Anybody There?

Another friend told me the other day they were deleting their blog. "Nobody reads it any more. I get more comments and feedback on Facebook no matter what I post."

"So," I said, "you're tired of being ignored and want that instant gratification."

"No. That's not it."

Methinks they did protest too much.

Who doesn't like comments? Who doesn't like to know they're being read -- and heard? Who doesn't tap the mic when no stops what they're doing or turns to face them when they speak?

We all do. I'm no different from you. I like to know that someone is paying attention, someone other than the faithful readers who always comment -- or mostly comment when they have time from their own posting and waiting and hoping someone acknowledges them.

Thank you, faithful readers. I appreciate every one of you. Even when you never comment.

I decided a long time ago that I would write what moves me, what I want to share, and even what tickles me and not care when people respond. Someone will see the leaves I write on and give to the winds and if they don't . . . . Well, it shouldn't matter. That leaves me free to be me, free to say what I choose without worrying about  offending someone (usually everyone). I don't worry about pleasing everyone either, although I do take some pains to take the best pictures I possibly can and choosing a picture that illustrates what I write and pleases my asthetic senses. Okay, I do that for you and not so much for me because I can enjoy reading without the pictures. I also do it a bit for me because I like to exercise the artistic part of myself. So, yes, it is a selfish thing, just like writing what is on my mind.

I learned during my time on Facebook that the instant gratification of quick responses and lots of likes that it feels good to have proof that people are paying attention, that the mic is on and transmitting. I also found out that I draw the loons more often than not and that most immediate responses are from people who don't really care what I write. They care that they are paying just enough attention to acknowledge that I'm writing so I will pay attention to them. They really don't read, digest, or often even understand what I write. Moreover, they don't really care because they are doing their best to make sure that people notice them. A pat on the back even when there is nothing more than the fleeting thought someone is there under their hand is sufficient, especially if that person actually likes their comments and posts and acknowledges that they are being read. Or heard. They want to be noticed whether you get noticed or not.

That is not the case with a good friend of mine who stopped reading my posts because I would engage in unthinkable -- and often unconscionable -- behavior. I actually debated and discussed issues with people who flamed, yelled, and sought to change my mind. Had we been in the same room, the opposition would have begun yelling and gesticulating while calling me an idiot and a mindless sheep only aware enough to follow the wooly hind quarters in front of me. Through all the ranting and name-calling, I remained calm and logical and respectful, even when my opponents did not. When things got too far out of hand I would chide them, remind them to respect my rules, and then, when they inevitably continued on their tirade while frothing at the mouth and wishing they could hit me in the face or over the head with a hard and heavy object, I would shut them down. I blocked them. He was upset because I was being savaged and did not seem to realize it. I still smile at his chivalrous care of me. I made him angry by giving the nut jobs on both sides of the discussion space and time and my attention and not being there to defend me. I think he would have waded into the debate and beat them to a bloody pulp had we been standing in the same room. He's a gentleman like that.

He finally had to stop paying attention so it wouldn't make him angry enough to hit someone. I understood. He's a good man and that is not something I say about a lot of men -- or women for that matter. He pays attention. He listens. He reads. Even when he seldom comments, and most especially when he does comment, he cares. We often get into spirited debates that stir the blood and flush my cheeks. No doubt they flush his cheeks too, but you don't say such things about a GUY.

It's funny in a way. We were aware of each other all through high school, but didn't run with the same crowd. I sailed through the halls with a smile and he sailed through the halls usually high and sometimes drunk. He was an excellent student, but he was one of the hippie types with long hair and jeans with tattered ends He is still a bit of a hippie, wearing ankle bracelets, though his hair is mostly gone. He's still a handsome man. I thought he was cute in high school, but I was more intent on studying than dating.

Oh, don't think I didn't date, that I was one of THOSE nerds. Not at all. I dated a number of guys and met my first husband in high school playing Euchre during lunch. I was the only girl in the history of the school that was allowed to play Euchre with the guys at lunch, and one of the few girls who took the game seriously enough that I was invited to play in their homes. They eagerly included me whenever they played, even if it was in my house. My friend wasn't one of those guys. He was busy frying other fish, but we were aware of each other. That was enough then. Now we call each other frequently and sometimes talk for hours, changing subjects quickly, sliding from music to politics to finances to every topic under the sun -- and a few under the stars and moon. We are friends. He listens. He reads. He pays attention. Between us, the mic is always on.

