Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Behind the Buzz Words

As a child, the most thrilling part of being an Army brat was moving around the world. I spent my early life traveling in Europe when Dad was based in Idar-Oberstein, going to Patton's tomb, walking the streets of Paris, visiting cemeteries and national monuments, and playing the part of a citizen of the world, or at least the child of a citizen of the world. I played in the jungles of Panama and hide-and-seek and pirates in the fortresses left behind by Spanish conquerors and pirates of legend. I lived through riots in the Canal Zone of the 1960s and with fear of snipers every night for weeks after the riots were over. I traveled from the east coast to the west coast of America and continued to travel on my own when I married an Air Force NCO, camp follower to my military husband, making a home wherever we were sent, except for Iceland and Thailand where I was not allowed to go with him.

I never thought about medical or dental insurance because the military took care of us. We had enough food, good (if elderly) lodgings, and a safe community where my children played and wandered the community without fear as I had done wherever we lived. Movies were a quarter when I was a child and not much more than that when my children were young and we went to the movies on base. They were more expensive when we took the kids to the drive-in, but the kids were free. It was a good life for me and a good life for our children. It's hard to say that now.

When politicians invoke the words "military budget cuts" everyone thinks of missiles, battleships, and the hardware of military government used to make war on our enemies and our allies and protect us from the rest of the world. Military budgets do not remind us of the men and women, or their families, who serve day in and day out for less than minimum wage sometimes. Well, you might say, they get dental and medical for free and the cost of their groceries is less than ours. True -- to a point. Cutting the military budget doesn't mean that no more battleships or missiles or arms will not get built and used; it means that families and servicemen and women will have fewer services and more will end up on food stamps. Of course, that does not affect the big brass, but it does the rest of the men and women who serve to protect our country and freedom.

Buzz words seem to be all people hear and no one wants to look further than the emotions those buzz words invoke to what's behind the words. Do you really think that $700 screwdrivers and $2000 hammers will not still end up in the budget? Think again.

This has become a world where the men and women who serve in combat areas often have to beg for money from their families to buy body armor because what's available is out of date and stressed by continuous use to the point of being no more protective than the cardboard shields and armor I wore as a child while playing soldiers as a child. Their families often need food stamps to get enough for their families. Cut the military budget again as is being discussed in Congress now will not end waste, but it will affect the families, men, and women whose lives are bound up in military budgets and who will be the first casualties of budget cuts.

I agree that budgets need to be cut, but it needs to be the precision cutting of a laser and not the butchering of necessary services to the NCOs and their families. These people are the one who do all the heavy lifting and all the work. You can be assured that no civilian employee or contractor to the military will suffer from those cuts. The cuts will come from the people who should be supported and aren't.

Budget cuts will mean that military families, already stressed in the current economy, will have to pay for medical and dental care. The poor on Welfare get better treatment than the military families who give up their lives and their homes to protect this country and keep it free.

Next time you hear the buzz words "military budget cuts" ask what will be included and don't stop asking until you hear the full story. Military budgets include a lot more than you realize and the effect of those cuts on real people, the people who wear the uniform of American soldiers in every branch of the service will be affected. Forget the buzz words. Demand the truth and then let your voices be heard.

The world I grew up in is very different from the current world. I have enough because I work, but I remember the days of travel and living in modest accommodations in exotic locales while my father served over 22 years in the Army. It's a sad world where the poor get more than the people who give their lives and their time to protect us and keep us free.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Childish Dreams, Adult Reality


It was 1963 and I was living in Panama, or at least that is how I remember the moment. I suspect it happened long before that, but I can't remember anything but coming home and finding my dog Tippy gone and visiting him at some secondhand furniture store owner's shop and the Easter egg-colored chicks my sister and I got as Easter gifts or the time the cop from a town a couple miles away brought me home to my parents carrying my little suitcase. I had run away.

Mom had told me it was all right. I don't think she thought I'd actually do it, but that was the first of many surprises she got over the years, like telling me if I didn't like the way things were done to peak up. I did and often and often got smacked for speaking up.

The point is, I remember reading Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and traveling to the center of the earth and to distant places with H. G. Wells and Edgar Rice Burroughs and being so excited I wanted to do the same thing -- not travel to Mars, although that is on my bucket list, but to write. I wanted to spin stories people would read and talk about. I wanted to speak up and keep speaking up even when I might get smacked -- or worse. And I did speak up -- and write -- and I often get smacked.

It was that feeling of having discovered that it was possible to put words on a page and change someone's life or thoughts or give them an adventure they'd never forget. I obviously didn't forget mine since I'm still talking -- and writing -- about it almost 50 years later. I haven't lost the feeling of excitement, the love of adventure, and the endless possibilities that I find in books and in writing. I'm not a really successful author because few people know about me, but I keep writing. That is the one constant in my life -- writing.

I went through the usual changes, as most children do as they grow, evolve, and experience more. I wanted to be an archaeologist, a lawyer, and a Supreme Court justice, but the one thing that remains constant is the desire to be a writer. It was archaeologist/writer, lawyer/writer, and Supreme Court justice/writer, although the writer should come first. Although I never went to college to be any of the other things, I have continued to write and, as you can see on this blog and in the bookstore, I am a writer.

It was that first brush with words and dreams and adventure that sealed my fate. Whatever else I have done and will do in the future, the 8-year-old me wanted to be the one telling the stories and exciting new generations of people to write stories of their own. I don't worry about the competition because other writers give me something to do when I'm relaxing -- read what they've written.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Put All Trash Here


I've an acquaintance online I've known for years and she is quite the business person and blogger. I don't know how she does it, but between Washington D.C. business, traveling all over the world for work and fun, and maintaining a home in D.C. and one in Florida, she is a success -- in everything but her relationship. That is a mixed bag.

I wonder what drew them together in the first place. They have their fun moments, and their fights and differences, but it seems most of it is good -- at least as far as is reported. Nothing is ever what it seems.

We look to the past and say that there were fewer divorces. That's true. There was the Catholic church to consider and ex-communication was not something too many people were willing to face if they divorced, providing the church allowed it, and there were lots of hoops to jump through (and money to be paid) to grease the wheels of ecclesiastical favor. There were also financial issues to be considered, as well as the destabilization of countries if marriages were annulled or the parties divorced. King Henry VIII comes to mind; he had to create his own religion as a result, despite being a devout Catholic, and Harry took it to the limit, marrying 6 times before he died, and producing 2 females that lived to rule. His only sons died young.

Marriages were more about benefits for financial reasons, lands, property, and power, and less about love and fidelity. That was relegated to the lower classes. They could afford to marry for love since they were unlikely to be able to marry for property and power. No wonder the divorce rate as so low. No one wants to give up land or money, and power even less.

Things today are simpler. Fall in love over Cosmopolitans, have the big fairy tale wedding that cost a few years' salary, and divorce before all the thank you cards have been written and sent. Disposable. The real reason was the fancy fairy tale wedding after all. An entire industry was created to service that particular excess of eccentricity and narcissism, which is strange to someone who put together a wedding in 2 weeks and paid for most of it from my savings.

I managed a nice ceremony with 5 attendants, 2 flower girls, a ring bearer, and 5 groomsmen (maids of honor need escorts), and a lovely and almost rowdy reception afterwards, followed by a honeymoon at the local fancy hotel in the honeymoon suite, which turned into a rush for clothes when Mom and a cop came knocking on the door. The cop was my cousin and Mom was carrying my overnight bag, which I had forgotten in the rush to get away from the people trying to overturn the car we were in because it wasn't the one they had decorated (and mined with exploding and embarrassing devices). That marriage ended, but not until after 3 boys, 7 years, and a load of grief from the typical mother-in-law and various and sundry infidelities from the male side of the relationship.

Not that I have a great track record, having been divorced twice, the 2nd time from an abusive spouse, but I do know what counts and what I want. One is not to go down the aisle again unless there are some pretty powerful benefits, none of which I've seen yet.

Every relationship is different. Some people marry young for love and stay together happily (mostly) for the rest of their long lives. They're the ones 75th anniversaries were created for. There are also those who get into marriage at the drop of a hat, usually worse for drink or other substances, and some actually stay together. There are still liaisons that come out of board rooms and social registers where the main focus is money, property, and/or power (usually all three), and there are the regular people who marry in haste and repent as soon as the divorce decree is signed a hot New York second after the ink is dry on the marriage license. Disposable and not recyclable, although sometimes the excuses and the people are as disposable as they are interchangeable.

Disposable is defined as a product designed for cheapness and short-term convenience rather than medium to long-term durability, with most products only intended for single use. The term is also sometimes used for products that may last several months (ex. disposable air filters) to distinguish from similar products that last indefinitely (ex. washable air filters).

Disposable is also defined as the amount of money that households have available for spending and saving after income taxes have been accounted for. Disposable personal income is often monitored as one of the many key economic indicators used to gauge the overall state of the economy.

