My affliction may not have a scientific explanation, and you can’t see it, but that is also true of headaches, earaches and toothaches.  You can’t see them neither, but they exist and deal you misery when they manifest themselves.

I peddled my pictures, or artwork, back in the days of yore, and sold a goodly number of them.  Not enough to buy an Italian Villa, but since my investment was minimal it was a rewarding adventure.  Nobody knows the number that I found a home for, but they all had one thing in common—at least in my mind.

I never “finished” a single, solitary one of them.  The only way I was able to quit on one was to take it to the framer and put glass over it.  The next step was to place it before an adoring public and as Larry, The Cable Guy likes to say “Git’er done!”  Once that sale was made, I had no desire to ever lay eyes on it again.  There have been a few exceptions, but mighty few, when I’ve visited one of my adopted out orphans.  It’s a fetish probably, but the way I’ve got it figured, that ain’t my picture anymore.  I hope they have happy homes, but have no desire to see them.  They are past history and I don’t enjoy seeing some detail that I’d change if I could lay hands on any one of them again.

I started to messing around with book writin’ back in 1990 when I was but a stripling of seventy, since I was too rim cut to attend art shows and lead the gypsy life.  That age seemed to suit me better, since pushing words around ain’t nigh as tiring as showing art 40 weekends a year can tire a body out.  I still have a few prints out there in the galleries, but they’re hauled by the mail system.  My old outfit—The Texas Wild Bunch—is still on the warpath, but like Chief Joseph used to say, “From where the sun sits today I will fight no more forever.”

Anyways, I’ve got five books knocking around on the Book Pushers, and all I have to do is write ‘em, and should I travel to a Hastings or a Barnes and Noble the books await and a table is set up for my comfort.  What a deal, and with luck you get a royalty check a couple of times a year.

It’s an addictive pastime, and all you need is a pencil and a lined paper tablet.

The last escapade was Waggin’ Tales and it’s on the market now.  I’ve got another on the ground and two in the embryonic stage and I ain’t wore out my 200 word vocabulary yet.  I also have a force of folk who aid and abet me in the real work.  Keyboarders, proofers and editors do the work and the credit accrues unto me.

Anyways, the point I’m dead set on making is—those astonishing words trapped forever betwixt those book covers are abandoned with the same alacrity as that of my artwork.  They’re fully feathered, out of the nest and free to fly about just like Southwest Airlines.  I never look under the hood again.  I’ve done all that my competency will allow and they are on the wing and on their own.

The books and the pictures have sapped me to the limit of my ability, and I go in search of another victim.

The only way for me to rid my head of a project and erase the blackboard clear of scribbling is to get a handful of pencil lead and release the burden upon a pristine sheet of paper via my Scripto pencil.

The operation and execution is not all that big of a deal for me, since I have basement elevation standards for my literary output.  It ain’t a big deal for me to crank out a thousand words, in a 5am set-to.  That is but five sheets of paper, if you’re counting, and in two months a sixty thousand word treatise is unleashed.

After such a session I tackle the three crossword puzzles in the Startle Gram, plus the Scram-let and the Jumble.  I’m big enough to admit that the New You Times Crosswords for Friday and Saturday are not completed on a regular basis.

I don’t go back and look at them when the vexed tribulation beats me down either.  That page is wadded up and deposited in the trash can.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063, my official postal address is: 333 W AYERS AVE – DE LEON TX 76444-2113, and you can e-mail Charles@CharlesChupp.com.