Being Transported

There are always surprises when I least expect them and yesterday I needed a surprise. I've needed one for a long time.

A writer friend emailed that her husband died Monday evening. She was sad, but all right with his death. It's hard watching someone you love slide slowly into the abyss bit by bit. I sent her my condolences, not because I knew her husband Fred but because I know her and have watched his decline from the sidelines all these years.

Yesterday, she sent me a message thanking me. She thanked me for my kindness and for my book, Among Women, because it captured her and took her somewhere else when Fred was in such pain and she could do nothing to help him. That's a pretty big compliment. What else could I say but you're welcome? I am still sad for her loss, but also glad that Fred is no longer in pain and his family can now grieve, something they have been doing in fits and starts for years.

I remember what it was like to lose my great Aunt Ann when she had Alzheimer's, which is what Fred had. She stood six-foot-two in her stocking feet and was from solid peasant stock. She was creative and fashionable and had made a huge success in her life. She never had children, although her husband had a child by his previous wife; he was a widower when Ann married him.

When we found out about her, Aunt Ann had been living in her big brick house all alone and the neighbors were stealing her blind, which is probably why she kept so much of her cash in her vast book collection. Having Alzheimer's made it difficult for her to remember, except in brief and fleeting flashes, where it was, but it made her feel safer. She had lost so much weight she was a shadow of her former glorious peasant self. She smelled and was dirty and her beautiful home was a dump. That's what living alone for several years while she was ill did to her and her surroundings, as it eventually does to the people who love her.

My parents took her home and my father cared for her until she eventually died. They sold off her possessions, cleaned up and sold her house and took care of her during her few remaining years. My dad cared for her as if she were a child, and that is what she had regressed to in the end, a child with easy smiles and wide wondering eyes unfamiliar with the world around her or the people she once knew so well and had towered over.

I know how my friend felt because I've been there. There is relief followed quickly by regret when someone you love dies of Alzheimer's, and yet there is also peace; someone you have loved and who loved you is now resting in the arms of the universe, has moved past his body and away from his mortal coil to be a part of the universe once more, having been given a glimpse of the eternal while they were still alive, and silenced by the disease so they cannot tell those left behind the wonders they have glimpsed that brought them to their knees emotionally and spiritually. At least, that is how I see it.

The rest of the day was the usual battle with a pernicious computer program that had a stranglehold on my OS and I spent a good part of the morning trying to get rid of it. When I finally figured it out (turn off the antivirus program) it was late and I was hungry, so I ordered in. The delivery driver is one I have come to know well over the past three years and he had news for me. After a year, he has finally finished chapter ten of Past Imperfect (gotta change the name the next time around) and he was excited about the twist on the story the characters had engineered. I was just along for the ride, and to take notes. He has two more chapters to go and he's anxious to see which guy will get the girl, or which guy the girl will choose. Depends on your point of view. What he said next surprised me.

"I really should read more. If you only knew how big a deal it is that I am reading this book . . . ." He faltered there. "I'll get my mother to write you a note." I explained that wasn't necessary and showed him my latest book. "Are you giving this to me?"

Actually, no, but since your eyes lit up and you seem interested . . . . "I'll sign."

"Yeah, and I'll bring back the other one so you can sign it, too."

Surprise. He not only likes the book it has taken him a year to read, getting to it whenever he remembers there is a book to read, the only book he owns besides a telephone book (or so he told me), but he is anxious to read more and to read my latest book. Big surprise.

Two surprises in a row, each of a different origin, but both equally wonderful. People are reading.

If there is anything that would make me happier it would be that more people read, not just for work or because they must, but because they want to, because the story or the author engaged them and made them feel like reading, because they actually were transported and could forget the mundane details of every day life. What better purpose is there for authors and their books. Yes, it's for us, for the authors, but it's also to share a bit of how we see the universe and each other, and just because it's fun to pretend to be someone or somewhere else. Not every book has to have social significance, but it does help if the book -- no matter how badly it is written -- takes us away from what is to what could be or will be or just might be. That is the magic of books and the surprises found between its pages -- virtual or real. What better job could there be?

Yeah, I know. It doesn't always earn a lot of money, but whatever happens to my books, at least I know that at least two people who are not related to me enjoyed the books and were transported. That's enough for now.

