Voices in the darkness

But because I was a writer—for it’s an early state of being, before a word has been written, not an attribute of being published—I became witness to the unspoken in my society..

~ Witness: The Inward Testimony
Nadine Gordimer

A writer is one who writes. How many times has that been said and been shot down by those who claim that a writer is someone who is paid for their writing? Does that make Emily Dickinson any less a poet or any person who has put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to give inward testimony of the world they inhabit?

Gordimer states that being a writer is an earlier state of being before a word is written, that the urge or desire or focus is on being witness to the world and needing to capture it in words or pictures. It is the same need that drove early man to paint images on cave walls and tell stories around the fire in the night. Because modern man thinks in terms of writing as concrete proof of a story, the idea of storytelling becomes the fact of writing. Writers are in essence storytellers, something encoded in their basic genetic structure, hardwired in the matrix. There is something different about writers, about storytellers, that sets them apart. It has nothing to do with financial success or acclaim or even about excellence. It has to do with the drive to bridge the gap between the outer and inner world, to bear witness to the changing landscape of the heart and mind and reality of being human. Without putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, writers/storytellers are born.

In The Comedians, Graham Greene writes: “The Church condemns violence, but it condemns indifference more harshly.” Indifference is not part of a writer's makeup. Writers are never indifferent. They may be out of step with the world -- at least as far as the world judges -- or adamant when espousing one cause or belief over another, but they are never indifferent. Writers are passionate about life and about themselves and those around them in relation to the rest of the world, and writers are well known for their bitter feuds among themselves and with those outside of the world they inhabit. Writers find it difficult to understand indifference. How can people live in the world and not be affected by it, engaged with it, vibrantly and obviously alive in it? No matter how quiet the words or the demeanor, writers are the lighthouse on the bare and rocky shore shining a light into the darkness to point out the dangers and the path to safety.

Around the fires that kept away the predators in the night, ancient storytellers kept back the darkness and fired the imaginations of the huddled forms, reminding them of past glories and keeping hope alive in a savage world that beyond the warmth and light was poised to devour and eradicate them. Storytellers were the keepers of memory and the reliquaries of the wisdom of the gods and goddesses. Storytellers are the conscience of their times, often a still small voice of sanity and reason, witnesses to the present and custodian of history.

In the movie, Shall We Dance, Susan Sarandon tells the detective she hired to follow her husband that marriage provides a witness to a person's life. If a partner or spouse is witness to one life, then writers are witness to all lives, to the times in which they live and their corner of the world.

In the end, we look to writers, to the modern storytellers, to fill in the gaps in the sweeping canvas of history, the voices in the darkness around the fire that feed the soul, spark the imagination and keep us safe in the night. Writers write to keep back the darkness, but also to remind us that we are all basically alike whatever distance or time separates us.

Coal mine canary

Animals -- dogs, cats, birds, canaries, cattle, horses, etc. -- have an innate sense of something wrong when an earthquake is about to move the earth or a volcano is going to blow. They know when the elements are gathering for a grand, and often destructive, display and they are nervous, restless, uncomfortable and anxious, acting contrary to their usually calm natures. They pace, can't sleep, can't settle down, can't focus on anything productive or on a more normal and natural action. They are disturbed emotionally, physically, mentally, psychically as they teeter on the event horizon.

I've felt the same way, restless, anxious, nervous and uncomfortable, and I'm not alone. Nearly everyone I talk to is feeling the same formless restlessness and anxiety. They're cranky, can't sleep, unfocused and unhappy and it has been going on for a while now. It reminds me of Egon explaining to Winston that if you look at normal psychokinetic energy as a Twinkie, the current buildup of psychokinetic energy would make the Twinkie 35 feet long and weighing approximately 600 pounds, but that's only in New York. That's a big Twinkie. Think about how big it would be if you measured the psychokinetic energy over the whole U.S. It would feed the world's starving for about 1000 years, providing you could keep it fresh that long.

When Lynn and I talked last night, she said she thought the restlessness began about a year ago. She may be right. As the event horizon moves closer, more and more people are affected. It finally caught up with me, or rather I can no longer find excuses for the restlessness I feel. I haven't been sleeping well for about a year, although there are periods in which I sleep for 6-7 hours at a time. I've blamed my intermittent insomnia on more physical causes when I should have been looking further afield. I do feel we are on the verge of some big blow-up and the aftermath will be worse than the levee failure in New Orleans or the devastating wake of Katrina and the worst tornado in recent memory. Something's coming and it won't be soft and squishy like a Twinkie.

Some of my friends are losing their jobs, being down sized and forced to take mandatory leave (cutting hours and days). That's never good, especially when other people are involved, like spouses and children. The fallout falls into two main categories. One category involves everyone working together to tighten belts and budget more carefully.

The other category involves the unaffected spouse blaming the affected spouse. How could you do this to me? What am I going to do? What did you do to get laid off, fired, have your hours cut? It's all about them and not about the spouse who just lost their jobs or had their hours cut. It never occurred to the unaffected spouse to consider cutting expenses or offering to help out, just blame the affected spouse for causing the problem.

No doubt rising unemployment is contributing to the anxiety and restlessness, but not all the people I know who experience this formless, nebulous disruption have lost their jobs or had their hours cut. It goes deeper than that and has much deeper roots. Whatever it is that has unsettled so much of this country's population, we should consider it the dead canary in the coal mine. Something's coming and it won't end with us drenched in torrents of warm melted marshmallow. We should hope to be so lucky.

Your Freudian slip is showing

According to B.O. who claims there are 57 states in the Union, now the U.S. is one of the largest Muslim countries in the world.

According to the statistics, Indonesia: 200 million Muslims. India: 156 million Muslims. Pakistan: 150 million Muslims. United States: 2.3 million Muslims (according to the Pew Research Center). The U.S. is about 40 on the list.

Maybe B.O. shouldn't work without a teleprompter.

That is all. Disperse.

And they called Bush an idiot

President G. W. Bush's idiocy was nothing compared to current tenant of the Oval Office. He is not a gaffe machine, but supposedly a cyber-savvy intellectual well versed in Constitutional law.

Into his hands we have committed our souls.

That is all. Disperse.

