There is Always Blood

It's happened to you and it's happened to me. The car goes in because there's a noise in the engine and the minute you pull into the repair bay the mechanic starts adding up random numbers in his head. He needs to get braces for his youngest girl's teeth and his son needs new shoes and football equipment, and there's college coming up like a speeding car in the rear window. Suddenly, the little noise in the engine becomes a major repair job.

It's expected in a way because the auto repair business is a for profit concern. The mechanic has to make money, as do the bank holding the mortgage on his shop, the utility company, the phone company, and everyone else that keeps his business in business. You are a cog in that wheel.

It's the same with medical expenses. The doctor needs to pay off the student loans that got him or her through medical school, internship, and residency, and the cost of all the equipment to set up shop or dues to the American Medical Association (AMA), and hiring people to answer phones, type reports, file, fix coffee, sit with patients while the doctor examines them, utilities, phones, computers, etc., etc., etc. The doctor expects to make a profit, too.

And then there are hospitals, which seem increasingly more interested in the bottom line than actual health care. Full beds mean revenue which means the stockholders get a big return on their investment and the hospital gets to keep running. And then there are the pharmaceutical companies testing out their drugs in human trials, lots of space age technology to look inside the body and see what's going on, etc., etc., etc. The thing about technology is that one test is never enough. Where there is one, there will also be 3 or 4 or 10 more. And that's just the standard tests, like EGDs, colonoscopies, mammograms, and CT scans. There are thousands of tests and doctors like to use as many of them as possible because more complex tests means more money which is good for their children's future and getting those snazzy new golf clubs and that sports car.

Not all doctors are more interested in the bottom line than in taking care of their patients, but I often wonder which side of the fence they would land on. Diversified stock portfolios, rental properties, vacation homes, maids, drivers, etc., etc., etc. Hospitals are as bad and often worse. That whole full bed means revenue is only good for as long as the hospital makes money on them, and turning over patients is often like turning over pancakes to see if they are done, and the cook is a nervous Nelly that wants the pancakes to cook faster and faster.

Into this mix comes the Big Guilt Trip -- why doesn't America have universal health care yet? Why haven't they joined the rest of the world and jumped on the bandwagon of socialized medicine? Probably because it wouldn't make much money for the doctors paying off student loans and the hospitals paying huge dividends to the stockholders. Or maybe it's because of the socialized in socialized medicine.

Americans must want the poor and indigent to die without a doctor's care because otherwise we would have had socialized medicine by now. After all, the rest of the world (not all of it, just the socialized parts) has jumped on the socialized medicine bandwagon and we should, too. That sounds an awful lot like the arguments I used on my parents when I was a teenager. "Everyone else is going to the parties after the prom. Why can't I?"

I imagine because America isn't a follower and because universal health care has been packaged badly. There's also the question of Medicaid and Medicare, both of which have been in place since the 1960s as part of the whole food stamp, aid to dependent children, and medical care package that we bought when Johnson was president. That was supposed to cover things. Don't forget Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance that covered everything, and then came the HMOs to muddy the waters, and now it's providing health care for illegal aliens because it's the right thing to do.

HMOs seemed like such a good idea at the time. I had one; it was United Health Care, and I loved it. Low co-pays and $5 prescriptions that almost reminded me of health care when I was growing up as an army brat, except without the co-pay and paying for prescriptions. There was no cost and I got the best health care in the world, a lot of times from doctors serving a term or two in the military to pay for their medical education.

Then came the greed and insurance companies started denying medical claims because of pre-existing conditions (the ones that had been identified and treated by another insurance company or before there was an insurance company). Then came people hopping from one insurance company and HMO to the next to get the best deal. The services dwindled. The co-pays increased and prescriptions cost $50 to $150 or more a piece instead of that $5 or $10 for quality medication.

Insurance companies paid out less and demanded more, demanded higher deductibles while providing less protection and even less service. Medicaid still worked and so did Medicare, but Medicare recipients had to have another insurance company, and often 2 or 3 insurance companies to cover what Medicare didn't cover, and Medicare covered less and less and cost more and more of that slender social security check the 3rd of each month. People started taking less medication which, considering the side effects and questionable efficacy of the main medication, wasn't such a bad idea.

Into this wrangling over pre-existing conditions and dwindling service for a greater cost comes the Big Guilt Trip. We have to have universal socialized health care so that no person is left behind. Sounds a lot like the "No Child Left Behind" program that graduates stupid children who know only the answers to a test and no longer learn anything useful or become infected with a thirst for knowledge that takes them beyond the books and the classes.

We must get in lockstep with the rest of the world and provide health care for everyone, even the illegal aliens who creep across our borders to have their children in America so they can get Welfare, Aid to Dependent Children, and Medicaid. Do you wonder why Americans balk at the terms "Universal Health Care" and why they fight so hard not to fall into step with the other socialized countries of the world? We've been down this primrose path before and it has not turned out well. We've been bilked, cheated, and raped -- and no one suggested or offered lubricant either.

What looks like heartless Americans denying basic health services to the neediest among us, who by the way have good health care through Welfare and Medicaid (I've done the paperwork when I worked in insurance and doctors' offices and I know what is paid out), is a big case of "NO MORE" from people who are tired of the runaround and bills that go through Congress with so much pork and legalese it is difficult to even find the part about what is and is not covered in this universal health care plan, and the method of our continuing rape sans lubricant. We are understandably wary.

So, here's my proposal. A simple health care plan with low co-pays, say $20, and affordable prescriptions, say $10 no matter what the medication is, and everyone is covered. No fancy legalese, no pork, no hassle, and no legislative sleight of hand or BS. Everyone is covered and there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. There is no clause that says mental health care is limited to 6 sessions per year or that birth control and other well care measures are strictly forbidden. Everything is covered, including dental, and the government takes 2% of everyone's income to cover the cost. There are no oversight committees and no forms to fill out for insurance. Everyone gets paid and everyone gets the health care they need.

It's a simple plan and there will be no riders, no hidden clauses, and no microscopic writing. Everyone gets on board and we do not get some retooled socialized medical plan from some other country disguised as the next best thing, and that is something else Americans are wary of -- imported, retooled, and refitted socialized medical plans from other countries.

We weren't given our independence. We fought a bloody war for it. And we were the first country to fight Britain for our independence, although not the first country to fight for its independence from a colonial nation. We were born in blood and we will likely die in blood, and it takes us a while to get what we want. It's in our nature not to trust anything that is offered with us (or offered with a guilt trip) like a man handing out candy to children from a van or SUV. We know better than to take the candy and to give the man a wide berth.

We'll get there to the everyone has socialized medicine party but we will get there in our own way and our own time and . . .

there will be blood.

America versus the World

The latest debate is over gun control -- again -- as if no other weapon kills people. After the massacre in Aurora, Colorado this week during a Batman Rises premiere, people are screaming gun control and if only someone in the audience in this concealed permit state would have had a gun. My best friend and I discussed this same issue. I was for someone with a gun in the audience to take the shooter out and she was for not making a bad situation worse.

She was discussing the issue from a point of never having had a gun and I was discussing it from the point of someone who has owned guns (rifles, shotguns, handguns) and have been hunting.

There wasn't enough light, except the exit door was propped open because the shooter had to be able to get in and out again in a hurry once his massacre had been managed. There was a smoke bomb and there was plenty of room on the floor since people would have dropped to the floor after the smoke bomb went off and the shots and screaming began. They couldn't see him, except everyone saw him standing on the stage in front of the movie screen while the movie was still playing, so again plenty of light and a clear, clean target. More people would've been killed, except he was in plain sight elevated above the rest of the theater so it would have been a clear shot even with the disorientation of the smoke bomb, screams, blood, etc. Someone with a carry permit would have had some training or they wouldn't have a carry permit. Beanie, my youngest sister, took the classes and, though she has never liked guns, has a concealed carry permit -- in Ohio. He was wearing body armor, and his arms and legs and head were not covered by armor and would prove disabling if not killing shots, ending the massacre.

