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August 30, 2020
Athlete Protest: This is What Democracy Looks Like
The June 23 post (scroll down), was about the hoopla as Major League Baseball returned for a pandemic-shortened season. I welcomed that sport back—all sports—for the sake of the off-field jobs they provide.
In the course of that epistle, I said or inferred some nasty things about millionaire players. I still consider many of them entitled egomaniacs. But last week, a large number of professional athletes did something I admire.
They decided not to play in protest of Jacob Blake’s shooting by Kenosha, Wisconsin police.
That shooting has been and will continue to be politicized. This is the world we live in, especially this close to a general election. But the point the players were making is that enough is enough.
Mr. Blake is a Black man. According to the Washington Post, since 2015 Black Americans have been “…killed by police at more than twice the rate of White Americans. Hispanic Americans are also killed by police at a disproportionate rate.”
That’s not okay with the players. Why would it be okay with anyone?
Last week’s professional sports protestors came in for criticism for last-minute decisions, poor communication, lack of coordination and on and on. Their protest was not stage-managed nearly so well as the two weeks of political conventions we’ve just endured. But the conventions—for most of us, that’s not what real democracy looks like.
Real democracy can be spontaneous and messy. But it’s driven by people who, like many professional athletes, see injustice and decide to act.
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August 23, 2020
What’s Legal Is Not Always Right…Or Even Effective
According to news reports, as so many people began working from home, there was a spike in organizational demand for a particular type of software. Spyware, which lets employers count workers’ keystrokes, take screenshots, monitor online activity, and so on.
From what I read, most of the time this is legal. But what’s legal is not always right. Or even effective. A web search on “How to trick employer spyware,” got one researcher more than two million results.
And disrespectful…don’t get me started.
Sure, some executives will tell you that monitoring ensures accountability. For the sake of argument, let’s say that in a given organization there is a high percentage of workers who dodge working. Someone hired these folks, right? In the name of accountability, shouldn’t the hiring honchos be broomed? (Or, in the time-honored way of large organizations, transferred to jobs where they can do less harm?)
Fun fact: Company spyware usually is conspicuously absent from executive computers, tablets and phones. (Probably company-funded limos and private jets, too.) Can you spell hypocrisy?
For all this, I concede the need to measure individual performance in the interest of helping people be as good at their jobs as they can be. A win-win for both the organization and the individual.
But be up-front about it. Transparent. Set a reasonable goal and timeline to achieve it. Then, let the results speak for themselves.
If you get what you need from folks who act legally and ethically to achieve it, keystrokes and screen time don’t matter.
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August 17, 2020
About “The English-Only Rule”
Where do story ideas come from? Headlines, overheard conversations, a line of poetry—just about everywhere.
To be clear, I don’t know of anyone who went through the trauma Hania does in “The English-Only Rule.” But the setting for that story—time, place, feel—that comes from stories Mom told me. She was the daughter of immigrants and came of age in a neighborhood where the conversations of daily life were conducted in Polish, a time and place when most children started their formal schooling largely ignorant of English.
Because the stories on this site are limited to 1,000 words or less, I had to leave out any number of tidbits I’d like to have used. For instance, the basement of Mom’s family home once had been a speakeasy. In that basement, her father brewed beer for his own consumption, apparently unconcerned he’d ever be caught.
But Mom worried. She’d stand watch at the living-room window and shout a warning down the stairs whenever a police car happened to be making its routine circuit.
One of my favorite stories is about the candy store where Mom traded her pennies for Mary Janes, a chewy candy. Everyone in that neighborhood knew you could play the numbers there, too. One day on a candy run, Mom walked in to find the owner nervously conversing with two burly men in suits. Gangsters? Feds? In any event the owner, with a quick jerk of her head, signaled Mom to beat it. Which she did.
I don’t have fiction to go with those events. Not yet, but stay tuned.
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August 11, 2020
So, What’s New?
Remember back in January, when “what’s new” was still an innocuous question? When the response only rarely touched on job loss, foreclosure, severe illness and worse?
