WHEN THERE’S A HUMAN BEING IN FRONT OF YOU, PUT AWAY YOUR PHONE

 

Yes, I know. I know. But what if…

            It’s someone who rarely calls and I want to talk to them. Or…

                        It’s an answer to a (non-medical and not from a doctor) question I’ve been waiting for.

 Or…

                                    It’s one of my kids just wanting to chat. Or…

’NUFF with the “ORs,”--- these really can wait because there’s a live human being you are with, as in NOW.

 

I have few friends who agree and fewer who act as I do.

 

So, what do I do? With some of the above I send a one-sentence text saying I will respond later unless this is an emergency. So far, it only qualified as such once, and that is to this day my one exception.

 

I go one further and usually go for walks by myself sans phone. This is more than being present because I’m with a live human being other than myself; it’s about being with the human being that is me.

 

I suppose this sounds radical to many. I am blessed in the sense that I grew up in days of yore and have an idea of what life without phone-slavery is like, and I have little fear of keeping that aspect present in my life now.

 

You do you. I post this just as a wee consideration.

WARNING: GRUMPY RANT AHEAD

 

You’ve been warned. Right now, I’m Ms. Grump because of my yesterday. I hope to climb out from under today with the help of letting it out here. 😠

 

If you’ve used health services for routine matters, you know the drill. You called to make an appointment, navigated through the automatic phone tree (“For providers press one, for appointments press two,” etc.) and landed an actual person who makes the appointment.

Okay. Pat on the back. Done.

 

Not so, dear heart. ❤️

 

Two weeks before the scheduled appointment, the real thrilling drill begins. You get a text/email instructing you to fill out a questionnaire regarding your health status and more. This is a pre-registration promising to save you time on the actual day. The link is to your online portal. You fill it out. It only takes ten minutes.

Okay. Pat on the back. Done.

 

Not really. It just begun. 😮

 

The beginning of the week of the scheduled appointment (routine screening, mind you) you get a text asking to confirm your appointment. It says to reply with Y2 if confirmed, or N2 if not. You reply with a Y2.

Okay, this time we’re done. Right?

 

An immediate reply follows saying you failed to reply properly and to call a certain number.

Only the number is missing two digits. But it’s what they tell you to do. You look carefully and, yes, you replied with a Y2. Never mind, call this non-number anyway.

Your phone tells you this is not a number. 🫢

 

You login through the portal and chat with a supposed real person (Hi, Sam K.) who tells you to call a different number. At least this number has all its digits.

You call the number Sam K. says to call and find yourself climbing another automated phone tree and press option #3, for appointments. You wait eighteen minutes to get a real person (Hi Trish) and are told she can’t help with confirmations of already scheduled appointments. But Trish is nice and will now transfer you to the number where they can do the deed.

But if you think we’re done here, you are too trusting.

 

The number Trish transferred to is, mercifully, not a phone tree. The man who answers (Hi Jim) says he can’t help, but he will give you the number that will.

That number puts you in a queue that lasts only seven minutes, where Marla will now help you. Marla apologizes not for the madness of the system, but for the sorrow you are experiencing, which, all things considered, Marla understands and sympathizes. Bless Marla, she confirms your appointment for the end of this week.

 

And now you’re done. You sure hope so. You’ll know for sure at the end of the week if all goes smoothly when you arrive.

 

I hope you didn’t go through this. It sounds like a fictional story. But I did, only yesterday. 😥

 

Here’s a simple suggestion: what if, while making the appointment for this non-urgent routine screening test, the nice person who schedules it (sorry, I didn’t write her name down) also fills the registration? And what if a simple email to confirm is sent a week before where you speak English to reply with a YES, I WILL BE THERE. How about them apples?       🍎🍏🍎

 

But that might be too simple, efficient and easy. Why make it easy when it can be hard?

 

Rant over. Peace. 🤞🏻

!!! ALERT !!!

 

At 3:08 am I was jolted awake by the screechiest loudest most gosh-darn scream from my cell phone.

AMBER ALERT!!! AMBER ALERT!!! AMBER ALERT!!!

As the blasting continued, I looked at the text. Something about a child abduction in a brown Buick. The only option to stop the shrieking phone was to “erase.” No saving for later. I tapped it ASAP.

And then I laid awake until morning, heart beating fast, wondering how many bay area residents could possibly spot a brown Buick from their beds. I was fuming.

