Because even though it's been seven months and I am going to forsake this channel in favor of a writer's website, this is just too important not to share. (Also posted on my Facebook page)
I promise soon to post the address of my new website.
The View From The Briarpatch
Total Pageviews
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Father's Day?
Father's Day.
Really? Usually a day of looking forward to calls from Daughters
One and also Two, Mary suggesting a nice dinner, sitting reading and writing
and scratching the dogs. In short, usually a really nice, relaxing day.
But not this year.
This is the year I can't avoid the admission that I am complicit in the incarceration of innocent children (innocent by any reasonable measure and yes, children!) in what amounts to gaily painted concentration camps.
But not this year.
This is the year I can't avoid the admission that I am complicit in the incarceration of innocent children (innocent by any reasonable measure and yes, children!) in what amounts to gaily painted concentration camps.
We have become the people to whom we have always held
ourselves to be morally superior. We have become the monster in the closet, the
foul breath in the room, the scratching at the window. We have become every
child's dread fear - separation from Mom and Dad, lack of the comfort of the
familial cocoon, confirmation that never again - even if and when returned to
their parents - can they feel truly safe and watched after.
One of the fundamental tenets of my belief system is
that ANY child should be able to rely on ANY adult for protection and succor.
Anywhere. Any time. Under any conditions.
I have failed to meet that measure. We all have.
I have failed to meet that measure. We all have.
History will record our failure. This will become part
of our 'permanent record,' along with Nagasaki, Manzanar, the Trail of Tears
and Bloody Sunday on the Edmund Pettus Bridge.
But today is not about future history. It can't be.
Today is today and what we see is what we must deal with.
Yesterday a candidate walked up our driveway on his
canvassing rounds to make his pitch for local election. I scanned his brochure
and noted no mention of party affiliation, so I asked. He visibly breathed in
before answering, "Republican." I told him as politely as I could
that I was a former life-long Republican who would not vote for any member of
that party at any level for the foreseeable future. I shared that he could
thank Trump, Ryan and McConnell and their minions for my defection. He tried to
rally, saying this was a local election and didn't I care about car tab taxes?
When I said yes, but I care far more about my country putting children in
camps, he got it and instantly turned on his heels.
They say all politics are local and to some extent
that's true.
It's no longer enough to plan to sweep them nationally in the mid-terms or to vote Trump into the dustbin at next opportunity. We must do those things but also we must be vocal at the local level so that every time they get together in any numbers as a party, they hear the stories of how this national horror is coming back on them. Politicians care about the next election.
It's no longer enough to plan to sweep them nationally in the mid-terms or to vote Trump into the dustbin at next opportunity. We must do those things but also we must be vocal at the local level so that every time they get together in any numbers as a party, they hear the stories of how this national horror is coming back on them. Politicians care about the next election.
As long as children are held in cages - even cages of
drywall with gay murals - I am complicit in child abuse.
And so are we all.
And so are we all.
Father's Day, indeed!
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Beth
I wonder how many other girls and women eventually paid a
price for the lessons she taught the young boys of our neighborhood. She ran
her school from her own bedroom; her advertising was all word of mouth and her
admissions policy lenient. This was at a time when people simply didn’t talk
about certain topics and would certainly never admit knowledge of a neighbor’s
sexually predatory proclivities. So Beth was able to maintain her ‘salon’ for
as long as they lived next to us.
Every pubescent boy in the neighborhood had experienced her
approach. The second that maturation evidenced itself, whether through croaky
voice or downy upper lip or even a sidelong look at female anatomy, Beth’s
attitude would change from one of careless indifference to keen interest in your
every activity until she got you alone.
We all knew about her. Boys eager to demonstrate their
approaching manhood spend a lot of their time speaking of girls and women and
the wonders that they hold but in Beth’s case, there was no wondering about it.
She was expert at ‘accidentally’ exposing breast or thigh or more, then gauging
the reaction so she could decide on her next move. Her grooming behavior – what
I now know was grooming behavior; at age eleven it just felt creepy – involved leaving
some of her husband’s ‘men’s’ magazines lying about, open to provocative pages.
If a boy evidenced interest in the glossies, she would ask if he’d like to see
the real thing. As an educational enterprise, doncha know.
‘Unripe’ children were not allowed inside her house. I never
knew her daughter to have a friend over and her sons were themselves habitually
banished while their mother’s school was in session.
Far from objecting, her husband seemed to encourage her tutorials.
I recall one time going to collect (I was the neighborhood paperboy) and the
husband told me to come in and get the money from Beth in their bedroom. I
walked through the open bedroom door to find Beth, naked from the waist up, in
bed with a teenager from a couple of blocks over. Let me tell you, this was not
the way you want to see your first grown woman topless. (Okay, second – there
was the incident with Mrs. O’Donnell but in that case it really was an
accident.) My job as deliverer of newspapers could be very educational but Beth’s
was a lesson I could have done without.
Beth’s two sons were the hellions of the neighborhood, the
younger a thief and the elder given to unpredictable rages and physical attacks.
One of his episodes involved hanging by his fingernails from the exposed skin
of my back, an experience from which I can feel the pain to this day. We all
learned to keep a weather eye on Danny. I often wonder whether either of Beth’s
sons made it through life unincarcerated. By third and fourth grade
respectively either of them could easily have won the vote as Most Likely to
Spend Time in the Hoosegow. Their lives were preordained.
But it was the daughter, Kitty, about whose life I’ve most wondered
over the years. I never knew much about her except that she seemed perpetually
sad. I don’t recall her relationship with her mother but her father seemed to
view her as an indentured servant. If – and this was a big if - clothes were
washed or floors swept or a meal cooked and served, it was Kitty who did the
work. She seemed to fill in for her mother in the roles of homemaker and
husband pacifier.
Over the intervening five decades I’ve tried not to wonder
in what other areas of domestic life she was called upon to serve as her
mother’s surrogate.
I wonder what price Kitty paid for the being born into that
household. And I wonder how many other girls and women paid dearly for the type
of education ole Beth provided for the boys of that neighborhood. Regardless
the sex of the original miscreant, it seems like women and girls end up paying
in the end.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Back to basics
Not much more than a year from now, we (and by ‘we’ I mean
those of us with, you know, brains and souls) will vote in what could be the
most important election of our lifetimes. We need to be ready.
I know it’s common for some folks to skip the off years but
I hope we don’t. Not this time. The entire House of Representatives and a third
of the Senate stand for election every two years and this time, we really need
to make some course corrections.
We really, really need to make some course corrections.
Because, face it – last time around we all failed, one way
or another. There were qualified candidates on both sides and we allowed the
noisiest to make it to the finals. And we got what we deserved.
