling on the lock in the boy’s hand.

“Oh shit,” was all Jenny could manage.

“Hey! Now we can go inside,” Marcus said.

“Okay, now we’re breaking and entering,” groaned Sam. “Let’s just leave before things get bad. We’ve gone far enough.”

Marcus pushed on the old front door. It swung slowly in, with a creak that would satisfy any horror fan. The three kids crowded closely together, peering into the gloom. Marcus stood in front, Jenny to his right, with Sam on tiptoes behind the both of them.



Order here:

Through The Lens Again

I first picked up a camera and tried my hand at ‘serious photography’ when I was about fifteen years old. A good friend from my Civil Air Patrol squadron was very serious about it. He had a darkroom and everything. He loaned me a camera one day, (A Pentax as I recall,) and we went shooting. Probably with black and white Kodak Tri-X. At the end of the day we went back to his place to process our film.  We crowded into his bathroom – with towels draped over the windows and jammed under the door – and DEVELOPED the film! Then we PRINTED IT!

Damn, that’s MAGIC!


“Selfie” at seventeen.

I was hooked. I could never draw worth a damn, but I had pictures in my head – and I saw pictures everywhere I went. I shot with borrowed cameras, and joined up with the photographers in my High School. By senior year, I was on Yearbook staff – shooting with my older brother’s NIKONOS – yeah, an underwater rangefinder, which I also used when scuba diving. It was stolen from a locked car while I was cheer-leading at a basketball game.

But that’s another story.

Ric's first beard

Scratching at my first beard – hitchikiking through Yellowstone park. Camera case on my hip.

My next camera – the replacement – was a Minolta SRT 202. I shot with that for another two years I think. I’m pretty sure it’s the camera I took with me when I hitch-hiked up to Canada, and across the US. It was ALWAYS on my hip in a Vivitar hard case. It was in my hands when I shot my first front page photo for the Houston Post. An assassination attempt on one of my professors at the U of H, I happened to walk into the building just as the assassin ran out .

But that’s another story.

The Minolta was stolen when someone broke into my apartment, along with my brother’s 12-string guitar. You’d think he would have learned to stop loaning me things. God bless you, Tom.

I replaced it with my first ‘professional grade’ camera. A Canon F1. This was the real deal. This was what news photographers, fashion photographers, sports photographers, National Geographic photographers shot with. (No – don’t sell me a Nikon – I’m a Canon man, born and bred. Back in the day, this was like arguing Mac or PC. Don’t.  Just… don’t.)

Nineteen or twenty year old aspiring photo-journalist.

Nineteen or twenty year old aspiring photo-journalist, complete with dangling telephoto lens.

I scraped my pennies together and bought it with the BEST lens available. A 50mm 1.2 FD lens.   That’s a HUGE chunk of glass. And very, very fast. But I was shooting a lot of theatre and portrait work, headshots and such – and natural light was all I could afford.

That camera served me well, up until the mid nineties I think. I had moved away from photography as an avocation – it was simply another skill in my arsenal for ‘storytelling’. Not my main focus – pun intended. While I was away for a summer, jousting – I left the F1 on a shelf – with that beautiful lens exposed – in our house in Seabrook, Texas.

The salt air is not kind to optical glass, nor camera interiors.

The camera more or less died at that point, and I stopped shooting film.  Not too soon after, the digital age was born – and I’ve owned a number of cheap point and shoot digital cameras. Including a lovely little Lumix, and of course my current Android Phone.

Out for a sail on Galveston Bay. Linda, Travis and my father in law, Harold Graham. Shot with my old F-1

Out for a sail on Galveston Bay. Linda, Travis and my father in law, Harold Graham. Shot with my old F-1

Two months ago, my wonderful father-in-law passed away. I was offered a choice of some of his possessions. I knew that he ALSO shot with an F-1. So I asked my mother-in-law Veranne, if it was still around, if it wasn’t too much to ask for – I’d love to have it.

It was still around.

It wasn’t too much to ask.

I do have it now.

Unlike me, Harold took SUPERB care of all of his kit. When it got to me, it was in top notch F1-Kitcondition, and came with his lovely 100mm FD and 35mm FD lenses.  Together, with my legacy 50mm 1.8,  24mm 2.8 and 70-210 f4 zoom – I now had a wonderful well rounded classic Canon kit.  In fact, it was the kit I always wanted as a kid.

Thanks Harold.

As it happens, my good friend Gary Watson – fellow filmmaker and writer – has recently jumped back into shooting film. He’s gone off the deep end, shooting large format 4X5, and toting a vintage Leica 35mm camera.   Seeing his work on Facebook – inspired me to go down to the local camera store, and buy two rolls of film. I was itching to ‘get back into it.’

Rebel-KitAs it ALSO happens – I’m a serious ‘junker’. I love going to thrift stores and salvo’s. I’ve been MEANING to get back into photography for a while – with an eye towards buying a Canon 5d Mark III top of the line – digital camera. So while I stroll through the junk shops, I keep my eyes open for Canon EF lenses. People get rid of ‘old film cameras’ when they clean out their garage – and a keen eye can spot these beauties under the counter and pick them up for as little as thirty dollars or so. Often, with a camera body attached. This happens because “No One Shoots Film” anymore.

Yeah. Not.

The EF lenses can be used on the newer Digital camera bodies. So I’ve been collecting EF lenses for the eventual day when I will own a Canon 5d. (no, don’t sell me a Nikon…)

I also had a couple of EOS Rebel bodies stuffed in a sack, with good intentions of recycling them on Ebay. After a google search, I pulled out the ‘newer’ body – the Eos Rebel 2000, and downloaded the instruction manual. I went down to the drug store and bought two batteries. ($20? Seriously?) And loaded it up. Everything seemed to work – so along with my stack of CANON EF lenses – I was loaded for bear!

I bought a roll of Illford 400 and a roll of Illford 100. Mostly as a chance to compare the grain – while working with different cameras. I loaded the faster 400 film into the F1, and the roll of 100 into the Rebel, and headed out on a Photo Safari.

I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day.


Golden Gate Bridge shot with Android phone.

Beautifully warm for the Bay Area – with large puffy cumulus clouds to give character to the sky. Planning to shoot Black and White – I was thinking in terms of sweeping contrasty vistas – sea and shore – maybe. Also – big architectural edifices. Easy enough with the Golden Gate less than an hour away. So – my creative eye was already saying “Don’t think color – think shadows. Think contrast. Think TEXTURE. Think shapes and patterns. THINK GRAPHICALLY…”

My mind was in the black and white zone.

First stop as I headed up highway one – was the Montarra light house. A little B&B cum youth hostel with a tiny lighthouse in the parking lot. No, it’s a real light house – or used to be. Lovely image against the stark sky.  The support buildings are on a bluff overlooking a gorgeous beach.

Montara Light House and Youth Hostel. Eos Rebel Illford 100.

Montara Light House and Youth Hostel. Eos Rebel Illford 100.

The first few frames I shot, were with the old Canon F1. Like riding a bicycle, the skill never really disappears. My hands found the focus and aperture rings easily, I matched the ‘ring and needle’ for the proper exposure – and fired away.