Do  I care if anyone reads my posts? Yes, but not THAT much. I don't care if they comment, and they rarely do. What I care about is that I am writing my words on leaves and tossing them to the winds to land wherever they will. If someone picks up the leaf and reads what I have written, it is enough. If the leaf dries and crumbles to duff and dust, that's all right too. I sent my words on the wind and the wind spreads them.

I am reminded of something one of my teachers told me. "It's enough that over all the decades of teaching, a couple people pay attention, and at least one gets something useful out of it." Now that I have turned 60, I understand that so much better. Not just the words, but the sentiment and the emotion. If a couple people read my words and just one gets something useful from my mental meanderings, it is enough. It is like an author whose work I have edited telling me that they thank me as they rewrite their book, thank me for giving them something useful they can use.

That is all. Disperse.

Guest Post: D. Kai Wilson-VIola

Reading and writing – hand in hand, refilling the well
One of the major things that I’ve discovered is that if I don’t read, I can’t write.  So it’s absolutely mystifying when I speak to writers who tell me they don’t have time to read any more.  Or even more astounding – those that don’t read ‘at all’.  And while I respect that there are probably good reasons for it, I can’t get my head around the idea that writers aren’t reading – beyond the obvious stuff on social networking and blogs and newspapers and more.
Reading when you don’t have time
There’s no such thing as ‘no time’, unless, from the moment you open your eyes, until you fall into bed in a heap, you’re on the go.  Many writers that I speak to tell me that they’re picking up their kids, and then talk about the half an hour they waited for their children – or the ten minutes in the queue at the post office.  I read!  I’ve got an app on my phone, and if I know I’m going to be somewhere with any wait, I grab one of my tablets.  I’m lucky – I have a Kindle Fire and an iPad, plus the Kindle app on my phone (and Audible too!)  so I’ve always got something to read (and something to amuse my kids if we’re travelling), but if you can’t do that for any reason, there’s nothing wrong with taking a paperback with you – it’s the act of reading itself that’s important. 
Why?  Because directing your imagination and actually experiencing the events that someone else has created is the single best way to formulate and understand how to do something similar yourself.
Really dissecting a piece, to see why it works, and why it might not is good for your critical skills  and most importantly – it gives you a chance to experience and enjoy something else.
Studies show….
Reading fiction is good for you – not only does it lower stress levels (yes, I know; it doesn’t always feel like that when we’re rooting for a character!) but it teaches you to cope with and explore ambiguity – at least according to a study by two researchers from Toronto.  Literary short stories in this case, but I’m sure it extends to reading in general.
Anecdotally, but those that read more in class on my degree in Creative Writing seemed to cope better with the workload and create the best stories, and, at the end of the day, got the best grades.  I’m not sure what would have happened if we’d have said that we don’t read on the course, but we were encouraged to devour books whole, and so we did.  I held down a full time job as a copywriter, parented two children, ran a house AND did a 40 hour a week degree, and still fit in reading time – it might not have been much (in the bath, or in bed in the morning before everyone else got up) but it was doable.
Never have, never will?  Seriously?
I totally get the idea that we’ve got to make sure that our time is allotted properly, but aside from considering reading as a downtime pursuit, you can also make it double duty – research your genre, relax your mind, learn and find things that resonate with your voice.  It doesn’t have to be a chore – reading is fun.  And yet, I still encounter writers, all the time, who say that it’s not something they’re interested in even doing.
At the end of the day though, if all you’re doing is writing, and not refilling your writerly well (however you do it) you’re going to struggle – but I do think that anyone that isn’t reading isn’t doing themselves any favors.  And as writers, we have to make sure we’re preserving and protecting everything we can, and giving ourselves every tool and opportunity to be a success.
And if you really can’t face reading – Audible is about the same cost as a couple of eBooks a month  and you can listen to that anywhere, with the right equipment.  Most phones support it now, as do all of the major tablets/computers.

D Kai Wilson-Viola is a long-time blogger, writer, parent, photographer, graduate, mental health advocate and cat lover.  When not writing, editing or holding down a day job in Public Relations, she can be found offering advice on her groups and sites, reading or chasing her teen and tween and two cats.  You can read all about her adventures in publishing and writing at Author Interrupted or Language and Print.
Image credit – Mourgefile - http://mrg.bz/Pz2WNc

Riots, Powder Kegs, and Time

Parents out of town and teenagers, left to their own devices, will have a party. It's like the reason for climbing Mt. Everest, or any big mountain, because it's there. Food, alcohol, plenty of space, and the parents are gone, so why not have a party. That's how I see the riots in England in the wake of a constable's death. It's a reason for a party or, in this case, a riot. A chance to break into shops and take whatever is wanted -- or needed.