Down the Cyberhole

One of the great things about the Internet is being able to connect with people from all walks of life anywhere in the world. The sense of community and knowing that no matter what you've been through we all share the same experiences, or know someone who has, is wonderful. There is a downside.

Such connections and freedom of movement behind the anonymity of the computer, where you can be anyone or any gender you choose, also offers a breeding ground for games and cons. One of these cons has several different forms, but it targets vulnerability and ignorance of what people can be and are capable of perpetrating. It begins with the connection.

A man finding himself with too much time on his hands begins to surf the Internet. He gets involved in forums, bulletin boards and groups to help pass the time. It doesn't take long before he finds an empathetic someone to listen to his troubles and share hers. We are after all not that unique in our troubles and many people are just as willing to commiserate as they are to have someone tell them they're not alone. Beware. Danger, Will Robinson. You are about to fall down the cyberhole into the Con Zone.

It starts innocently enough, sharing tidbits of information and background between the usual getting to know you conversations in chat and email, and now on Skype. Such sharing inevitably leads to a more intimate kind of sharing and often cybersex is the next step, but there is another. Like Wilbur being fattened for the fall when he can be killed and turned into pork chops, bacon, ham, etc., this guy is being prepared for the next phase of the operation.

He's become enamored of his online connection and fancies himself in love, but she's not. She's too busy fattening other marks up for their time to be harvested. Once he's completely hooked, the troubles on her end begin. Her husband is ill or she's divorced and something breaks down, someone needs an operation or some disaster strikes that requires money to fix -- and she doesn't have it. She's barely making it as it is. Gentleman that he is, which is why he was chosen, he will offer to help her out. She refuses at first because she's shocked he would even offer, but this is where she embeds the hook so he won't wriggle free.

She may refuse a couple of times just to make sure he's hooked but good, and then she will reluctantly agree to accept his generosity -- on one condition. She'll pay him back. No matter how long it takes, she will pay him back. She won't and he won't let her. She has enough trouble as it is and he doesn't want to add to her burden. He sends the money and she goes out to celebrate and maybe buy that Prada purse she has wanted for so long. She'll keep tapping him for money until he gets wise or until she knows she's pushed just far enough so he doesn't figure things out. The last phase is the release.

One such con artist staged her online death. It was easy. She had several different email accounts and personae. She'd bump one off when it was time to hit the road so the marks would be sad and grieve for a while, but would forget her eventually. The usual releases include getting married, getting back with an ex-husband or partner, finding religion, etc., etc. There at least 50 ways to leave your cyberlover. Get out the back, Jack. Get a new plan, Stan. No need to be coy, Roy; just get yourself free.

People like that prey on good men and women who are lonely, sad or having trouble with their partner or spouse. They are ripe for conquest and the con artists know just how to find, hook and fleece them. The same pattern is followed every time with a few variations and the end result is always the same.

If you have a friend or relative in a similar situation, let them know what's really happening. They might not believe you at first and will be defensive, but they will figure it out eventually, hopefully before they send their money down the cyberhole with their innocence, generosity and emotions.

One word of advice: There are genuine people out there who find themselves in desperate straits that should not be confused with the cyber cons. It's easy to tell which is which because the genuine people are seldom aggressive about moving from one phase to the next. If someone turns on the waterworks when told that cybersex is cheating on a spouse or partner and then, once the emotional storm is passed, keep putting the cybersex on the table, you're in the clutches of a cyber con. Get to the nearest exit without delay because the cyberwhore is about to turn into a mini disaster movie and you're going to be paying the bills.

That is all. Disperse.

Early Valentines

I'm about to leave for my vacation and will not return until the 22nd. I needed to clear up some details, like posting the winners of the Great Love Letters Valentine Contest. They have been chosen and notified, but the news will not be posted until tomorrow -- as promised. I had a difficult task choosing the winners and some entrants sent in more than one letter. One entry was in the form of a sonnet. I had so much fun with this contest I will likely set up a few more with different prizes and maybe even copies of my Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort anthologies, appropriately signed of course.

What surprised me most was that several men entered the contest and one gentleman was a soldier in Iraq who is now safely home in New Jersey. That's the thing about people, you never know just what they will do or how they will surprise you, and I was very surprised at the depth of emotion and humor shared.