I’m tired of Trump jokes, if only because they’re just too
easy. And I’m tired of angry rants because I’m tired of being angry.
The only useful thing I can do is prepare to do a better job
this next time. I bear the responsibility to be well informed. To think deeply,
seriously. And to support only those candidates that I feel are likely to help
us heal as a nation.
It is unlikely I’ll be voting for any Republicans; they have
long since become too dangerous. But that does not mean the Demos get a free
pass. I will vote for individuals in each and every case, dog catcher to grand
poobah.
Here’s what I’m looking for:
·
Honesty
·
Straight talk
·
Understanding of and dedication to the
Constitution, particularly the Bill of Rights
·
Ability to work across party lines
·
Dignity – and my standards will be high: Michelle
Obama, Betty Ford, Colin Powell
·
Clearly, genuinely likes people
In the interest of breaking up the Old Boys Club, extra
credit will be given entirely at my discretion for:
·
Non-attorneys
·
No allegiance to the NRA or Wall Street
·
Not being male
·
First generation American
·
LGBT
·
Classroom teachers
·
Vets
Points will be deducted for the following:
·
Too much emphasis on religion, including ‘prayer breakfasts’ and
such
·
Overt uber-patriotism that doesn’t ring true
·
Inherited wealth
·
Political family
·
Inability (or refusal) to give straight,
coherent answers
I’m going back to First Principles. And I hope you will, as
well.
Sunday, October 8, 2017
Unremarkable
The other day I was trying to figure out how to re-install
the toilet in the utility room downstairs. This is a combined use room with a
toilet and sink and small shower in addition to the laundry machines and some
storage so it will be an important factor when we sell the house. Mary had laid
down a new floor and together we repaired the new drywall. It was one of those
jigsaw puzzle rooms that had been modified – badly – by at least two previous
owners, so it presented its share of challenges.
One of the challenges we faced was figuring out how to
install the new toilet. I’ve installed several toilets over the years but the
closet flange for this one was covered with decades-old lead and sat at a
non-standard depth. So Mary sent photos to the plumber recommended by the
toilet store who upon calling back promptly went into his ‘little lady’ routine.
You know the one: “Oh, that’s going to be a big job, we’ll have to jackhammer
the concrete and use a splinkfragit connection and of course, those are special
order…”
Mary, she of the long experience with folks trying to put
one over on her politely declined the major remodel this character insisted was
the only way and off we went to the big box store to see if we could figure
something out. I was digging through all manner of exotic fittings, connectors
and whatsits and was about to suggest we call the plumber back when Mary picked
up an item I had already passed over and asked The Question, “Why wouldn’t this
work?”
You know where this is going, right? Sussed it out about
halfway through that last paragraph, didn’t you? Yes, dear readers, the toilet
is indeed back in its proper place and fully functional because Mary figured it
out. I figger this $26.00 dollar fix saved us somewhere on the order of $400.00.
Perhaps more since we would have been coming back to this guy hat in hand, so
to speak.
There are well meaning friends and family who marvel when we
tell them Mary does most of our drywall work, our finished flooring
installation (I do the underlayment) and in this case wrapped her mind around a
plumbing issue to figure out a solution I had already looked at and discarded. They
will make comments to the effect that her ability to do ‘men’s work’ makes her
somehow remarkable.
She isn’t. Remarkable, that is.
Well, truth be told, she is remarkable, quite stunningly so
in many ways. It’s just that figuring out a plumbing connection isn’t the proof
of it. In order to consider this incident remarkable, one must first accept the
premise that womenfolk are somehow genetically incapable of figuring out things
on their own.
I have been as guilty as the next person of assuming
capability – or lack thereof – on the basis of unrelated characteristics. But I
like to think that over the years and with accumulated experience and some
inspired noticing I’ve learned a thing or two. My wife and daughters and other
women friends, the gay friends who have always been part of my ‘normal,’ the
folks I work with who live with myriad disabilities have demanded that I either
learn and embrace or walk away in silence.
It is not remarkable that Mary frequently is the first to
figure out how to do things or that she is more adept at some of the tool-using
activities than am I. Or that our family managed to get through our gay friend’s
wedding (note: not a ‘gay wedding’ but a wedding which happened to join people
who are gay) without any lightning strikes. It is snooze worthy that people
living with disabilities are able to do what they set their mind to, sometimes
with reasonable accommodation and sometimes just through being given the
opportunity.
I know we generally consider congratulation a positive
thing. But sometimes, methinks, it is more accurate and even more human to
simply accept competence in others as normal.
Friday, September 29, 2017
Let's invade Puerto Rico
29Sep2017
People are hurting. Buildings are collapsed, infrastructure
is broken, communication is spotty at best. The situation in Puerto Rico a week
after it was devastated by a hurricane is desperate. These are Americans
suffering. More to the point, these are human beings – mothers, fathers and
children and aunties and grands without the necessities of life. Butchers,
bakers, and candlestick makers without the infrastructure and supplies they
need to help their communities get back on their feet.
The airport went days without flights and still isn’t up to
snuff because of problems with the radar and traffic control equipment and yet,
we have the capability to invade a foreign land and stand up a brand-new
airport from jungle in a few days’ time. But we wouldn’t have had to do even that
– the runways in Puerto Rico were intact, we just needed to bring in the
machines and a mobile power plant, of which we have plenty.
People are starving while our warehouses are full of MREs.
People have no safe drinking water while we have air-deployable water plants
sitting on the ground.
Hospitals struggle to keep their pre-hurricane patients
alive and then to deal with the newly injured and yet, a week later the largest
hospital ship in the world – 1000 beds, capable of operating independent of
shore power, with a helipad and its own boats for moving patients and
caregivers in and out- was not authorized to move for several days and only now
is getting under way for the island.
Emergency services are overwhelmed in large part because the
first responders are at home caring for their own families. And yet our
reserves of military police have not been mobilized to help.
Trucks full of relief supplies sit unmanned at the docks even
though our Army and Marines have organic transportation units with qualified
equipment operators who could be there driving within a few hours.
We invaded Grenada six days after Maurice Bishop’s death and
that involved planning and practicing an armed attack. Does it not seem we
could have ‘invaded’ Puerto Rico – our own sovereign territory, with no need
for artillery preparation - even more
quickly?
When you have all the materials and capability standing at
the ready and you fail to respond, it’s not ‘good news’ as our DHS Secretary
said. And the problem isn’t ‘big water, ocean water,’ as her idiot boss
proclaimed. It is unconscionable that Puerto Rico might have been better off
had we invaded rather than being hit by a natural disaster and then depending
upon us for assistance.
