Walking Through Cement

The other day, I was waiting in line at the post office when a charming young woman started a conversation with me. She sounded erudite (well, she had an upper class British accent) and her voice had the pleasing quaver of one who was readily sharing vulnerability with a stranger.

As the line promised a long wait, (I was number 97 and “now serving” was number 58) we had a long talk.

Turned out my new conversationalist was a writer. She had just published with a small house a breezily amusing tongue-in-cheek guide to manners. To be precise, it fell squarely into a category called chick-lit. I can attest that the author was tailor-made to promote this book and the book had received-- get this-- an endorsement printed on the back cover of a female Supreme Court Justice.

“Wow,” I said. “So how is it going?”

“Nowhere. Promoting this book has been like talking and no one answers,” she said. “It’s like waking through cement.”

Sometimes life is like that. You do all the right things. Your offerings are good. You get help from the right places, and then...

Thud.

Walking though cement. A powerful if painful image.

Keep walking.

Finding the Light in Revision Cave*

*With apologies to the heroic rescue of the trapped youngsters of the flooded cave in northern Thailand. No concrete comparison is appropriate. But to be honest, this real life wrenching drama inspired this post.

Dealing with revision suggestions can feel like trying to crawl in complete darkness. That is because after catching one’s breath from the gut-punch (akin to someone saying your perfect baby is not so lovely after all L) and then allowing the suggestions to sink in, many a time the writer still can’t see why these suggestions were made.


It's easy, even fun, to make changes when the suggestion make sense. These "Ah-Hah (!)" suggestions make the write's heart grow limbs and do an exhilarating Hopak, which is a Cossacks' leg-kicking dance, in joyous appreciation. It's just that these types of suggestions are the rare ones.

Most editorial suggestions fall into the other camp. Be it by a Beta reader, an Intern, an agent or an editor, the writer feels like telling them they just didn’t get it and the fault lies in their flawed reading, not her writing.

But feelings should have nothing to do with it. Feelings and intuition guided the first draft all the way. Revision is about returning reason to the equation and reminding oneself the feedback came from someone who, just for making the suggestions, is a helpful soul.

So now the writer moves to phase two. To implement the suggested changes, or not to? That is the question.

My answer is that I must try. Not because the reader was right. Not because the reader was wrong. But because it is good for me to try.

This is where it feels like I'm crawling in the dark. How to make changes that don’t resonate? Where, who, and with what?

Take a deeeeep breath. Trust in the muse. She is akin to a miner’s light.

She’ll get you there, and your humanity will be better for it.

Johnny Tremain

As a way to celebrate the miracle that is our country, one encompassing much of the continent from sea to shining sea where, let’s face it, many wish to come to and few wish to flee from, may I recommend a classic book?

Johnny Tremain, by Esther Forbes, was the first historical novel written for young readers, and a Newbery medal winner. My kid-lit reading group read it some months ago, and saved me with this assignment from missing one of the best ways to appreciate the effort and enterprise that was the founding of the union of states.

I felt I was there, with Johnny, as his focus shifted from his personal struggles to be somebody in a world that did not bless him with privilege to the honor and privilege of fighting for something greater.

And the next time anyone says something about how divided our country is, let them situate themselves in colonial times, where many of the English king’s subjects in the Americas were not the least bit supportive of the colonial rebels.

Because what we have now is a vibrant, imperfect, but astonishingly successful nation, where disagreements are settled by a system of state-by-state voting.

That is something great, and worth celebrating.

Happy July Fourth and happy reading.

Le Mot Juste

Or—

The Right Word

On this date in history, June 26 1963 to be exact, this faux pas registered:

US President John F. Kennedy gives his famous "Ich bin ein Berliner" (intended to mean "I am a Berliner", but may actually mean "I am a doughnut") speech in West Berlin.

From www.onthisday.com/events/june/26

There are many examples of how much the right word in the right place at the right time makes all the difference. This example is not a weighty one. Hey, it’s summer, the sun is shining and I want to keep light.

