I'm kind of out of story mode right now. Been writing a lot of poetry. My typical stuff. Bad. haha
I did post a couple of things on the Legion of On-Line Super Heroes blog. Feel free to check them out. No great shakes. Both draft pieces.
Fairyhedgehog said she notices that I am happiest when I am doing a lot of writing. Looking at it from my perspective I have to say I agree. Not that Fairy needs any affirmation from me. She's quite brilliant. And inciteful. Not that she incites people. Inspires would be the better word.
She also said she cannot make up her mind if it is writing that makes me happier, or my being happier that makes me write. The chicken and egg thing. It fits. I'm certainly chicken. And I'm kind of an egg. Rotten egg. Left too long, you know?
I still have story ideas floating around in my head. It's just that none of them want to come out yet. And I haven't the energy to grab one and see what can be made of it.
Did try something recently. Tossed most of it in The Archives. But I still like the first paragraph. I don't suppose it hurts anything to post it here.
Kimbra paced her cell. Three steps to the door. Three steps back to the wall. On her return trip her eyes would drift upward to the barred window over her head. The blackness which looked in was no darker than the feelings she bore in her heart. But time was moving. The cold grey of dawn couldn't be far off. Soon after it arrived she would be taken out to the courtyard. And executed.
Sailors on the Sea
Showing posts with label Feelings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feelings. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Lonely Woman
Not many people care for my poetry. Even I only like it sometimes. That's because I don't follow any rules, which all good poetry does. The rules may be obscure to those of us not familiar with the many cadences and structures. There are many kinds of poetry.
But when I'm sad I tend to write what I call poetry. It's just a way to express feelings that tear at me from within. Sometimes I wonder what kind of scars there are on my insides. No wonder my stomach doesn't work properly.
Anyway, this came to mind just this morning. I don't have the energy to write a story so I wrote a poem. It isn't a good poem. Not well thought out at all, I think. But I wasn't into that. I just wanted to get it out. And keep it within my favorite theme: medieval.
So, here it is:
Lonely Woman
by Bevie James
You know, I could not have invented this story in a million years
And were I to have read it before living it would say, People don’t behave like that
And yet here I am. I lived it.
Or, should I say, it killed me.
Once there were four friends. They were good friends. Happy.
They liked to laugh and tease and make merry together. For that’s what friends do
The three men all strong and virile
The pretty little woman
Around them there was misery. War was ravaging the land.
And each declared to the others how were it not for them they would leave
Leave the tiny village
Leave the country entirely
And then they were betrayed, cruelly and played for fools
It was at this time the strongest of the four suddenly disappeared from sight
Gone from the village
Gone from the country
The three remaining friends huddled close together, drawing upon each for strength
They left their tiny village, ravaged by the war, and found a new place to dwell
A new village of their own
A new place to call home
But the one grew restless and bored, and began exploring the area for interests
And quickly his feelings toward the woman changed from love to disdain to hatred
And he accused her of things
Looked for reasons of fault
The woman began to collapse, for this restless one had been her champion knight
They had shared the things only lovers share, in broad daylight and in the night
She pleased him well
He pleased her too
The war pressed close and panic ensued, and things were done in a hurry
The woman, in charge, tried to keep the peace, but her efforts resulted in ruin
Her champion left
Abandoned her in need
The champion returned but the woman resigned, and gave her role to the wise one
But things were falling apart, and the champion continued to revile her unceasingly
Looking for fault
Making it up at need
To save the village the wise one turned command to the other, who really was not fit
He did his best, but the weight was heavy, and he tried to bear it alone
Not good for him
Not good for the village
The woman tried to help, but was left out more and more, and so she lost her mind
And things unraveled quickly. Hatred and mistrust growing like a disease
Nothing she did worked
Nothing she said was right
She was expelled from the village and cast to her own. By a lover who hated her now.
And weeping and mourning she made a new place, in the shadow of a friend’s home
Hoping for forgiveness
Hoping to be loved again
The village was overrun, and new leader installed as king. The woman’s time drew near
She cried out for answers and sought to talk, but silence met her ears
Not a word from any
Not a sign that any cared
In time the woman was attacked, by a friend of the village that was lost
She cried out and was recognized, and the attack was withdrawn at last
Acquaintances remembered
Safe but still alone
She called to another village, to let them know what fell
And they said they understood and offered her a place by their well
A new home
A safe place
But her love for her friends was great, and she turned down the offer of help
She would remain in the shadow of her village, hoping they would forgive her again
And they would be together
They would be happy
But the one friend spied on the village, and the other reviled her friends
So the last friend the woman had, believed her of treason and left
Now truly alone
The end of hope
And so the woman sits quietly, knowing the war rages about
Knowing that sooner or later, the war will visit her house
And she will die
And it will end
Do you believe this story my friend? That friendships could so easily die?
Well it’s true, I’m sorry to say. That we really all think alike
Rash to conclusions
Never to forgive
And so I walk in sadness. Knowing my fate is now set
There is nothing to do that will change things, and alone is how it will be met
For I am that woman
And loneliness is my life
But when I'm sad I tend to write what I call poetry. It's just a way to express feelings that tear at me from within. Sometimes I wonder what kind of scars there are on my insides. No wonder my stomach doesn't work properly.
Anyway, this came to mind just this morning. I don't have the energy to write a story so I wrote a poem. It isn't a good poem. Not well thought out at all, I think. But I wasn't into that. I just wanted to get it out. And keep it within my favorite theme: medieval.
So, here it is:
Lonely Woman
by Bevie James
You know, I could not have invented this story in a million years
And were I to have read it before living it would say, People don’t behave like that
And yet here I am. I lived it.
Or, should I say, it killed me.
Once there were four friends. They were good friends. Happy.
They liked to laugh and tease and make merry together. For that’s what friends do
The three men all strong and virile
The pretty little woman
Around them there was misery. War was ravaging the land.
And each declared to the others how were it not for them they would leave
Leave the tiny village
Leave the country entirely
And then they were betrayed, cruelly and played for fools
It was at this time the strongest of the four suddenly disappeared from sight
Gone from the village
Gone from the country
The three remaining friends huddled close together, drawing upon each for strength
They left their tiny village, ravaged by the war, and found a new place to dwell
A new village of their own
A new place to call home
But the one grew restless and bored, and began exploring the area for interests
And quickly his feelings toward the woman changed from love to disdain to hatred
And he accused her of things
Looked for reasons of fault
The woman began to collapse, for this restless one had been her champion knight
They had shared the things only lovers share, in broad daylight and in the night
She pleased him well
He pleased her too
The war pressed close and panic ensued, and things were done in a hurry
The woman, in charge, tried to keep the peace, but her efforts resulted in ruin
Her champion left
Abandoned her in need
The champion returned but the woman resigned, and gave her role to the wise one
But things were falling apart, and the champion continued to revile her unceasingly
Looking for fault
Making it up at need
To save the village the wise one turned command to the other, who really was not fit
He did his best, but the weight was heavy, and he tried to bear it alone
Not good for him
Not good for the village
The woman tried to help, but was left out more and more, and so she lost her mind
And things unraveled quickly. Hatred and mistrust growing like a disease
Nothing she did worked
Nothing she said was right
She was expelled from the village and cast to her own. By a lover who hated her now.
And weeping and mourning she made a new place, in the shadow of a friend’s home
Hoping for forgiveness
Hoping to be loved again
The village was overrun, and new leader installed as king. The woman’s time drew near
She cried out for answers and sought to talk, but silence met her ears
Not a word from any
Not a sign that any cared
In time the woman was attacked, by a friend of the village that was lost
She cried out and was recognized, and the attack was withdrawn at last
Acquaintances remembered
Safe but still alone
She called to another village, to let them know what fell
And they said they understood and offered her a place by their well
A new home
A safe place
But her love for her friends was great, and she turned down the offer of help
She would remain in the shadow of her village, hoping they would forgive her again
And they would be together
They would be happy
But the one friend spied on the village, and the other reviled her friends
So the last friend the woman had, believed her of treason and left
Now truly alone
The end of hope
And so the woman sits quietly, knowing the war rages about
Knowing that sooner or later, the war will visit her house
And she will die
And it will end
Do you believe this story my friend? That friendships could so easily die?
Well it’s true, I’m sorry to say. That we really all think alike
Rash to conclusions
Never to forgive
And so I walk in sadness. Knowing my fate is now set
There is nothing to do that will change things, and alone is how it will be met
For I am that woman
And loneliness is my life
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Shadow Sweet White Apprentice
So, this is my eighth post since moving out of my home. It wasn't that long ago (although to me it seems like an eternity) I was posting every day. It's just hard for me to communicate much with the outside world now, even after seven weeks. Guess I expected too much out of life.
Anyway, I'm not sure my not posting is all that big of a deal anyway. It's not like I have that much to say which is of real interest. But on the chance someone might be, I'll provide a status of where I am at with various projects.
I've put my White Wolves story on indefinite hold. Not because I don't want to finish it, but because I have a couple of other projects which are taking precedence right now.
I'm going to be doing a major rewrite of Apprentice. Yes, I know. I said it was finished and even submitted it for publication. It got a reading but was rejected. I got another critique (won't say by who because I'm not sure she would be happy to be identified, even though I do not believe she visits this blog) and talked it over with fairyhedgehog (who said she doesn't mind being identified as my original reader) and we agree the story could profit greatly from the new ideas. It could become a bit larger, as most of the suggestions were for more detail in surroundings and in Kiahva's head (what she's thinking, not grey matter). But at the same time there's a lot to be cut, so it's hard to say.
But Apprentice is also on hold. It's waiting behind my current work in progress: currently under the working title Real Problems. That title isn't going to last. I don't much care for it at all, but then I'm not sure about my original go. Real Problems is the fourth (or fifth) go at giving this thing a title. In fact, now that I'm letting the title ruminate in my head I've come up with one I like much better. It ties in with an important story element. In fact, it's the driving force. The newest (and greatest) working title will be The Sweet Girl. You'd have to know the story to know why it works but, unfortunately, I'm not going to reveal that just yet. I want to finish it first.
Right now I'm in Chapter Eleven and sitting at about 37,000-words. My original plan was fifteen chapters and about 45,000-words. I may or may not reach the chapter goal. I will definitely surprass the word target. It's going to go very close to 60,000-words. Then it going to require a major edit job. But that will have to wait because once I finish the draft Sweet Girl is going to go on a warmer burner while Apprentice takes center stage.
