Just for 30 days

If I could be one person for 30 days, it would be the person in charge of making the decision about whether or not a mega mosque should be built at Ground Zero in NYC.

It cannot be just about money, although it is obvious the legislators and mayor of NYC had their heads up their collective backsides when they decided to raise the taxes on the rich, who responded by leaving NYC in droves. But to put up a mega mosque at Ground Zero is sheer lunacy.

The Muslims are upset at the backlash of feeling and point to the freedom of religion and freedom of speech as backing their claim that a mosque should be built there. Setting aside the fact that it was Muslim extremists who brought down the towers and killed thousands, to honor the Muslim dead and their religion by erecting a mega mosque is to forget about the people who died and were not Muslim. Is it right to honor the religion of one small group of people over the religion of the tens of thousands who died? I think not.

If a religious center is built it should represent the religions of all those who died that day and in the days that followed, a mega religious center not a mega mosque.

I have read arguments that a mega mosque would be like the Taj Mahal, erected by a bereaved Mogul (Muslim) king honoring his dead wife. He was the ruler and his wife was queen (rani), so that was understandable. Neither America nor NYC have kings or rajahs, so a monument to one group of people and their religion is not understandable. What is understandable is the outrage that so many Americans feel. This is what free speech is all about: open discussion and conversations from all sides of the issue, not just the popular and politically correct side.

No one is keeping Muslims from celebrating their religion or building mosques on other sides in America, but it is the right of every American to have a say in whether or not a mosque should be built at Ground Zero? Celebrate your religion anywhere. Roll out your prayer mats and point them toward Mecca while you pray at Ground Zero, but don't expect for Americans to embrace putting up a monument to the Muslim extremists who destroyed two buildings to throw American commerce and lives into chaos and killed tens of thousands of Americans. Yes, there were Muslims who were killed on 9/11/2001, but there were far more non-Muslims who were killed that day. To honor one group is to ignore the deaths and religions of all the other groups. As far as I am concerned, there isn't enough money in the world to allow that to happen. As the person in charge of this decision, it would be a center for all religions or business as usual.

Now, down the street a couple of blocks among all the other churches and synagogues, is something else again. To that I say, go for it.

That is all. Disperse.

At the end of the rainbow

I mentioned to someone this evening that I had most of what I need and some of the things I want and that I was content. He said that was a perverse way of thinking and that it was sad that I didn't need anyone or anything. He didn't get what I said or what I meant.

I've spent most of my life traveling around looking for the place where I fit in. I didn't and don't fit in with my family; I'm too different: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually and financially. I don't have a lot of things and I don't own my own house. According to them, I'm a failure.

My brother spends his life on Second Life trying to find someone to marry because he is tired of living alone. He's been divorced for a year. He didn't realize he was living alone before. His wife led her life and he led his. She was gone most of the time, and so was he. He was working and she was chasing after bikers -- in the name of religious conversion, of course. When he was home, he was in his office in the basement on the computer playing Second Life. His life really hasn't changed. He's still paying his ex-wife's bills and doesn't see his children very often. The only difference is that it is quieter now.

Hoity Toity is into real estate these days. She has a big house she shares with my mother, but liked it better when she lived in it alone. That is, alone after four divorces. She has a sports car, a truck and a car she drives during the week. She owns two condos and just bought another little house for her daughter Shanna who hasn't held down a job longer than six months, hasn't worked in years, lives with a series of friends, has a drug dealer boyfriend who is the father of her unborn child, shoots up heroine, snorts cocaine and has a fondness for OxyContin and other narcotics. Her daughter is waiting for the renovations to be completed so she and another one of her friends can move into the house with her seven dogs. Her son is in prison again for drug dealing and breaking and entering. SWAT teams and the FBI had looked for him for months and even broke into Hoity Toity's house looking for him on several occasions. Her son was featured on Crime Stoppers in Central Ohio.

Hoity Toity retired from the state about two years ago and has spent the last two years working for the state as an outside contractor. She recently went back to work for the state in the same job for a huge salary and benefits.

Beanie has finally asked her husband for a divorce. Hubby responded by first threatening to kill himself and then kill whoever she was leaving him for. When neither of those tactics worked, he started whining to anyone who would listen about how Beanie is hurting him and how much he loves her while he slanders our father and whispers lies into their sons' ears. Yeah, he loves her. They have two homes, several horses and just got back from yet another cruise in the Caribbean.

I'm the odd man out with my rented cottage, fourteen-year-old car that still runs perfectly, working at home and making ends meet with book reviews, articles and published stories and novels. I don't have a lot, but I have enough. I still want a few things and I'll get them eventually, but my life doesn't revolve around what I want. I get paid for reading books. I don't have to fight traffic to go to work and spend my off hours writing and watching movies on DVD. I go out with friends, have a fairly considerable correspondence and keep in touch with friends and Beanie. I'm not married, having been divorced for nearly 20 years, and have a quiet life for the most part. I'm still working for my cabin in the mountains and living by my writing, and that will come in time.

The fellow who called me perverted didn't get what I mean. I'm not blissful, but there are blissful moments. I'm not ecstatically happy all the time, but I am sometimes. I don't think I could stand an extended state of bliss. It would keep me from writing or working. Yes, there are things I'd still liked to do and have. Yes, I sometimes miss having someone around all the time, but not enough to want to get married again. I'd have to get rid of too many books or move from my little cottage. My life isn't perfect, but I am contented most of the time. Isn't that what everyone keeps looking for -- how to be happy and contented? There's no secret to finding that particular pot of gold beneath the rainbow. It is, as Dorothy realizes when Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, asks her, in her own back yard, and she isn't missing anything if she doesn't already have it.

Happiness is a choice. I choose to be happy with what I have. I didn't enjoy always feeling lost and alone and like I was missing something that was always just out of my reach. Wanting things I didn't have made me miserable and sometimes I almost felt envious, but I've had a close look at how other people live and they are miserable, too, even more miserable than I ever was. They're trying to find happiness in things and houses and illicit relationships or online when happiness has always been within their grasp. They're looking in the wrong places.

I know what the fellow's problem really is. He's still trying to convince me that I'm missing happiness because I'm not married or don't have a friends with benefits. He's shocked that I don't need someone to make me happy and that makes me perverted. I've always been different from most people, so maybe being content with what I have is perverted. That is the kind of perversion more people need. Don't you agree?

That is all. Disperse.

A Solar Ballet

It was still dark outside when rioting birds woke me from a dreamless sleep. I'd had trouble getting to sleep last night because it was too warm. One moment I was tossing and turning and the next the cacophony of tweets and twitters pierced the dream bubble and I was suddenly awake. Less than an hour later I am awake, eyes watering and sneezing from the pine pollen. The birds have finally quieted, their clattering announcement of summer having finally arrived over. It is the summer solstice, the beginning of three months of heat and relentless light that starts with the longest day of the year. We are closest to the sun, unable to hide from the blazing glare for sixteen hours, or a touch more. The blessed balm of darkness is in short shrift today and the sun will go down in a battle that will spill blood across the skies, molten copper along the horizon, as the earth turns its face away for a brief respite before spinning back around to face the sun again. A pink blush on the horizon and then liquid fire coalesces into a spinning globe of seething fire, the engine of life in our little corner of the galaxy.