As for me, I'm taking my humor and depths to a cozy little Victorian B&B for nine days and will not be posting during that time. I'll have Internet access, but I'm taking this time to relax, read, write and write some more. I'll check email, but only the really important messages will be answered. The rest will have to wait until I return. Have a great Valentine's Day and don't forget to tell the people that matter and make a difference in your lives how much they mean to you. You only have today. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

That is all. Disperse.

The power of the Internet

Last night I wrote a post about fan fiction and giving away writing for free because of a conversation I had with a friend. It was that conversation and talking about Chelle's talented writing that made me think about that long ago episode when I was naive and young and completely focused on a television show, in this case M*A*S*H. I had completely forgotten about the incident, although the letter is buried among a box full of correspondence I've kept over the years (decades), until yesterday.

The purpose of the post was to illustrate what happens when you play on someone else's playground, and also to share some advice about the writing world. There are opportunities out there and so many people waste their time on doing things for free because they don't know they have options.

There was no Internet in 1974 and people communicated by letters (paper covered with typewritten or handwritten words, placed in envelopes, addressed, stamped and sent). I lived in Tucson, Arizona at that time so it took very little time for my letter to get to California and back, but it still took time, not like the Internet where communication is almost instantaneous, as evidenced just a few moments ago when I received and email that someone left a comment on the post.

The comment came from a blog owner named Nick, ostensibly from Glendale, California and posting by means of an Apple computer, probably a MacBook, but it was signed Larry Gelbart and asked what year that was and what idea he had supposedly stolen. Obviously, Mr. Gelbart has Google Alerts, too, and, like me, keeps track of when his name or his projects are mentioned.

I was stunned, to say the least.

I responded with two lines: one with the basic idea of my long ago letter and the comment that the post wasn't about what I sent but how good writers of fan fiction can break into the very shows they love by writing a spec script (script on speculation). It's one way to play on someone else's playground, do it legitimately, and (if you're good enough) get a job as a full time paid writer.

Mr. Gelbart also asked me the year when it happened. It was in 1974, which I just remembered, 35 years ago. And he taught me some valuable lessons about writing. Protect your work. Learn the rules and guidelines and follow them to protect yourself and your work, especially when you want to play on someone else's playground. Anything you do well should be compensated. In other words, don't work for free. (I learned that one from Harlan Ellison.)

The Internet is a powerful tool. It connects people all over the world in a matter of cyberseconds. It grants access to words and ideas and opportunities few dreamed were possible when I was young and naive, but with that access comes responsibility for yourself, your words and the work you take the time to put out there. Don't sell yourself short simply because access to this cyberworld of connections at the speed of light over fiberoptics is quick and fairly easy. Make your hard work pay. You might not get through the door on the first try, but if you persevere and you work hard with the talents you've been given, there is nowhere you cannot go -- even into someone else's playground -- and create a world and a job of your own.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday morning thoughts

I'm cold and the heater isn't warming things up fast enough even though I actually got dressed instead of lounging around in my flimsy nightgown, but I'm happy. I feel like the yellow dog who lives across the street when he plopped down in the snow and rolled around on his back with his legs in the air, kicking up snow and writhing ecstatically.

It snowed yesterday, a big, wet, heavy, clumpy snowfall that covered everything in pristine white that caught fire when the sun finally burned a hole through the white sky. The stiff and creaking capillaries and veins scratching across the pale membrane of the sky at the end of the solid cracked grey-brown trees dried out from the desiccating winds of wind drooped under the heavy wet burden, sending clouds and gouts of snow tumbling to the ground, lost to view in the near whiteout conditions yesterday. Most of the snow is gone, leaving swaths and stretches smeared across the yellow-brown grass where the sun has yet to glare down and burn it away and I love every bit of it, even as I wish for it to stay around a little longer. I'm caught in that land between reveling in the soft hush of winter snow and yearning for the pastels and warm whispers of wind that wakes the trees and bushes back to life. But work must continue and the coffers must be filled.