She and I regularly get into such discussions and we have discussed socialized medicine, another hot topic, especially from non-Americans, the same people screaming the loudest about gun control. One Canadian said that maybe the shooting in Colorado would get lawmakers moving to enact stricter gun control. It's also the same person who has been so vehement about the United States being behind the rest of the world in enacting socialized medicine because it's so good in Canada. I've heard stories pro and con about Canadian, European, New Zealand, Australia, England, and several other non-American nations where socialized medicine is the norm, and it all comes down to what several British citizens have told me repeatedly: It's different here. This is not America.

Well, it's different here. This is not ___________ (fill in the blank).

Why is it all right for the rest of the world to determine what does and does not go on in America while it is wrong for America to determine what does and does not go on in the rest of the world? Isn't America deciding that a democratic form of government is better for another country, say in Iraq or Iran or Afghanistan, the same as the rest of the world deciding that the United States need gun control and socialized medicine? Think about it.

I have no grudge against the rest of the world and I've seen a good part of it growing up. I have been to more countries that most Americans and will travel again some day when I can afford to do so. Pressure is pressure no matter what the issue.

Yes, people having easy access to guns does cause problems, but so does having access to a car, household liquids that can be turned into bombs, and illicit drugs for getting rid of the competition or somebody that hurt/maimed/abused/lied/etc. to you. How come there isn't a hue and cry for common household liquid control, but then we know how good the ban on illicit drugs has worked, especially when lawmakers and movie stars are filling their noses and veins and lungs at parties.

And socialized medicine is not the magic bullet that will make everyone equal and make sure everyone has affordable health care.

There is no magic bullet and each country must decide for itself, especially with a democratic government in place, what is and is not right for that country and the people who live, vote, and pay their taxes here. It's not for the rest of the world to demand that we enact strict gun control and socialized medicine. That's pressure and it will not be tolerated.

Americans, despite some of their conformities, are not conformists on the world stage. We are different and we reserve the right to govern ourselves without pressure from any other person or country in the world. America is revolutionary in some ways and a bit behind the times in others, but only Americans have the right to decide. We do not have a history of following the rest of the European nations or the country from which we fought for our liberty, England and it's Empire. Just because they have socialized medicine and strict gun control does not mean America must follow suit, must conform.

That is the thing about such hot issues where everyone has an opinion. In the United States you can have a lot of different opinions and discuss them, but we reserve the right to ignore anyone not living, voting, and paying taxes in the United States. You're entitled to your opinion but you are not entitled to force your opinion on America or Americans. We will figure out our own destiny as you have figured out yours.

As tired as it is to say, guns don't kill people, people kill people using guns -- and cars, and bombs made from household liquids and items, and knives, and poisons, and garottes, and ropes, and trucks, and planes, and fists, and boots, and stiletto heels, and cars, and bulldozers, and any number of ways, even using medicine like insulin, potassium, etc. Until there is a way to control people while still leaving their right to freedom intact, there is no way to control the means with which people kill other people.

That said, I have no problem with restricting access to guns. I think everyone who owns a gun should be taught to respect the weapon and learn to use to properly. I don't have a problem with restricting who gets a gun, although that has never stopped someone determined on homicide or suicide from killing. I don't even mind registering guns. But taking away our right to keep and bear arms is not acceptable. My best friend and I agree on that point, even if we don't agree that taking out someone like Holmes when he gunned down 60 people in an Aurora theater this week is a good idea.

The world is changing, but the world doesn't change with countries in lockstep, except maybe in Europe and third world countries. Every country has their own way of doing things and that is fine. Just don't force your fears and ideas on me and on other Americans. This is our country and we have the right and the privilege to choose our own destiny. Get used to it. We've gotten used to you telling us that you do things differently in your country.

Viagra, cardiac conditions, and hand tools

WARNING: There will be sex talk.

While having a conversation with someone I know from high school (I don't remember the topic at the time), he responded to my comment with, "I still get hard." I blushed (yes, I still do that), and a nervous laugh escaped my lips, and I was stymied for a response. I couldn't just acknowledge that he had moved on to a sexual topic in broad daylight in public among a general PG-13 crowd nor could I give him any encouragement (I've had bad experiences when engaging in sexual banter -- the guys think because I'm willing to discuss it, I'm willing to jump in the happy sack with them). I opted for the obvious choice. "You must work out a lot with weights."

He moved on.

"Yes, I worked out every day."

Whew! Crisis averted. But the comment stuck in my mind and began plaguing me at odd times: when I was typing hospital reports, when I was counting cross stitch materials, going through floss, eating dinner and watching Andy Griffith, and even (gasp!) while sitting on the toilet. But it's not what you think.

I'm a single woman, and as such occasionally contemplate having sex with someone else rather than just the usual quickies with hand tools. Suddenly, the possibility of sex began to dwindle because of that comment. I have reached that point when the only questions were, "Can't you get them off any faster?" and "Who has the condom?" There was never a question of whether or not the equipment was going to work. Now I have to worry about if my partner still gets hard? Is this the future I have to look forward to?

Now I have to worry about whether or not he takes Viagra. Or if I need to keep a stock of Viagra on hand (I can get some from widows whose Viagra using husbands have gone on to their eternal rest). Then I need to worry whether they have a heart problem and can use Viagra. That means cardiac testing and questionnaires and suddenly I'm not feeling in a sexual mood. Not now. Maybe not ever. My hand tools are beginning to look a whole lot more viable and interesting. No questions, just do it.

I didn't mind sleeping in the wet spot -- most of the time (depends on who helped make it). I didn't mind a few different partners (I'm the only one who knows THAT number.) I didn't even mind the long dry stretches (wet stretches for me because my hand tools are always close by) because at least at the end of them there would be a functional partner who still gets hard.

I'm nearly 60 (2-1/2 years to go) and this is all I can expect.

I didn't even mind Junior with his inflatable penis. He was always hard if you knew what button to push to pump him up.

There was one partner who insisted on telling me he didn't get as hard as he used to -- in the midst of a frenzy of flying clothes and intentions of misbehaving NOW. He was hard enough for me and it worked. Sometimes guys just need to shut their mouths unless they're going to use them for close work or telling you how good you are. Anything else, they should just shut up and moan. Yelping is good. Yawping is even better. Praise -- sometimes it's just too much to ask while the other brain has all the blood.

So where does the blood go once it no longer goes to the other brain? It sure isn't in the main upper brain, the one that should tell them it's not polite to tell someone they still get hard or don't get as hard as they used to or ask if you'd like to pump up the volume on their twin inflatable prostheses.

My sexual future is bleak and getting bleaker and I don't feel like having sex with anyone -- any other person -- ever. Not if this is what I have to look forward to -- or rather what I don't have to look forward to. No wonder women my age are choosing their much younger sexual partners. The only thing they have to worry about is how to get their clothes off faster and point them in the right direction. They're already hard. They're always hard . . . and ready for action without too much talk.

A Spoonful of Dreams

Once upon a time . . . .

No, that's another story.

I've always loved fairy tales, especially the animated fairy tales and their more dramatic counterparts of my childhood. I have a collection of all the Cinderella stories, from Walt Disney to Leslie Caron as Ella with the dirty face, bare feet, and promise of living in the palace of the Duke one day. There is a growing collection of fairy tales from all over the world that includes Baba Yaga and her house on chicken legs that walked about the Russian countryside and a Cinderella from China who wore fur instead of gold, silver, and bronze dresses and shoes that a tree planted on her mother's grave shook over her when she wanted to go to the ball. Yes, that includes Cinder by Marissa Meyer, the latest version of Cinderella set in China once again but featuring a cyborg heroine with outgrown prostheses.

I love fairy tales and all they represent, so it seems a little strange that I would briefly wonder why a friend would have a list of children's movies in her Amazon wish list and very little of adult fare. I said briefly. 

That comes from someone that used to treat godchildren, nieces, and nephews to the movies when my own children were no longer available. I used the children as camouflage so I could go to the theater and watch a children's movie -- or twenty children's movies. I enjoy the simple pleasure of animation and stories with happy endings, even the latest version of Snow White with Julia Roberts as the evil queen in Mirror, Mirror. I added that one in streaming version so I can save space because my DVD shelves are full to bursting -- and not only with fairy tales. I have Doctor Who, all the adaptations of Jane Austen's stories, and more high brow fare like Meryl Streep in Postcards from the Edge and Sophie's Choice and Remains of the Day. I'm a fan of a lot of different types of movies, high and low.