Eos LightHouse 41

That satisfying “CLICK” – the sound of the shutter releasing, the mirror flapping, and then – RATCHETING the film advance.

Oh yeah, I was back – baby!

EOS House Seascape 35

I switched off to the EOS. Framed a shot – Oh- look AUTOFOCUS – CLICK WHIRRR – Auto Advance.   Huh. This is a new experience. The EOS was also much LIGHTER than the F-1. Somehow – this felt less ‘reassuring’ to me. Less steady in my hands. No question the body and lenses had a lot less steel in them.  But the set-and forget  – Either Shutter priority or Aperture priority – was something I was familiar with in videography – so that was a nice touch.

Back to F1- and …. ooops, I forgot to advance. So, switching BETWEEN the fully manual camera – and the more or less FULLY AUTOMATIC camera – was a bit of a stumbling moment. And a good test for what I liked, and didn’t like about the old old school, and the old ‘new’ school of film cameras. I had skipped right over that EOS era.

Bachelor Officers Quarters Presideo F1 400Second stop – the Golden Gate Bridge. I parked in the lot to the southeast of the bridge – out in front of the old Bachelor Officer’s Quarters of the Presidio. With such a day, the lot was swarming with tourists. With such a bridge – their hands were all full of cameras.

I decided to hike DOWN the battery trail, to the water beneath the bluff. This was the way down to the old civil war fort, Fort Point. Again – just gorgeous views of the bridge, the bay, Alcatraz Island and Fort Point.

Bridge and Breakers F1 Illford 400 13

Golden Gate Bridge and Fort Point. Shot with Canon F1 – Illford 400. 24mm

Brick Stone and Steel  F1 Illford 400 copy

“Brick, Stone and Steel ” Shot with Canon F1 70-210mm Illford 400

South Tower Sky F1 Illford 400 copy2

“South Tower Sky” – F1- 70-210mm Illford 400.

The Rock

“The Rock” Canon F1

Before I knew it, I was running low on film. I knew I wanted to shoot the Palace of Fine Arts – not far away. So I hiked up the hill, and loaded out for the old remnant of the 1915 Panama Pacific Exhibition


This beautiful location is a favorite for Bridal portraits. It’s a rare day you don’t see one being shot here. It’s also a location that pops up a lot in films.

Water Collumns Palace of Fine Arts 2 b F1 Illford 400

“Water Columns” Palace of Fine Arts Canon F1 24mm Illford 400

Water Collumns Palace of Fine Arts 3

Water Collumns Palace of Fine Arts F1 Illford 400

“Water Columns” Palace of Fine arts Canon F1 24mm Illford 400


I grabbed a few more shots with both cameras – running out of 400 on the F1- and headed home. Before I took the film in – I snagged some very low light – very hand held still life shots with the EOS. Should have put the camera on a tripod and increased the depth of field a bit.

Shell and Stone Still life Eos2

“Shell and Stone Still Life” – Canon EOS Rebel

I dropped the film off at Kaufmanns, in San Mateo, and had the rolls developed overnight. Grand total of ten dollars for both.

Canon f1 - 400070

Montara Light – Low Rez scan. Canon F1

On first glance at that negative sleeves – I could see that the F1 roll was ‘thinner’. The negs not as ‘dark’. This means either of two things – under exposure OR under development. (or possibly both)  The negs weren’t TOO bad. Maybe a half a stop or so? I remembered when I checked the meter battery on the F-1, that it was on the ‘low’ side of ‘good’. How long had it been in the camera? Years, undoubtedly.  It’s possible the meter was erring on the side of me under exposing. I was careful to center the ring and needle. The EOS negatives looked solid – so I’m going to give the lab the benefit of the doubt – and change out the camera battery on the F-1.

Canon f1 - 400075

Low Rez thumbnail scan – Canon F1

I took the negs home and did a quick set of low rez scans on my Epson 2400 Photo scanner. This damn thing is ANCIENT. At least eight years old. I looked at the low rez images, and sorted out the ones you see above. Another pass at the selects, scanning at 3200 dpi. Funny – it takes about as long to get the image from scanned to the finished file on my computer – as it would be to get from the enlarger easel through the developing treys to the wash. About six to seven minutes total for each negative.

Of course, I can set the scanner to scan while I go take a shower – so there’s THAT convenience.

CanonEOS200 - Illford 100008

Interior Dome, Palace of Fine Arts Canon EOS Rebel 2000. Illford 100 film.

What I did notice, was that the images I have now – are not nearly as sharp as they should be. Looking at the negs with a lupe – they are sharper than they appear above. I’m convinced this is because of the scanning process. The negatives sit in a plastic holder, slightly above the glass – and the scanner scans them. I just don’t think it’s as sharp as focusing on the easel through a grain magnifier.

If I’m going to continue this course, I might need to invest in a high-quality photo scanner. And of course – a nice photo PRINTER.

I’m not really a Photoshop wizard – and I’ve only got a version of PHOTOSHOP ELEMENTS to work with – so the images in this article are with minimal manipulation. Basically cropped, and exposure adjusted. Also – the cloning tool is great for the occasional dust spot !

I prefer the darkroom experience. But I’m no Ansel Adams.


Ansel Adams gallery in his home.

I do miss the tactile sensation of handling the negatives in the enlarger. There’s something about physically MOVING the easel around in order to crop the image. The smell of the chemistry in the dark.  Slipping the paper into the developer and watching as the image magically appears. That’s as close to ALCHEMY as I think I’ll ever get in my life. I was fortunate enough a few years back to visit Ansel Adam’s home in Carmel, and see his darkroom exactly as he used it. The walls in his house were hung with the Master’s prints done by his own hand. This is a photo of me taken the last time I was in a darkroom

I’m in Ansel Adam’s darkroom – holding his own DODGING tool.


But that’s another story

“The Christmas Closet” is released via


In the middle of a hot Texas sandlot, Christmas is the last thing on Trampas Elliot’s mind. The troubled young teen is more concerned with finding his missing mother.

 That is, until he stumbles into an old house with a mysterious closet where Christmas lives year-round.

 When the old house is threatened with destruction, Trampas and his best friend Jenny, find both mysteries are linked more closely than they ever imagined.

My coming of age Christmas story is now available for purchase on Amazon Kindle.  Print copies ARE NOW AVAILABLE as well.   This novel is an adaptation of my award-winning screenplay of the same name.

Story ideas come to me in different ways. Sometimes like a bolt of lightening out of the blue. The idea for my sci-fi script  “The Man in the Linen Sheet” – was formed almost completely when I read a particular verse in the bible that suggested the possibility of time travel. The plot for “Walking Wounded” sprang into my head upon waking from a dark nightmare.

Some of them take root as tiny seeds, and germinate for years. Or in this case, decades.

The story idea for THE CHRISTMAS CLOSET was formed a long time ago – in my own youth. I was poking around in the backyard of a house in our neighborhood that was supposed to be vacant. When I peered into the garage – I saw old Christmas decorations  sitting on a shelf. For some reason – the notion that ‘this is where Christmas goes the rest of the year’ – popped into my mind. I don’t think I was older than 12 when that moment happened, but it always stuck in my head.