But speaking of shining, I have always found the writerly edict to make sure every word shines to be absurd. Impossible, for one, and subjective to boot. It makes writers work themselves into a tizzy, often messing up perfectly good narrations.

Searching for just the right words is part of the process. This, especially when something nags at the writer that it just “isn’t right.”

One well-known trick is to click on the word and look at the scroll-down menu for “synonyms.” Still not quite right? Replace with a closer one, and click on its synonyms. I’ve done this in quadruplets. At a certain point, either the right one shows on the menu or the wee brain has an epiphany. Maybe it’s not the word, maybe it’s the sentence. Or maybe the paragraph or, goodness, the whole story.

Usually the right word settles, and once resting comfortably among the others, it’s sweet. Doughnut-sweet.

Or as we now write in the former colonies, donut. The spelling has to be "juste" right as well.

Welcome, SUMMER*

*...almost

{June 21^st 9:07 AM, PDT}

So, we are just about to enter official summer.

I was never fond of Summer, until I moved to the SF bay area.

Growing up in Jerusalem, Summer was HOT. I mean, too hot.

Later, in upstate New York, it was hot and muggy, thank you very much.

Growing up, Summer meant a long school-break. It was also a long time of missing my classmates and my home-away-from-home, which is what school was for me. Not a happy thing.

Swimming pool weather meant sunburns. Later, in adolescence, it entailed being self-conscious about my figure and the growing attention it got. I never felt all right about having someone look at my body who didn't bother to look at my face first, or make conversation. This happened a lot more in summer.

So Summer and I were not friends.

Now we made peace, Summer and I. I’ve passed the point of others gawking and I live where the Summers are gentle. I've grown up, and Summer has definitely matured into a mellow fellow. 

©Shelagh Duffett

Welcome, Summer. Happy to be with you again. 

Favorite bit of Advice...

“Don’t take anyone’s writing advice too seriously.”

(Lev Grossman)

Yes, that.^

Including my advice. Including my advice to consider Lev Grossman’s advice. Seriously.

One of the tell-telling signs of an insecure professional is how they treat professional advice. They will typically heed it blindly, with reverence, swaying in contradictory breezes this way and that. Or they will reject advice willy-nilly.

Once a certain competence sets in, these extremes fade into the gray zone. Advice considered, not treated as holy writ, and then accepted/modified/rejected.

Lev Grossman is a writer and critic at the top of his game. His simple advice, to “not take too seriously,” is an efficient articulation of that gray zone. It isn’t a NO, it isn’t a YES, and it modifies the word “seriously” with a nifty qualifier.

I listen, consider, and move on. I wholeheartedly applaud you for doing the same with anything I ever wrote, or will write, in this blog.

How About NOT Killing Your Darlings?

“Kill your darlings.”

William Faulkner paraphrasing Arthur Quiller-Couch’s ON THE ART OF WRITING, 1914

It’s a jaunty saying that has resonance, so it stuck. In writerly lingo this means that, upon revising, a writer should consider how her favorite lines/paragraphs may be a product of vanity and do not serve the story.

Okay. Sometimes it’s the case.

But good writers are made of very good readers, and very good readers who like a turn of phrase or an aside that’s clever/different/intriguing, are usually right on.

The cliché knee-jerk notion is now the very saying to “kill your darlings.”

Here’ a novel idea— let your darlings be. They are there for a reason. Your judgement is sound, and without trusting in your judgment, you’ve got bupkis. That’s another (now cliché) saying that means your writer’s soul is bankrupt.

Love your darlings, sweetheart, and let them live.

MY PRIVACY POLICY

MY PRIVACY POLICY

Or--- This Place is NOT a Site of Commerce

In late May, a writing friend wrote in a panicked state and asked if she should close her personal blog because of the new EU rules that went into full enforcement May 25.

I’ve never heard of the  EU GDPR compliancy regulations. 