In times of economic difficulty, especially in the heat of summer when tempers are short and the temperature is high, cities and towns are like powder kegs with fire burning nearby. One inch to close and BOOM! The constable's death was an excuse, not a reason, and the powder keg blew with stunning force. Shop windows were broken and contents damaged and stolen. Police were called out to keep order and one bookseller, whose store was in the heart of the rioting, kept his cool. He is reported to have said that if the rioters want to steal his books it was fine with him; they might learn something. That's the thing about books, they change a person's perspectives, feed a hunger for education, and provide a safe place to play and imagine a different life. It's why most authors write books, too, and, evidently, why booksellers get into the business of selling books to the public.

Borders, a bookstore that has been an institution, is now closed. The remaining stock will be parceled out to remainder shops or other bookstores to satisfy some of the chain's debts and the stores will remain empty, homes for spider, or will morph into something else: a dance club, a big box bargain or scratch and dent store, or even a getaway for drug addicts looking for a safe place to shoot up or smoke themselves into a different reality. Too bad they didn't get hooked on books and fall into worlds created just for getting away from reality and imagining a different life.

It wasn't in a Borders bookstore, although I spent many hours on Sundays when I was living in Texas, reading, sipping fruit juice, water, or hot chocolate, writing in a journal, or reading a book I picked from the shelves, but in a Waldenbooks bookstore in the Westgate mall in Columbus, Ohio where I got my first taste of worlds and adventures that would change my perspectives and my life. That was where, from across the store, I caught sight of a book cover with three people on it, grouped together like a force of nature. I was drawn to the Science Fiction and Fantasy aisle of the store and I picked up the book. It was Three Against the Witch World by Andre Norton. I was fascinated by the blurb I read and bought the book, taking it home with me. I haven't looked back at that moment for a very long time, but, last night while I was being interviewed for a biography about Andre, that moment came back to me as clear and sharp as it was the moment it happened nearly forty years ago. I was in full reverse mode, sharing the books and stories that I remember best, and talking about a friend who is now gone, a woman who became my mentor, and we met in a bookstore.

I received a Kindle a few months ago and I thoroughly enjoy being able to download books to read. The Kindle is light and convenient and the battery lasts quite a while, especially if I turn off the screensaver. I found that out the other day when I had to recharge it, thinking I had a lot more time on the battery. Even though I already own A Storm of Swords in paperback (part of a four-book boxed set), I decided to buy and download the book to my Kindle. Am I the reason Borders went out of business?

As self-centered as I can sometimes be, I know I'm not the reason Borders closed their doors. Bad business practices is what did Borders in, otherwise Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, and Books-a-Million would close their doors and call it quits. All of those bookstores, Borders included, sold more than books. They also sold CDs and DVDs of music, movies, and television shows, stationery, magazines, and pens, and some of them sold coffee and food. No one person or lack of people is responsible for Borders going under. It's like the riots in England, no one precipitating event caused people to slip their tethers and go berserk. It's a lot of different reasons catalyzed by a single event or series of events. Borders was a powder keg and someone lit a match too nearby, so it blew.

I don't mourn Borders too much. There are still bookstores with little cafes where I can sit on a Sunday sipping iced cappuccino and read a book on my Kindle or write in a journal, and there are plenty of small bookstores that will now get the book buyers and browsers who once frequented Borders.

These are volatile times financially, politically, and businesswise, powder kegs with fire sparking and burning nearby. There is no telling which powder keg will explode first. Anything is possible. There might be some good Samaritan who will put out the fire and put move the powder keg to a safe place -- or not. Nothing stays the same for long. Everything changes.

One thing never changes and that is the need and desire for knowledge and a place to get away from the cares and woes of the world, places that can be found in a book. Like the bookseller who said, "Let them break in and steal the books. They might learn something," I, too, am confident that what people want can be found between the pages of a book -- print and electronic -- wherein is contained the wisdom of the ages -- and quite a few silly and bad stories. Jump in, the reading's fine.