Requiem for the sun

Every morning after I wake up, perform the usual voiding and eye opening rituals, get breakfast and sit down in front of my laptop to check email, I am bombarded by news. Some of the news is of the book variety, but most is of the local and world events variety. It also depends upon what time I sit down to read emails. This morning, it was fairly early and my usual news feeds aren't yet awake, and I don't feel very awake either. There's nothing like a jolt of marrow chilling and blood heating information to jump start my emotional and mental engines. Today, I'll have to wake up more slowly, but I'm certain the usual physician pranks and irritating habits will set my system humming in no time, providing the adrenaline I need to get through yet another day of wet and cold weather and chores. I need a vacation, a really good vacation.

The week, and the year, are about half over and the cold has settled into my bones. I crave the warmth of my bed where the imprint of my body has yet to smooth out and the heat from my dream excursions has not dissipated. Tranquility radiates from the bedroom and calls to me. It's hard to face another gray morning of weeping skies that never break into the wild, wind-whipped explosions of sound and light and sizzling momentary heat that invigorates the soul and the soil. Instead, my nose drips in slow and steady rhythm with the drip, drip, drip of the leaden sky. It was easier to sit in the evening dark without light or heat after Zeus's dazzling bolt took out a transformer nearby, abruptly ending my work day and forcing me into the world of dreams and shadows between the covers (books and bed). It was a mini vacation that ended with the sharp intrusion of returning electricity, yanking me back from a world of other days through others' eyes into the persistent hum of appliances and buzzing lamps. Without the punctuating markers of children entering and leaving their school days, all was the peaceful harmony of silence. The traffic was muted and the neighbors silent and I drifted in a warm embrace, lulled by the even cadence of breath and heartbeat.

Now it's back to the work-a-day world where the ever present tick and hum of electricity mark the time and my actions like a metronome pace I am forced to match and maintain. Just another melancholy day in a grey world beneath steel skies drip, drip, dripping bitter tears.

Portrait of a mensch

There is something about being rich that is tantalizing and oh so seductive. After all, who doesn't need more money than they can spend in a lifetime? There's nothing like having so much money that it's like one hundred Chinese lining up and jumping off a cliff. They would never all die because the birth rate would keep the line going forever. It's the same when you have a certain amount of money, like $300 million. The daily interest alone would keep even my mother in junk food, shoes and clothes for the next 500 years or so.

Numbers like that really don't compute, but for some people that kind of money is a reality. Men like Aaron Feuerstein have that kind of money. He's not as rich as Bill Gates who comes in at a cool $200 billion net worth, but it's nothing to sneeze at. Strangely, not all rich men need PR professionals to tell them they need to clean up their act and do some very visible charity work, like Bill Gates, because they're too busy taking care of the people who helped make them rich.

If you think you know what I'm talking about, check out Malden Mills and the man who should be President of the U.S. He knows how to run a business, make money and protect the people. He is the kind of man all multi-millionaires and multi-billionaires should be and aren't, and he doesn't owe his money to the mob or foreign oil interests.

That is all. Disperse.

Weight of the world

Words are cheap. It's only words. Only feelings matter. How many times have we all said it and meant it?

We were wrong.

Words have heft, depth, size and weight even at a time when words are conflated and inflated, signifying nothing. Empty titles to obscure the menial nature of a job. Sanitation or domestic engineer instead of janitor and homemaker. Administrative assistant instead of secretary or girl Friday. Administrative consultant instead of temporary office worker. And the relabeling goes on as if someone with a new label maker must justify the expense and renames everything. It's a new kind of shell game played with words.

The politically correct police have outlawed, or made inappropriate, simple words: dwarf, gimp, blind, fat, skinny, stupid, idiot, vapid, ugly, plain, empty, old, young, handicapped, useless. Everything gets a new designation, a less hurtful and ego friendly name. Who are they kidding? Most of the time, simple words are best. They say what they mean and the person means what they say.

As a teenager just discovering cursing, I was hopeless, which turned out to be a good thing since I wasn't fond of the taste of soap. SOB became son of a biscuit eater. Hell was heck and damn was darn. The words that came out of my mouth were sanitized, sans soap, but the words in my head remained the same: son of a bitch, hell and damn. Some were worse. I'll bet you can guess what fudge and shucks really meant. Inside my head or out of my mouth, the words had a certain taste and considerable weight. All the really good words do: freedom, love, friendship, poverty, hatred, anger, death and life. We all forget that sometimes, the heft, and dimensions and often massive weight of words, not in their ability to inflict pain or pleasure, but in their ability to keep hope alive. That really didn't become real to me until I began corresponding with people in other countries.

I was born in America and traveled some of the world with my father who was in the Army. I was fascinated and amazed by people and cultures of everyone I saw. It never occurred to me that I was privileged. I had no frame of reference -- until now. I have pen pals and fans in more countries than I visited as a child. We are drawn together and get to know each other with words. We have not met in person, but we have a common language. Sometimes the meanings are a bit different, but at the heart of things we share a love of and need for words.

Many of the people have a simple vocabulary, but the one thing they share is a willingness to learn, to stretch their knowledge and reach for more, weight lifting words. At first, our discussions are very basic, but as we get to know each other, feeling out the territory and finding the right words, the concepts become more complex. One thing remains the same, their idea of what it's like to live in this country, to be an American.

Like the statue that stands on an island in the New York harbor holding a book and a torch, America means space and freedom to break out of the narrow confines of religion, politics and culture to embrace a future without limits. They have not been taught that words are cheap or meaningless or that they are empty and devoid of life and flavor like fat-free food. All they know is the feel of the words on their tongue and the hoarded and weighty mass of the words in their dreams and minds that is at once as light as a feature and as solid as the Statue of Liberty. Words have weight like actions have consequences. They know America isn't perfect, but they believe that only here can they dream big and work to make their dreams come true.

As I sift through the words of my novels, throwing out whatever doesn't make sense or is repetitious, I forget what those words cost, and they cost a lot. They are a distillation of my dreams and experiences, what I have seen and what I still hope to find. They are the threads of hope woven to create a tapestry of possibility. Those words carry the weight my dreams. As they move out and into the other people's hands, they are proof that dreams become flesh and blood, muscle and sinew, soul and heart. They are inspiration, the breath of the gods. Words have heft and breadth, width and weight as they connect ideas to action and dreamer to dreamer. The are not cheap and they are more than consonants, vowels and sentences. Use them wisely before they are regulated and outlawed. They are the stuff of life and reality. They carry the weight of the world.

