The Critic

 
Half past dead of night,

     awakes early morning sun

to inspect my words.

 

 

Divide and Conquer

I’ve made some progress regarding the number of projects I’m balancing, but it has been difficult. Ultimately, I had to sit down and list the things I’m doing before prioritizing them.

It’s not as if I hadn’t already done this: in fact, I live by lists and time lines and schedules; however, things were a bit different this time.

This time, I made my list, set my priorities, and then—oh god—then, I built my schedule for the next three weeks around working on only the top two priorities. (This means I’m currently pretending the other five super-important, really-beneficial, totally-interesting projects do not exist.)

Generally, I consider all of the top-priority things I have to do and spread my time evenly among them, but lately, this has created some significant mental chaos as I grind slowly through so many things I feel as if I’m running through mud.

So, I made up my mind: the top two things get my attention and damn the rest for now.

Talk about frustrating: I was in a constant struggle with my brain over the other things until I bought myself a tiny notebook into which I have given myself permission to jot down the things that are busily throwing themselves at me about all of the abandoned projects—abandoned is their word not mine—the result was a lot of distracting note taking at first, but for the last day or so, my brain has given me a break and allowed me to focus on the only two projects that currently exist in my world.

STOP. Thief!

How can February be nearly one-third over? Who grabbed the remote control on my life and hit the fast-forward button?

The last time I looked, December was meandering to a close, and the hint of New Year’s possibilities was just around the corner.

Then things went dark: for four days the first time and just over one the second. Snowed in and without power, things slowed to a crawl, and while inconvenient at times, the taste of the past made the experience worthwhile.

Then there was the first good illness of the year: hello emergency room and five-hour-wait-to-be-seen which was followed by the four-hour-wait-to-be-released which added up to my very first (and hopefully last) twenty-seven (27) hour awake-the-whole-time “day.”

I lost the rest of that week recovering from the sleep I’d missed and caretaking, but HOW DID I GET HERE: to the 9th of February?

Oh, and did I mention the Julia Fordham musical loop that keeps going though my head?

During my 20th century graduate work, I learned to multi-task like a madwoman. I think I turned the corner when I developed the ability to read three books simultaneously while keeping each compartmentalized in my brain. This has bled into my I’m-not-a-student-anymore but-I-still-go-to-school-and-have-homework life (often referred to as teaching). I suspect part of the time-warp I'm experiencing is due to the number of really cool projects I’m working on: I’ve got handfuls of stuff to do each non-teaching day, and most of it is satisfying work, so I wake up at 5:30 ready to dig in, and other than breaks for little things like exercise and food and bathing, there’s no stopping me. Suddenly, it’s 7 at night and the pets need my attention, and dinner is overdue, and and and. . .

I'm beginning to suspect projects are not like books or assignments: perhaps they are best handled independent of one another; however, the thought of setting a few of them aside for any length of time makes me want to scratch my eyes out.

At least if I did that I’d miss the calendar pages whizzing off the wall.

Common Things

A couple of weeks ago, while fighting the type of cold that allows one to do little more than watch television and sleep, I had the good fortune to run across a Planet of the Apes marathon. It was just the thing to keep me entertained between medication and naps.

The original movie still holds up well, and as far as great story lines go, I think it’s fantastic. I also love Charlton Heston as Taylor, but it’s not my favorite role of his. When I think of Charlton Heston, my first thought isn’t of Ben Hur, nor is it of Soylent Green. Both cross my mind, but for me, Charlton Heston is The Omega Man, and given my love of Vincent Price, that’s saying something.

No one ever seems to know what movie I’m talking about when I mention The Omega Man. I’ve even tried to ring bells by referencing The Last Man on Earth, but I always get the same blank stares. Now that I Am Legend is out there, I hope that will change, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

The last time I was at Starbuck’s, the trivia question was “Who wrote I Am Legend?” Shockingly, no one had come up with the correct answer before me, and the barista was impressed but not shocked I knew the answer. (I’ve had a bit of a run at Starbuck’s when it comes to trivia, and soon I shall need to stop letting them grab items from my brain while I sleep.)

