GOOD CONVERSATIONS HAVE LOTS OF DOORKNOBS

 

In my growing up years I observed how the adults in my life would get together with friends to have “coffee & Cake” and good conversation. If these conversations sometimes sounded like arguments, it was because they were. Sort of. Someone would posit, someone would give their sharp observation, someone would object.

 

But these weren’t fights. They were stimulating arguments. Often, one of the adults would concede they hadn’t thought about all the ramifications and will reconsider their position. Even when they agreed to disagree, it was not unusual for the next gathering to bring reconsidered concessions.

 

My parents and their friends thought folks who got together to talk about the weather and comment about the nice refreshments were dull and not worth inviting over again. Inane conversation was not conversation, but polite banter appropriate for quick passersby. Friends and relations worth engaging with had real conversations and many times challenged each other.

 

That was the world I grew up in.

 

Imagine my surprise to find the norms were different in the USA and polite company never brought up religion, politics, or anything that might have a whiff of differences. The ethos of my new country required a major cultural shift.

 

Today, many in the USA lament that they can no longer talk to members of their family or people who they once considered friends. In truth, I suspect this is because Americans had no training in real conversations of substance. How to walk away from an exchange that shed light on different values or perceptions and come back open-hearted to engage again or even see another’s point of view? This requires training.

 

A good conversation has lots of doorknobs. It also requires the interest in twisting the knobs to peek at the other side of the door.

 

I have recently lost an Israeli friend (at her choosing) over differences, but it stands as an anomaly in my relationships there. Over many years, I have lost a few American friends for just such. I accept this is a cultural limitation and, in some ways, also my inability to fully integrate.

I don't want to over-idealize this. I dislike yelling, which was sometimes part of these interesting conversations of my childhood. To this day, I shudder when the volume/decibel goes up. But even loudness did not indicate a future break in relations and calling others by names of historic mega-villains was something I didn't hear back then.

 

I was born a dual citizen and have lived all of my adult life in the USA. But we’re always from where we grew up, aren’t we? I cherish the Israeli me and the training it gave me.

YOU DON’T NEED TO TELL EVERYONE EVERYTHING

 Or—

YES, THERE IS SUCH A THING AS OVERSHARING

 

I had a friend who, in conversations with near strangers in the space of one minute, would sashay into personal intimate details of her life, which included details of her marital life that would have made her husband cringe.

 

It was endearing in one way. Boy, she really trusts me with this very personal information, you might think.

In another way, it was downright baffling, as in what is she talking about? This was in no way part of our conversation, you may be thinking next.

 

The faux intimacy turned out to be exactly that. It was a way to try and induce similar intimate details from others. I eventually caught on.

 

Not that she got that out of me. I choose how much to tell based on my own sense, and my sense was that it was not right. But I value all people and valued this friend for a hundred and one reasons even as I kept cringing inwardly when I witnessed her act.

 

This goes double in writing. Anything you share about your life should be the truth (or your truth as best you know it) but never the whole truth because some self-protection (not to mention tact and a sense of propriety) should always be part of the picture.

 

In an age where our leaders have lost some of that sense and “breaking norms” is viewed as a badge of honor by some, it is even more important to remember that norms are for the benefits of all, self and others.

 

THINK.  Think well before you speak or write. Ask yourself if sharing is beneficial on the whole, and only then go forth.

Wise living, it turns out, includes silence. If you must speak of unspeakables, talk to your cat.

THE BREAKOUT NOVEL as a FATA MORGANA

 

If you haven’t heard the term breakout novel, a short definition would be –

“A breakout novel is a book that dramatically elevates an author's career by achieving unexpected, significant commercial success, generating major buzz, and introducing them to a much wider audience, often becoming a bestseller through strong word-of-mouth and a unique, emotionally resonant premise that sets it apart. It's the pivotal book that moves an author from obscurity or mid-list status into literary stardom.”

 

A post about a writer who experienced it after years of writing is here.

 

When I began writing in a disciplined way, i.e. with the intention of being published, it didn’t occur to me that one could waddle on the periphery of the published writers’ sphere and then one day—

BOOM! ZANG! BANG! Confetti falling from the sky, phone ringing with requests for interviews, and fan letters pouring in.  

This, because it hardly ever happens. One could omit the word “hardly” and be accurate in saying it never happens. This is a realistic way to think of it.