The pandemic has changed that and so much more. At this writing, the United States has recorded five million COVID-19 cases and more than 160,000 deaths, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
To make matters worse what we’re told about the virus keeps changing. The value of testing. Which businesses should be allowed to reopen, and under what conditions. Who should self-quarantine.
I can sympathize with folks who simply throw up their hands and go back to doing the things they’ve always done, the way they’ve always done them. But I won’t be joining them anytime soon.
I’ll continue blow kisses to grandchildren I’d rather hug. Keep shouting good wishes to neighbors, when I’d really rather have a long, quiet conversation. Avoid large gatherings, even if the host scoffs at my caution.
Because for all the uncertainty, one thing the last couple of months have demonstrated is that when enough of us go back to doing what we always have done, a lot of us who might otherwise stay healthy will get sick. And some of us will die needlessly.
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August 5, 2020
Not so much to be understood, as to understand?
I heard about a survey showing that a lot of Americans think that even the news media they prefer are sometimes biased. But their real concern is that outlets they consider biased in the opposite direction will lead others astray.
Because those who disagree with our viewpoints—even people we like and respect—must have been led astray, right? Frustratingly, they stubbornly persist in their blindness no matter how patiently and deftly we eviscerate their logic. Heck, a lot of the time they even interrupt, trying to convince us that we are wrong.
As if.
Because it’s hard, isn’t it? To listen—really listen and try to understand—rather than mentally prepare a retaliatory verbal sally. To do that even though once some interlocutors finish, they often will not hear us out in return.
In Christian tradition St. Francis, a guy born nearly 900 years ago prayed, “Grant that I may not so much seek…to be understood as to understand.”
Just a thought as this political season kicks into high gear.
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July 27, 2020
Thoughts on “Final Thoughts”
In “Final Thoughts” a family arranges itself around the hospital bed of a man whose next breath could be his last. He realizes this and hopes for a final thought—“Something big…Something important.”
I wrote the first draft soon after my father died. His hospital room was much more crowded than that of the character in the story. It was Christmastime, so I was in town, along with my spouse and our kids and siblings and nieces and nephews.
None of the things that happen in the story occurred during the several days Dad lingered. And unlike the character in “Final Thoughts,” my father was unconscious. He didn’t respond in any way obvious to us. Nor could we tell what, if anything, was going on inside him.
Still, I kept turning the experience over in my own mind. Suppose things were slightly different. What might a conscious-but-dying person think about?
It depends on the person, of course. But the main character in “Final Thoughts” mostly ruminates about events in his life centering on family, and a pillow that’s “…bothering the heck out of me.”
As to that final thought—well, I hope you’ll read the story and let me know what you think.
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July 21, 2020
How Should the Story End?
In the June 15 blog (scroll down), I asked reader opinions on the ending of “Hemingway Would Understand.”
Early in that story the narrator, a twelve-year-old boy, admires his macho Uncle Pete. As Pete cleans a gun in the basement, he schools both his five-year-old son Arnie and the narrator in things “a man should learn”—drinking, guns, misogyny. Pete allows the narrator to fire the gun he’s been cleaning. At the sound of the shot Arnie cries and Pete’s wife runs down the stairs, where the couple have a very loud argument.
Here are the final lines, as they appears on this site:
…In my mind, I kept hearing Uncle Pete’s words: You have a choice. What’s it going to be? I stood there for what seemed like a very long time. Smelling cordite. Listening to the adults argue. Trying to choose.
I made a choice I knew would displease my uncle. I knelt beside Arnie so that we were at eye level, and I gave him a hug. He stopped crying a little and hugged me back.
Even harder.
In the blog, I asked readers what they thought of the lines that began with “I made a choice…” Should I leave them in, or edit them out?
A reader who likes the story as it stands wrote, The last two sentences really touched my heart. In fact, a small “awe” came from my mouth & my eyes teared up. Another reader, with a different point of view: I would prefer cutting the last two sentences (and so would probably Hemingway, drunk or sober)…
I can see the appeal of both endings. But I lean toward cutting those final lines, and wondered why I hadn’t done that. Looking through some old notes from the site that first published “Hemingway,” I see that an editor there suggested the change.