 

Actual Value vs Perceived Value

A lovely young Chinese girl pours boiling water into a 400-year-old teapot, adds tea leaves, and puts on the lid. Hot tea-flavored water cascades down the sides as she explains that the patina imparted by using the teapot is what gives it value. "Some things," she says as she wipes the sides with a cloth, "have no value unless they are used."

A Stradivarius violin, the finest violin in the world, cannot be kept in a safety deposit box or safe or it will crack and dry out and be useless. Unless it is used regularly by a violinist, no matter how good or bad she is, the violin is just so much glue, pegging, wood, and strings that go out of tune. The same is true of a piano, no matter what make or model; it will dry out, crack, and die without being used.

Some things were made to be used, and so it is with books, but how do you judge a book and assess its value?

Each book is a labor of love, a work of art, no matter what the critics say. Each book is the brain child given life and form on paper, and in pixels and electrons, and lives only when it is read.

Authors regularly tout their best selling status, count their profits, and continue to create more brain children, but does that make a book valuable? It is valuable in that the book earns money, but there is value beyond money, beyond the price, and beyond the profit. There is value in every book for some reader who has read the book so many times she can quote passages by heart, giving them nuance and a flavor the author may never have intended or realized. Each book is valuable to some one -- and sometimes to many someones, until the rest of the world and fans catch on. That is what I hope happens to my books, that they are read over and over by someone -- or many someones -- regardless of how much I earn, so long as they touch someone's heart and/or mind. That is the value of a book. It imparts a view of life, a bit of magic, a soupcon of wisdom, and often a titbit of laughter, tears, or joy.

Too often, in our rush to be recognized, lauded, and to profit from our dreams and visions made real, we forget that the real value in a book is in its impact. There is no value otherwise.

I remember a story about Beatrix Potter who made up stories and painted the scenes she saw in her imagination. As a Victorian woman, her only possibility of a life was to marry, manage a household, bear children, and be a helpmate to a man. The only other option was to ruin her reputation by going on the stage or becoming a prostitute, at least if she was from a good family. Lots of jobs were available for lower class women and few cared what they were. Someone had to serve, clean, cook, manage a household staff, etc., and no well born lady would have considered for a second having a valet instead of a lady's maid.

Beatrix was from a good family with some money and position and still she wanted to continue writing stories and painting her friends. She decided to have her work published and, with her companion in tow, she went round to various publishers until she found a publisher willing to take on her project and do it her way. She would not be fobbed off with second class work. She would draw and paint her own illustrations, and her first book was born.

Beatrix wrote and illustrated several books and, to her family's utter surprise, people talked about the little books as if they were gems of beauty and value, and bought so many of the books Beatrix was able to move out of her parents' home and into her own home on her own land bought with her own money. She was free at last. The rest of the story is as fascinating as the writing, but better leave that to another time and another subject.

Beatrix's books were her brain children and children, and adults, who bought the books loved them, cared for them, and passed them down to their own children. The books aren't big in size, but they are works of art that have value far and beyond the cost of materials and publisher's fees. The books are immortal. That's what every writer dreams and so few achieve.

Is it because the writing isn't good? Sometimes. Is it because the subject is off the beaten track? Sometimes. Is it because the author didn't play the socializing, marketing, and networking game? Not always.

Sometimes books don't hit their stride right away or fans don't form clans to discuss, rehash, and proselytize for the author. It's not the book or the author's fault; it's the luck of the draw -- or not drawn.

Every book has value to some person, some individual, and to the author. In order to transcend the first flush of creation, a book must be read and readers must talk and spread the word of mouth necessary to bring a book out of the shadows and into the light. However, if just one person, or even one hundred persons, read and reread and commit the book to memory, it's value soars. A book, like a 400-year-old teapot, has no value unless it is used. Usage brings a patina of beauty that the brightest diamonds and the richest fabrics cannot achieve.

Read a book. Pick one, any one, and find within it the beauty and profundity of the author's dreams. One person, one book, or a hundred persons and a hundred books, it does not matter. It only matters that you read and keep the words and images and dreams burnished. It's the difference between actual value and perceived value.

If you're looking for a gift, what better gift to give someone you love than a book?

Being Transported

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig

There are times when coming home from a vacation and getting back to the daily grind is a relief and times, like this morning, when it's not so much a relief as a pain. I want more time, at least a whole week, and preferably two weeks. I'm out of luck.