 

It did happen to Dan Brown who wrote (and published) for a time before The da Vinci Code sent him to confetti land. It happened to others. But most writing folks are laboring without publication or pushing one-at-a-time published books with little traction propelling forward.

 

As years pass, the breakout novel feels like the opportunity to make a difference in a writer’s trajectory is akin to a Fata Morgana, or a vision of an oasis that is always out there, but never here.

 

And that’s okay, because the journey is rich regardless.

FROM ANECDOTE to STORY

A few years ago, my then agent sent to all his writers a short list of what an editor he knew was looking for. One item on the editor’s wish list sparked my writing gears.

It was “A story unbelievable but true.” Documenting the factual in the story should come in an Author Note, it said.

 

I have a few such anecdotes from my own life, the sort that, when I shared them with friends, not all of them believed me. But I knew they were true because they happened to me, for real.

 

I immediately wrote about one of these and, as soon as I finished, I also knew it was not for publication because it wasn’t the sort of “True but Unbelievable” anecdote the editor was looking for. That story wound up on my website, where it appropriately seemed to settle.

 

You can read it here: https://mirkabreen.com/my-blog/f/before-you-check-my-real-bloga-little-story

 

The thing about anecdotes is that they are already stories. How to turn them into the sort a publisher would consider is elaborated on in this link: https://janefriedman.com/how-to-turn-an-anecdote-into-a-story/

 

Whether for publication and of wider interest or not, all interesting anecdotes are worth telling. If no one believes you, you know what you know and others were nonetheless hopefully entertained. 

A NEW BEGINNING 🐈‍⬛

 

Meet Romi.* She is now our new cat.

*DH Chose to re-name her, in lieu of her shelter name "Elsa."

She is people shy and for the next couple of months will be “decompressing”, as the rescuer put it. She was returned by a previous adopter because she hid for three weeks and they deemed the adoption a failure. I won’t give up that easily. But any input you may have helping "wallflower cats" is welcome. 

She really likes other cats, I’m told. The introduction to ours will be gradual, per their needs as well.

For the next couple of months, one bedroom is her dedicated room. For the first three weeks the door will be closed unless I can be there to supervise. I will be there when I can, reading quietly or communicating with friends on the phone.

This means that for DD's upcoming visit I will make a bed in the living room for our daughter. She wouldn’t want to sleep with a litter box next to her, anyway.

By the time she comes next, things should be back to normal, or our new normal. 🤞🏻

I guess life was too calm, so I needed to complicate it. 🥵

I hope you welcome the new Breen:

STOP TRYING TO CALM THE STORM

 

CALM YOURSELF, THE STORM WILL PASS

 

Some months back, I found myself in the middle of a cascading chain of events that made no sense, were disturbing, and of which I tried to exert control and fix.

Yet, every fix created another chain and not one of the people or entities involved would own their part in the problem. Some were possibly blameless, but it was impossible to tell who or what caused this.

 

I know I sound vague, and someday I might write down the details of those months of discombobulation. I still get upset remembering it, so that day isn’t here.

 

This is what I came away with on the constructive side, which is to say that I learned something going forward. The pivotal key, the thing most needful, is to calm the waters inwardly. The raging storm may dissolve into stillness on its own or may become a hurricane. But, beyond the commonsense actions to cope or even rescue, the storm’s story is its own and will run its course.

 

My responsibility is to work on having the grace and equanimity to better endure. I wish you all the same.

This: It will be fine, or it will be over. Repeat.

 

ME and MY MOTHER’S FALLEN ASIMONs

 

ASIMON: A token (from Greek: ἄσημον ("ἀ-σεμον"), "without a sign", in the language of the Sages) is a means of payment that was used for using a public telephone. The token is a non-negotiable currency, and its price was updated from time to time. The token was inserted into an appropriate slot in the public telephone to make a call from the device.

 

There is an expression in Hebrew, “the ASIMON finally fell.” It means a major realization had finally illuminated one’s consciousness. {הָאֲסִימוֹן נָפַל}

This expression harks back to the clinging sound of the metal token falling into the slot the moment someone answered the phone on the other end. If no one answered, you weren’t charged and the token would eject and be returned to you to use the next time you made a call from a public phone.

 

Time was when regular coins were used to make calls. Rapid inflation made it impractical, and pay phones were re-fitted to accept special tokens, “ASIMONs” only. You could buy them at the post office and use them no matter how much the charges increased, similar to the “Forever” first class stamps of today for physical mail.