There was a way. We just didn’t have the will. And we should
all feel ashamed.
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Sad words and phrases
I came across an item in the webisphere today with the
morbid title: “10 of the Saddest Words (or Phrases) in the English Language.”
Their list included: back to school, goodbye, heartbroken,
if only, might have been, lonely, love (in reference to the unrequited variety,
one might assume), melancholy, terminal, and perhaps my fave, ‘what party?’
I’ll admit that some of these words and phrases do seem
unalterably sad. Melancholy, for example. Not sure how one might put a positive
spin on melancholy. The sheer Eeyoreness of the word condemns it to the realm
of the other-than-mirthful.
Some terms from the list require context to frame their
claim on misery. ‘Back to school’ is not always and evermore a sad concept, is
it? I said, is it? Might-have-been’s position depends on the nature of the
ideas immediately preceding or following – the ‘this’ that might have been.
Anyway, there certainly are sad words and phrases in our
lexicon. One of the saddest for me is ‘I wish I’d known.’ While I suppose there
are less-sad contexts for it (If I’d known you were coming I’d have baked a
cake), in my world this phrase is usually associated with missed chances to do
better, be better, find better.
I wish I’d known then what I know now. Okay, fairly mild.
I wish I’d known (s)he liked me. Less mild, heading for
heartbroken.
I wish I’d known in time to stop him/her. Ew, let’s not go there.
Sunday, September 10, 2017
Da haps, today
I spent an hour or two today going through some of my old
attempts at writing. Essays, stories, some poetry, what have you. Some of it
was good, some less so but I was a bit taken aback to realize how long I’ve
been writing on a regular basis.
Mary is down in the laundry room / downstairs restroom
laying a new floor. I wonder how many times I’ve marveled at the fact that I
lucked into marrying a women who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She
really is a good egg, but don’t tell her I said that. I wouldn’t want her to
get a swelled head.
Daughter One is recovering from a medical procedure and
thankful for a boyfriend who hovers by her to make sure she has what she needs.
Two and Da Boy are planning their wedding.
One of my friends is have her hard work directing a play validated
by critics. Those of us who have known her since Gawd was a baby always knew
she was a director at heart.
The new front lawn goes in tomorrow and I don’t have to do
the grunt labor – score! Okay, I did have to dig and fill the French drain to
reroute roof water from the new lawn but I did that last weekend so it no
longer counts.
Onshore breezes have finally driven the clouds of smoke from
fires to the East away from us.
Two dogs asleep within nine feet of where I sit.
I can’t complain.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Neighbors
Brigitte passed away last week ‘after a long illness,’ as they
say. Leaving behind Bruno, two daughters and a granddaughter.
The daughters and the grand left for home yesterday, so now
Bruno is alone in his house. Alone with her clothes and toiletries. Alone with
the dishes and gardening tools they used together. Alone with the car they
drove to church together each Sunday morning.
Mostly, alone with the memories they shared and of which he
will now be sole caretaker.
They met in Germany during the time of Hitler and fled to
this country to make their lives, he as an engineer for Boeing, she as mother
and wife and matriarch.
Their offspring had moved away, landing in Oregon – far enough
but still within reach of a day trip. The elders maintained a vacation house
near the Washington shore which they hadn’t visited so often of late as she
became increasingly ill.
He kept bees and she her garden, two halves of a whole. They
enjoyed our annual Christmas light extravaganza; Brigitte really enjoyed one
particular piece, so we always placed it facing her kitchen window.
I built a custom entertainment center for them once, to his
wildly over-engineered drawings. The thing weighed a ton and moving it from my garage
shop to his living room was a neighborhood project. In payment, he gave me a
wonderfully figured, richly colored board of walnut for which I’ve yet to find
the perfect use. When we had the van with the misbehaving tail light switch, he
would notice during his nightly rounds and call so we could turn it off and
thus avoid a dead battery in the morning. I gave him some of my cut up dead-fall
wood for his stove from time to time.
We lived across the street for (twenty-four?) years and we
were comfortable with but not especially attuned to the rhythms of each other’s
lives. We were good neighbors, if good means mostly respecting privacy.
This is pretty much all we know about Bruno and Brigitte.
They were the neighborhood watchdogs who did not care for being watched,
themselves.
And now, she’s gone and his life is so changed while ours
goes on pretty much as before.
Jambalaya
I’m having jambalaya for lunch.
I’ve never had it before, at least, not that I can recall.
(I know, I know, what have I been eating all these years, right?)
Seems that of late I’m eating lots of things that are new to
me. Not necessarily because I’m suddenly overcome with a yen for gustatorial
adventurousness. No, it’s more because daughters mine have been stretching
their horizons and encouraging Mary and me to join them in their explorations.
I’m sort of screwed by my own parenting style. We always encouraged
our daughters to expand said horizons. I just never thought their explorations
would come back on me like this.
You see, I’m sort of your standard
meat-fish-poultry-taters-rice-bread-chocolate kind of guy. Not big on most
veggies and particularly non-fond of too much spice or peppers of the hot
varieties. And not a fan of trying new recipes.
Our daughters are changing all that. Especially One. She has
become quite the chef and Mary and I get to reap the benefits.
I’m having jambalaya for lunch.
Can’t wait.
I think…
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Staying home
Counting from last Thursday evening’s arrival back home from
a business trip (technically, Friday morning, thanks to some misdirected
luggage but I’m not bitter) I have at least the next seven weeks of no business
travel. Last time I had such a home stretch was at least three years ago.
I don’t have the words to convey how happy this makes me.
Don’t get me wrong here – I truly love my field work with the nonprofits and workers
living with disabilities. It’s a wonderful job if ever there was one. And next
time I hit the road I’ll enthusiastically throw my go bag in the car and head
for the airport.
But I do get tired of living out of a suitcase, eating
restaurant food and figuring out showerheads. And you’ll likely not be surprised
to learn that regardless of the satisfaction I derive from my day job there is
nothing I like quite as much as returning to my nest for a spell.
I love being with Mary, especially when, as is the case tonight
we’re not doing anything special. We went to the store for milk and a new
wireless mouse, ate dinner together and now we’re sitting in our family room watching
a Law and Order rerun. As I said, nothing special. Unless you’re what my
company calls a ‘road warrior.’ I am one, so being home on a Sunday evening with
no need to pack a bag is a treat.
Next weekend both daughters will be here. Mary and Daughters
One and also Two will spend a good part of the three days shopping for stuff de
wedding, owing to Two’s newly betrothed status. I will hold down the fort, keep
the dogs happy and complete a few items on the get-the-manse-ready-for-sale
list. NO, I won’t be accompanying them on their shopping spree. But that’s
okay; they’ll be home evenings and we’ll have sit back time together.
