LOOKING TO THE BRIGHT SIDE OF SOCIAL MEDIA

 

Or

TRYING TO

 

It’s easy to note the negatives of this thing we group under “Social Media,” (SM for short 😈) because it’s plain to see: take-downs, foul language aimed at strangers from others who can hide under made-up identities, and so much more.

 

I decided to articulate here how my reluctance and negative impressions turned into positive aspects for the sites I have some presence on. I came to the Internet with trepidation, being told it was necessary if I considered approaching publishing professionals. That was some years ago. I stayed and even thrived on a couple of the SS.

So I am articulating my personal journey from trembling to sunbathing for the ones I have experienced. I know all SS harvest my data; they’re welcome to it for the service they provide. I am aware at all times that nothing on SS is truly private no matter how many “privacy protections” they claim.

This is my own journey in SM-land. It’s different for each person.

In the order of (my) preference:

 

PERSONAL WEBSITE: The very thought of it hurt my insides, and then I got used to it the way one gets used to a nose ring or a wristwatch. They become a part of self that is barely felt. Today I kind of like it, because I control what’s on it. It’s the virtual calling card of the 19^th century and the business card of the 20^th century. In the 21^st century we deal with this and occasionally fiddle with the aesthetic to make ourselves feel better about it.

BLOGGER: Came to it with a heavy heart feeling that 1. It’s a burden to have to write posts regularly; 2. Who cares what I think; and 3. My publisher’s urging made it something I had to try. Turns out I like the discipline of posting and I like having a place to publish thoughts, mostly about publishing. Hey, if you’re reading this--we’re both here. My blogger is not for selling; it’s a small hangout that I actually wound up liking.

 

FACEBOOK: I joined because DD was on it and parenting advice said parents should know what their kids are up to. That part turned out to be moot, because kids are not sharing what they don’t want grownups to see and they have left this SS when parents joined. But it is the place to find long-lost friends and acquaintances, find fantastic groups of interest, and Messenger is a marvel for free chats both video and text with no upfront charge. It is where I have more “friends” (i.e., Facebook friends) and more virtual socializing than any other.

 

TWITTER: It feels like walking into a party where everyone knows everyone and you’re ignored, because they are the cool crowd. After so many years of nominal participation, it still feels like that. But I’m beginning to not dislike it when an occasional link is illuminating or an image elicits a faint smile. There’s hope.

 

INSTAGRAM: I set it up as a way to albumize photos of a beloved cat who upped and disappeared one day. I haven’t changed it since. It’s a story of one lost cat. When I’m ready to let go and make other uses, I will. Not quite there yet.

 

Then there’s Tumblr (I follow about five blogs on it now and then) and LinkedIn (on it, but no idea why) and jacketflap (Who remembers why I ever set that one?) and TikTok (where young’uns hang out, but oldies like me don’t).

 

And before this one posts, there will be many (MANY) more.

 

All useful, but proceed with awareness. It’s part of the world we inhabit.

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.

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.

To Google or not to Google Oneself?

 

Aye, that is the question*

*(Maybe not THE question, but A question)

 

Alas, we use “google” as a verb now for “internet search.” There are other options, though I still use Google because it reigns supreme.

 

I have found that occasional googling (or Duck Duck Go-ing, Swiss Cow-ing, Gibiru-ing Bing-ing and more) can bring up some surprises about self. Hopefully they are nice surprises, but the question is whether it should be part of anyone’s digital hygiene practices.

 

I think at this day and age where so much of life’s connectivity is digital, it is healthy to look oneself up now and then. I know writers look up their published books. I recall some on a chat board saying they are stalking their own titles. Stalking suggests obsessional behavior. But doing a bi-annual search just in case something very wrong (ouch) or something very right (yay) is floating out there— is rather sensible.

 

But it is an awkward feeling, I confess. If you are creeped out by looking yourself up, just don’t. So far, I have found at least four nice surprises, (a review I was unaware of that is now quoted and linked to my website, a blogger’s review of one of my published articles, and more) and one not so happy thing, (a site purported to give personal info on anyone and everyone decided to confuse my age with my much-older DH.) But on the whole, I found what I expected to find. I’m not famous, so that is about what I anticipated.

 

Two friends, who insisted there couldn’t be anything about them on the Interwebs, were proven wrong. There is something somewhere. But if you don’t mind, don’t care— that’s fair. Don’t look. You don’t have to.