So why do I keep coming back to the fairy tales and what does that say about me?

I could say they are simple pleasures from my childhood, like books I've loved and kept, which also include fairy tales. I could say it says I have a childlike nature or haven't forgotten what it's like to be a child (don't go there!) or simply that I'm saving them for my grandchildren, except my grandchildren live in the far reaches of the country.

Simply put, because I enjoy them. Not everything is do or die and the drama to end all dramas. Not everything needs to be so dire and full of hidden meaning that academics will quarrel over and write about for centuries.

Sometimes it's about a story that always has a happy ending and no one worries about what happens after the wedding.

Did I mention I have all the Broadway and Hollywood versions of Cinderella? Even the one where Julie Andrews plays Cinderella? Yes, I also have the one that was televised live from Broadway with Leslie Ann Warren as Cinderella and the lovely Celeste Holm as the Queen. Walter Pidgeon played the King and Stuart Damon, once of General Hospital fame, was the Prince. That was before Leslie Ann Warren had her teeth fixed and was a bit gawky and long legged as a newborn colt.

I think the reason is all of the above and a few I haven't even though of yet. In this hectic world where everything needs to be done tomorrow and everyone is scrambling for their shot at fame (usually on reality TV) or a piece of a much bigger pie than they have, it's a pleasure to return to stories that delighted me as a child and made me first want to write stories of my own, to fantasize about happy endings and troubles that wouldn't last forever no matter how awful they were.

If you have children's movies and fairy tales tucked away in your DVD closet or on the shelf that is meant for your children and grandchildren, take them out and watch them or read them. Fairy tales never get old and never lose their charm. That's something we all need to remember and embrace so that we don't get old and lose our charm. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. And a fairy tale, read or watched, helps life go down a little easier, too.

 

Review: Abdication by Juliet Nicolson

What do you say when you have high hopes for a juicy steak full of flavor and discover it has been replaced with soy protein? That is how I felt about Juliet Nicolson's foray into fiction . . . blah without occasional bursts of meat.

That is not to say that there isn't a story here among the ramblings and character sketches that are less than sketches. The moments between Wallis and the Prince of Wales are perfect right down to the smallest details of how Wallis briefly touched the Prince's hand to get him to stop smoking at the table. It was a telling moment and one that defined a lot of the relationship between Wallis and Edward VIII.The rest of the book is about two other women, a bald, fat American who was Wallis's fictional school friend and supposedly privy to the intimate details of life with the soon to be abdicated king, and May, from Barbados with an almost incestuous past with her lecherous father, who becomes the chauffeur and private secretary of Sir Phillip Blunt.

While the moments of May's and Evangeline's lives would be important to characterization, they added nothing to the main focus of the story, the death of George V and the rise and abdication of King Edward VIII. The peripheral details of life in the Jewish quarter of London and Evangeline's corpulence and alopecia could add much to the characterization of both women and texture to their relationship to the central characters (Wallis and Edward), but they do little more than add pages and very little cogent information

That is not to say the writing isn't good because it is beautifully written prose, but where Nicolson excels as an historian she stumbles as an author of fiction. It is a case of where she shines, she really shines, and where she doesn't, she . . . just doesn't. I would venture to say the fictional elements of this highly touted novel are pointless, adding nothing to the overall story, of which there is very little, or to the understanding of Evangeline and May's importance to the story, especially when both characters could have provided a nuanced and important fly-on-the-wall perspective of this most scandalous and romantic moment in Britain's 20th century royal history.

I would recommend Juliet Nicolson's historical writing but caution against expecting too much of this well written but often unfocused novel. Read it closely for the historical moments but skim the rest and you will not end up wondering why someone as devoted to her dog as Evangeline Nettlefold ostensibly was passed off May backing over her beloved pet with the Rolls Royce with little more than an "oh, well," moment, and how a young woman newly arrived from Barbados would be hired as a chauffeur and private secretary by someone with as much political clout as Sir Phillip Blunt with no references and no real training. Some things, at least in the world of Juliet Nicolson's Abdication, are not meant to be understood, merely accepted.

Mementos of Dreams

There's something special about an old letter found in a shoebox or trunk or between the pages of  a book, like the letter from my grandmother to Little One Finger Jo. It's not a nickname I ever remember Gram calling me, but the letter was to me, as were several other letters written to One Finger Jo. I assume it was because I was always pointing when I was a baby, right index finger held up for silence or pointing to whoever was in my sight while I laughed or spoke as babies often do. Pay attention. This is important stuff.

I treasure those letters and the letters from my father to me when he was stationed overseas without my mother and me or waiting until we could join him in Germany or Panama or any of a dozen places where we followed him. The letter I treasure most is a letter that in some ways launched my writing career -- my professional writing career. It was a letter from Amelia May Connolly to her children. I originally called the story I wrote about that letter and what it meant to be adopted, Anna's Seeds, and that was my first major publication. It wasn't my first professional publication. That honor went to a story about a photo I treasured of my father writing a bucking bronco, hat flung high and legs clapped tightly to the rearing stallion and how I found that same furious rearing stallion when my new husband and I traveled to Utah when we were on our way to his next base in Utah.

We had stopped just inside the Colorado border at a little spot off I-70, got out, and walked around. I was tired and our son was fractious, so a walk was the only thing I could think of to clear the cobwebs and get out into the fresh air. As I walked down a street toward a tourist trap, there it was, forelegs pawing the air, muscles locked in mid jump, and a line of fathers and brave teens waiting their turn to ride the bucking bronc. I knew my father had worked in a circus and a rodeo at some time in his early years, but I thought he had ridden wild stallions in the ring. Not so. He had ridden a stuffed stallion for a photo op and yet, to some childlike part of me deep inside, my father was still a hero and the wild bucking stallion he had ridden for that creased and dog-eared photograph was the real thing and not the tourist attraction I had found.

Looking back over the years there were many old letters and photographs that have sparked stories and articles and more paper journal posts than I can remember. Each one is capture in print, the emotions and thoughts still raw as I read them now and then. As letters and photographs capture the thoughts of emotions of the moment, so does writing illuminate those frozen bits of life and time, and writing is all I ever really wanted to do, besides read. The letter from my adopted mother's grandmother reminded me that I was a part of a family where writing and words were important and that by my desire to write I was part of a much bigger family, a family as confused and dysfunctional as any nuclear family, a family of writers.

I can trace my origins back through Shakespeare, Michael Montaigne, Jacqueline Susann, Stephen King, and Alexander Dumas, among others. I am one of generations of writers that stretch back to the beginnings of storytelling and the spoken word, and there are more coming as the dream of telling stories and putting life into words is born in a new generation of writers that will create their worlds with words rearranged and reworked and published in new ways we have yet to dream or realize.

Photographs and letters, mementos from the shadows of time and space, spark memories and dreams, create legends and become legend, as long as there are people that care enough to stop and become immerse in a moment held still and taken out of time's endless stream. A photograph became the basis of the cover of my next novel, Among Men, a sequel to Among Women, and the beginning of a series of books drawn from life and photos and letters that begin with me and become something more on the page, rather like the photograph of my father riding a wild stallion. It is the dream that comes from the image and the memories we create and send on leaves of paper into the winds of change and life that become books and stories, the truth of which is not always in question because they become a truth of their own, mementos of dreams.

Happy Independence Day

I often wonder whether or not the Founding Fathers had fireworks to celebrate the first 4th of July after they declared this country free of British rule and an independent country. Probably not. We do celebrate this day of independence from foreign rule and fireworks are the usual visual celebration of that anniversary.

As a child, my parents bought sparklers for us to whirl around as dusk arrived and the sun went down in a fiery blaze on July 4th. It was the preamble to the fireworks that awaited us once the night had fully descended. The excitement was palpable in the air and my brother and sisters and I, and all our neighborhood playmates, were hopping with anticipation. We piled into the car and drove to the prearranged site to pile out, lay down blankets, and set out the drinks and nibbles. The parents sat down and chatted and we children ran around with sparklers whirling like dervishes, spilling sparks onto the ground with a whiff of burning, playing tag, and showing in whirling spirals and loops of short-lived spitting fire our happiness.