MY life these days consists largely of contemplating how
truly fortunate I am. And of course, working on the website, which I swear to
have up and running soon.
I’m home and as always, that is the best place to be.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
She died for us
Heather Heyer was 32 when she became one of my personal
heros.
Heather was the young woman who died when a Trump-inspired wannabe
Nazi plowed into a peaceful group of protesters, then backed away at high
speed, like the coward he was.
I didn’t know her and now I never will but she died doing
what we should all be doing, facing down the ignorant, the bigoted, those who
claim to represent the best interests of the ‘white’ majority in this country
but who fail utterly to comprehend what this country is all about. She went there
to lend support and to raise her voice. And I wish I’d been there beside her.
I won’t name the criminals here because they are beneath mention.
The people who deserve mention were sprawled across this miscreant’s car hood,
writhing on the pavement and in Heather’s case, lay dying.
For those who said last year that Trump couldn’t be worse
than Clinton, please take notice. This is what happens when a person
like Trump is elected to the highest office on our country. It is precisely his
‘presidency’ - and that’s a tragically loose use of the term - that has
emboldened the worst among us. They’ve
always been out there, hiding in the cultural sewers and cesspools and now, they have a
figurehead around whom they can rally.
Shame on all of us until Trump and his ilk are sent packing.
Heather Heyer stood up for us. And now, she has died for us.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
Best weekend ever
Got my first rejection on da book.
Someone I love is going through tough times.
It was hot when I left Michigan and even hotter when I got
home.
I keep noticing new things that I hadn’t realized the
burglars took.
The arthritis in my left thumb is flared up and I keep
moving it wrong.
On the other hand (okay, yes, pun intended):
We spent much of the weekend working on the house, fixing the
things we need to get done before we put it on the market. I felt I
accomplished something.
That someone I love will be okay and has never stopped being
one of the people I admire.
Mary and I both got ugly sweaty and dirty as a result of our
labors and I was reminded of putting in the landscaping at the first house we
owned together. Those were good times, smelly bods and all.
Started main writing (I think, we’ll see how it goes) on the
next book.
I threw away half a package of cookies because I didn’t gobble
them before they got stale. Score!
I spent the week with wonderful people and in a solitary
road trip over the top of Michigan – beautiful state!
This week, I’ll be in conference with a lot of people who
work to make the world a fairer place.
As is often the case at Chez McD – life is good!
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Stories from the bus
When you
ride the bus as often as do I you tend to see many of the same people over and
over, day after day. And for the most
part, you tend to see them doing the same things each time. Some are readers, some talkers, some gazers
(out the window), some gazers (at others) and some just stare at the seat in
front of them. A few knit, more in winter than in summer seems to me but I have
no data. Some talk incessantly and loudly on their cell phones, as though
everyone around them would be interested in the details of their lives even if
we could hear both sides.
I’m a
reader. Occasionally a chat-with-one-of-the-regulars-er but mostly, a reader. I’m
sure some of the other riders consider that boring. The lady with season tickets - and how do we know
she has season tickets, you ask? Because during football season she feels we
will all benefit from her play by play recapping of the most recent football
contest – once asked me what I found so interesting about ‘words on paper.’ This
from someone who considers high drama to involve grown men running around on a
big lawn, throwing and kicking a misshapen ball and pushing each other down.
I
suppose, to her, I am boring. But
not, I tell myself knowingly, not as much as the guy staring at the seat
cushion in front of him for twenty-five minutes each way, five days each week.
And of course, my judgment of him is no more valid than my own inner comments
about Football Lady. Or hers about me. Because
we can’t know what the other is thinking, can we?
Of
course, as a writer of novels – which is to say, a fashioner of stories from
whole cloth – I enjoy imagining what the stranger might be, you know,
imagining. So sometimes, when confronted by a Seatback Starer I find myself
taking off on a flight of fancy based at least in part on unmerited judgments I
make about the fellow rider. One Seat Starer in particular has actually
provided kindling for several stories because he’s truly that rare combination
of Everyman and Unique Soul that we all imagine ourselves to be. His could be
almost any story, albeit with a few obvious caveats. The ample waistline probably
rules out competitive body builder. And the well-embedded wedding band most
likely eliminates gigolo from the realm of possibility. He walks with a cane,
so I’m guessing not a pole vaulter. But he’s something and therein lies the
rich loam in which my story will grow.
I wonder about the lives of the people on the
bus, wonder what shapes their day. Their lives. With a few, I’ve become friends
of the sort you see regularly but not for long and never privately. I know
Marsha teaches maritime subjects to mates and captains. Andrea is the CFO who
recently survived a takeover to beat out their
CFO for the spot. The tablet guy is a lawyer. But for the most part, I don’t
know their true stories and that’s the way I like it.
I like
making up their stories for them. Not to worry, I’ll be gentle.
Usually.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Fast pitch
I wish you all could have taken part in the Pacific Northwest
Writers’ Association conference this last weekend. It was far and away the best
time I’ve had outside of family in longer than I can remember. Lots of great
sessions, good presenters and panels and I learned so, so much. Made some new
friends, enjoyed soulful conversations with people who understand the monkey on
my back because they have their own simian riders.
I filled a
notebook with my scrawls, purchased several books written by folks I’d actually
met and had lunch with a gentleman in his seventies and a woman of forty whose
commonality of passion erased the thirty-year experiential gulf. I joined - quietly
and somewhat guiltily - in group speculation as to the motives of the guy who
showed up dressed as a (Harlequin?), complete with jester cap, mask, robe,
lighted wand and a noisemaker. It was a great time because these were my people. Except for maybe jester boy, that was weird.
Okay, so
some of it was stressful. Doing timed cold pitches to four editors and six
agents over the course of three hours is not something I would choose to do as
recreation. Something like the stress interview I had to go through in the Navy
those decades ago. Except that in this case, the interviewers are rooting for
you. They truly want you to bring them a manuscript with which they can fall in
love. And better yet, sell. And they want you to be someone with whom they’d
like to work.
I
prepared for this thing like an Olympic runner. Write and edit and practice and
edit some more and practice some more and then get there to learn that a four
minute pitch actually means telling the story of your book in ninety seconds so as to
allow time for questions. All that prep and training and it’s over in a
minute and a half.
But time after
time, thanks largely to the warm generosity of the folks across the table, it
was a really good four minutes. It turns out this is my tribe.
As a kid,
I was far and away the worst player on my little league team. Never could hit
to the fast pitch. This time, I think I made the team.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
He must go
"It sounded bad to me. Digital. They
have digital. What is digital? And it's very complicated, you have to be Albert Einstein to figure it out.