 

Like most things in life, I straddle the middle ground: no staking/haunting, not avoiding. Once or twice a year does it for me.

 

If you ever found real surprises while googling self, I’d love to hear about it. At the very least, it would make a good story.

*This^ actually happened to a writing friend

WRITING UNDER A PSEUDONYM

 

For reasons I can only describe as ignorance of consequences, lack of vision, lack of understanding how publishing works, and a touch of ego, I never considered a pseudonym when I first sought publication.

It seemed a needless complication, because one’s legal name is straightforward and pseudonyms suggest expectation of an illustrious publishing career. In addition, a pseudonym says you are hiding, which means you have something to hide.

 

I now wish I knew more back then. Pseudonyms are more than a form of protection, (because most who write never get the harsh bright lights of mass recognition anyway) they are distinct public personas and thus “brands” of sorts, and many find this very helpful creatively.

 

A pseudonym is employed when writers write in divergent and incompatible genres. Think kidlit and erotica, or kidlit and politics, or kidlit and most genres not kidlit.

 

A few years ago, I met a much-published writer who wrote in three distinctive genres. She used one pseudonym for her mysteries, another for her erotica, and her legal name for literary novels. She is by no means a household name in any of her three author identities. But she did admit her strongest income stream was from her erotica writing. No surprise there.

 

She said the different names helped her stay creative and focused. I understand, and no longer find this practice a wee creepy, like I used to.

 

Add to this consideration the matter of privacy, barely possible at the age where the Interwebs give your home address to anyone who will pay a few dollars, (and even free) as another name has a layer of security, albeit a thin one.

 

I never considered it, and even my social media presence (such as it is) is all-public. Easy, as I’m not famous. But if you are just starting out and foresee seeking mass recognition, think about it and see if a pseudonym will make you creatively better focused and feeling more secure. If you choose to go that way, have fun with the choice of pseudonym because having fun on this journey is what will keep you going.

When Proper Words Become Verboten

A few months ago, I suggested to DD that she consult with her teacher about certain career choices. “After all, your teacher is both old and wise,” I wrote.

I was swiftly corrected. “We don’t say old anymore. It’s not okay.”

Turns out teacher (and yours truly) are now properly called chronologically blessed.

I am mulling over whether to adjust, as I always have before. I have a long history with such adjustments.

I hope I’m not too chronologically blessed for that.

It started with the (now ancient) advent of Ms. I was a wee-one leaning English as a second language in Israel. Our English teacher was a delightful orthodox woman from South Africa. She informed us that in her English class the new “Ms.” doesn’t exist. “It’s neither here nor there, and proper English has Miss and Mrs.”

No wonder I came to the U.S.A. ill prepared. But I adjusted.

Then came the change from black to African American. I always try to call people what they want to be called, so despite the added length and relative unwieldiness, I adjusted. Some African Americans have informed me recently it’s back to black. I’m adjusting. I’m down with whatever you want because I respect you by either, and I accept this is a fluid matter.

Then came the ban on the word cripple. I’ve adjusted to disabled, and recently to differently-abled.

Retarded shifted to delayed, though they are almost synonymous. The new delayed holds the promise of eventual parity, and I doubt this is factual. But I’m game. I’ve adjusted.

Then came the non-binary pronouns. They are much harder, because my learned English grammar and the ghost of my former teacher from way back keep waving the red pen and striking they/them out when referencing a single individual. But I try.

But now, in my chronologically blessed dotage, I’m beginning to tire. I only ask the language police to respect my age and sense of propriety half as much as I try to respect theirs. Old to them is anyone over forty, and it’s a good olde (sic) word that deserves respect it has earned over five hundred years.

Manners and Decorum et al

As the world enters a new stage of trying to cope with a pandemic, it obviously affects everyone in many ways. I am choosing to continue my mulling (here) and writing (on WORD) as before, even as non-virtual life is changing by the hour. This space is the COVID19-free space. In front of the computer screen, this particular contagion is not a factor.