Recently, I finished another short story: Shadow People. I think that went about 60,000-words. Yeah, I know. How can I call 60,000-words 'short'. It's easy. Typically, when I write a story it goes well past 100,000-words. But those are epic fantasy stories. Shadow People is hardly epic. Same with Sweet Girl and even White Wolves.
Anyway, the Muses have been feeling sorry for me because of the house thing and have been entertaining me with a host of creative ideas. What a pity they can't actually make me write well enough to be published. But I'm not sure I would be happy with that right now. I still like the way I write now. My stories are giving me enjoyment, if nobody else. But that's kind of the story of my life.
Don't know when I'll post again so take care.
Anyway, I'm not sure my not posting is all that big of a deal anyway. It's not like I have that much to say which is of real interest. But on the chance someone might be, I'll provide a status of where I am at with various projects.
I've put my White Wolves story on indefinite hold. Not because I don't want to finish it, but because I have a couple of other projects which are taking precedence right now.
I'm going to be doing a major rewrite of Apprentice. Yes, I know. I said it was finished and even submitted it for publication. It got a reading but was rejected. I got another critique (won't say by who because I'm not sure she would be happy to be identified, even though I do not believe she visits this blog) and talked it over with fairyhedgehog (who said she doesn't mind being identified as my original reader) and we agree the story could profit greatly from the new ideas. It could become a bit larger, as most of the suggestions were for more detail in surroundings and in Kiahva's head (what she's thinking, not grey matter). But at the same time there's a lot to be cut, so it's hard to say.
But Apprentice is also on hold. It's waiting behind my current work in progress: currently under the working title Real Problems. That title isn't going to last. I don't much care for it at all, but then I'm not sure about my original go. Real Problems is the fourth (or fifth) go at giving this thing a title. In fact, now that I'm letting the title ruminate in my head I've come up with one I like much better. It ties in with an important story element. In fact, it's the driving force. The newest (and greatest) working title will be The Sweet Girl. You'd have to know the story to know why it works but, unfortunately, I'm not going to reveal that just yet. I want to finish it first.
Right now I'm in Chapter Eleven and sitting at about 37,000-words. My original plan was fifteen chapters and about 45,000-words. I may or may not reach the chapter goal. I will definitely surprass the word target. It's going to go very close to 60,000-words. Then it going to require a major edit job. But that will have to wait because once I finish the draft Sweet Girl is going to go on a warmer burner while Apprentice takes center stage.
Recently, I finished another short story: Shadow People. I think that went about 60,000-words. Yeah, I know. How can I call 60,000-words 'short'. It's easy. Typically, when I write a story it goes well past 100,000-words. But those are epic fantasy stories. Shadow People is hardly epic. Same with Sweet Girl and even White Wolves.
Anyway, the Muses have been feeling sorry for me because of the house thing and have been entertaining me with a host of creative ideas. What a pity they can't actually make me write well enough to be published. But I'm not sure I would be happy with that right now. I still like the way I write now. My stories are giving me enjoyment, if nobody else. But that's kind of the story of my life.
Don't know when I'll post again so take care.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Life's Blocks - Take 'Em Apart and Put 'Em Back Together Again
I've gotten away from my music again. For someone who so loves and enjoys music I suppose you're surprised to find that happens to me, but it does. I get in moods when I just haven't the energy to hear the very thing which can help me through troubled times.
There was a time, way, way back, when a rejection I took hit me so hard I went nearly two months with no music. No cassettes in the player. No LPs on the stereo. (Told you it was way back.) And no radio. My devastation was nearly complete and I wondered if I would even survive. I did. Life has a way of going on. You know?
So I turned back to my online playlists, which contain songs I do not have at home. Was going to go with the biggest one, simply because it has the widest variety. Then I saw Across the Waters, which was my playlist for this blog at one time. It begins with "Only the Strong Survive", by Jerry Butler. I found it appropriate. And so I turn again to the balm for my heart and the salve for my wounds. Music is the way to open the dam and let the waters flow, releasing pressure and lowering high water level.
Only the Strong Surive: Jerry Butler
Pied Piper: Crispian St Peters
Stumblin In: Suzie Quatro
Year of the Cat: Al Stewart
Lord Grenville: Al Stewart
Question: Moody Blues
In Your Wildest Dreams: Moody Blues
I'm Just a Singer: Moody Blues
Story in Your Eyes: Moody Blues
For My Lady: Moody Blues
The Balance: Moody Blues
Behind Blue Eyes: The Who
Under My Wheels: Alice Cooper
Layla: Derek and the Dominos
There was a time, way, way back, when a rejection I took hit me so hard I went nearly two months with no music. No cassettes in the player. No LPs on the stereo. (Told you it was way back.) And no radio. My devastation was nearly complete and I wondered if I would even survive. I did. Life has a way of going on. You know?
So I turned back to my online playlists, which contain songs I do not have at home. Was going to go with the biggest one, simply because it has the widest variety. Then I saw Across the Waters, which was my playlist for this blog at one time. It begins with "Only the Strong Survive", by Jerry Butler. I found it appropriate. And so I turn again to the balm for my heart and the salve for my wounds. Music is the way to open the dam and let the waters flow, releasing pressure and lowering high water level.
Only the Strong Surive: Jerry Butler
Pied Piper: Crispian St Peters
Stumblin In: Suzie Quatro
Year of the Cat: Al Stewart
Lord Grenville: Al Stewart
Question: Moody Blues
In Your Wildest Dreams: Moody Blues
I'm Just a Singer: Moody Blues
Story in Your Eyes: Moody Blues
For My Lady: Moody Blues
The Balance: Moody Blues
Behind Blue Eyes: The Who
Under My Wheels: Alice Cooper
Layla: Derek and the Dominos
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Simple Sad Truth
What does it mean to expect a thing, and then it doesn’t happen
What does it mean to hope and dream, and know it is not true
When dreams are dashed, when hopes fade dim, the light goes from the day
And sadness, grief, and loneliness, fills a soul with blue
What is it that will make us dream, make us think we can
What is it that will give us hope, and make us try again
When failure follows failure, and knowledge proves so wrong
Is it time to call it off, and let fading hopes just wane
To believe is joy, to hope is song, to try again is glee
It makes us young, it makes us strong, it’s the same for you and me
Until reality strikes home, and orders dreams to cease
And tells us that we are forsaken, alone is all we’ll be
The Potter makes his vessels, some he makes of clay
Some he makes of copper, gold, or glass or wood or stone
And some he makes for wasteful things, to carry them away
These paper cups, and plastic trays, are set off all alone
It’s hard just being garbage, cast off with rotting smells
It’s hard not having value, no purpose wise and good
But the dung beetle is what it is, and does just what it does
For me to be just nothing now, it’s what I really should
What does it mean to hope and dream, and know it is not true
When dreams are dashed, when hopes fade dim, the light goes from the day
And sadness, grief, and loneliness, fills a soul with blue
What is it that will make us dream, make us think we can
What is it that will give us hope, and make us try again
When failure follows failure, and knowledge proves so wrong
Is it time to call it off, and let fading hopes just wane
To believe is joy, to hope is song, to try again is glee
It makes us young, it makes us strong, it’s the same for you and me
Until reality strikes home, and orders dreams to cease
And tells us that we are forsaken, alone is all we’ll be
The Potter makes his vessels, some he makes of clay
Some he makes of copper, gold, or glass or wood or stone
And some he makes for wasteful things, to carry them away
These paper cups, and plastic trays, are set off all alone
It’s hard just being garbage, cast off with rotting smells
It’s hard not having value, no purpose wise and good
But the dung beetle is what it is, and does just what it does
For me to be just nothing now, it’s what I really should
Thursday, July 30, 2009
As The Wheel Turns
Ah, yes. The Wheel. Recently, I have had my time at the top of the curve, feeling inspired about a host of things and getting a lot of things done, despite the feeling nothing got done.
The euphoric feeling of being on top is quite wonderful. Unfortunately, it never lasts. The Wheel doesn't stop for a moment, and like the summer season which so make me happy, the season changes and chills. I fall over The Wheel's side and drop to the bottom, where inspiration is hard to come by, and faith and confidence don't enter. Guess they can't breathe down here. They await my rise to the surface which, like winter, seems to take forever.
I wish I had paints. Not the big gallon cans used for painting walls and such. Little tubes of acrylic colors, squeezed out onto a pallette while I sit before an easel with a stretched canvas. I could splatter meaningless colors across the whitewashed background, expressing emotion in ways I only struggle with in words. But, to be honest, I expect I would find such expression just as difficult.
Sometimes, it's hard to express what one is feeling because one is not quite sure what it is one is feeling.
Like an explosive charge the feeling awaits the lighting of the fuse, or the spark of inspiration. Then it will burst forth in wondrous splendor. Meanwhile, like the ugly containers explosives so often come in, I wait and wonder. Just what is it am I feeling anyway? And why do I want to give up again when it seems like yesterday I had faith.
The Wheels turns.
The euphoric feeling of being on top is quite wonderful. Unfortunately, it never lasts. The Wheel doesn't stop for a moment, and like the summer season which so make me happy, the season changes and chills. I fall over The Wheel's side and drop to the bottom, where inspiration is hard to come by, and faith and confidence don't enter. Guess they can't breathe down here. They await my rise to the surface which, like winter, seems to take forever.
I wish I had paints. Not the big gallon cans used for painting walls and such. Little tubes of acrylic colors, squeezed out onto a pallette while I sit before an easel with a stretched canvas. I could splatter meaningless colors across the whitewashed background, expressing emotion in ways I only struggle with in words. But, to be honest, I expect I would find such expression just as difficult.
Sometimes, it's hard to express what one is feeling because one is not quite sure what it is one is feeling.
Like an explosive charge the feeling awaits the lighting of the fuse, or the spark of inspiration. Then it will burst forth in wondrous splendor. Meanwhile, like the ugly containers explosives so often come in, I wait and wonder. Just what is it am I feeling anyway? And why do I want to give up again when it seems like yesterday I had faith.
The Wheels turns.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Music Again - And Still - And Forever - And Forever
Have you ever wished you could sing? I mean sing well?
Perhaps you already do. No such luck for me. I've got a voice which strongly resembles beef jerky - strong emphasis on jerky. Remember the commercial? There's no middle ground. Either you love it or hate it. Most hate my singing.