That tiny seed of an idea sprouted into a vague concept for a kind of ‘time travel’ Christmas story – not unlike A Christmas Carol, or It’s a Wonderful Life. I toyed with starting the screenplay back in the early 90’s. If I recall, my son was only nine or ten when I started it. I worked on it for a few days, and then abandoned it. Or rather, put it away for a later date.

In 2001, I was taking a screenwriting class – and pulled out the first fifteen pages to see if it was still a good idea. I pushed through until I had the first act – roughly 30 pages – written and polished up. That’s all that was required of the class, and as I recall, I got an “A” on it.

Back into a drawer it went.

It wasn’t until the holiday season of 2007/ 2008 that I took up the first act and started working again. Suddenly, I knew what the story was about. I knew where it was going. I knew what I had to say. I pressed on and finished up the first draft, very pleased with how it came out. I handed it off to my good friend and film producer Erin – and asked her for her opinion. She read it and said she really liked it. We were on our way to the gym together, when she nonchalantly added a coda;  words to the effect that she thought it was going to have a much different ending.

Suddenly I realized she was right. It WAS supposed to have a different ending. And that ending was buried in the story all along. It was the ending that my subconscious wanted on the page. With fevered fingers – I returned to the keyboard and hammered out the ‘second’ draft.

That draft won a PLATIMUM REMI AWARD at Worldfest Houston International Film Festival. It also went on to place in the top 10% at the prestigious Austin Film Festival. Readers were all very complimentary. “The best screen kiss I’ve ever read” – one judge wrote. “A teenaged cross between ‘Christmas Carol’ and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ – truly unique!” wrote another judge.

But Christmas films are a hard sell. Especially ones that don’t have Santa Claus saving the world from aliens. The Christmas Closet is a coming-of-age story that deals with a serious topic.  So in 2012, I pulled out the script and adapted it into a novel. Not having a literary agent, I sent it to two small publishing houses – both were open to unsolicited manuscripts. I included the first three chapters for each.  My hope was to hear something in six to eight weeks.

The next day, I got an email from one house, asking for the full manuscript. Well, that’s nice, I thought. I sent it on. Hours later – a note from the second, asking for the same. Well, this IS encouraging.

The following day, I got an email from the publisher at the first house. “Can we call and talk? What’s a good time?” It happened to be six am on the west coast when I opened the email – so I emailed back to the New York publisher, “Any time after nine.”  Two minutes later the phone rang.

“Listen, ” she said, “This is a fantastic story. It’s really really good. And… well, normally, I don’t call people personally… to MAKE A REJECTION.”

“Oh…kay… thanks?” I mumbled.

“No, I just wanted you to know WHY we’re rejecting it. It’s a really good story, but we’re a small house. We only publish six to ten novels a year – and they have to sell ALL YEAR round. A Christmas story – even one this good – really only sells for a limited window around the Holidays. So… as much as I like it… we’re going to have to pass.”

“Oh… kay. Thanks?” I mumbled.

“It’s really a fantastic story. Your storytelling is superb. ”

“Oh… kay. Thanks.”

“With some editing and guidance, it could be really good. You NEED to take this to a larger house. Someone with a big marketing budget. Seriously.”

“Oh… kay. Thanks.”

“Did… I wake you?”

“No, I usually get up around six.”

“OH You’re on the west coast. I’m so sorry!”

The second house also sent a rejection – with much the same explanation. “You need a BIG house to market this, in order to get the most benefit in the limited holiday window. Great story though! What else you got?”

I did manage to get the manuscript into the hands of a major agent, and he really liked it – but also said, “Christmas manuscripts are a niche item. Really hard to sell… unless you’re established.”

Sometimes a story just wants to get out there and breathe.


I don’t have a big marketing budget, but the publishing world is changing fast. Sometimes, what a book needs is for someone to believe in it.

Sometimes, it’s enough to put it out there.

Hop onto Amazon, and read the first three chapters.  I’m hoping you’ll download the story and enjoy the ride. If you do – be kind enough to leave a glowing review. If you don’t like it – well, send me a lump of coal for my stocking.

Happy Holidays.   – All of ’em.

The Christmas Closet Ebook Cover ALVAREZ





“Literary Psychic Trauma”

I finally watched the first two episodes of Game of Thrones last night, to see what all the fuss was about.

I found it to be a rather curious experience.

Having read all of the books to date, there is of course, absolutely no ‘dramatic tension’ in the story line for me. I know who is walking dead, and where the dramatic plot turns are coming up. So I’m feeling a bit displaced while watching it. I find my thoughts running to – “Huh, nice casting choice there… Oh, not what I would have chosen… That’s different than the book… Nice costumes… Ridiculous sword… Peter Dinklage rocks…”

Now, this isn’t necessarily the way I feel about seeing an adapted version of any literary story I’m familiar with. I loved watching “The Lord of the Rings” for instance – and of course, I knew the story intimately. I loved watching “Apollo 13” – and hell, I LIVED that story at the time it was unfolding, glued to the television for newscasts at the time. And yet I found the film to STILL have all of the dramatic tension of fiction, despite knowing the historic outcome. (Always a tough thing to pull off when dealing with historical material.) And there are pieces of fiction I would like to see adapted into cinematic expressions. I would pay really good money, to see “Glory Road” adapted faithfully, and I’ve read it at least a dozen times.

I’m just not getting it from GoT. I’m not being drawn into the story. Why is that? Is it because the story is ‘unfinished’ in my head? Still waiting for the novels to wrap it up? But shouldn’t that make it MORE engaging, rather than less? Sure, the graphic sex and violence is visually shocking – I guess. Though my imagination was certainly as graphic or more so.

I’ve given this conundrum some requisite thought while shampooing my hair. The usual slot I allow in my daily routine to ‘deep thinking’.

I reflected back on my exposure to the novels. I must say, I found them VERY engaging.

At first.

The first, three (?) books – I devoured. The world was interesting, compelling, unique. Always a good sign. The characters seemed fully drawn, tragically flawed. I love that. When Brandt was injured, I was emotionally devastated. Wow, what a daring thing to do to this character. And then Eddard’s storyline twist shocked me completely. How DARE he kill someone I so completely identified with. Another daring choice!

All too soon, I began to realize, NO ONE WAS SAFE.

Sure, it’s engaging. It’s riveting. It keeps you on the edge of your seat – ANYTHING could happen to ANYBODY!

And then, a strange mindset began to set it. I’m almost compelled to call it a kind of ‘literary psychic trauma’.

There’s a cinematic trope in War Movies. First you get the audience to love the extended family that is the platoon, or squad. Then you kill a few of them, to show just how painful war is. You want the audience to experience a taste of the shock and horror (however removed) that real combat holds. And finally, you introduce ‘The New Guy’. By now, the core group of regulars are bound up so tight, they don’t bother to learn ‘The New Guy’s’ name. Because he won’t last. He’s not one of them. He’s expendable. It’s even a line that inevitably comes up, “What was his name? I can’t remember…”

Hell, you may as well put them in a Red Shirt – and send them down with the away team.