 

Most young Israelis have no idea what an ASIMON is. They’ve never seen one. Goodness, they’ve never used or seen a public pay phone. Whole articles in Hebrew exist on the interwebs to explain the expression’s origins. Once the young’uns read these articles, their ASIMON would also fall, or cling, and they’d realize why this odd expression exists.

 

A time will come when postal stamps and perhaps postal service will also have to be explained. Denmark has just ended their postal services for physical letters, and Sweden no longer has cash money. The physical reminders of what once was continue to exist as collectibles, perhaps to be sold on eBay or some such.

 

When I cleared up my mother’s belongings, I found that years after their demise, she had held on to a bagful of ASIMONs.  I kept a few because the tangible, touchable, handleable still matters. In the same way we may keep a hairbrush of someone who has left this world, even keeping their strands of hair still in it, I hold on to these ASIMONs.

Why?

I will not sell them on eBay. I don’t need them to explain the Hebrew expression regarding an important realization, as the digital virtual net does a fine job of that.

 

I need these physical metallic objects in my life to testify that I didn’t imagine what was. It really was part of the world, my world, just like all the other things both inanimate and living that have left it and exist as memories and legends.

ASIMON= Israeli token for pay phones

{The Hebrew date on them corresponds to 1966}

WHERE IS YOUR REAL LIFE?

 Just as I was about to scream at the maddening younger folks who seem to live in their phones that “LIFE IS NOT INSIDE YOUR PHONES, people!” I had a vision of my (much) younger self.

 

In it, I was curled up with a book, more books resting on the floor to be read later, oblivious to the sounds and scents wafting through the window. ’Twas my mother who burst through my bedroom door and yelled to “GET UP AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL.”

I’m not inventing this scene. It is an actual memory, or memories (plural) of just such at our home from long ago.

 

My mother told me she was admonished to “GET YOUR EAR AWAY FROM THE RADIO, YOUNG LADY.”

 

So, kids are living inside their phones, and I lived inside books and their fictional stories. Far back in cavemen days, listening to stories by the fire was a real thing, also. Humans always seem to reside in some form of retreat. At least, as much as the demands of earning a livelihood would allow.

 

TikTok shorts are not novels, but they are stories in their summary way. What all the above testifies to is the human addictive need for stories.

 

Which, as a storyteller, makes me happy. I don’t feel like yelling anymore.

 

At least, not until the next time I’m on a train or in a waiting room full of people and every one of them is staring at the little rectangular device in their hand.

PAPER is FOREVER (?)

 

As we stand now, in mid-2026, printed paper books still reign supreme in Kidlit.

 

Children, as it turns out, haven’t flocked to eBooks as predicted.  Children’s books haven’t flourished as self-published books, either. Both spheres, predicted with unwarranted assurance twenty years ago, have had a generation to take hold and----- 

THEY DID NOT.

 

There is clearly a strong market for the self-published in romance/erotica and mystery books for adults. There is an ever-growing market for audio books for adults, also.

But children are different. It isn’t surprising the self-published haven’t flourished (or made a dent) in books for young readers. Librarians and teachers have a lot of sway there, and they do little with that segment, relying heavily on traditional publishers' catalogues.

 

But, you may wonder, how is it that the first generation growing up with cell phones, tablets, and computer games, not prefer eBooks?

 

This article by a veteran agent makes a cogent point. In fact, it makes a few points.

 

I’ve always been skeptical of futuristic declarations. That whole other genre of both fiction and nonfiction that will turn up a myriad of never-to-be prophesies. But I did buy into the notion that eBooks will take over the younger people’s market.

 

Turns out the very old and the very young are more similar than all whose ages that lie in between.

THROWN INTO THE DIGITAL SEA

 

“Every day, computers make people easier to use.”

Paulina Borsook

(In her book “Cyberselfish”)

 

 

‘Tis a truth (almost) universally acknowledged that if one hadn’t acquired certain skills before mid-life, one has missed the possibility of excelling in said skills.

 

Another way to put it is that if you didn’t learn to swim before the age of forty-five, you may learn later but never be an excellent swimmer. Same for driving, typing, reading, and of course, using digital tools. There are individuals who transcend this truth, but they are very much the exception.

 

I’m of the last generation who didn’t grow up with computers. (Okay, Boomer!)