I rifled off some of the other stuff Richard Matheson has written to see if I could ring bells with any of the baristas, but nothing really worked. Actually, all it did was secure my oddity in their eyes, but in a good way. I think.

Here’s the thing about Richard Matheson: he’s written a ton of material that is absolutely dear to me. I know. I know. Who among us can’t say that about our favorite authors, right? Well this is different because the works I’m talking about have come over the course of the last thirty years of my life, and until about a year ago, I had no idea one guy’s brain was responsible for all that stuff.

I’m a huge fan of The Twilight Zone, and when the attempt was made in the 80’s to bring back the magic of the original series, there was one episode that stuck with me: “Button, Button.” It is the kind of story I've always wanted to write.

The original series also featured a tale that is better known for William Shatner’s being in it than for Matheson’s writing: “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.” In addition to that episode, Matheson wrote The Twilight Zone episodes “A World of His Own,” “Nick of Time” (another episode with Shatner), “The Invaders” (which stars a lineless Agnes Moorehead), and about ten others.

During the early eighties, I saw a movie that struck me in the same way as “Button, Button”: the story was so fantastic, I wanted to grow up and write like that. It’s called Somewhere in Time.

I also grew up watching Star Trek, and one of the best episodes—aside from "The Trouble with Tribbles"—was written by Matheson: “The Enemy Within.” Kirk is split in two during a transporter malfunction, and one of him is good while the other of him is evil. The story goes on to explore how each of us needs both good and bad to survive and to be who we are. (Reread that last part—to. . .be. . .who. . .we. . .are—in your best Kirk voice.)

There’s a ton of other stuff this guy has done that most people know of: The Incredible Shrinking Man, A Stir of Echoes, and What Dreams May Come are some of the biggies, yet I’m willing to bet that for as many people as there are who have heard of one or more of his bigger works, almost none of them know the man’s name.

I find this sad. I’m just happy to know he’s out there writing the kinds of things that make me rethink the world, take another look out of the corner of my eye, and dream of someday writing something like that.

Oh, and did I mention that “Button, Button” is being filmed? The title is The Box, and I can’t wait to see it.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night--Really

I know what you're thinking: it is often both dark and stormy at night, and you are quite correct. In fact, this is especially true in the winter, but last night I got an extra dose of dark: by the time the sun set, I'd been without power for several hours, and in my neighborhood, dark is dark.

We have no streetlights, and when there's a blanket of clouds over everything and the power goes out, it's the kind of blackness in which you really cannot see your hand in front of your face.

I write this on my backup PDA using a portable keyboard. I am conserving all of my laptop power as well as the power on my primary PDA (which is also my cell phone) for fear this loss of power will last a few days.

It's now almost nine o'clock, so the outage is nearing hour eighteen.

Other than it being cold in the house--it's dropped to 52 degrees--the outage has been an adventure.

I have plenty of candles, a gas stove, and a gas water heater, so I can have hot food and beverages, and later today, I can even take a hot shower. (Watch the hair, though, no blow dryer!)

I spent several hours last night reading and writing by candle light, and unless this outage continues through the weekend and a significant snowstorm, I'll count this as an enjoyable respite from modern life.

During those thrilling days of yesteryear, when I was an undergraduate, I began to marvel at the means by which people who lived in the periods before me had "managed." Because I was an English major, much of my wonder came from the hours I spent reading novels and writing papers about them: the time it took to do those things often took me into the wee hours of the morning, and things like electricity and technology got me though.

I often thought about the writers whose works I held in my hands: writers who didn't have the luxury of electric typewriters and heaters and light switches.

It made me really appreciate the effort it took to put words on pages: working by hand and by candlelight without the luxury of the things I took for granted.

I have students who have never used a typewriter, so they have no concept of just how "easy" they have it with computers and the internet at their fingertips.

I was fortunate enough to move from hand-written essays to typed essays to word-processed essays, so not only did I learn how to draft and rewrite and edit, but also I appreciate the technology I have today in a manner most younger people probably do not.