So, if this Trope is a reflection on something that happens in REAL combat, then might this kind of psychic displacement happen – in ‘literary’ combat?

Kill off enough key characters, and your reader doesn’t dare engage anymore. “Huh, an Onion Knight… that’s interesting, but I don’t give a shit about him.”

I mentioned the first THREE books were engaging. By the time I had read the fourth – I was already on thin ice with the author regarding my emotional investment in the characters. Martin had done his job a little too well. FIRST he drew me in, and hooked me. THEN he shocked and compelled me. THEN he betrayed my emotional investment. Not once, not twice – but REPEATEDLY.

Use any literary trick too often and it becomes a Trope – a parody of itself. With each new character introduced – I held back a little bit of emotional investment. ADD to that, I was waiting for what seemed to be an eternity for each new book release… And my emotional investment was growing colder and colder.

By the time “A Dance With Dragons” was released – I had lost mental track of all the plot twists, and what little emotional investment I had in the story – was stretched perilously thin. I went online and printed out the WIKKI article of the series so that I could get back up to speed on all the various house alliances, world differences, and character arcs.

Having read all of the books to date – my interest in the NEXT book – is perilously close to nonexistent. I’ve waited on series before. The Amber Series, the Riverworld Series – so I’m not inexperienced with that dynamic. I EAGERLY awaited the next installments in each of those worlds.. I’m almost, ALMOST coming close to reaching the threshold of ennui that compelled me to stop reading the “Wheel of Time” series after the fourth book. “The same old same old, rehashed and stretched out…”

By the time I was toweling off from my shower, I was convinced that two factors had combined to make the television series less engaging for me, an avid reader of the books – than it might be for a new fan being introduced to the story for the first time in cinematic form.

The first, of course, was knowledge aforethought. No surprises left for me. But the second thing – was far more important. That ‘literary psychic trauma’ – that divorced me from investing in the character’s storylines had followed me from the books – to the television show. Great job Mr. Martin.

I can understand how someone completely unfamiliar with the storyline, watching it UNFOLD in front of their eyes, trapped in cinema space-time narrative (Uninterrupted by life, like novel reading is) – would find the stories compelling. So, I suppose I might just envy the newcomers their roller coaster experience.

But I smirk a little each time they’re emotionally betrayed.

My original plan was to wait till the entire book series was complete, and then watch the adaptations. Perhaps I’ll watch another episode or two.

Perhaps not.


Fat Tuesday for Starving Artists

With Mardi Gras and the season of Lent upon us, my thoughts turned to a time we spent wandering the streets of Basel Switzerland while celebrating “Fasnacht” as truly starving artists.

It was 1980, and Linda and I had been married for almost four months. Linda was a student Bazilejat Marcel Marceau’s school of Mime in Paris. A group of the students planned a trip to Basel, also Bazel and Bale – depending on whether you spoke Swiss French, Swiss Italian or Swiss German. From Wikkipedia – Located in northwest Switzerland on the river Rhine, Basel functions as a major industrial centre for the chemical and pharmaceutical industry. The Basel region, culturally extending into German Baden-Württemberg and French Alsace, reflects the heritage of its three states in the modern Latin name: “Regio TriRhena”. It has the oldest university of the Swiss Confederation (1460). Basel is German-speaking. The local variant of the Swiss German dialects is called Basel German.

Two of Marceau’s students, Alan and Mark – were particularly interested in the ‘masque’ technique of mime . A style made popular in the US at the time by the Swiss troupe known as “Mummenschanz”. Apparently there was a famous mask factory in Basle. The plan was to visit the factory, buy some masks, and celebrate Fastnacht – Mardi Gras – at the same time.

Ric-Linda-Bazel-FountainWe were living in Paris as starving artists. I had quit my full time job in radio to get married and move to Paris with Linda, so we were on a very tight budget.  The round trip ticket to Basle and back to Paris – 190 French Francs – approximately $47.50 in US at the time – was a big deal to us. But what was the point of living in France, if we couldn’t leave it and see a bit more of Europe if the opportunity arose? Alan and Mark had been there before, so they would act as tour guides.  A three day trip was planned, more friends joined in, and we purchased Swiss Army backpacks in the flea market to make our travel easier. We also loaded up on home made GORP, since we weren’t going to be spending money in fancy restaraunts. Luckily, the Youth Hostel served a ‘continental breakfast’ in the mornings.


While digging through old negative files to illustrate this blog, I came upon our shared Parisian journal from back in the day. What a delight it is to relive those days through the handwritten word on faded page. An emotional experience lacking in this day of emails and digital text files. I’ll let Linda narrate our trip to Basle, and our first night there, in her own words.

What an adventure. We tramped toward the metro in that blue gray time of morning on Sunday with our fat, full packs strapped to our backs. I like leaving in the morning – it adds a sort of chill to the anticipation – and one never knows if it is the temperature of the air or the excitement that makes one shiver.


We met the rest of the crew at Gare-de l’Est and got onto the train. Six hours across the countryside of France. I crocheted a little. Alan, Marc, Tina and Jeanie played cribbage. Steve read and Ric watched for castles until the sun gave him a headache. 

The gang in the square

Sreet-gangLate afternoon found us in Basel – wandering around waiting for the youth hostel to open so we could ‘check in”. It is an old European town, that is so well kept that one almost feels it is new – perhaps built last year by the Disney people.


Bazel-Picolo-and-unmasked-gAs night fell over the city, we became aware of an airy , almost haunting sound floating on the cold clear air of the Rhine. We turned down a twisting side road and were met by a group of citizens of the town, all marching at a slow, meandering sort of pace – in army like ranks. All were playing a lilting tune in unison and occasionally in harmony on their piccolos.


                                                                          All night long processions of men and women, young men and girls, sailed smoothly through the streets and canals of the ancient village at a pace that matched the swans swimming gently down the river.  The stars and moon shone brightly – freshly polished by the tiny shining notes sent to them from the thousands of Swiss piccolos, flying on the cold night air.

We went to bed early and fell asleep – lulled by the magical wine like atmosphere of music and age.



Walking-to-PlatzWe woke at 3:00 am and dressed in the strangely silent darkness. Ric and I met on the stairs of the youth hostel. We kissed a good morning and with my left hand grasped in his right we went out onto the street.

Small groups of people speaking in hushed voices were joined by more and more people as they we walked quickly toward the center Big-Nose-Kissof town.  Silently following the crowds, we made our way – feeling vaguely like lemmings – to the front of an old tavern near the market place. There we stopped and waited.