And then the show began and more quiet and biddable children you wouldn't find. We stared rapt into the black sky and oohed and aahed while brilliantly colored fires sparkled and danced above our heads, mouths open, and hearts beating wildly to the rhythm of the music and the whump of the rocket launchers that sent the fireworks into the sky to explode into stars that trailed into fire and smoke.

Since this year fire is such a hazard here in Colorado, I offer a video display of Independence Day fireworks over our nation's Capitol. Enjoy. Celebrate. Stare in rapt wonder at what man has devised in celebration.

Review: Laura Lamont's Life in Pictures by Emma Straub

Colorado Springs has been plagued by wildfires and I almost missed it because I was immersed in Hollywood during the Depression when the studio system was alive and well and running people's private and public lives. Emma Straub is the culprit and Laura Lamont's Life in Pictures is the reason.

I often begin a book with the hope that it will be good. Straub exceeded my hopes and I was reluctant to return to the real world where Laura Lamont is only a literary character. I was quite simply bewitched by Straub's writing and seduced by Elsa, and Laura Lamont the movie star, in a time when movie stars were always well dressed, smiling or bravely holding back the tears, and their lives were not cheap fodder for the masses. I miss the mystique and Straub brings that back in style.

Straub does a great job of recreating the studio system. She does an even better job of illuminating the path of glamour and fame young Elsa travels to become Laura Lamont and how that affects her life, her thoughts, and her family.

I miss the mystique that surrounded movie stars, never wanting them to be too real or too much like me. I sometimes long for Hollywood royalty with their tinsel and paste crowns on perfectly coiffed heads wearing designs by Edith Head and Adrian living in the magical world of make believe. I love fairy tales, too, and Laura Lamont's Life in Pictures shares some of that fairy tale magic, the kind that doesn't turn to rocks and dust when the last page was read. Emma Straub has penned book crack of the best kind.

Laura Lamont's Life in Pictures will be available September 4th. Make sure to reserve your copy now.

Facing the Fire

It's 3 a.m. and I still can't sleep. The smell of burning wafts through the window at the foot of my bed and brings a whiff of ash and death with it. It's no wonder I cannot sleep.

The fire marches ever closer, a dim glow on the western horizon that flares against the clouds of smoke obscuring my usually clear view of Pikes Peak. There are no clouds in the sky, except for a few mare's tails and ghosts of smoke traveling on the winds. There will be no rain today. At least yesterday was a bit cooler.

We are urged to stay inside because the air quality is bad outside and yet I am drawn outside to breathe in a whiff of a cool breeze that dies as quickly as it came before the stench of burning fills my nostrils again. I have to go outside to look over the hedge and past the rooftops to see whether the glow is bigger, if the fire is marching relentlessly closer. The wind changes and the stench is back. I retreat into the house where fans keep the warm air flowing, offering little relief unless I am still dripping cold water from the shower. Another day of work and waiting, the western slopes of the mountain ever on my mind, the glow a demon of devouring fire that could run the ridge and sweep down on the town to sweep over me and past me and on to the rest of the city. And I just paid to have the honeysuckle bush ripped out and 4 years of growth chipped and shredded and carted away with the leafy debris and muck that hid beneath the flowing skirts of old canes and new leaves sporting burgeoning red berries that will sow the fertile ground and breed more canes and leaves.

I will miss the moths that arrive around sundown to dip into the fading trumpet flowers and sip nectar turning the honeysuckle bush into a living tableau of green, yellow, gold, and purple surrounded by the shadow tinted moths and their dangling bits dipping and hovering and soaring to the top of the bush that nearly obscures the living room window.  I will miss the nightly show but not the messy honeysuckle bush and its sweet fragrance that fills the night with sweet perfume that lasts a month and then is gone. At least there will still be lilac even when the 3/4 block hedge is trimmed and neatened to within an inch of its vibrant life. A month of lilac scent and then the green hedge that glistens darkly with rain when the rains finally come.

There is still the fire chewing, breeding, snarling, and growling its way through the valleys and canyons of the mountain, relentless in its pursuit of food and air and more territory to reduce to ash. Someone once asked if fire was a living thing. Anyone who has stared into the heart of the fire knows that it is. It eats, breeds, and thinks, moving left and up a brittle limb, sneaking around its opponents to encircle and devour him when the opponent is careful enough, doesn't have enough respect for the fire. Of course fire lives. It's what keeps the sun shining and the uncountable billions of suns alive and spreading warmth and even destruction in its wake. Fire keeps the hearts of planets churning and moving the fragile mantle of earth and rock of its skin while it creates more rock, energizes more life, and spawns disasters with fiery hearts and molten streams that devour everything in its path.

And the fire waits beyond the ridge of hills, glowing in its ferocity in the darkness, and devouring, always devouring, day and night without cease until the rains come or firefighters gain the upper hand. The fire waits until hot, dry winds stoke its blazing heart and it moves onward, upward, forward, and down into the city where I wait and hope and fight the burning edge of fear, waking in the night to smell smoke and ash and the hot breath of destruction.

Today will be a better day.

Or it won't.

Review: A Gift for my Sister by Ann Pearlman

Sibling rivalry never goes away.

Sky and Tara have the lives they want.

Sky has a job, a baby, and a husband she loves. She has everything she has ever wanted, everything she dreamed.

Tara has a man, a baby, and the career she wants as a rap artist. Her crew is her family and she is on the road to fame and fortune. She could not ask for more.
At the height of their happiness, the world falls apart and the half-sisters find themselves at odds over their choices and old hurts that never went away. Finding peace is hard and finding forgiveness and love even harder.

A story that begins with an unwed white rap artist living with her son’s father in a crumbling Detroit is a bit far-fetched, but not unheard of, and Ann Pearlman makes the story timely and real. It is easy to like Sky with her conventional life, her homemade granola, and even her penchant for pouring five artificial sweeteners in her coffee; liking Tara is a bit harder.
 
A Gift for My Sister begins with Sky’s perfect life, her love for her husband Troy and their daughter Rachel and a sense of impending doom that descends with decisive force. Sky’s life was settled, her path clear, and Tara’s career is just taking off. The trouble comes not from Tara’s pipe dream coming true, but from old wounds and the different choices they have made. Suddenly, Sky’s life turns out less than perfect and Tara, against all the odds, is getting everything while Sky’s world crumbles to ash.

Countering Sky’s voice with Tara’s in separate chapters is done with deft skill and makes both women’s stories come alive. Their voices are preserved and still move the story swiftly toward confrontation and conclusion, giving each time to voice each woman's anger, confusion, and love. I thoroughly enjoyed A Gift for My Sister.

My only complaint is the way Pearlman leans so heavily on the black man’s plight in society, giving only a quick nod to the rapid changes made in the last 50 years. Stereotypes appear through Sky’s eyes, stereotypes that have no weight from the poignant characterizations so carefully constructed, and are dealt with swiftly. I would go with the belief that 70% of all statistics are bogus and forgive Pearlman’s soapbox grandstanding and focus on the very real and very wonderful story she has written.

The Social in Social Networking

One Note Ronnie and Tessie Tunnelvision are coming. Time to hide. They have photo albums, videos, and voice recordings of their babies and are about to bore you to death with their prattle.

Ronnie and Tessie used to be such interesting people, full of opinions and views on current events, and they always remembered birthdays and anniversaries. Now all they do is talk about their babies—in detail, excruciating, mind numbing detail. Ronnie brings charts that show his baby’s milestones and Tessie is obsessed with her baby’s intake—and output. What happened to them? Do Ronnie and Tessie really believe they are the first people to have babies and must regale the rest of the world with their excitement?

Substitute book for baby and the result is the same, if the statistics and conversation are a little different.

With the rise of social networking and email, writers now have the opportunity to inform friends, family, and strangers with the latest news about their book. It could almost be tolerated if it is a first book and the author is unsure of how to go about social networking, believing that more is better, but more and more authors, determined to become the next Amanda Hocking or John Locke. What most writers do not understand about social networking is the social part and how annoying they become when they forget that being a person is as important as being a writer.