I am extraordinarily thankful for the Internet, and the technology that makes my writing life easier, but I wouldn't trade having grown up in a time during which the following things were the "technological" standards:

• It took physical effort to change a television's channels.
• There were days of the week and times of the day gas and groceries and money from one's bank account could not be acquired.
• Learning something required talking to another human being or going to a library.
• Libraries cataloged their holdings on little cards arranged alphabetically and stored in drawers.
• It took ingenuity to communicate: in our family, that meant "give us two rings when you get home." (The long distance charge was circumvented, but the message was received loudly and clearly.)
• Typing was a rhythmic adventure that included tapping, dinging, and sliding sounds.

Of course, for the time being, I am enjoying the old-world feel of my day, and I am looking lovingly at several of my bookshelves really appreciating what writers before me managed to accomplish.

Thing One and Thing Two

I could spend today discussing how upset I am at one of my neighbors allowing a pair of its cats to mate and have kittens. If I had chosen to discuss this, I’d have to point out the neighbors already have at least four (and possibly six) cats—all of whom live outdoors. I’d also have to mention we live in the wilderness: we have all manner of wildlife here including things like coyote, bear, and fox, and I’d share that I imagine each considers kitten a delicacy—especially this time of year as other things become scarce, and the snow is on the verge of falling.

If I were to write about this, I’d end by saying my fear for the safety and well-being of these creatures is superseded only by my knowing where there is one litter of kittens, there is the potential for more—exponentially. I’d share with you my concerns that these kittens will become cat-producing snack-producing factories in the next four to six months and that the neighbors of whom I speak are trying to sell their home, and based on what I know of them, they will not be taking any of the new cats with them.

If I were to write about this, I’d leave out the part about how big a sucker I am when it comes to stray animals and how thoroughly upsetting this is for me.

Instead, I decided to focus on this month’s NaNoWriMo, and one of the things I use to keep my fingers moving on my keyboard in order to make my 50,000 words in 30 days’ time: it’s a program called Home Typist.

This FREE program adds the delightful sounds made by a typewriter to one’s computer keyboard, and for me, the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping is music to my ears.

I suppose my love for these sounds stems from having grown up in an era of typewriters and high school typing class and a mother who spent the early portion of her career as a madly-typing secretary. (You do know that the woman behind every mad scientist was a madly-typing secretary, right?)

I have recollections of my mother’s fingers moving so rapidly across the keys the actual mechanisms would get tangled, and the metal arms with their upraised letters would have to be picked apart gently.

The ball of letters was an improvement, but I still recall times my mother’s word-per-minute ability outshined them. It was a bit like a Kung-Fu movie: her fingers would stop and the words would just keep coming.

Admittedly, there are times I have to turn my Home Typist off, and when those times occur, a little bit of the magic I feel while writing evaporates. Fortunately, the program sits unobtrusively in my menu bar, and I know the time between mute and magic is merely a tick-box away.

Plan-tastic!

Pick up any book or magazine or journal focused on writing, and at least part of the subject matter will deal with strategies to plot a piece, but I’ve never placed a great deal of stock in many of the super-structured methods described. (I’ve never doubted their value, but I’ve never felt the need to integrate them into my work.)

I’m a seat-of-the-pants writer: I get some type of idea and go with it without spending a great deal of time concerning myself with where it goes or whether or not it actually gets someplace. This has been relatively successful for me in terms of where I’ve been with my writing.

It’s one of the beauties of my not being a full-time writer: I have the luxury of writing for the sake of writing, and if what I begin fizzles out, I’m not really any worse off because of it.

But I want to write full time, and I’m realistic enough to know the job of writing full time means there can’t be much fizzle when it comes to putting words on paper.

This is not to say I expect everything I write to work or to sell or to please me, but I’ve been giving a good deal of thought to my seat-of-the-pants approach as I visualize the moment I can quit my day job and focus on my writing, and I’m intelligent enough to know I’m going to need to learn to write with a greater degree of organization while retaining the joy of letting a story and its characters have their (necessary) share of control.