So on that ^ Note, allow me to reflect as before on what someday (hopefully soon) will once again seem central to sharing our public space.

~~~

When I was five years old, my father tried to persuade me that it was fine to eat a chicken drumstick with one’s hands.

“Even the queen of England does it,” he said.

Well, if she does it then it must be okay. We all know the royals set the standard, at least for table manners. So for the next ten years or so, I felt just fine picking hard-to-cut food off the plate using my hands.

Turns out, he was wrong. My father might have been thinking of her Majesty’s ancestor, Henry VIII (as depicted by Charles Laughton in a movie made long before I was born) who ate drumsticks with much fanfare in a scene for the ages.

But the queen, heavens, does not do that. At least not in public. My father gave me the wrong advice.

“So,” you say, “What’s the big deal? You got to eat with less sweat, after all.”

As I reflect on the matter of manners, I realize it is a big deal. It seems more pertinent now than ever, with the significant deterioration in public life of polite decorum. Disrespect starts somewhere in the heart, and once it’s allowed to seep into the waters of public discourse, there’s no slowing this gusher. We’re flooded, and drowning in our own muck.

This is just one of the reasons I don’t use four-letter-words and avoid hotheads when I can.

Teach them well, starting by example. Keep fingers clean. Learning to use a knife and fork takes some time and effort, but the result is a slowing down and added deliberate thoughtfulness. It’s what civilizing is about. That goes for all conduct.

And you know what? Everybody will get to eat while digesting more slowly.

TO BE OR NOT— PROFESSIONAL YOU

Most writers I have known, or read interviews with, would rather keep their private lives private. Publishing, i.e. making public, is for the work, not their bios or beeswax.

But today’s publishing demands some personal exposure. It’s a weird and uncomfortable transition, and in the process, some get confused as to how personal to be in the virtual social space.

To the rescue comes a polished and experienced professional, literary agent Janet Reid. See her blog post here, about how to (and mostly how NOT to) present oneself as you head to the field of publishing.

It’s solid advice from one who knows. Not arguing, and also breathing a sigh of relief that I have nothing in my digital past that needs fixing. (Actually, almost nothing, but I’ll leave it there.)

However, I have one more to add to this list of please-don’t-do-that, and it’s a personal one that has bothered me for years, mostly because it is so ubiquitous on writers’ sites.

It’s the tendency to hide in plain sight.

I took care to include in my About Me/bio all true things that are germane and pertinent to why I do what I do. I omitted plenty that I don’t want to share and don’t think has relevance to my writing life. But even as I use some humor, I wrote central and deep truths.

I understand how some do not want to say anything that goes beneath the surface. Thus, we get “fun facts” such as “I like green jelly beans, have a fear of spiders, and once climbed a mountain with a plate on my head.”

And that's pretty much all they say.

This sort of disclosure is not much fun, and serves to masquerade as personal sharing while hiding.

Maybe having a factual bio would be better. It’s not humorous, but I’ll get to know you just a wee bit. Janet Reid mentions that you should have a photo of yourself, not of a typewriter. I think a bio should also expose something.

Just my take on this tricky road. I know it isn’t easy.

OLD(er)

Kids, skip this. It’s not for you. (Yet)

You know you’re getting older when a photograph of you from ten years ago that you thought was a bad one looks pretty good to you.

You know you are getting older when comments to a Facebook photo say something like, “Still looking good... you never age!”

You know you’re getting older when you are almost the age of the neighbor you once had who was “that old neighbor.”

You know you’re getting older when the next-door neighbor’s pre-teen sums up a long conversation with you saying, “Gee, talking to you is really not like talking to an old person.”

Yup, all from personal experience. Actually, that last one was downright neat.

And I’ll take ‘em all. What’s the alternative?

Feel free to complete--- You know you’re getting older when...

Facebook Falsehoods

Just got another one. “A Facebook friend wants you to like...”

Facebook, in addition to being the unwitting conduit of fake news and falsehoods of other kinds, has been an affordable advertising tool for some and a connectivity tool for many. I always understood my data, such as Facebook thinks it has, is how they are able to provide this tool without a monthly charge.

The only controls explicitly given are the privacy layers that only innocent friends and colleagues (who are not hackers) are effectively blocked from causally seeing. Hackers see all, and Facebook certainly does. That’s okay with me. Everything on my timeline is fully public. This is how I use Facebook, as an ad.

Thus, most of my Facebook friends are not personal connections, but colleagues.

I’ve written before to say that on my social media pages (which very much includes this blog) I tell the truth and nothing but the truth. But I never considered telling the whole truth because many things of me and mine are private.

Which brings me to this pesky habit of some who think it is fine form to ask others to like this or that.