Running against the wind

It has been a rough two days with very little sleep, several ocular migraines (not painful, just annoying) and too much work. I'm ready for another vacation. Reviews are caught up and I've been cooking and baking almost every day, but I still feel restless. I can't seem to sit still or work effectively and my attention span is about as long as a five-year-old on Ritalin overdosing on sugar. I've been working in spurts and doing practically everything in spurts: dishes, laundry, sleeping, showering, cleaning, etc. Problem is that I can't quite pin down the source.

The weather has been cool and rainy with periods of clear sunshine and that's my favorite kind of weather, next to crisp fall and winter days. I'm just not made for the heat. My life is pretty settled and Don finally headed home without having found a place he really wants to buy. I don't think he's really serious about buying unless I agree to marry him and that's not likely to happen, although after the past few days I'd almost be ready to give in and marry him just so I didn't have to struggle so much. Yeah, that thought lasts about 30 seconds until I contemplate the rest of my life without any freedom or time to myself, and I need time to myself. I feel like Carrie when Aidan moved in and was in her face from the moment she walked in the door. It would be worse for us because we both work at home. One good thing about that would be that I'd get out and walk more and probably start walking and never come back. The whole idea makes me want to take up a friend's dream of being a hobo.

No, I don't want to get married any time soon no matter what my mother says about dying alone or how much Don ups the ante by promising me financial security and time to write. If I don't get it for myself, I certainly won't be happy having someone hand it to me on a silver platter. It wouldn't feel right. I either make it on my own or win the lottery. There are no other options as far as I'm concerned. It's the reason I'm still poor. I've been offered many opportunities to be taken care of, and I've always turned them down. As much as I admire the high class working girl, it's just not me. I made my peace with that a long time ago.

Maybe my restlessness is due to having so many things under control and not having to struggle nearly as much. I'm used to being a little behind (not to be confused with the ample behind that follows two days behind me, that's another issue altogether) and not feeling deadlines looming like hungry buzzards circling the dying is a little too much for my system -- or a little too little pressure.

This should be a good time for me since things are starting to come together. I have the kind of relationship I want (mostly) and my manuscripts are getting good results with publishers. More of my work is being published and editors are offering to buy more articles. That's what's wrong. I'm used to running against the wind and with little or no wind I'm succumbing to the laws of physics and obviously about to fall on my face. Well, that and having people telling me that I have touched their lives in little ways. I can't handle the compliments; I'm used to criticism from every quadrant. See? Nothing to push against, no uphill battles, no harangues, no fuss and no tempests in teapots, just smooth sailing. I've become so used to the struggle I don't know what to do with myself when the struggle is over. I need a new hobby. Time to get back to learning French or something more difficult like Portuguese. Maybe Farsi or Hebrew or Mandarin Chinese. Yeah, that's the ticket.

That is all. Disperse.

Resistance is futile

My ideas about relationships have evolved from personal experience and from books. The kind of relationships that stayed with me as the epitome of perfection were the relationships I found in Andre Norton's books and it wasn't until many years later that I understood what she described was frightening to most people because of the initial feeling of falling into an abyss and losing all sense of identity and individuality at the outset.

In all of her adventures the one major theme was based on submission and submergence in order to find wholeness. In simplest terms, it is the story about the king who asked his twelve sons to each break a stick and then had twelve sticks bound together and asked his sons to break the combined sticks. It's easy to break a single stick and not so easy when the sticks are combined. It is the same with relationships, but first you give up being a single stick.

In the Witch World series, there were communities ruled solely by women and by men, both of them separating the genders to achieve a goal. In Estcarp, the witches were the central power reigning over the rest of the populace, picking the brightest and best and binding them to the community of witches to increase their power and control over the land and their enemies. There were also the Falconers, men who lived with their falcons in aeries, segregating their women in all female villages, similar to the Amazons who kept male children only until they were old enough to be sent to their fathers. With the Falconers, male children were allowed to live in the female villages where select males visited once a year to take away boys who had reached the age of five and to procreate. In Estcarp, when a witch had sex she lost her power and power was jealously guarded.

As the centuries continued, each segregated nation suffered from their practices. Fewer children were born to the people of Estcarp or to the Falconers' villages. When you skim off the cream, there's little vitality left. Things remained the same until one witch gave up her jewel of power and married an outlander. Instead of losing her power when she surrendered her jewel, she gained a new kind of power and set the stage for anarchy. The same theme of surrendering solitary power to love and gaining a different and more potent power recurs throughout Norton's work, and the surrender is seldom easy. It's the same in human relationships, although few reach that greater power because they fear surrendering and falling into the abyss.

The sense of being completely one with another person is frightening at first and few get past the initial vertigo. It's so much easier to choose short term lust and long term misery than to lose yourself in someone else. Such overwhelming passion is like walking boldly into a raging fire naked and unprotected, never realizing that the fire won't devour you. It's an adjustment to give up one's power even for a little while and it takes a strong will and stronger commitment than most people ever get near or understand. The result is convenient arrangements or emotional time shares that require little more than being present, which makes day to day life manageable only by compartmentalizing every facet of existence, and the walls are high and get stronger every year, isolating people emotionally and mentally as much as physically. Never give up and never give in. And people wonder why they live lives of quiet desperation.

Although it is a radical concept, the dominant and submissive lifestyle comes closest to a powerful and lasting relationship. I know how shocking that sounds because I was shocked when I was first approached. The idea that I would voluntarily allow another person to control me physically, emotionally and sexually was ludicrous and I'd never submit. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to take a closer look. What I found was powerful and based on complete and utter trust. It's not the kind of trust that people exhibit when they close their eyes, fold their arms over their chests, and fall backward believing someone will catch them; that's a pale shadow of what really happens, but it does begin with falling.

For whatever reason, the world is arranged in pairs. Chromosomes are paired. DNA is a two-stranded chain surrounding a central core, a double helix. Noah filled the ark with animals of every kind, one male and one female. In the garden of Eden, humanity was created from Adam and Eve, the primordial pair. Coupling is the natural state. Even alternative relationships combine in pairs. That is not to say people are incomplete if they never pair off, just that we are more complete in pairs -- a bundle of sticks as opposed to a single stick. The earth is even paired with opposing poles and magnets wouldn't not work without an equal and opposite force combined to create a strong and resilient energy field. Neutron and proton. Good and evil. Light and shadow. Pairs, but the right pairs, and so comes the fall, submitting the self to become something more, stronger, better, happier, and we know when it happens.