 

Perhaps that is why I resonate to the quotation at the top of this post.

 

“Ah,” you sigh and roll your eyes. “Another oldie who grumbles about computers.”

 

The thing is, I use computers every day and depend on digital technology for almost everything. You see, I learned.

But watching others, I’m constantly reminded that while I’m doing just fine, I’ll never be truly great at it.

 

Now I’m the one sighing back at you.

DEFINITIVE OXYMORONS

 

Are you, like me, tickled by oxymorons?

Oxymoron: “a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction.”

 

There are a few more of the long-used oxymorons we no longer feel, even as a hint of a tickle:

Same difference

Old news

Only choice

Adult children

Open secret

Working vacation

Minor crisis

 

The very title of this post has a tinge of oxymoronic flavor.

"Oxymoron" is itself an oxymoron because its Greek roots combine "oxys" (sharp) and "mōros" (dull), meaning "sharply dull" or "pointed foolishness". This wordplay is a fitting example of its own definition, which describes a figure of speech that pairs contradictory terms to create a new, more nuanced meaning. 

 

Oxymorons are effective in fiction only if they are newly minted. Those are jarring in the way oxymorons are meant to be. The above listed have been around for so long that they no longer evoke that space between two opposites, and wake up the sense of questioning our grasp on reality.

MAY 19th, ROYALLY SPEAKING

 

On May 19, 1536, Anne Boleyn, the infamous second wife of King Henry VIII is executed on charges including adultery, incest and conspiracy against the king.

 

On May 19, 2018, Prince Harry of Britain marries Meghan Markle, an American actress, in St. George’s Chapel within the grounds of Windsor Castle. Some 600 guests attend the ceremony and nearly 2 billion people worldwide watch the televised event.

 

Most young’uns, and this includes young’uns of all ages😉, are much more aware of the second more recent royal event than the first.

Yet, by an order of magnitude, this first bore significance to Christian and post-Christian civilization.

 

Anne Boleyn is credited with luring a king away from Pope Clement VII and all subsequent popes because Rome wouldn’t grant King Henry an annulment (divorce) so he could marry his current infatuation. Anne, in turn, refused to become a mistress, so the King made himself effectively England’s pope and The Church of England was born.

 

To be fair, Martin Luther broke from Rome first to give birth to Lutheranism, but Henry accelerated a process that was already happening, and the Protestant Reformation and subsequent denominations began popping up like mushrooms after the rain.

 

Much of what happened to the western world would follow, including The Enlightenment and secular thinking that came with it, philosophically related to the questioning of the religious universe. We live with these consequences, both good and bad, to this day.

But what about Harry and Meghan, you say? What about them, indeed. Puffery turned to dust, it seems. Unless, in some yet to happen chain of events, their departure from England will mark the beginning of the end of Britain’s constitutional monarchy, their nuptials are forgettable. Even if this turns out to have the mentioned result, it is of little significance to those of us who are not English, which is most of us.

 

Just ruminating on the English Royals and the odd hold they have on us commoners even today.

Taking a Break

 THIS BLOG IS ON A BREAK UNTIL MAY 19th 

MIRKA MUSE is recharging

👉See you then👈

THE POWER OF THE RIGHT WORDS

Or-

“COLORS IN THE MOUNTAINS”

 

I first learned the power of words when I was four years old. It was a lesson in marketing for wee-me.

 

When the preschool teacher sent the weekly crafts output home, my mother rested her eyes on one colorful painting by her daughter, (me) and gasped.

“What is that?” she said, looking at the unruly jumble of stripes and spots.

I had no idea what I had intended to paint. After all, a few days had passed since. But for some reason I felt compelled to say something.

“Colors in the Mountains,” I said. (צְבַעִים בְּהָרִים/ tsvaim beharim in Hebrew.)

 

My mother gasped again. The evocative words enveloped her with light.

 

She had this painting framed and hung it next to the dining table. To anyone who asked she told, “Mirka made it when she was four and it’s Colors in the Mountains.”

I heard her repeat these words many times before I left home at eighteen. I felt a tinge of regret every time because I knew the truth.

 

The truth was that I had tried repeatedly to paint people, objects, or places, and my hand didn’t yet have the proper control to execute my intent. All my paintings at that age were nonsensical blotches of colors because I couldn’t paint what I wanted to.

 

But, boy, I sure could label.