I think the last definition is the most apt here, disposable meaning what is left over after all the bills and income taxes have been taken out of the net income. In other words, what is available for saving after obligations have been met.

I don't think that children should be part of the equation, unless martyrdom is the main point, because children do not thrive or end up whole and undamaged being brought up in an abusive relationship that is little more than a war zone, but the needs of the children should be weighed in and out of the relationship against what is gained or possible to gain.

All these fancy words come down to one thing. Is the relationship/marriage worth saving? How many people stop to ask that question when they sober up or come down of the high of a fairy tale wedding and honeymoon while the 5+ carat rock is still shining on their finger and the glow of nonstop sex and excitement still glimmering in their eyes?

Marriages come from all sorts of reasons, but the usual reason for divorce is boredom. Marriage wasn't quite what they thought it would be. It's drudgery, staying up all night with newborns and sick children, emptying the dishwasher and arguing over who takes out the trash, cooks dinner, or does the laundry, paying the bills, repairs on house and vehicles, and the cost of living together. It's not always cheaper with two people, especially not in the current economic climate when 2 incomes are often not enough. Spouses/partners with no children have to deal with potential crashes between personal and business issues and which house to live in, whose friends are more important, and a thousand other details that end up being a tug-of-war over whose life and needs take precedence, and then there's the sex issue. I don't know why it is, but partners always seem to come from opposite ends of the spectrum, one likes sex and the other doesn't, which is really code for I like sex but not so much with you. Soon, the relationship is on the rocks, which is where it began and remained beneath the haze of wedding festivities, alcohol, and vacation bliss before the real work began. 

Marriage and relationships are work because the people in them keep growing and change, or not growing or changing at all. The old saw about a woman seeing possibilities and what she can do with the raw material in front of her and the man believing the woman will stay exactly as she is, frozen in amber. The same goes for gay and transgender couples, too. One person wants stasis and the other sees potential.

Until marriages and relationships are seen as living things that grow and change and evolve, for better or worse, and until people realize that, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, the commitment is real, people will come together willy-nilly and separate just as haphazardly without realizing that the most important part of their life is finding a way to fit with another human being and work together.

I don't have all the answers. Life is too complex to boil down into a simple blog post that offers enlightenment. All I can do is shine a light into the murk and hope that someone gets it. The "it" is that people are not disposable. We are complex entities with flaws and potential and we need other people, not to make us whole, but to make things interesting -- and lasting. Future generations depend on us and, if all you ever do is bring children into the world or help raise children and teach them that people matter, you've done a good thing.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Some Day When I'm Old and Grey


"They say it's your birthday. Well, it's my birthday, too."


I've always wanted to use those lyrics in something other than a song, and now I've found a way. It's a little self-aggrandizing to mention that it's my birthday today, but all my friends and family live far away and I work at home so there are few chances for me to stumble into a surprise party and be surprised. On the other hand, if I stumbled into somewhere and a bunch of strangers jumped out and yelled, "Happy Birthday!" I would be very surprised.

I know a lot of people here in Colorado Springs, but they are amateur radio operators and mostly men. I doubt they even remember I have a birthday, let alone think to throw a surprise party or even email to offer their wishes for a happy birthday. They seldom remember their own children's or wives' birthdays. I can't expect them to slot me into minds overfilled with electronics, waveforms, and oscilloscope readings. It's too much for them to handle and they might just blow a gasket or three. I wouldn't want them to hurt themselves.

That's the thing about birthdays. As Poppy Z. Brite, also known as Billy, reminded me a couple days ago, things are always better when you're a kid. I was talking about getting Valentines in school because he is down on Valentine's Day, but it is apt for today, too, the anniversary of my debut into the world 57 years ago. Then again, birthdays weren't always so great when I was a kid either, but that's a story for another time.

I have ordered tiramisu and Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream for my own little celebration, which will be consumed during my lunch break since I have to work today, and nothing else will change in my daily schedule. I'll shower and dress, pull up the recycling bin and break down boxes to recycle, check the mail, send some mail out, and put away the groceries, all before I start working. My only hope for a day off is for the Internet or the lights to go out so I have no means to work. I can still eat my tiramisu and ice cream by sunlight and spend some quality time with my Kindle finishing off Terry Pratchett's "Unseen Academicals" and get back into "Black" by Ted Dekker, which is beginning to get very interesting. I might even sit outside if it's not too cold and work a little more on another Xmas stocking for one of my grandchildren or try out the new stretcher frame and stand I got yesterday for the needlepoint. I can't roll that up and work on it like I can with cross-stitch. It requires taut framing so the stitches come out even and the stocking looks right when it's done. I think it's going to be the only needlepoint stocking I will do. I prefer cross-stitch right now.

In the end, birthdays aren't always about presents, although I did get a couple (from Beanie and Mary Ann), but about celebrating another year in the life, which is always better with friends. I have loads of those and they spent a few seconds this morning reminding me of that on Facebook where they typed out their birthday messages to me. One of my sons even remembered I have a birthday; that is a first. Birthdays are also about reminding us that time doesn't wait for us to get with the program or figure out what we're going to do. Time keeps moving no matter how many plans we made for some day. As far as I am concerned, some day is today and I have a lot I'm looking forward to getting done. There will be no boxes, bags, and storage cases with my some days in them. I'll have done them all today.

Happy birthday to everyone who shares February 17th as their natal anniversary. Make it a good one.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Personal Touch


I had forgotten how much fun (and frustration) cross-stitch can be. Since I decided to make Xmas stockings for my grandchildren for Xmas this year I've rediscovered both, and the joy I get sitting down and focusing on something that blooms with color and shape and beauty with simple stitches.

I find myself looking at cross-stitch kits and ooh-ing and aah-ing over the different styles and pictures, wanting to buy them all and lots of frames to hang them in. I see them in different rooms and groupings and want to do them all, but I have a job and while it pays for the necessities and a few luxuries (one at a time), it's not enough to buy them all so I can make them all, not and still have a job.

That excitement and rush to get back to stitching is what I miss about writing. I schedule time for stitching and for writing but for a long time the writing hasn't been enough to keep me excited and looking forward to the next day. At least it hasn't been until recently. I feel that same sense of excitement and I'm anxious to get to the next sentence, paragraph, page, chapter. It's a good feeling and one I miss and didn't realize was gone.

I started cross-stitching seriously about the same time I start writing professionally. In the meantime I have finished may cross-stitch projects that became gifts, some of which are still hanging on walls and decorating Xmas trees and mantles with toys and fruit and nuts sticking out of the tops of the stockings. I wrote hundreds of short stories and a book I couldn't finish because it didn't really have a middle, few of which were published. I gave up writing books and short stories for a while and concentrated on articles, which I continue to write. The cross-stitch was easier and the results less prey to chance.

When I began a cross-stitch project, I knew I'd finish it fairly quickly and that whoever received it would enjoy having it. Not so with writing. I got lots of (long) encouraging rejection letters, but few sales, and one sale died on the vine when the magazine stopped publishing. I'd have to go back through old archived files to find the story, but it might find a home today. There's not telling with writing.

When I started moving around the country, taking my job with me, I gave up cross-stitch and put my organized plastic boxes full of threads, needles, and blending filaments in storage next to the old stories and files full of rejection letters. When I picked the writing up again I didn't pick up the cross-stitch until now, although, five years ago, my mother gave me back the 18" x 36" framed and matted King Tut and Nefertiti I cross-stitched for her about 20 years ago. She wanted to make sure I got it back when she was gone. My dad died a week later, but King Tut and Nefertiti hang on the living room wall, still framed, still matted, and still as beautiful as the day I finished them. They will last long after I'm gone and I'm not sure where they will end up. I'm not ready to go yet, so I haven't decided that yet either.

My stories are different. They will last (I hope) long after I'm gone and they will belong to the people who bought them and kept them to read again and again. At least I chose two creative endeavors that have legs on them and will keep going and making people smile or laugh or simply marvel at the good and bad in both areas.

Life is about change from our first breath and although my dreams of writing and art, in this case the cross-stitch, remain, the way in which I approach and execute them are very different than when I began. My work in both now is nuanced and mature and will continue to gain more subtlety and maturity as I keep working on both, as long as I keep working.

My birthday is tomorrow and, if I have one wish, it is to be able to continue writing and stitching until my last breath. I want to die in harness, so to speak, and will gladly expire quietly knowing that my work has no expiration date. That is a gift I can enjoy every day of the year because it bears the personal touch.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Not a Hero or a Leader


The flags are flying at half staff and I wanted to know if the President or Vice-President had died. I suppose a hero from Afghanistan or Iraq wars could have died, some young woman or man who saved a battalion or captured an insurgent camp and was wounded could have died and warranted the flag at half staff. No, the flags are flying at half staff because of a drug addict.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed Whitney Houston's performances and her singing, but the woman who died this week was no longer than stunningly beautiful goddess of song and theater but a drug addict. She was a famous drug addict, someone who fought with her husband, Bobby Brown, in public (he was a philandering so-and-so), and was often caught on camera as a ranting mad woman, but she was a drug addict just like the homeless drug addicts doing their business in the street (heeding nature's call and scoring more drugs). She was not a hero and she died because of her addiction to drugs. That is nothing worth celebrating.