I've been reading the next book from the review box and it has invaded my dreams and turned them to nightmares. Freeing Yourself from the Narcissists in Your Life has locked me in a permanent state between shock and understanding. Unfortunately, I recognize many people from my life within its pages and am no longer confused by the way I have been treated by these people. It's as if the book was written with me in mind, a handbook with a secret code revealed. The book is as frightening as it is amazing, so you can imagine what my review is going to be. This one will not leave my shelves and I will read it again and again.

The book explains the charm and Machiavellian maneuvering the narcissist employs to gain a following and keep people enthralled and enchanted until they destroy whoever no longer serves their needs or goals, and how to recognize these venomous chameleons. It explains a lot about some of the people I've encountered and freed me from further worry, guilt and confusion and I highly recommend it to everyone. My review will be posted at AuthorLink.com next week, but don't wait for the review. Get the book now and keep it close. You never know when you might need it.

I also spent a little time reading science articles this morning from my Discover magazine newsletter and one of the articles gave me an idea for a story. It also explains the genesis of characters like Stephen King's Charlie from Firestarter and The Manitou by Graham Masterson. To think such power lies in the very cells of our bodies and could, if tapped, create the kind of devastation imagined in the show Heroes. What's really amazing is that a scientist found the way to measure that energy, as if we really needed proof that man is a storehouse of electrical energy.

It's a usual Saturday morning full of chores and empty of the work that chains me to my computer during the week, but an interesting Saturday with enough snow still cushioning the ground to keep the smile firmly on my lips and the memory of a yellow dog rolling happily across the ground in my heart, and it's enough.

That is all. Disperse.

The Compleat Friendship Garden

Friendship is a hard business. It seems easy at first and things go along smoothly as you get to know each other, but like anything worth doing and keeping it takes work. Friendship is like gardening.

You plant a seed in the moist, fertile earth, water it in, and let the sun do the work of coaxing it from the darkness into the life-giving light. The seed responds with all the energy in its tiny heart by springing upward and unfolding its leaves to catch all the sun's warmth and heat and energy and it keeps growing, quickly at first and then slower and slower as it exhausts the nutrients in the soil and battles for its life against drought or too much rainfall, too much or too little heat, always hungry and needing more, fending off weeds and grazing animals that want to takes its life before it's even full grown and able to produce seeds of its own to carry on while it's still fresh and green, a tasty morsel for avid feeders unwilling or unable to wait. That's where the work comes in: fending off hungry predators, weeding, feeding, nurturing, loving, making sure it gets enough and not too much sun and water, protecting it, growing it, standing by to see it to maturity when it's stronger and more capable of seeding and reseeding the ground to allow others to grow and share its life and resources.

New friendships are intoxicating and joyful as two people get to know each other. There are bound to be a few rocks in the rows, a few aphids on the leaves, and a few predators lurking and waiting to pounce, but overall it is a good time, a time for blending and sharing and growing. It isn't necessary to forget or prune the past to make yourself look more palatable to your new friend but it is a good idea to share things slowly, allowing each new revelation to sink in, to acclimatize. The kinds of relationships that last are when two people allow each other their foibles and flaws, mistakes and errors without judgment, and to keep expectations reasonable. A mustard seed will not produce a rose and a rose bush will never produce an oak, but each is important and necessary in its own way. However, one must be careful not to forget to prune and nurture other, older friendships in the euphoria and adventure of the new friendship.

Some plants, like some friendships, are not made for your growing zone or for the nutrients and resources available. It is nearly impossible to grow lime trees and coconuts outside in Alaska and cacti don't do well in the rain forest. In order to take a plant from the tropics to the arctic it is necessary to provide a suitable environment; the same is true whenever you transplant something from its native habitat into alien soil. The plant may adapt, but it will never grow without the proper encouragement and resources and environment.

In the end, it's about keeping expectations reasonable and adapting to each one's needs and quirks, but in the end it's worth it because you can never have too many plants or too many friends -- unless it's kudzu. Even then, they have a beauty and uses all their own.

That is all. Disperse.