There simply won’t be time in my upcoming, full-time writing life to let things meander and fizzle: I intend to have deadlines (and a good many of them) whether self-imposed or by virtue of a contract.

I’ve begun the transition by making certain I submit at least one piece each month to a contest or publication. Because these are shorter works, it’s been an ideal way for me to begin the process of balancing my whims with a plan. At a once-per-month pace, I simply don’t have as much time to meander: I have to have a solid idea and work on fleshing it out before it turns to mush and too much time and effort have been invested in a piece that never had a chance in my hands.

Enter Holly Lisle’s Clinic Series which covers plot building, character building, language building, and culture building.

I’ve read and heard a lot about Holly Lisle lately: it seems most of the writer-owned sites I frequent rave about her clinic books as well as her fiction, so I wandered over to Lisle-land to see what all the fuss was about.

It’s taken me about a month to look through the vast array of stuff she’s made available to readers and writers and other passersby, and it’s been time well spent.

She also does something I applaud: she offers free previews of her work, and because of this, I downloaded and tried Holly Lisle's Create a Plot Clinic and Holly Lisle's Create a Character Clinic. The previews are substantial: forty pages and three chapters, respectively, and these freeviews resulted in my purchasing both books.

(I likely would still be considering their purchase had the freeviews not been available—even with all of the positive feedback I’ve heard.)

Which brings me to my point: I’m currently working through the “Tools” section of Holly Lisle's Create a Plot Clinic, and I already see how the strategy she describes in the book is going to help with the story I’ve been bouncing around in my head.

Like my other ideas, this one came to me as a basic premise with a very clearly defined scene during which the protagonist and antogonist meet. The old me would have simply thought the scene through until it became agonizing not to write it—two to three weeks at the most—and that me would have taken the plunge and written whatever came while caring little about where it went until I felt it was a “story.” (I want to emphasize this me did not simply let things go: she is good at tracking a great many elements in her head and can generally take a basic premise such as this to at least 20,000 words with little story-building effort. From there, she decides whether it was meant to be a short and cuts and edits and adds and such; or she decides it’s a novel, and she fleshes out and adds and edits and such. Occasionally, she has 20,000 words that lend themselves to nothing more, and that is what the new me wants to avoid.)

The new me has thought this thing through, but she is going to build her plot as described in Holly Lisle's Create a Plot Clinic, and she is going to flesh out her characters as described in Holly Lisle's Create a Character Clinic, and then she is going to release the hounds.

In the meantime, the hounds are feeding on the submission deadlines; although, they now have to take the time to order their meals.

A Bright Idea Dimmed

I recently purchased a number of Compact Fluorescent Lights (CFLs) to replace the bulbs in a variety of locations in my home. I admit I didn’t do a ton of research regarding CFLs, but I haven’t been living under a rock, either. Based on the information readily available via the news, few of us can argue the advantages of moving from traditional lighting to CFLs.

But there’s a bit more to this than meets the eye—or ear.

The first few times I looked into replacing my incandescent lights with CFLs, I was shocked by the initial monetary outlay that would be required, and immediate economics won out over the long-term benefits and ecological advantages. (Several years ago, replacing my household lighting would have run hundreds of dollars.) Recently, more companies have gotten on board, and the increase in competition among manufacturers has resulted in a dramatic reduction in CLF pricing. In addition, CFLs are now being made in a greater variety of sizes, shapes, and wattages.

This is all good news, and when I ran across a really good sale last week, I filled my cart with CFLs.

When I got home and began the bulb-replacement process, I learned that all CFLs are not created equally: many are not suited for three-way lights, lights that use dimmer switches, or lights that employ timers. My home is filled with fixtures that dim or have three-way switches: each of which was purchased with energy savings in mind. I also have exterior lighting that runs on timers and/or sensors to prevent burning bulbs unnecessarily during daylight when I know my workday will find me returning home after nightfall. (The area in which I live is in the middle of nowhere, is devoid of community lighting, and gives real meaning to darkness. It’s nothing like the city, and both safety and reality require I have a bit of light by which to walk inside.)