For the past five days I've been lolly gagging around having breakfast in a lovely dining room, tea at a castle and dinner at a new place every night and it has been lovely. Add in long luxurious baths, reading vampire novels and taking long walks with no particular destination in mind or having to be anywhere at a certain time, and it was perfect. Fresh towels I didn't have to launder. Sitting on a big porch in the sunshine reading books and waking up in a huge four poster bed on clean sheets I didn't have to wash or change was just the icing on the vacation cake. Now it's back to work and back to doing my own laundry, cooking my own food and changing my own sheets in a bed with no tall posts. I may have to fix that one of these days and create a little Victorian atmosphere of my own. But it's home and at least one good thing happened. I finally caught a mouse in my expensive and humane trap. Only one more to go and I don't have to break down and poison the little wretch.

In a few minutes, I shall take off the vacation clothes and put on work clothes and get down to the business of earning enough money to go on another little holiday in a few weeks. I'm still trying to decide if several short holidays are better than two week-long holidays. I guess I'll find out.

I also got some research in on a -- wait for it -- zombie story set in the Civil War. I don't do zombies, but Mary Ann got my mind turning on zombies and a Civil War setting when we discussed her zombie story set in the Civil War. My story isn't set at Shiloh but at Gettysburg at the turning point of the war. I spent quite a bit of time looking at the battle plans and reading some of the accounts and found the perfect place for a little evil and mayhem at Devil's Den. It has just the right atmosphere for the darker side of war.

For Christy, (I received your letter this morning), I have an answer to your question. No, I didn't take my camera, but I do have a picture for you. This is what some of the suite looks like.

I believe I may go back there again or I might find another little place I've been thinking about where breakfast is delivered to the door and there are woods to walk in and a river to meander beside. It's anyone's guess. Or I shall simply save up some time and put all my energy and time toward a seaside cottage in New England for a little writer's retreat with one of my favorite friends. The decks are clear and anything is possible.

Enjoy the week and don't forget to have a little fun along the way.

That is all. Disperse.

Living up to expectations

I am humbled by all the people who have visited my journal from Russia and the surrounding territories. I hope you found something interesting to read. Thank you so much for visiting and reading.

Я смирил всех людей, которые посетили мой журнал из России и прилегающих территориях. Надеюсь, вы нашли что-то интересное для чтения. Большое спасибо за посещение и чтение.

YA smiril vseh lyudyeĭ, kotorye posetili moĭ zhurnal iz Rossii i prilegayushchih territoriyah. Nadyeyusʹ, vy nashli chto-to interesnoe dlya chteniya. Bolʹshoe spasibo za poseshchenie i chtenie.

I know I have been gone for a while now. I have been busy doing a lot of other things, among them working and revising one of my books to get it read for an agent and publisher. There are times when I have to choose among the things I want to do and the things I have to do to further my writing career. Writing is and always will be my first priority, and things have been very interesting over the past few weeks. The biggest surprise to me is how many people actually read my ramblings here on LiveJournal, and how many of them come from Russia. I even picked up a few new readers from Russia. That is always surprising. A writer never knows how their ideas and characters will translate to different cultures. Finding out there have been hundreds of readers just this morning was surprising and gratifying. One reader from Moscow likened my writing to John Steinbeck. I like Steinbeck's work and have read his books many times, even when I didn't have to read them for school. I find his characters true to life and interesting even when they don't seem interesting to each other. I had no idea Steinbeck was so popular in Russia. It just goes to show that there are more similarities between people than there are differences, no matter where they live.

After the Nobel prize committee chairman criticized American and British writers and enumerated the reasons why they were not good enough to be honored, it seemed as though the countries where English is the first language and where the language flowered, grew and evolved were no longer in the literary loop. There have been criticisms of American literature, which some British writers and publishers have likened to generic, formulaic writing that panders to labels, brands and the semi-literate, but I've found some British literature that is just as generic, formulaic and label-conscious that barely gets to the sixth grade level. I have found that many editors and writers continue to push the belief that all writing should be accessible, which is publishing speak for dumbing down (4-6th grade level). I've found that people will live down to expectations if they can, but that they will also live up to expectations if offered.

I have spent a good deal of time reading and reviewing and critiquing writers from all around the world, most of whom write in English as a second, third or even fourth language. But, the Nobel prize committee chairman aside, English is becoming the universal language. Since I don't write in Russian, except for the translation above, it must have been something in my English writing that has attracted so much attention. I also don't include a lot of pictures or art work, so the writing has to be the draw. For all I know, people are visiting in droves because they heard on the grapevine I mentioned something worth noting, or they have gathered to laugh at my use of language as proof the Nobel committee chairman is right and Americans do not have a clue about what life and living is all about.