Psychic Viking Attack

I was working on a story when a stray thought pounced on my writing energy and strangled the muse. It happens sometimes. A piece of dialogue or a description or even something someone said a day or two ago will come back and bring friends. This particular thought brought memories of a guy I knew whose presence made people feel uncomfortable, especially, but not exclusively, women. I told him on several occasions he was bleeding sexual energy and needed to learn how to control it better so that his overriding sexual neediness wasn't broadcasting. He didn't know what I was talking about so I explained . . . on several occasions . . . in detail . . . with sock puppets. He still didn't get it. He claimed that to control his sexual energy was the same thing as being dishonest about who he was. He just didn't get it.

What was happening was akin to psychic Viking attack: raping, pillaging, and insulting neighboring people. He was only interested in being true to himself and honest about his emotions but his honesty was personally and psychically damaging to those around him and sensitive people were afraid of him. Some felt discomfort but the really sensitive people who didn't know how to shield themselves became nauseous and ill.

I'm all for being honest about who and what you are, but there are certain ways that being honest about yourself can be socially unacceptable. Bleeding psychic energy into someone else's space is like a smoker blowing smoke into the face of a nonsmoker while riding numerous floors in an elevator. At least he could have asked if he could invade people's spaces but he didn't. Instead he chose to broadcast his sexual energy to everyone around him, and he wondered why people didn't like him. Oh, there were some people who put up with it and talked behind his back, but didn't have the guts or honesty to tell him to his face he was being intrusive and obnoxious.

There are those who wear their hearts on their sleeves and whose faces give away their emotions, but they are relatively harmless on the psychic energy broadcast scale, like barely receiving a station in your own town with the antenna pointed in the right direction and optimum atmospheric conditions. And then there are those who are the equivalent of a ghetto blaster with dual quad speakers turned up to full volume in a locked closet, making your ears (and chakras) bleed. The worst part is that you haven't agreed to be locked in the closet to be assaulted but rather have been forced to endure the torture. Anger, repressed rage, pent up sexual need, depression, grief, and any number of powerful emotions unwittingly broadcast in this manner can make being in the same space (or even within a five-block radius) feel uncomfortable at best and violated at worst. I foresee a time when people entering a restaurant or business or even someone's home will be told to check their emotions at the door or be barred from entering.

Even though it seems like the guy was being real and honest and true to his emotions, sometimes it's best to shield yourself to keep from viciously violating other people's spaces. It's not a bad idea to learn how to shield your emotions, but it's a better idea to deal with them and let them go before they prove as toxic to you as they are to everyone around you.

FYI: If your energy is making someone uncomfortable, off balance, nauseous, dizzy, or physically ill, it isn't a good thing. That is the sign of negative energy. If you broadcast strong energy and people want to get closer to you, you're charismatic. It's like getting close to a warm fire on the hearth when you're freezing cold. Making people uncomfortable and ill and making them feel warm and welcome is like the difference between a raging, devouring inferno and a welcoming fire and it's easy to tell the difference. Time to balance your chakras, cleanse your aura, and get to the root of the problem.

That is all. Disperse.

Out of the flames

While checking my email and going through the posts on the herbal medicine tribe I found myself mentioned and not politely. I was being flamed. Since I get digest emails instead of the usual clutter of almost hourly messages sent from that very busy tribe I didn't realize this had been going on. Someone I've never met attacked me openly and very rudely and asked that someone use his flames for a haiku. Someone jumped in and did. I thanked them for their creativity and asked the flamer why he found the need to attack me. I then went to his profile on tribe.net, as he obviously had read my profile (he could've gotten the information he used in no other way) and sent him an email asking why he felt the need to attack me since I had no knowledge of him, had never written anything to or about him and hadn't posted anything other than a little information about a rude and crude individual who finds it necessary to attack people looking for information and asking questions about colloidal silver, something about which he is strong and rudely vocal. I wait for his answer.

This situation reminds of situations in the past when I have offered information and mediation only to be attacked. I went back to those posts and found that although my conciliatory words were still there, as were my responses to the flaming attacks, the attacks had been deleted. I'm certain the same will happen with the herbal medicine flamer. From what I know and from what I've read about the peacemakers, those who offer mediation and a chance to find some common ground in the midst of war and personal attacks, the peacemakers are usually cut down by those who do not wish to find an amicable settlement and do not want to listen to reason or find common ground. Seldom do the peacemakers die a peaceful death. Those who do not want peace and who are totally invested in their anger and need to demonize someone, anyone, find ways of creating chaos and strife no matter where they go or what they do. They are the drama queens who delight in feeding off negative and heightened emotions like vampires.

