HAPPY HOLIDAYS (?)

 

This week is “Happy Holidays” greeting time. Everywhere I go, this is part of casual exchanges.

    Regardless of which holidays, these words cover all. But do they?

    Seems like an obligation to be happy. With such an obligation, comes guilt if we can’t.

There are lots of reasons to encourage gratefulness, wish better health, and let others know you value them. I’m less sure about happiness; that thing we so casually spew out as a wish or even half a command. I’m actually not sure what it is.

 

My mulling is much less about whether it’s okay to say Merry Christmas to people who may not be Christians (its fine with me, but this is no longer a universally accepted notion) than about feeling I wish I had something else I could put out to casual passersby.

 

There is the “stay safe” I’ve had my fill of hearing. One friend replaced that with “stay sane,” which I like much more. I almost want to substitute STAY SANE for the happy holidays utterances, except...

©Kristen Feighery

...except that doing so with strangers will likely be taken as a sign of insanity.

But you here know what I mean. Stay sane, everybody. Happiness is a blessing but not an obligation. 

Exotic Christmas?

 

Christmas lights all around.

 

I have two close friends who, like me, are Jewish. Unlike me, they feel “excluded” at the sights and sounds of Christmas.

We’re the kind of Jews who don’t do “Hanukkah Bushes.” I’ve been guilty in the past of overdoing Hanukkah presents for my kids instead of Hanukkah Gelt, the traditional giving of money without fancy wrapping.

 

I now relish the modesty and wistfulness of our holiday of winter lights with a single Hanukah menorah and something fried.

My two friends grew up in a Christmas majority culture. I had the advantage of having grown up where Hanukkah was at home as well as on the streets, and Christmas was something you had to seek if you wanted to spot any of it in certain quarters.

Hanukkah was commonplace; Christmas was exotic.

For me, It still is, . I’m delighted looking at this celebration of lights, plethora of glistening wrappings under trees, music that mixes old beauty with some sappiness, and lots of people trying hard to look cheerful in colorful sweaters.

Unlike my two friends, I’m very comfortable being an outsider looking in. Christmas is exotic, still.

No need to say Happy Holidays to me. Your Merry Christmas is welcome. I’ll say it right back to you, and mean it.

Celebrate!

“The Gates of Heaven Opened”

 The saying in Hebrew that describes rain, speaks of the gates of heaven opening. Admittedly, it’s more meaningful for a land that is often parched.

 

I have heard some describe the smell of rain as their favorite. Rain doesn’t have a smell, so it’s the wetness bringing out the earthy smells that they resonate to; the smell of leaves, the ground, the life mushrooming from below.

 

Rain is all about resonance. It’s how it hits other matter, and what that interaction brings forth.

 

Resonance is what life forces are, not only the physical, but also the spiritual. In this way, the expression of rain as the gates of heaven opening always makes sense to me.

 

Listen to the falling rain
Listen to it pour
And with every drop of rain,
I can hear you call,

Call my name right out loud,
I can hear above the clouds
And I'm here among the puddles
You and I together huddle.

Listen to the falling rain,
Listen to it rain.

 

From RAIN by ©José Feliciano & Hilda Feliciano

 

Listening to my muse on a blessed rainy day~~~

“A DATE THAT SHALL LIVE IN INFAMY”

 

If the title doesn’t ring a bell, listen to this speech—

The iconic line reads:

“Yesterday, December 7, 1941— a date which will live in infamy— the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

 

The attack on the U.S. navy in Pearl Harbor, which led the sleeping eagle to wake up and enter a world war that would reshape our place in the century to come, was the September 11^th of the twentieth century. Those who live in the 21^st century commemorate the September date, but December 7^th changed the American destiny in arguably more profound ways.

 

So today, a date that might have lived in infamy and served to remind us of the nature of the world we are making, is but a whiff of a distant memory that few think about when the digital calendar/phone says it had arrived.

 

It’s today.

FINDING YOUR VOICE

 

The writerly voice is the personality of the narration.

This blog, for example, has its own voice. A touch of angst, a sprinkle of wistfulness, and an evident struggle with preachiness that I don’t always win.

 

Writing fiction is similar in that the narration, even when not in first person, is a person of sorts.

