The power of the Internet

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

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

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

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

I was stunned, to say the least.

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

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

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

That is all. Disperse.

The wages of buried talents

I was wrong, Spike's Leman. I do understand what it's like to play in someone else's world. It's just been so long ago, I forgot about when it happened to me. Over 30 years ago, no one called it fan fiction. It was watching too much TV.

I was about 21 years old and I never missed an episode of M*A*S*H. I even saw the movie before it became a TV show and I really enjoyed it. I knew the characters inside and out and could tell you what was going to happen on any episode. I'm sure someone would have called me obsessed, but not to my face.

In the midst of one season I got an idea for the show. I wrote it all down, found out where to send it (and to whom) and I sent a rundown of the whole story line in a letter to Larry Gelbart. A few weeks later I received an answer from Mr. Gelbart thanking me for my letter and my idea. He also said he didn't accept unsolicited queries. The following year when the new season started, lo and behold, the story line I had outlined and sent to Mr. Gelbart showed up in the new season. I was furious and hurt. He told me he couldn't use what I sent and there it was on the screen, everything I had written. I learned a hard lesson that day and it has nothing to do with stealing ideas or copyrights. It has to do with playing on someone else's equipment in their playground.

It no longer matters to me whether or not Larry Gelbart took my idea and used it for his show or if we both had the same idea at the same time. What matters is learning from my mistake and sharing that information.

There are many people who write fan fiction and play on someone else's equipment on their playground. Many of those people relate to the characters and enjoy taking them in different directions. A few of those people take the time to carefully research story lines and the information, but they don't think what they write is worth anything so they post it in journals and on private websites for free with the disclaimer that they are not infringing on copyrighted characters, worlds or material. They don't think they have what it takes to create characters and worlds, so they borrow what they love and invest their time and talent in playing on someone else's playground, never realizing they are missing an opportunity that could change their lives. How? By getting paid to play on that playground.

Most television shows are created by a team of writers, overseen by producers, some of whom also write. Good shows sometimes go downhill for lack of creative talent and new directions, and the material they need might be posted on some obscure fan fiction website.

Maybe you don't have what it takes to create characters and situations and believable worlds, but you do know the playground where you spend so much time and talent. Why not take a chance? Do a little more research, find out how to put together a sample speculative script (spec script), where to send it and to whose attention, write the script and send it in. You have nothing to lose but your time and a bit of paper and ink (or electrons). How do you think most of those writers got their start? By learning the guidelines and taking a chance.

You have to begin somewhere, so why not with your favorite show. Even if your script is turned down, provided you followed the rules and guidelines, some bright enterprising producer might see what you can't -- that you have talent and can write. Writers are a commodity we can never have too much of -- as evidenced every time a network pays for a reality television show. So many good shows die from stagnation and lack of good writers.

If I had known what to do and how to approach Larry Gelbart when I was 19, I might have ended up living and working in Hollywood or moved on to writing novels sooner than I did. I had no one to tell me how to do it properly or that there was a proper way. I was married with one child and another on the way. In some parallel universe, the smarter me has been a paid writer for decades, starting with a spec script to Larry Gelbart that earned me a writing credit on M*A*S*H.

Remember the parable about the two servants whose master gave them ten talents? One servant buried his talents and when his master returned his wages for his careful protection of the master's wealth were zero. The wages for the other servant who invested the ten talents and earned many times over that were the profits of his daring. Although the parable doesn't say, I always believed that the smart servant ended up a free man while the other servant remained a servant. Fortune favors the bold.

In other words, take a chance. What do you have to lose? You might end up with nothing or you might end up with a credit on the show where you've buried your talents writing for free. You'll never know if you don't take a deep breath, close your eyes and take the plunge.

That is all. Disperse.

One wrinkle in a perfect seam

First, I'd like to thank all of you who took time out of your busy mornings to call me and wish me happy birthday this morning. It's all right that you forgot there are things called time zones that mean what was mid morning for you was barely past dawn for me. It's the thought that counts.

I'd also like to thank all of you who called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me. Your efforts, if not your vocal skills, are much appreciated. And to everyone who emailed, posted and otherwise offered birthday greetings, thank you all. You've made this a very special and memorable day and I appreciate all of you. Even my mother remembered my birthday; usually she only remembers my brother's birthday. Must be something about having a penis that makes it easier.

On another more somber note, it seems that the Authors Guild has decided to sue Amazon over the Kindle 2's new function: text to voice. I read about the flack over this new feature and how it affected the copyrights of audio books, but I never though it would get to this point. The Authors Guild didn't kick up nearly as much of a fuss when Amazon decided to disable the buttons for all books not published by their own in-house POD publisher and that was something they should have fought. Instead, the AG left it to POD publishers to stand their ground. It's nice to know that when it doesn't count the AG is willing to go to the mat to sue over a function that is no different than computers with functions that change text to audio for vision and other handicapped people so they can hear the text they cannot read. By suing Amazon over the Kindle 2 they are, if they win the suit, setting a precedent that will affect millions of handicapped people and people who read books aloud to their children, families and other people. What's next, suing Starbucks because you're so clumsy you dropped your hot latte in your lap while you were driving?

What amazes me the most is that this is obviously more about money and less about copyright infringement. Did they think intelligent people wouldn't notice or that the dollar signs would affect people's ability to see clearly? Probably. After all, in a world of entitlements and earmarks, it is, after all, all about the money.

It is a beautiful world and today many of my friends and family (and quite a few strangers) reminded me of how beautiful a world it is, so it's a bit difficult to be brought back to the hard earth with such a bone crunching stop, but into every life a little fly is bound to end up in the ointment if you leave the lid off long enough -- or some mouse will decided that your stash of Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate is just what they need to round out their evening meal after stealing the bait out of the trap. No one said life would be easy -- or even make sense most of the time -- but it's a terminal disease that sometimes offers glimpses of breathtaking beauty and awe inspiring wonder that makes the journey mostly worthwhile if you ignore the idiots blocking the view.

That is all. Disperse.

Wild Hunt

Every once in a while I get stumped for something to write, so I sit down and let my fingers skip across the keys and see what comes out. It's going to be one of those nights tonight.

Maybe I have exhausted all the current subjects or maybe it's just the wild wind outside shaking the trees and sending garbage cans flying that has me on edge. It could also be the weight of work and things needing fixed and my car not cooperating when I want to go somewhere (a problem that will be fixed when my solar powered battery charger arrives). It could also be the approach of the solar return when the stars and planets are in the exact same alignment as the moment of my birth more than half a century ago that is throwing everything out of kilter. It's on nights like this when the Wild Hunt gallops past the door calling my name to join them as they whirl on the screaming winds past unsuspecting souls that something inside clamors for release and the urge to throw open the door and greet the night is too strong to resist.

It's at times like this I remember all the tales of the Wild Hunt and the dark serpentine forms of coursing hounds after prey and the Hunter moves from his quiet stance in the star crusted night to run down the night. I admit my imagination takes dark and shadowy forms on nights like this and I am anxious to throw open the doors of memory, let loose the guards and settle into sleep to follow my dreams wherever they lead. Tonight there will be no dreams of half naked men who clean rooms and whisk away the debris of the previous night's revelry or passions rising to be spent and spent again. Tonight there will be dreams of haunted feverish yearnings where desires are unveiled and fulfilled beneath the lash or riding crop or taunted, teased and stroked to the very edge of madness before the final shuddering release that is the prelude to excess and excitation brought again and again to the heights when muscles, nerves and flesh tremble in anticipation of orgasmic relief.

Spring is close and I feel the rising tide flowing warm and deep within.

The death of democracy and freedom

As a child, one of my favorite books was The Arabian Nights, 1001 tales purportedly told by Queen Scheherazade to the Sultan who had vowed to take a wife, sleep with her one night and then kill her. Scheherazade was the last queen because she saved her own life by captivating the Sultan with her stories. My ideas of Islam were born among those tales of Djinn and Mamelukes and flying carpets.

When I read The Infidel by Georgia Elizabeth Taylor, I got a different view of Islam, the view of beautiful blinding white cities in exotic Spain where women were educated and even taught in colleges, owned property and had the run of the city. They were intelligent and beautiful and free and had converted from Christianity under the spell of the beauty of Islam's fair laws and generous heart. By contrast, medieval Christianity was barbaric, a religion that espoused filth as the way to heaven, where bathing was a sin and reading, writing and learning punishable by pain, torture and even death, especially for women. Islam was an enlightened religion that protected the rights of slaves and women among luxury and beauty unknown anywhere in the world. Astronomy, mathematics and medicine were nurtured in the greenhouse under Islam's warm glow.