One writer complained on Facebook earlier this week that another writer he barely knows bombarded him with email advertisements to buy his book. The writer didn’t bother to get for duplicates on the email list and sent out the email blast to quite a sizable list, irritating a healthy segment of the indie publishing community with the thoughtless marketing strategy. That writer is one of thousands engaged in the same kind of guerilla book marketing that is heavy on the hammer and light on any kind of personality or common courtesy.

Like One Note Ronnie and Tessie Tunnelvision, both of who are happy to discuss the contents, quantity, and quality of baby’s diaper, too many writers treat social networking with a cavalier attitude, sure that more is better and hitting people hard and often is the trick to selling a million books. Not so. If only authors would remember how fast they run and hide when the Ronnies and Tessies appear, they would treat social networking with a little more respect, and their targets with a great deal more courtesy.

One thing I noticed about Amanda Hocking’s blogging and tweeting is that she talks about herself, and not just the writing process or her new books. She did unconsciously what more writers should do—get to know people and keep it real. Hocking wrote about movies, books, and music she loved and she tweeted about her favorite movie stars and places to eat, all the while continuing to write and throwing in information about her books from time to time. She also wrote every day, treating writing like a job, which it is—or at least should be. Tweeting and blogging were ways to get to know people and to market her books, even to the point of talking about what she did wrong and when she decided to go with a traditional publisher.

That is what most writers fail to realize. People are interested in other people because they want to get to know them, to find out what commonalities are shared, and what it is like to publish a book, traditionally or by self-publishing. Social networking should be as much about the personal touch as it is about books being published. The key is people.

There are companies that specialize in email blasts and marketing strategies that will do the work for you, but if your budget doesn’t extend to cover such expenses, there are plenty of books on how to—and how not to—market books. They are affordable for everyone, since the prices range from free to about $10. There is a price for every budget.

What social networking comes down to is common sense, which is—or at least should be—at the heart of everything we do. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Get to know your readers. Talk about yourself, but only what is comfortable for you, and keep the book talk for important occasions, like a new cover, the debut of a new book or a new book in a series, and getting that one millionth sale. Make a big deal out of that one millionth sale because it is a big deal, but don’t forget to give readers and other authors a chance to put in their two cents’ worth. Promote other writers, books you like, and even talk about books you don’t like and why, but treat your audience like real people—because they are.

Advertising is important, but if all you can talk about is advertising, think how many people will hide when you come visiting. Remember Ronnie and Tessie and keep them firmly in mind when you get read to press the button to send out another email blast with nothing to say but another sales pitch about your book. Save it for later when you have something new to talk about. In the meantime, how are your friends doing and what happened to you today away from the keyboard? People want warts and all, but especially warts.

Afternoon Delight

Just have time for a quickie post, but I wanted to share the finished cover for my novel. This is the cover without the logo in case I cannot convince Jerry that my book will do his business good.

This cover, as are several other covers, is due to the very talented Michael R. Reighn, who does beautiful work and puts up with my futzing around with things. I give him a little grief and he gives me beautiful covers.

I would also like to mention that Among Men is the sequel to Among Women and is the 2nd book in a series about Pearl Caldwell and her misadventures. If you want to be up to date, read Among Women first, so you'll be ready for the big showdown.

Thank is all. Disperse.

Every word you say

I feel sorry for Frasier Crane. He had a cranky day because of all the rain and he said so, but the whole of Seattle was angry at him for telling a woman to change her life, get a new job, a different apartment, get a hobby, make friends, find a boyfriend, or move out of town. Everyone picked up the move out of town and bashed poor Frasier until he had to agree to appear at a charity event for a Catholic hospital. Big mistake.

While in the bathroom getting rid of the butterflies in his stomach, Father Mike tells the audience that the bishop, who was supposed to introduce Frasier, is lost at sea. Frasier comes in late without hearing about the bishop, and begins telling his jokes, to no avail. He continues to alienate everyone.

That's the thing about situations like that. It doesn't always matter what you say or how you say it because someone, and often a lot of someones, are bound to pick up on one small item and beat you over the head with it and blame you while they're doing it. After all, it's your fault no matter what you do.

The torches have been lit and the pitchforks are out and no one is going to stop the mob now. They have it in their heads that you are the devil and nothing will do but having you on a spit over a hot fire while they cheer.

It's the same the world over because of the people and that herd mentality. You're entitled to your opinion as long as it doesn't conflict with the prevailing opinion. You're entitled to your life until someone decides that you've lived it too long without being punished for enjoying it. When it comes down to it, you're entitled to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune because you make such a nice target.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not having a bad day, but I do understand how poor Frasier felt. I've been there. I usually walk away, except for those times that I've had enough bashing and decide it's time for me to speak out. It's always a chancy act, speaking out, because someone is bound to get angry and take offense, even if all you said was that pink bunnies aren't natural. Get used to it. No matter what you say or how you say it, no matter how eloquent you are, you're going to rub someone (a lot of someones) the wrong way. Keep the running shoes handy and the car idling so you can make a quick getaway. You'll need them.

Remember. You're entitled to your opinion as long as it doesn't conflict with anyone else's. Try that one on for size.

Review: The Magicians by Lev Grossman

A discontented, talented, but unfocused Harry Potter goes to college – sort of.

Julia walks best friends Quentin and James to a college interview and leaves them at the door. Inside, Quentin and James find their interviewer dead and call 911. One of the paramedics, a beautiful woman, hands Quentin a manila envelope with his name on it and inside he finds a copy of a sixth Fillory novel, one that was never published, and a piece of paper that the wind snatches out of his hands. He chases the paper along the cold Brooklyn streets and ends up struggling through a hedge into a sun-washed green expanse of lawn. Quentin has arrived at Brakebills College of Magic. His life will never be the same.

Quentin Coldwater, amateur magician, wanders into a world where magic is not practiced sleight of hand but real, magic that can be measured by physics and science. As a young man who keeps looking for the next best thing and finding he already has it and yet looking still, Quentin Coldwater is a wimp with occasional flashes of gumption and passion. He floats along on the tides of life waiting, always waiting, in Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. He is no Harry Potter. There is no doom hanging over his head and no powerful dark wizard to battle – yet.

Quentin is a complex, facile and infuriatingly frustrating character that walks numbly through a world of possibility and beauty never satisfied with what he has. He is not willing to plumb the depths of his intelligence and ability. Still, Quentin is mesmerizing, and The Magicians is an intricate and complex story with a simple theme: Be careful what you wish because you are about to get it.

Grossman is no less frustrating because he deliberately leaves the tag ends of information dangling. That is not to say that The Magicians or Grossman are disappointing—quite the reverse. Lev Grossman is a wizard of words and worlds deftly weaving a spell with familiar tools. The story is familiar: A youth trembling on the verge of adulthood unsure of the worth of learning and his path. It’s a situation many young adults raised on a diet of fantasy and Dungeons & Dragons face in the 21st century.

If you’re expecting a more adult version of Harry Potter, you’re out of luck. If, however, you’re willing to follow wimps and slackers sharing moments of brilliant insight and brutal honesty between bouts of drunkenness, fights, magic and sex, The Magicians is where you’ll find it. You won’t be disappointed. You’ll leave Grossman’s tightly crafted world with a growing sense of wonder and a question: What is Quentin’s discipline?

Say What?

I was minding my own business, playing games online and looking through the most recent Facebook comment when I saw this:  "[S]ome authors, like myself, have their own style of punctuation and capitalization. It's a matter of preference." 

Uh, no, punctualization is not a matter of preference. It a matter of rules.

Make up words for your science fiction and fantasy novels and stories. Make up names. Don't make up words; there are rules in place for a reason.

Communication, especially in writing, has rules for a reason, so that we are all, in a manner of speaking, on the same page. I've edited work where the writers decided that the day the wrote chapter 10 was a day without commas, the next day it was a day without periods, or making up sentences that had no subject or no verb or were all subject or all verb. Not only was their work incomprehensible but the writers' explanation of being above the stupid rules of grammar and punctuation made me see red -- and so did the writers when they read the edits -- blood all over the page.