This is not the first time this happened, and I always lament the uselessness of these alerts to all cell phones. When you have one in our state, you cannot opt out of these alerts on a basic (not smart) phone.

It has happened while driving, and nearly caused me to crash. There is no way I would stop on the highway to look at my phone. I don’t answer normal calls while driving, either.

It has happened at various times of the day, and I don’t see zooming cars from my kitchen, either.

It happened when I was getting an ultrasound by a surgeon (that’s another story) and she nearly dropped her handheld device.

And that screech: I didn’t know my phone is capable of such volume.

A well-intentioned setting that in fact is largely useless.

If you are not acquainted with the Amber alert system, see this.

I am all for radios broadcasting (without upping the volume manifold, as they do now) and especially for the electronic signs on highways.

But how can I possibly help from my bed?

As I lay awake, I realized I was not really angry at the alert. I was angry that people do horrible things that made others invent such a system. I was angry that countries invade other countries without provocation. I was angry that a few bad apples inflict so much harm on the peaceful and helpful majority.

I learned this morning the details of the abduction,  The face of an angelic toddler taken from home by what is reported to be a stranger with out-of-state license plates is haunting. 

I’m mad that such happens. Now that I’ve had coffee I’d like to go out and look for that brown Buick.

But as an aside, don’t shoot me, I’m also grumpy because I was awakened hours ago in a violent way and am lacking sleep. Some of the best intentions lead to grumpiness.  

P.S. 

Update: Thankfully it's been resolved. Waking up residents in five counties was not the reason the abductor was caught and the child rescued. I'd wake up every other night if it helped, but it hardly ever does for all the reasons I noted. I wonder how many car crashes and heart attacks these alerts have caused, and if anyone is counting.

Less is MORE

 

SO MUCH MORE

I just finished reading a novel whose author, in the Acknowledgements page, thanked so many people that the page turned into pages, plural.

I’m one of those readers who always reads authors’ Thank Yous. There, I encounter the good feel of gratefulness, and occasionally a deeper glimpse into the writer’s process. I rarely know any of the names being thanked, but it matters not. I like the ambiance; being in the presence of expansiveness and joy, something I feel deeply for my beta readers and anyone who ever helped me be a better person.

But here comes my pet peevishness: when the number of people mentioned goes over, say, ten— it’s diminishing returns multiplied exponentially with every addition.

Like everything else in writing, (and life), curtailing exuberance actually has the effect of giving a statement power. I lamented this in an old post about overuse of exclamation points, here.

I actually went on to count the number of people thanked by name in the above mentioned author’s river of gratitude. As I did so, I wondered if some dark part of me wasn’t envious that she not only had so many people to thank, but even knew this many people. (The number is two-hundred and thirty-six, but who’s counting.😮) I’m sure every one of them is diminished by the size of the crowd.

I don’t have an exact number not to exceed. I just wanted to remind myself (and anyone reading this) that less is more.

©Mark Anderson 2015

Are You Tired of CORONA Yet?

Beware of branding, for it may come back to burn you.

CORONA, once just a Latin word for crown and a nice sounding one at that, is now *the global enemy* to be vanquished. But remnants of its old glory branding days are everywhere.

Beer^

Beans^

Seltzer water^

Chocolate^

Cars^

And in case writers, ever sensitive to words, want to forget about it~~~

Hemingway’s old typewriter.^

Oh, brothers and sisters-- I need cake...

^GAHHHHH!^

Professional Approach In Non-Paying Obligations

One of my peeves is the callous attitude some folks have when payment is not involved. We know that when a contract (verbal or written) involves money, it is a professional agreement and deadlines count. But what about agreements that don’t involve exchange of currency?

Some people think these aren’t real, or binding, or at the very least “not as binding” as deadlines set by bosses/contracted editors/clients.

I learned this lesson years ago, when I was part of an organization of volunteers who put together a biannual review of the private schools in the bay area. We met, the chosen head organizer set directives for the standards of the reviews, and we accepted which schools each of us would review. The head set fixed deadlines for submitting the reviews. Some people covered only one school, but I had two schools to cover.

When the deadline came, I submitted my reviews. They entailed research, two school visits to each of the schools, (one an organized tour and the other an impromptu school visit) and interviews with people whose kids attended the schools. No small feat when I had a preschooler and a toddler, as well as a mother who was full time in my care. The head organizer had the added task of looking over all the reviews and making sure they met the standard of the catalog the organization set. It had been a much-lauded publication for over twenty years.