I think I should’ve stayed with my gut. An ending like that would be more ambiguous. Some argue on technical grounds that the story arc would be incomplete because we wouldn’t know exactly what the narrator will choose.
To be pretentious as hell, I’d argue that to the extent art imitates life, life can be pretty darned ambiguous.
And, as another contributor suggested, [If you] end with "Trying to choose"…the reader can guess what [the narrator] did: hug his cousin, shout at his uncle, whimper, and/or run, screaming, up the stairs…
During the course of the story, the narrator grows increasingly uncomfortable with Uncle Pete’s philosophy. Remember, we’re in the character’s head. The details he shares at the story’s end—the unpleasant odor of cordite, shouting, crying—imply revulsion at Uncle Pete’s ways.
My opinion, anyhoo.
Thanks to those who responded!
7/13/2020
About “Elegy”—Carpe Diem?
This is the story of a long-retired professor of Anglo-Saxon literature, a man who’s always lived a life of the mind. Now, that mind is in severe decline and likely to erode further. In a lucid moment, he sets out to mend fences with his adult son—a quest no less daunting than that of Beowulf, an epic hero whose tale the man once lectured about.
A good deal of fiction about people in this situation is told from the perspective of broken-hearted loved ones. My siblings and I—and probably a lot of you—could tell first-hand the gut-wrenching experience of helping people close to us deal with the frustration, anger and embarrassment of minds that betray them.
But, I wondered, what might it be like to be such a person? To be unable to understand a once-familiar world. To lack the ability to make oneself understood, even during occasional moments of clear-mindedness.
Is this story what it’s really like?
I don’t know. Although, if I live long enough, I suspect I’ll find out.
Carpe diem, my friends.
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7/6/2020
Words, Words, Words…and an Apology
Somewhere Jimbo, (which is not his real name), must be smiling.
According to the org chart of the company that paid us both to develop marketing materials, I was his supervisor. But Jimbo could be supervised only in the loosest sense. For instance, I once told him not to use the word irregardless in his copy. “Actually, it’s not a word,” I said, trying not to show how much smarter knowing that made me feel.
Jimbo didn’t protest, and I never again saw that word in his drafts. But irregardless never disappeared from his casual conversation. For instance, he might say something was “true irregardless,” adding “which actually is not a word.”
Well, guess what? Merriam-Webster says that irregardless is a word. Its first use as a synonym or regardless or irrespective, was in 1795.
Jimbo and I eventually moved on to different companies, and long ago lost touch.
But if you stumble upon this post, old buddy: My bad.
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For Earlier Blog Posts, check the blog archivePLease s6/23/2020
On Baseball’s Return...
At this writing, it appears Major League Baseball will begin playing a pandemic-shortened season next month.
I like baseball, and plan to watch. And I’ll endure—just barely—announcers and other pundits who will herald the game’s return as if it would cure COVID, bring racial justice and provide puppies who never have accidents.
Those commentators will tell you that baseball—or any major sport—lifts the spirits of its fans. Probably true, and a good thing if it is. But all that eloquence about field happenings as, say, drama without consequence? You can find that on streaming services, too.
Pundits will talk about sports heroes as role models. Some are, for sure. But that positive influence is often canceled out by other athletes who lead public lives that are, um…not admirable.
On the other hand, there are folks who desperately need big-time sports. Young people, for instance, who chase the dream of a pro sports career because it may be their best chance to escape poverty. Not because they’re stupid and couldn't make it any other way. But because our leaders stubbornly refuse to adequately fund education, even as they channel taxpayer money to build stadiums for wealthy owners.
Sports also is critical to those who feed their families and pay the rent by processing ticket orders, selling hot dogs, staffing restaurants near sports venues and the like. As with education, our leaders refuse to fund decent safety-net programs for people who, despite often working more than one job, find themselves living paycheck to paycheck.