And I said -- and now they want to buy more aircraft carriers. I said, "What system are you going to be-- "Sir,
we're staying with digital." I said, "No you're not. You going to
goddamned steam, the digital costs hundreds of millions of dollars more money
and it's no good," Trump said.
This is
the Commander-in-Chief discussing the aircraft catapults aboard the Navy’s
newest aircraft carrier. You see, the USS Gerald R Ford incorporates an
electromagnetic launching system to replace the steam catapults that have been
in use since the 1950s. As is often the case with new technology, the new system
has had its share of failures in early tests. And as is also usually the case,
improvements are underway.
Trump heard of the early failure rates and
jumped to uttering the words quoted above. I’m not surprised but I am
horrified.
Forget (if
you can) the lies, the misogyny, the racial bigotry, the playground-bully
attitude toward anyone who incurs his wrath. Set aside his demonstrated belief
that it’s okay to mock persons living with disabilities or other challenges.
Give him a pass, if you must, for the nepotism and cronyism that brings a wide
circle of incompetents and malefactors into his sphere of advisers and
employs a cadre of liars and frauds to provide a defensive ring around this
Klown Kar collection of self-righteous nincompoops.
At the
bottom line, this is a person who has no sense of his own limitations, which
are profound. And this is a person whose reactive temperament has already
created a rift between our nation and our longtime allies. He is the embodiment
of the old saying about ‘he who knows not and knows not that he knows not.’
This is a man (term used loosely here, but that would be another whole essay)
whose deficits are both legion and utterly unimportant to him, so long as he
can continue to feel powerful.
This is a person
who knows no more about electromagnetic propulsive technology than he knows
about international diplomacy but who makes and tries to enforce his decisions
with the confidence of a fool. And there is no buffering effect to be found in
the people around him. He surrounds himself with sycophants, the same crowd of
nodding, guffawing buffoons who can be seen in photos of the worst despots of
the modern age.
He must
go. But for the moment his position is protected by the calculating,
agenda-focused enemies of the people who have taken over the Republican Party. Now,
many of you know me as a lifelong, fairly conservative Republican. I don’t
apologize for that – you vote where and when you find yourself with the
information then available. But my allegiance has been to ideas, never to the
party. And the party has become a cabal that put Donald Trump in office and
continues to shore him up so long as he provides cover for their agenda. And
make no mistake, they are using him as a stalking horse – the true horror is in
the machinations of the party power brokers.
I’m not a
fan of many of the actions of Democrats over the years. But I do consider
myself a pragmatist. And I always go back to my first aid training when
responding to a crisis: breathing, bleeding, bones. Concentrate first on the
things that can kill. In this case, that means depriving
Trump-Ryan-McConnell-Breitbart of their stranglehold on policy.
I don’t
like either party having total control. We have a lot of repair and rebuilding
to do – in our social policies, education, infrastructure, international relations
and our treatment of the environment in which our grandchildren will live their
lives. The Trump-Ryan-McConnell cabal has done obscene damage to us as both
state and symbol. We have to fix this, for ourselves and for the world. And we
can’t make a start when one party shamelessly deprives all others of a seat at
the table. We can’t make things better for all when the people who decide who
gets a seat and what gets discussed are driven by selective, misinterpreted
readings of the Constitution and the Christian Bible.
As a
recovered former Christian and a recovering Republican I readily admit to
having my own agenda. But whether we agree or not as to policy, surely we can
agree that the current trajectory is not leading us in a direction the framers
envisioned or that we should embrace. In the 2018 Mid-term elections, 33 of 100
Senate seats and ALL 435 House seats will be filled by the voters. Please, if
you’ve a soul and a brain, vote Democrat in the next round of congressional
elections. Deprive the evil giant of his legislative power and Ryan-McConnell
of their rubber stamps.
And
whether you agree with me or not, keep in mind Trump’s own words: “What is
digital?” This guy has the launch codes.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Paddling
I’ve been busy this week, working with the folks at a
non-profit in Boston, which involved a great deal of preparation, three long
flights, nights in a sub-par hotel (sometimes you guess wrong but what the
hell, the sheets were clean) and working on some editing evenings in bed.
My mind has been well occupied with my day job and also my
writing. Even so, my thoughts keep returning in idle moments to the day last
weekend when our whole family was together for an hour paddling kayaks on Lake
Union. It was one of those mornings when the water is calm, not much traffic
and the weather perfect for paddling. And of course, the really perfect thing
was all of us being together.
I know everyone has their own favorite pastimes and each
family has those special things they do together. But I can’t imagine any
better memory than the one I’ll have of that morning on the lake with four
people about whom I care deeply and in whose company I feel at home.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Whattup
While da book is out making the rounds of folks who are able
– and might be willing – to help it find an audience, I am turning my sights to
the next one. The challenge for me is never finding something about which I’d
like to write, since I’m curious about most things and dearly love lying… er,
making up stories. The problem is choosing a next plot and character set. Too
many floating around in my noggin and if I open up my ‘Writing starts” folder
in the old confuser, I am led to recall too many possibles.
When I started my second book back in (1980?) it was based
on an apocalyptic vision of what would happen to the world and its organisms in
the months and years after a major nuclear exchange. ‘Nuclear exchange’ was a
ridiculously benign term in vogue at the time for describing the detonation of
many thermonuclear weapons at various locations in the Northern Hemisphere. I
had written my first full length book, By
Other Means as a cautionary tale of the ramp up to nuclear war and this
follow-on with the working title Winter
was to be the tale of life in the aftermath. But since BOM was never published I was not pushed to finish Winter. Then with the collapse of the
former Soviet Union, it seemed moot and I moved on to other writing projects. The
current political and international climate have convinced me that the time is
ripe for just such a cautionary tale. So-o-o-o, one of the books I’m
considering for my next major project is an updated version of Winter.
Another plot crying for attention in my pea brain is a story
about two young people, one male and one female who are aging out of the social
welfare system (read: foster care) and how they face life without a safety net
or really, any support system. This is a major problem in this country and with
the catastrophic shift toward a less caring society – yeah, don’t even try to
argue – the future prospects for kids caught in this situation will be less
than deluxe. So, anyway, that’s another idea that really wants me to listen and
give it voice.
Mary suggested a book based on my own life experience of
having achieved adulthood late in life and by a rather circuitous route. It
would be fiction-based-on-real-life-experience and would be a hoot to write.