While there are some rules that could use some revising and some well know writers, like E. L. Doctorow and some UK writers, that decide that quotation marks around dialogue is a waste of time or, at best, a silly convention, at least they stick to the hard and fast rules like ending sentences with periods, capitalizing proper names, and putting in commas so their page long sentences can be read once and understood. Putting a comma between too and the rest of a sentence is a bit archaic and I have flirted with leaving out the comma, but I have never had an editor or a reader ask me what I was writing about because it wasn't clear. I write the way I speak and I edit my work by reading aloud. My background in theater has a good deal to do with where I place commas, but that is why commas were invented -- so actors knew when and how long to pause (semi-colons and colons have a different pause length than commas and periods) and so they wouldn't run out of breath reading a speech that went on for a page or two. It just makes common sense as well as grammar sense.

The current trend among younger writers who believe that grammar is optional I think is pure laziness. They didn't learn the rules of grammar, can't remember learning the rules of grammar, or thing that their work is so artistic that the rules of grammar don't apply (it's still called being lazy). The rules aren't difficult and there is a slim volume by Strunk & White, The Elements of Style, that every writer should have either on their computer or on their desk, but definitely prominently displayed and well thumbed. Writers should buy more than one copy if they don't have a special place to write all the time and because consistent use of the book will wear it out. Grammar and punctuation won't be worn out, but reviewing the rules and reasons for the rules is something that should be constantly studied and applied.

I met a man many years ago who had decided to write a book about his experiences about healing himself using the energy of the earth. He had been unable to walk at all and had crawled out into the back yard to lie on the grass in the sun and wait to die. After several hours of lying there, when it got dark, he got up and stumbled back into the house. He hadn't died but he did feel better. He repeated the same process every day until soon he was able to walk out and sit on the ground to meditate and walk back into the house without a walker, cane, or other assistive device. He was on his way to be healed.

What struck me wasn't his story of how he healed himself but what he told me about wanting to write about his experiences. "My grammar was rusted beyond use and school was too many decades behind me to remember what I had learned, so I hired a teacher to teach me the rules of grammar and sentence construction. It took a long time, but by the end of it, I diagrammed complex sentences and my grammar was flawless." I asked him if it was worth it just to write his story and he said, "Yes, of course it was. I want everyone to understand me."

That's what grammar and punctuation are all about, rules that everyone takes for granted, but not when they're reading. They may not be good at spelling, but they know when something doesn't look right. The lazy reader will keep on reading and the rest will look up the word to find out how the word is spelled.

We live in a world of convenience where text messages (c u ltr = I will see you later) are commonplace and the people who write them too lazy or far too busy and important to write it all out. Well, there is the whole issue of going over the text message limit on the cell phone, but people who write more than a 1000 text messages a day aren't worried about limits, just making things easy.

While we can understand, after a fashion, such shorthand, and shorthand is great for taking dictation when someone speaks quickly or jotting down notes that are written out later, grammar and punctuation should not be optional.

Grammar and punctuation rules were written in a time when understanding each other was paramount and having a common ground, especially for foreigners learning a new language, made communication much easier. English is hard enough to learn because it is a polyglot of words borrowed from other languages, but grammar and punctuation in writing make understanding the writers' meanings much easier.

Doing things the easy way seems the best way to go, but when it comes to writing, expressing oneself clearly and concisely is more important than ignoring punctuation and grammar rules because it's a matter of preference. I prefer not to read books that can't follow the simple rules of subject, verb, and predicate with the requisite period at the end and commas used where appropriate so I don't have to read and reread the sentence a dozen times to figure out what the writer is saying. A writer whose preference is for ignoring the rules that make communication rich and expressive -- and understandable -- will not get my hard earned money for their failed attempts to communicate or entertain, but they will get a review that will let everyone else know to avoid them as if they have the plague -- the same plague that struck those working on the Tower of Babel when the common language was suspended and no one understood what anyone else said. It put an end to the building of the tower and the beginning of setting down common rules so that a meeting of minds would occur and people would be able to communicate and understand each other.

As far as I am concerned, I prefer not to have to work that hard to understand a writer's story. I'd rather laugh, cry, get angry, or be entertained and informed. That won't happen if the rules are broken because it's a good day to leave out verbs or periods and punctuation.

Just so you know, yes, I am the person who called a local radio station and told the manager that it was FEWER commercials and not LESS commercials.

No Pictures, Please

Imagine my surprise when my cover artist reminds me that we need permission from a vendor prominently displayed on the cover of the new novel, Among Men, and in the bulk of the story, much of which happens around a hot dog cart in New Orleans. I found a great picture and negotiated with the photographer for its use as the background for the cover, which is coming along beautifully, thanks to Michael R. Reighn, my cover artist, and now I might have to take out the hot dog cart.

I'm a take the bull by the horns kind of writer, so I took the bull by the horns, looked up the number, and called the vendor. I asked to speak to the manager and ended up with Jerry, who I assume is the manager. I can't possibly be the guy I worked for over 30 years ago because he was probably 40 or 50 then and Jerry didn't sound that old. He sounded positively friendly -- at first -- when he said, "Sure, go ahead and use it. It will be great advertising for us." When I responded in a similar friendly manner, his tone changed immediately. "We need to deal with this in a more professional manner," he said, a note of we are not going to laugh and have a good time in his tone. And he got professional on me.

He said I could not use the logo or the cart or mention the company after he found out it was for a novel, a fictionalized version of my own experiences in New Orleans and working for the company 30 years ago. He suggested I fictionalize the name as well, as John Kennedy Toole did when he called the company Paradise Dogs in his novel, A Confederacy of Dunces, which, Jerry told me, is being made into a movie with a sequel already planned. I began to see what was really on Jerry's mind.

Jerry wrote a book about the company in Managing Ignatius, which was published in February 1999, and is now experiencing a resurgence of sales due to the focus on Confederacy, which is why he is coming out with a sequel to his own nonfiction offering about the company. I own the book, by the way, as I also own a copy of Confederacy. I bought my copy of Jerry's book for a penny and there are lots more available for a penny, too. I imagine the price will go up once the movie and the sequel to Jerry's book are released. I wish him luck with his second book. 

At any rate, we settled on a compromise of sorts. I will send him a finished copy of the novel and a copy of the cover so he can look it over and decide that my use is in no way defamatory and I can continue with it as planned. I do not foresee any problems and I hope I won't find the photo I bought royalty-free rights to isn't a costly mistake, though not as costly as it could have been. The photographer and I were able to negotiate a compromise that benefited us both and I will rely on my talent with talking my way out of or into whatever crops up in my path. I do not want to have to change the book that drastically or dilute the story, especially since I may have mentioned the company in the first novel, a copy of which I have sent to Jerry to scan for defamatory remarks and misuse of the company's good name.

I know one thing. The company is as much a part of New Orleans and the French Quarter with the carts on nearly every corner up and down Bourbon Street and along the Riverwalk. They can be found all over New Orleans and everywhere there is a gathering of hungry people, each vendor in the red and white striped shirt that marks him or her as a vendor for the company and purveyor of 8 inches of meat in a bun with whatever condiments will draw the hungry crowds. I ate a few of them before and after I worked for the company, but never when I was working with the company. Here's to indie publishing, even without lawyers and a high powered publisher's name to shock and awe companies willing to have their logo displayed prominently in novels the world over.

 

For Fame& Fortune - Write Here

Turn over a rock or open a Writer's Market and find writing contests. All over the Internet the word travels at the rate of speeding electrons about the latest and greatest writing contest. Plunk down the money, write a story, and grasp fame and fortune -- and publication.

Why not enter a contest, throw a story into the ring, and take a chance on what you know you do better than anyone else -- write? It is that easy -- and it is that hard. Is it worth it?

I remember the first contest I entered in a writer's newsletter I subscribed to. Short story, any genre, and, while sitting in the bathroom, I came up with what I felt was the perfect story. I dashed to the computer and wrote it down, checked it twice, and sent it off speeding along the electron highway to its final destination. I went back to work and back to writing and completely forgot that I had entered. I didn't haunt the email box hitting the button and hoping the news was good. I simply forgot about it. I was after all writing my first novel, a romance because the odds were better of getting a romance published, and there was more money to be had. Mostly, I just wanted to be published, to know that I had made it.