So welcome back, baseball. We need you for reasons that have nothing to do with what happens on the field.
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6/15/2020About “Hemingway Would Understand”
When I first published this story, I assumed everyone knew Ernest Hemingway was a much-praised author. Yet at that time one reader referred to him as “obscure.”
I mean, the guy won a Nobel Prize for literature. Sic transit, huh?
In fairness, that prize doesn’t always go to a great writer. Rudyard Kipling won it, for crying out loud. This is the guy who came up with the execrable phrase “white man’s burden.” He’s also remembered for “If,” a favored scaffolding for trite commencement speeches before “Oh, the Places You’ll Go” came along.
Hemingway—guns, alcohol, misogyny—was nothing like a humanitarian. Which is why he’d understand the uncle in my story.
Anyway, at the first publishing, some thought the ending of “Hemingway Would Understand” was too sentimental. As I re-read it, that thought occurred to me, too.
Just curious, readers: What would you think if I took out the two sentences at the end?
That would leave the main character in the basement, “Smelling cordite. Listening to the adults argue. Trying to choose.”
If you can spare a minute, let me know what you think, okay?
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6/8/2020
Here we go, again…
In an earlier blog (April 30, further down this page), we noted ways in which large organizations were leveraging the pandemic to thump their chests for doing what the law required and other things that they should do anyway.
Well, in the wake of the George Floyd killing, they’re at it again. At least some of them.
One bank emailed customers about their “commitment to equality & your safety,” due to what they call “unrest.” Unrest—massive protests across the nation for two weeks, and counting? If that bank’s leadership plans anything to get at the root causes of the “unrest,” they kept it to themselves.
A big investment company took at least a step in the right direction. Their CEO stated the firm’s commitment to equality and will provide $5 million in financial support to organizations that address injustice and racial disparities. Good stuff. But the photo of a large group of employees that ran with it? If there was more than a smattering of people of color, it wasn’t obvious to these old eyes. Addressing racial disparity begins at home, no? And while $5 mil is better than nothing, for a company that that size it’s pretty much the dictionary definition of a drop in the bucket.
C’mon C-suite habitués.
It’s shameful to use this crisis to burnish your corporate image. But since many of you are going to do that anyway, at least pair the words with meaningful action—something that will make a difference long after this particular time of “unrest” is past.
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6/1/2020
About “BIG CHAIN SHUTTERS…”
The story I just posted is the shortest I’ve ever written. But according to legend, Ernest Hemingway wrote one that was even shorter: “For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Worn.”
Six words.
Regular readers know it is not false humility for me to acknowledge Hemingway did a lot of things better than I do. I cite “Baby Shoes” only to illustrate the power of very short fiction. Short on details, strong on suggestion and implication.
The “Baby Shoes” writer might easily have fleshed out an arc of several thousand words, taking us from anticipation to worry to sadness and despair. That might have been a very good story. But it’s hard to imagine it delivering more of a gut-punch than the six-word version. And it might not engage a reader nearly as much.
Anyway, one day I challenged myself to write something very short. “Big Chain Shutters…” suggests (I hope) at least two struggles. And it runs only fourteen words.
But you’re already ahead of me, right? You know I cheated with a nine-word title. Because, as I said, I’m no Ernest Hemingway.
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5/22/2020Anyone for a listen?
I made a voice file of “Broken Hearts,” one of the stories you’ll find on this site. If you reply via “Contact Us”, I’ll email the voice file to you. If you’d like to read along, you can find the story here.
Why not download directly from this site? I’d love to have set that up, but the deal I have with the web-hosting company doesn’t allow for it.
I hope you enjoy listening, and have a great Memorial Day weekend!
5/13/2020 See What Happens?
A belated Mother’s Day memory, sort of…
When I was growing up, Mom had a way of imparting object lessons in the form of rhetorical questions.
See what happens when you don’t take care of your things? See what happens when you don’t prepare? See what happens when you lie?
