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Conversations With Colleen: Meet Author, Andrew Joyce
Hello everyone! This week I’m thrilled to bring you another fabulous author, Andrew Joyce. I asked him to pick a few questions from my huge list HERE.
We all aspire to be successful writers and the best way to learn some of the tricks of the trade is to ask questions. Learning from the experiences of other authors is an added bonus!
Please meet my guest, Andrew Joyce. I’ve been an avid reader of his books for a few years now. Andrew’s writing reminds me of the Louis L’Amour westerns I read in my teens.
My favorite book in Andrew’s repertoire is “Yellow Hair,” although I’ve enjoyed everything he’s written. You can read my review of this book HERE.
Author, Andrew Joyce
Andrew Joyce left high school at seventeen to hitchhike throughout the US, Canada, and Mexico. He wouldn’t return from his journey until years later when he…
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John McCain
I am so sorry that John McCain is dead. I’m really sad, I mean really, really fuckin’ sad that he’s gone. I had one—just one—question I wanted to ask him. And now, I’ll never know the answer to that question. Fuck!
Hello, kind and gentle reader. It is I, Andrew Joyce. Once again, I have come to enrich your lives. Not that your lives need that much enriching, but I do what I can. Much like Jesus. Anyway, back to Mister … I mean, Senator McCain.
Recently, most of the nation has mourned his passing. And that’s cool … if you want to mourn a war criminal. Have any of you ever asked yourselves what ordnance McCain dropped while flying his missions over Vietnam?
He dropped burning gasoline on children playing in front of their huts. He dropped bombs on mothers carrying their babies. Then he flew back to the carrier, got himself a beer, and met his buddies in the ship’s movie theater to watch a first-run movie. May his soul rot in hell!
What was he defending? As I remember it, the Viet Cong were not storming Miami Beach. I was there, trying to get laid … to no avail.
Now, before you all get your panties in a twist, hear this. Yes, once he was shot down and refused release unless the rest of the POWs could go with him, speaks highly of the man. And I’m with you on that. But, if he dropped burning gasoline on your child, would you still think him a hero? I kinda doubt it. But maybe your kid’s a loser and the world would be better off without him or her. Too bad McCain ain’t around anymore to burn that loser kid of yours to death. But keep the faith. There are plenty more McCains out there.
I’m sorry … I’m getting off track here. Back to the motherfucker. Okay, he was young and believed the bullshit … or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just felt like a hotshot, slinging off that deck, going out to rain down horror and death onto men, women, and children. Damn! I bet that beer tasted good when he got back to the ship.
Believe it or not, I give him a pass for all that shit. I wouldn’t want to stand in front of Jesus and try to explain it … but that’s his problem. My problem is trying to get you guys to know what a motherfuckin’ warmonger he was.
John McCain never met a war he didn’t love. And if there was no war, he’d try his damndest to get our country into one. The guy was frothing at the mouth to start a war. What the fuck was the matter with that guy? And if you don’t believe me, go check out his record as a senator. (I wanted to say: If you don’t believe me, then go fuck yourself. But my editor said I had to be nice. So I won’t say it.)
Alright, in closing … the world is a whole lot better off without people like McCain. And you want to know why? It’s high time that we stopped killing one another so “defense contractors” can make billions. It’s high time that we stopped letting other people, i.e., the assholes in congress, tell us what the fear du jour is. I have enough trouble with the soup du jour at my local beanery.
I’ll leave you with the words of a master (paraphrased, of course). I like this guy. He wasn’t perfect, but he had one or two good ideas. Now, once again, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the son-of-a-bitch say something like this: Love every goddamn motherfucker on this planet like you’d love yourself or did I just imagine that?
McCain, metaphorically speaking, wanted to kill everyone … every goddamn motherfucking person that disagreed with the Exceptional U.S. of Fuckin’ A. If they didn’t suck our collective cock, he wanted to kill ’em.
Jesus was cool … “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Love … not fear … will get us into that kingdom.
John McCain, you better hope Jesus and his Old Man live up to their reputation regarding mercy. Because if any motherfucker (besides me) ever needed to be sent straight to hell, you’re the one.
Andrew Joyce signing off. I got shit to do and I really should not have taken the time to post this rant. But I wanted to piss ya all off. I was bored. I mean, what the fuck is the internet for, if not for porn and pissing people off?
Andrew Joyce
September 3, 2018 (and on his way to hell)
John, Kris, and Me
This is a story that tells of my one and only encounter with Kris Kristofferson. I was a kid of eighteen and he was a janitor. We had a beer together and then we went our separate ways. He went on to become the famous Kris Kristofferson and I ended up buying his records and thinking, That guy wasn’t so bad after all. Oh … and there was one other guy involved. His name was John.
It was 1968; I was eighteen-years-old, and I was hitchhiking from Miami to New York. I had gotten off the beaten track, so to speak. I should have stayed on US 301 (this was before the Interstate Highway System), but instead found myself just south of Memphis hoping to catch a ride into Nashville by noon and then catch a long haul out of that city.
It was early morning. The traffic was light, and I wasn’t having much luck when, suddenly, a black Mustang screeched to a halt, and the guy driving leaned over and said through the open passenger-side window, “I’m headin’ to Nashville, that do you any good?”