 

I have rarely gone in the lyrical direction, but some pieces just did it anyway. I recall both my critique groups and later my agent’s surprise to get lyrical writing from me. Those pieces write themselves and sing that-a-way.

 

I’ll be honest; the lyrical pieces feel as if they come from some other source. My everyday writing voice has a touch of angsty attempted wit, which I hope isn’t too self-conscious.

 

My experience is that the writerly voice is the same inner voice that talks/tells to self, but more organized as writing must be.

 

In other words, the voice cannot be taught but the organizational aspect can. In fact, that mechanical/organizing craft is something you improve with practice and reading. How your inner voice speaks, however, is innate. All you can do is shape and polish it.

 

Musing on a wistful end of fall day here.

GIVING THANKS

 

Thanksgiving, after all

 

This Thanksgiving, rather than think turkey, (i.e. a mass-slaughter time for animal lovers) pumpkin, (why can’t it be Apple or chocolate, say the real dessert fiends) family, (for better and worse, as a plethora of articles on depression have come to flood the media starting holiday season) or national commemoration (as revisionist historians remind us, this day commemorates colonizing) I would like to cast off the darkness for once, and focus on gratitude.

 

“Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” 

— Voltaire

© From THERE’S A TURKEY AT THE DOOR by Mirka Breen/Illustrated by Sonia Hallett

Giving thanks, that’s all. The rest is noise.

The Harry Potter (=HP) Revolution

 

November 16, 2001, was a milestone for all who contemplate such in regards to storytelling.

This is the twentieth anniversary of the release of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone movie, one that sent an already phenomenal literary success into the stratosphere of cultural treasures.

 

The first books were published a few years before, beginning in 1997. As a new millennium burst forth, and with the trauma of September 11 2001 just marking the new age, civilization needed a global hero to do battle with the dark forces.

 

Previous super heroes were muscular and donned impressive outfits. Harry was small; a bespectacled pre-teen with no support at home.

 

But Harry had magic.

 

For those who write kidlit, the return of magic to stories was welcome. Children were back to reading, even though teachers didn’t assign these books in school. What made the series especially impressive was that people of all ages bought and read the books. Childless folks of parental age also gobbled the volumes up.

 

Then, beginning November 16 2001, came the movies. They didn’t replace the books. People watched the movies, and went back to read and re-read the books. I know the volumes on our bookshelf were tattered from use.

 

Whether you are a fan or not, Harry Potter’s appearance on earth is something to celebrate for all the reasons I mentioned.

 

We needed him. We need heroes still.

What brings JOY?

 

I had one of those epiphanies, where I realized that moments of joy in my life were neither created nor re-created by me.

 

Put another way, I can do things that I think might bring me joy, or repeat things that brought me joy before. But neither guaranties I would have the experience.

 

The mystery of joy, that feeling that things are in place and the place is beautiful, comes when it comes and thus is a moment of grace.

 

I thought about C. S. Lewis’s masterpiece, SURPRISED BY JOY. It's an autobiographical account of his discovery of faith. It mysteriously echoes his finding earthly love and marriage later in life, with his wife Joy Davidman. The book was published before they met.

 

When I read this book many years ago, I focused on the “Joy” in the title. Now I’m meditating on the “Surprised.”

© Margaryta Yermolayeva

CREATIVITY and BAD NEWS

 

So I had some not good news the other day.

How does one write on bad-news days?

For that matter, how does one focus on any sort of important news day?

These bring me straight to the root: how does one write, period?

The only answer I know is this mysterious thing called the gift of concentration.

Few people I know are born with easy access to this gift. In this world of action, busy, noisy and hectic this-’n-thats, distraction is the default, and focus is a hard won goal.

Some people pray, others use physical exercise. Some meditate, or medicate. It’s different for everyone. But the determination to know how to achieve a state of concentration is paramount no matter how you do it.

I was in my late twenties before I had a grasp of how to work despite every sort of news.

But some days it’s still elusive.

There’s always tomorrow.

©Mirka Breen 1991

WHAT DOES LITERARY SUCCESS LOOK LIKE TO YOU?

 

Literary success conjures up visions of going on multi-cities tour, winning the Pulitzer Prize, having one of your books get to the top of the New York Times bestsellers list, and making much money, or at least enough not to need any other source of income. In all likelihood, this is how most people who do not write would define it.