                  

So I took a crash course. Bottom line is that it doesn’t apply to blogs like mine, where I sell noting. Blogger (a Google product) may sell your data and certainly mine, but I have never made a cent, nor intend to monetize this blog.

Check this here, if you are worried:

“Does GDPR apply to me?

It applies to you if you process personal information AND are processing it as part of an enterprise. Article 4(18) defines enterprise as ‘a natural or legal person engaged in an economic activity, irrespective of its legal form, including partnerships or associations regularly engaged in an economic activity’. So basically, it seems that if you aren’t making any money through your blog you are ok. If you are making any money, then you need to read on… ”

From  https://www.nomipalony.com/gdpr-for-bloggers/

 I think these privacy protections may even help some who are worried about the selling of our data. But I’m not even sure about that.

This blog and my website are not monetized by me. In fact, my website is not monetized by anyone directly as it is not a “free” product to me.

Yes, I do know that if it’s “free,” we are the product. So I’m the product, not the merchant.

I add that I do use Statcounter for both my blog and website. Statcounter claims to be GDPR compliant. I personally cannot be sure who they share what data with, but I do not ever get anything identifying any individual IP address, nor sell such.

But let it be stated here that if you wish to unsubscribe because of concerns regarding your data, or avoid ever looking at my website, I will be sad but it is a personal choice, and it is your choice.

Call the preceding sentence my "privacy policy compliance," and a repeat that I don't sell anything, most especially my valued precious readers. Not now, not ever.

I write  about what I am doing and thinking, and if you buy my book(s) you pay someone who may or may not pay me indirectly. But data mining is not part of what I get or do. Same for my worried colleague.

Hey, I’m lucky if I get your attention for five minutes, and I’m grateful you care.

In addition, I have taken the steps to secure my website with encryption (SSL certificate) and both this Blogger blog and my personal website are now https compliant, something techies have been urging for a while.  I do care to be a good citizen of the Internet world, because I care not only for myself, but for anyone who interacts with me.

Be not afraid, people. Not everything is out to get us. The Internet is fraught with possibilities for abuse, but so many benefit, too.

May 22nd in History

I stay away from politics on the Internet, because I have found that is makes good people behave and talk like bad people. Sometimes very bad people.

If you have followed any of my posts for any length of time, you know my fascination with “this day in history.” Lots of things happened on May 22^nd, this date in history. But the most interesting will bring out the venom of the politicos.

May 22^nd 1799, Napoleon declared Jerusalem for the Jews. Anyone who knows anything knows that it is central to the Jewish ancestral tradition in a way it is to no other tradition. But, whoa, don’t start me on that one.

May 22^nd 1942 The Steel Workers Organizing Committee disbands, and a new trade union, the United Steelworkers, is formed. Looky here; unions were both the best thing and what built the American middle class, or a cancer on our country— depending how your politics navigates your mind. Please don’t start.

May 22^nd 2015, Ireland declared Gay Marriage legal by popular vote. I like that this was done by popular vote and not by judicial decree, because legal marriage is a “communal acknowledgement” of status rather than a personal feeling. But, please, don’t start me on that one. (Well, I was the one who started— so woe on me.)

So here are some I hope we can celebrate together without bringing out the trolls and poisons that hatch in the mud:

760 14th recorded perihelion passage of Halley's Comet

1819 1st steam propelled vessel to cross Atlantic (Savannah leaves Ga)

1842 Farmers Lester Howe and Henry Wetsel discover Howe Caverns in New York State when they stumble upon a large gaping hole in the ground

^All on May 22^nd.

But I saved my favorite for last:

                 May 22^nd, 1849 Abraham Lincoln receives a patent (only US President to do so) for a device to lift a boat over shoals and obstructions..

Oh, I forgot. There are some who are still mad about Lincoln. I’ll celebrate anyway.