It's not the initial blush of lust or a feeling of liking someone, but something more intense, an overwhelming feeling that at first feels like vertigo and drowning and happy beyond words to drown. Then the survival instinct kicks in and fear takes over, sending adrenalin through the blood and us thrashing for the surface. We aren't prepared to give up that much. We will not be devoured whole. And so we run and hide, still drawn to the fire, back to the edge of the abyss, teetering on the edge and yearning for what's waiting but not willing to fall. Falling is bad, our minds tell us, so we step back and bargain, pacing around the edge, taking tentative steps forward and rushing backward whenever the feelings are too intense, building walls to hide behind and driving anchors into the rock to hold us safely in place, in stasis, never going too far backward or too far forward.

It's the unknown that gets us every time, the feeling that we can submit a little, risk a little and still be happy, but it doesn't work that way. There is no strength in sticks that barely touch each other; too much is still left dangling. It must be full contact or nothing, complete submission and commitment or a taste that leaves us always hungry for more.

The witch gave up her jewel of power and found that by submitting herself to a man she was more powerful and a more formidable foe than when she carried the jewel for which she gave up living, loving and laughing. She gave up sterility and found fertility in power, in love and in life. She leapt into the abyss, embraced the fear and fell and landed safely. It's not the fall that kills us or the sudden stop, it's fear, mind numbing, overwhelming fear that kills us, draining away life and passion and power like a slow leak in a tire that eventually leaves us stranded and alone, isolated and shivering in the cold, resisting the warmth and power that lies on the other side of fear.

Parodies of life

Parodies are a time-honored way of getting to the funny side of serious subjects. Al Yankovich make a career out of it and Mad Magazine has spoofed more than its share of television and life, so I'd like to share a little parody of West Side Story with you. It's the West Slide Story.

That is all. Disperse.

A hand up, not a hand out

When I was in school, my mother routinely asked me to help Jimmy and Carol with their homework since she didn't understand how to do the new math and wasn't really a scholarly type of person. I helped but soon found that what was required wasn't my help but me doing their homework. They didn't want to be bothered and it was easier, they thought, for me to do it for them instead of listening as I explained and diagrammed what to do and how to solve the problems. I refused and they whined and complained to Mom whose response was always, "Just do it for them." I refused and was punished, sent to my room, which was really not a punishment as far as I could see. I could listen to records and read and write and be alone.

My boys were the same way. They didn't want to actually have to learn anything, but for me to do it for them or tell them the answers. I didn't let them get away with it either. I explained and assisted, but they had to do their own work. I am always willing to help someone learn how to do something for himself, but I will not do the work for them. The same holds true for aspiring writers.

I'm willing to discuss plot points, characterization, how to show and not tell and even do a little editing, but that does not mean I am a full service reference section ready to do the work for you. If I point you in the right direction, you should be able to get what you need and not keep asking me to check and recheck your findings, not if you're not paying me and I'm doing it as a favor. At that point, you are abusing my generosity and I will shut you down, as nicely as possible, but without leaving any doubt in your mind what I mean. Now I understand why professional writers get so cranky when aspiring writers keep asking questions. They've run into the same situation so many times they refuse to help at all to save themselves the trouble of explaining that the aspiring writer has become a pest abusing the writer's time and knowledge and is obviously too lazy to do the work.

Before any of you get your knickers in a twist, it isn't anyone on here -- yet. It is someone I made the mistake of encouraging and who has now become a lazy pest whining and whinging about not having enough money. Guess what? I don't have a lot of money either and you have flamenco-ed my last nerve until it is raw and bleeding. Yes, I am cranky and my responses are going to be quite terse from now on because you're not listening. I have given you all the information and resources you need to make money with your writing. Use them. Read them. Don't ask me any more questions because the answers are about to get flat out rude.

It is simple courtesy to ask a professional writer if they would mind reading one of your pieces. It is abusing the writer's hospitality to keep revising something and sending it over and over asking for an opinion. It takes time to read the work and make comments. To further trample the writer's hospitality by sending everything on your hard drive for an opinion puts you on dangerous ground and whatever common ground once existed is eroding past repair.

There are writers whose work I enjoy reading -- when I have the time -- and I consider it an honor to take a look at their work because they don't send me everything they've ever written and ask for an immediate opinion. There are writers whose opinion I respect and ask from time to time to read something, but it's not something I do often. I'm too busy earning a living and reading and writing and dealing with my own deadlines, and I know their work and time is just as valuable.

My time and work is just as important as a lawyer's or doctor's or any other professional, despite the fact that many people see writers as dilettantes who don't work for a living. I don't ask doctors or lawyers or any professional for free advice; I pay for it. Writers deserve the same respect and consideration. So here is a rule of thumb. It's all about respect.

If you want a professional writer's opinion on your work, hire them to edit, proofread or otherwise peruse your work. Have the courtesy to request some time, but don't expect immediate results. You weren't first in line. You don't work for free and neither do writers. If you cannot afford a writer, one will not be appointed for you by the court or the government or the local writer's guild. Learn to research and read. Join a writer's group. Get help. Don't take a professional writer's time or experience or attention for granted. You wouldn't like it and neither do we.

That is all. Disperse.

The high cost of electrons

You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich.
You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong.
You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift.
You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down.
You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred.
You cannot build character and courage by taking away people's initiative and independence.
You cannot help people permanently by doing for them, what they could and should do for themselves.

.....Abraham Lincoln

Amazon Kindle readers are balking at the cost of David Baldacci's latest book, First Family. As a reviewer, I don't have to worry about the price, but as a fan, I have to say that Mr. Baldacci's response that an E-book's lower price "...is not sustainable" is about as bright as saying that a paperback book should cost as much as the hardcover. In the New York Times article Carolyn Reidy of Simon & Shuster argues that “What a consumer is buying is the content, not necessarily the format.” Would that not also hold true for the paperback version? The content is the same, but the format is smaller and less expensive to produce, and it is cheaper. As an E-book that eliminates the need for paper and shelf space, should not the price be commensurately lower, especially when considering that the only cost for production is selling a file that is already formatted for downloading?

What the argument boils down to is revenue. If publishers don't make money, then authors don't make money and lucrative publishing deals won't be made or offered. Bigger prices mean the author will earn back his advance and the publisher will make money and be able to offer a best selling author another big, or even bigger, advance for the next book. It's a crap shoot that depends on name recognition and often fickle fans .