And the decadent Spanish Muslims were persecuted by the Christians who plundered their cities, raped their women and slaughtered thousands as they took Islamic gold and luxuries. Spanish Muslims were also persecuted by their militant African and Middle Eastern brothers who looked upon the wealth and beauty of their cities and their just and flourishing society as apostasy, sin of the highest order, and they were either converted or killed. It is the same world in which we live today.

There are peaceful Muslims who deal openly and generously with those who do not share their beliefs, but more and more the world is being overrun by Muslims intent upon the absolute conversion or death of all infidels -- the rest of the world. Jews are first on the list and then Christians, but you can be assured that no one will escape unscathed. No one is safe. That is the Islam of today, a world in which radical Muslims are taking over countries from within, spreading their religion of hate and destruction assured of a place in Paradise by their sacrifice -- and no sacrifice is too great, not even the lives of women, children or themselves. To die in the service of spreading their message of hate is the highest honor.

Geert Wilders, a peaceful man and a film maker from The Netherlands, made a movie and wished to show it in Parliament in Britain, one of the oldest homes of a living democracy in the world. Wilders was declared persona non grata, an unwelcome person, by the leader of the Labour Party and met at Heathrow airport by security. He was manhandled and taken to a holding area where he awaited the next plane back to The Netherlands. He was invited by Parliament to return and show his film, Fitna, about Islam. It takes about 15 minutes, but the images and the information are worth the time.

Fitna is about the Quran and about the radical Muslim agenda. The World Trade Center, the Atocha station bombing, the bombing of a triple decker bus in London and all the other atrocities committed in recent years by Muslim extremists are part of an agenda of hate aimed at spreading Islam's message of hate throughout the world. No one is safe, not even peaceful Muslims.



It is at times like this, after viewing radical Islam's plan for the rest of the world, that I understand why, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, thousands of peaceful and law-abiding Japanese were rounded up and sent to relocation camps. We could not as easily round up and imprison Nazis in our midst because they were indistinguishable from people and families they knew all their lives. In retrospect, the all pervasive fear that created those camps is understandable. America had been touched by the Nazis and their allies the Japanese, came to our country and attacked Pearl Harbor. Was the rest of mainland America next?

Muslims have spread to nearly every country in the world, their slender minarets climbing into the heavens, their shadows spreading across the land and darkening all that falls beneath its influence. Muslims have been welcomed into the government and a Muslim took his oath of office on the Quran before becoming a Member of Congress. As radical Islam spreads its message of terror, death and destruction everywhere it goes, how can people not be afraid that the smiling face across from them at work, in the store, at the bank or even reading the evening news does not hide the heart of a terrorist?

In a land of democracy and freedom, we believe in the inherent decency and honor of all races and religions -- as difficult as that sometimes proves to be. We allow the hateful rhetoric of neo-Nazis, black Muslims, black Christian preachers and would-be terrorists because the very essence of the freedom is the freedom to embrace different ideologies and religions and openly speak about it. Messages of hate stand alongside peaceful protest and opinion in the pages of books and newspapers and on the Internet and each message, regardless of its intent, is protected by law, laws enacted in the democratic process that ensures every adult one vote. And yet, can we ignore the danger in our midst? Will peaceful and educated Muslims stand against their radical and murderous brethren to protect freedom and democracy, stand with Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists and every other religion or nonbeliever when the time comes to make a choice?

Freedom and democracy are dangerous in a radical Muslim society because they guarantee the right to think and believe and act against the dictates of hate. Radical Islam is bent on the destruction of freedom and democracy and their weapons are hatred, terror, intolerance, torture and death. Who will stand for democracy and freedom in the face of torture and certain death? Could you?

Ants and grasshoppers

Do you know the story of the grasshopper and the ants? It's a fairly simple one.

In a field one summer’s day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart’s content. An Ant passed by, bearing along with great toil an ear of corn he was taking to the nest.
“Why not come and chat with me,” said the Grasshopper, “instead of toiling and moiling in that way?”
“I am helping to lay up food for the winter,” said the Ant, “and recommend you to do the same.”
“Why bother about winter?” said the Grasshopper; “we have got plenty of food at present.” But the Ant went on its way and continued its toil. When the winter came the Grasshopper had no food and was dying of hunger while every day the ants distributed corn and grain from the stores they had collected in the summer.

I remember an old cartoon in which the grasshopper danced and played a fiddle while the ants worked and stored up food for the long winter ahead. Come winter, the grasshopper fell at the doorway to the ants' home in the midst of a blizzard. He was nearly dead of starvation and hypothermia. The ants took him in, revived and fed the grasshopper and he repaid them by playing his fiddle and dancing with the ants in the warm comfort of their winter home.

I'll bet that when spring came the grasshopper went back out into the greening world and played his fiddle and danced the warm months away while the ants went back to working and saving. He hadn't learned a thing. He wasn't going to waste his time working throughout the warm and beautiful days; he knew the ants would follow their nature and store up food that he would share all winter long. They'd been generous with him before and he no doubt thought they would continue to be generous and there'd always be a handout waiting for him, so why change and give up having a good time?

That is all. Disperse.

Politics, guns and money

I'll keep this short since most of you are probably tired of all the politics and talk about money. Still, knowledge is power so power up.

New Deal vs Reagonomics.

http://spectator.org/archives/2008/09/05/memories-of-wasilla/1">Politics made interesting -- for a while.


Here's a thought to warm some of your hearts . . ...
From: Ed Chenel, A police officer in Australia


Hi Yanks,
I thought you all would like to see the available data from Down Under.
It has now been one year (12 months) since gun owners in Australia
were forced, by a new law, to surrender 640,381 personal firearms to
be destroyed by our own government, a program costing Australian
taxpayers more than $500 million dollars.

The first year results are now available:
Australia-wide, homicides are up 6.2 percent;
Australia-wide, assaults are up 9.6 percent;
Australia-wide, armed robberies are up 44 percent (yes, 44 percent);
In the state of Victoria alone, homicides with firearms are now up
300 percent as compared with the last one year period when
private ownership of a firearm was legal. (NB: the law-abiding citizens
did turn in their personal firearms, the criminal element did not and thus
criminals in Australia still possess their guns.)

While data for the 25 years preceding the confiscation of
privately owned guns showed a steady decrease in armed
robbery with firearms, this has changed drastically upward in
the past 12 months as criminals now are assured their
victims will be unarmed.

There has also been a dramatic increase in break-ins and
assaults of the elderly, while the resident is at home.
Australian politicians are at a loss to explain how public safety has
decreased, after such monumental effort and expense was expended
in successfully ridding Australian society of guns.

This story of well intentioned government intervention in the rights of
lawful individuals to own and possess firearms won't be seen in the
mainstream US media or on the American evening news.
President Obama who advocates a similar confiscation in the US will not
be reporting any of this to you.

But, the Australian experience speaks for itself. Guns in the hands of
honest citizens save lives and property and, yes, gun-control laws affect
only the law-abiding citizens.

As emotional as the above is, the facts don't bear it out completely, so check out the statistics for yourself.

That is all. Disperse.

Violence in the Age of Aquarius

Mike and I were discussing the perpetuation of violence and that there may not be a way to end it. I suggested a virus that targeted whatever hormones or DNA responsible for the violent response in humans, but that might end up in like Captain Kirk in Mirror, Mirror when he was split into the two halves of his personality (one violent and one passive reason), neither of which could live without the other. The same situation was used in Buffy the Vampire Slayer when Xander was hit by a demon's weapon and split into smart and confident Xander and silly, immature Xander, both of which would die if they weren't reunited. Instead of a transporter fusing the two, Willow reversed the spell. Willow said that it was the natural state of the two halves of Xander to be one. In both situations, the writers were saying that we are darkness and light, violence and reason, good and evil combined in one package.

The dichotomy of the two halves of human nature -- dark and light -- is the central theme in many stories throughout history and is most prominent in Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Nowhere is the search to end violence and divide human nature more obvious than in Jekyll and Hyde, and that is one story that has been told and retold and cast in many different ways, even making the two halves of human nature male and female (Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde). So what is the answer? How do we control violence without cutting ourselves in half or castrating the population?