But it would also be a rather difficult trick to turn, as it would involve a
series of metaphorical vignettes describing a journey with no real plan. Hm-m-m…
The trouble is that either of the first two ideas I could
probably have editor-ready in less than a year, while the third seems to me
more of a two year job. And agents and editors being pitched by first-time
authors (they care only about what I’ve actually, you know, published so in
their eyes I’m a virgin) want to know that a new client’s writing prowess has
legs. That is, they want to know that having worked hard for relatively little
return to get your first book published, there will be some hope of you actually
producing a next book and a next after that, of building an audience over time,
and thus earning them money. A reasonable concern but creates more cognitive
dissonance than I might have hoped for.
I don’t know which I will start but will likely be deciding
before the month is out. Meanwhile, building the website, getting the house ready
for sale, hosting visiting daughters, traveling for work. And that’s the haps in
Michael World. I hope this finds you well and happy.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Saturday, July 1, 2017
A perfect word
Judder.
I looked it up while editing a piece, just to make certain I’d
used it correctly. So happy to confirm I have because I lo-o-o-ove
onomatopoetic words. And if any word sounds like what it means, judder is one.
I recall the time years ago when the front landing gear of
my plane locked up before reaching takeoff speed. Shook the bejeesus out of the
plane and contents, yours truly included. And you can reproduce the sound it
made if you say judderjudderjudderjudder… really fast over and over.
It really is a perfect word.
Of course, the sounds the passengers made that night were of a different nature.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Balance
I’m reading Bag of
Bones by Stephen King just now. I’m about halfway through and already
dreading the moment when I fall off the end of it. It’s literary and
intelligent and engaging – a ‘good read,’ as they say. It’s so good that I
found myself this Sunday morning lingering over it when I should have been
working on my own writing projects. Hard to strike that balance between my own
writing (the dance) and reading (the one who brought me). Especially when the
reading is this much fun.
That’s not the only area of my life requiring balance just
now. My day job is taking up a lot of my mental resources and I love my work
but I’m also very aware of the need to get the writing off the ground if I’m
going to make anything of it in ‘retirement.’ And I come home each night of
late with my brain fairly well wrung out. What you gonna do?
We’ve begun the process of prepping the house to go on the
market. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with this place from the beginning.
We bought a trasher and gradually rebuilt it over the years. I admit I’ve sometimes
resented the family and other time I’ve lost these last two decades-plus as we
tore into walls, built new ones, reworked plumbing and electrical, the works.
The thing is, now that the time is at hand – we’ll probably sell in the spring
of next year – I feel like I’m deserting an old friend. Every nook and cranny
from the rooftop to the sub-basement is familiar to me. Much of it built or
rebuilt by me or Mary or both. We raised our daughters in this house, hosted
family, argued, loved and sat around. A couple dozen Christmases, six
Cookiethons, birthdays, new pets, dying pets… It’s been home to our family and
now it will serve us one last time by relinquishing it’s equity to our cause. But
I can’t help the feeling of deserting an old friend.
I’m in the process of relocating my writing space, having
donated the old one back to the common cause as the guest room it was
originally meant to be. Relocating forces one to look at stuff. And stuff, I
have. Lots and lots and lots of stuff.
Maybe I’ll strike a balance by just ignoring the stuff and
continuing my writing.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Summer solstice
Today is the summer solstice which means that where I live,
we will have a minute shy of sixteen hours of sunlight. Exactly six months from
now, we’ll have only eight hours and one minute.
I love living here. I love the trees and water and mountains
and rivers and four seasons and the seasonal changes in length of sunlit days.
I continue to be tied up with other writing but I promise as
soon as the website is up (soon, I swear) I’ll be back among the living.
Meanwhile, I hope you are one and all enjoying your days as I am mine.
Michael
Monday, June 12, 2017
The haps
Not much going on these days.
Copy editing the book while it's out to a fresh group of readers. 'Copy editing' being a polite way of saying hunting down typos, missed words, redundancies, continuity errors. Rewriting compound sentences, of which there are entirely too many. You know, all the fun stuff.
Helping Mary renovate the last unimproved room in the house, just in time to put it on the market. And by 'helping' I mean, of course, doing her bidding.
Working on setting up the website that will replace this little blog.
Listening to lute music while typing this. Don't know why you should care about that but every now and then I really enjoy a dose of John Dowland.
And as always, looking out over the green of our backyard and realizing once again how fortunate I am to have made my life here. Alas, time to move on. Not tonight but soon enough.
Dreading my doctor's appointment this week at which this wonderful, caring woman will tell me in her pleasant but firm way that I am fat. Damn! Really?
Marveling at the fact that I somehow convinced Mary to set up housekeeping with me and have managed for thirty years not to drive her away.
Wondering why there's a clothespin on my desk next to my backup drive.
Not much happening in the abode except life. Always, life.
Copy editing the book while it's out to a fresh group of readers. 'Copy editing' being a polite way of saying hunting down typos, missed words, redundancies, continuity errors. Rewriting compound sentences, of which there are entirely too many. You know, all the fun stuff.
Helping Mary renovate the last unimproved room in the house, just in time to put it on the market. And by 'helping' I mean, of course, doing her bidding.
Working on setting up the website that will replace this little blog.
Listening to lute music while typing this. Don't know why you should care about that but every now and then I really enjoy a dose of John Dowland.
And as always, looking out over the green of our backyard and realizing once again how fortunate I am to have made my life here. Alas, time to move on. Not tonight but soon enough.
Dreading my doctor's appointment this week at which this wonderful, caring woman will tell me in her pleasant but firm way that I am fat. Damn! Really?
Marveling at the fact that I somehow convinced Mary to set up housekeeping with me and have managed for thirty years not to drive her away.
Wondering why there's a clothespin on my desk next to my backup drive.
Not much happening in the abode except life. Always, life.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Stepping over the line
A famous comedian is in the news for holding up an effigy
head of D. Trump covered in blood. For this she is being castigated not only by
Trumpets but also by many moderates. And she deserves to be.
A commentator is in hot water for using the term ‘house
n----r’ during an interview. He deserves all the blistering he gets.
We – and the ‘we’ to which I refer is all of us who are
horrified at the current presidency and the insane comet tail of unpleasantness
that follows – need to be better than this. Michelle was right: let them go
low; we need to continue to go high.
The comedian should have known better. Her career has been
made on the edge, barely skirting the boundaries of good taste and fair play in
order to get a laugh. I understand that and I get that good satire is
necessarily edgy. But if I have to explain here why what she did was over the
line, then perhaps we’re no better than Billy Bush.
I would hope we can agree that the gleeful display of severed
heads is the province of terrorists. Beyond that, while the orangutan in the
Oval should be able to take his lumps, and richly deserves them, can’t we agree
that there are certain lines we don’t cross? The comedian, missing the message as former
supporters and employers back away from her, tearfully attempts to portray
herself as the victim. She is not.