Which is worth more, a book that sells for $1000 that only one person will buy or one that sells for $1 that a thousand people buy?

When it comes down to numbers, it costs less to produce paperbacks and even less to produce an E-book and the price should reflect that. Granted, the E-book has a limited appeal to some people, but it took a while for record companies to realize that pricing a downloadable album or single at the same price as the disk and jewel case would not fly . . . and it didn't.

This is an issue that affects me as well since my novel will be released as a paperback and an E-book and will be available for Kindle and E-book readers. A lower price means more people will buy the book and, although the royalties will be lower, getting the book into more hands is preferable to the book being priced out of the market. I'd rather sell a thousand books at $1 than one book at $1000 because the thousand who bought will likely buy another thousand books when a new novel is released. The idea of 999 books being remaindered gives me nightmares of bargain tables stacked selling my book at a penny a pop. Sometimes greed must take a back seat to common sense. What authors lose in immediate revenue will be made up in numbers and those numbers translate to actual readers that put authors on the best seller lists, and that is a bankable commodity. Want to lose money, make sure to piss off the fans and they will find someone else's books to buy. What authors and publishers should focus on is a sustainable fan base. Publishers and authors will find it difficult to sustain anything when books are priced out of the market.

In the current economic climate books will quickly become a luxury item as the cost of producing hardcover and paperback books will continue to rise. Getting books into the hands of readers is the ultimate goal of every author and publisher. Making books affordable and immediately available is the only way to weather the economic storm.

That is all. Disperse.

There can be only one?

I was asked this morning if I believe in monogamy.

monogamy
Function:
noun
Etymology:
French monogamie, from Late Latin monogamia, from Greek, from monogamos monogamous, from mon- + gamos marriage, from gamein to marry
Date:
1612
1archaic : the practice of marrying only once during a lifetime
2: the state or custom of being married to one person at a time
3: the condition or practice of having a single mate during a period of time

What's not to believe? Monogamy is keeping only to one person and it happens all the time. It is unfortunate, however, that philanderers get more space in conversations and in print than monogamists. Chalk it up to the public's addiction for excitement and dirty laundry, an addiction fed by sensational journalism and modern media from fact to fiction. People want to see heroes' bright armor tarnished and idols with cracked feet of clay.

I am a serial monogamist, giving my affections and attentions to one man at a time even if the man isn't monogamous. That's the way I'm wired. I can be courted and flattered, flirted with and cajoled, but once my attentions are firmly engaged on one man I don't stray, no matter what. I look, but I don't touch.

Some of my best friends are monogamists who have been with one man their whole adult lives and some of my best friends are philanderers who are trapped in bad relationships but feel they cannot or should not get out. The philanderers get their emotional needs met outside their primary relationship, but in a sense they too are monogamous because they no longer, or seldom, have sex with their primary partner.

Until Spencer Tracy met Katharine Hepburn, he was a married Catholic who cheated openly on his wife. As a Catholic, he didn't believe in divorce, and his wife wouldn't give him one anyway had he asked. She knew her standard of living would suffer and she'd only get half of Tracy's earnings instead of a free meal ticket the rest of her natural life if she agreed to a divorce. When Hepburn and Tracy met and fell in love, Tracy became monogamous. Hepburn and Tracy were married in their hearts but not in reality and it didn't matter to Hepburn that she was not Tracy's legitimate wife. She was his wife in spirit as his legal partner was wife in name only. Love transcends the bonds of matrimony, especially in a society where divorce is so costly and the problems (emotional and societal) so great.

Okay, I think I've answered this one.

That is all. Disperse.

Twilight in the Zone

You were not here last night
And I could not sleep.
Will you be here tomorrow?

Egyptian poem -- 7th Dynasty

Last night I received the galleys for Past Imperfect and a compliment from my publisher in capital letters about how I did a great job and how much better the book is. That's due to having a great editor who made me see my story from a different perspective and a publisher who asked the right questions. I actually rewrote several scenes, added some layers to the characters and shifted the motivation slightly. I've just begun to go through the galleys, but so far it looks really good. This is the part of the publishing process that always makes me feel like a marathon runner in sight of the finish line.

The feeling that this is real and the book is about to hit the shelves is intoxicating. One friend said he could almost understand, that it must be the way he felt when he finished his Masters of Science thesis. Then, in typical fashion, he said it wasn't really the same. But it is. It is all about accomplishment. He worked hard to write his Masters thesis just as every writer whose words are immortalized in print between covers works hard to write a book or story. Seeing all those hours of frustration and single-minded concentration come together as a homogeneous whole is the same.

For me, the next step is the copy edit, followed by the typeset version and then the book with its cover art, which I still have not seen. What I have seen is the ISBN number. The book is real and it is just the first of its kind. I knew the day would come and now it is here. My book has an ISBN number. That is something only my writer friends can fully appreciate. To the rest of the world it is just red tape. To a writer, it is tangible proof of reality. Win or lose, the book is a reality that has measurable dimensions. It is intoxicating.

Into this rosy afterglow comes another reality: work and reviews, the staples of my daily life. There is also Don who wants my full attention this weekend to help him look at more properties. I feel like whining, "Aren't you done yet?" I want to enjoy my little accomplishment, read my words and make the final changes before I dive back into the latest book to review and finish polishing the review I've been working on for a week. I also want time to polish the next book and write a few stories with looming deadlines. In short, I want to spend my time in the Writing Zone where the world narrows to the arena where I wrestle ideas and words to the page.

Fizzled fireworks

As I was on my way out to get a salad from Mountain Mama's (and spend more than I planned, as always, because I was hungry), I nearly tripped over the door mat. Something was underneath it. A package. A white package. I picked it up and checked the label. It's here! The latest addition to my rapidly filling personal book shelf arrived. I tossed it into the foyer and headed out, wanting to savor the moment fully with some food in my stomach and time to call the important people in my life and share the news.

When I got home, had my hummus and salad, nibbled a couple pieces of crystallized ginger that is supposed to end up in ginger cookies for a friend, I ripped open the package and checked the table of contents. Page 39: Amanda's Seeds by J. M. Cornwell. That would be me. I reread the story and it's still good. Page 39.