Celebrate her life, not her death or her slow decline into drugg addled madness and social and personal suicide. Remember her accomplishments, but there is no need to celebrate her death because she died a drug addict.

I don't think many people get that. She was a drug addict and drug addicts eventually get their wish and they die. All this boo-hooing and national mourning for an entertainer is on one hand admirable and on the other a travesty of what it means to be a hero.

Whitney was born talented and privileged and wasted both in her quest for more drugs, better drugs, and more better drugs. Everything she was and could have been were wasted because she couldn't handle success, or for whatever reason committed slow suicide.

Where were the half-staff flags for John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Guy Williams, and dozens of other actors who fought in the wars and came back to Hollywood to play heroes -- and a few bad guys -- and died as a result of cancer, old age, and myriad other diseases and complications? Where are the half-staff flags for the men and women who died of AIDS before it had a name and was thought to be a plague against homosexuals? Where are the half-staff flags for the thousands of quiet heroes who make a difference every single day to uncounted millions of people? Where are the half-staff flags for mothers and fathers everywhere who worked hard, gave their families the best lives they could, and died?

There are none because those people haven't been valued enough. I can see the half-staff flags to this day when Dr. Martin Luther King died. I remember seeing phots of the flags at half staff when John F. Kennedy died that November day in Dallas. Those men deserved the flags at half staff; Whitney Houston does not.

The world has turned upside down because an entertainer died a drug addict. Yes, she was a wonderful actress and singer and she was a beautiful woman. Too bad she didn't value herself enough to stay away from drugs. Whatever demons drove her to the oblivion of drugs, they should not be honored or celebrated. Remember her life and remember that she died a drug addict, a wasted life that should be honored quietly and with humility, but not with the flags at half staff. The death of a drug addict is the death of hope and life, its ugly tentacles dragging the person down to the depths of despair, lost to the promise of what they could've been.

Mourn Whitney Houston quietly and remember it didn't have to be this way. She could have used her talent and her beauty to go with dignity like Audrey Hepburn, who gave her life and her talents to the children of the world and succumbed to cancer. There was someone worth celebrating.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Knowing When to Get Help


There was no help for it.

It has been nearly a year since I published Among Women and the sequel needs to be told. First, it has to be written. Ideas have been plaguing me for days -- since I realize how much time I had left if I was to publish the sequel a year from the first novel -- and I couldn't resist any longer.

I do have two other books to finish, but this seems more important, more time sensitive, and so it goes. I began writing the sequel this morning -- a few moment ago, actually. The bet part is that it feels good and the writing is going moderately well. I should have a chapter or two done today before I have to start my day job. That has to be counted as a plus.

That's the thing about writing. Time lines and such are for people who work best under those kinds of guidelines. I'm not one of them. I write what speaks to me at the time, putting aside other works to get the words down on paper while they're still burning their way through my dreams and waking thoughts. I know I'll work on the other books, too, but this one seems more important, has first priority right now. After all the time it has taken me to get as far as I have on the other projects, a few weeks won't make a difference.

It's not exactly what I should do, but writing isn't always about what you should do -- outside of proper grammar, good sentence structure, 3-dimensional characters, and a solid plot. Those are essential no matter what else goes into the mix. I just don't have the knack -- or the desire -- to hamper the work. I write and devil take the hindmost.

Outlines don't work for me. I begin with good intentions, but along the way the muse, or creativity, or some perversity inside me takes the outline for a ride, usually into the bush or some other wild territory and ending up somewhere near the proposed ending, but often somewhere completely different.

Preplanned and written chapter-by-chapter synopses make me feel constrained and strangled. I throw them out, keeping a copy in case I want to refer back to something that I think might work.

And don't get me started on schedules. The only schedules I've been able to keep are the ones they set for me at work. The threat of poverty and homelessness keep me toeing that line no matter what, thrashing, kicking, and struggling until I'm back in the saddle, pull up the reins, and get it done so I can get back to my less structured life where things happen more organically -- meaning when the mood strikes me.

The mood strikes me often to read, eat, and write, and I write quite a bit, most of which does not end up online or in a book. I enjoy writing . . . letters, journal posts, blogging, and books. Without those, even when the going is hard, I would shrivel up and be a shell of a person tramping through the rut of life never seeing the sun or being able to breathe deeply and dream. Without dreams, I wouldn't want to think.

And so I began a new book with two books already more than halfway finished, because it's time to get the rest of Pearl Caldwell's story out. Maybe it was getting a perfectly formatted for Kindle copy of Among Women and realizing that I can delegate a bit more of the self-publishing task to someone who knows more than I do. Don't get me wrong, lots of people know more than I do, but I know when to delegate and when to keep the tasks for myself.

For instance, I am a fairly good artist, but I'd be an idiot if I didn't recognize the talent that Michael Reighn exhibited when he designed the covers for Among Women, Whitechapel Hearts, and the 3 short stories I published. He did -- and does -- a much better job than I.

I'm also smart enough to know that no matter how good an editor I am, I am not a good editor when it comes to my own work. Myopia is the problem. In laymen's terms, I'm too close to the project to be objective or see what a neutral eye could easily pick out. For that, I have an excellent editor in Mary Ann Peden-Coviello. She is ruthless with the virtual red pencil and points out tics that I have missed or cannot see. I do the same for her.

Now, there's Rik Hall, who formatted Among Women for me, and gave me a template so I can make it easier on him the next time around. Yes, I'll hire him again. His prices are reasonable and the turnaround time is very fast. He even throws in fixing typos if they're found.

All of this means, I now have staff. I even have an extra artist's hand in Aubrey Ayala Boneau, another really wonderful artist, who helped with a couple of the covers for Among Women, and designed 2 beautiful covers that I've used on other versions of the novel. I think I have it covered, at least until I can afford someone to do the PR, something else at which I know my considerable limitations.

Although I prefer to go with the flow when the muse is leading the way, I have enough common and business sense to get help when I need it. I've sent the first few pages to Mary Ann and have alerted Michael that a new cover will be needed by May 2012. In the meantime, now that the business end is in place and working -- or ready to be put to work -- I can concentrate on what I do best -- write -- knowing that I can write without the usual hassles and problems that crop up along the way. All of that kind of planning makes what I do so much easier since I'm not gnawing myself out of the mood and into some serious writer's block. After all, if I've nothing written, there's no need to have staff, and I like having staff. It feels almost like I've arrived.

Oh, and the title of the sequel? Among Men.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

Filling the Page

I'm nearly to the end of the current journal I'm keeping and already I'm excited by the prospect of the first blank pages of a new journal. All those possibilities and space and I feel anxious about starting something new with pages and pages of space waiting for me to put words to the paper, cover it in inky words and sketches.

Why isn't it that way with the blank computer screen waiting for words -- or for me to continue where I left off? I don't know.

There is something more daunting about a blank computer screen, cursor blinking, waiting for something, anything to fill up the space, preferably words that form sentences and paragraphs and end in stories. The computer screen, even what you can see, feels endless. A journal is finite, so many pages bound and waiting.

Writing in my journals is fairly easy and few days over the past several decades have gone by without me writing something. There are times when I am pressed to fill a whole page and other when fifty pages is not enough, yet there is always something for me to write. It's often incoherent to the casual observer because I use a kind of shorthand when writing, a combination of short cuts I use for the day job and shorthand symbols I remember from years ago. It's my way for my hand to keep up with the churning thoughts that spill onto the page. There are blots and words crossed out when my mind went too fast for the pen, but mostly it's legible, and a handwriting expert, or anyone who knows me well, can tell my mood by the slant of the letters and how neat they are. When I'm on a roll and the words are flowing, the letters are uniform and very legible. When it's coming rough, not so much, but they're there on the page in mostly black, although sometimes other colors, purple being the favorite. Pages and pages and shelves full of journals of all types and sizes, filled with words and ideas, bits of stories, ruminations on what I've been reading or some question that popped into my mind at random. An idea peeks around the corner while I'm writing and before long I've grabbed it and taken it for a spin.

I work out plot points and character details in the journals. Those are marked with metal clips, a trick I learned because I didn't want to go back through nearly a hundred journals. Dates don't really mean anything except for a way to put the journals in order; they certainly don't pertain to a specific book or character or story because I don't put them by dates. A story may germinate and grow over ten years or ten minutes. There's no way to tell. I do know when the story is ready to commit to paper and I often have to hold back and finish a book or story I've already started. Not so with the journals. I can pick them up at any time and go for hours or jot down a few lines that take an hour or so.