 

I don’t know what I intended for that particular lauded painting but “colors in the mountains” wasn’t it. Not even close. 

And I knew it.

 

The painting and the apartment I grew up in are long gone. What I was left with was the sense that if you use the right words, you can “sell” anything. Just make sure the naked truth doesn’t seep into your descriptions and you, too, might have your work framed and gawked over.

 

This isn’t my “Colors in the Mountains,” but as close as I can find to make my point: 

PAY THE PIED PIPER

                                                      Or—

"NOTHING IS CERTAIN EXCEPT DEATH AND TAXES"

Benjamin Franklin

{In a letter to Jean-Baptiste Le Roy in 1789}

 

On Tax Day, April 15^th in the USA, I hear the Franklin quotation often. This year, I actually stopped to think about it.  

 

While no one to my certain knowledge has yet cheated death, I know many cheat on their tax obligations. I also know some, either deemed too poor or otherwise deserving, who pay no taxes. These “deserving” include some uber rich citizens who have the means to employ specialists that expertly deploy loopholes in our tax system.

 

Death is still, and for the foreseeable future, certain. Taxes? Not really.

 

I take Ben Franklin’s statement to be morally aspirational. No matter your ability, some contribution, even miniscule, should be incurred. Even one dollar would put you into the basket of the common burden and give you a stake as to where it goes.

 

Take it not as an outrage, but as a point of honor to be part of the communal pie.

 

Death, however, remains an outrage. Take that up with the creator of life, raise a fist, and then allow that G-d’s ways are mysterious and G-d’s wisdom infinitely greater than ours.

 

’Tis Tax Day!

The Day I became a Cinematographer…

 

A few weeks ago, while minding my own business, a knock on my kitchen door snapped me out of my trance of contemplating what I should make for dinner. It was the neighbors’ young son, age still in the single digits, asking if I had a few minutes to spare and help him with “something.”

 

That something turned out to be a movie he was making with his friend, with whom he was having a weekend playdate. I should have known, as the boy was dressed in a black cape and his playmate wore something resembling a superman costume.

 

I like to help in general, and especially this friendly kid who still calls me Auntie Mirka. (His parents are Indian.) But how could I possibly be useful?

 

Turned out they needed someone to hold the iPad and videotape, then yell “cut.” As I was not familiar with the story they were concocting, I suggested I couldn’t direct it, but I could take the videos as long as they told me when to start and stop.

 

“You’ll be the cinematographer,” they agreed.

 

We proceeded to the neighbors’ back yard, where the boys yelled “start” and “cut” many times, and their cinematographer watched with both amusement and concern many choreographed fight scenes. There were swords that flew in the air, plastic weapons pointed and bodies falling on the grass only to rise again and fight another round.

 

The few moments I was asked to give turned out to be more than a few. By the time I headed back to my kitchen to renew making dinner decisions, I thought about the boys and wondered if perhaps I may have witnessed filmmakers of the future. Even Steven Spielberg and George Lucas started somewhere.

 

But being the age when things get wrapped up rather than born, my cinematographer’s career was over. There are many ways to tell a story. I’ll stick to writing.

Image^ by DD, who thought it was funny

FOOLS SHMOOLS

         GOT ME EVERY TIME

Or—

Get ready, for tomorrow they come😈

With the mélange of news that verge on the absurd, the factoids generated by AI and unwell-meaning pranksters (or worse) in daily news and life, the line between what really happened and what qualifies as April Fools’ Folly is blurred.

 

Which of the below-mentioned events are faux-fool, and which are real?

 

*A long-lost ancient Roman artifact reappears in a New Orleans backyard

*A five-year-old named Tod wins a beauty pageant for buffaloes in Thailand

*Hair museum showcasing locks from Marilyn Monroe and other century-old celebs closes its doors

*Noah’s Ark, thought to be a mythological artifact, is discovered whole at the bottom of a Turkish lake

 

Reality is absurd enough at times, as to make April Fools nearly obsolete. Get ready anyway 😳

From FRANTIC to STEADY

 

As I’m rounding my fourth draft of my WIP, a novel for middle grades, I reflect on the process and how it has changed over my writing years. It’s not my “first round at the rodeo,” as the saying goes.

 

The creative process of earliest attempts, going back some years, were more intense. I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with a realization that there was a plot hole which needed fixing. I kept a pad and pen on the headboard and would jot it down to be addressed in the morning. In order not to wake my husband up I sometimes wrote in the dark, and blimey if I could make sense of my scribbles the next drafting day.