I called my mother and the phone went to voice mail, so I tried again. I have to call her first because she's threatened to visit with her Chihuahua, Dink, and stay for two months if I don't. I like my quiet cottage and enjoy sleeping in my own bed with my books and journal and laptop computer. All of them and me won't fit on the sofa in the living room and I always get a cramp in my neck when I sleep on it. Besides, there's no room to turn over or sprawl out and I have to actually get up to turn out the light. It's easier to call Mom first.

After three tries and nothing but voice mail, I called Beanie. I would've thought that after eight other books, she could summon a little more enthusiasm for my accomplishment, for another book with one of my stories in it, but, no, the best she could do was, "That's nice. I was taking a nap." The unspoken part of her overly emotional response was that she's like to get back to her nap because she had a headache, as if my news were nothing new and nothing special. Well! I called Mom again. At least she'd be enthusiastic.

"Where's my copy?"

"Mom, I just got my copy of the book."

"Well, send it to me."

"This is my copy."

"What's the title again?"

I repeated it. A Cup of Comfort for Adoptive Families. Amanda's Seeds, the one the editor kept for four years and contacted me to be included in the book.

"I'll have to go buy a copy. You'd think they would at least include a copy for your family. What's the title again?"

Since it took her six months to get the first book last year, I said, "I'll send you a copy."

" I'm going to need to move Carol's books so I can have a whole shelf of just your books. Make sure you sign it. I want to take it out to Bob and Lois's. I'll take all your books when I go for the graduation party."

"They have all the books. I sent the first two and they bought the rest. Ellen went out and bought all of them."

"That's nice. What's the name of the book again? Dink, I didn't know you were outside. Come on in, sweetheart."

At that point, I knew Mom would fawn over her dog, so I said I had to go. We were done.

"When is your other book coming out, the novel?"

"In July, Mom. I have to go to the bathroom. I'll talk to you later."

"Dink, come here, sweetheart."

We were definitely done.

My family is definitely not effusive or overly emotional, at least not when it comes to my books. They are getting bored with the whole "I got a copy of my book today" news. After nine anthologies and numerous articles and short stories, they have lost their enthusiasm. They can barely remember how many books there are or the titles because they didn't see it on Oprah and it didn't hit the front page of the news or get a feature line on CNN or MSNBC, but they're family.

The ladies at the deli counter in Mountain Mama's were more excited, and they've been through a few of these. One lady, an artist, suggested a book signing at Black Cat Books in Manitou for my upcoming novel. She said to mention her name and asked if I'd come in to sign their copies if they brought them in. They are still as excited as I am about the news. I'd cut Mom off my list if the thought of her and Dink moving in with me for a month or six didn't make me consider moving to the Arctic Circle, but I'm definitely considering crossing Beanie off the list. Her priorities are screwed up. Since when is her nap more important than my news?

The politics of writing

Mary Ann called me Sunday. She was having a difficult weekend and was a little upset. Add to the mix the rain and writing only six pages in two days and I couldn't help but phone when I got home and saw that she called. She's a good friend and a fellow writer and we writers can be a neurotic bunch at times. Death and pressing deadlines do that to us. Well, that and the constant rejection. I called. We talked while her cell phone cut in and out (mountains + rain + lightning = lousy cell phone service).

I called again last night to see how she was doing. No rain, sunshine and three more pages in a day, pages she won't have to edit. We talked about her book and the characters and where the story is going and I got an idea for another book. Like I really need help in that area when I'm fleshing out two books, editing two more and writing another. I always have a project or two going -- in writing and reading. I jotted down the idea because it's unusual and may be interesting for a story line or I may add it as a twist to a work in progress. Such is the exchange that happens between friends who are also writers.

We also talked about politics, that subject, along with sex and religion, that one should never discuss with people one wishes to retain as friends. Mary Ann isn't like that. Yes, she's a liberal. Yes, we often disagree about political ideology. No, we're still friends because we are both old school. We believe in the freedoms set down in the Constitution and we are both appalled by the current idiocy that in politics in the two parties signified by the elephant and the ass.

Discussions of current works with writers and friends provide fertile ground, not only for discussion, but also for new ideas. The same goes for reading. Reading is essential for writers who want to write and continue to be published. Many writer friends refuse to read anything in their chosen genre when they're writing, and some go so far as to refuse to read anything in their chosen genre at any time. I read everything: fiction and nonfiction, when I'm not reading books for review, which also run the gamut from fiction to nonfiction. It's the same for political material.

I read from all sides of the political spectrum to be able to form a balanced and informed opinion, and I am very opinionated. That is not to say that I don't respond emotionally as well as intellectually. One thing I have learned is to trust my instincts even when they're telling me that the person I call friend is not really a friend. Every time I shrug off that tap on the mental shoulder and the whispered voice in my mind that says to beware I end up on the wrong end of a rope dangling over a cliff and into the abyss. That isn't to say that I am a slave to instinct, just that I have learned, often the hard way, to pay attention to red flags. When a friend isn't willing to agree to disagree or table a heating discussion or accept that there are some areas you will never see eye-to-eye, something is seriously wrong. Not so with Mary Ann. Did I mention we are often on opposite sides in politics?

One thing we rediscovered is that we are not polar opposites. She a little left and I'm a little right of center. The distance is pretty minimal. When it comes to writing, however, we are on the same page. Although I don't write a great deal of horror, Mary Ann does, but what she writes is always from a fascinating perspective that makes me think. Here's hoping she has another good writing day with lots of sunshine and plenty of clear paths through the murky spots.

Even though it's only three pages a day, it's forward movement and that's what all writers need to remember. There are no hard and fast rules to writing. Anyone who tells you so wants to sell you something. What works for one writer will not necessarily work for someone else. We're all different and we approach a problem or a story from the angle that works best.

In a recent discussion on a romance writing blog, the topic was pantsers or plotters. Pantsers write in the heat of the moment by the seat of their pants and plotters outline and plot their stories beforehand. The author of the post wanted different words for pantsers and plotters and I came up with barnstormers and aviators. Barnstormers fly by the seat of their pants and aviators fly by the book, taking no chances. They both get where they're going, but barnstormers take chances and aviators leave nothing to chance. And then there are barnstorming aviators and aviators who occasionally barnstorm.

It's all about the goal -- a finished story -- not about how you got there, so enjoy the trip and and the people you meet along the way. Even in divergent methods and ideologies there is plenty to share and to learn whether the subject is politics or writing.