In this time of pandemic, I can imagine Mom posing See what happens questions to childish leaders of all stripes.
See what happens when you don’t have a plan for a foreseeable crisis?
See what happens when you put partisan interests above those of the people you’re sworn to serve?
See what happens when your own hypocrisy leads those people to mistrust you at a moment when trust is more important than ever?
Eventually, I understood the object lessons implied in Mom’s questions and changed my behavior.
I'm not optimistic all of our leaders will do the same. But hey, they might.
Let's see what happens.
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5/5/2020The Laughing Monarch: What’s It All About?
Sometimes, after a story is finished, I still don’t quite understand it myself. “The Laughing Monarch” is a case in point.
As a larva, the protagonist longs to emerge from his cocoon as a monarch butterfly, and even prays for that. If his prayer was answered, does that signal a benign supreme being? If so, why would that being allow others just like our hero to die before their time, often horribly? Or was becoming a monarch simply chance, the die having been cast from the instant of conception?
Either way, is this monarch’s very existence part of a grand plan? If so, how does our protagonist fit in?
Readers, a couple of questions for you:
- Do thoughts like these ennoble the butterfly? Or, having been posed by an insect, do they demean ruminations like these?
- At the end of the story, as the protagonist knows he is about to die, he reconsiders his life and laughs. Why the laughter?
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4/30/2020Of Self-Serving Messages in the Age of COVID
Those self-serving, COVID-related emails, texts, flyers…Anyone else feel like certain organizations are trying to play us?
For example…
- The bank that told customers to check its website for help in getting a stimulus check. That help consisted of a link to an IRS tool plagued by many well-publicized failings.
- The big grocery chain’s chest-thumping announcement that its workers would henceforth wear masks. In other words, their stores will comply with a new state requirement.
- The utility that let customers know it has umpteen emergency plans. Planning is good, but execution is what matters. And this utility’s reputation has been…um…bad.
The purpose of messages like these is to build good will so that customers will keep investing, buying, supporting rate increases.
But help that is no help at all? Framing that makes a government mandate seem like a voluntary initiative? Pretending a history of incompetence simply doesn’t exist?
To organizations everywhere: We, your customers, are not naïve, stupid or uninformed. Messages like these do not simply fail to serve your purpose. They run counter to it.
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4/20/2020Ecce Romo--Writers can’t help it: They’re all about Themselves.
Spoiler alert: This post discusses the ending of “Ecce Romo.”
In that story, the grandfather is at first surprised that his writer-granddaughter would turn his recollections into her memoir. That she’d be the Romo being ecce’d.
Well, of course she did.
Writers are all about themselves. Consciously or not, they run every word through the filter of personal experience. Parents that were strict or permissive. Loves lost or found. Acquaintances who left a mark.
Romo’s granddaughter did this more consciously that some writers. But her writing was part of a long and rich tradition.
Readers do this, too. What each each of us takes away from a given piece of writing really is a combination, a reflection of where reader and writer have been and who they are in the moment.
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4/15/2020You can edit %$#@, but Not a Blank Page
To state the absurdly obvious, we’re going through a wretched time.
I wish I could write about more timely topics like epidemiology or vaccines or quarantines. But I know nothing about those things. So, begging indulgence, I’ll turn to writing about writing--a subject of which I know not nearly enough, but at least have some experience.
The Current Unpleasantness has made so much recent fiction seem—well, dated. Nostalgic. On this site, for instance, “Raptured” is set in an office workplace. (I know, right?) In “Babysitting Michael,” characters go to a restaurant--a restaurant, for crying out loud--and one of them stands close enough to smell another’s onion breath.
So what’s a writer whose stories usually occur in a now-ish timeframe to do?
Probably just keep writing. It’ll be harder. It’s been harder. But I keep reminding myself to keep the words coming, even when what shows up seems like %$#@.
Because, as the saying goes, %$#@ is editable, but a blank page is not. Do what you can now, and fix it later. Keep on, keeping on, as the song goes. Conceptually, a principle one might apply to all to all sorts of endeavors.