FINDING A WAY

The tendency toward violence is inherent in all of us and religion certainly isn't the answer. Organized religion has fomented more wars, murder and destruction than any other catalyst in the history of mankind, and it's much harder to persuade a fervent believer that violence in the name of his god is wrong. After all, he has a mandate from heaven and he is the instrument of god's will, the results of which can be seen in radical Muslim suicide bombers. They have the force of Allah behind them and to deny Allah's will is unthinkable. Christianity isn't without its holy wars either and it's not even necessary to go back to the time of the Crusades in the Dark Ages to find proof. Hitler used religion to his advantage by targeting Jews, Gypsies and Christians that didn't follow the same beliefs. Even the Jews in their early days destroyed cities and put whole populations to the sword in the name of G_d. Instances of murder in the name of religion are very easy to find: Jim Jones, the Holy Inquisition, Joan of Arc (although Joan carried a sword, she never killed anyone, but her troops did), Cromwell, El Cid, Saladin, Richard the Lionhearted, the Children's Crusade, the Reformation Wars, David Koresh, Saddam Hussein, etc. I could go on for pages.

It is doubtful that violence can be reliably obtained through external means (drugs, religion, government) because each can be so easily perverted and turned from helping to fueling a more intense and destructive violence once removed or perverted. At the Battle Creek Sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan, John Harvey Kellogg believed he had conquered the inherent predatory nature of a wolf by raising him to be a vegetarian, but I've little doubt that given a plate of raw meat the wolf would have reverted to type and become a dangerous predator. That much is evident in cats. A vegetarian cat will still chase, torture and kill any mouse that crosses it's path, its predatory nature hard wired in its DNA and its brain, and the same can be said for any predatory animal, including humans.

The only possible chance to curb the violent nature is to focus on the personality, the basic human psyche. Some people are more predatory than others (serial killers, abusers, murderers, etc.) but the instinct is in us all. It is the instinct to survive at all costs, as the members of the Donner party found when they were stranded in a snow storm while crossing the Rocky Mountains on their way to Oregon. The soccer players in the plane that went down in the Andes quickly turned to their dead fellow passengers to sustain them until they were found. The survival instinct is strong and I doubt it would exist without the inherent violence in human nature.

Humans can be tolerant and charitable and driven and reasonable, but given the right circumstances a mild mannered individual can become Superman or John Wayne Gacy.

As much as I would like to see peace on earth with good will toward all men, I doubt it will happen quickly and definitely not with religion, drugs or government intervention. You can lock up the criminals, but the most successful criminals never see the inside of a prison. We may not be ready for peaceful co-existence, as Kirk and Spock found out when they leapt through the time arch in The City on the Edge of Forever, which I discovered was written by Harlan Ellison. Edith Keeler had to die because her plans for peace were ahead of their time or it may be right around the corner.

At dawn on Saturday, February 14, 2009 the Age of Aquarius dawns when the Moon in Libra enters the seventh house of relationships, and Jupiter and Mars are aligned in Aquarius in the twelfth house of spiritual transformation. Sound familiar? It was a very popular song when I was growing up.

Whatever happens, we must find a way to use the violence inherent in the survival instinct, and the instinct to compete for mates, territory and possessions, to propel humanity into a new age of peace and prosperity without castrating human nature or ending up as ineffectual, weak-willed, intellectuals on the verge of fading away into nothingness. There has to be a way. Maybe the dawning Age of Aquarius marked in the eternal skies above this beleaguered planet will guide the way. The hippies of the 1960s were ahead of their time, like Edith Keeler. Maybe we have finally reached the time when peace will reign and violence will enhance our strength without robbing our minds and hastening the end of the Age of Man.

When the Moon is in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligns with Mars.
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars.
Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind's true liberation
Aquarius!
Aquarius!

I'll gouge you later

Since I work at home and everything I need is within walking distance, I don't usually drive my car. That means I save lots of money on gas (haven't filled the tank since October and I'm still at half a tank), wear and tear on the car, tires and machinery, and the battery tends to run down when it's cold. It was cold today and the battery was low.

I gave it some time to recharge but I still couldn't get the engine to turn over, so I called an auto repair shop that's about two blocks away and asked how much he would charge me to jump my battery. "Five thousand dollars," he said.

"Sorry, I'll have to call AAA. They're cheaper."

"Where are you?"

I gave him my address and he said he'd be right over and we could discuss it then. I knew he wouldn't really charge me $5,000, but he didn't give me enough time to ask if he took credit cards. I went to the bathroom and when I got outside he was getting out of his car with a portable battery charger, a sort of charged battery with cables. Since I've been eyeing a solar battery charger about the size and thinness of a mouse pad, I didn't let my eyes linger too long on the nifty tool. In less than five minutes, my car was running like a champ. I asked him what I owed him. "Nothing. I'll gouge you later on something else."

I appreciate his candor. I also told him I have some things that need to be done (flush & fill, A/C recharge, and tune-up), and he just smiled as he rolled up the cables and reminded me to leave the car run for a while to recharge the battery.

I've dealt with his company before and they are reliable and reasonably priced, so I don't take his gouging comment seriously. Then again, you never know quite what someone will do when you need their help, like my dad.

Adventures in driving

It was bitterly cold the night Dad drove his truck up to Worthington from Hilliard to see if he could get my car started. It wasn't the battery. He jumped the car and the engine sounded sick and run down. It just clicked. Alternator or starter -- or both. Dad had a heavy chain in the back of the truck and he affixed the heavy hook to the bumper of my 1978 Gran Torino to tow me back to Hilliard down I-270, one of the busiest freeways in the city. Even at night, cars whizzed by us, rocking the heavy Torino.

I had no brakes and the power steering was out since the engine wasn't running and there was no charge in the battery. Dad seemed to forget I was back there or that I was freezing. No engine means no heat and I was wearing a skirt. Even in pantyhose, my legs quickly turned to blocks of ice and I lost all feeling below the waist as I instinctively braked every time the chain went slack and the rear end of Dad's truck loomed in front of me. Just before I hit the back end of the truck, the chain would snap taut and we'd be off again, Dad driving at top allowed speed.

Hands on the wheel, sweat freezing on the palms of my hand and sticking to the plastic steering wheel, I rode behind my demented father's truck, jerking and slowing, slowing and jerking, trying to maintain a straight line with the power steering no longer working. It was like trying to turn a Mack truck with a kiddie car steering wheel and it didn't work very well. Teeth clenched, nearly frozen solid, I fought the wheel and prayed continuously until suddenly Dad's truck pulled away and my car slowed. I managed to get to the side of the road before the truck disappeared over the hill and I waited and waited and waited.

After what seemed like hours, someone tapped on the wheel just before hypothermia set in and my eyes had slid completely shut as I gave myself up to a long -- very long, terminal -- winter's nap. I jerked awake and rolled down the window. Dad laughed at me. "I got all the way to Roberts Road before I realized you weren't back there any more. I'll hook you back up and we'll be on our way."

I don't know what was worse, sitting there as the winter night wrapped subzero arms around me or being jerked at high speed down the freeway behind Dad's truck, but I survived, obviously. It was a night of terror for me and a big joke for Dad. Roberts Road is the turnoff about one mile from Dad's house where he was towing my car and me. He had nearly made it home before he figured out I wasn't back there and I nearly frozen to death. Getting warm again was a new experience in pain that sears those harrowing moments in my mind as I fought to stay in my lane, almost getting hit several times, and futilely hitting brakes that didn't work to keep from smashing into the back end of the truck. Sometimes power brakes and steering are more of a hazard than a help. But I made it through, although even after all these years (nearly 30 years), I still don't think the experience is funny. I don't think I ever will. Near death experiences seldom are, at least not to the one who nearly died.

It seems dramatic to say it that way -- I nearly died -- and it is in way, but it's also true. Some stubborn core inside me refuses to give up no matter what and that stubborn core has kept me alive more times than I care to count, which means I will probably end up in hell after all and will spend eternity in a world ruled by cockroaches, moths and Mom.

It's a matter of experience

As I was reading about the latest in the POTUS's saga, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu. When Clinton ran for president his character and moral integrity were an issue -- at least for a lot of people. Clinton's backers said none of it mattered and America found out that character and moral integrity do matter. Fast forward to today when we have a president for whom people voted because they said his inexperience didn't matter and we are in the midst of Amateur Hour in a complex environment where government leaders around the world are licking their chops and rubbing their hands together because the POTUS's inexperience makes America seem like a lamb waiting its turn for slaughter. Kathleen Parker says it best. The first however-many days of Barack Obama's presidency have been a study in amateurism.

Experience, like character and moral integrity, matter, as I found out this morning. Chicken Soup picked up another of my stories for a new book to be published in October 2009: All in the Family. They wanted stories about family and I gave them the late Esther Sherwood, my ex-mother-in-law who died before I married her son, who in many ways is like my own mother who is famous for being late, although I doubt Mom will be late to her funeral. She chases Death just like her father did.

I can remember Grandpa saying he wouldn't be around much longer and I felt like he stayed around for me. I coaxed him with food and promises of firsts: first date, first grandchild, first time driver, first time honor student, first graduation, first wedding. I have one cousin older than I am and she was the first driver, first high school graduate and first bride in our family. I remember all her firsts because I was there and amazed my hair didn't turn white.