I read somewhere that the earth spins at roughly 1000 mph (seems much slower) and the sun at 60,000 mph and no one is quite sure how fast the galaxy spins away from its point of origin. The point is that this spaceship we call Earth is constantly in motion, spinning on its axis, as it dances around the sun, now close and soon farther away, pirouetting on one leg like the ballet dancer in the story of the little tin soldier who stands ever at guard on his one tin leg because there wasn't enough tin to make him whole. Everything in motion, spinning, dancing, spiraling without stop until the rubber band of creation reaches its limit and back we spin to the point of origin to wink out and burst forth once again in another Big Bang. At least that is the theory. We'll not be here in this form when it happens so we won't know when worm holes and dark matter and black holes give up their vast energy and succumb to the inexorable return to the beginning like salmon pulled over falls and against the current to the spawning grounds where they once emerged with minute tails and fins and scales like a flash of light in the rippling waters before they set off on their journey to the sea. Always in motion, ever eating and excreting and coursing through the briny waters until the moment of return when they may die along the way, spent from fighting the current rushing to the sea, never to reach the spawning grounds so the next generation can be born to take their place.

After today, after the moment when the sun crested the fiery mirage of the horizon, the days will grow shorter by a few minutes and then hours until we reached the farthest point in our dance with the sun to the shortest day in the year. Night will reign supreme for sixteen or so hours. We will have reached the tipping point and begin to dance back toward the sun and to this point one year later in our solar dance when we come nearest to the sun's embrace. Near enough to bask in its ardent gaze but not near enough to scorch the Earth's gown, spinning close, flirting with danger, and spinning away again in a timeless dance that is all about time, this solar ballet.

For this moment, this day, I wish you a happy summer solstice. The year is half gone, or maybe the year is half begun. Your choice.

Person or product

With all the talk about branding and shelf life and marketing, my head is in a whirl about being an author. After years of hard work and learning and writing, and thinking that all there was to being an author was writing a good book, I'm at a loss. Then I read Rachelle Gardner's post about choosing a literary agent and I knew what I wanted to find and how to find it.

I am a writer. It's what I do. It's what I think about. It's what I've always been in one form or another. I write books. I also write articles and short stories, and poetry on rare occasions. I didn't want to sell books, or market, brand, network or make books. I wanted to write. And I have written. But looking for an agent has been a disappointing experience, in part because I was so busy putting together winning queries and packaging myself and my book to tantalize, excite and entice an agent who would be enthusiastic about the work when I should have been thinking about what kind of an agent I want.

I want an agent like Lauren Bacall in the movie version of Stephen King's Misery. I want a clone of Maxwell Perkins or Lewis Jackman in Return to Peyton Place, an agent who sees the person behind the writer and wants to publish everything I write. Someone who sees me as more than a single book. An agent who represents a person -- me -- and not just a book, a single title, or series, and then moves on to the next book.

In all of the rejections from agents I have queried, each has said I'm a good writer, but s/he is not passionate about the book I'm offering. They were excited by my query and proposal package, but just weren't enthusiastic enough about the work. Nowhere in all those polite and politically correct rejections did anyone mention being enthusiastic about me as a writer, a person who turns out good work and will continue to do so. But how do I find an agent interested in more than one project? That is the question.

At this point, I'm not sure. What I do know is that I want an agent who is enthusiastic about representing me and sees me as a writer with a bright future. I'm not my book; that is the product of my imagination, experience, evolution, talent and hard work. It is a product any competent person, or people, can package, market and sell. The engine that drives this assembly line of words and ideas continues to run and produce. I need to find someone who understands that and is passionate about a relationship with me. A relationship with my book is a short term affair. A relationship with me is a long term arrangement. That's the person I want and need. Just point me in the right direction.

The dead speak

Deja Dead by Kathy Reichs

After five years of avoiding the show, I decided to find out what made the show Bones such a winner and how it had lasted for five years. I was not disappointed. I was, however, interested in learning more about the real life model for Temperance Brennan when I read the show was based on Kathy Reichs's detective novels told from the perspective of a forensic anthropologist, so I ordered Deja Dead and began reading as soon as it arrived.

I looked forward to seeing a crime solved from the bones of a case and to get a close-up view of the process of telling a person's life from the states of their skeletal remains. I got that and more than I had hoped in Kathy Reichs's novel. The details are chilling and exceptional, as they would be since Reichs is a working and accredited forensic anthropologist, and she is much more approachable and human than her television counterpart.

The writing has gritty and raw and hard-edged, but Reichs has a tendency to work too hard at creating metaphors, so hard that they often come off flat and intrusive. Where Reichs excels is not only in the details of forensic pathology, but in giving life to Tempe Brennan and her emotions. Brennan's attention to detail in her work and willingness to take chances in the field, even though she has no field training, makes her vulnerable and fascinating. It's also provides a base for a character arc that gives her plenty of room to grow.

In her drive to make Deja Dead more than just a police, or rather forensic, procedural, Reichs's execution does create some problems. In trying to write a hard-boiled novel with literary sensibilities, she is out of her depth most of the time, the writing constipated where it should be free flowing. She does, however, manage to pull of a one-two metaphoric punch that shows she, as well as Brennan, is learning and growing, or rather that she managed to get out of Brennan's way and let the character take the lead. One memorable example is when Brennan goes to a food stand to get a hot dog.

The guy behind the stand is a John Belushi look-alike. His clothes were damp and smelled of smoke and fat and a spice I didn't recognize. Droplets sparkled in his thick hair. When I glanced over he smiled at me, cocked one bushy eyebrow and ran his tongue slowly along his upper lip. He might as well have shown me his hemorrhoid.

Deja Dead is more than a forensic anthropologist's eye view of tracking and catching a serial killer. It is the first steps of a quickly maturing author who has an exacting eye for detail, a fine sense of theater and a growing grasp of what makes a story ring with truth when she lets the characters speak for themselves.

I much prefer Reichs's version of Brennan to Emily Deschanel's, but both have charms that make watching and reading them worth while.

Dream a dear little deer for me

Ever have a dream that seems to be saying something, but you're not sure what? I had one last night.

There was a doe wandering through my dream. At first it just wandered through the living room while I was up in the loft. I looked down and there it was just passing through. The next thing I know I had come home, unlocked the door and walked in to find the same doe lounging on my sofa. It wasn't frightened when I walked in and it seemed as though we knew each other. I laid down on the bed near the sofa and the deer got up and came to me, lying down next to me. A friend came in and asked what the deer was doing there. I explained it was there when I came home, inside my locked house. The doe got up and let me run my hands along her body because my friend asked if the doe was pregnant. She was. Once I ascertained her gravid state, I stroked her from head to belly once again, she nuzzled me, I hugged her and then she walked out the door as though she were a guest leaving.