As I got to the middle of the novel, an email arrived. I had won the contest with a first person vampire story that was like no vampire story out there. I had won.

It took a few moments for the squee of joy to rise up through my shocked body and emerge out my mouth, terrifying children and pets and sending birds racing for the skies to get away from whatever was making that obnoxious and loud noise that sounded suspiciously like a jaguar making a monumental kill for the first time. I had won.

I don't remember the prize, but I do remember the feeling -- and the story -- and the knowledge that dawned that day. It was satisfaction and pride and not a little shock.

I've entered writing contests since then and I always get a frisson of fear/pride that shudders through me and a smile that stretches from ear to ear as I read the email or open the envelope with my certificate, check, whatever inside. It feels good to win, but that isn't the reason I do it. I enter contests with the hope of being noticed by the publishing industry and readers, mostly by readers. It doesn't hurt to have a string of awards to add to my writing resume either, or to my biography.

Since I am an indie published writer you may think that entering a contest with the hope that I will end up in the contest seems disingenuous. Not at all. I would accept a contract from a publisher, but it would be on my terms and have all the things I deserve and need to make my books a success. After all, all roads lead to Rome. In this case, all roads lead to readers, and readers buy anthologies with contest winners, the best of the best. I have a few on my bookshelves. It's nice to know the competition and what kinds of stories are considered the best, if only as a measuring stick. I also enjoy reading contest anthologies because I often find a writer I didn't know about or a story that delights and surprises me for a few moments, takes me out of the working day and the struggle to string together enough words to create a story or novel. Besides, I love to read.

Why, you ask, do I mention contests today? What is the big deal? There are new contests and old favorite contests every single day of the year. Why now?

Because I came across a contest looking for the next J. K. Rowling or Stephenie Meyer. Whether you like or don't like the named authors (I like one of them), you cannot dismiss the fact that these writers, these women writers, are successful. On that score alone, being chosen as the next writer to step into the limelight is worth the effort. At the end of the contest, the winner will be published in an anthology and get a publishing contract with the bells and whistles the likes of which turned Amanda Hocking's head when she signed on the dotted line. That kind of treatment would turn anyone's head.

So, without further ado, on to the contest. Click the link, read, and then write your own prize winning story. And, if you don't win the contest, you will have at least written something you can publish indie style. There are no losers, except those unwilling to place their tuchus in a chair and write. Good luck and good writing.

Writer's Toybox Contest

Deadline:  September 30, 2012

Netherworld Books: Horror, science fiction, fantasy, and paranormal romance

The End of Feudaism

Insight often comes from strange places. At least it does for me.

I was watching Cranford and one of the characters, Lady Ludlow, was opposed to young Harry being taught to read and write. She didn't want to end up like her cousins across the channel in France with her head lying in a revolutionary's basket beneath a guillotine because she had allowed her serfs, or retainers, to learn to read and realize they could have a better life with an education. Slaves, serfs, peons, and servants who could read could topple her from playing Lady Largesse, the magnanimous and gentle tyrant that allowed then to work for her for tuppence and have regular meals, wear nice clothes, and wait to serve her at her pleasure -- or be dismissed to a life of poverty without a reference.

Of course, all of this is going on in my head in about 2 seconds and I realized how much like feudalism is publishing, especially now that the masses who want to publish their own books have gained control of the presses --  virtual and real. How the aristocracy must have cringed when the printing press became a reality and religious institutions no longer had to illuminate manuscripts and keep safe the written word, often for monarchs and landed gentry that couldn't read. They had servants to do that sort of thing in the good old days.

As books became cheaper and easily available, revolutions began. The Catholic church, once a nearly global power and anxious to convert newly discovered savages to the worship of the Trinity and Jesus Christ, began to topple as people learned to read and question the status quo. Why should the clergy be the last word on who does and does not go to heaven? Why should the poor pay the wealthy to pray for their souls and sell candles to light so a loved one would spend little time in purgatory and ascend to heaven?

Feudalism is built on the backs of the working classes, the serfs, peons, and slaves, a lesson that Rome learned at the point of a sword when Spartacus, and several other slave leaders, rose and threw off their chains. Even when a slave is treated well, he remains a slave, the person who does all the work and gets none, or few, of the benefits. How is that different from publishing? Oh, that's right. It is no different.

Publishing has been the gatekeeper for centuries, built on the words and hard work of every person who ever wanted to write a book and was found worthwhile to promote. It's much like allowing a slave to serve in the main house instead of in the fields, as long as the slave learned his place -- beholden to the whims of his master.

Publishing is feudalistic. Think not? The feudal system is based on a 3-tiered pyramid. A lord, king, or ruler is at the top and determines the fate of everyone beneath him. Knights, mercenaries, and retainers keep the peace and protect the lord. Serfs, servants, and peons, the poor working class, do all the work and tend the land, livestock, and businesses that supply the lord; they are the base of the pyramid, without which the lord would be a deluded aristocrat ruling nothing and unable to work for his bread or even know how to mill and bake it into cake or bread.

In publishing, the publishers are the lords. Agents are the knights, the strong arm of the lord that protect the publisher's business and vet the more acceptable serfs (writers) to work as servants to the publisher, those chosen from among the poor who have some talent and ability that can be exploited to make more money for the publisher. And then there are the remaining slaves/serfs who buy the books produced by the servants for the publishers and pay for the lavish lifestyle to which the publishers have become so accustomed. Better to live on Park Avenue with a view of the park than to live in Alphabet City or Harlem among the poor.

Contracts that keep the lion's share of earnings in publishers's pockets so they can maintain their vast wealth polished and intact, are part of the chains that bind the writer in servitude. There are certainly writers that have made millions, even hundreds of billions, but who has stopped to ask how much the publisher made on the deal. If a writer is worth $200 billion and they get 12-15% royalties on net profit, what the publisher keeps is an obscene amount of money, even after they pay employees, marketing staff, and the cost of creating books, something much more profitable since the advent of pulp wood paper instead of the more expensive and longer lasting rag and hemp paper. Paper that crumbles and turns to dust in 5 years means selling more copies as readers replace worn out books. More books means more sales and more profit for the publisher, most of which the writer will never see.

With the introduction of POD (Print On Demand) publishing and electronic books, the game changed. Publishers continued to denigrate the vanity presses, but e-books changed things forever. A book that never goes out of style, takes up no warehouse space, and can be kept virtually forever undermines the whole structure upon which publishing was built. Writers finally had control and could strike out on their own and rise above the masses by writing and selling good books that had a shelf life beyond 3 months. No more remaindering. No more binding contracts to greedy publishers. No more supporting someone else's lavish lifestyle when a lavish lifestyle, or at least publication of books publishers turned down. The gatekeepers are out of a job, which is why publishers and Apple decided to fix prices on e-books at near or above the cost of paperback books. If a paperback book is cheaper or the hardback, when discounted, was not much more expensive, then books were safe and the e-book revolution would go away. Writers would get tired of doing all the work of producing a book, from cover art to marketing and sales. I'm sure the aristocrats felt the same way before the French revolutionaries arrested and led them up to Lady Guillotine. Look where it got them.

The revolution has come and the class war between the people who produce the books -- writers -- and the people who have profited the most from books -- publishers -- are at war. What we need is a truce and a coalition of forces that benefits everyone, just not with the 90/10 split that has ruled publishing for so long, or 88/12 split that currently passes for business as usual. Not everyone is J. K. Rowling or Danielle Steel. Most people have been relegated to the middle ranks, writers that produced good quality books in genres that sold well, but not spectacularly, the mid list writers that have been the bread and butter of the publishing industry, writers that never got fabulously wealthy but were upper middle class with a solid back list that still sold books decades after they were published.

Instead of struggling to the bitter end, publishers would be better served to give a hand up and offer their services as book packagers, marketing specialists, and sales teams to up and coming writers instead of trying to maintain a crumbling edifice. Publishers have vast resources that could benefit revolutionaries without all the rancor, price fixing, and game playing that currently exists. It's a choice of adapting or dying, and dying is a distinct option right now as more and more published authors are fleeing publishers for more lucrative deals that offer better benefits and more freedom creatively and financially. It's the choice of 12-15% or 35-70% of sales, and not net sales but gross sales.