All around us bizarre creatures with huge pale and shadowed faces wandered among the Big-Nose-W-baloooncrowd – their wild colored hair lit by lanterns somehow balanced on the tangled mass. Not a piccolo to be seen or hear – just a shuffling of humanity broken only by the sight of some costumed, masked and painted monster. The shuffling began to settle, more and more people were standing still. It was a waiting. Then the thousands of people shuffling and silent, were plunged into total darkness. A shout that reminded me of the final ritual of a high school football team went up to catch the setting moon. Before it had died in its valiant effort – the piccolos had appeared from no-where and were playing for all they were worth – Each trying to sing louder than the others. Disco-Drummers Now the processions in their gaudy dress began the slow dance that was to continue for days. Lit only by the giant lanterns they followed and their precarious lantern headpieces – the piccolo players and the group of drummers who seemed to chase them – moved slowly through the town together. Later, as the sun rose, they separated and they began the systematic squeezing of winter out of every nook and cranny of the town. With slow determined steps they found his secretes hiding places and sent him flying to the Alps to pack along the mountain tops and plan his next year’s campaign.


And that’s why she’s a better writer than I am, to this day.

To back up and fill in some details – When we arrived in Basle, we were immediately Badge-Ladyaccosted by a kindly old lady at the train station who was trying to sell us something. I tried to decline, but Mark and Alan explained that we HAD to buy one of the years ‘official’ badges to wear on our hats or coats.

“Why? What happens if I don’t?”

Mark smiled and said, “You won’t make it out alive. Trust me. The kids will pelt you with apples and oranges. Seriously – buy one. It’s health insurance.”  So we each bought a bronze Fasnacht badge and wore them on our coat lapels or stocking caps.

Drummers drummingI wish I had been able to fully capture the images of that amazing first night. We did get to spend some time wandering the streets before sunset. As we wound our way through the fairy tale village, we would encounter the odd masked Mode Head MasksPiccolo player or Drummer, marching along and playing a tune. Mark and Alan informed us that just as there were ‘crewes’ in the Mardi Gras parade in the US – here there were ‘Guilds’ or ‘Clicks’ – that worked together to create their unified theme for the festival. This included deciding on their parade float theme. (Sometimes comical, often political), designing their costumes, and most importantly, writing their own secret Piccolo tune, that would not be played until the festival started officially at four in the morning.

I’d like to add that the reason we had to meet on the landing, was that the Youth Hostel did not allow cohabitation – even for married couples. So we bunked in dorm rooms for the two days we were there

At four in the morning, the square was absolutely packed. I imagine it feels like being in Time Square at New Years. And all of the costumed characters had little lanterns – honest to God lanterns with candles – built into or perched Making-our-way-to-MarketPlaupon the top of their masks or hats. When the appointed hour came – ALL THE LIGHTS IN THE SQUARE went out –  the shout went up – and all you could see where the troupes of players with lanterns on their heads, following large parade floats that resembled fantastic Dr. Zeuss creations.Marshmallow-Head


Imagine dozens of different Guilds, each with a Piccolo and Drum corps, all playing their own special tune – AS LOUD AS THEY POSSIBLY COULD. It was beautiful chaos. As one troupe would pass, you could hear their tune clearly and distinctly, but before it would lodge in your head, they would be replaced by another troupe with an equally catchy tune with a compelling drum beat.Admiral-Picollo-and-Tone

Towards dawn, we took a break, retired to the hostel  got a short rest, and ate our ‘free’ continental breakfast at the hostel. Croissants, coffee, hot chocolate and baguettes – we stuffed our pockets with pieces of bread to hold us through the day. Did I mention we really were ‘starving’ artists?

In the ‘Small World’ department – it was while passing through a large crowd on the stairs to get to my bunk in the Inside-Restaraunthostel, that I heard a familiar voice shout out “Ric! HEY RIC!” I turned to the voice, and was greeted by an old friend from my days at the American Fencing Academy. I hadn’t seen Andy in a couple of years. It turns out – he was hitch-hiking through Europe, and happened to be in the same hostel at exactly the same time. He joined us for the next two days – and even came to Paris to visit during his extended sabbatical. As broke as the two of us, we all managed to split the cost of a small Pizza while we were there – our only ‘restaurant’ meal. We ate to the sounds of a masked band, just outside our window. It just goes to show, you don’t know WHO you’ll run into in the oddest time or place.

There were numerous parades scheduled throughout the weekend. Each with a different theme and hosted by a Yellow-Hats-street-parade-ddifferent Click. The Clicks were sometimes actual ‘Guilds’ as in work union related, sometimes political parties, mostly social groups and fraternities. Much like the ones in New Orleans.

We took our place in the square at noon, to watch the major parade of the day kick off. There was some kind of festival clown, or character or ‘mascot’ that kept popping up in the weirdest places. A particular type of clown or trouble maker, he was apparently the ‘imp’ of the festival. This character could be spotted on the various floats, tossing candies and treats – and apples and oranges – to the children in the audience. The oranges were injected with a red dye to make them more likely to ‘explode’ when they hit something. (Harmless and edible, it made them juicy)


I climbed up on top of a newspaper stand to get a better view. It was then that I noticed quite a few of the shops had their plate glass windows covered in plywood. People on the upper balcanoies shouted for treats, and the Bazle Imp tossed them high.  I waved my hand, and shouted, and one clown turned toward me – and threw an orange at me.

“WHACK” – I fielded it bare handed. It stung my hand, but I now had an orange to add to our Straw-Hat-Day-paradefood stash. Did I mention we were starving artists? I was looking at the orange, when the next one beaned me on the head. I looked up just in time to see a crew of half a dozen ‘imps’ winging oranges at me for all they were worth. “The nail that stand up, gets pounded down…” as the old saying goes. I made too inviting a target. I jumped back down into the anonymity of the crowd, but not without snagging one more  orange.


After the parade, we wandered the streets enjoying the scenery. Alan explained that the guild members MUST play their tune whenever they are out on the street. They cannot stop in the middle of the tune. IF they want to go into a restaurant, they must finish the tune before they entered. Most of the restaurants had window displays of marvelous food – featuring special ‘fasnacht’ pastries and treats. Did I mention we were starving artists?

Sailor MasksIt was an oddly magical, somewhat surreal experience to be wandering the streets of the medieval town, and come upon a group or even a single piccolo player, marching along playing their tune. Sometimes groups of drummers would face off in a ‘drum duel’. Not to be outdone, the piccolos tried to one up each other in volume.

Mask-Factory-2We did manage a trip to the mask factory, where Alan and Mark purchased a number of mask forms, with the intention of customizing them when we returned to Paris. It was amazing to see the thousands of masque forms stacked on tables and hanging from wires – all waiting to have papier-mâché applied to build up the final shape. Of course, they also had masks already made and ready for wear.Mask-Factory-1

Blue-Piccolo-LONG-SHOTWe worked in some time visiting the museums, and medieval church – but too soon our trip was over. I will never forget, watching swans swim on the Rhine in the moonlight. Or the crazy masked faces in the darkness. But without a doubt, my Blue-Picollo-Medium REVERSEDfavorite memories will be those of wandering the streets of old town Basle, hearing the faint sound of a lone piccolo floating through the air. Spotting a single masked and costumed figure approaching. He takes no notice, intent on marching on, playing, playing, playing. Until his final destination reached, his tune complete, he may lay down his pipe and rest for next year.