I was in the car when Uncle Bob let Laura drive their station wagon (this was before SUVs) on the I-71 freeway from Columbus to their house out in the country. In the back were baskets of mildew-smelling laundry, her brother and two of her sisters, and me. Laura was skittish at the wheel but anxious to prove to her father that she was a competent driver and could handle rush hour traffic on one of Columbus's busiest freeways. Uncle Bob urged her to speed up and keep with the flow of traffic and she did, the back end of the station wagon fishtailing wildly across three lanes of traffic while I sat in the back seat with her sister Bobbi Jean facing the oncoming traffic and praying I wasn't about to die. Laura finally got control of the car, but not before the rest of us found out what it was like to see our all too short lives flash before our eyes. It took all our strength and courage not to fall to the ground and grab up handfuls of earth and kiss them when we got out of the car, our legs shaking and our hearts still pounding after more than 20 miles. I don't think we even breathed until we turned onto to Old State Road where traffic was scarce on the two-lane country road that led to their little house across from the dairy farm. We all took deep breaths of fresh country air laced with manure and new mown green fields and released our white knuckled hold on each other and our seats.

I've had quite a few adventures in cars when someone else was in control of the wheel, like the night my father towed me from Worthington to Hilliard behind his truck on the I-270 freeway in the dead of winter. Dad loved that story and laughed about what happened, but I have never found frostbite and near death experiences all that humorous.

Experience matters. Whether it's to tell a good story that recreates a moment in time or someone's life or in knowing what and how to do what's necessary, even when it means people will revile and hate you when you make an unpopular decision, it's nearly impossible to get through the difficult times if you've never been through that way before. We all have to crawl before we can walk and then run. Fresh from the egg, we are little more than turtles racing to the sea beneath a sky full of ravenous and experienced predatory birds.

A new Holocaust! Are you next?

I love solving puzzles, but I need to kill Chili Bob for sending me this. It is supposed to tell the age of your brain. His was 33 and mine is 15, but I can't seem to get lower than that so I will have to remain teenager. Someone claims to have a brain the age of 3 years, but I suspect that's because she never grew up, despite her advanced age of 60+. Cheryl is the eternal child who demands the world revolve around her, so that's not a big surprise. I'd be interested to find out how all of you did with the test/puzzle/frustration. I suspect taking the test after a good night's sleep (something I haven't had in ages) would make a difference, and you can be sure I'll keep trying -- just not today. I have to work for a living.

I have my rituals in the morning -- playing one word game (I said I love puzzles), reading and answering email, checking up on the news and checking out other journals, but it seems I have less and less time to read blogs because I've been caught up in the Israeli elections and the news from the European front as Biden proves that the POTUS is just as much a prisoner of American policy as Bush was. Some things do not change and I wonder if we are caught in a data loop that no one will be able to break, but I suspect I'll find out a lot more when I check out George Friedman's latest foray into forecasting in The Next 100 Years. The interview I listened to on Authorlink was eye-opening and that piqued my interest. I may become a news junkie yet.

As an example, I read about the widespread violence against Jews in Britain that has ended with several universities giving in to Muslim demands to give scholarships to Gazan refugees with reciprocity between those same universities and the university in Gaza (the one that has been--and continues to be--used as a training camp for terrorists) and changing the curriculum to marginalize Jews and focus more on Muslim studies, a move that changed the focus of curriculum in at least one department. Even small Jewish children are being terrorized, having to run a gauntlet of their classmates who shout, "Kill all the Jews," a chant that is being repeated from Malaysia to Denmark and France and throughout the world where Muslims have a significant presence among the population. It is the same chant that began the Holocaust under Hitler and plunged the world into a costly and devastating war that targeted Jews, Gypsies and homosexuals. It seems that people just don't get the meaning of the words, "Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat the past." It ought to scare everyone that any group of people are being targeted in such a widespread way. Who's next after the Jews? Will it be the Gypsies and homosexuals or will it be you? We are all different in some way, but in a world where the courts uphold a middle-aged Saudi settling his debts by selling his 8-year-old daughter into marriage and terrorists use women and children as shields and human bombs, no one is safe.

In the meantime, there are new books to read, food to buy, bills to pay and work to do so I can pay the bills. Life keeps moving on with or without me and I really hate to be left behind.

That is all. Disperse.

It pays to keep looking

I really need to subscribe to National Geographic again. Here's why.

























The country is in a financial crisis that won't be quickly or easily solved. The world is in turmoil and hate abounds. Prices are rising and businesses are closing while the government gorges itself on pork.

In spite of all this, there are moments captured on film that take my breath away and remind me that anything and everything is possible, especially beauty, if we take the time to stop and look for it.

That is all. Disperse.

First lunar eclipse of 2009

Grey-white sky above and grey-white roof tops below blending in a cold and silent landscape.

It's supposed to snow today and the sky smells of wood smoke and snow, dry and pungent and wintry, so here I sit reading and responding to emails, feeling like I'm the only one awake on this cold February morning less than a week since the groundhog, scared by his shadow, crawled back into his hole for another six weeks. I'm not averse to winter -- I actually enjoy it -- but I am hungry for the scent of budding trees and the sight of bright-faced crocuses and tulips winking above the frozen ground. I yearn for ice-edged breezes that give way to the warm fragrance of soft winds and trees filled with pale pastels in green and white and pink and blue and yellow, every color of a spring rainbow.

This week is filled with celebrations, ending with Beanie's birthday on Friday and Valentine's Day on Saturday. Birthdays and anniversaries and remembrances crowd my calendar and remind me it's time to get up and out, starting with the lunar eclipse tomorrow. The eclipse will be a penumbral eclipse, which is the weakest kind of eclipse, when the moon moves into the other edge of the Earth's shadow and some sunlight reaches it. It will be barely detectable even with a telescope, but mine will be set up and I'll watch anyway. The eclipse begins at 7:38 p.m. here in Colorado and ends at 12:37 a.m. The mid point will be at 9:38 p.m. when the eclipse is at its greatest penumbral point. (Penumbra mean under the umbra, or shadow.)

This year is going to be an interesting roller coaster ride that will end with a blue moon (second moon in a month) on New Year's Eve. Now that's going out in style.

For those of you not tuned into the effects of a lunar eclipse, I offer this little bit of astrological info.

We tend to be more emotionally expressive during a full Moon, and this time around, that bright orb in the night sky is no exception. Meaningful change is upon us. This eclipse in Leo emphasizes emotional reactions, and psychic sensitivity, spiritual instincts and emotional connectedness will all be heightened during this period. There will be feelings of freedom as blockages melt away. Let go of beliefs that don't correspond with your current reality and you'll be able to see the present in a new light. You're free to redefine your personality and your image. A new hairdo or new clothes would do you a world of good!

A old phase ends and a new one begins. Whatever part of your life is not in sync with your true life's purpose will be the most affected This is revealed by where this eclipse falls in your personal chart.

Now is the time to make changes in your life, to check your options and do a little spring cleaning, throwing out what no longer works and making room for better and wider possibilities. The world is full of possibilities, so if you've been stuck in a rut or feeling stagnant and immobile, now is the time to get up and get moving.

On a side note, this is my 1,003rd post in this blog. There is more yet to come.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick news

No, it's not a new software program, but news.

I just received word that I am included in the third annual Mountain of Writers showcase hosted by the Pikes Peak Library District here in Colorado Springs. The event is usually held in April, but this year it is scheduled for March 28th.

I'm excited and have already contacted two of my publishers to make sure I have plenty of books for the event. It's an all-day event so I will make sure to have lots of ink for my new fountain pen. My section of the table will be filled with lots of books (at least six different titles) and I should have the cover and some goodies to give away for the novel coming out in July.

When I have more information, I'll post it here and on my other blogs, along with information on interviews and podcasts. I hope to have the book trailer ready by then as well. At least I know where my stimulus and refund checks will be spent this year -- and it's all tax deductible.

That is all. Disperse.

Vampires, lycans and a dose of salts

Watching movies about vampires and lycans (werewolves) just before going to sleep is perhaps not the best idea if you're planning to have sweet dreams. My dreams ended up being complex and dark and full of underworld creatures, of which I was one. Watching movies about underworld creatures before going to sleep does, however, have it's plus side -- lots of fodder for creative writing with a paranormal twist, especially when relationships between creatures and humans are involved. I may end up writing paranormal stories after all, without giving up my more human-based subjects, of course.