Of course I said, “Yes,” and jumped in.
As he’s accelerating, he’s looking straight ahead, not at me. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, which is strange but not unusual when you’re hitching. So, I said nothing and stared out the windshield at the fast approaching skyline of Memphis. Then it hit me. I know this guy; I should have tumbled from the voice.
At that time in my life, I was not into different types of music; I liked rock n’ roll. Since then my taste in music has matured to encompass all types. But even though this guy wasn’t a rocker, I knew him and his music. A couple of his songs had crossed over and were played on the top forty stations.
The driver was intent on what he was doing, but I think he caught me looking at him out of the corner of his eye. I noticed he had a firm grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles were white. After a few minutes, he turns to me, saying, “Howdy, my name’s John.” At the same time, he raised his right hand from the wheel and stuck it out in my direction.
We shook hands, and I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cash. My name is Billy.”
Once John and I shook hands, he became more talkative. Hell, he became downright verbose. He told me about his hitchhiking adventures and asked me about mine. We were three hours out of Nashville and I don’t think there was another quiet moment for the whole three hours. We talked about life, women, and we even got into a metaphysical discussion. He told me about his army days and the time he was arrested in Texas. Just to keep even, I told him stuff that had happened to me while on the road. We didn’t talk about his music or anything like that. I’d been around enough to know that coming off as a gushing fan would have been a major turn-off for him. And besides, at the time, I was not a fan, gushing or otherwise. But by the time we hit Nashville, I was becoming a fan … of the man if not his music.
As we neared Nashville, he told me he’d just gotten married a few months back and was dying to see his wife. “I’ve been gone two days and it feels like two years,” he informed me. Then he said, “It’s about dinner time; why not stop in and get something to eat and then hit the road. June’s a great cook.”
Dinner is what country folk call lunch.
I accepted his kind offer, and we got off the highway and headed for his home, which was only a few blocks away. When we got to his house, and as we were pulling into the driveway, he said, “Looks like June is out somewhere, but don’t worry, we’ll rustle somethin’ up.”
I told him not to bother, that I could cadge a meal down the line. He looked at me, shook his head, and in that deep voice, he asked me if I had any money. Of course, I didn’t and I told him so. He told me that he’d been on the road and hungry, and that if I didn’t get my butt in the house pronto, he’d drag me inside.
So in we went, and we walked right back to the kitchen. John told me to sit at the table as he opened the refrigerator and looked around for a moment before saying, “Ah ha! It’s still here. And he pulled out a platter with a ham on it. I mean a real ham, bone and all! He also came up with a jar of mustard and a hunk of cheese. As he started to slice the ham, he told me where the bread and plates were kept and asked me to get them.
When the sandwiches were made—two of them—he asked me if I’d like a beer.
“Yes, please.”
So there I am, sitting in the kitchen of a man I’d met only a few hours before, and I’ve got two thick ham and cheese sandwiches and a can of beer in front of me. Not a bad score and the day was still young!
I asked him if he was going to eat, and he said beer would do him fine.
We’re sittin’ at the kitchen table, shooting the shit when the doorbell rings. John gets up, but before he leaves, he takes a long swig of beer. “Be right back,” he says. A few minutes later, he comes back into the kitchen with this guy.
“Billy, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This here is Kris.”
I had my mouth filled with ham sandwich, so I mumbled a hello. He waved and smiled, “Glad to meet ya, Billy.”
John asked Kris, “How about a sandwich and a beer?”
“Just a beer, please. It’s my lunch hour, and I’ve got to get back to work. But I have a new song I’d like you to hear and see what you think of it.”
By now, I’d eaten my two sandwiches, and I had nothing to add to the conversation, so I figured I’d just finish my beer and get the hell out of there. But before I could say my thanks and hit the road, John leaves the room and returns a moment later with a guitar.
Prior to my going any further, I’ve got to lay the scene out for you. We’re sitting at a round kitchen table. To my left is John and directly opposite me is this guy, Kris Kristofferson. John and I were hitting our beers and watching Kris tune the guitar. Then he picked at the strings and started to sing. I don’t remember what the song was. I wasn’t really paying attention. In my mind, I was rehearsing my good-bye speech to John.
When Kris was done, we all three sat there looking at one another. I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my opinion Kris sought. Kris didn’t say anything because he was waiting for John to say something, which he finally did.
“It’s not bad. But I don’t know if it’s for me.”
I’ve got to hand it to Kris; he smiled broadly and said, “That’s okay. I just wanted you to hear it and get your thoughts.” Then he lifted his beer and said, “Prosit.” That was my cue to leave. I stood and told John I had to hit the road. He said he’d drive me back to the highway, but I told him not to bother, he had company, and besides, it was only a few blocks away. Kris said if I could wait a few minutes, he’d drop me off at the highway on his way back to work. I declined his offer. I didn’t want to wait around. I had a full stomach and New York City was calling to me. I said my good-byes and walked out the front door, retrieved my case from the Mustang and headed off for further adventures.