Only the head organizer and I met the deadline. She then had the added task of nagging and needling the other volunteers to submit-please-do-it-NOW. She managed to gain some gray hairs before the publication heroically met the final deadline in time for the Bay Area Private Schools Fair.

 I have since encountered this lackadaisical attitude in critique groups and beta readers, exchanges that do not involve money but do involve agreement to exchange favors. Most folks are professional in meeting standards and deadlines. But then there are others who regularly forget/get distracted and miss these obligations altogether...
...oops, so sorry!

I am not referring to unusual occurrences. Life happens. There are medical and family emergencies. There are situations we can’t plan for and couldn’t even have the ability to notify when they happen. But these are not the rule, and if someone almost always skips and slips, we have an unprofessional attituder (I made this word up 😎) on our hands.

What these folks are saying, in effect, is that because they are not paid, they’ve pushed others and their schedules to the back of the bus.

What to do about it? For myself, I make it a policy not to be such a person. That’s what I do.

At the beginning of this post, I didn’t call it a pet peeve, because I think it isn’t petty to ask for respect. I can’t fix others, but I resolve to be the kind of person I respect. It makes me feel good.

I highly recommend it. If you’ve been such a slacker, change this for yourself. I think you’ll feel good.

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.

Choosing Animals with Care

I’ve been reading and giving feedback to many aspiring authors lately, and one issue has come up repeatedly to irk my otherwise want-to-be-generous reading self. It’s the way kid-lit writers use animals in stories.

There’s an old tradition of using animals as human stand-ins. Aesop did it, and even the Old Testament has a donkey who talks. (Numbers 22:28) But in every case, the storyteller chose the animal because something about its species conveys an essential character trait or function in humans, of which the story is really about.

This is most clearly articulated in this fable, about the scorpion and the frog. The frog is the one who can swim (and real frogs do) and the scorpion is one who can’t help but sting (and they do.)

Conversely, in recent picture books, some writers use an animal character humorously, as one who grossly doesn’t fit its species characteristics. Think of Olivia the pig who wants to be a ballerina. Every one of us humans has experienced this “not fitting the mold.”  Ballerinas are supposed to be lithe and graceful, and this is not how we experience pigs.

This way, a cat character who loves to get dirty and stay dirty, much to the consternation of his feline friends, could work. The writer chose a cat specifically because cats are always cleaning themselves. The choice has to do with something of the real animal.

But more and more I’m reviewing drafts with anthropomorphic animal characters chosen for their novelty, (there are no other stories on the market with a Sugar Glider, so there) or their cuteness, (I like bunnies, so there) or just because why not.

This isn’t a new thing. Puss in Boots, anyone? But it seems more like an epidemic in the drafts I’ve been reading lately. Animals are chosen for the wrong reasons or no reason at all.

To this reader, this is not use but abuse of this venerable tradition of anthropomorphic animal-tales.

Day of Fooling

Maybe we need comic relief more than ever and maybe mischief is what passes for comedy to some. But this is my blog and so it's my plea to seriously not fool around on this April Fool's.

I know. Bummer. Tomorrow is a sanctioned day for pranks. I like clever humor, but was never fond of the sort April first brings.
Blame it on my first memory of this thing we call April Fools’ Day.

I had just turned five, walking hand in hand with my father. He said that today it is all right to lie. I asked why. He didn’t explain, but said, “Watch me.”

We were approaching our apartment building, where we lived on the second floor. The first floor apartment directly below us was the home of my best friend. Every apartment had back and front porches, and we played on either. That April first, my best friend (who was four at the time) was standing on her front porch and waving to us enthusiastically.

“What happened to your face?” my father said to her, his face painted with a horrified expression.

“What?” she said.

“Oh, dear girl, this is terrible!” my father said. “We have to take you to the doctor right away!”

I was baffled. I squinted to see better. My friend was shaking.

“What is it, Abba?” I whispered.  

“Her face! It’s bright green!”

My friend clutched her face and burst into tears. She ran inside.

“See?” my father said to me. “This is April Fools’.”

My father was a gentle and kind person. I viewed him as the voice of truth. This was very confusing. I had seen no green or any other unnatural color on my friend’s face. I tried to absorb what just happened. I rubbed my eyes as if that would fix my vision.