I recall working in the mail room back in the early 1980s. A horrible job. Boring. Dirty. Time consuming. Low pay. I recall being the "bagger". This was the wonderful job in which I would take filthy postal bags which had just been filled by the second sorter with bundled magazines. I had to carry them and stack them on a pallet, then get a new, empty, filthy bag and hang it up for the second sorter to fill again. Not. Good. Work.
To amuse myself, I used to sing. There were so many machines going only those close to me were able to hear me. They were not amused.
The song I have embedded in this post is one I used to sing. It's a beautiful song and I still sing along with it in the car. I can actually hit the low notes. It's the higher ones which give me trouble. The song is And the Grass Won't Pay No Mind, by Mark Lindsay.
I'm kind of amazed this song never became popular. It's never played anymore on even "oldie" stations. But it's so beautiful. Dreamy. I've written some great story scenes to this music. It makes me feel young again. Young and hopeful, with a full life ahead of me. Now I'm none of those things. But I still like the music. I still dream. And I will still write.
Here's another Mark Lindsay song. Silver Bird. Guess I'm feeling a bit Lindsay this morning.
Oh. Happy Father's Day.
Perhaps you already do. No such luck for me. I've got a voice which strongly resembles beef jerky - strong emphasis on jerky. Remember the commercial? There's no middle ground. Either you love it or hate it. Most hate my singing.
I recall working in the mail room back in the early 1980s. A horrible job. Boring. Dirty. Time consuming. Low pay. I recall being the "bagger". This was the wonderful job in which I would take filthy postal bags which had just been filled by the second sorter with bundled magazines. I had to carry them and stack them on a pallet, then get a new, empty, filthy bag and hang it up for the second sorter to fill again. Not. Good. Work.
To amuse myself, I used to sing. There were so many machines going only those close to me were able to hear me. They were not amused.
The song I have embedded in this post is one I used to sing. It's a beautiful song and I still sing along with it in the car. I can actually hit the low notes. It's the higher ones which give me trouble. The song is And the Grass Won't Pay No Mind, by Mark Lindsay.
I'm kind of amazed this song never became popular. It's never played anymore on even "oldie" stations. But it's so beautiful. Dreamy. I've written some great story scenes to this music. It makes me feel young again. Young and hopeful, with a full life ahead of me. Now I'm none of those things. But I still like the music. I still dream. And I will still write.
Here's another Mark Lindsay song. Silver Bird. Guess I'm feeling a bit Lindsay this morning.
Oh. Happy Father's Day.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Launch Date: June 18th, 2009
See edit note at bottom of post.
Today I am telling myself I will send out my query for Swords of Fire: Traitor. I have done this several times before. The first time was back in the early 1980s. The last was in the fall of 2008. Every other time I sent out a query I did so with high hopes - and even expectations. The high hopes are gone now. The expectations are still here, though. Only they've changed. I'm expecting to be rejected. Why? Because I don't believe in the book? I think my query s*cks? No. I think the book is great. And I think I've got a decent query. But I don't dare believe anymore. It is too crushing to come down from that height again. So I don't climb anymore.
It seems I have returned to my roots. You know them, I'm sure. You've probably shared some of them. These are the things we (I) learned as young children. Things such as, "Good things only happen to other people."
My sister-in-law, B, once told me something which I have never forgotten. She said it to be silly, but knowing her I expect there was more than a little truth in the statement. We had been talking about achieving something great. Don't remember what it was, but the odds were against us. She was getting all excited and had actually convinced herself it was going to happen. In typical fashion, I felt the need to caution her against succumbing to enthusiasm. The let down would be horrible, and I didn't want to see her hurt. What she said was this:
I choose to get excited before the fact, because after the fact there might not be anything to get excited about.
We had a good laugh over that, and B continued to be enthused. Later, it turned out she was right. There wasn't anything to be excited about. Things went according to the odds.
I learned not to be that way at a very young age. Now I don't know who I'm more angry with: whoever it was that taught me this; or myself for learning it.
There are vague memories in my mind and heart of a time when I believed. Believed in the future. Believed in good things happening. Believed in myself. There was a confidence which encompassed me as I moved through life.
Now I find myself paraphrasing B's statement.
I choose to refrain from excitement before the fact so that the pain I feel afterward can be minimized.
I guess that's why I've been dragging my feet with this query. All previous efforts were done quickly, and I sent them out with B's attitude. Now I see it as an invitation to pain, and I've not been in any hurry to get it done.
Well, it's done now. The query is ready. I have a place to send it. If only I could believe there was a chance I could feel some joy about this. I suppose the very act of sending it demonstrates at least hope. I did work on this. This was not slapped together in five minutes. I worked on it. Submitted it for critique. Then used those recommendations to polish it to what it is now. Part of me does believe or I would not have undertaken the effort. It's my emotions. They've run out of courage. In that regard, I'm empty. I have no armor to protect myself from the feelings which accompany rejection.
No matter. The query is ready. It leaves today. I must take my wounds like everyone else.
Pity. You know?
EDIT NOTE: The query is on its way.
Today I am telling myself I will send out my query for Swords of Fire: Traitor. I have done this several times before. The first time was back in the early 1980s. The last was in the fall of 2008. Every other time I sent out a query I did so with high hopes - and even expectations. The high hopes are gone now. The expectations are still here, though. Only they've changed. I'm expecting to be rejected. Why? Because I don't believe in the book? I think my query s*cks? No. I think the book is great. And I think I've got a decent query. But I don't dare believe anymore. It is too crushing to come down from that height again. So I don't climb anymore.
It seems I have returned to my roots. You know them, I'm sure. You've probably shared some of them. These are the things we (I) learned as young children. Things such as, "Good things only happen to other people."
My sister-in-law, B, once told me something which I have never forgotten. She said it to be silly, but knowing her I expect there was more than a little truth in the statement. We had been talking about achieving something great. Don't remember what it was, but the odds were against us. She was getting all excited and had actually convinced herself it was going to happen. In typical fashion, I felt the need to caution her against succumbing to enthusiasm. The let down would be horrible, and I didn't want to see her hurt. What she said was this:
I choose to get excited before the fact, because after the fact there might not be anything to get excited about.
We had a good laugh over that, and B continued to be enthused. Later, it turned out she was right. There wasn't anything to be excited about. Things went according to the odds.
I learned not to be that way at a very young age. Now I don't know who I'm more angry with: whoever it was that taught me this; or myself for learning it.
There are vague memories in my mind and heart of a time when I believed. Believed in the future. Believed in good things happening. Believed in myself. There was a confidence which encompassed me as I moved through life.
Now I find myself paraphrasing B's statement.
I choose to refrain from excitement before the fact so that the pain I feel afterward can be minimized.
I guess that's why I've been dragging my feet with this query. All previous efforts were done quickly, and I sent them out with B's attitude. Now I see it as an invitation to pain, and I've not been in any hurry to get it done.
Well, it's done now. The query is ready. I have a place to send it. If only I could believe there was a chance I could feel some joy about this. I suppose the very act of sending it demonstrates at least hope. I did work on this. This was not slapped together in five minutes. I worked on it. Submitted it for critique. Then used those recommendations to polish it to what it is now. Part of me does believe or I would not have undertaken the effort. It's my emotions. They've run out of courage. In that regard, I'm empty. I have no armor to protect myself from the feelings which accompany rejection.
No matter. The query is ready. It leaves today. I must take my wounds like everyone else.
Pity. You know?
EDIT NOTE: The query is on its way.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Sometimes Down is Good
It's raining this morning. A bit of a surprise as the local weather people assured us it would be a nice day. Oh, well.
Kind of down again. It's the garage. Home searching. Doctor visits on the near horizon. Writing. And the rain. I guess yesterday's attempt to lift myself up wasn't so successful after all.
The truth is, I've done some of my best writing when I'm down. Maybe that's why I tend to embrace the feelings so warmly. They're not only familiar, but they are filled with inspiration. When I am down I seem to relate better to my characters. They become more real to me, and I begin to understand better why they are doing what they do. Even characters I didn't particularly like.
It was during a down time that I developed Odelmaar's character, and indeed, his whole family. (Odelmaar is one of the 'heavies' in Swords of Fire: Traitor.) Up to that point I didn't like Odelmaar at all. Or any of his children. In the down time I learned about his daughter. She ceased to be known as "FM 225" and was given a name: Tavaar.
In case you're wondering, "FM 225" was how I designated unnamed characters.
"F" indicated the character was female.
"M" indicated the 12th generation since the founding of the family compound.
"225" was the 225th unnamed girl of this generation.
The mother at this time was "FH173".
I was rewriting the story and had reached the place where Khirsha was in Gahrem Village, serving his latest punishment as a toteman on a small caravan. Odelmaar's daughter became important to the scene, but it was only later that I learned why. After her and Khirsha's - encounter - I became more interested in Tavaar. Who was she? Why was she like that? Ultimately this would lead me to write Tavaar's Backstory, which took nearly a year. (And it still isn't finished.)
I fell in love with Tavaar, which is kind of sick when I think about how much of me is in that character. Guess I'm a bit of a narissist.
I used down times to write a lot of Prophecies of Madatar, particularly when scenes involved Elden and/or Mishua. Apprentice was written entirely during a down time. The draft, anyway. Most of my story germs are created in down times. Only a few have come when I was "up". I guess "up" is too superficial. It's the "down" times which put us in touch with the spiritual side of life.
The problem with this down time is the timing. I will not be available much to write today. Got the garage sale going. In the rain.
Kind of down again. It's the garage. Home searching. Doctor visits on the near horizon. Writing. And the rain. I guess yesterday's attempt to lift myself up wasn't so successful after all.
The truth is, I've done some of my best writing when I'm down. Maybe that's why I tend to embrace the feelings so warmly. They're not only familiar, but they are filled with inspiration. When I am down I seem to relate better to my characters. They become more real to me, and I begin to understand better why they are doing what they do. Even characters I didn't particularly like.
It was during a down time that I developed Odelmaar's character, and indeed, his whole family. (Odelmaar is one of the 'heavies' in Swords of Fire: Traitor.) Up to that point I didn't like Odelmaar at all. Or any of his children. In the down time I learned about his daughter. She ceased to be known as "FM 225" and was given a name: Tavaar.
In case you're wondering, "FM 225" was how I designated unnamed characters.
"F" indicated the character was female.
"M" indicated the 12th generation since the founding of the family compound.
"225" was the 225th unnamed girl of this generation.
The mother at this time was "FH173".