Americans have been called clueless when it comes to the problems of living and in some places that is true. I don't think it's true for every American writer because our experiences are just as valid and just as universal as anyone's anywhere in the world. That is nowhere more evident than in the polyglot of books and writers I have recently read. I often search out books from other countries -- France, England, Australia, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, India, Russia, Germany, Greece and Africa, among others -- and I am getting to know Chinese and Japanese writers as well. I don't care where a writer is from only what he has to say. I don't always agree, but I find it fascinating to see how they express themselves about mundane topics like love, family, war, poverty and living. Some of the best books I've read have been from Indian writers and I find their close ties to their religion and how they integrate that into their characters' lives and the story wonderfully refreshing. Their religious beliefs and mythology are an integral part of who they are and how they view the world, and it's not the Bible bashing, proselytizing, convert or die writing that often characterizes other writers including religion in their writing. It is much more subtle and intricately woven into the warp and weft of the fabric of their lives and their writing. There is nothing I dislike more than being beaten over the head with religion or preached at. Like sex, with religion, I don't care what you believe, but don't force it down my throat. I'll respect you and your beliefs as long as you respect mine. Once again, it's a matter of living down to expectations. Writers and people who force their beliefs on others do so because they are afraid people are too stupid to make up their own minds and, like children who refuse to eat, must be force fed.

Not preaching when making a point is a balancing act I am very aware of in writing Among Women. I have a lot of points to make, but I can either tell the reader what to think or allow the characters and the story to do the talking for me, and for the women who shared their stories with me. I've chosen to let the women speak.

It seems strange that after nearly 30 years, their stories are still so fresh and clear in my mind. It isn't as if I think about them every day -- or at least I didn't until I decided to attempt writing our story again. In the past few months, it has been on my mind most of the time because I am still working to get it right -- the balancing act again. I have had a lot of input from first readers who have pointed out areas where I've repeated myself or where things are not as clear as I thought and I take it all under consideration. The story I posted here two years ago is very different from the book that has evolved and continues to evolve. I wonder if it will ever be perfect, but I know it will be the best I can do when it is published. This is a book I am making available to European markets and it is a difficult undertaking because of the jaundiced view Europeans have of American writers. It doesn't matter. Many European and Eastern writers have had a go at the book and the comments have been favorable. Who knows? Maybe it will finally happen that an American writer will be able to stand up and say their book has a universal appeal and not be laughed down by the entrenched international writers who believe only they know how and what to write about living on this planet. I guess they forgot about Steinbeck and Mark Twain and all the writers of note in America and Britain that blazed the trails they now follow with dogged steps.

After all, I am nobody outside of the United States and yet even I have found an audience or two that appreciates what I have to say. They have decided to live up to expectations and give others a chance to share their stories and lives. We are all the same no matter the language we speak or the customs and religions we follow, because at the heart of things we are in the end just people looking for a connection.

Broadcast news

If you didn't get a chance to hear me live on Internet Voices Radio Friday night, here's your chance to listen to the mp3 file.

I was surprised, despite a bit of stage fright, that I actually enjoyed reading the excerpt from Past Imperfect. It has been a long time since I did anything remotely theatrical, other than the screams of terror when I wake up in the morning and remember I didn't do the dishes the night before or find a volcano of dough has covered the top and front of the stove where I put it to warm two hours before. I have confined my theatrics to my small and intimately isolated stage here in the cottage. I had forgotten how good it felt to get into the character and just go with it. I could've used a bit more rehearsal, definitely more than a 10-minute read-through to see how many pages I could read in ten minutes, especially since I found out that emotion takes time and I didn't get as far as I had just reading. I'll have to keep that in mind for the next time.

After Friday night's performance and talking once again with the station manager, I began considering her previous offer to host my own show, a show of authors reading and discussing their books and getting into some of the tricks and treats of the writing trade. I'm still muddling it over and haven't made a decision, but I'm definitely leaning in that direction. I always enjoyed my time treading the boards and getting into character. In a sense, writers are actors, too; they get into the minds and hearts of the characters they create -- that is if they are good writers and not just going through the motions -- and act out all the parts in their head, or on their own private stage when they read their work aloud to edit, something Mark Twain suggested for clarity and to hear the music of the spoken words.