Needless to say, my dreams were dark, but not too dark, last night. They were so interesting I didn't want to wake up and ended up offering natal day greetings and wishes to the wrong person. Sorry about that, Wild Heart. I was so excited about the latest Torchwood news that I ended up completely off target. I meant to wish Lady Celia a very happy natal day. Oops.

And then my favorite expatriate journalist friend sent me the news that Shift Happens and it's not that far away, well within reach for most of us, especially with the viral growth of technology these days. As one of my best friends knows, the shift happens fast, especially when you're looking in the right direction.

Everything is in upheaval these days, even the climate. Snow kicking the east coast in the hind quarters and the quixotic weather imps playing havoc here in the Rocky Mountains. Even with the sky my favorite color of Colorado blue, I can feel the cold and winter seeping back to blast my weekend to ice and snow, not that I'm complaining, but it would be nice to have a more reliable season of mists and fruitlessness. I feel out of sorts and off kilter, not overtly so, but just enough to tell I'm a hair off center. Oh, well, I have plenty of work to keep my fingers busy and writing to keep my mind busy, so I shall not fret. This too will pass.

Now where are those salts?

That is all. Disperse.

There's nothing like fear

How about a little fear to start your day -- or end it? Then here's what you need.

Our planet has a temperature. It's very sick. We have to do everything we can. For instance, would [it] be ridiculous for, you know, me, the president, to take Air Force one out on its maiden flight, to take a 747 jumbo jet from Washington D.C. for an out-and-back excursion to the House Democratic caucus retreat at the Kings Mill Resort and Spa in Williamsburg, Virginia, where the 747 is parked? It would be crazy to take a 157-mile trip in a 747 jumbo jet when you've got teleconferencing there in the White House, because the Earth has a temperature and that's why America may not ever recover if we don't act now and pass $2 billion for renewable energy research or $2 billion for clean coal power plants in Illinois or $6.2 billion for a weatherization assistance program which basically is weatherstrips for underneath your door!

It just keeps getting better and better this change you can believe in.

That is all. Disperse.

What's your sin?

One of the questions to help break through writer's block today was: Which of the seven deadly sins—sloth, greed, lust, gluttony, anger, envy, and pride—are you most likely to commit? It didn't take me long to answer this one, but it took a bit of thought and a few words.

Lust, although I don't think of a healthy and active sex drive (mine is very healthy)as lust, unless you count vivid sexual dreams about the man in my life or finding him hard to resist when I see him. I haven't wallowed in a day of unbridled and unabated sex for a good long while. Who has the time? I guess that means I don't really cross into the lust territory, except maybe in my dreams.

Okay, the pile of laundry on the floor here in the bedroom could be considered slothful, but that's only because it's time to do the laundry, so sloth isn't one of the sins I commit. I just don't have a laundry hamper. My mother is still holding it hostage and I can't afford to replace it, not when there is good to buy and utilities and rent to pay. That would be wasteful.

Greed is definitely not one of my vices. Anyone who visits here would see that. I own one pair of 800-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for my queen size bed. They're luxuriously soft and when I wash them I put them back on the bed, so no greed there. I'm not greedy when it comes to food or books or clothes or anything. I have a half loaf of bread I baked last week that will be turned into bread crumbs in the food processor and it's not even top of the line. No, greed is not one of my vices.

Although I can be a glutton for punishment, as evidenced by my continued "discussions" with Mom, I'm not a glutton, especially when I'm in the zone and writing and forget to eat for hours on end. I do not then gobble everything in sight to make up the deficit. Further proof is how I treat the luscious and wonderful cheesecakes I bake once in a while. I do not eat the whole thing (I'd be dead by now if that was the case) and I do share with friends and neighbors. I enjoy sharing food I've made. Nope, not gluttony.

Now I do on occasion get angry, but it's not a constant thing and I don't pull people out of their cars at stop lights and beat them to a bloody pulp. People who irritate me or hurt me usually get treated one of two ways. I either explode (if the trespass is sufficiently blatant), which takes a few minutes, then I calm down and deal rationally with the trespasser, or I brush them off and ignore them. When pests don't go away and keep stalking me or nudging me, I keep ignoring them or tell them I'm done. They eventually get the message.

Envy isn't a big sin for me either. I have micro-momentary wishes for something someone I know has, but my attention span for envy is pretty short. Ooh, I wish I had that book or sweater or whatever. Did you see this article on feminism in science fiction literature? See what I mean? Short attention span. While I would like to be successful or visit other places or eat once at a fancy restaurant, the idea of envying someone else's success is not my cup of tea. I would like to do as well, or better, but I don't want what everyone else has. It wouldn't give me time to go out and get what I really would like to have -- like the KitchenAid stand mixer with all the attachments.

I am proud of my accomplishments, of my friends and family and of my country most of the time, but I don't think that's a sin. I'm not too proud to let the dishwasher do my dishes or to take out the garbage by myself. I'm not too proud to make my own beds, do my own laundry or cook my own meals. I'm not too proud (most of the time) to let someone help me when I need it or so proud I believe that the first draft of anything I write is perfect. And I am definitely not to proud to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. Been there. Done that. No, pride isn't one of my vices either, at least not as I understand it.

In the context of deadly sins, I really don't have any problems. I've brushed briefly past them, especially when there are pecans, walnuts and other kinds of nuts in the house (gluttony) and entertained thoughts of tracking someone down, ripping off their clothes and having my wicked way with them (lust), but I can't say I'm a hard core sinner of the seven deadly variety. I'm more the stick my nose in a book, work hard (although reluctantly since I am not paid enough to do what I love -- yet) and write for hours on end. Real hard core sin takes work and dedication and my calendar is already full.

That is all. Disperse.

Friendship

Mom and I have had this running discussion about the meaning of friendship. She says that a friend will die for you and the only person who will die for you is your mother. Therefore, your mother is your only friend.

We discussed this again tonight. Since Dad died, Mom wants nothing more than to die. I understand that, but it makes her whole definition of a mother willingly dying for her children suspect. By her definition, she is no longer a friend to her children because if one of us was in danger of dying, she would gladly put herself in the way of the bullet or whatever death dealing instrument was coming at us to end her life. It's suicide and it's a sin, according to the way she believes, and it's also selfish. I don't think the definition of friendship includes being selfish.

Mom said no one would die for her and I said it depended on a couple of things, like whether or not I was incapacitated to the point that I have no quality of life. In that case, yeah, I'd die for her. It's selfish. It's assisted suicide. By her definition, it makes me her friend. Or not.

Despite her closed mind about many things, religion included, I do manage to get her to see things in a different light and from a different perspective sometimes. More often than not we end up arguing and I suddenly find that I have work to do or a burning need to go to the bathroom, take something off the stove or out of the oven or answer the door. I don't have call waiting (that's a post for another time) so I can't use that excuse. My views on that subject are very well known.

My definition of friendship is much less rigid and doesn't require anyone dying, especially me. A friend is someone who listens when you need to vent, tells you when you're off the track and out of your mind or just plain wrong, supports you when you need a shoulder or a helping hand, kicks you in the bum when you need it, and makes you laugh when you're being far too serious. They also show you their soft underbelly and make you feel safe enough to show yours. Friends have a secret language made up of snippets of inside jokes that no one would get but that will spark gales of laughter. Friends also don't fear getting angry and losing their temper because when their right mind returns their friend will still be there. Friends care about one another. Even though there are no vows for friends, a good friend is there for you for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death or the paths you travel together go in different directions. With really good friends, you pick up right where you left off no matter how many miles or years lie between.

I doubt there are any of my friends who are so sick of life or in so much pain that they'd offer their lives for mine, but in a dangerous situation you just never know. I don't need someone to die for me to know they're a friend. I know every time they make me laugh.

"And you got to talk to me."

What she said.

This one is for you, Lynn.

The Virtue of Being Moderate

The Virtue of Being Moderate

Blessed Imbolc

For me, this is the midpoint between the winter solstice and spring equinox, a celebration of the end of the long winter sleep. For Catholics, it's Candelmas and for Celts the Feast of St. Brigid. A time of light and new beginnings. It's also the birthday of my oldest best friend, Connie, who is 54 today.

For the rest of the country, it's Groundhog Day when Punxsutawney Phil creeps out of his hole to check for his shadow. If he sees his shadow, he leaps back into his hole to sleep for another six weeks while the snow flies and winter keeps its icy grip on the world.

However you choose to celebrate this day, may your life be blessed and your hearts light and happy as you look toward the rising sun and lift your face to the sky to feel the first soft, warm caress of the coming spring on your cheek. It's a brand new day.

Monday morning

I woke to false dawn, the sky paling to blue. Now the sun creeps higher, but I'm facing away from it and can only see the world take on gold. A streamer of wispy white, its edges barely discernible from the aquamarine sky, drifts slowly past on the morning wind. Everything else is gold.