There was such a sense of calm familiarity in the exchange as if deer appear in my house while I'm gone all the time and lie down beside me unafraid and as naturally as though it had happened many times before. It was surreal and at the same time as natural as if the doe had been a person, a friend.

According to the dream dictionaries I checked this morning, deer symbolize "grace, compassion, gentleness, meekness and natural beauty. It has feminine qualities and may point to the feminine aspect within yourself." Deer can also symbolize someone who is 'dear' to you, except I don't know anyone who is pregnant. Deer could be naïveté and gullibility or vulnerability. I don't get that sense from the dream.

Many years ago, Don told me that every aspect of a dream is a facet of the dreamer. In other words, I am the deer, the sofa, the door, the key, the other people in the dream, the bed, the loft, everything, right down to the clock on the mantel and the pictures on the wall. He said I should say, "I am the clock and that means...." He came up with an interpretation of a dream where he was himself (in the dream) and the woman to whom he was making love. Uh, no. Not for me that kind of dream interpretation. I feel like there is something else going on here and I don't think I'm a pregnant doe who can pick locks and will patiently wait until the tenant comes home. Nope, definitely too weird for me.

Anyone else have an interpretation? Where is Joseph when you need him?

That is all. Disperse.

Living up to expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A time of dreams and fantasies

Movies are compelling with their images and colors brighter than those seen in the living rooms and dens and bedrooms where the movies play. It's no wonder talkies took off the way they did in spite of the people who claimed movies would never take off. In movies there are no limits to the imagination. People have traveled farther in movies than they ever have on land or in sea or air. Makes me wonder how far we would have traveled if the people involved had been as keen to achieve space flight as they did to crack the boundaries of time and space on the big screen.

The first flights of fancy took place around fires in caves and on the plains and in the mountains and hills and at the sea side when night ruled and men huddled close for comfort and protection. Was it a lie that started the first storytellers to spinning fancies and fantasies out of shadow and leaping firelight? Or was it merely wishing to penetrate the darkness and stave off the predators waiting to pounce?

Fiction writers are considered liars, but I don't see us as writers, but rather as dreamers and visionaries. Is it a lie to wish for better or to want to travel beyond the confines of gravity? Anyone capable of such courage and wisdom and ability would have to be special and so the story is born.

I am constantly amazed by the wide variety of stories and movies and even more so by the time it takes to watch someone else's dreams and let my own lie fallow. That's the lure of movies and books, like a come-hither from the king of the leprechauns that leads to wrack and ruin, and the death of dreams.

I'm guilty of following the easy entertainment of the written and acted word, caught like a dazed fool. I'm getting better at discipline, but it's not second nature yet. I'm too much the rebel when it comes to settling down to someone else's rules -- and even my own. I don't like fences even the kind that limit time and spontaneity. Time heals all wounds and wounds all heels so that keeping the roads hot isn't quite so easy any more. It's probably why many take up writing later in life when children are grown and there are hours and time to fill. There's so much to look back on and record, so many thoughts to follow to the rainbow's end and fantasies to to eave from threads into whole cloth. It's also why some begin writing in their youth -- time to fill, dreams to follow and fancies to weave.

I'm in the middle of life, but have always found time to write. Now that there is more time with fewer distractions during summer break, I should be able to finish a couple more books. I write waking and sleeping, but I think for a while I'll leave my working hours for actual work, toiling toward the goal of time to write. There are worse things to do with the time, and I've done most of them. Time to do better and be good for a change or I'll not get a single good night's sleep as stories and characters have found their way into my dreams, luring me with penny bright phrases and evocative prose.

This Property is Not Condemned

It’s amazing how much a few pictures on the walls can change the personality and look of a place. Today, it’s my place that looks different. I hung some of my pictures yesterday and today. When I sat down to do some work, I looked up and noticed how the pictures I hung, at least the ones I can see from the sofa, changed the dimensions and feel of the living room and hallway.

I am a bit superstitious about some things, like where I live and how long I get to live there—or in this case, here. Two years seems to be the limit for my tenure anywhere, except when I lived next door to Lon Chaney’s house two years ago. Yes, it has been two years since I moved here and I had lived at the old apartment for three years. It’s not a perfect place to live—the roof leaks in my office and the walls have no insulation—but it has been home, and continues to be home to me. Nowhere is perfect and I’ve lived in a lot of places over the years: Ohio, Tennessee, Florida, Pennsylvania, Texas and here in Colorado most recently. Every time I started hanging things too soon or getting too comfortable, I ended up having to move. It’s part of the reason I didn’t hang my pictures before now, and it’s the same reason I don’t unpack all the boxes. Now, I can.

The idea of buying this cottage from Mark has crossed my mind a few times recently. It would be one certain way of getting Mark to fix the roof and finish connecting the electrical features of the stove: lights and fan. I could also get him to fix the flooring of the cabinets under the sink, the separation between the outside kitchen wall and the front of the house and install a front doorbell. The rest, I would handle. I could use a back door in the office and French doors would be nice. I like having a back entrance in case of fire. A grant should cover having the walls insulated and a solar panel. New bookcases need to be built in the office and washer and dryer hookups would be nice. I’d also like to find out what happened to about two feet of the wall shared between my bedroom and the living room. More shelves for the living room, an entertainment center and maybe a window seat. A platform for my bed and built in night stands, headboard and baseboard would be nice and it would also provide some added storage space and places for more books. I have lots of books.

This place has a lot of potential and now that my worries about how long I can live here are calmed, I can move forward and set down roots. A wrap-around deck for the front of the house with built-in planters, some patio furniture, a grill and some flowers would be nice and there’s plenty of room for a portable greenhouse so I can grow berries and vegetables all the year around. Yes, hanging those pictures and finally finding a spot for Tut and Nefertiti have changed more than the look and feel of this place; they have fired my imagination and made me yearn to put down roots at last and consider buying property, a sort of trial run before I find the land where I can build my cabin and move to my dream house. A little bit at a time, that’s what it takes to write a book and plan a life, especially when property is involved.

Novel Finished; What Next?

The question caught my eye on the forums: I've finished writing, now what?

At first, it seemed a silly question. How could a writer not know what to do next? Are there no classes, no instructions, no innate knowledge gleaned from hanging around and reading and hearing other writers complain, mention, howl and talk about what happens when the rough draft is finished? Then I remember back to the first romance novel I started writing. I never finished the book, not with all the how-to books and critique sessions did I have an idea how to finish the novel. I chose romance because I was told it was the hottest market and more new writers could get published there than in any other genre. It was a bad choice for me. I don't like reading romances and writing one was harder than I thought.

I had a great premise, great characters, snappy dialogue, back story and a plot in my mind, but it would not come together on the page. I never finished it. It's on a floppy disk and on a hard drive in storage. I don't think I'll revisit it. Instead, I worked on writing nonfiction: books, articles, how-tos, interviews, profiles, etc. I didn't revisit the novel until eleven years ago when I got a great idea, having just ended a relationship because the guy wouldn't commit. I turned back to romance. Imagine. Me, writing romance.