Most of the CFLs I had were useless: they were not fit for many of my fixtures. I replaced those bulbs that I could, and then I jumped on the internet to do some of the research I had previously neglected.

I learned the three-way, dimmer switch, and timer issues were moot with many brands, but I also learned a bit more: these bulbs have mercury, and if broken, they do represent a potential (though minor) health hazard.

A CFL bulb generally contains an average of 5 mg of mercury (about one-fifth of that found in the average watch battery, and less than 1/100th of the mercury found in an amalgam dental filling).

Okay—this isn’t great news, but it isn’t terrible either. I don’t ever recall breaking a light bulb in my life—save for the occasional Christmas light suffering its demise while I removed light strings—so I am probably not in real danger.

With that said, I found the following handling cautions confusing:

Handling and Disposal of CFLs

The mercury in compact fluorescent bulbs poses no threat while in the bulb, but if you break one:

1. Open a window and leave the room for 15 minutes or more.


2. Immediately use a wet rag to clean it up, and put all of the pieces and the rag into a plastic bag.


3. Place all materials in a second sealed plastic bag.


4. Call your local recycling center to see if they accept this material; otherwise, put it in your local trash. Wash your hands afterward.


5. If a bulb breaks on a carpet, pick up the pieces using sticky tape. If any debris remains, use the vacuum and dispose of vacuum bag by sealing it in plastic bags (as above), before disposal.

Take a close look at the contradiction presented in items one and two: in the event I do break one of these new bulbs, do I open up the windows and leave or do I “immediately” clean things up?

There's a lot of bagging and double-bagging in the safety instructions, and it seems to me all the CSI stuff supercedes leaving; on the other hand, might one leave for fifteen or more minutes and return to the scene for cleaning?

All of this confusion coupled with the fact that some bulbs aren't suitable for some fixtures dims an otherwise bright idea.

Sold!

I received some exciting news yesterday: on the heels of my recent rejection, the second piece I submitted to the same publication was purchased and will be appearing in the next few weeks.

When it’s released, I’ll post details here. For now, keep your fingers crossed for me to get the opportunity to read the story as well: the publisher combines written work with podcasts, and it would be a real bonus to be the voice behind my own story.

Beyond Cool

Once in awhile, I run across a site that just captivates me. I stumbled onto Centripetal Notion recently, and if you hurry, you can spend the time you were going to take being here over there.

The place defies description, but if you are breathing, you’ll find something interesting.

Why are you still here? Get going!

To Have and to Hold

I’ve had a lifelong love affair with books.

It began in my childhood with lots of the caretakers of my youth reading to me and with me. I was lucky enough to have parents who took me on adventures to the library and bookstores. My folks also ensured I was one of the kids who got to order from the super cool book magazines at school, and my memory of delivery day is my box was always the biggest.

My Christmas list is regularly littered with must-have books and requests for bookstore gift cards. Of the frivolous expenses in my year, books outweigh everything.

Over the years, I’ve developed a pickiness about the books I read: size, shape, and covers can make or break a spontaneous purchase, and while I never refuse to read a book I’m interested in because of the version available, I have been known to leave a bookstore empty-handed only to make an online purchase of the book I was after in a version I prefer.

A recent example: I decided to buy Crime and Punishment after reading a writing article about a particular element of Dostoyevsky’s book. A day or so later, I was in a bookstore and found a copy of the book, but it was a paperback version with really small font, and it just didn’t give me the warm-fuzzies. I went home, poked around online, and found a hardback copy of medium size which I purchased. (When it arrived, I found it very warm and plenty fuzzy.)

Those of us who love books understand how difficult parting with many of our reads is, and we all suffer the same ailment: too many books and too little space in which to keep them.

Additionally, I suffer from an education-based injury as well: the chronic backache of the book-laden English Literature major.

While studying for the requisite Comprehensive Examination for my MA, I was in constant possession of several books and several binders of notes: every spare moment was filled with studying, and in order to study, I had to have the texts and the notes.