The class war is waging with no end in sight. Emotions are high and at this point the results are volatile. Better to work with writers, those hard working people who dream in prose and are the only reason for publishers to exist, than to fight to maintain a system that no longer works.

The slaves, serfs, and servants have learned how to read. They have educated themselves and now know the score. I wonder if publishers have gotten the message yet or if they are still in denial as they climb the stairs to the guillotine while the masses surrounding them howl for blood and their heads.

Got Story?

Some books are a breeze to read, even when they run over 800 pages, and some books, no matter how long or short, are more like slogging through muddy clay wearing lead boots. Books like that often have excellent grammar, wonderful similes and metaphors, and the writing is sublime, but something is missing. An important ingredient didn't make it into the final product, like leaving the chocolate out of a hot chocolate. All that's left is hot milk and that is just gross. A little vanilla would help the taste, but chocolate makes it tasty.

Finding the reason why the book plods instead of zooms along has been the focus of my review work for the past 9 years of my professional reviewing life. After a box full of such books, I long for Stephen King, Dan Brown, or even an old favorite like Andre Norton. The genre doesn't make nearly as much difference as the writer. Stephen King loads on the horror, and I'm not averse to that. Dan Brown's technique leaves a lot to be desired and he loves information dumps, but he makes it all seem so effortless, if a bit facile at times. Andre Norton wrote what would now be considered YA (young adult) novels, but to me they were passports to worlds of magic and warfare and the stuff of dreams.

I recently read Moonfire by Marion Zimmer Bradley, whose Darkover series I devoured whole. The short story was disappointing and I couldn't quite put my finger on why. I'd loved so many of her other short stories and novels, and series, so why wasn't it jelling for me? Why did I feel like I was plodding through that muddy clay pit in leaden shoes again?

I've been switching between E. L. Doctorow's All the Time in the World and The Flatey Enigma, both books that I have to review, and the leaden boots were getting heavier. A few of the stores in Doctorow's anthology were interesting but most seemed pointless. I chalked up having trouble getting through The Flatey Enigma as a fail in translation between Norwegian, the author's original language, and English. It happens sometimes, but then I enjoyed
Juan Gomez-Jurado's The Traitor's Emblem, despite a few plot inconsistencies. Maybe translations problems were not the source of my struggle with the book.

I put both books down and decided to read Charlaine Harris's Grave Sight, the first book in the Harper Connelly series. I have to force myself to put down the book so I can get some sleep or write for a while. It's that good. I have had the same reaction to most of the Sookie Stackhouse series by Harris.

That's when it hit me. I couldn't put the heavy plodding down to lack of characterization, bad grammar, horrid sentence structure, no technique, or being so in love with the words and creating beautiful and memorable passages. It's much more basic than that. There is no story. That's why I had to put A Dance with Dragons aside for a while and why Terry Pratchett's Pyramids got stuck going on the downslope. The authors did what so many authors fall prey to; they forgot the whole point of writing is to tell a story. Among all the witticisms, great battles, wonderful characters, and marvelous prose, the story was lost, and a good story is the only reason for a book to exist.

That's what Dan Brown, Stephen King, Andre Norton, and even Marion Zimmer Bradley when she's on her game, do so well. They tell great stories. The genre isn't important; that's a matter of taste. Story is important.

Literary, horror, adventure, thriller, science fiction, fantasy, romance, mainstream, none of that matters if the author keeps to the whole reason for books, if they tell a good story. Scheherazade would have been killed long before she got through her first night of storytelling for the king if she had been dressed it all up with fancy words and intelligent technique and forgot to tell an entertaining story that was so good the King had to keep listening, needed to know what happened next.

I read a considerable amount of literary novels but some authors leave me cold, no matter how many awards they win. I enjoyed Julian Barnes's The Sense of an Ending and couldn't get through John Banville's The Sea. Banville left me cold and Barnes's almost novella enticed me with wondrous prose, detailed descriptions, and a memorable character. Barnes's story was worth the read. I still can't get through The Sea.

Jasper Fforde's Thursday series has caught my interest and his stories are stories within stories, as has Ian McEwan's Atonement. I still haven't gotten to read any more of his books, but there are plenty in my to be read pile. Salman Rushdie enchants me with exotic fare and Terry Pratchett almost always makes me laugh while the tale ends far too quickly. Pyramids was an aberration -- or at least I hope so.

We are all children putting off having to go to bed, wanting to stay up just a little longer as our parents read just one more chapter of Peter Pan or Wind in the Willows or even Harry Potter. We want to hear a story, even a made up story, as long as it is a good story. Forget all the pyrotechnics, academic prizes, and prose stylings. All of those are as satisfying as a masterful and artistic wrapping job on a box that contains the good, in this case a story. Just tell me a story and make it a good one. I can live without the trimmings as long as there is sufficient meat on the bones. Books like that take no time at all to read because a wondrous story is at the heart of it.

When a writer forgets the basic premise of putting together a book, none of it matters if the story is not there or only half there. If you've got story; you will have readers, faithful readers who will snap up everything you write.

Charlaine Harris is not a prose stylist and her books are a joy to read most of the time because she tells fascinating stories. Harris unlocked the mystery that I have struggled with for so long, reminding me of what is important and why I write. It's all about the story. Where would Scheherazade be without a compelling story? As a storyteller, without listeners, but as a woman trying to save her life . . . dead.

Give them story.

To DRM or not to DRM.

It was Helen Ginger's post about DRM this morning that made me think seriously about book piracy, and piracy in general.

I used DRM on my first foray into self-publishing, but I no longer use it. The bottom line is that there will always be pirates, so why not make it easy for them. It's not just about pirates, though; DRM is about making life better for publishers and less so for the people who read. That's why Benjamin Franklin created the library system in the first place, a system that is in dire straits in the United Kingdom where libraries are being closed faster than a publisher's purse strings. 

DRM or Digital Rights Management keeps, as Helen writes, people from sharing a book between devices. You can create a Cloud as Amazon did or as Apple did with iCloud. Without DRM, a file sharing application isn't needed and you won't need a cloud just a connection between devices to share a book with a spouse, child, or friend, or even with someone you don't know. That's how libraries do it. No cost. No fuss. No membership. Go to the library, pick out a book, movie, CD, or magazine and take it home. You have to take it back to the library so someone else can borrow it, but that's a small price to pay.

I remember reading how Paul Coehlo, author of The Alchemist pirated his own book and uploaded it to BitTorrent to beat the pirates at their own game. The pirated copies were dreadful and had lots of errors. Coehlo uploaded a clean copy of his novel. His publisher was incensed, but the author felt it was the right thing to do. His magnanimous gesture didn't kill his book sales either. With more than 7 billion people on the planet, many of reading age, it's a big pool to fish for sales.

After I read what Coehlo had done, I decided to do the same with my novel, and I often hold promotions to give my first self-published novel, Among Women, for free. What I was surprised to find was that people continued to buy the novel after it was no longer free, even from as far away as Estonia. Of course I've sold more copies of my novel in Estonia than I have in the UK, but it's a beginning, and sales in the US have exceeded my expectations, both as free books and books sold. 

DRM is more a benefit for publishers than it is for authors or readers. DRM means you cannot share your book and another copy must be bought. That's short sighted, but publishers aren't known for their long game or for thinking beyond today's sales. If they did, books would be available, marketed and advertised for more than a few months. Instead, publishers end up dumping millions of books into landfills and selling them to remainder businesses. Very short sighted indeed.

If I can sell more books by giving away a few thousand, that should be enough evidence that removing DRM will not hurt book sales. Like I said, there are 7 billion people on this planet. That is a very big pool of potential readers and book buyers. Even if 1 billion people get the book for free, there are still 6 billion people left, some of which would be able and willing to buy a copy.

There is an old saying that you have to spend money to make money. In this case, it could be said that you have to give books to get book sales. If my recent experience is any indication of what is possible, I'll be giving away more free ebooks. The odds are in my favor, and you can be certain there will be no DRM. I invite readers to share and share alike. There are plenty of electrons -- and ebooks -- left.

In the end, I have to ask, what is the difference between DRM and censorship. What do you say?