PS: To lighten things up, check out the (fictional) thoughts of Shakespeare as he struggles with writer’s block during an earlier pandemic.
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4/6/2020About Broken Hearts... And an Alien with Human ProblemsBefore writing “Broken Hearts,” I was plumbing the depths of a creative slump. To snap out of it, I considered going full Hemingway. But as a fan of neither guns nor tequila, instead I tried writing in a genre I hadn’t attempted before: sci-fi.
The dilemma: as a flash fiction writer, I limit myself to 1,000 words or less. Given that need to go small or go home, how could I both tell a story and include strange worlds, gee-whiz technology and odd creatures?
It was easier than I thought. Readers in this genre often are more than willing to suspend disbelief. In “Broken Hearts,” for instance, Melinda is a female from another planet. Well, yeah. This is sci-fi. Ergo aliens.
Her home planet had two suns. A bit of a cliché, but why not?
Melinda doesn’t look much like us. Why would she? You already said she was an alien.
But advanced technology allows her to appear human. Uh-huh.
Details like those place “Broken Hearts” in the science-fiction genre. But to whatever degree the story succeeds, it’s because Melinda and her situation are familiar—in this case, wretchedly familiar—to real human readers.
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4/1/2020Groceries in the Time of COVIDIn ordinary times, the subject of this week’s epistle would sound even to me like the title of a children’s book: A Trip to the Grocery Store. It wasn’t exactly a descent into the heart of darkness. But, to use an increasingly overused phrase, it was far from ordinary.
Yeah, COVID-19. I’m lookin’ at you.
My wife and I have none of the medical conditions that could make us particularly vulnerable. But our age puts us right in the virus’s wheelhouse.
To limit our exposure, we tried to have groceries delivered, or at least arranged to pick-up an order that already had been bagged and paid for. But demand for those services has exploded. After days of fruitlessly trying to set up a time, we gave up.
The best we could do is take advantage of a nearby grocer’s offer to let seniors shop an hour before it permitted others into the store. I made my way there, driving nearly alone down streets usually choked with rush-hour traffic.
As I waited for the store to open, I saw two employees coming to work. Friends, I suppose. They hugged each other, and then went into the store. WTF?! Well, at least I had a small bottle of hand-sanitizer.
Now some authorities are saying all of us should wear masks when we go out. But at that time, the advice was to mask only if you had symptoms, or knew you’d been exposed. That wasn’t me.
But lots of other shoppers were masked. For the most part, we kept the required distance from one another. Yielded right-of-way as appropriate. Under other circumstances, yielding would elicit a polite smile and nod. This time, there were nods. But no smiles, even from the unmasked. And in the eyes of nealry everyone, wariness. Worry. Apprehension.
The shelves were reasonably stocked. But my wife needs a special diet to stay healthy, and some of those items were missing. Also most dried beans. And things that probably are not so essential, but make sheltering in place more bearable. Strawberries, for instance. There were no strawberries.
By the time my cart was full, I felt pretty good. Righteous, even. I was purchasing less than the prescribed two weeks’ worth of groceries.
Approaching the checkout, I was pleased to see the cashier was wearing a mask. Also, the store had installed a plastic wall between her and the customers. Something to keep both of us safe. Safer, anyway.
Still, I made a detour to buy something not on my list. A bottle of wine.
At home, we sanitized everything according to instructions from a physician’s podcast that had gone viral.
As I went to bed that night, I realized that we hadn’t opened the wine. Maybe we'll save it for after my next grocery run.
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3/23/2020About “Bigger Lies” …and Maybe Prophecy
Several years ago, after reading “Bigger Lies are Coming” and other stories written around that time, a friend said, “Man, you have really gone dark.”
Well, yeah.
That was shortly after death ended my father’s long decline, and as my mother was heading the same direction. Neither of my parents fell into the cognitive state of Stanley in “Bigger Lies.” But as their time drew nearer, each grew increasingly angry or confused or both.