The weathered palisade fence around the back yard next door surrounds the rusted Ts of an old clothesline no one uses, the wires between broken strands of rusted wire dangling and silent. Backs and sides of buildings on either side of the alley droop and sidle next to each other as though worn and weary from holding the line while the scratching claws of a lone tree arch above the gilded roofs. It's a lonely sight, these empty-eyed buildings, dark and blind, covered in layers of dust standing in idle silence in a world where nothing moves except the wispy streamer of white across the brightening blue sky now gone from the narrow view outside this window.

Even the streets are empty. There is no sound but the mechanical creaking whir of the furnace and the rush of tepid air across my shoulders. And all the rest is silence.

Is this guy for real?

Charles Krauthammer has a valid point of view and one that the Obamessiah has yet to see. For what is he apologizing? What is he going to make right that previous presidents, both Democrat and Republican, have not already done? Is the Obamessiah for real?

That is all. Disperse.

Meet my beloved

I was lying in bed, all warm and lightly scented from a hot shower a few minutes before, snuggled down in the covers reading the third chapter of Page After Page by Heather Sellers when it hit me that for some -- like me -- writing is a lover. (It was a lovely gift from Spike's leman) Sound strange? Not at all.

I carry a paper journal and pen (new fountain pen and ink) around with me even here in the cottage. I pause movies, conversations, cooking, reading and work when something sparks and idea so I can write it down. When I start writing in my journal about my day it inevitably segues into writing about a story or figuring out motivation or plot or characters as they come to me. I think about writing all the time. I am writing all the time. I sometimes have trouble focusing on work because something will spark an idea about writing. It's just like being truly in love. I can wait to write. I stare off into the distance or go silent during phone conversations because I'm staring off into the distance chasing an idea and forget where I am. It reminds me of a scene in The Hours when Virginia Woolf is muttering to herself and completely disconnected from her sister and the people around her because she's working on her book. An idea has occurred to her and won't be denied. There are other scenes where Virginia Woolf is walking through town and talking to herself, working out a problem with the characters or the time line or the plot. It's what writers do. Writing is a lover, sometimes a demanding lover, and such a love can border on obsession -- if you're looking from the outside.

This is probably one of the things that Spike's leman meant when she talked about the touchy-feely stuff. She's not touchy feely. She's very down to earth.

When you are in love, truly and passionately, you don't have to write down in your daily schedule: Spend quality time with Lover today. You can't not. ...You find yourself not paying bills on time, not showing up for boring things, spacing out during tedious conversations. Why would you go anywhere else? ...People who are madly in love are not busy. They spend inordinate amounts of time in hotel rooms, lolling around naked, happy, content to look at the mole on their lover's neck and think about nothing at all. They get hungry, but they aren't able to plan to eat. They pulse toward food, all thorax, no head, they are fed, they go back to bed. So happy. Not on a schedule. ...There's no choice and no schedule. They are always in love, they are always doing it, they are always in writing. As in love. ...It takes a lot of trust to fall back into pleasure, to know it will always be there.

If writing isn't like that for you, if it doesn't consume your life, poke through the holes in your schedule, pop up in and take over your dreams, find its way like sand into every crevice of your life, then it's a hobby.

It can be frightening being consumed that way and there should be at least some balance -- you can't stay in bed with your writing all the time. Bills do need to be paid and jobs done if you're going to be able to afford the hotel room -- or any room -- for your lover. But in the end, having writing for a lover keeps you active and engaged and learning and growing and alive the same way a truly passionate lover does. And it is worth it.

That is all. Disperse.

Beauty & the Beast: socialist state

Once in a while I get in the mood to revisit old favorite TV shows, a very simple proposition since so many of them are now on DVD. The most recently was all three seasons of Beauty & the Beast. It was my theory that when producers refused to show an online kiss between Catherine and Vincent it sparked the desire to rectify that mistake that spawned the current overwhelming amount of paranormal romances. Here was a beast who was not too ashamed of who and what he was -- scholar, philosopher, physician and man-beast -- and didn't regret being a beast since he had the love of a beautiful and intelligent woman. There was no endless whining or brooding because he was doomed to remain outside the human community, reviled and despised, because Vincent had a vast and supportive family underneath the streets of New York City. He was loved and respected. However (you knew there was a point here somewhere), it isn't Vincent and Catherine's relationship on my mind, but the underground community.

Here is community existing below New York City, living in and expanding the tunnels of the sewer, drainage and subway access tunnels (through which no sewer or water runs, so why they exist is a mystery) and the natural caverns beneath the isle of Manhattan. There is no doubt the inhabitants of this idyllic underground world work hard to make their world habitable, but they grow no food (underground = no sunlight = no plant growth but lots of tubers and mushrooms) and generate no electricity. There are no animals to provide fat to make candles and yet there are candles everywhere. (Maybe they render the fat of their dead since they cremate them with drip trays beneath the funeral pyre to catch the sizzling juices. After all, as Frank Herbert wrote about the Fremens' tradition of rendering the dead for their water, the dead don't need it any more.) And yet they have a good variety of food and books and clothing and furniture and chemicals and medicines and everything they need to continue living in their underground paradise. They don't steal it, as Mouse is frequently chastised by Father for doing. They live on the charity of helpers above ground, most of whom are poor.

In a way, Vincent's world is a socialist state. Everything is shared. Everyone works for the common good. Everyone underground depends on the working people above ground to give them everything they need to live and they provide nothing in return, except for sanctuary and housing for those who can no longer afford to live above ground. Unlike mushrooms, many of those who move underground do not flourish and return above ground to continue their poverty level subsistence. Like mushrooms, the people in Vincent's world -- as wonderful and generous and peaceful as they are -- are parasites. Yes, they build and expand their world, but they do it with the resources that come from the working poor -- and admittedly some very rich and powerful people with access to money and resources -- and really give nothing back, but an annual party called Winterfest. Each of their above ground helpers gets a candle all their own and a seat at the feast table and the underground dwellers share music and dancing with them. It must be enough or they wouldn't keep doing it -- would they?

The denizens of Vincent's underground world have fled society's ills and created a perfect world where envy and hatred and prejudice and intolerance no longer exist, a world that cannot exist without help from the very society they have fled. Instead of finding some mountain fastness or barren land to make bloom, they moved underground and accept charity. It's not really charity though. Vincent's world, as beautiful and peaceful as it is, is a feudal society and they the feudal lords taking the first fruits and a cut of the earnings and resources of those who live a much less idyllic life, many living in abandoned buildings or cold water flats in crumbling buildings ever on the verge of being knocked down to make room for high rise apartment buildings and marble edifices for big business. In the meantime, the denizens below NYC's streets are free to pursue their dreams and passions: music, art, technology, philosophy, literature, etc. At least Paracelsus, evil as he was, mined the caverns for gold and grew hallucinogenic mushrooms with addictive qualities to satisfy the most determined drug addict to make money. At least he made a product and sold it for what the market would bear like any good capitalist. He was productive.

In the end, it makes me wonder who was evil: Paracelsus because he created and sold addictive drugs while supporting himself and his followers without outside help or Father who lived off the generosity and tribute of their helpers. At first glance, I'd say Paracelsus was evil because he sold addictive drugs, but then again his customers bought his product of their own free choice and Paracelsus never claimed the drugs were without their dangerous side effects.

Okay, that's a very simplistic comparison. Of course, Paracelsus was evil for providing dangerous pharmaceuticals and preying on the poor weak souls who sought escape in oblivion, but is he any less wrong than Father who lives off tribute from his helpers? Sometimes the lines between good and evil are difficult to define and nearly impossible to see. A smile and a bit of literature or poetry or philosophy are not fair payment for tribute from people who have barely enough for themselves.

That is all. Disperse.

A new kind of book club

An author contacted me, as many do, to review her book. I have cut way back on reviewing books for free since I am working more on my own books and get a constant stream of books from my boss at Authorlink (for which I am handsomely paid). She said that she understood people couldn't afford a hardback book in these difficult financial times and would be happy if libraries bought the book and they borrowed it from the library. I understand this kind of thinking and it's very unselfish, but it's not realistic.

As nice as it would be for authors to be able to afford to keep writing without having a full time or part time job or full and part time jobs, it doesn't work that way. If people really want something, they will find a way to get it. And here comes my idea.

There are groups that club together to buy and read a book to discuss, so why not groups willing to pool their money to buy a few copies of hardback books they can share out? A group of five or ten women could easily afford two or three hardback books by giving up that morning donut, thus saving their waistline and putting more books into the public eye. It might even catch on, spawning book sharing clubs all over the country that would have the effect of getting the book more attention and putting a few dollars into the hard working author's pocket.