I was rewriting the story and had reached the place where Khirsha was in Gahrem Village, serving his latest punishment as a toteman on a small caravan. Odelmaar's daughter became important to the scene, but it was only later that I learned why. After her and Khirsha's - encounter - I became more interested in Tavaar. Who was she? Why was she like that? Ultimately this would lead me to write Tavaar's Backstory, which took nearly a year. (And it still isn't finished.)
I fell in love with Tavaar, which is kind of sick when I think about how much of me is in that character. Guess I'm a bit of a narissist.
I used down times to write a lot of Prophecies of Madatar, particularly when scenes involved Elden and/or Mishua. Apprentice was written entirely during a down time. The draft, anyway. Most of my story germs are created in down times. Only a few have come when I was "up". I guess "up" is too superficial. It's the "down" times which put us in touch with the spiritual side of life.
The problem with this down time is the timing. I will not be available much to write today. Got the garage sale going. In the rain.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Filling Up My Time
Don't know how much writing I'm going be getting done now. We've started the garage sale and that is taxing. At least, it was yesterday.
I suppose this post really belongs on A Voice in the Wind, but I've already made a post there today. Wrote about the last day of school when I was a Freshman in high school.
Have mixed feelings about yesterday's sales. We got rid of a lot of stuff and made a fair amount of money. Most of what we sold was from our BNB Gifts inventory. Had we sold the items at retail prices we would have made several hundred dollars. But I had priced them below cost, just to get rid of them. Had we even been able to sell them at the prices I had given them we would have made more than one hundred dollars. But two missionary ladies showed up and kept arguing down prices, so instead of taking 60% losses I wound up taking 90% losses. Items we paid $8 for I had priced at $5. They only wanted to pay $1. And good ole me, wanting to be nice, ultimately agreed. So they're happy and I'm not. But they did buy some things I had not been able to sell at any other cost, so perhaps I should feel good about it after all. We don't have to move it anyway.
At the same time, we had a man come and pay $3 for one item in a box marked $3 for the entire box. His feeling was that I wasn't asking nearly enough for the items and was willing to pay what they were worth to him. Another woman gave Spouse $20 and said we should go to Dairy Queen after Son's band concert. (That went exceedingly well, by the way.) Another woman keeps bringing others to the sale. She also bought one of our plants from our shrub garden.
I was sitting in my chair and looking around the yard when it occurred to me we could sell our shrubs. At the local nursery they are going for $20-30 each. So I told people they could have them for $5 - with the understanding they would bring their own shovel and dig them up themselves. We have lilacs, vibernum, wiegela, spirea, and potentilla. We also have some silvermound, dragon's blood, and a couple I don't remember the names of. I even told someone they can have the apple trees. As far as I'm concerned these things do not belong to the house. I won't take cupboards out (like one neighbor wants), or things like that, but if we paid for it separately, then it's separate and we can sell it. Or try to. The landscaping is all going to be torn up by whoever takes over anyway.
Seeing some of these things go makes me feel better, even if we're not getting thousands of dollars. We won't have to move them, and that's what's important now. Most people are nice and are not inclined to haggle over pricing. I'm just hoping the missionary ladies don't come back. I talk big when they're away, but face-to-face I'm just a doormat.
So, writing is going to be a problem. As long as I manage to wake early I will get a blog post in, but even visiting other blogs is going to be hard. I'm almost out of time this morning and I haven't begun my visits. May not get many in. Sorry if I miss yours.
Day two is about to begin. Got to get our musical motion dolls out, our yard things, and the food and drink. Heck of a day. Right?
I suppose this post really belongs on A Voice in the Wind, but I've already made a post there today. Wrote about the last day of school when I was a Freshman in high school.
Have mixed feelings about yesterday's sales. We got rid of a lot of stuff and made a fair amount of money. Most of what we sold was from our BNB Gifts inventory. Had we sold the items at retail prices we would have made several hundred dollars. But I had priced them below cost, just to get rid of them. Had we even been able to sell them at the prices I had given them we would have made more than one hundred dollars. But two missionary ladies showed up and kept arguing down prices, so instead of taking 60% losses I wound up taking 90% losses. Items we paid $8 for I had priced at $5. They only wanted to pay $1. And good ole me, wanting to be nice, ultimately agreed. So they're happy and I'm not. But they did buy some things I had not been able to sell at any other cost, so perhaps I should feel good about it after all. We don't have to move it anyway.
At the same time, we had a man come and pay $3 for one item in a box marked $3 for the entire box. His feeling was that I wasn't asking nearly enough for the items and was willing to pay what they were worth to him. Another woman gave Spouse $20 and said we should go to Dairy Queen after Son's band concert. (That went exceedingly well, by the way.) Another woman keeps bringing others to the sale. She also bought one of our plants from our shrub garden.
I was sitting in my chair and looking around the yard when it occurred to me we could sell our shrubs. At the local nursery they are going for $20-30 each. So I told people they could have them for $5 - with the understanding they would bring their own shovel and dig them up themselves. We have lilacs, vibernum, wiegela, spirea, and potentilla. We also have some silvermound, dragon's blood, and a couple I don't remember the names of. I even told someone they can have the apple trees. As far as I'm concerned these things do not belong to the house. I won't take cupboards out (like one neighbor wants), or things like that, but if we paid for it separately, then it's separate and we can sell it. Or try to. The landscaping is all going to be torn up by whoever takes over anyway.
Seeing some of these things go makes me feel better, even if we're not getting thousands of dollars. We won't have to move them, and that's what's important now. Most people are nice and are not inclined to haggle over pricing. I'm just hoping the missionary ladies don't come back. I talk big when they're away, but face-to-face I'm just a doormat.
So, writing is going to be a problem. As long as I manage to wake early I will get a blog post in, but even visiting other blogs is going to be hard. I'm almost out of time this morning and I haven't begun my visits. May not get many in. Sorry if I miss yours.
Day two is about to begin. Got to get our musical motion dolls out, our yard things, and the food and drink. Heck of a day. Right?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Some Days the Dream Seems So Elusive
What am I learning? That I have a long way to go. Possibly further than I have to to travel. Likely, in fact.
I feel I am at a bit of a crossroad. Or is it a dead end? Another cul-de-sac. Kind of like this man my Daddy used to laugh about. How Daddy knew him I don't know, but they were friends. Compared to us this man (let's call him Rich, just for fun) was quite wealthy, which is why it was so odd he was friends with my Daddy. But he related something which Daddy never forgot, and often repeated for us, which is why I still remember it.
Rich was traveling on a train. Back in those days train travel was common. Not like today, where only the most major cities have stations for people. In those days even small towns and villages had stops, and so people traveled by train a lot more frequently.
Well, Rich was on this train and walking from one car to another. He chanced to pass by a compartment where three men were playing poker. Now Rich liked to gamble, so he paused and asked politely if he might join the game. The men all smiled, and one very politely explained that Rich probably couldn't afford to be in the game. Always ready to show how wealthy he was, Rich took out his wallet and slapped down five one hundred dollar bills. He was given a single white chip. Without a word Rich picked up his money and continued on his way.
I feel like that. A lot. In my own little world I can write. Not only that, but I can write well. I can compare myself against people who can't write at all and believe I am a master. And then I read someone else's work and I am humbled. Ashamed for even thinking to myself that I am good at what I do. The truth is, I am a rank amateur, and probably won't be anything more than that.
In the movie, Chariots of Fire, Sam Mussabini tells Harold Abrahams, "You can't put in what God left out."
When God creates us he gives us each abilities. However, even scripture acknowledges that these gifts are not doled out equally. Some get more of one thing, and others more of something else. But we all get something.
Unfortunately, some of us, maybe me, desire abilities we do not have. We can enhance what we have of them, but only so far. A lot of very athletic men and women will never play major league sports. A lot of very nice singers will never stand before large crowds. Many actors and actresses will never play Broadway. Not all piano players will play Carnegie Hall. (How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.) And not every story will be told to the world.
Those who do not attain their high goals are not necessarily without talent in that area. Rich was far from poor. He just couldn't afford to play poker with those who were wealthier than himself.
I read what other people are writing and I am tempted to pick up my chip and go home in disgrace for believing I can write as well as they. I don't because, to be honest, I think the story I have to tell is greater than my ability to tell it. It needs to be told. But will it?
Days like today I very much think not.
I feel I am at a bit of a crossroad. Or is it a dead end? Another cul-de-sac. Kind of like this man my Daddy used to laugh about. How Daddy knew him I don't know, but they were friends. Compared to us this man (let's call him Rich, just for fun) was quite wealthy, which is why it was so odd he was friends with my Daddy. But he related something which Daddy never forgot, and often repeated for us, which is why I still remember it.
Rich was traveling on a train. Back in those days train travel was common. Not like today, where only the most major cities have stations for people. In those days even small towns and villages had stops, and so people traveled by train a lot more frequently.
Well, Rich was on this train and walking from one car to another. He chanced to pass by a compartment where three men were playing poker. Now Rich liked to gamble, so he paused and asked politely if he might join the game. The men all smiled, and one very politely explained that Rich probably couldn't afford to be in the game. Always ready to show how wealthy he was, Rich took out his wallet and slapped down five one hundred dollar bills. He was given a single white chip. Without a word Rich picked up his money and continued on his way.
I feel like that. A lot. In my own little world I can write. Not only that, but I can write well. I can compare myself against people who can't write at all and believe I am a master. And then I read someone else's work and I am humbled. Ashamed for even thinking to myself that I am good at what I do. The truth is, I am a rank amateur, and probably won't be anything more than that.
In the movie, Chariots of Fire, Sam Mussabini tells Harold Abrahams, "You can't put in what God left out."
When God creates us he gives us each abilities. However, even scripture acknowledges that these gifts are not doled out equally. Some get more of one thing, and others more of something else. But we all get something.
Unfortunately, some of us, maybe me, desire abilities we do not have. We can enhance what we have of them, but only so far. A lot of very athletic men and women will never play major league sports. A lot of very nice singers will never stand before large crowds. Many actors and actresses will never play Broadway. Not all piano players will play Carnegie Hall. (How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.) And not every story will be told to the world.
Those who do not attain their high goals are not necessarily without talent in that area. Rich was far from poor. He just couldn't afford to play poker with those who were wealthier than himself.
I read what other people are writing and I am tempted to pick up my chip and go home in disgrace for believing I can write as well as they. I don't because, to be honest, I think the story I have to tell is greater than my ability to tell it. It needs to be told. But will it?