Blue Piccolo Close Up CROPPED

“Ars Longa, Vita Brevis”

“Ars longa , Vita brevis”

I love the art of illustration. I’m a sucker for good ‘pulp’ art. Science fiction illustrations filled my childhood dreams. My homework pages were covered in rocket ship doodles. But when it comes to drawing the human figure, I’m a complete failure. For all my appreciation for the art of storytelling that is ‘illustration’ – my ability to handle a pen or paint brush is nonexistent. That’s probably why I turned to capturing images with the camera , and more lately, with the printed word.

My direct association with the art, goes back to the mid eighties, while working at the Renaissance Festival in Chicago. (King Richard’s – now Bristol). In 1987 I was approached by a group of artists from nearby Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. They worked for a company called “TSR” – and they did the artwork for books and ‘game modules’ for something called “Dungeons and Dragons”. Had I heard of it? No, never. Apparently, they were very excited to see people in armor, on horseback in real life. While it’s possible to dress up and pose for action sequences in the studio – getting a real live horse to perform an action to use as reference in a painting –  isn’t something your everyday artist has access to.

“Could we hire you guys, to dress up and pose for us during the week?”

“Sure – it’s going to cost you though.”

“How much?”

I picked a number I assumed they would turn down, and we’d bargain from there.

“Great! Can we shoot this week?”

I got to meet the gang from TSR . Pictured below as they line up to shoot us in the tiltyard, L-R Dave “Diesel” LaForce, Keith Parkinson,  Jeff Easley, Larry Elmore, Clyde Caldwell, and Jeff Butler. They collectively referred to themselves as “Art Dogs”.


They arrived on our day off , packing camcorders, cameras and sketch pads. We opened the costume tent – and spent the entire day fulfilling their every imagined composition.  “I’m working on a painting, where a guy in armor is laying down, and a horse is about to jump him… can we do that?”


“How about all of you riding toward us, in a line?”


“Can you guys mix it up, like a melee’ using swords, axes, flails?”

“No problem.”

Later, we went to Lake Geneva and visited their studio where I got to see first hand, the incredible art these guys were capable of.


Stephen Ommerle, poses on Gayrak.


Charlemagne’s Champion – © Keith Parkinson

Over the years, I have seen numerous book covers and game module covers that featured us – Both on and off horseback. The character’s faces are often different from our own, or we might be transposed into orcs, trolls, demons or skeletons –  but it’s always possible to recognize a specific pose, a fovorite horse,  a costume or armor piece that I know belonged to us. It was only later, when my son Travis grew old enough to play the games, and collect the books and puzzles, that I saw just how often our images appeared in them. Keith insists this painting below is based on a photo of me. I recognize my horse Deerborne, but I think I’m better looking than this guy.keith_parkinson_forgotten_realms

Scheduling took me away from performing at the Chicago faire, and I lost touch with ‘the guys’ who had opened their own booth selling original art and prints. It was some years later, while performing at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival in Mt. Hope, that I heard a familiar voice call out. “Ric! Hey, it’s Keith!” Much to my surprise, there was Keith Parkinson in the audience. After the show, he came backstage and I found out that he and his family had relocated to Lititz, less than ten miles from the faire. Over the run of the show we got to hang out together. My young son Travis met his boys, and they played together with the props from his art studio. I spent much needed time relaxing in his studio above his garage, on “Knightsbridge” – where he would play drums, and we would drink beer. Lots of beer.


“The Return of Lancelot” – Members of the PARF posed for the painting © Keith Parkinson

During the third year of our Mt.Hope show, he asked me to pose for a book cover he was working on for David Eddings. It was part of something called “The Tamuli”. Later he came out to the fair where he gathered up a whole cast of characters to pose for a painting called “The Return of Lancelot”.  This was a piece commissioned specifically for a patron.  We had more fun mixing and matching costumes with different characters, and working with other actors at the festival to portray the figures in the painting. Keith later said he had the most fun painting the chickens.

It was during that year in PA that Keith PJ Sketchread my first manuscript – a swashbuckling novel – and told me that THIS was what I should be doing with my life,  not jousting.  He even offered to hand the manuscript directly to his publishing contacts. Something virtually impossible to do without an agent. When one of them said, “Sure, I’ll read it – but you have to do a mock-up cover for it first” – he didn’t hesitate to do just that. He sketched out a terrific moment from my novel (later screenplay) “Pryour Justice: A case of Rapiers”  When I asked if I could keep the drawing, he seemed surprised. “You want it? Sure!” he inscribed it “Ric, be bold not old, until the book is sold – Keith”  That drawing hangs next to my two original Hildenbrandt sketches now.


With Keith’s encouragement, I dedicated myself to writing during my first ‘retirement’  from the festival world. By that time, I had found my strength in screenwriting. One day Keith called me to say he was planning a ‘castle tour’ of the UK, would I like to go with him? It just so happened, that I was in discussion with a production company about scouting film locations for a new Ivanhoe Film. The timing worked out – and Keith and I spent three glorious weeks climbing castle ramparts and chasing imaginary orcs through dark dungeons. We called it our “Castles and Dragon’s tour”.

We also drank beer. A lot of beer.

One of my fondest memories of that trip, was strolling through the British Museum and getting lectures and art tips from Keith as he examined the great master works. It was during this time, that I turned to him and asked, “So… what is ‘art’? And what is ‘illustration’?”

He thought for a moment, then replied. “If it tells a story, and you put it on a cover, or in a book –it’s illustration. If you hang it on a wall, it’s ‘art’.” Then he smiled and added, “If you have to EXPLAIN it… it’s FINE ART.” This of course, does not rule out the fact that a piece can be all three at once.

Sometime after that trip, I discovered the delights of  “EBAY”. I spent quite a bit of time looking for swords. But I also stumbled upon a section called ‘art and illustration’. Lo and behold, there was a small painting by Keith Parkinson offered for sale. It was ‘unsigned’ – but the seller assured everyone that he had gotten it directly from TSR, and it was the real deal. There were only a few minutes left to the auction. I knew that if I bought it, I could send it to Keith, and he would sign it for me. This would of course, increase the value of the small piece of work.  I placed my bid, and watched breathlessly as it went through. After a few minutes my high bid won out – and I was the proud owner of my first Keith Parkinson original painting.   Thrilled, I sent a link and email to Keith, asking him two questions. Did I pay too much for this small acrylic, and would he sign it for me if I sent it to him?   Keith was quick to respond.

KP Dragon 2

“Well Ric, art is worth what you pay for it. If you feel like it’s worth what you spent, then you got what you paid for. I’ll be happy to sign it. – But I didn’t paint it.”

WHAT!!!!! OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE!  I had just spent a nice piece of change, on a picture that was painted by someone I didn’t know. I was too clever by half, thinking I was going one up on the seller. Damn my foolish fevered fingers. I wallowed  in my guilt and buyer’s remorse for a solid ten minutes. Then I got a second email from Keith.

“Yoink.  –  I painted it. It’s a preliminary rough for a much larger piece. Send it along, and I’ll sign it and return it.”  That’s the kind of guy he was. And it wasn’t the first practical joke we pulled on each other.