Then, the eBook was born, and shortly thereafter, the Microsoft Reader converter was given life. Much of what I was studying was available electronically (for free), and thanks to the Reader converter, my notes could all be changed into eDocuments as well.

I became a much happier person once I was able to load 60+ texts and the notes about them onto a PDA.

The experience has turned me into an eBook fan, and while most of my purchases remain physical texts, there are times an eBook is what I want. There are other distinct advantages to eBooks: privacy, portability, built-in dictionaries, and backlights in the reading devices for insomniacs like me.

For example, I recently began reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, and after buying the physical text, I located a free eText. I keep the eBook on my Treo, and not only do I have the book with me at all times, but also, when I awake at 2 a.m., I can read from the eBook while remaining snug in my bed with all of the lights out.

About two weeks ago, I wanted to purchase several eBooks, and the reason was two-fold: first, there was a blowout sale on some titles I wanted to read in preparation for some writing I am now doing, and save for the sale, I would not have been able to spend the money on the books; second, the books are erotic in nature, and the covers are not the kinds of images I am comfortable exposing while proctoring exams and the like.

I don’t care that half-naked people in extremely sexual positions grace the covers, but some students are so easily offended, I have to be careful. (And then there are those students who simply don’t know better than to say something inappropriate once they see the book’s cover.)

I filled my cart with nine eBooks, and with the kind of giddy excitement I always feel over books, I tried to checkout. Each time I tired to buy the books, I received a very confusing message regarding copyright laws, and after spending several hours attempting to get to the bottom of the issue, I realized the seller’s system was locking me out because it believed my copy of Microsoft Reader to be unregistered.

(For those unfamiliar with eBooks and copyright, the short answer is that many commercially available eBooks have built-in copy protection that is tied into a simple online registration process of the reading software. This protects authors from losing money at the hands of unscrupulous, thieving, shit heads who think copy a text and giving it away is the right thing to do.)

The thing is, my Microsoft Reader was registered.

I wanted those books in the worst way, so I reregistered my laptop’s Reader. Fortunately, I realized my Treo’s copy of Reader was not registered, and that needed to be fixed before I downloaded the books, or I probably wouldn’t be able to get them onto the Treo.

(Again, for those unfamiliar with eTexts, in order to place copies on several devices, each device must be registered and owned by the same person. See the shit head explanation above for the reason.)

I spent TWO DAYS trying to register my handheld device (i.e. the Treo), and each try ended with a failure and a declaration that my device had the wrong operating system on it. This situation was addressed in the Microsoft Reader forums, and there was a fix available for download. Unfortunately, the fix yielded the same failure/error message.

I even completed a hard rest and software reload.

I gave up in frustration, and chose only two of the nine purchases because anything I bought I’d have to read on my laptop which is about as convenient for me as carting around an entire set of encyclopedias.

The missing books weighed on me, and I went back several days later and tried the whole process again, and again I failed.

I installed Adobe’s eReader, and I had the same problem.

There were only three eBook versions available: Microsoft Reader, Adobe Reader, and something I’d never heard of: MobiPocket Reader.

I went to the MobiPocket site, and having determined the reader software seemed legitimate, I gave it a shot: in about 10 minutes I was up and running on both my laptop and my Treo.

Unfortunately, the sale that started it all had passed, and while I decided to splurge on two more of the original nine books I’d wanted, I found the whole experience troubling.

Obviously, several authors (and the selling site) didn’t get my money, and while they might at some later date, they likely will not.

Had I not been ridiculously driven to purchase those eBooks, the first failed attempt might have led to my giving up. I’m going to guess the average consumer might have given up, and if that consumer were trying an eBook purchase for the first time, chances are excellent that person would never try to make a similar purchase again.

Because of all of this, I am sold on the MobiPocket product and intend to avoid the others. As a bonus, MobiPocket also has a converter that I’ve already begun to use to create new items and replace old ones.

Rejection

This morning I read a post at Paperback Writer, a site I’ve been following for the last six weeks or so, and it made me laugh out loud—really. And then, it made me very, very depressed because I am so at the-idiot-who-misses/ignores-the-cannibal-signs stage it hurts.