I especially recall a moment with my dad. As he and I watched TV one night my mother, with the help of an aide, left the room to change for bed. No sooner had they gone than Dad began to fret about what could be taking Mom so much time.
I reminded Dad that it had only been a couple of minutes. And, besides, the aide would let us know if there were a problem. That did nothing to ease his anxiety. He grabbed the handles of his walker and, rising from his chair, took a step toward the bedroom.
By that time I was a little frustrated, myself. Without much thought—thoughtlessly might be the more precise description—I told Dad that Mom was just fine and he might as well sit back down.
Dad glared at me for a moment. Then, he dropped back into his recliner and said, “You’ll see.”
Knock on particle board, I'm physically healthy and my cognition today is pretty much where it’s always been.
But, assuming I remain above ground long enough, I know that’s likely to change.
And Dad’s words probably will turn out have been a prophecy.
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3/21/2020Write Your Own Adventure?Stories tend to begin with a catalyst. A big change for the main character, accompanied by challenges he or she never dreamed of facing. Maybe something dystopian, a scary scenario that upends social norms. A deadly and highly contagious virus threatens the globe, where many of the people in charge are unprepared and slow to act. Misinformation and disinformation exacerbate the confusion and fear.
It’s been said that each of us is the protagonist of his or own story. We’re also the authors, people whose choices shape the narrative, determine how the main character turns out.
As in many stories, the conflict is a moral dilemma.
Will the character act instinctively, reflexively hunker down, look out for Number One? Hoard. Maybe buy a gun to protect that hoard. Leverage the global crisis to advance a political or social or corporate objective.
Or will our protagonist go the other direction? As means allow, support charities and local businesses. And, most importantly, keep in touch. Reach out to loved ones, of course. But also to others who are needy or anxious or just need someone to talk to. Probably not in person, but maybe in some tech-savvy way. Landlines work, too.
While your character ponders the choices, maybe the author will consider these words from Poet Lynn Ungar’s “Pandemic:”
...reach out with your heart. Know that we are connected in ways that are terrifying and beautiful…
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3/16/2020About “Raptured”
“Raptured” is set in a dysfunctional workplace.
A phrase some may consider redundant.
On the other hand, let’s acknowledge there are some who LOVE their jobs. Folks who can’t wait to start the work day. Who, with their dying breath, might well say, “I wish I’d spent more time at the office.”
This story is for everyone else. Those who, absent the need for a paycheck, might start their own business. Pursue a career that doesn’t pay nearly as well. For folks who, like “Raptured’s” Art Grimes who explains,“A systems analyst is…only what I get paid to do. What I am, is an artist .” A Shakespearean actor, to be specific.
Readers, if you had your druthers and a paycheck were unimportant, what might you do (or have done) with the time you spend at work? Drop me line, okay?
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3/10/2020Thoughts on writing advice…A quick web search will turn up a boatload of advice for fiction writers.Stick to writing about what you know, for instance. OK. Where does that leave fantasy and sci-fi authors? Broadly speaking, the best writers in any genre explore the human condition. But all of us are human. (At least, so far.)
Some urge writing a minimum number of words per day. The logic: Feces can be edited; not so a blank page.
But others will tell you to stop writing before you feel ready to quit. Presumably, that practice builds momentum by filling an author with anticipation for the next writing session.
Ernest Hemingway would begin by typing the word “The.” If inspiration hadn’t struck by the end of his writing time, Papa added the words “hell with it” and walked away. (Or more likely, toward a Tequila Sunrise.)
Purely personal observation: There are no silver bullets. So, embrace the contradictions. Try stuff. And keep what works.Read storiesComment or question?Sign up for alerts when new content is posted
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3/4/2020Education of a Writer, Part I
In high school, I took a journalism class taught by a middle-aged woman relatively new to the faculty. All I knew about Mrs. G was that she was prematurely gray; favored dresses with an alligator logo on the front, and wore half-moon reading glasses. But, hey. Writing always had come easily for me. Why should this class be different?