How about it? What do the rest of you writers think?

A woman speaks...

...and we should all pay attention because she was making sense before the election. This should have been more widely circulated and it should continue to be circulated every time we step into the voting booth.


Opinion
Column
Publication Date: 10/21/08



Each presidential candidate is giving his rendition of the changes he wants for America.

Here are a few that I believe all Americans want.

# Limit Congress from serving more than two terms. That is all that presidents are allowed.

# Stop Congress from voting for their own raises. How did that ever get started?

# Stop paying for lawmakers' high-priced insurance premiums. After all, they are only part-time employees. They might pass some law changes on the insurance companies, if they had to find one.

# Stop paying lawmakers their full salary after serving just one term, or at retirement. We need to get rid of that pension plan; they've let other companies get rid of theirs. You were lucky to get 40 to 50 percent of your salary after working somewhere for 35 years, but they get 100 percent.

# Make Congress pay into the Social Security system. They make laws for it. If they spent some of their own money, they might be interested in making it solvent.

# Stop handing out aid to illegal aliens. If we did, then Medicaid and the food stamp program would have enough money to aid the aged and the poor.

# Secure our borders.

# Stop allowing babies born to illegal aliens in the United States automatic U.S. citizenship.

# Stop the abuse of our benevolent welfare system. We feed children free meals three times a day until they are 17. Churches give away good, clean clothes. Companies buy and donate school supplies. Emergency rooms provide health care at taxpayer expense and the food stamp program is buying food at home. What are parents doing for their children?

# Have a computer program that cross checks Social Security numbers with fingerprints to stop fraud on many fronts. Use it on voter registration, too.

# Stop bailing out mortgage companies and banks that give loans to people who cannot afford them.

# Stop companies from paying CEOs and other executives outrageous salaries and bonuses while doing away with workers' pensions.

# Stop all unnecessary spending so we will have the money for our nation's security, and to help needy and elderly Americans.

# Stop permitting anyone to have a photo with their face covered on driver's licenses.

Whoever wins the presidency will not be able to make these changes.

Only members of Congress can do this, as they are the lawmakers.

I don't believe Congress is interested in changing anything, do you?

Norma White of Amarillo is a retired network engineer for Southwestern Bell.

That is all. Disperse.

Off to the publishers

Today was a very productive day. I wrote two long synopses for the books being published this fall and did a little more writing, rewriting and editing before sending the finals off to the publisher today. They are still swamped but the hard part is over -- putting finishing touches on the novels. I still have the editor to work with but I'm anxious to get moving on the next novel. Still can't decide if it will be the post-apocalyptic novel or something altogether different about obsession and control or a time travel novel that will most likely end up as a serial novel. It's a long story and I won't put the details here since the stories are still embryonic at this stage.

Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy writing until I get into it and the hours race by. If I watched the sun while I was in the zone, I'm sure I'd see it rise and speed across the sky just like in the movies, but my nose is too close to the grindstone. I have found that I enjoy making notes and working out plot and character points in longhand. Anyone who gets hold of my journals will be utterly confused. Day to day thoughts veer off into ruminations about books and stories and notes I keep on books I'm reading or wish to read. I go with the flow, letting the current take me where it will, but I'd definitely like to follow up the publication of three novels this year with at least two more novels next year, including the usual short story and anthology publications, especially since the hard part is over and I've broken through with the first publisher.

I told Beanie today that I'm halfway through the beautiful journal she gave me as a Xmas gift and that she should have included a couple of refills. She said I wasn't worth spending that much money on, so I shall have to spend my hard earned money to stock up on refills. I don't know if its writing with a fountain pen (I've gone through three ink cartridges) in the beautiful journal that has spurred this writing marathon or if it's something more akin to being excited about writing again, but I'm definitely not going to look this gift horse in the mouth -- so to speak.

I've also been reading new authors -- new to me, not new young authors. I called Spike's leman the other day to tell her that I was wrong about Harlan Ellison -- his writing, not his poisonous personality (or lack thereof). While I still don't consider him a genius, I am impressed and quite taking with his literary abilities. His stories are wonderful. Good thing I look at reviews that pan books in which I'm interested before buying a book. The reviews about Angry Candy, a collection of short stories, were quite vitriolic in some cases and that sold me. I'm glad I did because I am really enjoying what I've read so far and reluctantly put the book aside to get down to the business of writing. Some of the stories sparked ideas for stories of my own -- not duplicates of his situations. The imagery sparked ideas for completely different stories. That's what is so magical about reading other authors, even the bad ones. I can't help but be inspired.

However, I still have not encountered the whining and venom the reviewers mentioned with regard to this book, but I still have hope I shall. Even if it's not there, I am glad to have dived into the literary currents with Ellison. As I told Spike's leman though, I still don't get why Connie Willis is considered such a good writer. I'm always left feeling like I've sat down to a banquet and been served one small and rather empty hors d'ouevres.

Well, I'm off to read a review book (I got three new ones) before I give up the light and plunge gratefully into Morpheus's arms. I think I'll just do a little research on Atlas and Hercules before I settle down for a long winter's nap.

That is all. Disperse.

In the rockets' red glare...

As Israel prepares for a unilateral cease fire demanded by Egypt's Hosni Mubarak, it occurs to me that the world, in its rush to judgment of Israel, has missed the point of Operation Cast Lead in Gaza. It's not about their humane treatment of Palestinians or the way they have conducted themselves by warning civilians of incoming fire, but about war. How many countries in the world would stand by silently without resorting to return fire if another country fired over 6000 rockets at them? It didn't take one rocket on 9/11 for the American people to demand we go to war. It took four planes, one of which failed to reach its target because the passengers decided to take the plane down rather than be turned into a bomb in the midst of another American city.

How can the United Nations and the other countries in this world, including the United States, stand by and demand unilateral surrender when Israel is the injured party? How many of the heads of these countries would tolerate even one child's death or one town's destruction, let along the systematic destruction and death of hundreds over the course of eight years?

The Arab countries that oppose Israel and call "foul" because Israel is fighting back claim that Israel is perpetrating another Holocaust, even though those same countries have publicly stated there was no Holocaust. Little by little, Israel has given up more and more of its land to satisfy the Arabs and the Palestinians in a bid for peace, but there is no peace for Israel and there will be none until the world renounces its hatred of the Jews and gives the Palestinians what they should have had in the first place -- a home in the vast stretches of Arabian lands away from Israel.

Israel is a small country, about the size of Connecticut, and it has been partitioned again and again, pulling back farther and farther from desert lands it turned into a paradise of modernity that bloomed, only to hand over more and more of their territory to the Palestinians to watch it die and turn back into desert. Infrastructure is destroyed and there is no prosperity. It's like building a palace and having to turn it over to people who trash it and turn it into a pig sty.

In Arab hands before the establishment of the state of Israel, the land was a vast desert. The cities were barely above mud hut villages and there was no infrastructure to speak of. When the Jews were granted the land in the wake of World War II, the land bloomed. Cities rose. Roads were built and maintained. Power, heat and water were always available and the facilities maintained. Hundreds of years of Arab occupation had not brought such prosperity and modernity. In less than a decade, Israel became a garden spot that supported and maintained its people and provided wealth the Israeli people shared open handedly with the world in times of famine and destruction and war.

And now the United Nations and the rest of the world demand that Israel turn its cheek once again and pull back from Gaza without demanding Hamas stop firing rockets into Israeli lands. Wake up, people! This isn't about whether or not Israel is right or wrong; it is about the destruction -- once again -- of the Jewish people and the Jewish state.

Ask yourself these questions. Would you tolerate rockets being fired at you for eight years without retaliation? Would you tolerate the death of your children and the destruction of the homes and cities you had built? Would you allow the U.N. or any other country to dictate the terms of your surrender in the face of ongoing attacks? How can you stand by and allow our government, Israel's ally, to continue to turn a blind eye and demand Israel give up more of its small territory?

King Obama

If anything should scare the American people, it's this. Clinton tried it. Eisenhower wanted it and so did Reagan. Clinton's still trying it by using a different tactic, the right of divine inheritance, by trying to get Hillary into the White House. What's next? Chelsea as president after her mother and her children after her?