I started and finished the novel in two weeks, the first rough draft. What came next was obvious; I moved on to something else. I knew it was too fresh and too raw for me to be objective and I was not ready to face the characters again. A break was in order. Can't edit or rewrite or proofread something that has taken so much energy and time without winding down a bit beforehand.

That's what I told the novelist on the forum who asked, what next? Put the novel away and start something new. Don't even think about the just finished novel. Think about new characters and situations. Take a vacation from that situation and find a new one to concentrate on. Write something else. In a week or two, when you have some distance and objectivity, go back and read.

Print out the rough draft. Pick up a red pen, or whatever color works for you, and begin making notes, marking errors in spelling, syntax, grammar and punctuation, and tightening up or fleshing out wherever it is needed. This is the editing, rewriting and proofing part of writing a novel.

Unless you are the Mozart of prose, there will be blood on the page and plenty of editing and rewriting to do. Go through once, take a breather and work on something else, and then go through again and again until the prose is perfectly polished and ready to send. Anything less is a waste of time.

I also told him that before he begins any work on the novel to celebrate. He started and finished a novel. That is grounds for a really good celebration. Writing a whole novel is a major accomplishment, whether it sees print or not. Few people, me included, have been able to master the craft and, in mastering any craft, there will be mistakes and things that have to be done and redone, but completing a project is a big step in the right direction. The first novel may not be the best, but writing is a process that gets better with time and practice.

That first novel I didn't finish gave way to the second novel that I did finish. It was light years better than the first and I learned a lot along the way. I learned even more when the publisher got hold of it, but that's a tale for a different time. The third novel was better than the second and my fourth novel shows the scars and marks of everything I've learned to date. Each successive novel will be better for the lessons learned before. At least, I can hope and believe and keep writing to find out.

I don't know whether the guy with the first draft of his novel will take my advice, or the advice of several other writers who told him about the same thing, but I hope for the best. If he does nothing with his book and sticks it in a drawer, he has still accomplished more than most people ever do. He started and finished writing a novel. Whether it is good or bad only reviewers and readers will know. Right now, all he knows is that he has earned his typing spurs and will never be the same person -- or writer -- again.

Kick Start Your Writing

My astrological chart says I'm not a self starter and I would have to agree. I am a born procrastinator -- on some things, writing being one of them. I love to write and can sit and write for hours on end, usually irritated that I have to get up and tend to nature's call or eat. I have been known to write for 36 hours straight, with nature breaks, of course, and not get tired. I am in the zone. The words are coming. The characters are cooperating and often teaching me things about them I did not know. My fingers are not tired of typing and my backside has not yet reached the leaden stage where getting up is like trying to free my nether regions from a powerful electromagnet -- must be the endorphins and adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. Everything works fine. I wrote a 100,000-word biography like that once.

Then there are times that I just cannot face the page, knowing that if I do I will be caught in powerful currents and dragged down into the zone where I will not emerge for hours, maybe even a day or two. I cannot afford it. I have to work my day job and do the laundry and bulldoze the detritus from the last writing stint, definitely not a good idea if avoiding surprise visits by the health department.

I do write every day, but not on my works-in-progress. I journal every day, keep up with correspondence and emails, and work, which consists of 8-10 hours of typing dictation, very technical dictation. On the laptop waits my novel or short story waiting to be finished and it calls to me. Like the hunger pangs I ignore when I am in the writing zone, I ignore the siren's call to write until pretty soon, like hunger pangs, the call fades. Then begins the avoidance dance and the procrastination when a deadline looms. It is my fault; I am not a halfway person. I am either all in or all out, my versions of "Do or do not; there is no try," from Yoda to Luke Skywalker. There stands the problem: inability to commit hindquarters to seat in order to write.

Instead, I play a couple rounds of computer games (I prefer skill and knowledge games), work on blog posts, fire off a couple of quick tweets and a run through Facebook to see if I missed anything and then rounds through the various blogs, all while checking email and getting ready for work while sipping a cup of hot green tea that is cooling fast. One job through the widgets to check hits on the blogs and a quick visit to see if anyone has read the latest chapter of the novel I posted on a publishing site. The novel is unfinished and needs a final edit and proofread. It is the reason I have been procrastinating.

I want to finish the novel. Well, it is already finished and needs a little tune-up and loose ends tied. I need to finish the novel before the editor gets to it. I plan to finish the proofreading but, oops, where has time gone. Almost time for work and I still need to eat breakfast (pesky hunger pangs) and take a shower. Maybe later.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe this weekend.

By then, a few weeks have passed. Good thing the editor has not contacted me because I have nothing to offer to excuse my inability to kick start my writing engine.

That was yesterday. This morning, I found the answer. I knew it all along because it works for getting the laundry done, the clothes folded and put away, the bed made after the sheets are washed (making the bed every day provides a warm and moist environment for dust mites and other microscopic vermin to grow and procreate -- that is my story and I am sticking to it), the dishes done, the vacuuming finished, exercising and taking out the trash. Once I begin, the rest takes care of itself.

With writing, it is the internal editor that kick starts my engine. One of my critique partners mentioned an extra word in chapter twelve and a comma missing in chapter fifteen. They cannot be allowed to stand or I will forget and the spell check program will not catch them. Into the breach once more I go.

Control-F and type in a few words of the phrase and the extra word is easily found. Next search coordinates go in and, wait a minute, there is something else. How could I have missed that awkward phrasing? Well, that has to go. A few moments later and I am in the zone happily writing and editing and listening to the characters tell me secrets that I dutifully transcribe and polish. The first step is the problem, but the internal editor makes taking the first step effortless.

I do not have the problem in journaling or editing others' work or writing reviews. Deadlines and missing days in the journals keep me honest, but there is no real deadline for a new book or a work-in-progress that has not been contracted. Yes, the problem crops up when I have a long critique and the first glance at the manuscript ends with groaning sighs after glancing at the first page, but the deadline keeps me honest there, too. No, I will just have to rely on the internal editor and program her to whisper errors, typos and misspellings in my ear that she caught on the way out of the zone so that I am anxious one again to go once more into the breach. When that wears thin and begins to go the way of the hunger pangs, I will have to find another way to kick start the writing.

Someone else will have to whisper errors into my ear that engages the internal editor. I doubt I will ever get past the need to clean up mistakes, especially when they are mine.

Spring Cleaning

Pages bleed.

All the pages are bleeding. Some are hemorrhaging and some just grazed by the editing pen. On the computer screen, the hemorrhaging is in blue or purple or green, signs of alien intrusion into the fabric and heart of the story. Characters are remodeled. Evocative descriptions are slashed to ribbons. Double-spaced lines flood the once pristine words with criticism and suggestions. Shock sets in. Denial is followed by anger. How dare they? Curiosity peers over the edge, grows bolder and settles in for a long and thorough look until the writer is overwhelmed.

Are they right? Is the main character that unsympathetic? No, someone likes her grit and determination. Another critic sees the brittle facade hiding the fear and confusion. Yes, there's another critic who hates her, who missed the subtle body language: cringing against the wall, spooked by harsh sounds, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

How much of the burning, pillaging and savaging of editing is personal and how much impersonal and useful? That is the real question.