Then I started to cry. If her face was bright green and my eyesight was failing, April Fools’ was about ill health and possible imminent blindness. A reasonable conclusion under the circumstances.

In the years since I have found most pranks to contain some element of cruelty. Maybe this is a residual taste from that one long ago. Ten years later, my friend told me she didn’t remember this at all. No harm done except that, well, I don’t like it. So there.

Take it easy, everyone. Especially on the young’uns. Especially now.

DO I HAVE TO?

If you’ve read this blog before, you know how I rail against the standard/daylight savings time change. You must be saying “’nuff already,” and “there she goes again,” and “there are much worse things, so grow up.”

Only this time I am not pleading for me. Take pity on my cats.

You see, they don’t read digital clocks, (though one of them, I swear, can read the analogue kind. She will stare at it for hours until it’s feeding time) so just pointing at the clock and saying “not yet” has no effect.

Try telling Ms. Nougat that I have one more hour to sleep. She’ll pretend to be polite for a few minutes, and then graduate to jumping and attacking the quilt and finally-- me.

Try telling Miss Clara her seven/thirteen/seventeen/twenty O’clock (think army times) feedings are not yet/not yet/not yet/not yet, and see how far that gets you.

I know, change is good. Change is a mini-vacation. In fact, why would anyone who lives in a nice place and a beautiful location schlep to a vacation? For the change, of course.
As hard as I try to convince myself these forced time changes are vacations, I can’t convince my cats.

©The New Yorker cartoons IB PG

And then, when I finally succeed, we have to do it all over again in spring.

Take pity. If not on me, then on the cats.

Ms. Nougat: “Sorry, the old seven just doesn’t feel like itself. Glad you’re up even if you prefer to still be tucked in. See how nice it is to be up an hour early? I’m on top of it, literally.”

Have We Got an Offer for You!

Or—

Ha! Yet another scummy scam L

We all know by now that the IRS doesn’t call us on the phone asking us for supposed owed cash, pronto. We know a Nigerian Prince or a Ukrainian billionaire is not in need of our urgent help to release his gazillion $$$ into our account if only we provide our bank account number, or whatever.

But recently I encountered a brand new one that required more sophisticated search algorithm on the part of the scammers. A message was left on my home phone telling me it was so-and-so from a literary agency who was so impressed with my published novel (perfectly named ) and whose agency wanted to promote in an upcoming literary mega-fairs, (also properly named real events) and turn into an international bestseller. If interested, could I please call (number and name) for further discussion?

I can imagine what further discussion would amount to. Invariably it would require some sort of financial information from me.

This operation was rather funny. I wrote a very good book. But to think it a potential international bestseller is a stretch to the point of a tear. In addition, I’m traditionally published, not self-published. Everyone who is anything like a literary maven knows to approach the publisher, not call an author at his or her home. But what made it creepy is that my home phone is not listed anywhere under my name. If fact, none of my phones are under my name. So somewhere, the connectors of cyberspace have gone to deeper lengths to tie personal information together.

Hopefully, writers know that fee-charging agents are schmagents. By now we know that publishers who charge us are vanity presses. This is a minefield, which is not hard to avoid if we hold firm to the principal that we don’t pay. Rather, we are paid.

But there seems to be no end to the crooks' inventiveness. I want to tell them they should use their ingenuity toward the betterment of humanity instead. But I know any engagement is futile and will only lead my information to the sucker-list of those who reply in the first place.

Stay safe, everyone. Stay vigilant and remember to laugh occasionally, which is what I did at this last offer to make me the next J. K. Rowling.

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 &

Dear Author

So I woke up feeling frisky. I decided it was time to respond. This response is to the likes of which I (and every writer I know) had received at some point. In fact, a baffled colleague had just shared getting one to a manuscript for which I was privileged to be a beta reader. Sometimes it’s easier to go to bat for someone else whose work is as good as it gets, in my not humble enough opinion.

From my never-to-be-sent response, you can pretty much reconstruct the original rejection.

Dear Publishing Professional,

I thank you for reading my submission, and for saying you loved-loved-loved it. You needn’t have thanked me for offering, as you said, just the sort of work you are always looking for. I researched and made certain this is the sort of story you have worked on before, and are still looking for. I was most happy that you found it among the best you have seen, and shared this assessment with me. I noted with joy your delight at the relationship between the two protagonists, and the edge-of-one's-seat plot. Your comment on the beautiful phrasing and pacing was most rewarding, because I had worked diligently on both aspects.

