HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Thomas Edison

 

Thomas Edison should be the lodestar to every person who ever heard the victimization narrative and fell for it.

Don’t.

Just don’t buy it. Because if you do, you will have victimized yourself times ten.

 

 

Thomas Edison was almost deaf.

He had only a few months of formal schooling.

He started working at age 12.

He was viewed as “odd.”

He didn’t come from any ruling elite or so-called “right families.”

 

 

He went on to be the holder of (arguably) more patents than anyone, and we owe him much of what is fueling the engines of modern technology, not least of which is what is driving this blog I am typing on right now.

 

Which is a good reason to celebrate his birthday, February 11^th, not with gratitude for Edison's inventions but as a reminder not to focus on the obstacles life deals us. Instead, let's celebrate the amazing opportunities that being alive presents.

OTHER AUTHORS

 

FRIENDS AND INSPIRATIONS

My first website, now defunct, had different pages and somewhat different content.

When the platform I was using forced a change, I also let go of one of my favorite original pages, one that had links to writing friends’ sites. I originally called that page “The Writing Life.”

It’s gone from the innerwebs. But writing friends, thankfully, are not.

So this week, I choose to copy and paste the screenshot of  that old page, because it continues to anchor my writing life.

HOW MANY BOOKS DO YOU HAVE IN YOU?

 

The subject/title line is not frivolous. There are writers who feel they have one book in them, and after writing it (published or not) they have done the deed, had their say, and the bucket is empty.

 

I had that feeling with my first work intended for publication. A philosophical chapter book a la The Little Prince that I mistakenly thought was a picture book.

 

I couldn’t imagine ever writing another story. What more did I have to say?

 

No one offered to publish it, and I choose not to re-read it ever again. Mostly because I know now it was not ready for prime time by any measure, and I don’t want to be stuck in the mental space that made me write it in the first place. The state that asserted I have said it all.

 

It was a strange state lasting a few months, and once I got through it, the faucet just kept running. Sometimes it trickles and other times it gushes. But the game changer is that I know I will never run out of stories worth telling.

 

Even when I can’t think of any, I know they are there, just beyond the horizon, waiting for the rising sun to reveal their shape.

It’s called being alive.

“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~~~

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

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.

What Will We Write?

Or

What Will They read?

It’s a big question mark for writers for a post-pandemic period. What will readers read, and hence, what should we be writing?

No doubt, it’s the big five-W questions again.

What?

The pandemic, of course. The one with the number nineteen in its name, though it’s mostly a twenty-twenty event

When?

When sheltering in place and wiping grocery bags with bleach will be in the rear view mirror

Where?

Here, there, and most everywhere. But not, in fact, in the same way everyplace.

Who?

Human beings on every continents save Antarctica, that’s who L

Why?

Religious leaders and some environmentalists already have global moralistic explanations to the "why" of it. I will stay away from such like the plague that this sort of thinking is. The book of Job says it best: we can seek “reasons” but should avoid thinking we ultimately have any handle on moralistic global explanations.

And now, back to the ranch. The place where stories are born and typed, which (for me) is the corner of my room in the corner of my home.

I heard that some people were drawn to stories about plagues. Not me. I had no intention of re-reading Albert Camus’ The Plague, or watching movies like Steven Soderbergh’s Contagion or re-watching Wolfgang Petersen’s Outbreak. No way. Nah-ah. Not.

In the thick of sheltering in place and leaving home as little as possible to get groceries from markets with empty shelves, all I cared to read, watch, and listen to were stories about normal times. Stories with people who greet each other with a hug, and gather to listen to music in large halls, and go out to restaurants where others’ talking made it necessary to raise your voice for conversation. "Normal," like always.

When we’re back to normal, it may be a modified normal. But stories written before will only need slight changes, not seem downright anachronistic like they do now. Of course, there will be novels with this experience in the background. Stories about how some coped, while others frayed at the seams. They’ll likely include the requisite one person dying in each. But I hope that in less time than anyone imagines at the moment stories will return for the most part to where we left them, way back in the historic time of the Fall of 2019.

©Chaim Goldberg Art

The Known Unknown

Or—

The Unknown Known

On writers’ chat boards, these questions and their variations come up a lot:

*How do you know the story is finished?

*How do you know if it is good, i.e. publishable?

*How do you know which revisions suggestions to take and which to pass?

*How do you know you have done the revision right?

*How do you know if a rejection is global (the manuscript is a hopeless mess) or just one person’s opinion?

Basically, all the above amount to how do you know if you should be writing with the hope to find readers who are not friends and family.

And the answer?

You don’t. You don’t know, but this sort of knowing is not the right goal.

The questions are a testament to the self-doubt that plagues artistic people right after the creative high wears off. It’s part of the process, and thinking some affirmation will settle it is part of the delusion.

I figured that as long as I use the doubting voices to create rather than paralyze, I am in the right place doing the right thing. That’s about all I know.

Heroes— Faux or Fearless

“Courage is not the towering oak 
that sees storms come and go;

It is the fragile blossom 
that opens in the snow.”

― Alice Mackenzie Swaim

Not only the news, but also all fiction (save some literary strains) focuses on active heroism. Rescue someone from a fire, face a serial killer, stand up to a bully and punch ‘em back, and a story worth the readers’ time is also deemed worth telling.

Thus, we lose the heroes of everyday that are all around us. Those who carry on while others give them nary a glance, those who continue to think independently in times and places where pressure to conform is overwhelming. As they remain authentic, they do not convert this independence to a ruckus riot.

And most of all, those who retain their creativity and humanity while humbly considering others’ feedback, but not breaking under the weight of negation.

So many of the people in my life are heroes. I salute them. Maybe we should write more stories about them. The quiet blossoms in the snow.

Placebo as the Real Deal

PLACEBO:

Noun: placebo; plural noun: placebos

1.     A harmless pill, medicine, or procedure prescribed more for the psychological benefit to the patient than for any physiological effect.

"His Aunt Beatrice had been kept alive on sympathy and placebos for thirty years"

2.     A substance that has no therapeutic effect, used as a control in testing new drugs.

3.     A measure designed merely to calm or please someone.
 {{From the Latin meaning "I shall please"}

I have a friend who is a retired physician. She insists that most doctors don’t know much most of the time. But she also says that appearing to be in the know and having a Ms./Mr. Fix-it demeanor is half of the treatment right there.

This didn’t make me happy to hear. We pay a lot of good money for what might be a fifty percent pretend.

In an article in the New York Times Magazine (November 10, 2018) the question as to whether placebo is part of the cure seems to be settled. The power of the mind was scientifically vindicated, sending the western scientific method into uncharted territory.

Seems to me this pertains to the rest of our endeavors. It tells me that if I think I can, I am already halfway there. In certain instances, I am all the way there.

So marching on, and encouraging ‘y’all to believe. Not in fairies, but in the power of the tales they tell.

Blessed Are the Friends

You’ve heard the ubiquitous question, “where do your stories/ideas come from?”

Invariably the sweeping answer is, “everywhere.”

But a truer answer is that different people tend to get ideas in idiosyncratic ways, specific to them.

I know writers who get a lot of stories for fiction novels from newspaper accounts of real life stories.

I know writers who get story ideas while walking and looking at houses, imagining the families who live there.

I know writers who get ideas for fiction from reading others’ fiction, and imagining how much more they’d have done with those stories.

About a year ago, I realized many of my longer stories got their themes or protagonists from a friend of mine. One specific friend. We have our regular walk & talk, and I’d be telling her something I had experienced way back, when she’d say, “why don’t you write your next story about it?”

She is not a writer, but an excellent reader. I owe the last five MG novel themes to her.