No matter how hard it is to write some days, I always come back and write some more. The journals are my truest voice and my proving ground, my place to discuss things and pour out my anger. In those pages, I am naked and angry, hopeless and hopeful, full of rage and full of joy. Sadness, pain, curiosity, philosophizing, ranting, and wonder are on all those pages.

I watched Any Human Heart, a Masterpiece Theater series based on William Boyd's book of the same name and realized that Logan Mountstuart, despite being blocked in writing another novel, Octet I think he called it, considered himself unsuccesful because his books hasn't sold tens of thousands of copies and he wasn't rich. He even had a few years of living on dog food and wrote about how it was edible with the right condiments -- a lot of the right condiments.

All the while, Logan wrote in his journals, stacks and stacks of journals. He even managed to keep a journal during the year he was imprisoned in Switzerland during World War II, hiding his pages in a hole he dug in the wall and making ink out of what was available, writing with the pointed end of a stick. But he wrote and he continued to write, keeping an account of his musings and trials and tribulations on those blank pages, beginning when he was at university and continuing to the end of his days.

Those journals, the account of his life, was published posthumously as a novel, a best selling novel, though there was no heir to collect the royalties, all of them having died long before he did. He never realized how important his journals were and how successful he was as an author and a writer who chronicled the decades through which he lived.

I have no such delusions of grandeur and it isn't why I keep journals. They are for me, although there have been times I have shared one or two journals with someone so they would know me better, be able to see the real me collected on those pages.

No, I doubt my journals will be published when I die, especially since I have left orders to have them all burned -- or buried -- when I'm gone. I don't keep journals to be published. I keep them because the blank pages beg to be filled and covered with my variable scrawl and because they are my truest self, the one I know the best, the one that changes and evolves, the one I look back on to see how far I've come.

Now, if only I can translate that to the blank screen with its blinking cursor waiting for brilliance -- or even mediocrity -- waiting for me to get busy and be as faithful in writing books as I am in keeping journals. The journals are my life's blood poured out in organized inky scrawl, my yawp and howl that I am here, that I existed, that I write.

 

 

Monday, February 06, 2012

Trickle Down Socialism


A utopian paradise is possible as long as there are no people. The Shakers had it, but they all died out because sex was not an option, not even for procreation. No sex = no offspring = oblivion for the sect.

Thomas More died for his utopian beliefs, and because he wouldn't agree that King Henry VIII's first wife, Catherine of Aragon, was not his real wife, that the marriage was a lie because Catherine had been his brother's wife first and was not a virgin when Henry married her. That belief set the religious and spoiled Henry on a tear that resulted in a religious schism and strenthened the protestant movement away from the Catholic church.

Utopias begin with the idea that if everyone has enough and takes care of his neighbors everything will be light and happiness. That's not the case. Where there is a way to cheat the system, or the idea, someone will find a way and exploit it. Now politicians bent on saving the rest of the world and humanity cry out against poverty and want. Everyone should have enough to eat, a doctor to care for their needs, and money to fund it all. Share and share alike is the motto as politicians and do-gooders prey on the hearts and minds of their fellow citizens.

Share and share alike was at the heart Marx's utopia. Everyone works and everyone eats. No one gets more than anyone else. Cuba embraced it but Russia embraced it first in the wake of World War I when the Tsar's family was ousted, imprisoned, and murdered. There was no need for royalty or a ruling class. No more ostentatious wealth stolen from the middle class and poor. No more haves and have nots; everyone would have. Except that's not the way it worked. The Soviets had a ruling class and they were ruling from the top in the tsar's palaces and the homes of the ousted royalty and very rich. The ruling class was the government built on the backs of the poor who still didn't have enough and worked for their share of the profits, except none of the profits trickled down. The poor were still poor and the rich and privileged were just as rich and privileged. They wore uniforms and suits, and kept the ermine, jewels, and fabulous art hidden from view.

Prick a liberal and they bleed and the blood trickles down.

It is a shame that there have to be poor who don't have the money to get good dental care and cannot afford doctors and hospitals. It's unfair that they cannot have as much food as anyone else. The cry goes out and laws are passed. Welfare is born. Food stamps are distributed and Welfare gives money for families with children; they need help the most. Food stamps don't cover toilet paper, Kleenex, and household products to keep the house and family clean, just food, and not food that is already prepared. They must cook the food themselves, although chips and dips are perfectly acceptable. They can buy a lobster if they like, but they must cook it themselves or food stamps won't cover it.

The madness continues and the cost trickles down.

The poor are still poor, but for a few days or weeks in the month they eat as well as anyone else -- until the food stamps run out. They trade food stamps for money to buy cigarettes and drugs and booze, or just trade for cigarettes, drugs, and booze without the money. One way or another, they get what they want. They go to the doctor and the dentist on the taxpayer's dime but don't get the same level of care that someone who can afford it gets. It's enough. One finger in a hole in a dike is sufficient for the area it covers. Someone else will have to cover the other holes in the dike.

Socialized health care is a good idea, but it's not workable. If the disease is too chronic or the illness will cost a great deal to heal or manage, take a number and wait in line. At least you're covered. When isn't important. You're covered.

Where does all the money come from? The taxpayers. The fast disappearing middle class. It certainly doesn't come from the richest citizens. They don't pay taxes, not with all the loopholes and government worker palms they cross with silver or gold. Pay for a junket, pass along an envelope full of cash, or a suitcase full of stocks or gold, and th law works in your favor. The rich are still rich and getting richer and the middle class, the engine of the country's economy, gets poorer and join the growing hordes of the poor. They're honest, hard-working people and don't have generations of living on Welfare to know how to work the system, how having more kids means more money and how to turn inadequate food stamps into luxury items and fund their vices. They'll learn.  They have time to learn as jobs dry up and the economy falters.

In the twilight of one of the greatest nations on earth, the rich will still have money and they won't care what happens to the poor who are so much unwashed, lazy people unable to work their way up the ladder. Wouldn't matter if the did. The rich don't given countenance to the nouveau riche or the social climbers, except to use them until there is nothing left to use.

The demands for more trickle down from above and stop in the middle class where the money is made, sucking out the life blood, while the benefits trickle down to the poor. Panhandlers pop up everywhere, and not just the drop-outs and recently poor, but the con artists that doff their rags and wash off the dirt before they go home to their well appointed homes to eat roast beef and ice cream and play with their children in comfortable homes where the roof never leaks and the plumbing always delivers hot and cold while flushing away the debris.

A seesaw works on a fulcrum. A long board goes up and down depending on the weight and thrust of each end, pivoting on  strong center. If the center is weak, the board falls to the ground or it breaks and casts the riders to the ground. It doesn't hold. It won't work.

And the money keeps trickling down.

All the social services come from the working class, the middle class, not from the wealthy and privileged, and the poor benefit. Some poor benefit. The rest eke out a meager existence little better than what they had before Welfare and socialized medicine, but that's all right. Consciences have been salved and the poor are taken care of -- barely. What happens when there is no more middle class to fund the social services? Will the rich pitch in ? Don't count on it.

The top 1% will never pay a dime and most of the rest of the rich will pay as little as possible. The middle class will sink under the demands of a liberal and utopian society while the grafters and grifters will skim off the cream and send the rest to trickle down to the poor, most of whom live better than the people working for a living -- the poor's living. Utopia once again dies like a sinner under the weight of rocks piled on his chest, crushing the heart and leaving the blood to trickle down.

I'm not against providing assistance to those that really want to better themselves, but I refuse to pay for the theft and fraud that the rest exact as their brutal toll on the sensibilities of the working class. Immigrants come to our country and work their way out of Welfare and socialized assistance, working hard and bettering themselves, and become part of the middle class. They won't be there for long, not at the present rate of self-destruction. The poor remain as they have always been and will always be.

Sharing out the profits of a hunt when man lived in caves was workable, but not when man moved together to build towns and cities and countries. The difference between rich and poor was well defined and some went hungry. When we lived in caves, someone who was broken down by ill health and old age was cast out or left to die along the road. The tribe's resources would not stretch to carrying dead weight from those who could not or would not work and they were left to their own devices, or to be preyed upon by wolves, hyenas, and other predators, becoming a part of the cycle of life, a titbit in the food chain.

When we became civilized, it was no longer right that the sick and old should be cast out. There was room and as long as someone was willing to feed, clothe, and house them, they would live until death took them in the course of time. Caring for the sick, the old, and the helpless is still a good idea, but at what price? How long must others bear the burden of caring for them? How much must be taken from someone who has worked hard to give themselves and their families a good life? How much must they be forced by legislation and guilt to give up?

Socialized medicine is a good idea, as long as the money to fund it comes from those who can really afford it, the people who live in one of their many mansions and throw away money on parties for their friends and supporters, vacations in exotic lands, fruits and vegetables and meat and seafood flown in from around the world at the peak of freshness. People who think nothing of buying a jewel-studded toilet seat or paying millions for art that no one will ever see in their private collection vault. Let them fund the programs for the poor since they helped to make and keep them poor. Let the ultra rich oligarchs put their money to use funding factories and businesses that employ the poor and pay for health, dental, and eye care for their employees. They will still have more money than they can spend in 10 lifetimes, but they will do some good.