The 8×8 acrylic painting arrived at my house, I quickly repackaged it, and sent it off to Lititz for Keith to sign.  I included a note advising that he should take extra special care of it, since I was planning on using this instead of buying stock – as a way of investing for my future retirement. I also told him that I was sparing no expense, and reserving a prominent spot on my refrigerator for its display.  Since he didn’t ask for any kind of compensation, I  included a check for one of his signed and numbered prints – “The King’s Gold”  This was a piece I knew we had posed for back in the day. I had seen the original in his studio in Lititz.  It was the least I could do – what with him being so generous with his time.


Several weeks went by, and I hadn’t heard from Keith. I was beginning to worry that perhaps the original art had been lost in shipment. A quick email to check – had he received it?

“Yup, got it alright. Been really jammed up on some deadlines for some book covers. Sorry. I noticed there were some chips in it, and I wanted to touch it up for you. I’ll get it out in a week.”

Damn, what a heck of a nice guy.  After another week, I got a notice that there was a package at the post office, too large to be placed in my box. Well great, this must be it then. I went to the post office, and handed them the slip. They handed over a VERY LARGE BOX – more than 28 by 28 inches in size. How could this be? Oh, I know. He probably matted and framed that signed print I asked for, and placed it in the box as well. Gosh, that was really nice of him. He didn’t have to do that. He could have shipped it rolled in a tube or something.

I took the package home, and prepared to cut the packing tape. It was then that I noticed that the package had been insured.

For several thousand dollars.

There must be some mistake.

I carefully cut the top flap loose, and looked inside. I could see the edge of a very large piece of art, carefully suspended within foam packing corners. Slowly, I pulled the artwork out of the box, and was rewarded with the following image.


The original cover art for David Edding’s book “The Hidden City”. The memories came rushing back –

In 1993 – he had invited me out to his house in Lititz, to pose for this cover. I brought along a selection of costume pieces, armor and weapons for him to choose from.

“I want you to wear your blue jeans,” he said.


“Because I like the way they fold and drape. I’ll paint them as leather but they really work better in the sunlight.”

I donned my hauberk, a short black and yellow  surcoat, pulled on my riding boots and buckled on a bastard sword. We left his studio above his garage, and went down into his backyard. He had me climb on top of a picnic table, and handed me a glass paperweight.

“What’s this?”

“It’s an enchanted jewel. You’re standing on a castle parapet about to throw it into the mouth of this monster looming above you. Now, pose …. like this. No… more weight here, pull your hand back, crouch down…. Hold this arm out, turn your head, a little more. Now hold still while I shoot the reference pics.”

Hidden City Pose Photo

It was a fairly awkward pose. Not very natural. At least, not one to be holding for an extended period. I could see striking this pose in action – in the process of heaving the jewel. But holding still was getting tiresome.

And the jewel in my hand was getting hot.

“Hey Keith, this jewel is getting hot…”  Hidden City

“Yeah, yeah… it’s charged with magic. The monster wants it…”

“No, I mean – it’s GETTING HOT!”

“Yeah, yeah – you’re about to throw it….”

“IT’S BURNING MY HAND!” – I tossed the crystal onto the grass in front of me.

“What are you doing?”

I held up my palm to show him the blister.  “It was focusing the sun onto my palm and BURNING MY HAND!”

“Wow, that’s fantastic!” He retrieved it, held it for a moment, then dropped it. “Sure enough! That’s magic!”  We finished the shoot, went upstairs and drank some beer.

Okay, a lot of beer.

And now, years later – I was looking at the original artwork for this book cover. Keith normally retained ownership in his original art. Occasionally, he would sell them to the writers. But here he had gifted me with the original oil painting. When I turned the painting around, I saw a note taped to the back.

“Hey Ric, I felt your investment portfolio was a little anemic and just couldn’t stand it. RicPass047Actually, I planned on sending this one to you since you asked about it last year,  just never got around to it. Typical artist – A word of caution, refrigerator magnets won’t work on masonite.  Take care, Keith.”

Of course, the small 8×8 painting was also in the box, now sporting his bright blue signature.  The signed and numbered print of “Kings Gold” arrived a few days later, rolled in a shipping tube. It too was inscribed with the trademark Parkinson humor – “Ric – when it absolutely positively has to be there overnite” – All of them now have pride of place in my collection of fantasy art.


A couple of years later, when Keith published his first book of art “Knightsbridge: The Art of Keith Parkinson” he sent me a copy. Inscribed on the inside fly – “Ric, I have never counted how many of these you helped with… Math is not a friend. Anyway, thanks – Take care, Keith”.


I kept in touch with Keith over the years, through tumultuous times for both of us. I moved out to California, while he moved out to Tuscon. I was thrilled to hear him talk about his writing projects, and happy to read bits and pieces of them. We discussed story structure and mythology at length. When I was passing through Tuscon on business – he was kind enough to offer me a place to stay in his new home. He also helped me copy and beat a deadline for a script request, loaning me the use of his fax machine, and offering special shipping arrangements. He was always, ALWAYS – generous with his time and praise.


Everquest cover art by Keith Parkinson. Game by Sony Online

I watched him move from the world of table top gaming, to online gaming with the artwork and game design for Everquest. I was devastated to hear he had been diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. (AML) He kept all of his friends updated with his struggle, always upbeat, always with a sense of humor.  RicPass046

Keith passed away on October 26, 2005. He was 47 years old. Far too young. The fantasy world lost an incredibly talented and creative artist – and I lost a good friend. I think of him often when I see his work, or walk in the fairy tale forest  of Muir Woods.

“Art is long, Life is short”


My most recent flash fiction piece “The Master’s Fee” was beautifully illustrated by the talented MairinTaj Caya. And just as the piece before, “Canon Horse and Pike” was illustrated by artist Douglas Brown , my next short piece will also be illustrated by an independent artist. If you’re an artist – especially interested in the ‘rockets and raygun’ aspect of hard sci fi artwork – drop me a line and we’ll discuss my next project. Yes, I pay – no it’s not much. But I don’t think anyone should work for free.


INTO THE WOODS – A Cold Night In June

Sunset was approaching, and I didn’t like to hitchhike at night. The trucker who had picked me up an hour earlier, was about to switch roads at a rural interchange. I checked the location, and decided it would be a great place to spend the night.

 “Just let me out here.”

 “You sure? There’s nothing around here.”

 “Yeah, I’m good with that.”

He pulled over  and I hopped out, dragging my heavy orange back pack behind me. I thanked him for the ride and waved goodbye as the diesel belched black smoke against the fading sky.

Not a lot of traffic, but I wasn’t looking for a ride. I was looking for a place to pitch my tent.  Depending on my location, I sometimes camped beneath a bridge, or culvert.  Very occasionally I got to camp in an actual camp ground. Once in Colorado, and again in Montana –  I splurged on a cheap motel room.  But I far preferred isolated fields with a bit of cover where I could pitch my pup-tent and sleep undisturbed, huddled in my military issue mummy-bag.