The commentator, hearing negative reaction from his live
audience made a quick aside identifying it as a joke. And when the reactions
heated up over the next hours, he issued a week apology for ‘using that word.’
I agree with the folks who are calling for his firing. Your time’s up, goodbye.
There are lines we don’t cross if we want to be who we claim
to be. Holding up the head was not merely a bad choice in an unguarded moment.
It took time to plan and prepare for that shot. Time to think about what that
imagery would conjure. Time to say, ‘No, that’s not us.’ Apparently, no one in
her camp had the good sense to stop and think.
And for a professional talker to use the n-word on air, even
in the flow of repartee, is equally unforgivable. Did he think that his
position as a national television commentator makes him immune to the
constraints we would apply in a local school board meeting?
These two people – and others we could mention but these are
the two in the news just now – are intelligent people. They are both
professional communicators who cannot claim they don’t understand context,
semantic burden, emotional weight, restraint.
In both cases, they deserve all the vilification we can
muster. Because they both knew where the line was, and they chose to step
across it. Because in a war for the soul of America, they gave our worst
enemies some very ugly ammunition.
Lesson for today: If you stand on the edge, better be sure
of your footing.
Friday, May 26, 2017
(There is no) Golden Mean
And so, brethren and sistren, down came I from the mountain bearing
Truth and Beauty (or such Truth and Beauty as is to be found in my new book, The Patent Desk), fully intending to bestow
this cultural gem, this magnificent gift upon a world waiting in eager
anticipation of the glories to be found therein.
There I
stood at the last turn, the final promontory and I looked out over the
assembled multitudes, drank in their eagerness and love… And then I turned around and went back up to
my cave to go through the damn thing One. More. Time.
Kindly refrain from asking how many times I’ve
repeated this cycle of
there-I’m-done-here-it-goes-ready-set-wait-did-I-remember-to… I’ve done it
enough times that I’d be embarrassed to admit even if I could accurately figure
the sum. The truth is that I’ve been living with these characters, this story,
this hopeful/troublesome project for so long that my mental processes have all
become skewed in favor of just one more pass. The road to improvement is deeply
rutted and not by wagon wheels that rolled smoothly along behind faithful draft
animals. This rock-strewn track was ground out one bleeding footfall at a time.
I’ve
lost count of the number of revisions, large and small. At one time this hog
ran to 148,000 words and now it’s settling somewhere around 85,000. (After
careful thought and excruciating editing, I decided to go with the advice of
the agent who said ‘whatever the count, make sure they’re the right words’ over
that of the agent who said 60-83,000 was a magic target range.) I’ve added,
subtracted and revised so many times that the number of individual taps on the
keyboard is lost to the ages. Average 5.5 taps per word – you do the math, I’m
afraid to. And through the earliest and longest and now shortest versions of
the book and all the revisions in between, every tap was accomplished by one of
three fingers, arthritis be damned. Turns out not taking typing when they
offered it in high school was a less than stellar decision.
But,
regardless of the work I’ve put into past revisions, regardless how sore my butt
or strained my eyes or tortured my hands, up to now I just couldn’t stop. There
has always been one more ambiguity to resolve, a run-on sentence to reset, a
paragraph to trim. Does the reader need
to know this random fact about a secondary character? No, out it goes. Wait,
now it’s not… Back it comes.
At some
point, I can either resign myself that this is not so much a book as a
never-ending writing exercise, or call a stop and put it out there. Because
there is no Golden Mean in writing, no perfect word count, voice, pace, or anything
else that will guarantee people will want to read it and having read it,
recommend it to others. In the end, it’s all about the story and whether they care
about the characters. I believe this story is good and these characters
compelling. And so…
Enough, I
say.
But
then, there is that problem with Cort…
Enough,
I said!
Perhaps,
if I just…
ENOUGH!!!!!
And so,
I send it out. And IF this agent takes it on, or the next, or the next, and
IF they find an editor at a reputable house who’s willing to read it and IF…
and IF… and IF...
And
while I wait, and while I make the edits suggested by philistines who just
don’t understand but through whose hands pass my ability to publish, and
while I fend off the questions of the friends and family whom I foolishly
let know of my position as literary supplicant and the oh-so-compassionate
expressions of those who truly don’t believe I'll ever be published but want
to seem to be in my corner just in case they’re wrong…
While
I wait…
I begin
writing the next one.
Because I'm crazy.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
Serendipity
Sometimes, things just seem to come together.
I am preparing to submit my book The Patent Desk to agents and editors. The folks to whom I’ll be
sending it have varied submissions requirements but mostly, they want to see a
synopsis and first fifty pages. So, off I sent the fateful fifty for review by
Corbin, the developmental editor with whom I’m working.
I received her edited, comment-strewn version back the other
day and planned a four day weekend to make a (final?) pass before beginning
submissions. But I glanced through her cuts night before last and I have to
say, I was appalled at the very first cut she made.
Doesn’t she understand, I asked my inner self, that this
paragraph is essential, that it establishes Max’s love for his craft? That he
is lost in the rhythm and timbre of the work? How can she say this paragraph is
confusing and too long?
I didn’t read further, steeling myself for what promised to
be a teeth clenching, head shaking session of disagreement with my editor, a
battle royale to preserve the integrity of my magnificent prose. The voices of my internal Greek chorus shouted
their dismay. How could this heretofore brilliant editor fail to understand how
rich, how necessary was each and every one of those golden words?
Then, yesterday, I listened to a couple of TED talks while I
ate my lunch. Andrew Stanton was talking about movie making and he said this:
(The opening) makes a promise
that this story will lead somewhere that’s worth your time.
His words made me
stop and think. I rewound and listened again and then, again. And I wrote them
down to share with you here.
This morning, I returned to Corbin’s edit but I disabled the
review function so that I would not be distracted by angst about what she had
cut or reordered. And I read what was left behind. And what I read was a
promise of something to follow that would be worth the reader’s time and
attention. And then I read her comments but still not the cuts and I saw her
love of writing come through. My writing.
My words are there, but fewer of them. The best ones.
For anyone who wonders at the true meaning of serendipity,
seems to me this is it. As I sat unwrapping my sandwich and TED surfing I wasn’t
looking for that quote or even for Stanton, and certainly was not looking for
advice that would help me past my writer’s ego. But there it was.
The voices in my head are still arguing, one faction saying
read and accept and the other side asking what other gems the evil Corbin might
have cruelly excised.