Just one last thing: When I got to New York and opened my case, there was Benjamin Franklin staring up at me from on top of my clothes. John must have put the C-note in there when he went to let Kris in.
The Best Writing Advice You’ll Ever Get
There is one bit of advice that I have for aspiring authors. And that is, if you want to write well, you must read. Reading to a writer is as medical school is to a doctor, as physical training is to an athlete, as breathing is to life. Think of reading books as taking a writing course. I would suggest reading the classics: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and, of course, Steinbeck, to name but a few. These three authors made up their own rules. Hemingway couldn’t get published at first because his writing was so different from the writing that preceded him.
Below are three examples of Steinbeck’s writing. If you read stuff like this, you can’t help but become a better writer. Please note that the first example is one long sentence that makes up an entire paragraph. That, of course, is a big no-no . . . or so “they” say.
• • • •
“The concrete highway was edged with a mat of tangled, broken, dry grass, and the grass heads were heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog’s coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse’s fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep’s wool; sleeping life waiting to be spread and dispersed, every seed armed with an appliance of dispersal, twisting darts and parachutes for the wind, little spears and balls of tiny thorns, and all waiting for animals and the wind, for a man’s trouser cuff or the hem of a woman’s skirt, all passive but armed with appliances of activity, still, but each possessed the anlage of movement.”—The Grapes of Wrath
• • • •
“The afternoon came down as imperceptibly as age comes to a happy man. A little gold entered into the sunlight. The bay became bluer and dimpled with shore-wind ripples. Those lonely fishermen who believe that the fish bite at high tide left their rocks and their places were taken by others, who were convinced that the fish bite at low tide.”—Tortilla Flat
• • • •
“June is gay—cool and warm, wet and shouting with growth and reproduction of the sweet and the noxious, the builder and the spoiler. The girls in the body-form slacks wander High Street with locked hands while small transistor radios sit on their shoulders and whine love songs in their ears. The young boys, bleeding with sap, sit on the stools of Tanger’s Drugstore ingesting future pimples through straws. They watch the girls with level goat-eyes and make disparaging remarks to one another while their insides whimper with longing.”—The Winter of our Discontent
My first bit of advice is to read. My second: don’t pay too much attention to the “rules” of writing. And my third is, never, ever, ever respond to a bad review.
Thank you for listening to my morning rant,
Andrew Joyce
A Literary Prayer
My name’s not important, but it’s up there somewhere. So I guess it ain’t no secret. Anyway, this is what I gotta tell ya. And I don’t have much time. You see, I escaped my confinement, but goddamn it, they’re on my trail. I’ll be dragged back to my computer when they catch up, so I gotta spit this out while I can.
I’ve written a book or two, I’ve been there and I’ve done that. But over time, I went kinda crazy. I wanted to … no, that’s not right … I had to … I needed to … write the best damn novel since The Grapes of Wrath. Yeah, I know, that’s why I said I went crazy. So crazy I am.
I broke off human contact. I disconnected all wires that invaded my abode. I went old-school. I kissed girlfriends good-bye. I shook hands with friends, tellin’ ’em I was going into seclusion for the duration and I wasn’t comin’ out until I set the world on fire with my literary talent.
But here’s the deal:
I’m writing, I’m researching. I’m twenty-six chapters in. I got the last sentence of the book in my head. I just have to get there, but there are so many words standing between me and that last damn sentence. Please, Lord, please let me get there. I gotta put chapters behind me. Those future chapters … those future words … are callin’ to me. They need me to give them life. I need them to give me purpose. I need help with this next chapter.
Lord, I’m facing a white wall. You help me get this one chapter on paper and I’ll never ask You for another thing … not another goddamn thing. Please, Lord, give me this next chapter.
I’ve Lived and Died So Many Times
I’ve died many times … so many times. I’ve lived so many lives, too many lives. I am tired of this existence. I remember one life, many eons ago. Men feared me. Men paid tribute to my magnificence. I existed as a small deity. Then, in my fiftieth year, I took sick and died. I soon found that all I held dear in that life was as nothing. My life had been a dream … a sham.
I remember my life as a serf, indentured to the land. I never did have a full belly in that life. My loved ones died of disease and hunger. But it did not matter. We were not harmed. We could not be harmed. We were not our bodies. We were … and are … so much more.
We returned in new bodies, in new lands. We fought for property. We fought for riches. We fought and killed for nothing. We yearned for the tangible. We yearned for immortality in the physical. We wanted it all without knowing that we already possessed everything there was to possess. We were immortal and did not know it.
In time, I incarnated as a cripple, a poor wretch. In that life I was closer to the godhead than I had ever been. I learned of love in that life, I came to realize that I had lived so many lives in fear. That was the first life in which I started on the path of love, forsaking the path of fear.
Now, here I am … now, here I am. I am not of this body. I am a part of the entity we call god. I have only to remember my birthright. I have only to love.
I have many more roads to travel before I may rest. I have many more lives to live before I become pure love.
I have lived many lives working to become Love personified. I’ve died many times, so many, many times as I crawl back to our Father.
One day, I shall rest. The day will come when I’ll never be born … or die … again. On that day, I shall shine as pure Love. On that day, I shall stand with God, my Father.