Days like today I very much think not.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A Friend For Life
Have you ever told someone who doesn't write that writing makes you tired? If you have then you have gotten "the look", haven't you? You know the one. It's that condescending, "Right", look which speaks volumes about their opinion of someone who thinks scribbling with a pen or pencil, or tapping some keys is somehow strenuous. But you know they couldn't do it.
You know something else I've noticed? That people who work eight hours a day doing some sort of physical labor (tossing bales of hay, landscaping, construction, or anything which requires great and/or continuous physical effort) always seem to be filled with energy to do other things when they get off work?
Meanwhile, the people who spend their day in an office dealing with this problem and that, trying to figure out how to do whatever, come home completely exhausted.
Odd.
Went bicycle riding with Son the other day. We biked seven miles. When we got home we both felt energized. Meanwhile, on days when I actually work on writing something, I feel worn out. Of course, neither bicycle riding nor writing is generating any money for me, so I guess it doesn't matter which I do.
But my point is that writing is hard. Even bad writing. (I know. That's the only kind I know how to do.)
Writing puts a strain on the spirit while physical exertion seems to release it. And of the two, the wearing down of the spirit is far more taxing than the wearing down of the body.
Sometimes I have become tired just thinking about writing. This is when the Muses have deserted me for more fertile ground to play on. During these times writing anything is taxing. Lack of confidence also makes writing hard. When too many things have gone contrary to my desires I cease to believe in my ability to do anything right, including write.
When I was young I remember talking with my brother about sports in general. The two of us played a lot of sports together, despite his being ten years older than me (nearly to the day). Mother hated sports. But then she hated anything that took her children's attention away from her. But she (and a couple of my sisters) often argued with Mickey about the uselessness of sports. As far as they could see, sports were pointless.
I had not bothered to argue with them. My attitude was, what was the point? By keeping silent their criticisms didn't last quite so long. But at the same time I felt personally maligned by their dislike of activities which gave me great pleasure. The truth was, I didn't know how to put my feelings into words at that time. Too young, I guess. But Mickey put it better than anyone I have ever known.
Sports is my friend. It's one of my best friends. I know it will always be there for me.
That was it! It explained it all. Every time I played baseball, or football, or any sport, I was engaged with more than just the other players on the field of play. There was something else there. Something alive! It was Sport itself.
Unfortunately, Sports and I had a parting of the way. It changed to suit a new attitude which I cannot abide. It was an unhappy, but necessary, parting. I hardly pay attention to sports anymore. Don't care for the attitudes of athletes, coaches, reports, or spectators.
Writing is another Friend. One that is still with me. It has also changed, as it has many times through the years. The story forms which worked well in the 1800s are no longer accepted. Same is true of early 1900s work, and other eras. To be honest, I very much doubt that J.R.R.Tolkien could get his book published today. The requirements have changed.
But writing is different than sports, because writing still has a place for people like me. People who just want to write and be happy with what they've written. People who want to write a story that's just fun to read. Will agents and publishing houses want what we've go to offer? Probably not. But unlike Sports, in which the whole point of even playing has changed, writing still has a place for me. Together we can still have fun. Sometimes wearying fun. I can still put together words in a way that I like. That make me happy. For when I am happy, so is the writing - even when it's saying something sad.
Sometimes, however, I do find myself wishing for more.
You know something else I've noticed? That people who work eight hours a day doing some sort of physical labor (tossing bales of hay, landscaping, construction, or anything which requires great and/or continuous physical effort) always seem to be filled with energy to do other things when they get off work?
Meanwhile, the people who spend their day in an office dealing with this problem and that, trying to figure out how to do whatever, come home completely exhausted.
Odd.
Went bicycle riding with Son the other day. We biked seven miles. When we got home we both felt energized. Meanwhile, on days when I actually work on writing something, I feel worn out. Of course, neither bicycle riding nor writing is generating any money for me, so I guess it doesn't matter which I do.
But my point is that writing is hard. Even bad writing. (I know. That's the only kind I know how to do.)
Writing puts a strain on the spirit while physical exertion seems to release it. And of the two, the wearing down of the spirit is far more taxing than the wearing down of the body.
Sometimes I have become tired just thinking about writing. This is when the Muses have deserted me for more fertile ground to play on. During these times writing anything is taxing. Lack of confidence also makes writing hard. When too many things have gone contrary to my desires I cease to believe in my ability to do anything right, including write.
When I was young I remember talking with my brother about sports in general. The two of us played a lot of sports together, despite his being ten years older than me (nearly to the day). Mother hated sports. But then she hated anything that took her children's attention away from her. But she (and a couple of my sisters) often argued with Mickey about the uselessness of sports. As far as they could see, sports were pointless.
I had not bothered to argue with them. My attitude was, what was the point? By keeping silent their criticisms didn't last quite so long. But at the same time I felt personally maligned by their dislike of activities which gave me great pleasure. The truth was, I didn't know how to put my feelings into words at that time. Too young, I guess. But Mickey put it better than anyone I have ever known.
Sports is my friend. It's one of my best friends. I know it will always be there for me.
That was it! It explained it all. Every time I played baseball, or football, or any sport, I was engaged with more than just the other players on the field of play. There was something else there. Something alive! It was Sport itself.
Unfortunately, Sports and I had a parting of the way. It changed to suit a new attitude which I cannot abide. It was an unhappy, but necessary, parting. I hardly pay attention to sports anymore. Don't care for the attitudes of athletes, coaches, reports, or spectators.
Writing is another Friend. One that is still with me. It has also changed, as it has many times through the years. The story forms which worked well in the 1800s are no longer accepted. Same is true of early 1900s work, and other eras. To be honest, I very much doubt that J.R.R.Tolkien could get his book published today. The requirements have changed.
But writing is different than sports, because writing still has a place for people like me. People who just want to write and be happy with what they've written. People who want to write a story that's just fun to read. Will agents and publishing houses want what we've go to offer? Probably not. But unlike Sports, in which the whole point of even playing has changed, writing still has a place for me. Together we can still have fun. Sometimes wearying fun. I can still put together words in a way that I like. That make me happy. For when I am happy, so is the writing - even when it's saying something sad.
Sometimes, however, I do find myself wishing for more.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Ever Steeper, The Mountain Rises Before Me - Slowly I Climb
I get to vent today without guilt. You see, Sunday is Venting Day on The Great Sea. The other days are not, so when I do I feel guilty. But not today! Whoopee!
So what to vent about?
How about the biggest differences between children and adults? And I'm not talking about size.
Do you realize that children have a tendency to believe everything a person of authority tells them? Adults tend to be the opposite. We tend to disbelieve everything we're told until we have proof otherwise - unless it happens to agree with our preconceived notions.
Do you realize that a lot of adults are quite jealous of children? This jealousy only intensifies as the children become teenagers and, eventually, young adults.
Why do I say this? Well, apart from the fact that so many people I have spoken to never seem to have anything good to say about teenagers and young adults, I also listen to what they are trying to teach children, teenagers, and young adults.
We are born believing the world is ours and that all it contains is at our disposal. This gives us confidence to do a myriad of things - many which are just plain dangerous to infants and toddlers and such. To protect us, parents, and other adults, begin teaching us what we can't do. This is well and good. Except the teaching often doesn't stop at protection. It continues to life skills.
You will never learn to play that. You can't do that. That's for other people. You're not talented enough. That's no good.
We think we are protecting our children when we tell them they're athletic skills s*ck, that they're drawings are not worthy to be called art, that they singing is more annoying than a cricket in the house. We look and see no chance for a career and try to protect the children from the pain of failure by convincing them not to try in the first place. And do you know what? Most children believe these admonitions.
They grow up thinking they can't. And it snowballs. They've been told there are so many things they can't do that they just keep adding to the list on their own. And when they finally reach adulthood guess what? They can't do it!
What's just as sad is that when you tell an adult they can do it, they look at you like you're out of your frikkin' mind. They know in their heads that what you are saying is technically true - in general. But they can't make themselves believe it for themself. "Not in my case. I'm different. I can't."
It takes years - decades - for people to finally get to the place where desire says, "To h*ll with it", and they give it a serious go anyway. Too many people have to wait until they are facing retirement, or looking back on it, before they realize that they can.
Books, movies, television, news features. These all make it seem like the discovery is a one-time thing of wonder. No. It's not. It's a series of small and large successes and failures as adults who have finally reached the place where they need to start anew struggle to find out what it is they have missed for most of their lives. There are days of great joy and wonder and hope. These are followed by days of great sorrow, loneliness, and despair. The cycle continues until such time that the adult comes to find the place where they always wanted to be.
We can make this journey to find our places much easier for each other if we would only stop telling young people that they can't. Don't fill in the passes between the mountains because you're afraid of what lies beyond. Doing so only means a rough and dangerous climb in order to get where we need to go. And getting down the other side we risk hurtful falls, which would be far less painful had we been able to walk on more level ground.
For a young person one of the most exciting things there is to believe is, "I can".
For someone who has never believed that it is quite terrifying, really. I know. That's my experience. I am not on the mountaintop. But I'm climbing with many slips and slides.
What, oh what, is on the other side of this mountain I climb?
So what to vent about?
How about the biggest differences between children and adults? And I'm not talking about size.
Do you realize that children have a tendency to believe everything a person of authority tells them? Adults tend to be the opposite. We tend to disbelieve everything we're told until we have proof otherwise - unless it happens to agree with our preconceived notions.
Do you realize that a lot of adults are quite jealous of children? This jealousy only intensifies as the children become teenagers and, eventually, young adults.
Why do I say this? Well, apart from the fact that so many people I have spoken to never seem to have anything good to say about teenagers and young adults, I also listen to what they are trying to teach children, teenagers, and young adults.
We are born believing the world is ours and that all it contains is at our disposal. This gives us confidence to do a myriad of things - many which are just plain dangerous to infants and toddlers and such. To protect us, parents, and other adults, begin teaching us what we can't do. This is well and good. Except the teaching often doesn't stop at protection. It continues to life skills.
You will never learn to play that. You can't do that. That's for other people. You're not talented enough. That's no good.
We think we are protecting our children when we tell them they're athletic skills s*ck, that they're drawings are not worthy to be called art, that they singing is more annoying than a cricket in the house. We look and see no chance for a career and try to protect the children from the pain of failure by convincing them not to try in the first place. And do you know what? Most children believe these admonitions.