The Little Ones’ Perspective

Bringing a new young kittenish feline into a home that already had two fully-grown self-possessed cats, we followed the careful guidelines for introduction.

It was fascinating to watch how all involved navigated the situation.

The new cat, Nougat, was eager to make friends. But she learned very quickly that she must go slowly and carefully. The sheer difference in size necessitated thoughtfulness, and she is one smart kitty.

I noted how, when she needed to reach her food bowl or navigate to the other side of the room past the others, she moved in impossibly slow motion as to not trigger the big ones’ hunter/prey chase response. One such chase and one large claw making contact with her fur taught her this lesson.

She also does her best to avoid passing below uninspectable surfaces, where someone can pounce on her. She appears calm and contented with the others present only if she has a good escape route and sees us, her human protectors, from the corner of her eye.

This got me thinking about how it feels to be little, which got me thinking about writing for newer, smaller people—i.e. children.

Because this is pretty much how children feel all the time.

There are many kid-characters in books who are spunky, powerful, save humanity, and speak up when others don’t. I think these are inauthentic kids. They may serve some fantasies of grownups who wished they had done something back when, but these stories reek of falseness.

When “keeping the child in view,” as Dickens wrote, a good refresher would be to watch a kitten making her way into an established group of bigger guys who know their way around.

Go, Nougat. You can do it, girl.

My Only Addiction

It’s too easy to look down on addicts. If you have never experienced such an affliction, you can feel smugly superior to the poor souls who allowed themselves to succumb. How pathetic they are, and how low they descend, risking everything for a fix.

I don’t seem to have the personality or misfortune to have had such challenges.

The first is a matter of propensity over which anyone can make decisions not to risk exposure. Long ago, at the age of five or six, I watched my nicotine-dependent father go out on a stormy, drenching rainy Friday night, hail a cab (expensive) to the outskirts of town, (Jerusalem) where the one and only small kiosk sold cigarettes on the Sabbath. He thought he had stashed an extra pack, but couldn’t find it.

It was a lesson in what not to do. No cigarettes, ever. Don’t want to have to haul that monkey on my back.

The second, the matter of luck, has to do with things that can happen and leave a person dependent. With two herniated discs in my lower back, I remember realizing how addiction to painkillers can start, and how understandable and insidious the process is.
That was two years plus ago. When my doctor prescribed narcotics, I never took them. I chose not to haul that monkey on my miserably aching back, either. But some folks don’t know what the doctor had given them before it’s too late, and the climb out of that hole is steep.

But I don’t feel superior, because I do have a sort of addiction, or maybe it’s closer to a dependence. Can you guess to what?

Yes, I can stop. I did without difficulty while pregnant. Twice.

And, NO, I don’t want to.

So there. Maybe this feeling of "I *need* my coffee" gives me a peek into addiction, and maybe what I really need is that insight and compassion in addition to the caffeine. Because smugness is unattractive and worse.

Oh, and one other thing--

A Sign of Our Times

Or

A Sign for Our Times

Some folks put declarative signs on their lawns or windows. Signs in support of a political initiative/sentiment, or a candidate, or their aunt Ida.

Our public spaces are covered with signs, too. Those tell us what to buy and how much fun we’ll have when we do.

It’s a free country, so put ‘em up if that’s your thing. But it decidedly isn’t mine.

Frankly, I feel inundated. Flooded. Practically choked.

So you will forgive my delight when, while walking with a friend, I spotted this one—

Make of it what you will. That’s part of its beauty.

Are we too SELF-INVOLVED?

A good friend who is a thoughtful intelligent person let me know she considers all writers, actors, and artists to be too self-involved. She is not a writer or an artist but she is a good reader and as such she consumes a lot of our output.

Obviously, this took me aback. Then I let it sink and got to thinking.

I now see she has a point even as I insist on shying away from broad stroke generalizations. Modern artists in all media focus on personal and distinctive ways of seeing and revealing reality. The creatives of the modern age are not bound by communal standards and rigid rules. It is about individual insight aka “Me.”