You can read the whole post here, but the gist is this: writing is as big a tangled mess as almost any profession worth pursuing, and because what is at stake is of one’s own creation, the loss at times is immeasurable while the small victories are enormous.

Great.

In an ironic twist of fate, the words I read fit everything I’ve done professionally, and given “writer” is now on my tax form right along with “teacher,” that makes this tapping of the keys my third profession.

Way to go, Shawn!

I remember watching Personal Best in the early 80’s, and one line from the film has always stuck with me: Scott Glen (as Terry Tingloff) says, “The high jump is a masochist’s event—it always ends on failure.”

I’ve often thought that line the perfect description of writing: it’s a masochist’s pursuit—it requires a willingness to fail. A lot. While pretending everyone who rejects you is a moron. No matter what.

True, this could be applied to almost any creative pursuit, but if I write a story, and it goes nowhere, I can’t hang it on my wall, or pour coffee into it, or give it to my friends as a gift. It hasn’t made my abs better or my teeth whiter or my clothes hang more elegantly. I can go back to it, decide whether or not it’s worth trying to save, and either “fix” it or kill it. And the rub is, unlike the painting or the ceramic, a story is basically useless unless it goes out into the world. (The only benefit a rejected story may have provided is teaching the writer something. But that’s not necessarily the case, either. Often, the story is good, but some other thing has prevented its being accepted/purchased.)

Now, my father is an artist and he’ll read this and disagree about my suggesting writing is any different from painting. He’ll remind me of all the paintings he’s failed to sell, and all the rejections he’s faced, and to a certain extent, he’ll be correct, but he will have missed one of the most significant differences, and the primary reason writing is so different from other creative endeavors.

He can post his paintings as often as he wishes and never face an inability to sell them or enter them in contests or submit them to a gallery because paintings and other similar creations are not exposure-limited like written pieces are.

The things I write that I intend to sell or enter into contests I must keep secret. Most publishers/contests do not accept simultaneous submissions, and they want first rights—often print and electronic. Meanwhile, the turnaround time regarding acceptance/rejection ranges from weeks to months. What this means is I spend months or years on a project, and then I begin at the top of my wish list of publishers/contests and send that baby off. And I can do nothing else with it until I hear back. Months later, when it’s rejected, I go to publisher/contest number two, and so forth.

Meanwhile, I have to create a whole new world before I can try to make a sale or win a contest. (Yes, I write because I love to, but to make it a career, I have to sell things and gain exposure.)

My dad—I love you dad, and I appreciate your support, so don’t be too mad—can paint a piece, photograph it, and send its photographic representative to as many places as he wants to—simultaneously. He can hang the same piece in a gallery while it resides virtually on his Web site and blogs, and he can take it from show to show to show without anyone batting an eye.

There is no limit placed on how or how often he exposes that one work of art.

Selling anything one has created is a matter of talent, luck, and exposure. Unfortunately, my works of art have to remain hidden like unwanted children or precious gems, and most of the time, they suffocate in the process.

I found out yesterday that my latest story submission has been rejected. It’s a really good piece called “The Battle That Raged On,” and I’d share it with you, except, I really believe in it, and I’ve already begun the process of sending it off to another potential publisher, so I can’t let you judge its value for yourself.

I can’t even post parts of it here to get a little positive feedback from my friends and family. I have to pull the knife out of my own back, lick my own wound, and kiss my baby goodbye yet again.

And wait.

Attention: You Are Not Alone in the Universe

Several days ago, a new phenomenon began to occur in my neighborhood. Normally, the early morning hours are filled with a variety of nature’s sounds including wild birds singing, deer walking their well-worn paths while crunching the occasional leaf, and dogs barking here and there. Aside from the dogs, it’s a great way to begin a day.

Last week, while the various forest creatures were beginning their early-morning routines, and I was pouring my second cup of coffee, a car horn sounded several long, obnoxious, un-forest-like hoots.

The noise silenced everything else but reverberated through the area like the screeching echo of a beast. Talk about a mood spoiler.