They grow up thinking they can't. And it snowballs. They've been told there are so many things they can't do that they just keep adding to the list on their own. And when they finally reach adulthood guess what? They can't do it!
What's just as sad is that when you tell an adult they can do it, they look at you like you're out of your frikkin' mind. They know in their heads that what you are saying is technically true - in general. But they can't make themselves believe it for themself. "Not in my case. I'm different. I can't."
It takes years - decades - for people to finally get to the place where desire says, "To h*ll with it", and they give it a serious go anyway. Too many people have to wait until they are facing retirement, or looking back on it, before they realize that they can.
Books, movies, television, news features. These all make it seem like the discovery is a one-time thing of wonder. No. It's not. It's a series of small and large successes and failures as adults who have finally reached the place where they need to start anew struggle to find out what it is they have missed for most of their lives. There are days of great joy and wonder and hope. These are followed by days of great sorrow, loneliness, and despair. The cycle continues until such time that the adult comes to find the place where they always wanted to be.
We can make this journey to find our places much easier for each other if we would only stop telling young people that they can't. Don't fill in the passes between the mountains because you're afraid of what lies beyond. Doing so only means a rough and dangerous climb in order to get where we need to go. And getting down the other side we risk hurtful falls, which would be far less painful had we been able to walk on more level ground.
For a young person one of the most exciting things there is to believe is, "I can".
For someone who has never believed that it is quite terrifying, really. I know. That's my experience. I am not on the mountaintop. But I'm climbing with many slips and slides.
What, oh what, is on the other side of this mountain I climb?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Music in My Heart - It Changes You Know
Do you have a song? One that speaks to your heart more than any other? One that defines who you are to yourself? Over my life I have had several, I guess.
The first I recall was the one from this post. It became kind of my theme song through the 70s. By the time I graduated from high school it was how I felt most of the time. I think it was how a lot of teenagers felt most of the time. Being a teenager kind of s*cks sometimes. Remember? Sometimes it was a lot of fun. The highs were so high. But then came the lows, and they were so low. Such was growing up.
It's amazing to me that things have changed. While the song still touches me, it no longer speaks the same words of stoic defiance. It turns out the walls I built were not so impenetrable as I believed. For some, it is like they don't even exist. Danged if I know how they do it, but there are people in this world who just walk into the inner circles of my heart whether I want them to or not. Kind of scary, actually. And comforting. Not quite the island of rock I imagined myself to be.
I Am a Rock
by Simon and Garfunkel
A winters day
In a deep and dark December
I am alone
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow
I am a rock
I am an island
I've built walls
A fortress deep and mighty
That none may penetrate
I have no need of friendship friendship causes pain
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain
I am a rock
I am an island
Don't talk of love
But I've heard the words before
It's sleeping in my memory
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died
If I never loved I never would have cried
I am a rock
I am an island
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armor
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock
I am an island
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries
Such was the way it was.
The way it is? How's about this?
The first I recall was the one from this post. It became kind of my theme song through the 70s. By the time I graduated from high school it was how I felt most of the time. I think it was how a lot of teenagers felt most of the time. Being a teenager kind of s*cks sometimes. Remember? Sometimes it was a lot of fun. The highs were so high. But then came the lows, and they were so low. Such was growing up.
It's amazing to me that things have changed. While the song still touches me, it no longer speaks the same words of stoic defiance. It turns out the walls I built were not so impenetrable as I believed. For some, it is like they don't even exist. Danged if I know how they do it, but there are people in this world who just walk into the inner circles of my heart whether I want them to or not. Kind of scary, actually. And comforting. Not quite the island of rock I imagined myself to be.
I Am a Rock
by Simon and Garfunkel
A winters day
In a deep and dark December
I am alone
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow
I am a rock
I am an island
I've built walls
A fortress deep and mighty
That none may penetrate
I have no need of friendship friendship causes pain
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain
I am a rock
I am an island
Don't talk of love
But I've heard the words before
It's sleeping in my memory
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died
If I never loved I never would have cried
I am a rock
I am an island
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armor
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock
I am an island
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries
Such was the way it was.
The way it is? How's about this?
Friday, May 22, 2009
So Where is Your Place to Write
It's kind of odd how one person likes to read one kind of fiction and another person likes to read something completely different. And a third doesn't read fiction at all.
What is it that formulates our passions - or lack thereof - toward reading? I have two brothers and four sisters, and none of them are especially interested in reading fantasy. As far as I know, Ranlen only read college science books, mostly about geology, but some about astronomy and nature in general. Mikey likes biography, social awareness, and detective stories. Lynahr liked romance and Christian. Judayl likes detective. Gayanne read most anything, particularly mysteries, but seldom fantasy. Helvie didn't read much at all.
So why did I become so different? We all grew up in the same house. Had the same parents. But our interests are different. Mine apparently most of all.
My best friend likes to read science fiction. I have never been especially keen on science fiction. For some reason I have a horrible time trying to visualize it.
Back in the early 1980s I was accepted at the School of Christian Writing in Wheaton, IL. While there I met Myrna Grant, a published author. She taught one of the classes I attended. During the class she said something I have always remembered. "Learn what your place is, and write about it."
She wasn't talking about where you keep your computer, or notebooks, or desk, or whatever. She was talking about where your imagination likes to go to write. Her place happened to be Soviet Russia. For some, it's New York City. Others, it's any city. Or maybe a small town. My place appears to be medieval. All of my stories seem to be there, even if they don't have to be. Apprentice and Quest could just as easily have taken place in 19th century America, or any place, really. But in my mind it is medieval. That's how I see it. I wonder why?
There's a summer/fall thing which goes on in Shakopee, MN, called The Renaissance Festival. I love going there. Spouse hates it. But it's one of those places where the employees dress up in period costumes and artisans sell craft items made in similar fashion to what was done hundreds of years ago. There are also troubador harps for sale there.
Sometimes, I wish it were a place where I could live in all the time. Of course, with my health issues, I would die in hardly any time at all. But - sometimes - I think it would be worth it. Just for a little while.
After all - it's my place.
What is it that formulates our passions - or lack thereof - toward reading? I have two brothers and four sisters, and none of them are especially interested in reading fantasy. As far as I know, Ranlen only read college science books, mostly about geology, but some about astronomy and nature in general. Mikey likes biography, social awareness, and detective stories. Lynahr liked romance and Christian. Judayl likes detective. Gayanne read most anything, particularly mysteries, but seldom fantasy. Helvie didn't read much at all.
So why did I become so different? We all grew up in the same house. Had the same parents. But our interests are different. Mine apparently most of all.
My best friend likes to read science fiction. I have never been especially keen on science fiction. For some reason I have a horrible time trying to visualize it.
Back in the early 1980s I was accepted at the School of Christian Writing in Wheaton, IL. While there I met Myrna Grant, a published author. She taught one of the classes I attended. During the class she said something I have always remembered. "Learn what your place is, and write about it."
She wasn't talking about where you keep your computer, or notebooks, or desk, or whatever. She was talking about where your imagination likes to go to write. Her place happened to be Soviet Russia. For some, it's New York City. Others, it's any city. Or maybe a small town. My place appears to be medieval. All of my stories seem to be there, even if they don't have to be. Apprentice and Quest could just as easily have taken place in 19th century America, or any place, really. But in my mind it is medieval. That's how I see it. I wonder why?
There's a summer/fall thing which goes on in Shakopee, MN, called The Renaissance Festival. I love going there. Spouse hates it. But it's one of those places where the employees dress up in period costumes and artisans sell craft items made in similar fashion to what was done hundreds of years ago. There are also troubador harps for sale there.
Sometimes, I wish it were a place where I could live in all the time. Of course, with my health issues, I would die in hardly any time at all. But - sometimes - I think it would be worth it. Just for a little while.
After all - it's my place.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Not Finished Yet
Been way off on my writing of late. Including my blogs. Haven't visited anyone else's blog in a week now. I apologize for that. One I visited as many as forty in a day. Now I'm down to zero. Went several days without writing on my own, too.
To be honest, I was seriously considering just shutting down and going quiet. Give up what I like doing, find some cr*p job I hate (but generates an income), and passively wait for my time to bail permanently.
But I'm not ready for that. Not yet. I suppose the day is coming, but it's not here yet. I find I miss the writing, even when nobody reads it and writes back. For those of you who do, I thank you. That does enhance the experience considerably. Solos are fine and well, but sometimes one likes to be part of a chorus.
There is something about writing which has always appealed to me. What's strange about that is I have never been able to maintain a diary. I've tried. Over and over and over again I have started journals, only to abandon them within a few weeks. Blogging is kind of like that, except I am not reporting what's going on in my daily life every day.
These blogs of mine (and there are six now) offer me an outlet unlike anything I have ever had before. For one thing, I have met some incredibly wonderful people from around the world. Old Scardy-Cat Bevie would never have met any of you were it not for my blogs. And your blogs. I'll be returning to my visits again. Just not sure when. I feel almost like I'm starting over. A mini-crisis has been weathered and the skies are clear again.
Got an idea for a seventh blog. Wanted to start it last March, but it requires a lot of background work first. For one thing, I have to rewrite a program I wrote back in the early 1980s which I have never been able to completely rewrite since I lost it in the late 1980s. It's not the kind of thing I'm thinking is going to appeal to a lot of people, but then I didn't think any of my blogs would appeal to anyone. Even the Legion of Super On-Line Heroes blog wasn't begun until I knew there was interest. Which reminds me: we've made some refinements to the blog, making it easier (hopefully) to follow your favorite Author and Hero. Also, this new formatting makes occassional submissions even better than before. So if you would like to write a hero story, but don't want to commit to a regular schedule, now you can do so without feeling you are letting anyone down. If you're interested, I recommend going to the blog and letting us know. Just comment on the most recent post and we'll set you up.
So, to update everyone on where I am at with my writing projects, I believe I am on Chapter Five of The Animal Kingdom. My third installment of Hidden Embers will post on Legion of Super On-Line Heroes Saturday morning. Haven't started the fourth episode. Still haven't re-written my query for Swords of Fire: Traitor.
My life's currently being taken up with preparations for a large garage sale we're about to have. Going to try and sell lots of things, including nearly all of our remaining furniture. What would really be nice would be if we could sell off our gift business inventory. I really feel bad that just never panned out well. Oh, well. Ceste la vie, right?
To be honest, I was seriously considering just shutting down and going quiet. Give up what I like doing, find some cr*p job I hate (but generates an income), and passively wait for my time to bail permanently.