Vampires are seen nowadays as romantic figures doomed to walk the earth without a soul, victims of predators who made them the unwilling recipients of a dark gift, demon lovers who stalk the night and offer their bloody kiss, but vampires are predators who feed off the light and the energy of the living.

Vampires were unholy creatures of the night, fetid carrion eaters who stank of the grave until Dark Shadows gave us Barnabas Collins, the victim of a scorned witch who cursed him with eternal life and an overwhelming thirst for blood. Then came Lestat and Louis and a host of other vampires who offered romance for their pint of blood and suffered the torments of the damned, making us forget they are still predators who would rather drink the last drops of our blood than surrender to Death. Some preyed on rats or only on criminals, thus making them a little less repulsive as they wooed us with their grace and strength and marble carved beauty. Some vampires fed on the blood of cattle while we fed on cattle's milk and meat, making us civilized predators, but predators all the same.

Romance can be found in the strangest places and faces and people tend to romanticize everything and everyone at one point or another, turning the world upside down and seeing everything through rose-colored glasses. We fail to see the friend or lover who uses and abuses us, making us the butt of their thinly veiled jokes, as vampires feeding off our energy and light and intelligence like ticks and fleas and mosquitoes -- or larger more seductive predators. But we are all predators. Whether we feed off animals or vegetables or the bright energy of a peaceful soul, we are first, last and always predators standing on some rung of the food chain waiting to eat or be eaten with or without the flames.

Random notes

A new friend and I have bonded over a magazine, one we have both tried (unsuccessfully) to break into and be published by the eccentric editor. She has sent him reams of poetry and stories dripping with snot and tears (his favorite type) and still he rejects her. Her husband bought her all the back issues so she could study them (I got a year's subscription) and still the editor rejects her with chatty notes but still very strong and unequivocal Nos. I just get the form rejections with little notes scrawled across the bottom, but they are still rejections.

She set me a task--to figure out her middle name: three letters ends with M. My first guess turned out to be her daughter's middle name but then I didn't know her name only had three letters. After reading about Hebrew naming practices I think I finally have her. Her middle name is most like to start with the same letter as her first name: J or Y in Hebrew. That narrows the field considerably.

Looking for her name made me think about names in general and mine specifically. My name is the feminine of John which means, "God is gracious." The bearer of such a name is described as well-groomed, intelligent and as solid and dependable as the Rock of Gibraltar. The Johns I know certainly fit that description and I know from talking with Beanie that my mother (and the rest of the family) certainly see me that way (okay, not so well groomed since I fail to wear makeup every day and I prefer comfortable rather than fashionable clothes). Perceptions are always interesting.

We see someone smile at us and immediately think they're interested even though we don't know they were looking past us at their date or someone that makes their toes tingle or even someone who just looks funny. Maybe they are smiling at us the way a crocodile smiles before it weeps while gnawing a piece of our flesh. Maybe they smile because they are nervous or just because they don't want to let it slip that they are liars and cheats and vampires who need your energy and your cooperation to get close enough to siphon it off and leave you empty. You never know for sure. I remember a song from the 70s: "They smile in your face. All the time they want to take your place, the back stabbers." Funny how lyrics linger in the corridors of the mind waiting for a chance to pop out when you least expect it, like when you're rambling in your journal. I always said I didn't trust Jimmy Carter who took $600 off his taxes as a campaign expense for toothpaste. Anyone who uses $600 worth of toothpaste is a liar, obsessive or has worked for the Dept. of Defense and thinks the people really believe a screwdriver costs $35,000 dollars. I don't trust anyone who smiles too much; they make my skin crawl.

I can understand smiling when you're nervous; I do that. I don't understand smiling when there is nothing to smile about. I always watch how many teeth are showing; the more teeth there are, the less I trust the person, and if they show their gums, I run for the hills as though a wild fire is on my tail. Not going to happen.

I have learned to pay attention to my instincts. Every time I have ignored that sudden flush of adrenalin and prickling sweat I have ended up in trouble. I also have my irrational fears, too, but those are a subject for another post.

That is all. Disperse.