How much money can one person or one family spend? What good does it do to have such fabulous and obscene wealth except to say you have it? It would be better to own factories, businesses, and stores than piles of cash and the result would be  strong economy that employs more people than anywhere else on earth and gives them a living wage. The middle class have paid all they can stand to pay. Lower their taxes and give them the kinds of breaks the poor get in colleges and universities and businesses and watch them flourish.

Charities get more money from working class people, from the middle class, than from the oligarchs. When times are tough, the charities get less because there is less to go around. That doesn't mean that some rich don't fund charities, and not just for the tax break. That kind of funding won't make a dent in their overall assets.

It's time for the wealth to trickle down, which does not mean I hate the rich and blame them for all the ills on earth. Governments handle that quite nicely on their own. Absolute power and absolute corruption. The rich need to pitch in. After all, how many Rolls Royces and Jaguars can one man drive? Let the funds for socialized guilt trickle down from the wealthy -- legislate it if that's the only way to get it done -- and let it trickle through the middle class and down to the poor. Let the money build a strong middle class and lift the poor, but not at the cost of no more middle class. Kill the engine and the vehicle stops and will move no further.

I don't think we need to get to the point of casting out the members of the tribe unwilling to work to maintain their position, but I do think it's time to be realistic. We cannot save everyone and we cannot abolish poverty. Someone will always get lost in the shuffle. What we can do is be smart and realize that nothing trickles down where nothing remains. If we don't get this right, there will be a revolution of the poor and unwashed, the disenfranchised members of a dwindling middle class, and they will tear down the palaces of the rich and set them against the wall with guns blazing. The fall of the tsar will be nothing to the bloodshed that will follow the collapse of the middle class as prey becomes predator and set their eyes on the wealthy. Chaos will follow and eventually a new wealthy class will arise from the ashes of the old to oppress the people not quick enough or unscrupled enough to get their share. All that will be left is blood trickling down and the argument begins anew.

That is not a world I want. Do you?

Friday, February 03, 2012

Cut Out the Middle Man


As I work on the latest story fighting for head space, I take a few moments to read the news and am appalled by what I see. I've known about the fight in the UK to keep libraries open and a world where libraries cease to exist because of budget cuts is not a world where I want to live.

Yes, I can afford to buy books on digital and in print, but can the community afford to let free access to books end? Not if they want to maintain literacy or informed people. Not if they want to fund a place where poor children can go to learn to read and be introduced to new writers and books. Not if they want a place where even the poor can go to learn and dream and become more. It's not an option in a sane world.

The UK has socialized medicine, but they can't afford -- or won't pay for -- libraries? What is wrong with this picture?

Fighting for attention is the Susan G. Komen organization's decision to stop funding mammograms for poor and indigent women through Planned Parenthood. They can donate their money wherever they choose, but their reasoning is specious and faulty. Mammograms through Planned Parenthood aren't done on the premises? Okay, so why not make funds available to buy the equipment so the mammograms can be done in-house? End of problem and better use of resources. The $700,000 a year for mammograms previously granted to PP wasn't enough to buy the equipment and provide trained technicians to do the exams. The choice in how to spend the funds was up to the people making mammograms available.

Of course, machines and technicians for detailed exams and ultrasounds would also have to be purchased since that is the next step if a suspicious nodule is found on mammogram, but that could be shunted off to the local hospital or clinic and the funds could follow the patient. It's a hack's way of doing things when SGK could erect their own buildings and buy the equipment, pay the staff to do mammograms in a SGK funded facility, but why waste the money when there are facilities already available.

My biggest beef is calling Planned Parenthood an abortion facility. That is not all that Planned Parenthood is about and minimalizes what the facilities do. Education is a big part of their services, as is providing condoms and doing pregnancy tests. There are also training classes in safe sex and parenting and counseling on options while pregnant. STD testing, psychological counseling, group therapy for parents and would-be parents, a place to go to fill out forms for WIC and Welfare and a host of other groups and services, and, yes, a place to go for an abortion if that is a choice. Planned Parenthood is about choices -- all choices, not just approved choices.

On a positive note, donations to Planned Parenthood have gone viral and, at last count, were up to $400,000. It's a beginning.

Did I mention that prenatal care is also one of Planned Parenthood's services? Check-ups and risk assessment?

The spokespeople for Susan G. Komen say their decision wasn't based on politics and yet it looks political. It sounds political and it smells political. What do people say about something that looks, talks, sounds, and smells like something? 'nuff said.

We live in a world of political expediency where what looks like a money-saving issue is really anything but. The UK is supposedly trying to save money by shutting down libraries. Susan G. Komen is supposedly intent on spending their money where it would do the most good. Neither situation passes the smell test.

The people who donated their hard earned dollars to the Susan G. Komen Foundation should find a better place to donate their money, like directly to Planned Parenthood.

As for the UK, as an American anything I say would be ignored because I don't live in the UK, but in a country noted for its social programs and the home and birthplace of many literary stars, you'd think that politics wouldn't be the deciding factor in whether or not to fund libraries. It must be hard to close libraries with such a legacy, but it certainly doesn't look hard from here. 

Put your money and your votes where they will do the most good. Speak in a way that politicians understand -- with votes and dollars. Go directly to the source.

Planned Parenthood 

British Libraries

Monday, January 30, 2012

Somewhere in Time


The fantasy of time, its limits only solid when looking at it from a day-to-day perspective, has been a popular element in fiction and movies. From H. G. Wells's The Time Machine to the modern day Map of Time by Felix Palma, it's all about time, where you can go, and what is found when the boundaries of time are crossed. Time travel was an element writers like Andre Norton and Stephen King have employed, King in his last 11/23/63, which I have not yet read, but look forward to whenever I unearth it from the cracks it feel between a month or so ago. I may have to tear down a wall to get to it, but that's what happens when reading in bed and falling asleep with it still in my hands.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could think or dream ourselves to a different time and walk the streets of Venice or watch the Battle of Waterloo from a mountaintop neaerby? Or find that perfect love, the one who was made with us in mind, and find that happily ever after?

It was a portrait of an actress who appeared at a theater after the dawning of the 20th century that drew Richard Collier to the past. Richard Matheson wrote Richard's love story in Bid Time Return, which was made into the movie, Somewhere in Time, with Christopher Reeve as Collier and Jane Seymour as Elise McKenna, a woman of beauty and talent appearing in a theatrical production. That has to be my favorite story and movie, although I saw the movie before I read the story, which is the way I find many books that have become favorites.

It wasn't so much the longing and excitement of that One Love that drew me to the story but the feeling that tim is a barrier only in the mind. To be in a room so steeped with time that the past bleeds into the present so seamlessly and to be able to walk from this time to that is an exhilarating possibility. Walking around in that time, knowing that you have been there before and can be again is a marvel of invention and relies only on the heart and mind of the traveler to make it so.

Although the story does not end happily ever after, the power of love and longing that reaches through time and connects two people is romantic and the sadness of the loss makes it that much more romantic and poignant. It is the delicate balance between romance and self-destruction that makes the story so memorable. Was it madness that drove Richard to reach through the veils of time or was it love, that most powerful of emotions? Truth be told, there is madness in love that so single-mindedly drives us to assault the hurdles that prevent us from being with The One. Maybe that's what makes it so compelling, so intoxicating.

There is also a sense of wondrous possibility and hope that permeates the story as Richard strives to find the connection between himself and an actress he met just once, an aging woman who leaves him with a gold watch and a cryptic message: Come back to me. Who would not have remembered and, given the opportunity, follow, no matter the risk? There is hope in such madness and madness beyond words that fills the soul with love and possibility.

Each time I read the story or see the movie I wish again that Richard and Elise had found a way to stay together, but then there would be no story and neither would have reached the pinnacles of their arts. It is the conundrum of time -- and love -- that what burns hottest and brightest is too seductive to resist and is still more worth the having. Who would not risk all to find even a moment of perfect happiness and to know that what was once found can be found again somewhere in time?

Thursday, January 26, 2012

He Likes Me


Chili Bob called me yesterday morning to chat. Aside from his ankle issues, he mostly talked about his youngest daughter and her first boyfriend. She has commented on her Facebook page that she's feeling wonderful. That can only be the whores moaning -- in the vernacular, hormones talking.

Beth is in the first flush of love, her first love and she's nearly out of high school. He likes me rings through her mind as she mentally plucks the petals of a mutant rose or daisy filled with petals that tell her 'he likes me, he likes me, he likes me...' There are not petals so perverse as to whisper 'he likes me not,' not at this stage of the flush. The world is brighter and the colors more spectacular. Food has no taste because the words 'he likes me' taste so good nothing can compare, not even her favorite deep fried turkey and sweet potato souffle.