But I'm not ready for that. Not yet. I suppose the day is coming, but it's not here yet. I find I miss the writing, even when nobody reads it and writes back. For those of you who do, I thank you. That does enhance the experience considerably. Solos are fine and well, but sometimes one likes to be part of a chorus.
There is something about writing which has always appealed to me. What's strange about that is I have never been able to maintain a diary. I've tried. Over and over and over again I have started journals, only to abandon them within a few weeks. Blogging is kind of like that, except I am not reporting what's going on in my daily life every day.
These blogs of mine (and there are six now) offer me an outlet unlike anything I have ever had before. For one thing, I have met some incredibly wonderful people from around the world. Old Scardy-Cat Bevie would never have met any of you were it not for my blogs. And your blogs. I'll be returning to my visits again. Just not sure when. I feel almost like I'm starting over. A mini-crisis has been weathered and the skies are clear again.
Got an idea for a seventh blog. Wanted to start it last March, but it requires a lot of background work first. For one thing, I have to rewrite a program I wrote back in the early 1980s which I have never been able to completely rewrite since I lost it in the late 1980s. It's not the kind of thing I'm thinking is going to appeal to a lot of people, but then I didn't think any of my blogs would appeal to anyone. Even the Legion of Super On-Line Heroes blog wasn't begun until I knew there was interest. Which reminds me: we've made some refinements to the blog, making it easier (hopefully) to follow your favorite Author and Hero. Also, this new formatting makes occassional submissions even better than before. So if you would like to write a hero story, but don't want to commit to a regular schedule, now you can do so without feeling you are letting anyone down. If you're interested, I recommend going to the blog and letting us know. Just comment on the most recent post and we'll set you up.
So, to update everyone on where I am at with my writing projects, I believe I am on Chapter Five of The Animal Kingdom. My third installment of Hidden Embers will post on Legion of Super On-Line Heroes Saturday morning. Haven't started the fourth episode. Still haven't re-written my query for Swords of Fire: Traitor.
My life's currently being taken up with preparations for a large garage sale we're about to have. Going to try and sell lots of things, including nearly all of our remaining furniture. What would really be nice would be if we could sell off our gift business inventory. I really feel bad that just never panned out well. Oh, well. Ceste la vie, right?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up
I grew up with two big loves in my life: baseball; and make-believe. Was pretty good at both, too. For awhile. In a small community everyone gets known for being something. Some are known for their kindness. Some are known for their brilliance. Some are trouble.
So had I.
Not good enough. The story of my life. [smiles]
The reason I never got into serious trouble was that I was too afraid to join in any group activities - outside of baseball - in the area. I often played alone. There's only so much trouble one can get into playing alone in their own yard. Even when I left the yard it was only to wander in the trees, looking for cool places which bespoke fairies, wizards, dragons, swamp beasts, and all kinds of mythological imaginings. (Found a really cool place along the railroad track. One side was the 'good' side, and the other the habitation of witches and evil things.) Playing alone allowed me to develop my imagination. Strangely, I did not have an imaginary friend. At least two of my sisters did, but not me. It never occurred to me to imagine a friend. I didn't want an imaginary friend. If I couldn't have a real friend I would play alone. Often I did. Until Stephen. But that wasn't until I was fourteen.
I have humor because my family taught me that everything is funny. And by everything I mean everything. God. Sorrow. Pain. School. Politics. Work. Play. Sickness. Injury. Death. Everything was laughed at. I remember the night Daddy died. Nearly all of us were there. He sat up in bed calling to my mother to hurry because "they were here and she was going to be too late." He died in her arms with Mickey on one side of the bed and me on the other. Everyone huddled around Mother to cry. Then she said she needed to call the funeral home. We all walked in one giant huddled mass to the telephone. I remember thinking at the time we must have looked like some comic episode from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. Even in death we find a reason to laugh. Some hate us for it. To me, it's just the way we are.
I struggled for a long time with what I wanted to be when I "grew up". On the one hand I wanted to play baseball. More than anything, it seemed at times. But I wanted to act on stage and in movies, too. And I had just fallen in love with music. I liked to write stories.
In seventh grade English we were required to write about what we wanted to be and why. I eliminated music right off. I have a voice like beef jerky. "Either you love it, or you hate it." (From the commercial.) My family had already succeeded in convincing me that only "other people" grow up to star in films and stage. They were working on my baseball dream, too, but had yet to finally succeed. So my choices were baseball and writing. (My family didn't know about my writing dream at that time.)
In my concluding paragraph I chose being an Author. Admittedly, this was due in part to the fact that I was writing this paper for an English teacher. It was also because my family's incessant reminders that it didn't matter how good I was at baseball, I would never make it, were getting to me. But Author is what I wanted to be. Back in seventh grade.
I now say writing is my last dream. The final dream for which I have any hope of achieving at all. I find it interesting to realize that it is the only one of my dreams I never shared with my family - until the past ten years or so. Came as a shock to them. They had missed one. Oh, darn it! [haha]
I think that must be why I get so angry when I watch people profile children. "She can't sing!" "He's not good at sports." "She can't draw." "Why is he even wasting his time with that?" I get very, very angry.
I read somewhere that Michael Jordan didn't make his seventh grade basketball team. Didn't Albert Einstein flunk math in elementary school? People have won olympic medals after horrible accidents in which they temporarily lost the use of their legs. A man named Bob Champion won the 1981 Grand National after nearly dying of cancer.
It's bad enough when we profile adults. That's called discrimination. When we do it to children, however, it seems it's called "looking after their best interests." I don't think so. I think we should be teaching all of our children that they can do anything, not nothing. Don't make losers out of children. They never get over it. I know.
I was known for:
- Not getting into (serious) trouble
- My sense of humor
- Baseball
- My imagination
So had I.
Not good enough. The story of my life. [smiles]
The reason I never got into serious trouble was that I was too afraid to join in any group activities - outside of baseball - in the area. I often played alone. There's only so much trouble one can get into playing alone in their own yard. Even when I left the yard it was only to wander in the trees, looking for cool places which bespoke fairies, wizards, dragons, swamp beasts, and all kinds of mythological imaginings. (Found a really cool place along the railroad track. One side was the 'good' side, and the other the habitation of witches and evil things.) Playing alone allowed me to develop my imagination. Strangely, I did not have an imaginary friend. At least two of my sisters did, but not me. It never occurred to me to imagine a friend. I didn't want an imaginary friend. If I couldn't have a real friend I would play alone. Often I did. Until Stephen. But that wasn't until I was fourteen.
I have humor because my family taught me that everything is funny. And by everything I mean everything. God. Sorrow. Pain. School. Politics. Work. Play. Sickness. Injury. Death. Everything was laughed at. I remember the night Daddy died. Nearly all of us were there. He sat up in bed calling to my mother to hurry because "they were here and she was going to be too late." He died in her arms with Mickey on one side of the bed and me on the other. Everyone huddled around Mother to cry. Then she said she needed to call the funeral home. We all walked in one giant huddled mass to the telephone. I remember thinking at the time we must have looked like some comic episode from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. Even in death we find a reason to laugh. Some hate us for it. To me, it's just the way we are.
I struggled for a long time with what I wanted to be when I "grew up". On the one hand I wanted to play baseball. More than anything, it seemed at times. But I wanted to act on stage and in movies, too. And I had just fallen in love with music. I liked to write stories.
In seventh grade English we were required to write about what we wanted to be and why. I eliminated music right off. I have a voice like beef jerky. "Either you love it, or you hate it." (From the commercial.) My family had already succeeded in convincing me that only "other people" grow up to star in films and stage. They were working on my baseball dream, too, but had yet to finally succeed. So my choices were baseball and writing. (My family didn't know about my writing dream at that time.)
In my concluding paragraph I chose being an Author. Admittedly, this was due in part to the fact that I was writing this paper for an English teacher. It was also because my family's incessant reminders that it didn't matter how good I was at baseball, I would never make it, were getting to me. But Author is what I wanted to be. Back in seventh grade.
I now say writing is my last dream. The final dream for which I have any hope of achieving at all. I find it interesting to realize that it is the only one of my dreams I never shared with my family - until the past ten years or so. Came as a shock to them. They had missed one. Oh, darn it! [haha]
I think that must be why I get so angry when I watch people profile children. "She can't sing!" "He's not good at sports." "She can't draw." "Why is he even wasting his time with that?" I get very, very angry.
I read somewhere that Michael Jordan didn't make his seventh grade basketball team. Didn't Albert Einstein flunk math in elementary school? People have won olympic medals after horrible accidents in which they temporarily lost the use of their legs. A man named Bob Champion won the 1981 Grand National after nearly dying of cancer.
It's bad enough when we profile adults. That's called discrimination. When we do it to children, however, it seems it's called "looking after their best interests." I don't think so. I think we should be teaching all of our children that they can do anything, not nothing. Don't make losers out of children. They never get over it. I know.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
More Sad News in the Neighborhood
One of our neighbors just stopped by. Saw Spouse outside and came to tell us his son, just a couple of years older than Son, committed suicide some time Monday evening or Tuesday morning.
I'm still feeling sick. And it puts everything I moan and groan about into a new perspective. My troubles are easy troubles. My griefs are nothing. How awful.
So why write about someone else's sorrow on my blog? I don't know. I guess it's a kind of desperate plea for someone, somewhere, to make things better. Do we know how to roll back time and restart? How often have I wished we could.
My neighbor said it wasn't entirely a surprise. The boy had tried before, and one of his counselors had warned he would try again. In fact, she said he was likely to correct the mistakes of the earlier attempt and succeed. He did.
Sometimes we are so helpless when we are confronted by another's anguish. We love. We exhort. We encourage. But sometimes they still go away.
Although I did not know the boy, except by name, this news will affect me for a time. Sadly, I will soon forget the emotions I feel now. His parents never will. Not while they walk the earth.
A lot of things fell upon this young boy at the same time. Things he shouldn't have cared about at his young age. The world financial collapse bothered him. That our government should be proven to be as corrupt and evil (torture and such) as our "enemies" bothered him. Banks, corruption, war. These are not things a fourteen-year-old boy should be carrying.
Inevitably, the news makes me worry for my own son. He is entering that turbulent time of teenagers in which everything is either the best or the worst. However things are now, that is how they will be forever. And it's all my fault. The horrible time of being a teenager.