No thunder in the night

After a very warm day when no breeze shifted the blinds, the western sky darkened and a hint of rain traveled on the winds and through the window where I wrote the first of the reviews I needed to finish. Breathing deeply, I smiled, got up and took off all my clothes to better enjoy the cool, moist breeze. Rain. Wind. Black sky lighting up and forks of lightning ripping the gathering clouds, but no crack of thunder followed. The storm was too far away. A little after eight, gold flushed the horizon where the following edge of the storm lifted as the sun went down. A spatter of drops marked the screen and night filled the flaming gap where the sun vanished. The winds picked up and the blinds clattered against the window frame, but no rain fell. Only a few spattered drops pregnant with promise and empty and hollow as a miser's heart shattered against the screen, taunting and dancing out of range while night cloaked the clouds and lightning took its show elsewhere.

The rain fell somewhere last night, not here, teased and taunted, but failed to give up the goods. Even the cool, moist breeze failed. I finished another book and turned out the light, covers thrown back to avoid the rising heat of sleep. I finally slept and dreamed, but the wraiths of night failed to linger long enough to leave me with anything but rest. Not such a bad trade-off considering the pace of the past few days. I woke a little while ago, hungry but rested, before the night gave ground to the rising sun.

The sky is pale lavender and the street lights have faded. Birds sing the sun up to the horizon and into the vaulted sky while the morning breeze whispers through the window with dew on its breath. Too soon I'll have to rise and dress and begin another day, write another review, work a few more hours and make the daily rounds.

Picking and choosing

I didn't get much writing done last weekend, but reading is a different story. I finished all the books I needed to review and now have to finish writing the reviews, but it's hard to get anything done when you're not home, and I don't read in the car because it makes me nauseous. I begged off early yesterday and missed a bunch of calls. The family drama could wait until this morning and the other calls I returned when possible. Nothing strains a relationship more than calling at bedtime the night before a work day. Sounded like Lynn has a cold or the flu and I'll bet she went to be early since this is her last week before the summer break.

One good thing was that instead of hovering over the sourdough starter for the semolina bread I wanted to bake yesterday, being out of the house gave it time to get good and sour. Ten minutes of kneading and another five minutes of chafing left my arms a little wobbly, but I'm out of practice. What I ended up with was two lovely flat round loaves of bread with a crunchy exterior and a soft interior that will be great for bruschetta. I had a couple pieces with the mushroom and barley soup I made yesterday with the last of the mushrooms. It was a lovely and light dinner and I have quite a bit of soup left over to freeze. I'll definitely make those two recipes again.

I've been in a domestic mood lately, nesting a bit, working out how to get all the books from under the coffee table and up onto the high shelf in the living room. I'm going to have to move the furniture around, but that's a good thing because I can't stand to leave things in the same place forever. I like shaking up the ant farm from time to time. I usually don't move furniture and nest until I feel really comfortable with my surroundings and I'm getting there. Even though there's no air conditioning and baking tends to heat things up a bit and the roof over my office still needs to be repaired, I'm contented. No place is perfect, not even the cabin of my dreams, and I've been missing the cabin a bit these days. Must be all the properties Don has dragged me around to see. I don't know if I can handle two weeks of looking at properties. Thank goodness for work and deadlines or he'd probably drag me out again today and every day he's here. I'm really tired of looking. I'd approach the whole thing much differently.

Five years ago I came down to Colorado Springs with a friend, Brenda, and we met at a realtor's office to look at properties. We checked some listings and chose the ones that seemed possible and then drove around with the realtor to look at four or five places. I liked the last one. It was perfect for Brenda's massage business with separate work and living areas and a big yard out back filled with flowers and a sense of peace. There was a dog run on the side for Keekee and out front the deck was built around a towering tree surrounded by a bench. Even the garage was nice. The great thing was not having to spend days and days driving all over the country, up mountain and down dale, looking at properties. I keep telling Don he has to please himself not me.

Mom thinks I'm playing hard to get, but that's not it. I'm not playing. When you find the one person that drives you to distraction and makes every moment together worthwhile, it's not easy accepting a substitute. I've explained that to Don, but he is determined to change my mind. It's a waste of time. I've been here before with other less persistent suitors over the past three three years. Don says he's willing to wait and I keep telling him there's nothing to wait for. I've made up my mind. It's not fair to make do with someone when your heart and thoughts are on someone else. Unfortunately, my someone else has been so bogged down with work that he hasn't had time to visit as often as I'd like, but that won't always be the case. There's only one person for me. I won't settle for anyone else. Now, if I can only get Don to understand that.

In an insane world

What do a lemon drop, teaspoon and a soccer game all having in common?

"It's most likely a mix-up with the bar codes," offered the manager of an Asda chain store in Halifax, West Yorkshire, England. A shopper had purchased a set of teaspoons and, when rung up, the register ordered the clerk to check the buyer's identification to ensure she was at least 18 years old."Why?" asked the shopper. The clerk informed the woman that someone had once been murdered with a teaspoon, and therefore identification was now required. "I'm not aware of an age restriction for spoons," the manager said. (London Telegraph) ...When teaspoons are outlawed, only outlaws will have teaspoons.

In our politically correct world where even an innocuous teaspoon is regulated and students researching the Constitution about guns are reported to the police for contemplating how to conceal a gun, freedom goes by the wayside. The name of the game is zero tolerance, but it is one more step along the road to fascism and the police state where all freedoms are outlawed or rationed by the same people who keep telling us that it is possible to pick up manure by the clean end and it is disrespectful to call a sanitation engineer a janitor. It doesn't stop there.

A little boy was eating lemon drops on the playground when one of his friends came up. Being a polite and well mannered child, he offered his friend a lemon drop and the friend took it. A teacher watching the exchange reported the boys to the principal and they were both suspended for possession of drugs. A lemon drop. The box, which came from a local healthy food store, was unfamiliar to the teacher, but zero tolerance means no tolerance and, obviously, no intelligence. A lemon drop. In what sane world does a lemon drop look anything like illegal or illicit drugs?