I like what I like, truthfully. All my likes are my own. If I didn’t “like,” it may be because I missed the post. I don’t spend many hours scrolling or I would have time for little else. But when I get one of those requests to like, it is an automatic forgetaboutit.

You may not think so, but it has a whiff of falsehood. Something related to paid reviews, which are malodorous to say the least. Actually, they stink.

Because, to me, even my Facebook public face can’t be a fake. If I liked yours, know that I really liked yours.

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.

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.

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.

Web-search YOU ;)

My last post was about web presence. This took me onto self-googling, now a verb. But in proper lingo, it could be any search engine.

Why do it? I think it would convince you of the value of your own website. It really is the only place where you control the content and look of your face in the digital world.

If you have a horror of looking at what a search would uncover, there must be deeper issues involved that a good therapist or a close friend may help you sort out. But for most of us, checking on what pops up when we insert our own name is not so bad.

Because, for most of us, there will be something but not a lot.

I have two close friends who informed me I would find nothing whatsoever if I searched them. Both are proud to not be on any social network, have no websites, and no arrest records. Yup, any of the above will bring up something, and they assured me there shouldn’t be anything that pertains to them. So I took the dare.

WRONG.

If you have a common name and surname combination, you will have to wade through many links to find the right you. Both of my not-on-Facebook-etc. friends have distinctive names, and oh-mama, I found them right off the bat. I found where they live, what they paid for their home(s), names of people in their immediate families, and more that I will not list because they chose not to be searchable, so why make it more grating than it is.

There are ways to eliminate some of these finds by opting out, but more info aggregators constantly pop up. It a game of whack-a-mole, or whack-em-all, which is exhausting and unachievable.

This bring me back to those who want (or need for professional reasons) to be found on the net, but would like the finds to be accurate representations. Self-googling has shown me that my age was confused with my husband’s, thus aging me prematurely. (Though my age was given to him, which he thought rather nifty.) I supposedly lived in the past in cities I never did, (but lived near them in a shared zip code) and a few more inaccuracies. Thus, I know the “facts” aren’t right.

The social networks provide free exposure, but they determine the aesthetic. If your place of employment has your name and photograph, this, too, is graphically a reflection of their sensibilities.

And so the only place where you are really you, or the public you that you care to be, is your own site.

And if you really don’t care who sees what wherever, have no external reason to care, count yourself off the grid and happily so, then this is of no relevance to you.

But maybe think about it after self-googling.

My Guarded Hanukah Secret is Out...

Tonight is the first night of Hanukah.

No, that’s not the secret.

In years past, we had a small crowd for our yearly Hanukah party, and that meant making latkes.

I have a trusted recipe for latkes. It’s not hard, and I’ve shared it here. This recipe makes very good latkes for a small family. The grating and squeezing of the potatoes is part of the dues we pay for eating them, and the tears shed grating the onions must stand for any penitential feeling we have about taking in so much oil then, and for eight days to come.

But for a party, (that is, more than twenty latkes gobblers) it’s different. Not only will the cook be grating until there’s no strength left to eat, but the onion-tears will make more than a puddle. You are liable to drawn before anyone arrives.

My kids attended a Jewish preschool, where I volunteered to be part of the latke-making crew. The teacher in charge of the kitchen was a legendary cook. I mean it literally; as the rumor persisted she’d been a real chef in some fancy shmanzy three-star restaurant in France in her younger days. She most certainly had a French accent, so it was not impossible.

She taught us a thing or two about child rearing. She was wise that way. But her lasting contribution for me was her latkes-for-a-crowd secret. I’m paying it forward on to you, which is my Hanukah gift this year.

So here goes: For half the amount, use your favorite traditional “from scratch” latkes recipe. The second half you will make with potato pancake mix. Yup, the kind you buy in small boxes in the “ethnic” section of the supermarket. Then use one half cup less water for each boxed mix. Make the mix first, and add to it the hand grated traditional ingredients as you grate them.

A.    You will not need to squeeze the potato water as much.

B.     You will have more time to play with the dreidel, because you will not need to grate as much

C.    The Monoglycerides and Sulfite to Maintain color in the mix will keep the whole batter nice and yellow before the potatoes oxidize into an unappetizing gray, and you won’t have to hurry as much

D.   This combination absorbs just enough oil to make it the miracle of the oil,  but not quite as much

Finally, this half-and-half recipe actually makes the best large-batch latkes. 

The GIANT Experiment