 

          For some writers I’ve known, who wrote literary and esoteric fiction never intended for the masses, literary success is having an appreciative and dedicated following for what would never be mass-market success as in the above.

        For others, it means being traditionally published. It's a milestone many try to reach.

 

          I think all of the above qualifies. But I have long held to a definition so modest that only writing friends would recognize it. Literary success is when you get to the finish line with any of your stories. You thought it, you outlined it, you drafted it, you revised it X times, and you called it done.

 

          I wish y’all much such success 👍 because this sort depends on you alone.

The Month of Changes

 

October, like its mirror April, is a month of changes.

Days turn from pleasantly moderate to cold, only to abruptly switch to oppressive heat and back again.

Still air yields to wind gusts, before they leave to wherever blustery winds retire to.

In the San Francisco Bay area where I live, October is the month of earthquakes and great firestorms.

When it comes to planning on what’s next, this is a time of not knowing.

Which is why it’s the best time to start contemplating a new novel, and marvel at where the emerging story may go.

Because you never know.

Our Children’s Birthdays

 

Many years ago, my mother, herself in her sixties, had a friend who was in her thirties. Her friend, of Japanese descent, told my mother that she celebrates her own birthday by giving flowers to her mother, because her mother was the one who gave birth to her on that date.

 

I asked my mother if she was telling me this because she thought it was something I (cough-cough) should do as well. My mother laughed. “Oh, no. We don’t do this,” she said. “Maybe it’s a Japanese thing?”

 

Years later, I became a mother myself. Every one of my children’s birthdays meant more to me than my own. Unlike them, I have a memory (a visceral one at that) of the original day, the day they were born. I remember it minute by minute. Both my kids' birthdays were the most monumental days in my life.

 

We don’t do the flowers thing, as my mother said. But I now get the wisdom of this tradition. Whether it was idiosyncratic or a cultural thing, it evokes a sense of awe.

My Little Phoenix

 

I have this orchid plant that I’ve given up for dead too many times to count. 

It was given to me too long ago to remember who the giver was. Back then, it had a long elegant  stem with two large leaves at the bottom and a cluster of three open blossoms on top. It reminded me of a giraffe, my favorite animal.

 

I don’t have a green thumb. If fact, you would not be insulting me if you called my thumb grayish black. I expected my new friend to last about as long as the rest of the plants formerly in my care and now in in great garden in the sky.

 

True to my prediction, the orchid died. Its blossoms shriveled and its leaves got yellow and then brown. I was ready to add it to my weekly garbage pickup at the curb on pick up day, but for some reason  I kept forgetting to do it.

 

For another reason I will never fully understand, I kept giving this dead plant a weekly watering. It was a sort of, “as long as you’re here, might as well...”

 

It surprised me. New leaves replaced the old ones, and new blossoms appeared, like hands clawing up from a grave.

 

Another person gave me a second orchid. It, too, joined the first in the cycles of death and re-birth.

 

The last year has been hard, and despite all the TLC and the happy talk I gave, both orchid plants had finally given up. I was sad, but nothing lives forever.

 

And then, this happened:

I think of it like the muse, whose death is an illusion.

Revision Cave: Deep or Dainty?

 

I’m holed up in revision cave, per feedback aimed to make my WIP better.

Revision cave is a dark place, with a light shining from a distant opening. Every day, I crawl a few steps further and the light gets a wee bit larger.

 

This revision is a tricky one. On the surface, the suggestions are minor. The plot doesn’t change, the characters stay, and the theme is as in the original.

 

But here’s the kicker: as I change one pivotal aspect, in this case— the physical setting, all of a sudden every little detail needs tending and amending.

 

So as the light streaming from the cave’s opening illuminates more, the need for changes isn’t lessened, but grows.

 

What began as a less than deep overhaul, has now earned three “D”s : Deep, Detailed, and razor- cut Dainty.

 

Doing my best not to drown over here.

Thoughts about CENSORSHIP

 

Every chat-board I’ve ever joined and then chose to stay has been moderated.

 

The few I glimpsed that had no moderation took five minutes to degenerate into rage, hateful posts, and virtual violence, which was no place I’d voluntarily hang out.

 

Thus, I confronted the matter of free speech and censorship with a personal preference, while intellectually grasping how problematic it is.