Full of sixteen-year-old hubris, I turned in my first assignment. Mrs. G read each student's submission aloud to the class, following up with her critique. I listened indifferently until she came to my piece.
Peering through those reading glasses, Mrs. G matter-of-factly flagged long words where short ones would do. Needlessly complex sentences. Irrelevant details. She called these novice mistakes, explained how to correct them and moved on.
Nothing mean or even condescending about it. But a novice? Moi!
Deflated ego aside, what really took me off guard was the way Mrs. G said those things. I didn’t know it then, but teaching was her second career. Her first was as a reporter on a big-city newspaper. In tones I wouldn’t hear again until I began writing for a living, she addressed me as if I were a professional.
Buried lead? Unsourced fact? Failure to indicate a piece was over by typing “-30-” at the end? Fix it, remember and move on.
As I progressed, I think Mrs. G took a special interest in me. With more patience than I probably deserved, she showed me how to write tight. That less could be more. The stuff of good writing in general, and both journalism and flash fiction in particular.
Once, disappointed and maybe a little sad, Mrs. G took off her glasses, sighed and asked why an opinion piece I’d written went on so long.
“For goodness sake,” she said. “Make your point. And then stop typing.” -30-Read stories
2/27/2020What I Learned by Writing “Four-One-One” Most of my story ideas come from chance encounters—phrases and situations, for example, I simply stumble across without intending to. Another way for a writer to go is a formal prompt—words, pictures, etc. whose sole intention is to trigger the imagination.
I used to scorn the latter approach, and still find it a bit contrived for my taste. But I’m not as dogmatic about that as I used to be, mostly because one prompt—a photo of an old rotary phone—gave me the idea of “Four-One-One.”
An idea—an opportunity—that might not otherwise have come my way.And a lesson for me that extends to realms well outside of writing.
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2/24/2020Hope that Springs Eternal: A DialogThe late Detroit Tiger announcer Ernie Harwell always began his first broadcast of the season with words from The Song of Solomon: “…the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle [dove] is heard in our land.”
In the part of Michigan where I live, temperatures turned unseasonably warm late last week, and crocuses poked their heads above the dirt. As flora go, crocuses have to be among the most optimistic. Maybe spring will come early this year.
Why not?
Meanwhile, another sign of spring: Major league baseball teams are training in Florida and Arizona. Baseball writers, without much of substance to report, speculate this untested player could be 2020’s rookie of the year. That declining veteran could have one more stellar season in him. And shoot, if that happens, maybe the team will be a lot better than most people expect.
Not so sure...
This past week has been a tough one. Aging issues for a close and beloved relative. Health crisis for a friend and neighbor. Death of my best friend’s brother. News reports of war and cruelty and pandemic. But maybe things will work out for the best.
Um…what can I say?
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2/18/2020The Evolution of “Babysitting Michael”A long time ago—Reagan was president and people still were renting rotary phones from Ma Bell—I greased up my Royal and wrote about a pair of thirty-somethings trying to re-connect with their college activist days. It was not a good story. It was so not good, I didn’t try to publish and kept no copy.
Years later, thinking about our current ethically challenged era, I took another crack at the story. I aged the main characters and made it into an elegy, of sorts. (Maybe the theme song would be “Revolution,” but in a minor key.)
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2/14/2020Why Flash fiction?Some call flash fiction—often defined as a story of 1,000 words or less—a form for short attention spans. Sometimes. Maybe.
But as a reader, I’ve found that catching all that’s happening in well-written flash requires a good deal of focused attention. A quick read just won't do it.
As a writer, creating a flash can take me anywhere from a week to a month or more. Sometimes, even after spending that much time on a story, I throw up (my hands) in despair and move on to something new. But even when it comes to that, I’ve lost only a month. It can take a couple of years for a novelist to realize the same thing.
Personally, knowing I won’t have to invest a huge chunk of my life in any given piece gives me the mental space to experiment with different genres and try other things I might not in a longer form.
And, I hope, make my flash fiction worth your time to read.
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