 

Many times, during first-drafting periods, I would realize that I had used the wrong word in a pivotal sentence and would turn the computer back on to revise. This could happen in the middle of dinner preparation or just before going to bed. Something inside me knew that if I didn’t take care of it, the insight would disappear into the void never to resurface again, and an important matter would be deserted for eternity.

 

I notice that the more times I had gone through this, the more relaxed the process had become. Drafting now is a steady and slow process. Each day’s session, once ended, stays quiet in slumber as my mind unwinds until the next day— when I go on to the next.

 

What hasn’t changed was my commitment to productivity, guarding the time I set from other incursions. A friend wants to get together or talk on the phone? Not during writing time, please. (Weekday mornings, with Wednesday being my vacay day.) Doctors’ appointments? Reserved for Wednesdays. Same for all other chores that can’t be done in the afternoon or evening.

 

In other words, I treat writing as a job. I know that for me this is the only way I can accomplish these marathons.

 

Writing no longer takes over my whole day. It has its allotted time, and the blessed focus and concentration this time brings. But today each novel drafting is a “one foot in front of the other,” “one day at a time,” to the finish line.

 

There is no universal wisdom here. Every creative must find how they work, and thus, how to work.

LUCK OF THE IRISH

When I first heard the expression “luck of the Irish,” it was from a person of Irish ancestry. Not wanting to question his Irishness or expose my non-native English, I tried making sense of it through context. That is how I managed many idioms and higher vocabulary in those years, my first living in the United States.

 

In that context, I took the expression to mean “bad luck.” Something akin to a curse following those who carried Irish genes.

 

Sometime later, another person with no Irish ancestry used the expression to point to another friend (who had an Irish father) as always lucky against all odds and in contradiction to that person’s abilities. In that context, luck of the Irish meant that Irish genes made for good luck.

 

Years after that and a much better command of the English language, I married a person whose family was Irish on his father’s side and found myself sporting an Irish surname. It was time to find out what sort of luck I had landed into.

 

This is what I found online:

"Luck of the Irish" refers to an abundance of good fortune, but its origin is often an ironic and derogatory term from the 19th-century American gold rush, used to dismiss the success of Irish miners as simply luck rather than skill or hard work. While the phrase was initially used with derision, it has since evolved into a broader, more positive expression for good fortune and the resilience of the Irish spirit.”

 

And so, Irish Luck is both bad and good. Leave it to the Irish to embrace contradictions.

      Happy St. Patrick’s Day 

“MR. WATSON COME HERE, I WANT YOU”

 ON THIS DATE, MARCH 10^TH, IN 1876…

From that first ever telephone call by Alexander Graham Bell and to this day, the world would never be the same.

 

“History was made” and “never be the same” are expressions used with abandon and lack of a sense of precision for trivial things. But when it comes to the invention of the telephone, this is, if anything, an understatement.

 

It started as an almost peripheral function, even as a few understood way back in 1876 that March 10^th was a paradigm shift, a game changer, a turning point from which nothing in the many ways we interact would be spared.

 

It started then and never stopped.

 

Look at us now, a humanity where many cannot function without phone in hand.

DON’T BE THE ONE TO TELL YOURSELF “NO”

 The above goes under the caption “BEST ADVICE I EVER GOT.”

 

Life is full of Nos.

 

First, there are your parents, who are doing their job setting parameters.

But, at some point, you become a self-directed adult, and your internalized self-setting limits work as guides.

 

Now comes the world at large, and its plenty of Nos.

No, you can’t wish for the stars before paying your dues.

No, you can’t approach others for this, that, and the other.

No, don’t you dare think you have earned a raise, a promotion, or even a foot in the door.

 

For artists, the world’s Nos are the many rejections. 😣

I’ve known many who wanted to soften the blow by rejecting themselves in advance.

“I don’t have a shot.”

“I’m not even in the running.”

“I don’t do well under such and such conditions.”

“You wouldn’t want--- me/my work. Right?”

 

I speak not only for others I’ve known, but for self. Guilty.

 

Here’s the deal: the world will give you plenty of NO to this and NO to that. You don’t need to add to that chorus. Let them sing to themselves and go on humming a better tune.