When writers entrust the work to other writers of different experience and skills, the results are always mixed. It is easy to fall back on the knowledge that every opinion is subjective, colored by personal prejudices. The real problem is finding balance and weeding out the negative from the positive. In the end, it all comes back to the writer.

What is the point of the story? What is the dominant theme? What is the best starting point for the main character's journey? Where is the beating heart of the story? How much should be revealed -- and when?

It is difficult to find balance between your vision and how the results are perceived and received. You are the writer. You get to decide.

Beginning writers will follow every suggestion and change the manuscript to reflect everyone's taste until the essence, the writer's vision, gets lost in a muddle of different styles. It is hard to hold up against so many different, and often more experienced, critics. The critics could be right. The critics could also be wrong. One things cancels out all the rest. No one writer can please everyone all the time. It is impossible. The best one can do is to hold fast to the vision and point of writing the story -- any story.

Ayn Rand had a hard time getting The Fountainhead published. It was long. Some publishers considered it boring and pointless. Others thought it was too radical, too different. Rand stood firm. When a publisher finally contracted the book, editors suggested changes. Rand agreed to remove one character, Roark's girlfriend before Dominique, because it did not advance the story. The rest of the book would be published without any further changes or she would go elsewhere. The book was published without another change.

I remember seeing the massive book on the bookshelves when I was growing up. It was a book club selection. It was so big, taking up a significant space on the shelf. It would be missed. I chose The Graduate instead, switching dust jackets with a less adult book so it wouldn't be discovered. I didn't read Rand's book until many years later.

When I finally read The Fountainhead I was mesmerized. I flew through the story, marveled at the themes and characters and wanted to start all over again when I read the last page. I didn't know that many critics panned the book and said Roark was unsympathetic, too harsh, too unlikable. I liked him immediately. I knew what he felt and wished I had the same strength of character, the same passion and devotion to my own dreams. He touched and awakened feelings and thoughts I didn't realize were there even though I didn't care for his carrot orange hair. One small feature in another wise remarkable character was not enough to ruin my enjoyment. It was insignificant in contrast to everything else about the admirable and stoic Roark. Had I read the savage criticisms before I picked up the book, I would have read The Fountainhead anyway. No one earns the critics' ire or dismissal without arousing my curiosity.

I expected critics to rape and pillage my first published novel, but I didn't expect it with my current book. I had learned and evolved. I was a better writer -- I thought -- and I wrote a story that was close to my heart, born out of my own experiences. How could I go wrong? I forgot the rule. No one can please everyone all the time.

Seeing the bloody comments and suggestions was like starting at square one all over again. The main character isn't sympathetic. She's snooty. Why isn't she afraid? How can she be so cool, calm and collected in her situation? Too much back story. Not enough back story. Too many adjectives. Not enough adjectives. The sentences are too long, too short, too many. Too much dialogue. Not enough dialogue. Too much action. Not enough inner monologue. The comments went from one extreme to the other. I resisted the urge to change everything.

You cannot please everyone all the time.

I chose to focus on spelling mistakes, sneaky words that hid when edited and popped out later during critiques. I made a few changes. Added scenes, took others out, put them in earlier or later. Then I stopped. The story I wrote was getting lost. It didn't help that after over a year of stalling and schedule changes, the publisher decided not to publish the book after all. My confidence was shaken. This book meant so much.

All the books mean so much.

I know I will not please everyone all the time. I can only write the story, fix the typos and grammar mistakes, and let it go.

No matter how many books an author publishes, when the critics descend, confidence wavers and the urge to change everything to fit everyone's suggestions grows stronger. No one can write a book that pleases everyone. It is impossible. The only thing that comes close is an interactive story where the reader gets to choose the paths the characters take. I don't write those kinds of books. I will never please everyone. There's no need to try.

In the end, it all comes back to the writer's vision, the writer's skills and experience and the writer's story. It is like spring cleaning. No two people do it the same way, no matter how they were taught. Editing one's own writing is like spring cleaning. No matter what rules and guidelines were learned, editing is as individual as the writer. Stick to the original vision.

Write the story in your own voice with your own style. Take criticism and suggestions under advisement. Stay true to the course. It may take a while to find a like-minded agent or publisher, but the result will be worth it. Your book may not be The Fountainhead, but it will be memorable and readers, critics and other writers will like it. Even if they don't, it doesn't matter. What matters is writing what moves you.

The lure of money and social position

No, I'm not contemplating a marriage of convenience or a chance to power up. I'm pretty set in my my single ways. I wouldn't say no to an affair or a fling, but not for a while. I'm too busy with writing. However, the topic remains the same: what some women will do to get money and social position. The book is Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen. Haven't heard of that? Well, take a seat and join in.

Many people think that Jane Austen really had to pull a rabbit out of the hat to make it possible for Elinor and Edward to marry. Lucy Steele had been engaged to Edward for years, a secret engagement (Look, your future bride. Sorry, wrong story.) that cost Edward his inheritance which his mother settled irrevocably on his younger brother Robert who was a fop and a dandy. I don't think the two are mutually exclusive. When Edward's sister discovered the truth from Lucy Steele she threw a hissy fit, that's modern American slang for had an attack of hysteria and the vapors. She threw Lucy out of the house, told on Edward and ruined the rest of his life. It was Fanny's fault because she made Lucy believe that Lucy could have any man of prominent social position even without a dowry; she had other attributes that made her an excellent choice -- just not for Edward.

Lucy and Robert had been thrown together while Edward was away on business and Lucy and Robert recognized in each other a soul mate, two people who were interested in social position and lots of money. Lucy engaged Edward's affections when he was relatively young and very inexperienced, but she knew what she was about. Edward stood to inherit a sizable fortune and a prominent social standing. That's all Lucy was interested in. Edward was too kind and honorable to break it off when he realized he was in love with Elinor, but I believe he would have if Elinor had given him any inkling of her affection and attachment to him.

Did Austen pull a rabbit out of the hat to make things come out right at the end? No. She had already foreshadowed the outcome with the fortuitous meetings between Lucy and Robert and their obvious common interests, and she made it abundantly clear that for Lucy the lure was not Edward's love and decency, but his fortune in her sights. When Edward's mother disinherited him, in spite of Lucy's attempt to get Elinor to have Sir John Middleton give Edward the rectory living on his estate, all Lucy was interested in was finding a way to be near people with money and social standing. If she couldn't have them for herself, she would make sure she was in close contact so she would be wined and dined frequently in the style to which she had become accustomed. It was always on Lucy's mind to throw Edward over at the first hint that she could have Robert, and that is what she did. Austen knew Lucy Steele's character better than Edward obviously did. So, no, there was no rabbit pulling, just characters acting true to their natures.

What do you think? Did she plot it carefully or did she stick the right ending on the wrong circumstances?

Blog Jog Day

COME JOG WITH ME!