This stands in clear contrast to religious art pre-renaissance, where an artist’s abilities were in the service of communal thought and artists were thus anonymous.

So once I licked the wound of what I took as a piercing indictment, I realized my friend had a valid point.

But here’s the counter point: yes, artistic creativity is now about the individual, and we like it that way. The ethos of our country and the modern west is the individual.

There’s a spiritual and emotional cost to the modern way. An honest look at artists will show this undeniable truth. The obsessiveness with self comes at the expense of the serenity that yielding to the communal can confer.

It’s a price we pay, and have insisted on paying, since the European Renaissance and later the so-called European Enlightenment. As mechanization in industry standardized everything we consume, artists play a counterpoint with ever-increasing obsession with differences. 

It has its extreme excesses as well as points of luminosity. It is where we’ve gone; always searching for why are we here.

Thank you for indulging my highfalutin musings this day.

No Cat or Dog Stories, Please...

When it comes to what picture book publishers are looking for, there are general please-don’ts some editors and agents have posted over the last few years.

One I have seen a few times is “no cute cats or dogs stories.”

Nothing wrong with the above, it’s just that the market is saturated.

And yet, I keep seeing more picture books that are new with feline or canine protagonists.

Another is no rhyming stories.

I keep seeing those, also. And I’m glad, because as rhyming has gone out of fashion in “serious” poetry, its last vestige is in picture books, and we all *love* rhyme when done well.

 Here’s a good example—

May I suggest we write the stories we most want to write and more-or-less ignore these please-don’ts?

& Tell great stories &

Looking for Mr. Monk

On the last day of the last year, noon-time December 31 2017, Mr. Monk vanished.

He left to go in the back yard, and I have not seen him since.

I took this photograph half an hour before he left that last day.

We have three cats, and I love them all. But Mr. Monk was, for me, the cat of a lifetime.

For eight weeks, I walked everywhere and looked, called, tapped on closed garages, rattled cat treats, and prayed. I posted with the microchip company, pasted Lost Cat posters nearby, and sent notices to all the shelters within thirty miles. I went in person to nearby shelters a few times. I let the neighbors know, posted on the neighborhood site, and spoke to people feeding feral colonies nearby.

Two different neighbors spotted a cat they thought could be Mr. Monk. We bolted immediately, both times, to check. Nope.

A kind neighbor thought she spotted a dead cat that could be him. Our car was in the garage, so she came in person with her car to take DH to check the body. Nope.

Another neighbor spotted a cat that looked like Mr. Monk on her security camera in the dead of night. She sent me the video. I looked at this lookalike and saw the makings were not the same. Nope.

Recently, through our listing on a website for lost/found animals, I got contacted by someone two neighborhoods away, asking if the enclosed photo is of our Monk. That lost kitty showed up in her backyard. His face came closest, and we spoke on the phone. The kind lady sent more photos. My heart was pounding.
Alas, another nope.

Yesterday, more than three months after we put Lost Cat posters nearby, (and the posters survived much rain and wind to still be hanging) we got contact from the chip registry that a neighbor saw our poster and may have seen our cat. We made contact with this neighbor, another photo exchange, and another nope.

I didn’t know any of these neighbors before, and felt so grateful to have their eyes and ears.

And my four-year-old soul-cat, my beloved Monk, is still missing.

While looking in person, the local animal shelter advised checking cats that are found and cats that are offered for adoption, because even microchips fail occasionally. I continue to do this every day.

In the course of looking at the cats online, I spotted one of the cats in a rescue, who needed a forever home. Something about her face and description just nagged at me. Day after day, and this kitty was still there. I did what I didn’t intend to. I made contact with the rescuer.

A few days later, this little one became our cat. DH named her Nougat, a play on “New Cat” and her coloring. He also said that should Mr. Monk miraculously return to us, well, “we’ll have four cats.”