FOOD IN STORIES and IN LIFE

 

“Bread is the staff of life.” This English idiom, coined in the 17^th century, continues to haunt writers of fiction.

 

No one would argue that food is unimportant, but how much to insert or include in fictional stories is another matter. Another post on this can be read here.

 

Way back, when a friend read my novel THE VOICE OF THUNDER, she commented that she wished there were more references to food, “because I like that.” This same friend had an expensive subscription to a newspaper “just for the recipes,” so I counted this as her peculiarity.

 

But something of her comment stayed with me, and when I write anything longer than a picture book text (and occasionally even then) I include vivid descriptions of meals and characters’ experience of food.

 

Somewhere, this comment from long ago just landed right. I honestly think it improves characterization, or at the very least belongs as part of such.

 

Are we what we eat? I don’t go there. I eat what there is when offered, and sometimes it is decidedly not “me.” Even when I choose, there are plenty of questionable choices I refuse to think of as fundamentally “me.”

 

But the food experience for humans is more than just sustenance. It belongs to the auxiliary aspects of our being in the choices (when we have them, which for most Americans is often) ways of presentation (aesthetic sensibilities) and religious or philosophical orientations.

 

Food offerings, whether fancy or few, belong in stories, period.

SPOOKED

 

Some things, which the rationalists call “coincidences,” will spook those of us who think lives are a mixture of the coincidental and the coherent deliberate invisible pattern woven by the supra-human.

 

I am positively spooked right now, and it isn’t Halloween.

 

When working to polish and revise my longer stories, I go through two full drafts of the middle-grade novels before I share them with anyone. In the past, I had three or sometimes four beta readers lined up, and I turn my completed second draft to the first, revise per feedback, and on to the second, etc.

 

For my current work-in-progress (=WIP) I had three Betas ready to look it over.

 

The first Beta is managing serious health challenges. When she returned the WIP to me, I noticed that many of the chapters had not a single comment or typo correction, which (if you knew me) is not possible.  I mentioned this to her, and she said it was likely a matter of her comments not having been transmitted to my system. Shortly after attempting to go over them again, she had to abruptly sign off saying she was too ill to continue.

 

I felt very bad at causing her to struggle thus and told her my next Beta reader will deal with whatever it was I still could not see.

 

Two days after mailing my third draft to Beta number two, two decades younger than myself, I was informed she had passed away. I felt terrible about that, never mind my manuscript.

 

Beta number three was set to receive my next draft two months from then, but I asked if I may send it early. “Sure,” she wrote back. “Send it as soon as you are ready.” This I did after again looking it over and catching a few more issues myself.

 

Beta number three, a superb professional with a work ethic to rival no one and energy befitting her young age, usually took two weeks to return drafts back to me with her feedback. A few days ago, I received a note that she has been seriously ill, sicker than she had ever been in her life, and was not able to work on my WIP.  She vowed to return to it when she was better.

 

But, by now, I am wondering if this manuscript is carrying some sort of curse. I certainly would not dream of inflicting it on anyone else. This thing, my latest novel, appears to be a killer and not in the good way some use the word.

🫣 SPOOKY😨

WHERE’S YOUR FOCUS TODAY?

 

Ever notice that when you have focused on a particular task you begin to notice all things related to the task elsewhere?

 

Years ago, in the throes of choosing fabric for curtains which I proceeded to sew, I wasn’t able to walk past any window without intently examining the curtains gracing it. I began to worry I was going mad, for there are MUCH more interesting things to observe on an urban walk.

 

An old friend with whom I used to take regular walks, became decidedly less interesting when, in the process of choosing a new color for the exterior of her home, could comment on nothing else but the colors of all the homes we passed.

 

A few months ago, a gold chain I had worn for years suddenly broke. While looking for a sturdier replacement, I was unable to look at other people (whether on screen or real life) without noting if they were wearing a chain (or chains) and what these ornamental ropes were. I used to look at faces, for goodness’ sake. What was happening?!?

 

The examples above^ from my life also echo times I am focused on first drafting, where I notice the writing of others in a different way, or dealing with a new medical diagnosis (whether pertaining to me or mine) and focusing on information and anecdotes related to it. But the latter two seem worthy of temporary focus.

Are curtains or house colors or gold chains also desirable? Hardly.

 

Musing on the nature of focus. I’m focusing on it now.

MAKE ROOM for the NEW

 An undeniable fact of life is that everything passes.