Nothing tastes as satisfying as those words, probably because Beth has come to love so late in her teenage years and, for the first time in her life, she knows how it feels to be liked -- by a boy -- a cute boy. It's the same feeling that Sally Field set the movie industry snickering over and Stephanie Meyer turned to box office and literary gold -- the late bloomer overwhelmed by endorphins and questionable judgment. He likes me.

I remember those feelings. Doesn't everyone? I came to them early, before I started school, and felt them often whenever a new boy cast his eyes my way and smiled right before he rushed over to ask me to go steady. Parties where we played kissing games were extra sweet when THE BOY had to kiss me amidst titters, teasing, and tinges of red in my cheeks.

Beth didn't have those roller coaster times. She has spent her time playing basketball and auditioning for leads in plays all over the northwestern part of Ohio -- and getting most of them. She played ingenue and romantic leads opposite men and boys, feigning those emotions she never had the time or the interest to try on for real. It was all make-believe until HE came.

It's probably not that surprising HE was someone she knew from auditions and plays they acted in together and this time life imitated art. That they share the same passions (acting and singing and dancing, and a little bit of basketball) helps the romance along, but it's really just two teenagers getting together for the first time as they bounce around on endorphins while their whores keep moaning. Loudly. Often. He likes me.

None of us are immune to the power of 'he likes me,' not even as adults. Once the endorphins ping and the whores moan, we are lost -- unless we're too jaded and experienced to even notice. Not even money and stock options can take away that thrill. He likes me. The most secluded and antisocial of hermits will come out of their caves smiling, eyes twinkling when they realize -- he likes me. It's human nature. It's biology. It's the thrill of new love when everything is limned in golden light that blurs imperfections and hides flaws and inconsistencies.

Those first golden days, weeks, months (however long) allow carte blanche for mistakes, blunders, errors, and outright lies. The whores are moaning too loudly for anything else to get through. He likes me. It's no wonder that love turns to hate when the cracks in the foundation appear and all beings to crumble into the relentless sea of 'but he liked me.' From there, the rapid slide into pain and disbelief and outright stalking with intent to maim, torture, and punish drown out the last vestiges of 'he likes me' until there is only an infinetessimal skoch of hope. Even that little flicker of fading light will flare up again when the realization dawns that 'he likes me.' All hatred dissolves until all that is left is that all encompassing golden light and smiles ride the waves of endorphins and whores moaning once again. The subsequent crashes are more spectacular -- and far more dangerous -- until 'he likes me' whispers once again. No wonder people prefer the roller coaster to the carousel where there are no highs and lows, no depths of despair and volcanoes of anger and betrayal to counter the dizzying heights of 'he likes me.' But who can live on such titanic emotional struggles for long?

'He likes me.'

Remember how that feels, but be wary. Few loves can last such frustrating and delirious emotions for long before burning out and leaving the taste of ashes.

I hope Beth enjoys her first boyfriend and finds her passion for acting, singing, and dance as a balance for her first flush of love. It's safer when you fall if your feet are flat on the ground.

 

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

King Tut, Bequests, and Cross-stitch

Beanie called yesterday to see how I was doing. What she really wanted was to talk, something we haven't done in a while. The connections seem filled with static with broken trunk lines.

We chatted, but what interested me most was a all she told me about. One of the boys called her a day or two after the funeral to apologize if he was inappropriate and ask if he could have the death mask of King Tut that I had cross-stitched and given to my mother. Beanie told him she couldn't do that because Mom gave Tut and Nefertiti back to me a few years ago. They hang on my living room wall. He never called and asked me about them and it has been nearly a week. I guess he'll wait until I die, take them down and take them with him when he goes after my funeral, except I am not planning on there being a funeral and I've considered donating them to a museum. The frames at least are worth something and I put a lot of work into both pieces. Mom always said I should have them appraised, but where does one go to have cross-stitch appraised and how would they be valued?

The value to me is obvious. I spent a great deal of time stitching the pieces, two weeks for each, working 8-10 hours a day for 14 days. I changed some of the materials, like using a 28-ct even weave cloth in navy blue instead of the Aida suggested. I don't like Aida; it's too stiff. The fabric I used feels soft and takes the thread and needle like a dream. The metallic threads that give the piece it's shine and rich look are hard to work with but worth the effort. I still have some of the thread I used for Tut and Nefertiti; I saved everything, including the metallic threads, and then I gave at least one box of the threads to a friend. Mom sent them to me in one of her junk boxes, a combination of things that belong to me and were in storage and whatever she thought I'd like.

Our tastes were so different. She preferred gaudy colors and knick-knacks and, while I like looking at knick-knacks, I don't like dusting or having them cluttering everything up. I gave up knick-knacks a while back and even then my dust catchers were different from my mother's ideas of tarting a place up with junk. I prefer crystal balls in ornate holders and porcelain statues of Erte's costume designs, and the occasional Greek goddess or god. There was a time I collected porcelain eggs, but that time is past. My shelves are more apt to be filled with books and DVDs than statues and painted marble or porcelain eggs. Fewer things I have to box up and move.

And the books are going, too. I'm donating them to the library and either Goodwill or Volunteers of America. Maybe both.

One thing we did agree on was Tut and Nefertiti, or at least my colored thread renditions of them. That's Tut's picture above. It's not a great likeness, but it's all I have right now and I cannot find my camera to take another. Maybe after I get rid of some more books it will turn up.

Since the first time I shared the pieces with her, Mom coveted them, so much she threatened to burgularize my apartment to get them since I refused to just hand them over. Neither piece was matted and framed yet, that was next on my list of things to do. I did allow her to take them to work to show people. She loved bragging and showing off, even if it wasn't her stuff she was showing about. When I got them back, I cleaned them up and took them to a framer's shop to be done. They cost $119 each, and that has been about 20 years ago. It was a lot of money but it was worth it.

I chose the mats and frames with such care, settling on a papyrus reed paper for one of the mats. The effect was stunning. I gave Tut to Mom for Xmas one year using one of my more devious methods and she nearly fell down the stairs getting to it when she finally realized it had been hanging on the hall wall all Xmas Eve. None of us had seen her move so fast, not with two knee replacements and her bad back. She clutched the large frame to her chest and ran through the house yelling, "I got it. I got it. It's mine. It's mine." Nefertiti follow a few years later, but I just handed her over once she was matted and framed without the elaborate gift-giving strategem. I had someone else to torture that year and I limit myself to torturing only one person a year -- per family.

Tut and Nefertiti hung in pride of place in the house in Hilliard and then in New Holland until the year Dad died. I came back to Ohio to spend a week with Dad and took Tut and Nefertiti home, wrapped in a faux mink throw. They -- and I -- made it safely home and they have been with me since.

Mom told me several times that she wishes she hadn't given them back. She missed having them close. Someone she knew offered to mat and frame them again, this time with glass between the work and people's hands, and did the pair for free. She didn't choose a papyrus paper mat and didn't use the same colors in the matting, but the frames are nice and the glass protects the work from the elements and people. I don't mind too much because it's not the frames or the mats that count, it's the work itself.

I'd no idea that my son had ever seen them or wanted them, but he must have seen them some time. That he remembered and coveted them still surprises me. There are so many other things to covet and ask to have. Mom had so much junk and lots of knick-knacks to choose from, but he wants Tut. Probably Nefertiti, too, if he knew about her; she did come later since it took a while to find a pattern and change the colors to match Tut's, and then the all the time to stitch and frame her. Getting either one is not an option now. I'm still alive.

And I've taken up cross-stitching again. I'm working on Xmas stockings for my grandkids. I've nearly finished the first one -- on Aida cloth -- and will hopefully finish the other four by Xmas. I don't have the time to spend 8-10 hours a day working on them and my fingers are not sufficiently callused yet so the needle doesn't hurt so much when I push it through the stiff cloth. I've a little callus building, but it's not ready yet. I'm ready though, ready to pick up cross-stitching and there are so many beautiful projects to choose. I even found some beautiful nudes that would be fun to try, almost as much fun as the 24 x 36-inch nudes I painted when Dave and I moved to Arizona after David Scott was born. I didn't work at first and on those rare occasions when my son was quiet or napping and I waited for the load of wash to finish so I could hang them out to dry, I painted by the numbers, blending the colors and changing some of the design, and created two beautiful nudes that hung on the wall.

I never had them framed and somewhere along the way they were either lost or given to someone who coveted them the way I covet colored and metallic threads and the way they change in my hands from thread to layers of light, shadow, and color to create beautiful images on cloth in some alchemical magic that delights and surprises me still. The process is calming and soothes the restless artistic spirit that overtakes me from time to time, reminding me of a time when brush and paints answered the touch of fingers and hands to bring the seeming of life to blank canvas for someone to covet and ask for -- or pay for -- with or without mats and framing -- and glass.