Made Son go to school this morning. He said he wasn't feeling well, but I got the distinct impression he was afraid about something. He had at least one homework assignment he had neglected to complete yesterday. Perhaps there was another. In any case, I could tell he was hoping I would let him stay home. I didn't. I didn't get a kiss when he left the car either. So now I'm going to be all teary until I bring him home again.
It's hard to be a parent. But I've got it a hell of a lot easier than the man across the street.
UPDATE: I went to school and brought Son home early. He is still not feeling well. Got a hug. [smiles] I'm not a good parent, though, am I?
I'm still feeling sick. And it puts everything I moan and groan about into a new perspective. My troubles are easy troubles. My griefs are nothing. How awful.
So why write about someone else's sorrow on my blog? I don't know. I guess it's a kind of desperate plea for someone, somewhere, to make things better. Do we know how to roll back time and restart? How often have I wished we could.
My neighbor said it wasn't entirely a surprise. The boy had tried before, and one of his counselors had warned he would try again. In fact, she said he was likely to correct the mistakes of the earlier attempt and succeed. He did.
Sometimes we are so helpless when we are confronted by another's anguish. We love. We exhort. We encourage. But sometimes they still go away.
Although I did not know the boy, except by name, this news will affect me for a time. Sadly, I will soon forget the emotions I feel now. His parents never will. Not while they walk the earth.
A lot of things fell upon this young boy at the same time. Things he shouldn't have cared about at his young age. The world financial collapse bothered him. That our government should be proven to be as corrupt and evil (torture and such) as our "enemies" bothered him. Banks, corruption, war. These are not things a fourteen-year-old boy should be carrying.
Inevitably, the news makes me worry for my own son. He is entering that turbulent time of teenagers in which everything is either the best or the worst. However things are now, that is how they will be forever. And it's all my fault. The horrible time of being a teenager.
Made Son go to school this morning. He said he wasn't feeling well, but I got the distinct impression he was afraid about something. He had at least one homework assignment he had neglected to complete yesterday. Perhaps there was another. In any case, I could tell he was hoping I would let him stay home. I didn't. I didn't get a kiss when he left the car either. So now I'm going to be all teary until I bring him home again.
It's hard to be a parent. But I've got it a hell of a lot easier than the man across the street.
UPDATE: I went to school and brought Son home early. He is still not feeling well. Got a hug. [smiles] I'm not a good parent, though, am I?
Monday, May 4, 2009
Haven't Gone Exactly Dry - Just Windy I Guess
So I wanted to write something cool. Wanted to express a deep mood and feeling. Then I realized today was a Not Home Alone day. It's hard to get writing in on days like this. Did get posts done on SOF-The People and A Voice in the Wind, but nothing more.
It's probably just as well, though. I haven't really been happy with many of my posts for more than a week now. My thoughts are kind of distracted and I'm having trouble correctly expressing what I'm feeling. I get close, but it's like making a supper and finding out it wasn't really what I wanted to eat after all.
Thought about writing a poem, but the last one was so awful I've resisted. Wrote a bit on The Animal Kingdom, but quit after finishing the second chapter.
You ever get in this writing mode, where no matter what you write it doesn't fulfill? The sense of longing remains. It's not exactly lack of inspiration. It's like trying to tune a guitar. Sometimes it just doesn't seem to want to sound right no matter what you do. So you loosen the string WAY too much and try again. Then again. You repeat it until finally you hear the harmonious tone which satisfies.
Still looking for that harmonious tone, I guess. Time to loosen up. What a pity I can't drink alcohol. [haha] Well, I could, I suppose, but it would be my last post before making my final trip. Alcohol doesn't mix well with my medicines. Found that out the hard way when I took some Ni-Quill a few years back. Nearly wound up in the hospital.
Got a four-mile bike ride to look forward to in a bit. Son and I are biking to the mall to visit Spouse at work. That isn't going to loosen me up. My backside still's sore from a half hour ride this morning. Asked the guy who sold me the bike about gel seats and he dismissed my concern as no big deal. Before I invest extra money in a seat I need to give this one a go to see if I really need it. Well, my backside is pretty good sized, so I think it is a big deal Unlike the youthful enthusiasts at the bicycle shop, I have no desire to "tough it out" and become another Greg Lamond, or whatever his name is. Will be looking into a replacement bicycle seat, I think. At my age (and width) it's about comfort.
Until then, I guess I've successfully wasted a bit of cyber space. Sorry.
It's probably just as well, though. I haven't really been happy with many of my posts for more than a week now. My thoughts are kind of distracted and I'm having trouble correctly expressing what I'm feeling. I get close, but it's like making a supper and finding out it wasn't really what I wanted to eat after all.
Thought about writing a poem, but the last one was so awful I've resisted. Wrote a bit on The Animal Kingdom, but quit after finishing the second chapter.
You ever get in this writing mode, where no matter what you write it doesn't fulfill? The sense of longing remains. It's not exactly lack of inspiration. It's like trying to tune a guitar. Sometimes it just doesn't seem to want to sound right no matter what you do. So you loosen the string WAY too much and try again. Then again. You repeat it until finally you hear the harmonious tone which satisfies.
Still looking for that harmonious tone, I guess. Time to loosen up. What a pity I can't drink alcohol. [haha] Well, I could, I suppose, but it would be my last post before making my final trip. Alcohol doesn't mix well with my medicines. Found that out the hard way when I took some Ni-Quill a few years back. Nearly wound up in the hospital.
Got a four-mile bike ride to look forward to in a bit. Son and I are biking to the mall to visit Spouse at work. That isn't going to loosen me up. My backside still's sore from a half hour ride this morning. Asked the guy who sold me the bike about gel seats and he dismissed my concern as no big deal. Before I invest extra money in a seat I need to give this one a go to see if I really need it. Well, my backside is pretty good sized, so I think it is a big deal Unlike the youthful enthusiasts at the bicycle shop, I have no desire to "tough it out" and become another Greg Lamond, or whatever his name is. Will be looking into a replacement bicycle seat, I think. At my age (and width) it's about comfort.
Until then, I guess I've successfully wasted a bit of cyber space. Sorry.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Musical Inspiration
I'll be lucky to finish this post. Started out all right, but now I'm crabby. I hate losing a mood, but that's what happened. I started out to do a post about Johnny Cash music. I wanted to link to a special song, but YouTube doesn't have it. So I figured I would just make a short film of still pictures with that song in the background. It worked. And then I tried to upload it to YouTube. Turns out the reason the song isn't there is because YouTube has blocked all efforts to upload it. Something to do with copyright.
To be honest I don't understand how copyright works with YouTube. There are hundreds of songs there which I know have to be copyrighted by someobody, but they're there. In fact, I just found another Johnny Cash song on YouTube. Go figure.
And that's not the complete end of my little annoyances. I'm trying to do this post and it's one question after another. How many times must I say "I don't care" before the message that "I don't care" gets through? Whatever you want is fine with me. Something. Nothing. Everything. I don't care right now. And I won't complain about it later. Promise. Just want my music.
Whatever. I know I'm a creep. But if I get to listen to my music that goes away. Sometimes I wish I were important enough that people cared about that.
Sorry. I've no right to complain. None at all. Sorry. Being sorry is what I do best, I guess. That's because I get so much practice at it, I think. Sigh.
All I wanted to do was talk about Johnny Cash. If there is a single artist I like listening to it is Johnny Cash. He was the first I knew, and you know what they say about the first time for anything? The wind never blows so sweet again.
Listening to Orange Blossom Special. Daddy used to like that one. He used to sing it, too.
The first song of his I remember hearing was Ring of Fire. Over the years I heard many more, but a number of years ago I purchased a 4-disc set of nothing but Johnny Cash songs. I got 104 songs for whatever price I paid. Can't remember. Too long ago. But the set contains a wealth of songs I had never heard before, including The Wall, which is on this post.
Right now I'm listening to a Johnny Cash-Bob Dylan duet called, Girl From the North Country. It's a haunting song, useful when I work on Swords of Fire. This particular disc has several songs I particularly like, including, You Can't Beat Jesus Christ - with Waylon Jennings; There Ain't No Good Chain Gang - with Waylon Jennings; I Walk the Line (Revisited) - with Rodney Crowell; Highwayman - with Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and Waylon Jennings; The Wanderer - with U2; and September When it Comes - with daughter Rosanne Cash.
Some of the songs I can sing. Some even I know better than to claim it. The man sang some good songs. He understood what it meant to hurt with hurts that just don't go away.
His music is conducive to creative writing. For me anyway.
To be honest I don't understand how copyright works with YouTube. There are hundreds of songs there which I know have to be copyrighted by someobody, but they're there. In fact, I just found another Johnny Cash song on YouTube. Go figure.
And that's not the complete end of my little annoyances. I'm trying to do this post and it's one question after another. How many times must I say "I don't care" before the message that "I don't care" gets through? Whatever you want is fine with me. Something. Nothing. Everything. I don't care right now. And I won't complain about it later. Promise. Just want my music.
Whatever. I know I'm a creep. But if I get to listen to my music that goes away. Sometimes I wish I were important enough that people cared about that.
Sorry. I've no right to complain. None at all. Sorry. Being sorry is what I do best, I guess. That's because I get so much practice at it, I think. Sigh.
All I wanted to do was talk about Johnny Cash. If there is a single artist I like listening to it is Johnny Cash. He was the first I knew, and you know what they say about the first time for anything? The wind never blows so sweet again.
Listening to Orange Blossom Special. Daddy used to like that one. He used to sing it, too.
The first song of his I remember hearing was Ring of Fire. Over the years I heard many more, but a number of years ago I purchased a 4-disc set of nothing but Johnny Cash songs. I got 104 songs for whatever price I paid. Can't remember. Too long ago. But the set contains a wealth of songs I had never heard before, including The Wall, which is on this post.
Right now I'm listening to a Johnny Cash-Bob Dylan duet called, Girl From the North Country. It's a haunting song, useful when I work on Swords of Fire. This particular disc has several songs I particularly like, including, You Can't Beat Jesus Christ - with Waylon Jennings; There Ain't No Good Chain Gang - with Waylon Jennings; I Walk the Line (Revisited) - with Rodney Crowell; Highwayman - with Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and Waylon Jennings; The Wanderer - with U2; and September When it Comes - with daughter Rosanne Cash.
Some of the songs I can sing. Some even I know better than to claim it. The man sang some good songs. He understood what it meant to hurt with hurts that just don't go away.
His music is conducive to creative writing. For me anyway.
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