 When friends leave, whether to another location or to another world, I understand that this is the way life clears some to make room for others. Been there. Bet you have, also.

 

When your books go out of print and are only available used, the publisher is making room for a whole new flock. Been there. Maybe you have, also.

 

When the used booksellers also empty the rest and your book (or a book you have been hoping to get) is no longer available anywhere, others will fill the sellers’ stores. Been there, and you might have, too.

 

Speaking of stores, the most beloved neighborhood stores have a habit of closing or moving to unknown destinations. You can’t count on any business to be there your whole life long. Been there, and I have no doubt you have as well.

 

Blisters, even countries that seemed so solid can evaporate or splinter into smaller distinct entities. If you’ve lived through the fall of the Soviet Block, or read about it, you know what I’m talking about.  

 

The earth itself has a pattern of erupting new mountains and swallowing whole cities. I haven’t been there, and I hope you won’t, but we know it’s true.

 

My daily morning meditation includes wishes that what I know and love will remain. But it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, I should also allow a wish to let go more easily.

 

Nothing of this world is forever. Let’s cherish the day and hope that what is gone is making room for wondrous things to come.

©Yoga cat by Shelagh Duffett

(Ms. Duffett sadly passed away in 2020)

StoryWorth HAS BEEN WORTH IT

 

A little over a year ago, DD informed me that a gift from her was coming my way via the interwebs.

And, as it turned out, the gift was a program that prompted me to write a post every week and upload it to a website that would, at the end of a full year, make a hardcover book with all I have contributed.

The prompts were chosen by DD. Examples of such would be, “Who were your friends in high school?” and “Favorite memory from early childhood.”

 

I received this gift with joy and dread. Here’s an abbreviated list of why:

1.      My daughter is interested in my life 🤗

2.      My daughter will be reading what I have to say now and in years to come 😊

3.      Does she think I need to be prompted to keep the writing gears going? 😕

4.      In addition to stories, I already write a weekly blog. Now I have an additional weekly assignment 😓

 

A year later, I can report that these prompts have been a delight, not a burden at all. Now that the book is done, I will miss it. StoryWorth is the name of this program, but there are others like it, and from my personal point of view it has been worth my while.

 

I will add a caveat to be aware of. I have no confidence that this operation (or others like it) is free of data mining. Even as they promise to guard your text from such (it isn’t publicly visible or published) the vehicle is the company’s files. Even if they do not share, there is no guarantee they won’t sell their application to another company in the future, and that company would pay them a good sum not for the paltry fee the users pay, but for the wealth of private data they would have access to. Some sites still use details in their security questions that one should never put out on the ether, ever. These “security” access questions are thankfully giving way to better ways, such as pins or keys in one’s possession only. But still, think of this when you use any of these services.

Mindful of that, I typed not a single detail/name/date that isn’t already easily available to the data miners. I was still able to put out my thoughts and real-life stories for fifty-two weeks.

CUT THE HARSH TALK TO SELF

 

The other day, I stopped, listened, and for the first time really heard— the harsh way I was talking to myself.

 

Me: “What a dumb thing to do, you!”

Self: “Really stupid. Don’t do that again.”

Me: “Only an idiot like you could do this.”

Self: “A moron. That’s what you are.”

 

What occurred to me right then was that what I should not do again was talk to self this way.

 

Old habits die hard. New habits, such as paying attention to self-flagellation, take time and resolve to stick and stay. So, the first order of business was to pay attention and Not. Do. This.

 

There’s an extra bonus to my new resolve. I find the harsh observations of others have softened and rounded also.

 

Kindness is contagious. Start with you.

DO SOMETHING TODAY YOUR TOMORROW WILL THANK YOU FOR

 

^GOOD ADVICE TO LIVE BY^

During my less self-scheduled days, I find myself tempted by a sense of laziness to put off what I could do but don’t have to.

 

“I can always do it tomorrow or the next day.”

“Who says I should? No one will notice either way.”

“It makes no difference to anyone.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“I really don’t feel like it.”

 

All the above are dialogues with self.

 

This is what I have discovered over the last years: I am happier having done rather than not done. At the end of the day, and also the next day, this reward is worth more than I previously realized. At the end of the week, or the month, or the year, there’s a more contented me for having done what needed to be done as soon as I could instead of as late as I could.

 

Just a pep-talk to self here, which you are welcome to borrow. 😉