The night stand by the bed has a heap of tangled thread ends on it. I like to stitch in bed for a while before reading until I'm ready to fall asleep. The images on the instruction sheet come alive on the cloth as I stitch and I marvel anew that threads combined in a certain way create the subtle shading, shadows, and light that make the whole project come alive. I see the possibilities when I decide to buy the kit and it makes me want to buy other kits and make more projects. Bell pulls, tapestries, baby afghans and bibs, bits of cross-stitch for clothing, and so many other things. I imagine stitching and hanging them on the walls with appropriate frames and matting or hardware, or packing them in boxes and sending them to my sons to give to my grandchildren to enjoy. This need to cross-stitch will pass and another creative outlet will excite me for a while until only my true passion remains -- words.

Words on a page, threads on canvas, built letter by letter and page by page, a tangible reminder that I was here and left a mark for someone to covet after my death. I wonder which will endure the longest -- Tut and Nefertiti behind glass or these tangled words.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Review: Cinder by Marissa Meyer


Linh Cinder is the best mechanic in New Beijing in the Asian Commonwealth. She is also a cyborg and therefore a second class citizen because she is less human, about 38% human, according to the tests. With a platinum and plastic heart that pumps quietly and efficiently and a cybernetic network and visual display that keep her cool, calm, and collected, she is a marvel of machinery. A few minor upgrades, like a brand new mechanical foot since she's outgrown the old one placed when she was a child, and she'd be perfect, just not human, as her guardian and adopted mother would have it.

Her guardian was once the wife of a rich and powerful man who died of Letumosis, a contagion that began in the country and has worked its way into the confines of the city, and it is always fatal. Cinder's guardian blames her for infecting her adopted father and leaving them all destitute so that Cinder is the family's only source of income, and Cinder's guardian resents her for it.

When the prince (incognito) comes to Cinder's stall on market day to have a teaching robot fixed, she is surprised and her system warns her that she was in danger of sensory overload. The prince wants his robot fixed before the festival and Cinder agrees to give it a go, while concealing she is a cyborg, thus changing their lives forever and setting the ground rules for Meyer's re-imagined fairy tale.

In remodeling the fairy tale of Cinderella, Marissa Meyer throws out most of the conventions and strikes out into brand new territory, retaining a few of the traditional elements to give the story a magical feel. There is more science in Cinder than magic, but that shouldn't deter die-hard fairy tale fans. There is enough of the fairy tale to maintain the fantasy.

From the beginning, Meyer lets you know what is about to happen, leaving not so subtle clues and repeating them from time to time. From the first mention of the lunar princess who has been missing for more than a decade, it's obvious who she will turn out to be -- Cinderella, or in this case, Cinder. Meyer leans pretty hard on the "I'm not good enough because I'm a cyborg" element, but it's not always unpleasant and anchors Cinder within the story's emotion and social framework.

While Cinder isn't a classical fairy tale, it is still fairy tale enough with queens from the moon with the power to glamour entire populations and turning their emotions from hate and disgust to love and adoration. The fairy godmother may be a lunar scientist on the run from the current regime and not using his glamour gift, but he is certainly a fun and fascinating addition to the tale.

When a dirty Cinder limping on a poorly fitting mechanical foot in a discarded dress shows up at the ball, the ending to the night is in the bag -- or is it?

Marissa Meyer throws a few curves in Cinder and they enhance the story: missing lunar princess, a cyborg Cinderella with no feminine wiles, an evil queen with the power to glamour everyone, and a power struggle between Earth and the Moon for starters. The biggest drawback is knowing the book is part of a trilogy and it will take a while before Cinder finds her happily ever after ending with the prince.

Cinder is a welcome addition to re-imagined fairy tales with a style and shape all its own.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Upcoming Book: The Longest War | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Upcoming Book: The Longest War | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Who fights the wars? What do they have to say about glory, honor, and death? Find out.

Bad = Good for You


Isn't it interesting that when someone tries to harm you they end up helping you? I'll bet if they knew, they'd stop causing trouble and meddling. I certainly wouldn't want that.

It's like a bad review. On the surface, your work has been slammed -- HARD. It's a blow to the ego and to everything you thought you had done. Don't take it like that. A bad review causes talk and talk causes interest which ends up in sales. Take a bad review like a free marketing push that will put your work higher up in the consumer's consciousness. Think not?

How many times have you read a book or seen a movie because you heard it was awful? Really awful. Translate and rejoice. You finally get it.

The same thing goes for people who mean you harm by talking about you and creating problems, especially if you're a writer. Their ill intentions usually equal interest and that will equal sales. But don't tell the pot stirrer because they might stop creating problems. You don't want that.

Be a pro. Thank them for the time they took to read and review your book. Ask them to tell all their friends. You might not have to ask; they've probably already spread the word.

Sometimes bad equals good. It's not the best intentions you need, but often evil intentions. It gets more press and generates more interest. Thank the publishing and movie gods for bad intentions.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Chaos in her Wake

Death brings out the worst and the best in people, especially in families, and I have seen my share of death, trying unsuccessfully to keep my distance. Death finds us all in the end.

All the unresolved issues, arguments, and missed opportunities come back with vengeful force, and so it is with my family. My mother died last night.

Beanie called me last night to tell me Mom was dead. Through hysterical tears and heightened emotions (good thing Dan was driving), she told me the news. My first impulse was to tell her the joke was in poor taste; I squelched it. When I couldn't grasp the facts quickly she began screaming at me. "She's dead. Mom's dead. Don't you get it?" Yes, I got it.

I called my brother, The Mushroom, because he keeps a cool head in situations like this, and I often wonder if it is because he doesn't feel anything deeply or that he covers his emotions so well. It's a big change from the usual weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that grips the rest of the family. Dad was like that, too, a duck whose feathers shrugged off the storms, water gushing over the oily feathers without touching the down and heart beneath.

The Mushroom gave me the facts. I'm good with facts. They provide a calm center in the worst of family hurricanes and cyclones, providing a touchstone of calm in an otherwise turbulent background.

Hoity-Toity came home from work and found Mom lying face down on the sofa, her heart having stopped at the moment she walked to the sofa and taking her down in an instant. I doubt she felt much pain; the pain is left for her family. Hoity-Toity, through her tears and guilt, called the important people: cousin Laura, the Mushroom, and Beanie, all of whom rushed from different parts of the compass to be there. The sheriff pulled up as the Mushroom pulled into the driveway at Hoity-Toity's house while he was talking to me.

As I called more of the family, Aunt Anne, my children, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois, more of the story emerged. Laura had called Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois and the news spread along the family network like wildfire in a dry and desiccated forest. Only my children and Aunt Anne were surprised by the news that yet another of our clan was gone and chaos had descended.

Mom would have loved the  stir as a faithful disciple and spreader of chaos, even more so because she was once again at the center, only marginally pushed aside by Hoity-Toity, hysterical in her grief and guilt at Mom having died alone. Probably the only marginally funny moment to come out of this first storm of grief was Laura's suggestion we hire a helicopter and spread her ashes over Lazarus where Mom spent most of her free time and all her and Dad's money when she was alive. Lazarus should at least put up a prominent platinum plaque in her honor; they have lasted this long because of Mom's faithful patronage.

Yes, Mom is being cremated, as Dad was five years ago, and after railing and trying to guilt me out of my desire to be cremated. She was so invested in monuments and graves and places to go on Memorial Day to place flowers and parade her grief. How could I even consider being cremated? It was a slap in the family's face, but I was adamant, and remain adamant, that I will be cremated. I think Mom came around to the idea when The Mushroom told her he wanted to be cremated. I was always the trail breaker, the first to step out against tradition, but nothing ever caught on until one of my younger siblings took a step in the same direction as if they were the first. Mom will be cremated but not without her parade of grief and show of friends and family.

Family you can pretty much count on when someone dies, many of whom will come to make sure it's not an elaborate and costly joke. They want to see the body in its coffin to be sure the person is dead. Oftentimes, funerals remains one of the few times that family still come together, burying old feuds and disagreements to follow the funeral cortege in mourning black. The intricate to-and-fro dance of renewing old ties and catching up on the years of silence continues the tradition of public mourning. Some traditions are bred in the bone and sinew and funerals and mourning (or assuring oneself of) the dead is one of them.

I forget who said or wrote it, but funerals are supposed to be a sign of sentient intelligence. Coming together to mark a passing is proof we have climbed out of the mindless muck and become aware of the gravity and importance of life and death. I wonder how many funerals whoever that was had attended.

Mom told me that she knew she would not be mourned the way Dad was and continues to be mourned. I didn't agree or disagree, but I was curious to know why she thought that, so I asked. "Everyone loved your father and he made friends easily. I am more difficult, not lovable."

How right she was -- and is. She was difficult. No one knew how difficult better than I do.