May 9 is Blog Jog Day. Come to my site and see what’s new. Then click on the next Blog Jog Day link and see what other awesome sites are out there to explore. The list goes on and on; you don’t want to miss the fun!

In honor of Mother's Day and Blog Jog Day, autographed copies of Past Imperfect are available for $5.00 w/$4.90 for priority mail shipping. In addition, one signed copy of Past Imperfect and Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul will be given away. To enter, leave a comment on this blog with an email address.

Start by clicking on my site at Red Room

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King of the Hill

The hardest part of writing is giving up your project to an editor, but dealing with criticism from novice writers whose manuscripts and abilities are different and their experience theoretical. At face value, there is a mean-spiritedness that comes with the criticism that is palpable, especially immediately after having gone through their manuscript and pointed out pages of errors: grammar, punctuation, spelling, awkward sentences and lack of clarity. It is like playing King of the Hill and the critic is determined to drag you down. The best thing is to thank them for their time and comments and ignore what amounts to a temper tantrum. It is very hard to do.

The first instinct is to remind them of your background and track record in relation to the lack of their own. It is a petty move and should be avoided at all costs. Deflate their attack with polite civility and move on.

No writer is perfect and writers who have been published tend to be a little more prickly when approached by novices and amateurs. It is human nature, and not the best side of human nature at that. Everyone has an opinion and some people are out for blood. Do not oblige them. Remember that no matter how well the book is written, how beautifully the language flows on the page, someone, and often several someones, are going to most of the book, and often all of it. No one is able to write a book or story that will appeal to everyone. Look at the history of the rivalries between published authors.

J.R.R. Tolkien despised Shakespeare and considered him a hack with no talent, which is why he decided to give the world and Britain his Middle Earth tales so that at Britain would be known for talented writing and writers . . . at least one of them anyway. He was appalled that anyone considered Shakespeare great and thought Shakespeare's writing on a par with limericks and puns. Personally, I'm a fan of Shakespeare. I'm also a fan of Tolkien.

Look through the writings of any published author and you will find other authors they despised. Mark Twain thought Jane Austen should be dug up and beaten with her own bones because her writing was insipid and bloodless. A list of the top fifty rivalries and criticisms of well known writings can be found at Newser.com. It is a revelation.

Criticism is subjective even among editor, publishers and critics and certainly among readers. Writers and people who love vampire fiction have their favorites and cannot be swayed by argument. They like what they like. So, too, with novice writers criticizing a published author's darlings. To allow oneself to become so entrenched in one's own greatness and infallibility is to end up like writers who began penning stories that flowed like the Colorado River during spring thaw and ended several books later with bloated stories in which hundreds of pages that should have been edited out were not. It happens to everyone who attains any degree of fame. Once a writer reaches the pinnacle of his profession, no one can tell him that his prose does not sparkle.

Writers need to open themselves and their work to novices once they stand as King of the Hill, of only to keep them humble and willing to submit to criticism that might help their work. There is truth to be found even in mean-spirited slash and burn criticism. You just have to look harder and be willing to concede that even amateurs have a point once in a while.

Down the Cyberhole

One of the great things about the Internet is being able to connect with people from all walks of life anywhere in the world. The sense of community and knowing that no matter what you've been through we all share the same experiences, or know someone who has, is wonderful. There is a downside.

Such connections and freedom of movement behind the anonymity of the computer, where you can be anyone or any gender you choose, also offers a breeding ground for games and cons. One of these cons has several different forms, but it targets vulnerability and ignorance of what people can be and are capable of perpetrating. It begins with the connection.

A man finding himself with too much time on his hands begins to surf the Internet. He gets involved in forums, bulletin boards and groups to help pass the time. It doesn't take long before he finds an empathetic someone to listen to his troubles and share hers. We are after all not that unique in our troubles and many people are just as willing to commiserate as they are to have someone tell them they're not alone. Beware. Danger, Will Robinson. You are about to fall down the cyberhole into the Con Zone.

It starts innocently enough, sharing tidbits of information and background between the usual getting to know you conversations in chat and email, and now on Skype. Such sharing inevitably leads to a more intimate kind of sharing and often cybersex is the next step, but there is another. Like Wilbur being fattened for the fall when he can be killed and turned into pork chops, bacon, ham, etc., this guy is being prepared for the next phase of the operation.

He's become enamored of his online connection and fancies himself in love, but she's not. She's too busy fattening other marks up for their time to be harvested. Once he's completely hooked, the troubles on her end begin. Her husband is ill or she's divorced and something breaks down, someone needs an operation or some disaster strikes that requires money to fix -- and she doesn't have it. She's barely making it as it is. Gentleman that he is, which is why he was chosen, he will offer to help her out. She refuses at first because she's shocked he would even offer, but this is where she embeds the hook so he won't wriggle free.

She may refuse a couple of times just to make sure he's hooked but good, and then she will reluctantly agree to accept his generosity -- on one condition. She'll pay him back. No matter how long it takes, she will pay him back. She won't and he won't let her. She has enough trouble as it is and he doesn't want to add to her burden. He sends the money and she goes out to celebrate and maybe buy that Prada purse she has wanted for so long. She'll keep tapping him for money until he gets wise or until she knows she's pushed just far enough so he doesn't figure things out. The last phase is the release.

One such con artist staged her online death. It was easy. She had several different email accounts and personae. She'd bump one off when it was time to hit the road so the marks would be sad and grieve for a while, but would forget her eventually. The usual releases include getting married, getting back with an ex-husband or partner, finding religion, etc., etc. There at least 50 ways to leave your cyberlover. Get out the back, Jack. Get a new plan, Stan. No need to be coy, Roy; just get yourself free.

People like that prey on good men and women who are lonely, sad or having trouble with their partner or spouse. They are ripe for conquest and the con artists know just how to find, hook and fleece them. The same pattern is followed every time with a few variations and the end result is always the same.

If you have a friend or relative in a similar situation, let them know what's really happening. They might not believe you at first and will be defensive, but they will figure it out eventually, hopefully before they send their money down the cyberhole with their innocence, generosity and emotions.

One word of advice: There are genuine people out there who find themselves in desperate straits that should not be confused with the cyber cons. It's easy to tell which is which because the genuine people are seldom aggressive about moving from one phase to the next. If someone turns on the waterworks when told that cybersex is cheating on a spouse or partner and then, once the emotional storm is passed, keep putting the cybersex on the table, you're in the clutches of a cyber con. Get to the nearest exit without delay because the cyberwhore is about to turn into a mini disaster movie and you're going to be paying the bills.

That is all. Disperse.

The Sounds of Life

Sounds permeate the world, the sounds of electric and electronic machines and components that hum, whir and buzz in the background. It's the sound of electricity. There is also the sound of air moving through furnace ducts and the rustle of papers in the air's path. Phones ring, buzz and jingle, playing snippets of music. Computer twing, twang and ting with the sound of busy applications. But the music is missing from my life. I didn't realize how silent my world has been lately until I heard Dr. Walter Bishop on Fringe singing a few lines from Tears for Fears: Head Over Heels.