I’m leaning toward read and accept. Turns out, Corbin knows
a thing or two. And I have a new personal definition of serendipity.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Respect the experts
Attending a writers’ conference last week, I was reminded of
the importance of respecting the knowledge and skills of the experts in a
field. Allow me to explain…
I
started the day nervous about the pitches I’d be making to a couple of literary
agents but otherwise pretty confident in my own grasp of the writing game. I
understood the roles of writer / agent / editor, the paths to acceptance of a
manuscript for publication, my own responsibilities in the process of bringing a
book to market, etc.
Right?
I got this, right?
Turns
out, not so much.
Turns
out, the publishing world has changed while I’ve been off living my life and
writing my little blog posts. And if I am to be successful – assuming that
‘successful’ means a book published so that real people can read it and then
does well enough to make my next submission attractive to the people who decide
whether I get another turn – it behooves me to learn a few things. Facts of
life, you might say. Things like the tighter word count limitations, platform,
shifting genres, methods of submission… the list goes on.
Never
fear, I will learn these things and more. Because when you come into someone else’s
world intent on fitting in the smart money is on, you know, fitting in.
I think
this is a lesson that needs to be learned, and soon, very soon, by the new guy
in the Oval Office. He came there assuming that what he already knew would be
enough and further, that his presumed great cachet of being this business mogul
with a popular TV show and a series of trophy wives (as ever, more a statement
about the man than the women he married) would make all bow down before him. He
came to the halls of power with neither a road map nor a trustworthy guide. He
brought lackeys and minions and miscreants to a team sport.
He
needs to learn the lessons of the field.
He
won’t.
Idiot.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
-30-
In the old
days, which is to say when I still had red hair, it was customary to use the
code ‘-30-‘ to signify ‘end of message.’ It was used by the newspaper industry
and in some telegraphy codes. The origin of this bit of shorthand has become clouded
as the Internet and wiki-compilations encourage anyone with an opinion to sound
authoritative. Ah, well… A discussion for another time, perhaps.
As a
young writer (and I do mean young, as in grade school) I was intrigued by this particular
custom. Couldn’t tell you why but on many of my early school papers and especially
my personal essays I used the ‘-30-‘ mark to signify that a piece was finished.
And yes, it annoyed some but not all of my teachers.
Why not
just write ‘The End’ as did everyone else in those days?
I’ve
thought about this quite a bit and especially now, when I’m approaching
completion of the final pre-submission edit of my current book, The Patent Desk. For this book, it is
particularly appropriate not to say
The End. To understand why, you’ll have to read it.
‘-30-‘
seems to me a gentler sign-off. Not so much farewell as see you later. End of message
but not the close out of our conversation together.
Thirty –
the number, not the copy editor’s shorthand – is in my mind for a wholly
different reason today. Exactly thirty years ago as I type this, I was leaving
a hotel room with my friend and best man Mark, on the way to the Asian Gardens
for my wedding. Mark’s sister, Mary was at our house with her sisters and Mark’s
wife (also one of my buddies from our musical theatre days) finishing up her
own preparations.
Thirty
years ago today Mary and I embarked on our life and lives together. And looking
back from this vantage point, I can assure you it is not The End.
The
conversation will continue, perhaps in new dialects as I transition from my
current career to life as a writer and Mary plans (yes, she is in charge) our
life as a couple after raising and educating offspring.
Perhaps
in the sense of the contrast between our family-creation years as opposed to
our denouement together, ‘-30-‘ is the appropriate symbol of our completion of
the first thirty.
And,
maybe I’m just stalling with odd thoughts while I try to figure out how to fix
that one pivotal chapter in the book.
You be
the judge.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Imaginary people
The characters that inhabit my book are selfish.
On this
rewrite, one gets a new love interest (but no explicit sex, na-na-na-na). A
couple of others get hugely expanded parts. One stays about the same as to word
count but becomes (gosh, I hope) much more interesting.
One bad guy becomes more baditudinous (my blog, my grammar –
get over it) and yes, I do believe some people are simply irredeemable. Another
becomes more forgivable or at least, we can better understand how he got to be
who he is.
Each and all of their stories and sub-plots are improved, or
so I believe.
The thing is, while each of them is probably happy with her/his
enhanced position in the story, none of them seem to give a thought to how much
work I’ve had to do to give them what they needed.
I took out several scenes and others I scaled back - I want
to say sharpened but we’ll see what the readers think. One major story arc is
gone completely. Lots of my many months of hard work hit the cutting room
floor. Okay, so it’s the archive file in my computer but same concept.
All this sweat and tears by yours truly and do you think the
characters appreciate my labors? Not on your tintype!
I think I’m beginning to hate imaginary people.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Alan Branch
I’ve been away from these pages much of the last month or two
while I finish editing Da Book but while checking the news feed during a break I came across an item that
caught my attention and drove me to offer this.
In an interview for CNN this week, football player Alan
Branch expressed why he declined to go to the White House with his team to be
congratulated by Donald Trump. Apparently, it has become traditional for the
winning Super Bowl team to make this pilgrimage. But Branch is the father of
three daughters and a son and it seems that his duty as a role model for his
children is more important to him than a photo op in the Oval Office.
“I’ve got to go back home and look my daughters in the eye,”
he said in part, “and I don’t want them to view me in a different light
because I did that. I would miss two softball games with my oldest daughter to
meet this person. So for somebody to have me miss family time, which I don’t
have during the season, that’s somebody I would have to respect. I don’t have enough
respect for him to take time away from my kids and my wife just to shake his
hand. That’s not me.”
Mr. Branch, thank you.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Home Friday
I’ll be home Friday and when I walk through the door – okay,
make that when I’ve unpacked my go bag and put away my travel stuff – I will
officially be on leave.
Lots of things I intend to do over those nine days.
I have to get the book in final shape for submission because
I have my first round of agent / editor pitches in early May. In narrowly selfish
terms, this is a big priority but not the only thing I’ll be focused on.
I’m working on the
concept for my new website, which I need to have up and running by the end of
May. Speaking of concepts, I’m working on planning the next book and a couple
of other things.
I will be spending time in the gym, but that’s not a new
thing.
Daughter One is moving into a new apartment so I will likely
be helping her prep for the move. Over the last two years a lot of her ‘stuff’
has become intertwined with ours.
I will spend time with Mary. Some of it active, as in going
places together, maybe doing some yardwork. And some of it more passive, just
being in the same room together. Nine days of being able to look over and see
her there.
Coming up on thirty years and I couldn’t dream of a better
way to celebrate our lives – our life in common. When we first got together,
all I needed was time with her. And next week – 1500 weeks later - that’s still
all I need.
I’ll be home Friday, and I can’t wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)