Mom was vain, selfish, jealous, controlling, manipulative, greedy, and self-centered. She could also be generous and kind -- and she reminded you of how generous and kind at every opportunity, not so much to remind you she had been kind, but to let you know you owed her for her generosity and kindness. To strangers she seemed a kind woman, but even acquaintances soon lost the rosy tint in their glasses. She was implacable and unrelenting in her anger, only softening with age as her memory failed, but even then she clung to the edited version of her life and actions that proved she was an exemplary human being. She wasn't. She was vicious, vindictive, and full of venom, but in that moment when she told me she knew we wouldn't miss her and mourn her as we did Dad, she knew.

There are more than five decades of anger and hurt I could write about (and I will eventually) Mom, but there is really no need right now. Whatever harm she caused, whatever grief and bitterness she left behind, she was a big part of our lives and now she's gone. She died alone hours before she was found face down on the couch, getting her 5-year wish to join Dad. She finally made it. She died.

She leaves behind 4 children, 10 grandchildren, and 10 great grandchildren, 9 of the great grandchildren belonging to my boys. She leaves her brother, the sole remnant of her branch of the vast May clan, and his five children and numerous grandchildren.

As Mom looks down and sees the chaos left in her wake, she is smiling. She would have loved the theater of it all. She died as she lived, a disciple and proponent of chaos.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Faded Photographs

Whether it's fantasy or reality, memories transport us to the past, to moments of pleasure and pain, to times when we were important or diminished, to what lies beneath. The quality of memory is often strained.

Mom sent me an old photograph of my father in his Army uniform when he was young and healthy, when he was alive. I decided to make copies and send them to my brother and sisters when I realized my grandchildren know nothing about Dad or Mom or even me, come to that. My children were partially raised by another woman, my ex-husband's second wife, and she is not a fan of me or my family. She did her best to eradicate us from my boys' memories and what remained was painted in vivid venom. This is what my grandchildren have learned as those tainted memories are passed down. To my grandchildren I am the faceless entity who sends them birthday and Xmas gifts. I exist to give them presents.

I had printed off copies of Dad's picture, took three of them, and inscribed the back with who he was and when the picture was taken. Dad was in his 30s and he looked handsome and smiling. He always smiled in pictures and in life, seldom frowning or getting angry -- unless someone got in between him and the television program or movie he was watching. He was full of laughter and great stories, but how would his great grandchildren ever know? I had to tell them, and I began by sending the pictures to my youngest son's three children.

My oldest son's twins are not yet 2 years old, so their picture will have to wait. Not a problem. I have the photo stored on my computer and online so I can download and print more copies, next time with the name brand photo stock that goes with my 4-in-1 printer.

Eddie, the middle child, has two boys I've never met and have had no contact with. He was the one most affected by his stepmother's tales of terror and it will take time to get an address for him when I reach out with my Xmas gift for 2012.

I've decided to put together a family history of my side of the family: the good, the bad, and the ugly, but only the truth. There are some stellar types in the family and some less than stellar types, but they all deserve their moment on the page. I've contacted both sides of my family asking for photos and letters and histories, if they want to write them. I will add news clippings of births, marriages, and deaths and notable happenings, like the cousin who was governor of Texas and in the car with JFK when he was shot in Dallas that November day in 1963. The old letters I've saved from family who have died and gone on, leaving a legacy of remembrance and colored bits of their life, will go into the books (there has to be one for each family), as will the family reunions and DVDs and CDs with home movies converted to digital format.

I started with the idea of photos and histories, but there is so much material that I'll likely have a few volumes, one each Xmas, for each of the families. I may even convert it all to digital and print so those who don't know that Mom's dad was the sheriff, mayor, and biggest business owner in Alger, Ohio can read about how he captured John Dillinger and took him to the Lima jail where his buddies busted him out and killed the sheriff, or how one of my father's in-laws ran with Dillinger around Dayton and Cincinnati before he went to Alger to see his stepmother and was caught.

There were alcoholics and family locked in institutions. Some were rich and some were poor. There were farmers and business men and ordinary people and a beloved aunt who was married to the Omar Bread man. Name changes and secrets, a skeleton here or there, but a truthful and accurate picture of all my family, including the abject poverty in which my father grew up in Cynthiana, Ohio. Dad's letters to me about growing up and his life in a rural wide spot in the road will be copied and placed in the book, even the part about how backward he was and that his father delivered him in the field when his mother went into labor while bringing lunch to Grandpa Cornwell when he was plowing. The fights with local boys and the jokes and risque stories and the jewel bright moments and my father's funny stories, stories no one could tell the way he could; they will all be in there. Cousins, family reunions, feuds, dreams, madness, and life in all its facets is my gift to my grandchildren.

My memories and the remembrances of as many people as I can beg, cajole, threaten, and interest in contributing is my gift, but it is a true gift and one I hope they will treasure as much as I treasure them.

In this world where few people stay close to their families and still live within a 20-mile radius of home, memory is even more important. It may be the only way to keep in touch with one's roots and the legacy of family. My solution is one way of bringing the past to life, but I'm a writer and words and pictures are my touchstone with life and memory. I live a half a continent away from my family but they are never far from my thoughts or my heart. I want my grandchildren to share a bit of what makes them who they are and to feel all their roots, my side of their roots, too.

Monday, January 09, 2012

It's All About the Words


When Jon Land offered to read and review my novel, Among Women, I was a little anxious. He was after all an internationally known author and I was just the person who had read and reviewed several of his books, and not always with glowing words. I pointed out shortcomings and places where the plot or characters didn't quite work, but the surprise was that with every review, he has thanked me unconditionally -- and agreed with my assessment. It's not like he could change the books to fix the plot holes but he was gracious. That was the one thing I counted on -- him being gracious -- even if he didn't like my novel.

He is also a gentleman. I could forget about any soul ripping or prose rending as I've endured with former friends who have decided to vent their spleen on me by trashing my work. I knew he would be honest whatever the outcome.

I sent him my book in April and a few days ago he gave me his answer.

"With AMONG WOMEN, J.M. Cornwell has fashioned an emotionally bracing tale of love, loss, and redemption.  Here is a book of rare depth in both character and story, tragic and uplifting at the same time in the tradition of Alice Walker, Terry McMillan and Judith Guest.  Certain to stay with you long after you've turned the last page and just as certain to leave you eagerly awaiting the talented Cornwell's next effort."


--Jon Land, bestselling author of STRONG AT THE BREAK and BETRAYAL


I was stunned, shocked, and pleased. I've not been compared to McMillan, Walker, or Guest -- and I wasn't quite sure who Judith Guest was. I found out pretty quickly. She wrote Ordinary People and several books in the same vein. Walker and McMillan I knew; I've been fans of them both for years.


The extravagance of the blurb is undeniable and I thanked Jon profusely. If I wasn't a fan of his Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong before now, I would be soon. However, I am a fan and have been since the first book. Jon writes solid and timely thrillers and, while I quibble on occasion with some of his plot choices and point out the holes, he is overall a solid writer with a vast imagination.


I've been told that authors praising other authors doesn't make a difference to the reading public and yet publishers and authors put blurbs from recognizably famous authors on the backs of their books. I didn't do that with Among Women because I hadn't sent galleys or advanced reading copies to any authors who had agreed to read the book. I could barely get people I know to read the book. They're always too busy, don't read that genre, or just don't read at all. I have a rather long list of authors whose books I've read and reviewed, but I didn't think it appropriate to ask them to read my book, and I didn't ask any of the authors I've known for years and corresponded with. I wanted the reading public to start talking about my novel and my writing, good or bad (preferably good), and start the snowball rolling down Mount Everest. The snowball seems to be stalled at base camp 2.  Or is it 3?


The thing about the writing business is no one really knows how it works. Authors who tell great stories and couldn't put together a cogent grocer list zoom to the top of the charts, garnering automatic fame and a considerable fortune.  Authors who know how to market and tweet and socialize like madmen and write formulaic drivel zoom to the top of the charts, too. All too often, authors who do it all right and follow the rules, barely make it to the middle of the pack. It's a crap shoot, especially for indies, and fragmenting themselves and their efforts following what worked for other authors doesn't do much good, except to provide a little bump in sales. There is no tried and true method of getting ahead and advertising on no budget isn't an option. The only thing left is the story.


I read a post Amanda Hocking wrote recently about how everyone talks about all the millions of dollars she has made and no one mentions that she writes books with stories that people want to read. It's all about the story even though the editing and proofing are horrible. She's one of those who write fantasy and fantasy is hot right now, so what happens to someone like me who writes books about real people in real situations? Base camp 2 -- or 3. You know, right at the summit.


I don't know what else to do but keep writing what moves me and keep hoping that among the seven billion people on this earth, a few paltry million will discover my stories and decide to read them.


Jon Land did me a huge favor by reading my book and I hope, by putting his views here, others will feel the same way and read. I don't socialize and network all the time (I have two full time jobs) and I don't haunt the bulletin boards and forums. I'd have no time to write if I did. That just leaves this story and the ones that came before and the ones that will continue to follow. Somewhere along the way, I hope it is enough.


It's all about the words.