Of course, I was saddened that you ended with having to pass on this story, because it is not a fit for your list. Mea culpa. I should have realized your list is made of poorly realized relationships, plodding plots and tired language. I now understand better why you needed to pass on this manuscript.

I will do my best to target next time.

Sincerely,

Author

Okay, steam blown and serenity restored.

‘Tis baffling, but there it is. All publishing professionals are beyond overworked and overwhelmed with less than wonderful offerings by the zillions. But variations of effusive letters that ended with a pass leave a writer with nothing to fix but existence itself.

And no, this particular rejection really was not one I got. But I did see it and it really did happen just now to someone else, and that someone else is going---.

Still, we're ever hopeful, and waiting for some love. C'mon, it's almost Valentine's Day

The day of Mad Reckoning*

*a.k.a. Retunes (or exchanges)

We don’t “do Christmas,” unless you count the general good wishes of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and homemade cookies. It’s been years since I spent time in department stores scouting for gifts in the month of December.

But what I do hold onto this time of year is to not go anywhere near stores the day after the holiday. I have made that mistake twice, but no more. The first time, long ago, I was lured by promises of uber sales. The second time I did it by mistake. I forgot the madness of the day and thought it might just be the time to look for something that could have waited. I should have.

The day after national gift giving, hoards descend on stores with gift certificates that fell from the trees or were handed in office parties. They make a rather joyful bunch. They were not the problem.

The ones that got to me were the other faction crowding the stores— the people with return receipts to exchange gifts they refuse to use. They never seem joyful. In fact, they seem angry, cantankerous, and garrulous.

That first year I saw a young woman in tears that the bathrobe she got cost so little there was nothing she wanted to get for it in exchange. She had some choice words for the gift-giver who was not present. I saw a child who got a toy he already had, in tears because his mother would not pay for something he wanted as she would have to add too much $$$ after the exchange. The worst was an older woman who refused to take anything other than cash for her return, because she said she hated that store.

It was not pretty. The energy was the most unhappy and unspiritual that I could recall. I vowed to accept gifts from now on and only return them, if I felt an overwhelming inkling, sometime later. From then on, this was the day to NOT go anywhere near stores. It was the day to count one’s blessing that I was here, and not there.

The day after Christmas. That’s today.

SPAM= Unwelcome Spiced Ham

Remember when Spam stood for canned meat of unclear origins?

Euphemistically named for “spiced Ham,” (it wasn’t exactly, but those who liked it preferred not to delve further) it was salty, greasy, meaty, and oddly satisfying to all but gourmet palates.

In the Internet age, SPAM became something almost completely different. It is unsolicited commercial Email. Only the “unclear origins” retained the connection to that potted thing-a-ma-food.

Beginning last spring, I noticed more and more comments on this blog that were not from readers. I moderate comments specifically to weed out SPAM. I have rarely gotten comments that were cantankerous, and welcome those. So long as they are from genuine readers, c'mon in. I’m not afraid of disagreements.

As the counterfeit comments come into my comment-moderation sphere, I mark them as SPAM faster than I can read them to the end. Sometimes the comments contain links. I don’t click on the links, so I can’t report if they involve relatively benign selling of somethings we don’t need, or dreaded viruses. Sometime they may be attempts to get entrance to the site, with no visible links.

In the past, the texts of the comments were riddled with very poor not-quite English. The sort only Google Translate could have come up with. They did painstakingly (I assume) refer to the specific post, but they did so incoherently. Those always contained links.

This summer brought a new flavor of Spam. The ones coming in in the last few months have two things in common. Invariably they come from Anonymous and they are to a post that is old. I mean, a few years old. Key words must have been caught by the casted nets and fished out by the swarming hacking machines. The comment’s text says nothing about the post, but congratulates me on such an excellent blog, promising to follow my “informative posts” from now on.

Frankly, my “excellent blog” is not very informative. (Gee, Mirka. You really can’t take a compliment, can you?)