Meet Nougat---

Little Nougat came to us with diarrhea, tapeworm, ear mites, cow-hocked hind legs, chin acne, (yup, cats can have that) a slight fever and a croupy cough. We have dealt with these, (minus her Charlie Chaplin legs, as "cow-hocked" is genetic and permanent) and with her adjustment. She’s doing beautifully, and our other cats have slowly been more accepting.

And I will never give up on Mr. Monk. I made my Instagram a one-topic site, where I can at least see him when I need to. I call it Looking for Mr. Monk.

https://www.instagram.com/mirkabreen/

LET THE CLASSICS BE

At the SCBWI meeting I wrote about in the last post, I had an interesting discussion with the younger writers near me. It was about current social sensitivities and the classics of kid-lit and general literature. Do we read/teach/recommend books written only decades ago that convey notions about gender/race/faith no longer deemed acceptable to us?

Think of the N-word used liberally in Huckleberry Finn, one of the great American novels for any age. Think of the misuse of Native American terms in The Sign of the Beaver, another great book. For that matter, think of any of Jane Austen’s main characters whose sole goal in life was to marry, (preferably well$$) or Shakespeare’ Merchant of Venice whose Jewish character is villainously greedy in the classic anti-Semitic tradition.

And so on, and on, and on.

Some parents opt to keep the classics out of their kids’ library. Many school districts have similar policies. They mean well, I’ll give them that. They want their young’uns to feel safe at all times. They feel these currents can wait until the kids are grown and able to understand the context.

I’m on the other side of this debate. I think the classics should be taught, albeit with a contemporary forward by a knowledgeable historian. Because, if we wait until kids are “old enough,” they will be suspicious. If people are exposed to mindsets of another time only when they are adults, presuming they were carefully shielded until then, they are likely to feel incredulous.

“How come I never heard of it?”

“If this were so, I’m sure I would have seen/read about it before.”

“Yeah, they teach it in history class. But I never saw it in anything that was written in those days.”

And, finally— “This is fake news. Fake information from evil interests looking to take over our minds.”

Sounds familiar?

Great books should be taught, and taught unaltered, and to any age. With it, the historical context should also be explained.

Only those who know where we came from can be truly educated and prepared to make thoughtful judgements, which, I presume, is the purpose of education.

I made this pitch to the poor souls who happened to be sitting by me, and I am not sure I convinced anyone. They listened politely. But I got the feeling that reading The Classics was not a priority, and no one wants to stick his or her neck out where the politically sensitive might bite.

But I said my peace, just as I do here, uncensored. Teach the classics and don’t change a single period.

Seems to me particularly poignant at this time of Passover, when my people remember and remind and teach our young that were were once slaves in Egypt. Because not knowing, not remembering, and not teaching-- is a recipe for future disasters. 

Out of the COMFORT Zone~~~

There is a valid suggestion, not only for artistic creative folks but for all, to get out of one’s comfort zone now and then.

The thing about comfort, which has much to recommend it, is that it has a lulling affect. You don’t want to walk through life lulled all the time, do you? Certainly not if you want your muse to keep talking to you.

So this last Sunday I did something that took me out of my comfort zone. At least that’s what I told myself to get Self there. I went to an in-person meeting with lots of folks I don’t know, without a single person I do know. The last time I did that was before the invention of the wheel, or so it seems to me.

The meeting was of local SCBWI members, (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) and for the first time this chapter was meeting in a café practically in my neighborhood. It was too good not to go to. Sunday morning is a perfect time for me. I know the café and I like it. It stopped raining and the sun washed the streets with rays of positive vibrations. I had no excuse.

What’s the big deal, you say?

For a shy person it is a big deal.

Everyone there was lovely and many were lively. I pretended not to be shy, (that’s one of my specialties, developed of necessity) and tried to be helpful. It was nice.

But here’s the real deal— I got out of my comfort zone and the creative juices reconstituted into liquid flow. A good, good thing.