Those of us who use the Window 10 operating system must have noticed the ever-changing screen photos that Microsoft so generously gifts us, always with the question at the right-hand corner of the screen asking whether we like their new selection. 

The choice of reply is couched in the gentle affirmation (“I like it”) or gentler negation, (“Not a fan”) with the promise to change the photograph if you clicked on the latter.

I noticed that the Microsoft deities change the ones I liked almost as fast. I also noticed they bring back some I decidedly was not a fan of before, and told them so. With the exception of two photographs in the many I have given feedback to, none were really what I wanted to have on my screen. But I found myself saying I liked the ones that were not too queasy-making after a whole series of truly unpleasant photos appeared as I feverishly clicked on the Not-a-fan option. I was ready to settle for the Not-as-awful ASAP.

Granted, all the photographs are technically brilliant. All would have their fans somewhere. But I tend to dislike close-up photos of  mechanical implements (think gears, tools, and such) or icy winter shots during a cold spell. I don’t care for the photos that give me vertigo, either. I’m not a fan of the desert or any arid landscape, having come from a land that has too much of that.

I want green and lush. I want to feel nourished. Once in awhile, the Micro-deities indulge me. I click on the positive, and get to “keep” the image for a wee bit. They have yet to offer what I really love— a cozy indoor space replete with rich traditional textiles and many books. I’d stay in such a space forever.

This whole thing got me thinking about the purpose of this operation. The Micro-deities do not do things without a purpose. So, Bill—what gives?

Until someone somewhere tell us the whole story, I have concluded this is some sort of experiment where the algorithms calculate not only who likes what, but also how fast they are at telling. This would explain the returning of rejected images. Maybe they were rejected on average at 1.2 seconds before, and on second round, they are rejected faster/slower. I wouldn’t be shocked if someone at one of the Ivy-leagues is compiling the data, paying the Micro-deities a handsome sum, and devising the cleverest way to market something.

It isn’t personal, and no one has to reply to the prompts. But you know what? I’d like to know what. That is— what’s up with that?

Already?

I can hear the sighs. Is it the end of August? Already?

Yes, that. Already.

Got me thinking of how we’re continuously surprised at the passage of time. You’d think we’d have gotten it by now.

And this got me thinking about now, and about another “already”—

The things I’m all ready for right now.

I’m all ready to start drafting a new Middle Grade novel.

I’m all ready to let anxiety abate about dear ones and the world in general. Worrying hasn’t been helpful.

I’m all ready to make a positive contribution to the general pool, and accept feeling good about it. (Hint, I’m ever-so-very ready to have an acceptance or two in the pile of rejections in my inbox.)

Yup, I’m already ready. 

What are you ready for?

Let’s do it together—

Ready, set, GO!

PEN NAMES

...a.k.a nom de plume

“...What is your name?”

The child hesitated for a moment.

“Will you please call me Cordelia?” she said eagerly.

“Call you Cordelia! Is that you name?”

“No-o-o, it’s not exactly my name. But I would love to be called Cordelia. It’s such a perfectly elegant name.”

From ANNE OF GREEN GABLES by L. M. Montgomery ©1908

Ever since I read these lines, way back in the wee days of self-conscious awakening of middle childhood, I knew I had a bosom buddy in Anne Shirley who so desperately wanted to be called Cordelia.

I’d already named myself many times. I have a prescription my mother saved from when I was two, and told the doctor my name was Skippy. What two-year-old would want to be called Mirka if she could be Skippy?

For authors, the pen name (or pseudonym) is an old and venerable tradition. The French idiom for it, nom de plume,  literally means "name of feather," which harks back to the quill pen, a writing implement used since 600 AD. The nom de plume used to be a way to hide identity if the writing was too racy, too politically sensitive, or just plain not the sort of writing one wanted to be known for.

Nowadays, most of the above reasons don’t hold for long. It’s too easy for an interested party to trace the true identity of a writer, and we don’t worry about casual interest. Only the truly interested could pose a potential problem down the line.

Most authors who opt for a nom de plume do so for reasons of branding. They may want to publish under different names for different genres of writing, or re-invent themselves after a less than brilliantly successful debut. Or, like Anne-with-an-E, they may find their legal name uninspiring.

"Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia—at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E."

 

"What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot.

"Oh, it makes SUCH a difference. It LOOKS so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." 

I have come a full circle from my days as Skippy. I have made peace with my legal name, and branding is something I still can’t wrap my head around.  I seek authenticity in what I read and what I write.

But every now and then, I wonder.

Dalilah Corazon?

Jo Bunkerville?

D. D. Durk?

Ah, the possibilities.

Who would you be?

 

 

A good article about the challenges of choosing a pen name is linked here.