A couple of lines, a few words and I was off on the hunt because I couldn't remember the song or who sang it. I came across Whitesnake and remembered songs I loved from their albums. I downloaded a few and kept looking because it didn't sound right and then I came across Tears for Fears and downloaded the song I wanted. The air is filled with music now as I type, my body moving to the beat and my heart light and gay from the exercise of lungs and vocal cords singing along. I've missed this. How much I've missed I didn't realize until I heard Walter sing (baritone and badly) and my heart and mind and ears called out for more.

I sometimes think life is better with a sound track, a real life version of the Buffy episode, Once Again With Feeling, and Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog. I need music to feed my soul and heart as much as my body needs food, and I've neglected both for too long. Music for dancing. Music for cleaning house. Music for doing laundry. Music for taking out the trash. Music for life. There should be music. I should have caught the hint from the Bones episode where a young Amish man on rumspringa considered living in the English world so he can play the piano, bring forth music into his silent and plain world where electricity and computers don't exist to provide that half-heard counterpoint to life. That young Amish man broke his hands so he could no longer play the piano because he decided to go back to his Amish life, back to the silence, for the girl he loved, giving up the music that filled his soul for the woman who filled his heart.

Whether it's Whitesnake, the best of the Beatles, Rhythm & Blues, Classical or good old Rock & Roll, and everything in between, I know now I need music, the music that fills my soul, makes my heart swell with joy, rushes like spring melt beneath my skin and along my nerve and gives my lungs and vocal cords a workout. I need music even more than food and much more than the silence that helps me concentrate when I write. I know why Stephen King weaves music throughout his writing; it is as much a part of him as grammar, punctuation and the fantasy of other lives. Music is life. Music is movement. Music is the sound track of the heart and soul.

Dancing Barefoot Among Goats

It was the first book that was all mine and I slept with it under my pillow. All the other books in the house belonged to Mom or were shared with my brother and sister, neither of whom cared anything about reading or books, not then, not when I was ten and they were eight and five. My sister was more interested in clothes and accessories and my brother in playing outside barefoot and getting dirty and into trouble. Only I cared about the books, the children’s library of fairy tales that I absorbed as a sponge absorbs liquid. Unlike the sponge, I didn’t let go of what I absorbed, carrying the stories with me to regale the neighborhood kids with tales of Ice Queens, adventure, sword fights and magical animals under curses who talked. The book I received from my aunt when I was ten was mine.

The book arrived in time for my birthday and a week long bout of measles that kept me confined to my bed. I opened the package and uncovered Heidi by Johanna Spyri, diving into the world of the angry Grandfather forced to take in Heidi, the five-year-old child of his dead, disinherited daughter. Aunt Dete, who trudged up the mountain to Grandfather’s hut, unceremoniously informed him that Heidi was his responsibility; she had better things to do with her life and Heidi was not an asset. Meanwhile, Heidi shed her clothes down to her shift and ran barefoot through the soft alpine grass, as free and happy as only a five-year-old child can be. I was caught in Heidi’s spell, eating golden toasted goat cheese on bread with a chair for a table and a stool for a seat. Nestled in sweet-smelling hay, I gazed in wonder up at the star-filled sky in the black sky visible through the window, lulled to sleep by soft alpine breezes scented with edelweiss. Johanna Spyri shared a new world with me, a world I could visit any time I wished in my very own book.

Owning my first book was important to me. It’s still important as anyone visiting my cottage can quickly see. Stacks of books cover most of the flat surfaces and fill boxes in my office beneath bookshelves groaning under the weight of words and ideas. Heidi was very different fare for me. I cut my teeth on Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and thrilled to Ivanhoe’s adventures. Outside of the fairy tales I collected, and continue to collect, the only children’s books I read were the ones assigned by teachers unfamiliar with my particular taste in literature. Johanna Spyri’s classic tale was a children’s book only because I was a child when it was given to me. I’ve read it over many times since those long ago days stuck in bed, my skin itching like mad from measles and unable to scratch.

In Heidi’s world, I found a soul mate in the little dark-haired girl entranced by new experiences and open to adventure, a little girl unafraid of anything but being cut off from what she loved most. In Herr Sesemann’s house, among the rich furnishing and sumptuous meals, Heidi longed for Grandfather, blind Grandmother, Peter and the goats, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew the change wasn’t permanent. She could go home whenever she wanted. The only thing Heidi feared was being exiled from the mountains, never to sleep in the sweet-smelling hay beneath the glittering stars and run barefoot with Peter and the goats.

Heidi’s nightmares and exile ended when she returns to the Grandfather’s hut. There she remains, running barefoot with the goats in her shift and eating toasted golden cheese on bread and drinking goat’s milk at the table the Grandfather built for her. With Clara beside her in the hayloft, they fall asleep to the lullaby of pine trees sighing from the soft caress of alpine breezes laden with the scent of edelweiss.

When I read Heidi, or any book, I travel beyond the confines of my responsibilities and chores to different worlds in the care of skillful writers painting dreams with words. I see through eyes not so different from mine, except in color or shape, and inhabit a world where anything can happen. The views are not always so beautiful or so rare, and all the people aren’t good or kind or generous, but they are worth visiting, worth experiencing even second-hand. Books are open doors to realms of possibility that open the mind and the heart to show that no matter who we are or where and how we live, we are connected. Books change us and prove we are not alone, provided we let down our guards and welcome dark-haired orphans dancing barefoot in their shifts on the mountainside among the goats.

Pseudo-intellectual Wit

I haven't written anything here of any real substance for a while since I've been spending all my time writing on other blogs that concentrate on writing and books. Bad Fixnwrtr. I have also spent a fair amount of time on Facebook, although not for the games and apps, the way some people do. I have had a good time reconnecting with family and friends and even friends from high school, which is where the problem obviously begins.

I posted my wedding pictures because some of the old gang from West High were in the photos and we had a good time swapping stories and reminiscing. There were some interesting comments and some very surprising ones, especially from an old friend who was at the wedding and reminded me of an incident that nearly made the reason for getting married null and void. Long story. I may write about it some other time.

What I didn't know what that one of my cousins, the only one older than I on Mom's side of the family, took offense at me posting the pictures. Why? Because I am no longer married to the man (boy at that time). I guess I should have checked with her first.

It all started today with a comment on Facebook to take a look at a video her son, my second cousin Matt, posted on his page about his father, her ex-husband, the man after over twenty years she still refers to as a**hole. I was on the work computer, which does not allow me to view videos, and only had time for a quick message. Why do you let it get to you? I unknowingly unleashed an avalanche of venom and name calling (from her) with my simple question.

Laura's ex-husband, Mike Vanderboegh, is heavily involved in the Alabama State Militia and has been written up in newspapers and magazines (the glossy national kind) for years. He's also been on TV quite a few times because of his far right stance on gun control and politics. He's a**hole. It doesn't bother me that he's so well known in some circles. It's his life and he can live it however he chooses. It's interesting (barely) and I know him, so there is a connection, but not a strong one. I think the Icelandic volcanoes blowing their tops is more interesting, but that's just me.