 

Let’s be blunt: moderated = censored. Censorship means that disinformation and gratuitous violence is kept out, but vital facts and alternative ways of seeing things can also be kicked to the annals of the Interwebs.

 

I know of no way to settle this that doesn’t harm us in some way. 😬

 

Personally, I’m congenitally moderate. I have a tendency to see two sides of most coins. Thus, I also prefer to keep extremists out of my periphery. Thus, I also live with the contradiction of approving censoring speech while knowing there’s harm in it.

 

I don’t know how you approach this matter, especially because of late  both extremism and censorship have increased to levels that are blatantly detectable.  I constantly worry if I’m getting a true set of facts to evaluate life choices.

 

So this is where I sit at the moment: I do not want to hang out where there’s no moderation. But I think there should be corners of the public sphere that are wholly free. I just won’t visit them often. I also think that every public space should state that it is or isn’t moderated.

{Full disclosure: I moderate comments on this (my) blog. To date, I've only censored spam. Trust me you didn't miss much except for links to useless merchandise and a few death threats 👀} 

 

There is no organized party for the likes of us, but if I were the organizer sort I’d be making signs that say: 

👉MODERATES UNITE 👈

(No exclamation, because— duh— we’re moderates 😉)

The World’s Most Best GREATEST---

 

Yup. That^

Have you in your sphere someone who prefaces mentions of people and things with extreme hyperbole? I do.

😱

A doctor who had some experience with a sub specialty is referred to as “the world’s foremost authority on XYZ.” A friend who once collected some doodads is now “the world’s best expert on doodads.” The doodads themselves are now “the world’s most collectables.” You get the idea.

The internet has made hyperbole almost compulsory. Noticed how posts are labeled “So-and-so DESTROYS So-and-so?”

And for good measure, in the link So-and-so is referred to as “the world’s greatest.”

 

It takes both discipline and intention in writing well not to resort to hyperbole, but use neutral words to such an effect as to make an impression. This requires education and practice.

It also requires discernment, something increasingly lacking in public discourse on the Interwebs.

Simmer down, y’all. Take a deep breath and take it easy.

HAPPY JEWISH NEW YEAR

 

According to the Jewish calendar, the Jewish New Year began yesterday at sundown.

According to the same, the year is 5782.

By orthodox tradition, the counting began when G-d made the earth. Thus, the earth was created five thousand seven hundred and eighty two Jewish years ago.

What do I think? It doesn’t matter. I celebrate the passing of time by dipping apples in honey and feeling grateful for creation, no matter when it happened.

 Who’s counting? Better not to pass up the opportunity to rejoice 😋

©Illumination by David Moss

AUGUST'S LAST GASP

 

September first isn’t just a plain ol’ first.

It’s the (unofficial) beginning of fall.

It’s the whisper of the beginning of a new Jewish year.

And in Israel where I grew up, it is the absolute first day of a new school year.

That made August thirty-first a singularly wistful day.

Invariably we had to do something special on this last day of summer. Spending the day kicking sand on the beach, going for an ice-cream sundae the size of a mountain, or frantically beginning that art project we meant to do in summer but never did, only to leave it half-done once again.

It was as if we were parting with something we’d never experience again.

When you could count your years on earth on both hands, the prospect of next summer was as distant as the moon. You could see it, but experienced it as something unreachable.

This added melancholy and longing only August the thirty-first possessed. The closest thing to a heartbreak without a defined cause.

 

So Goodbye August. We never had a choice but to part, so we might as well pretend we do, and welcome September.

©By Shelagh Duffett

WRITING AS A KIND OF SPIRITUAL PRACTICE

 

Definition:

A spiritual practice or spiritual discipline (often including spiritual exercises) is the regular or full-time performance of actions and activities undertaken for the purpose of inducing spiritual experiences and cultivating spiritual development.

This calls for defining “spiritual,” so here’s an attempt from me —

Spiritual: Relating to or affecting the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things.

There’s no question that, for me, writing is a spiritual practice.

ABOVE AND BEYOND

 

Taking a walk on a nearby street, something jumped at me.

 

While the front lawns of houses had various degrees of gardening care, all were lovely in their own way. But then, the public sidewalk swatches of earth, for the most part, bore no hint of care. Nature and its weeds reigned, as they do where we humans do nothing.