Just as I was typing here, one of those marvels showed up . Here is most of it, for your amusement:

"Hello! Excellent statement! I prefer which you outlined Blogger: Mirka Muse 
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today's entertaining setup .
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such as the one visit made by simply clicking this valuable link writing services company reviews, at which ghost writers as well as the reviewers appear
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I can't imagine who would click on this clown's link for "school composition assist to". If anyone ever did, maybe they deserve such polished assistance. (It must work better in Polish, come to think of it.)

Yes, I have activated Spam filters. A few of them. I also mark every comment that I know isn’t from you, real readers, and send it to the great trash bin on the Ethernet. Lots of garbage floating up there, no doubt.

We do what we can to shore up the wall against these cans, and will continue to do it.
What do you do about Internet trash?

What’s *NOT* Working?

I’ve received editorial feedback along the lines of—“I like the premise, but not the voice.”

This usually means the idea & setting were good. But “the voice” (the personality of the narration, i.e. my writing) didn’t appeal.

 I’ve received editorial feedback that said, “I like the voice, but the plot is full of holes.”

This generally means that my writing is appealing, but either the premise or the unfolding of it isn’t working.

I’ve received editorial feedback that the writing was skilled and the characters appealing, but this and that detail ultimately made this story commercially unviable.

This usually means it’s pretty good, but needs more fixing than editor has energy or passion for and, frankly, hotter properties are flowing in the transom with abandon.

And these were reactions to the same manuscript.

I’d like to learn from everyone. But this is confusing, confounding, and crazy making. (The three “C’s for short.)

What these reactions have in common is simple: we don’t want to pursue this to publication.

Where they differ also contains a shared a point. It tells me something is off, whether the feedback has labeled it or not.

What’s a storyteller to do? Let it sit. Let it sink. Then get back to work.

Don’t give up, because that’ll not even be a C. Giving up, while legal and legitimate, is also an automatic F. 

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!

HAVE Your Cake and EAT it, Too

Living in our world, in a nutshell, can be summed up by the title of this post, which is also a well-known cliché. But it’s a cliché for a reason.

We swallow these contradictions all the time. Literally.

 

We don’t want to meddle in the affairs of other, be they neighbors or nations. But if we don’t, aren’t we complicit in the wrong doings we witness?

 

We mustn’t compare our efforts or results to anyone else’s. But then, what does any sort of rating ever mean, be it on Yelp, Amazon, or an informal comment?

 

We want to keep a smiley face on not only for others, but to buoy our spirits. But we commit to truthful and honest interactions and encourage others to do the same.

 

When public good and private good collide, we rationalize. When we can’t rationalize, we declare reason overrated. Then we question others’ rating. Who says it’s so?

 

I woke up this morning with a strange realization: life is about managing contradictions.

 

 

Now I’m excited about fashioning a story that explores just that. No doubt, it will have a neat ending, suggesting a resolution after all was said and done.

 

But this, too, will be an oxymoron.

And so it goes. Told you.

 

 

 

One-Star * Reviews

I had recently posted my first ever one-star review.

 

My stance on reviews is to post them only when I want to endorse a product. I never post two or three star reviews. Fine for others to do so, but I don’t see the point of mentioning “meh” feedback. For one-star, I feel that no attention is the right course.

Books, specifically, die of no-reviews faster than of bad reviews.

 

When it comes to books, if the book was so-so and not to my taste, I can’t imagine why anyone else needs my feedback. If the book was Baaaad I wouldn’t have read it to the end. I don’t care to review something I haven’t read to the end.

 

When it comes to products, they either more-or-less deliver on their promises, or they don’t. (The only books I could judge by that criterion are the How-to books, and if I thought a book would solve my emotional angst or show me how to get rich quick, I deserve to have gotten a dud.)

 

So no one-two-three star reviews from me.

 

Except I did just do that. The one star review I gave was to a product that came with a five-rear warranty. It was from a nationally known manufacturer. The seller was our largest internet retailer.

 

And it failed after one week.

 

I looked at the warranty. It states clearly— do not return to place of purchase. It gives a toll-free number to call where their customer service will instruct you how to proceed.

 

So I called. A recording kept saying no one is there right now, and to call later.

 

So I called later. I called daily for a whole week. Same recording.

 

So I used their website to make contact and ask what to do.

I got an automated response via Email saying my query was very important to them, and someone will contact me shortly.

 

That was two months ago.

Hence my one-star review. On the same site I saw I was not alone. No kidding.

 

I feel better. I still have a defective product, but I had done my civic duty.

 What's your review policy?