In Philadelphia when Obama began his triumphal train ride to Washington, D.C., he disappointed hundreds of people who had flown from all over the country to see him. They hadn't paid enough money or knocked on enough doors to get him elected and so they waited in the freezing cold just to catch a glimpse of the back of his head, a hand, anything that they could hold close in memory of the moment when their messiah began his journey to the holy city. I wouldn't be surprised if the people of Washington laid palm fronds in the path of his limousine to welcome him to the feast.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Obama's eligibility to be president under the terms of the Constitution rage on three fronts. One has to wonder why Obama hasn't satisfied his detractors by producing evidence, as did John McCain when his eligibility was challenged. Instead, Obama has blocked discovery of his past at every turn. Could Obama be the reincarnation of Richard Nixon who, to hide the truth, erased several minutes of White House tapes or is he simply hiding the truth for some other reason? It's a simple question requiring a simple answer: Are you eligible under the U.S. Constitution to be president?

That is all. Disperse.

One expensive train ride

Mike Levine, a retired American journalist (and good friend) who now lives in a kibbutz in Israel, tried to post his letter to President-elect Barack Hussein Obama on his website, but as unable to do so since there was no tab he could use. He sent his letter to friends and I am sharing it with you, along with the newspaper article about Obama's triumphal entry into Washington D.C. It's too bad a slave won't be standing behind him holding a laurel wreath reminding him he is just a man.

An open letter to Barack Hussein Obama
from Mike Levine
.
I meant for this letter to be sent directly to Obama, but surprise, surprise, when I went on to his website the only way you could contact him was if you selected one of the subjects they listed. Well, I had my own subject called, "The Obama Train Drain", and there was no general category under which I could write to him, so here I am. Who knows, maybe someone will be able to figure a way to get this to him.

Obama has rented a plush Pullman coach made in 1930 fitted with every modern luxury known to man, just like fancy multi-million dollar yachts. Of course, he'll need to pay for the use of a locomotive and other cars for his hanger-ons to ride in.

He is replicating Lincoln's train ride to his inauguration from Philadelphia to Washington, DC. However, there are a few differences

Lincoln invited all who wished to see him in Philadelphia, and 30,000 showed up, a gigantic crowd in those days. Obama will not let the ordinary citizens near him in Philadelphia. Only his special 'backers', read big contributors.

Obama wants to be thought of as 'Lincolnesque', something he will never accomplish, no matter how good his PR writers are, and no matter how many train trips he takes. The only similarities between the humble Lincoln and the narcissistic Obama is that both are tall and thin!

Obama has made a big issue of the economy; how horrible it is, and how much sacrifice it will take by all of us to right the ship of state. He is about to begin spending more than a trillion dollars of our tax money, thanks to a captive Congress. Unfortunately, he doesn't act as if 'all of us' includes him! A true statesman leads by example. He does not ask us to do anything he would not do.

He does not send his children to an elitist, extremely expensive, mostly white private school instead of enrolling them in a public school like most of the rest of us.

He does not have 20 expensive inaugural balls when one or two would be more than sufficient, thereby saving untold millions. And it matters not at all who is paying for them. It is perception that matters. Those untold millions could be used to help ease the economic pain for thousands.

He does not whitewash and defend his choice for Treasury Secretary when it turns out the guy's been cheating on his taxes for years, and put him in charge of the IRS!!

A little humility, a bit of frugality would have done much to tell America and the world that we will have a president who shuns extravagance and waste, who walks across the street to his inauguration instead of riding like a potentate in his private train. That our next president is really a man of the people, not a would-be king!

Now that is change you can believe in. Yes, you can!

That is all. Disperse.

There's bad and then there's...

A friend emailed me a link with the title, If you ever think about giving up. I checked out the link and was amazed and touched, but nothing touched me so much as watching the end of the video. Go watch and then come back.

What do you think?

Makes me feel like my problems, as insurmountable and awful as they are to me at the time, are trivial in comparison, but it's not about comparison. It's the old line about being given lemons and making lemonade -- although I prefer to make hummus or avgolemono. I like to mix things up.

The way I believe, each of us choose the lessons we want to learn in this incarnation (life) and he chose to make lemonade. Once upon a less enlightened time, I couldn't understand why me. Why did everything happen to me? To be sure, a lot has happened to me during my lifetime, but nothing I haven't been able to overcome after a brief period of questions, whining and bone shaking fear. I need those moments to utter and complete breakdown before I gird my loins and leap back into the fray, and sometimes the moments happen after I've been through the fire and have a moment to stop and think, What did I just do? before the panicked realization sinks in that I could have been seriously injured or dead. And yet, like Timex...

I have not become so enlightened that adversity makes me say, "Yay, another chance to grow and overcome adversity!" I've paid my dues -- most of them, anyway -- and I'm entitled to some time off before the next round of interesting times comes around, and they will come around. I've no doubt of that. One thing I don't do any more is go looking for trouble. There is no sense looking for something that will find me no matter what I do or where I hide. Instead, I enjoy what I have right this moment and the next moment and the next and thank whatever powers in the Universe guides my fate and watches over me every time I get stupid that I am allowed to continue living and working and writing and enjoying another moment of life.

That doesn't mean I don't plan for the future, but I know without a doubt that the future is not guaranteed to come, that I only have this moment. Whatever forces shaped the me I am right now weren't gentle, but they were necessary to create me at this moment. As a friend recently reminded me, there is no going back and there is no sense dwelling on what could've been. I've mourned the lost chances and absent friends, but one thing I do know is that if something is meant to happen and I've missed the chance, the Universe will bring it back around again and give me a swift kick in the hindquarters to move me in the right direction. Until that happens -- and it has happened -- I am thankful for this beautiful sunny morning with the Colorado blue sky above and a glittering expanse of fiery sun struck diamonds on mounds of fluffy white outside the windows while I am safe and warm inside my comfortable cottage sipping green tea with rose hips and writing on my laptop.

Building on a solid foundation

A little music, a filling brunch of boiled egg and a cinnamon roll (homemade, of course) and a pot of green tea and I feel almost human again. I found a 10 x 10 stoneware pan and yesterday baked some cinnamon rolls, iced them and had one this morning. They turned out really good, not too sweet with a soft crumb and a light vanilla glaze. In a word, perfect. The urge to bake is on me and I'm contemplating an Italian olive oil bread but the kitchen has to warm up more first or the dough won't rise sufficiently. That's where turning on the oven comes in and kills two birds with one stone by getting the oven ready for the bread and warming the room.

It's a quiet Sunday and I have taken my time reading the news, checking emails and catching up on writing. The sun shines in a pewter sky, moderating the heavy gray curtain of horizon to sky clouds bearing down from the mountains and promising more snow, hiding the hoary white rise of Pikes Peak. Whether my placid mood is due to impending snow or the slow Sunday pace isn't important, at least not as important as an essay I read by an author on Glimmer Train website about learning from the masters, something I have been contemplating for some time.

As a fledgling artist, I was set to copy the Masters, examining and learning to duplicate their brush work and layering and compounding of color. It is the way artists have learned for millennia. Musicians are taught scales, then taught how the Masters created their own work and set loose to improvise on everything they have internalized. Writers are taught rules and theory, but starting from a Master's work, beginning with the words and construction of plot and characterization, texture and theme isn't quite kosher. Oh, there are some teachers who encourage finding inspiration and experience in great works of literature, past and present, but then writers are told that such copying is beneath them, derivative, cheating and will stunt their growth as a writer, their voice lost in the process. Not true.

While da Vinci and Michelangelo's influence is obvious in Raphael's early work, there is a distinct departure in his more mature work. Each generation of artist learns from the ones who have gone before and then emerge with their own distinctive style. The same is true for writers.

While on a whaling voyage Melville meticulously copied every word of a novel by Hawthorne, getting angry if anyone touched his work or bothered him while he copied. The day he finished copying the novel he gathered all the papers so carefully written and tossed them overboard. Shocked, the sailors asked why he did that and Melville replied that he had learned what he needed to know. Melville also studied James Fenimore Cooper and other contemporary writers, going back to the types of books that he wanted to write.

Modern day writers would do well to emulate their predecessors. Start with an author's work you admire. Take one of their stories or novels and begin by copying what you read, letting the words, characters and plots carry you to a different world. At some point, your own voice will emerge along with your creative instincts with the sure hand of the Master on yours. Dissect and outline novels in every genre to find out how a writer created the effects that made his book so successful. Break down descriptive passages, minutely examine the gestures and dialogue that make characters breathe, leaving no word or phrase untouched. Most of all, read, read, read. Read widely. Read with an eye on construction and method, theme and texture. Pay attention to what arouses your senses, makes your heart beat faster, chills your blood and inflames your passions then go back and dissect them, lay the bones bare and then sit down and write the same scenes. What would you change? How would you get from point A to point B? The trail is blazed, go off the path and find your own way through the wilderness. It's not cheating; it's common sense, a time tested method to help build the sensibilities and tools needed to become a good masterful writer.

There is no sense in reinventing the wheel. Use the wheel to invent something new and different, something uniquely your own.