At any rate, the name calling rained down like volcanic ash. Good thing I don't sweat the small stuff, and this was small stuff. I've been called names by a lot of people and they did a much better job. What they didn't do was upset me. Laura didn't upset me either. I never get upset when someone's true colors and deepest thoughts come hurling to the surface and out of their mouths -- or keyboards. It's just words, and not very important words.

So, to make Laura happy, I've decided to share the video. This is Laura's ex-husband Mike Vanderboegh talking about open carrying of weapons, the same man she cuckolded with her present husband . . . and he's the a**hole.



The pseudo-intellectual not wit would be me, according to cousin Laura.

That is all. Disperse.

Where is love?

It seems there's a song title in there.

I've spent the past few days pondering love and great love for an anthology. I've had two great loves in my life and walked away from both of them for different reasons, timing mostly. The subject isn't quite as simple as it seems on the surface even though it's something I've written a great deal about, both fictionally and non-fictionally. It all comes down to a definitive definition of love, at least for me. Is a love great because the participants shout their vows to the skies or publicly display and celebrate their relationship or is it something more intimate that provides a less ostentatious show? How do you tell when people are in love? Is proof of love, as Elizabeth Bennett claims, general incivility or is it subtler and the bright thread of it through life stronger and less easily grasped?

Point out any number of couples and I can tell you very quickly whether or not they truly love each other. There's no real trick to it and they don't even have to speak. Sometimes open declarations of love are misleading, as are couples who shower each other with gifts. Love, as I have experienced and seen in others is clearer in small ways. Let's take two couples.

The female of one couple constantly calls her spouse her beloved, or uses some other form of adoration, and she constantly talks abut how good and kind and nice he is and how many other women missed the boat. He is a nice guy and he's creative and gentle and nice. He gave up his bachelorhood and a lot more to marry her. He is much quieter about his feelings as he's not a verbally or physically demonstrative guy, but he agrees that is a lucky man and loves his wife. He brings her flowers and chocolate, takes care of her when she's ill or feeling out of sorts. He supports her financially and emotionally in all her endeavors and she praises his work ethic and creativity. They never argue in public or loudly at home and say they never fight.

The other couple has been together for a very long time. You'll occasionally catch them holding hands or hear them heatedly arguing about some subject or other. He forgets their anniversary once in a while and doesn't spend a lot of money on gifts. She teases him when he is about to make a serious fashion mistake but she goes out with him no matter what he wears. Neither of them can be heard to say "I love you" out loud and they don't make a fuss over each other. They are private people and some would say they fight too much to be happy.

Now let's take a closer look.

The first couple, even though they've been married about two years, aren't happy. He spends more and more time at work and gets a look in his eye when he is informed the couple have commitments when he gets home. Despite their overt signs of affection, there is distance between then even when they kiss or hug each other. Tension crackles in the air and she frequently bites her lip when he talks, often cracking jokes about his little habits and social faux pas in front of friends and strangers. When she puts her hand on his so lovingly in public, her fingers are tight around his and her movements studied as though she is acting a part. She doesn't even seem to be aware of her actions or the wincing grimace that shadows his face from time to time when she interrupts or corrects him. After all, she says she does it out of love and from a sense of humor. Even though they smile and laugh, their smiles seem strained and their laughter a bit forced.

Even in the midst of a heated debate or outright argument, the second couple inhabit each others' space, not aggressively but naturally. When they pass each other he will lightly touch her lower back or brush shoulders and she often absently has her hand on his hand or his knee and the touch is light and familiar. They often finish each others' sentences or pick up the thread of conversation seamlessly where it was left off. Stories are told together as though well rehearsed, although the give and take is natural. When they sit together they lean slightly toward each other and when they look into each others' eyes it seems like time stops and some essential private message passes between them. They seem to be in silent communication. They argue, but the arguments seldom last long, like the last time he forgot their anniversary. He's always forgetting dates, but each day brings something new from him: a packet of seeds he saw at the hardware store he knew she'd been looking for, changing the oil in her car because she forgot it was due or tickets to a ballet for her and her best friend because he hates to go; he'll cook dinner that night so she can enjoy a hot bath he drew for her. She cooks his favorite meal because he's had a hard week or mend his favorite shirt, the one she can't get him to throw away because it's been mended so many times, and she'll pick up his socks for the millionth time when he leaves them on the floor, grumbling as she does and shaking her head with a small secret smile. She knows she can't change him, but she doesn't really want to because he picked up a packet of flower seeds she had been unable to find anywhere.

It's not the ostentatious shows of affection or loud declarations that prove a great love, but the little things: the way two people touch each other, the way they inhabit the same space, the subtle signals of body language even when their voices are raised in anger. Passion doesn't have to be loud; it is often silent and runs deep beneath the surface. A great love is most often characterized by a sense of oneness that does not diminish either and strengthens both without overwhelming either. In other words, great love is in the little details, the silent and not so silent signals and signs inherent in body language and the way people feel around them.

People who spend time with the first couple can't put a finger on what makes them feel so unsettled when it's obvious how much in love with each other they are. People walking in on a very vocal argument between the second couple may initially feel embarrassed but don't feel unwelcome or tense any more than they fear a summer storm that clears the air.

Great passion, like great love, often includes discord; the discord is momentary. People who are passionately in love are often also passionate in debate and disagreement. Like a violent spring thunderstorm, after it's over, a few leaves will be torn from the trees and dead branches will litter the lawn, but the sun breaks through the remaining clouds and shines brightly.

I've seen both kinds of relationship and it took me a while to put my finger on what was actually beneath the surface. One husband's jokes and humor masked a deep seated unhappiness and depression. A wife's closets bulging with the latest fashions and drawers full of jewelry couldn't fill the aching void of an empty marriage. Another wife who throws herself on her husband's cooling body and keens her despair and loss makes her cries of her pain and what she has lost seem fake when the people around her remember how she railed about how much she knew about pain when the morphine and radiation failed ameliorate the deep, gnawing, ache of bone cancer.

A young husband spends most of his time in his workshop or hiking in the forests and mountains to escape the silence that yawns from week to week when there are no domestic issues to discuss or items on his honey-do lists. They live in a world of silence punctuated by spurts of impersonal updates and family or local gossip, never touching, ever apart even in smiling family photographs, sealed in a bubble of separateness beneath masks that barely conceal their contempt and lack of respect. They celebrate romantic holidays and never miss giving each other cards for anniversaries and birthdays that are prominently displayed before being sealed away in boxes and scrap books, but they are strangers going through the motions.

I looked at my relationships and saw some of the same things, bits and pieces of barely contained contempt and calm familiarity. It was easy to see the great loves and the soul-sucking black hole relationships. The latter dominated. After going over them all, I know which relationship to write about. It's the one, despite the painful ending, where we were both emotionally naked and vulnerable and completely at ease with each other, the one that, when we were together, made people assume we were married even though we never got that far. It's the one with the sad ending and the rich, full and memorable days that still make me feel warm and incredibly blessed. It was the one great love of my life, the one I still miss.