What would you do to get out of your comfort zone?

IS IT ALL RIGHT TO WRITE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU KNOW?

We frame our reality is stories. We remember life’s occurrences not in the continuous minute details of everyday, but as episodes, or chapters. Memories become the fictional story of life, a subjective interpretation of objective reality.

Thus, fiction and non-fiction tread a fine line. A writer who conjures imaginative stories may believe her telling has little to do with people who have crossed her path.

I always write about what I know. Let me put it here. Every character I’ve ever written (and I only write fiction) had a connection to someone or someoneS I know or knew.

But they always wound up so changed that they were no longer, factually, those people. That’s the beauty and the truth of fiction. It allows shaping people/characters in service of the greater story.

When my father read a very early draft of THE VOICE OF THUNDER, he bristled at the actions and sayings of Mira’s father.

“I would never say or think that way,” he said.

“But Mira’s father isn’t you,” I said.

“People would think he is,” he said.

“But he ISN’T,” I said.

My literate, poet father, who understood the power of fiction better than most, also understood how blurry the line would be for most readers. Even if the story were never published, some friends and beta readers would have read it. He was right, because many of them clearly did not make the distinction.

I then went into my frustrated mode and said the unthinkable. I quoted Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird)

     “A writer should write as if their parents are dead,” I said.

     “But I’m not dead,” my father said.

My father died some years later, and before the story had a publisher.

Herein lies the dilemma. You should write what you know. What you know are the people and stories you know. But you should not kill anyone real in the process.

The way I have managed telling the truth in my fiction is to begin from what I know and then let it be sufficiently different, let it sail away, to where only the unimaginative would insist it is a memoir. (And, by the way, everyone is entitled to write an honest memoir, also. I just never did.)

When it comes to non-fiction posts mentioning real life family members or friends, (such as this blog's posts, comments on social media, or articles) I follow the golden rule. I will not speak of others as I hope they will not speak of me. If I need to say something unflattering, I will disguise the person beyond recognition.

Fiction is liberating. I especially like magical realism, where the story can fully manifest and the theme can glow because listeners/readers are unlikely to confuse it with real life. There I get to tell it like it truly is, or at least as I understand it.

I welcome your thoughts on this, as a writer or a reader.

Go VIRAL

How can you make your blog/tweets/Instagram/site/whatever catch on?

As one who has never had a post take over the Internet by storm, (or as they call it, go viral, which sounds ominously sickening) I can’t speak from experience. I’m an observer, just like you.

I find there are three kinds of posts that sometimes (but statistically rarely) catch massive attention.

The first are inspirational yes-we-can and never-give-up and the-best-is-yet-to-come sort of posts. When written with passion and conviction, (and especially from experience) they are needed and wanted and— let’s face it— like water on parched earth. I save, disseminate, and re-read these.

The second are the things-are-so-hard-right-now and I-could-use-your-support for-the-challenges-I’m/my friend/someone I know-is- facing and feeling-overwhelmed sorts of posts. If the story is told well and from a place that feels authentic, our empathetic nature just gravitates to disseminate these and try to enlist help.

The third sorts that catch attention are the mysterious, impossible to explain. At least I can’t. These are the nonsensical-peculiar and can-you-please watch-this-because-it-is-intriguing/amusing/or I don’t know what and what-the----?!?

Example of such is here.

The third kind of viral posts exemplify why no one can reliably plan an economy, or predict the future, or answer the ultimate matter of why we are here with complete accuracy.

And these third viral kinds of posts are the most interesting to me. Even though most are strangely inane, I continue to marvel at what our species will deem worth our while.

Holding My Horses

There are a lot of ‘how-to’ books about how to become a writer, i.e. one who produces regular output of writing with the intention to publish. Whole chapters dedicated to the disciplinary aspect say to—

Write every day [many successful writers don’t)

Write until you have produced X-number of words/pages (Ditto^)

Set a time and don’t vary nor let anything get it the way (Ditto^)

{I will admit this last one is one I have found to work for me. I’m a five-days-a week morning writer.}

But what I have not found in any of the mavens' sites or books is the suggestion to not overdo it.