 

Here is what most of the sidewalk spaces looked like—

Understandable. After all, that swatch is not private property. Why put an effort to weed, plant, and maintain when it isn’t even yours? You might even find the natural growths charming.

 

What struck me wasn’t the rule, but the exception. Here and there, the hand of a passionate gardener spilled over to the public sidewalk in front of their property. Like so—

At least for me, the sight of orderly loveliness buoyed the heart. Less for the undeniable aesthetic of it, but for something else. It was the recognition that here lives a person who in their daily life goes above and beyond what is required, expected, or aligns with the surrounding convention.

 

I think life is like that. Some people always do more. I am humbled and grateful, for they hold up the rest of the network that is humanity and keep the rest of us from rappelling down.

Respect. 🙇 

Long, Languid, Lolling, lounging---

                                             Days of Summer

 

Allow me to indulge and share my favorite lounging partners once again.

For season’s sake, it’s summer~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

^Miss Nougat cooling her belly^

^Mr. Sokolov showing his belly is fluffier^

^Ms. Clara Schumann: “I can’t bear to see any more bellies.” ^

😻Fair enough. Stay cool, everyone😻

WHERE THE DEPARTED ARE ALWAYS WITH US

 

There are two places where the dead still live.

The first is in our hearts and minds.

The second is on Internet databases.

 

Today would have been my mother’s ninety-third birthday. It’s still her birthday, (the date she was born) but it can’t be the ninety-third, as she left this world thirteen years ago.

 

But on Internet databases she is now listed as being of a ripe old age she never got to be in real life. Most of these “find anyone” sites never seem to find death certificates. If they do, they don’t account for such in the information anyone can google.

 

For me, the date remains a monumental one, regardless.

Here she is, long before I was even a thought:

🎉Happy Birthday🍻

The Special Demands of Picture Book Writing

 

The other day, I watched an old panel discussion of famous novelists whose books have been turned into successful films. YouTube is full of old treasures like these. Between writing, revising, and laundry— hanging out with these writers (all of them now gone) is my favorite sort of break.

 

Not one of the writers on this panel wrote their novels’ film adaptations. One, Kurt Vonnegut, said he simply couldn’t because writing a novel is what he does best and writing a screenplay is too different.

 

It occurred to me that while many think they could write picture books, few who try actually write true picture books. Vignettes, shorter short stories, a scene--- all pass for  picture book texts in the eyes of beginning writers. True picture books are something different.

 

True picture book texts are poetry, rhyming or not. In addition, they are screenplays, where the main action is told in images. They also require the skill of flash-fiction writing, as the word count tops up at 600-800 words. Unlike this blog post, it shouldn’t use passive construction. The story must be layered and complete.

 

I’m almost certain Kurt Vonnegut would have said he couldn’t write a picture book.

National Pickle Month

 

    I recall early July of 1974, when I arrived in the United States.

I grew up in Israel, a dual citizen of both countries. I had no memory of my ten-month visit to the USA when I was two years old, and so for me this was a get-acquainted-with-America summer.

 

One of the first things that struck me was a billboard that stated—ready for this?

July is National Pickle Month

I asked the American with whom my friend and I stayed what made it “national.” Was this a joke?

“Congress decreed it so,” she said.

Really? Like, they have nothing better to do?

I remember realizing something about my other county: it was playful, whimsical, and a wee bit silly. Having grown up in a country where the government’s work is serious existential business, the United States seemed downright Disneyland-goofy.

 

Yes, there were ongoing hearings that culminated for the first time in U.S. history in a president resigning only a month later. There were protests and divisions over the pain of a war the nation had just lost, (despite calling the end of our involvement in Vietnam a “peace agreement”) and so on.

 

But congress still had the energy to declare a National Pickle Month.

 

Something about this still sums America for me.

 

So, in addition to celebrating this pickle before it ends, I thought I’d list a few more such garnishes below. Let’s celebrate while we still have the energy to jitterbug in those parties:

January 4: National Spaghetti Day🍝

February 5: Shower with a Friend Day😳

March 1: National Pig Day 🐖(hey, it’s also my birthday)

 

A comprehensive list can be glimpsed here.