My ability to sleep through the night depended a lot on how I perceived the safety of my surroundings. If I was under a bridge – I didn’t bother with the tent or crawling INTO my bag. I wanted to be able to move and react quickly.  I just rested against my pack and slept with one eye open.  If I was at a campground or park, I usually slept very well -secure in the knowledge that the park was patrolled, or at least access to the campground was restricted.  I slept my deepest most restful slumber in Yellowstone. Rural fields or woods, located on private land  however- were somewhere in between those two states of mind. Out of sight,  I usually slept fairly well, unless I thought someone could somehow find me.

On my side of the highway was a stretch of shoulder, some filthy gravel and grass, a barbed wire fence, and an open field. What caught my attention was a stand of trees across the fence and about fifty yards into the field. A pretty big stand. In Texas, we would have called it ‘thicket’.

A quick look around to see if anyone would spot me and possibly hassle or report me.  No one in sight. I tossed the back pack over, crawled through the wire, and hustled into the woods.

I realized after I entered, that it was far larger and deeper than it looked from my vantage point on the highway. That suited me just fine. I walked deeply enough into the woods that my bright international orange tent and pack wouldn’t be spotted from the road. Far enough in that I could no longer hear traffic, if there was any. All the better to rest easy.

It only took a few moments to set up. I had it down pretty well by now. It was a good thing, as my batteries for the flash light had died a few days before, and the sun was fading fast. Once I set up, I decided to take a picture of myself by resting my trusty Minolta  on a nearby stump. I had been hitching alone for the last three weeks, my best friend having taken ill and returned home after our first week on the road together.

Nowadays, they call it a ‘selfie’.  I set the timer, and assumed what I hoped would be a suitably rakish, ‘seasoned traveler’ pose.  The kind of attitude and macho posture that only a nineteen year old would assume. Looking at the picture now – I don’t think I weighed 140 pounds wet. And I was still six feet three inches tall.

When I collected the camera, I noticed  that the sunset streaming through the trees gave a nice sunburst pattern. Kind of ‘artsy’. I had a few more shots left on my last roll of Ektachrome (That’s slide film, for you young folks) so I fired off a shot.  And because I was essentially shooting into the sun, I bracketed the exposure, and fired a second shot, stopping down the exposure a bit.

The sun was down in a few minutes, and the woods hid any starlight or moonlight from me as well. Too risky to start a fire on private lands, and with no flashlight – there was nothing to do but eat my apple for dinner, and turn in to sleep.  

I was pretty tired. I slipped out of my sweaty clothes, and into the bag. Despite my mental assurances that I was safe and secure in this obscure location – I definitely felt a sense of unease. I passed it off to my desire to wrap up my big adventure, and get home. My plan was to get up and get moving as soon as I awoke. With  any luck, in a day – or perhaps two – I would be back in Houston, where I would see my girlfriend. I fell asleep with happy thoughts of a frisky homecoming.




There is NOTHING that will pull you out of a sound sleep, faster than the snap of a twig under a footfall – when you’re supposed to be all alone in the middle of nowhere.

I was instantly awake, alert and listening.

And cold.

Cold on a warm June night?  I was sweating, but still FELT cold. I listened carefully. Was I imagining it?

THERE – Again. The sound of pressure on the dry ground cover. A light… VERY light crunching. A deer?  A wild hog or dog perhaps?

AGAIN – Closer.  But above my head now.

AGAIN – A single foot fall. The way a person might creep. Stealthily placing one foot slowly, before placing another. This was not wild life.

Time to summon that teen-aged machismo. As deep as my voice normally is, I tried to pitch it even lower.

 “I’ve got a gun in here.  I don’t want any trouble.”   I was going for a calm, confident menace. Someone you didn’t want to tangle with, but a situation you could reasonably avoid by simply walking away.

IF you were reasonable.

And no, I didn’t have a gun.

“I’m just trying to get some rest. I don’t want any trouble. I’ll be gone in the morning.” Should I roll out, and reveal myself? I listened for a response.



THERE. – Was that another faint footfall, farther away?

Or was I imagining it all? Perhaps it was pine cones, dropping from the trees.

There was no way I was going to go back to sleep now.  I fished my dive watch out of my pants pocket. I had broken the strap a few days before, hooking it on a door handle as I got out of a big rig. I checked the glowing hands –  Sometime after two in the morning. I could still get several hours of sleep, all I had to do was relax. Yeah. Not going to happen. I lay awake for another hour and a half, listening intently for the return of the footfalls. I had a pocket knife open in my right hand, and the watch in my other. No more sounds in the night. No more falling pine cones, or dripping water, or rustling animals. The last thing I remember was checking the watch – nearly four. Should be light before too soon.

When I blinked, I could see the walls of the tent. It was morning. Relieved to have avoided some sort of midnight confrontation, I hustled out of my tent, struck camp, packed my gear and checked my surroundings to make sure I hadn’t left anything – turning slowly in circles. Nope, all together, now –  which way did I come in?

It was an overcast day, and a little after six. The woods were heavy with a morning mist, but I’m pretty sure I packed in from  – This direction. I took off walking.

I had walked just long enough to begin to wonder if I was going in the right direction. I didn’t recall being THIS far into the woods. Then I spotted the edge, and the clearing ahead. I pushed through some brush.

And came out in the middle of a grave yard.

You’ve seen them before. Small, rural graveyards. Family plots from the 1800’s. There were perhaps a half dozen old broken stones. Tilted and covered with moss. No farm house in sight, but it could have rotted away long ago. I stood there a moment, surprised and a little creeped out. I hadn’t actually slept IN a grave yard,  had I? No, just next to one.

As far as I knew, right?

Okay then. Not the way I came in. I checked the sky again, and figured I had misjudged by exactly 180 degrees. I turned around and headed back into the woods. Came out the other side, and spotted the highway ahead.

I was home a day later, in the arms of loving family and girlfriend.

The girlfriend plays a part in this story because her father was an amateur photographer as well. He had a really nifty set up for slide shows in their house. He had installed a big pull down screen mounted in the ceiling of their den.  With the newest carousel projector, and a remote control. – it was a first rate set up for screening travelogue and adventure slides.

With all my film processed  –  we planned a night of reviewing The Big Adventure. I sat next  to the projector, eager to see them enlarged on a HUGE screen.  As he clicked through them, I narrated the locations and told any stories that went with them.



“Here I am, my last night camping out in the woods. Somewhere in Illinois I think.”



“Here is the sunset, going down through the trees.”

 “You should have stopped down,” he said.

 “I did, it  should be the next slide – ”



 “Ah yes, much better,” he pronounced.  Well hell, I was glad he approved. Then he spoke again. “Who is that?”


 “That person – there in the frame, center right. Who is that? Was someone with you?”

 “No. It’s just the sunset,” I said. 

“Oh, I see him!” my girlfriend said.

“What are you talking about?”

 My girlfriend got up and pointed to the screen. “Right there,” she insisted. “Who is that –  right  – THERE?”


I still get chills, remembering the moment I saw my visitor from the graveyard, his head and shoulders back-lit in the setting sun.

 Because he definitely was not there when I shot that picture.