A woman's children were taken from her by social services when someone reported her for negligence. What happened? Mom let her son walk to the soccer field 2-1/2 blocks from their house and on the same side of the street. The boy was 12 years old. Mom planned to meet him at the soccer field in 30 minutes. The police picked Mom up at home and held her until social services arrived. The reasoning for this situation was that the boy could have been kidnapped or molested in his 2-1/2 block walk. Zero tolerance. No intelligence and no common sense. This is what our world is devolving into, and it makes no sense because children are snatched from their fenced and gated back yards and from their beds in the middle of the night. What's next? Parents arrested and their children taken to foster homes because they were asleep when their children were sleeping? It sounds ludicrous, but this is where we're headed.

There are moments when a nosy neighbor is handy, like when you're on vacation and a moving van pulls up to your house and steals everything. That's when a nosy neighbor is a good neighbor. When neighbors are worried that you allowed your child to walk 2-1/2 blocks to the soccer field alone while you got your toddler fed and changed tells me that the neighbors have too much time on their hands and their nose stuck way too far into your business.

I'm a dinosaur. I grew up at a time when I walked over two miles to school every day in all weather after my parents both left for work. I came home to an empty house every day after another two-mile walk from school and started dinner, did my homework and watched my younger brother and sister until my parents returned home several hours later. I took a bus once a week five miles away to my piano lesson and in the fall and winter came and went in the darkness alone. On weekends, I played in the school yard or walked over to friends' homes to play for hours at a time. I wasn't much older than the 12-year-old soccer player who now lives with foster parents. I stayed after school for play practice and special events and came home in the dark alone and I did the same thing for plays, choir and other events, few of which my parents attended, and I didn't feel deprived or overlooked or neglected. I was trusted and given a measure of independence suitable to my age and maturity.

As a small child of 7 and 8, I walked all over the military base where we lived, miles and miles, going to ballroom dancing and ceramics classes, the movies, the swimming pool and sometimes to watch the Green Beret practice jumps and run the obstacle course. I played for hours in the jungle where a chain link fence I could climb separated me from the Panamanian natives. I climbed trees and fell and ripped open the back of my left arm when my parents were at the commissary and I was playing in the jungle with friends. One of them ran to a neighbor's house and he called the ambulance while he helped stanch the bleeding with his best bathroom towels. My parents met us at the hospital and no one called social services or had them arrested for neglect. Why would they? Kids play. Kids get hurt. Parents aren't always there. Shit happens.

When I got out of the hospital and had to go for physical therapy, I walked there and came home alone. No one worried that anything would happen to me because I knew what to do and we lived on a base. No, a military base isn't the same thing as a city neighborhood, especially not nowadays, but it would have been no different if it had been in a residential neighborhood.

When did parents begin chauffeuring their children everywhere instead of allowing them to walk a few blocks or a couple of miles to soccer practice or dance lessons, etc.? Was it because one over protective parent refused to let her children out of her sight or was it during the '60s when everyone went into therapy and decided that they were psychological messes because their parents didn't see them hitting the winning run in a crucial ball game or watch them in the fifth performance of Death of a Salesman in high school? What happened to teaching children independence and allowing them to mature? How do we expect children to be able to handle themselves in social situations if the only situations they are allowed happen at school or under parental supervision?

Some mothers refuse to allow their children out of their own yards and sleepovers are only allowed if the other child comes to their home, even when the child is a teenager. What does that say about the parent that allows their child to sleep over at the friend's house? Does that mean they are negligent and taking chances with their child's life? Does social services need to be involved, or the police? No wonder some children never leave home and others prefer to return home after college and fail to launch. The umbilical cord doesn't stretch that far.

Don't kid yourselves. Living this way is fascism. When a parent can no longer correct their children in public for fear of being arrested and their children put in foster homes or allow a child to walk a couple of blocks without being chauffeured or when an adult must prove they are old enough to buy teaspoons, the world has gone insane. Living a life in fear of what the neighbors or a stranger will say or do is no way to live. That is not freedom. That is fascism. Freedom is dying a slow and painful death, leaching away into the sands of corruption and the black hole of public opinion. Each day we lose a little more, but people are adaptable. They keep pace with the current trends and social expectations without realizing that what is at stake is life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It's the trickle down effect. The government sticks their fingers and laws into every part of life for our own good, but it isn't a cookie that could spoil dinner they're regulating, it's our basic freedoms. In such a world, terror and fear rule and the masters of terror and fear gain more and more control until we end up as prisoners in our own homes. It was the state of things in Germany when the Nazis came to power and it is the unstable world ruled by Islam, and now it is here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Don't blink. Fascism is getting closer and freedom is strangling to death.

You blinked.

Anything is possible

These hours are all mine, this time just before the first blush of dawn and when the sun rises high enough in the sky to be ignored. This is when the breeze is cool on sleep fevered skin and body and mind are waking and preparing for the day ahead. The occasional rushing swish of tires on the pavement on Colorado Avenue are a soft counterpoint to the chirping birds and the tick of the keyboard as I compose my thoughts for the day, answer emails and navigate the mine fields of various news services in search for connection with the outside world.

After Dad died two years ago and I made a vow to write more, this was the time I was most creative and productive. I produced stories for six anthologies last year in these brightening hours when the gem bright lights seen through the seasonal changes of trees screening and outlining the horizons dimmed as cotton candy clouds flamed and faded to white while the sun rose in a molten pool of bronze and was born anew. These were the hours of profound silence before the rest of the world stirred, the soft strains of the city tuning up for another symphony of the streets.

The city comes to me in drifts of sound, but the view is very different here. Where once I looked out past the rooftops of the neighborhood to an unbroken view of the mountains, now I see the backs and sides of buildings and the dilapidated, weathered fence of a neighbor's yard out my bedroom window. I cannot see the mountains unless I go outside where hoary-headed Pikes Peak majestically rises above the shoulders of the surrounding mountain range. I miss seeing the mountains from the windows of my glass-walled aerie, but I enjoy the silence and peace of my ground level perch.

As the sun rises and warms the gathered dew, lilac drifts through the open windows. Its sweet scent fills my head and my lungs and pushes away the last of the morning congestion. It's difficult getting up for anything during these few hours of peace before I must heed the call to duty and responsibility and chores, so I enjoy each second, the afterglow of the night's dream lovers and travels, making ready for the day.

Most of my life, I've been a night owl, and can still be at times, seeing dawn from the backside instead of head on. I enjoy the solitude of night when the rest of the world settles in for the night, but I have become a devotee of approaching dawn seen through fresh eyes not wearied and weighted by a full day's work and worries. This is bliss and the promise of a new day where anything is possible.