 Of all the things I have learned about myself, this one has been the most helpful.

 

So here it is:

No matter how inspired I feel and how well it’s going on any given day, this is not a horse race. I set a maximum of pages/word count/time that I will not exceed.

Because there is no reason for a self-caused burnout. I’m in here for the long haul.

For me, this has meant a personal minimum and a maximum output. This is not a fixed output, because novels and picture books are different in this regard, and I write both. But for either, I have come to understand how important it is for me to hold my fire and my horses. 

I intend to write for as long as my life and focus allows. I hope that will be many more years.

And you know what? Of all the how do I do it, this one is the hardest, especially at times. But it turned out to be the most helpful. I doubt I would’ve braved a second, third, or fourth novel without sticking to not overdoing.

Here's to a productive lifetime. Understanding how you work, and finding what works for you.

All the Reasons to Like PURIM

The Jewish holiday Purim, celebrating the Jewish people’s (once again) salvation from mortal threat, starts tomorrow evening.

How do I like thee, Purim? Let me count the ways~~~ (Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

            *The chance to wear a goofy costume

            *The scroll of Esther is a hoot. J   Look it up and re-read if you don’t believe me

            *Hamantaschen, when made right, are delicious

            *Getting baskets of goodies (MISHLO’ACH MANOT) is fun, and giving such is even more fun

*It’s religious-observant “light,” perfect for the family I grew up in

*Jews are commanded to get seriously tipsy, which makes everyone daffier

*It falls right around my birthday

*And just for good measure, again— COSTUMES!

So even if you’re not Jewish, it’s a good time to join us.

{Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York—

Only the children are in costumes there^}

CELEBRATE!

VOICES FROM BEYOND...

...or, in this case— BEYOND THE FIREWALL L

One of the many perils of the internet, like the rest of life’s realms, are the fakers, thieves, hackers, and spammers.

About six weeks ago they sort of crossed a boundary, at least for me. Someone hacked into my father’s Facebook page and “friend-requested” myself, my kids, and no doubt others.

My father’s been gone from this world for eight years.

All righty, then. No real harm done. But I. Didn’t. Like. That.

DD sent me an amused screenshot of the request. DS sent a somewhat alarmed question about it. Otherwise, no progeny was harmed in that ill-intentioned maneuver. But it got me thinking about the too many fake “friend requests” I’ve been fielding for the last few years.

You know they are fakers when you have nothing in common professionally; you don’t know them; the photo is generic and often meant to get through your otherwise discerning eyes.

I’ve had plenty of such from “young men serving our country in Iraq.” You want to be thankful for service to our country, no?

And then the handsome middle-aged men looking lovely with some island vacation spot in the background. Looking for a special friendship, honey-babe? Never mind that I’m married and wouldn’t think of it, but if I were, I’d prefer real people ;)  

Because my first name may gender-confuse some of these hacking engines, I’ve gotten a smattering of scantily clad deep cleavaged young females with their tongues sticking out in what some imagine is unbridled lust, who mysteriously need a friend and don’t have any. Anyone will do, I guess.

But now they have to resurrect a dead relative?

So if you think this is just an annoyance and maybe mildly funny, let me suggest it is less banal than that. These are attempts to get into your contacts and have access to what your friends post under the privacy layer of “can be seen by friends of friends.” Everything I do on Facebook (save personal chats on messenger) is completely public. There is nothing they can get from my posts that they won’t see even if we are not friends. Mine is an Author Page, not a private friendship page. But some of my Facebook friends do use layered privacy settings.

If you have been tempted to accept any and all, please consider protecting your friends and deleting these malicious requests.

Back to the Great Beyond, I still want to hear from my father in heaven. But I know he wouldn’t ---EVER—do it on Facebook.