But to me, National Pickle Month reigns supreme.

SUMMER INDULGENCES

I’m allowing myself to indulge in some just fun (for whom? for me) photos I  post here. I hope you, too, will enjoy looking at today’s peek into another's life.

Hey, it’s summer. 🌞

Summer used to mean a break. 👙

I haven’t earned a break, but I’m sort of taking it. 🍨

So here are some of my favorite things:

{Technically, only the first and last are “things”}

One crust apple pie with streusel topping^

Miss Nougat^

Ms. Clara^

Mr. Sokolov^

One enchanted evening from my window^

How about yours?

WRITING WITHOUT WOBBLIES {=WWW}

 

Say what?

Alternative title:

Writing without Fear

There’s a lot of fear in the air for those who blog, vlog, post, text, email, or write in any way that is considered “published.”

 

Fear that our words would be flagged as not woke (a.k.a PC) enough.

Fear that years from now our texts will be quoted when we apply for a job.

Fear that if we write about people from our lives, (IRL=in real life) they will be hurt.

Fear that if we write about fictional characters, someone in real life would think it’s them.

Fear that later we’ll cringe at the quality of our old writing.

 

The common thread is FEAR. 😨

 

What to do?

My personal resolution is to write anyway, and tip my virtual hat to the fears. Yup, I know you’re there, but I’m doing it anyway, so there.

 

My greatest fear is that I won’t have anything worth saying. So as long as I think I do, I’m glad of that.

 

I don’t think there’s such a thing as living without fear. Fearlessness is the appearance some convey to others. I bet that inside, the fearless are quaking and then do it anyway.

Do You Have to LIKE the Main Character(s)?

 

A relative had recommended a series, and after watching the first episode I let him know I didn’t think I’d watch the rest.

 

He was aghast. “It’s the best series I ever saw,” said my dear family member. “It got me thinking about so many questions and had so many twists and turns.”

 

Yes, that’s the plot. A whole town full of characters. Mysterious occurrences, once begun, continue to baffle as they go on and on. Good premise.

 

The problem was that I found every single person in the town unlikable. Not in an interesting sort of way what’s-with-him/her unlikable, but in a dull nothing-to-like-here mode.

 

My relative lamented that his wife also dismisses stories (be they books or movies) when she doesn’t like the main character. “I just don’t get it,” he added.

 

Here’s the best explanation I can give on this matter. Spending the most precious thing I have, time, in a place I don’t like or with people I don’t like, is something I won’t do unless compelled to by law.

 

We all occasionally have to. It might be family, or a job. But we’d be wise not to do so for longer than necessary.

 

Reading a book or watching a movie is very much like hanging out in their time, place, and with their characters. What happens there can be interesting. But without liking someone in that world, I’m out of there, thank you.

 

And so I left that series, which incidentally is named The Leftovers. I may give it another try someday. Who knows, never say never. But the feeling that I choose who to hang out with when I begin a story is forever. Same for the ones I write.

What Is Your Mascot/Avatar/Spirit Animal?

 

Paraphrasing question #23 on the same list of better questions to ask a writer,  I decided to have fun today. I mean, the question itself echoes the infamous Barbara Walters school of interview standards, “if you were a tree, what tree would you be” silliness. (It should also make anyone question if the list labeled “better questions” merits this title)

 

But you know what? Be we as children if we deem to write for young spirits.

 Let’s play. I go first.

So what animal would I be?

 🐺🐯🐮🐨🐫🐴🐼🐰🐋🐭🐶🐱🐦

 

Could you guess?

 👀

A decent guess, knowing me even a wee bit, would suggest a feline of some sort.

 That would be wrong.

 I admire felines. I am in awe of their beauty and grace. They are far-away, god-like beings. So aspirational as to not even be my aspirational avatar.

I am no such thing.

😞

 For me, this one does it:

The giraffe is a peaceful animal who manages to stay above the fray. Giraffes have a great perspective, having been graced with the anatomical advantage of a perennial outsider, seeing more of the whole picture, not tangled in the weeds below. And unlike birds, Giraffes do this with their feet firmly planted on the ground.

That is what I aspire to. 

DD even drew one for me when she was four-years-old:

Do share yours, if you dare to play. Like the giraffe, I may bat my long lashes. But I won't judge you.