At any rate, let the heckling begin. I had a good time, mistakes and all, and I will definitely do it again.

That is all. Disperse.

Things to do in bed

Okay, I get the whole e-book thing now. It's convenient. It's small and fairly lightweight. It fits easily and comfortably in the hand and there's no need to raise the arms to turn the pages, a button does all the work. It takes up about the same space as a paperback and the batteries last a good amount of time. But if I give up real books, the ones with covers and spines and pages, I won't have anything to sleep with. Maybe that's a good thing. Feng shui would have it that having a space on the bed where someone else would sleep is an invitation to someone in the universe willing to sleep on that side against the wall with me on the other side providing furnace heat. Other New Age best selling books say the same thing. So, that only leaves me who wants to sleep with books and magazines and catalogues.

Tim told me his doctor told him (don't you just love he said-she said stories?) that the only thing a person should do in bed is sleep. Tim has insomnia and only uses his bed for sleep. No wonder he has insomnia. I use books and magazines and other reading material like most people use Valium and sleeping pills. Reading lying down makes me sleeping, even with my 1150. Of course, with the 1150, I don't have to roll over and turn out the light; I can -- and do -- read in the dark. When I wake up in the middle of the night and have a little trouble falling back to sleep, I read. Books are necessary on the bed -- and on the floor next to the bed and on the nightstand and on the chest of drawers I pass when I come back from the bathroom on the way to the bed.

I also eat in bed on the weekends or when I'm under the weather. On the weekends, it's a luxury not to have to get up, make breakfast, get showered and dressed and work. I can lounge around all day in bed with pit stops and eat and sleep and read to my heart's content. I think weekends are made for relaxing and unwinding from the hectic weekday pace, and bed is the best place to do that. I drink in bed most nights. I drink fresh, hot cocoa or chamomile tea, and sometimes I have a half glass of wine with my book before turning out the light and going to sleep.

For the first year after I moved here I didn't eat anything in the bedroom and I only kept a glass of water by the bed to drink when I wake up in the middle of the night and I feel a bit parched from the furnace or the summer night's heat. I'd eat in the living room on the couch where there's a table (the coffee table, except I don't drink coffee) and read or watch a movie. The minute I got comfortable and stretched out to read, I fell asleep with the lights on and in an uncomfortable position that made my neck cramp for days. That's when I lifted the self-imposed ban on eating and drinking in the bedroom. I want to be comfortable when I read and to be comfortable I need to be in bed where if I fall asleep I'm not going to wake up with cramps and aches in places that usually don't cramp and ache, thank you very much.

And beds are for having sex, napping and having more sex. Of course, that might be a little difficult with the usually unoccupied side of the bed covered with books, magazines and catalogues, so maybe the e-book reader is a better idea for reading in bed . . . just in case. You just never know. After all, a hundred books in bed, not including catalogues and magazines, are a bit difficult to get off the bed in case of a sex attack, and getting to the sex would be quicker without all my usual companions.

Aw, hell, that's why couches, and floors and kitchen counters were invented -- to have sex when half the bed is covered in books.

I like my 1150 and it is convenient, but I'm not giving up the three dimensional, food-stained, smudged pages of paper and ink books. A girl's got to have something to cozy up to on a sleepless night.

In an electronic literary quandary

I'm increasingly leaning toward getting an e-book reader and have checked out several types and platforms. The eBookwise 1150 is still the top contender, but I'm being drawn to the dark side and considering the Kindle. I said it was the dark side.

While investigating the Kindle a little more I noticed something nefarious interesting. The newer, bigger and more expensive Kindle has limited wireless, only in the U.S., while the older 6-inch model, which is also cheaper, has global wireless. I think it should be the other way around, but I'm strange that way.

I have Internet access with my computers and don't really need the wireless since USB or dial-up access are just fine, but I worry about not being able to download and read all the books I'd like to have, and then there's the size of the potential library: 1500 versus 100 books, hence the quandary. The reviews on the 1150 have been overwhelmingly good and they are mixed with Kindle. Both have had their bugs and fixes and it all boils down to what works best in terms of battery life (15 hours for the 1150 and a week for the Kindle). I cannot imagine not being near an electrical outlet that charges while I read or being able to enjoy a week-long literary orgy, but then again.... So, now I turn to you, my audience, to ask for your experiences and opinions. I am waiting and listening.

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.