Blog novel: Walt Michaels is a Weeny

Long before, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, I wrote a book called Walt Michaels is a Weeny.  It's a middle grade to young adult novel along the lines of Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  It was originally published as a POD novel by Wings E Press, and later, I actually wrote a screenplay version of it for a contest.  It finished in the top ten comedy category but advanced no farther.  I hear about people who write Blog novels, and I thought this might be something different to do.  Let me know what you think of the book.  I'm only going to put out a couple pages at a time along with some of my other blogs.  I would like to resurrect this book and do something with it since all rights have reverted back to me.

Walt Michaels sits in his living room with ESPN blaring.

The announcer stares into the screen, his mouth twitching with excitement. His co-anchor sits beside him, held tilted back, a soft snore wafting through the broadcast room. The clock strikes 4--4 A.M. that is. Harv Greavy and Mo Huck reporting.

“We are down to the last draft pick for this year. The World Champion St. Louis Cardinals have the pleasure of making that pick. Who will it be?”

The sleeping announcer’s eyes pop open for a split second. “Well, duh. There are only two players left.”

“That’s right. What a genius! The two players left are Walt Michaels and …” He pauses, puts his hand near his ear, and listens to the latest communiqué. “The Cardinals have announced their final pick.”

Walt Michaels sits straight up.

“Get on with it, Mo.” Harv’s eyes pop open for a second and then close again.

“It’s, it’s--It could be, it might be, it is! I cannot believe what I just saw--I mean heard.”

“Get on with it, Marv!” Walt screams at the television.

“The Cardinals have selected,” Marv pauses to build suspense. “Wendy Pujols!”

“Aaaaahhhh!” Walt screams and--

I fell out of bed and crashed onto the floor. Another nightmare. I breathed heavily and wiped the sweat off my face.

“Get your butt out of bed, Walt! Now!”

My dad. Sleeping beyond 7 A.M. was an unforgivable sin in his eyes. Just because he grew up in the old days doesn’t mean that I have to act like him. It’s easy for someone his age to get by on five hours of sleep. I glanced at the clock: 8 A.M. He had decided to be merciful to me for once.

I stood up and flipped on my stereo. Music from Styx filled my room at around a hundred or a hundred fifty decibels. That wouldn’t last long before I got into trouble. The interesting thing was that my dad would not be the one who yelled. Anything before 1975, he supported wholeheartedly. He was only sixteen when Woodstock happened. Music tastes were one thing we had in common. Love for all things baseball was another. My mom was the one who would eventually scream--

“Walt! Turn that noise down.” Mom’s shriek pierced the air. To avoid further endangerment, I lowered the volume a notch or two.

My love of classic rock music was about the only thing I ever wanted to pick up from my dad except for a few bucks every now and then to buy baseball cards.  Sitting down at my desk with posters of Kiss, Aerosmith, Bob Dylan, and my personal favorite, Bob Seger, staring down at me, I looked at the drawing I had started the previous night: an older man I had seen riding a bicycle around town.

“It sucks,” I said and then crumpled it and tossed it into the waste can. After disposing of that particular art abomination, I opened my desk drawer and looked at the picture I had drawn of Rhonda. The likeness was pretty good, but I had taken artistic liberties and not drawn on her ugly glasses.

My name is Walt, Walt Michaels Jr. I know it’s not a cool name. I’m sure my dad is not too happy that I’m carrying it either. I don’t think I will ever satisfy him with who I am rather than who he wants me to be.  I figure that anyone over fifty just doesn’t understand kids now days. It’s not that I’m dumb or anything. I just do different things like drawing and sometimes writing. One of these days when I am a rich and famous author or artist, I am going to change my name to something other than what it is. That would really freak out my dad. One of these days…it’s always a long way away.

I don’t want much really. A girlfriend and a softball team that wins the spring leagues aren’t much, and one of these days…