The next day, it happened again.

And so it appears it will be on weekday mornings.

The driver is obviously picking up another passenger, and the idiot behind the wheel is so pathetically lazy and rude he/she thinks laying on the horn is appropriate.

I hated the horn-honk when I lived in the city, and in the mountains, it is just this side of criminal.

But it goes far beyond the noise: in the car, I imagine (based on the time) there is at least one school-aged child being taught by his or her parent/guardian that it's perfectly fine to be lazy and rude and honk one’s vehicle horn in the peaceful hours of the early morning.

Neighbors be damned.

That same passenger is also being taught that getting out of one’s car, walking up to the door of a person with whom you are about to share a ride is a complete waste of time and energy.

At the very least, the asinine honker might send the kid from the car up to the door, but that might mean the child actually burns up a few stored calories, so forget it.

And before anyone points out the driver might have only an infant who can’t be left in an automobile, I ask you: do you think the dingbat driver is without a cell phone? What—he/she can’t pull to the curb, park the car, and call the person in the house to announce the grand arrival? (Heaven forbid the rider wait outside in the beautiful, late-summer air.)

I can promise you this: if the honking keeps up, I’ll be getting into my own car and driving the vicinity to find the mad honker so that I might honk at him or her myself.

What is wrong with people?

Turning a Critical Eye on the Carpool Lane

I commute to work, and when I say commute, I don’t mean drive: I mean commute, as in I live over 60 miles from the campus at which I teach. In terms of driving time, it takes me nearly 90 minutes to get from my home to school, and that’s if there are no unforeseen events.

The first thirty minutes of my commute is on a winding mountain road, and any other driver who’s ahead of me has the potential to be one of those unforeseen events by merely traveling slower than I do.

Then there are the traffic accidents: the freeway is filled with unskilled multitaskers, and none of them has the common decency to have single-car collisions: they always have to involve others in their shortcomings.

Which brings me to the carpool lane.

When our schedules allow, I carpool with a coworker, but it’s not an easy thing to do. We rarely have identical schedules, so there’s an hour or two either before or after arrival during which one of us is trying to work in a shared office that’s the size of a small home’s master bathroom. (To say it isn’t an ideal working environment is an understatement.)

There are other issues as well: once committed to a carpool, errands are out of the question, and for me, this makes things very difficult. Although my coworker lives 45 miles from campus, she is 10-15 minutes from things like the grocery store, the gas station, and the typical assortment of convenience-based businesses to which most of us who live in non-yurts have become accustomed.

My shopping and gassing up and getting a hair cut are best planned around a trip into town (i.e. going to work) because I live thirty minutes from civilization. Unfortunately, once I drop off my carpool partner, I have passed everything I need, and turning back down the hill sounds like fingers—lots and lots of fingers—scraping down a chalkboard.

I also have friends and family who live near my campus, so getting to see them before or after I teach is a luxury I lose when I am sharing a ride with someone else.

But the gas savings is huge, and passing hundreds of bumper-to-bumper cars is such a time saver, I generally compromise by choosing one day per week as my non-carpooling day and plan all of my errands and visits around it.

I have mixed feelings about the carpool lane: I think it’s a great idea to encourage drivers to share rides whenever possible; however, I’m not sure the carpool lane is the best way to encourage what ought to be natural behavior.

The carpool lane functions on three basic principles:

1. Take away and entire lane of the freeway from the majority of drivers causing what is already a major traffic backup to become worse.
2. Allow an itty bitty percentage of drivers to use an almost-empty lane provided they pack their cars with the requisite number of bodies.
3. Pretend taking away a lane from the majority to encourage a minority does something to help the environment while overlooking the fact that the backed-up cars are getting nowhere fast and throwing crap into the air for greater amounts of time.

Again, the point of the carpool lane is to get people who are going to the same place to share rides, and by ridesharing, to get a car off of the roadway.

So how does a minivan with one adult and one or more kids fit? Was there ever a chance that mom or dad or insert-adult-title-here was going to go someplace while the child was going to go to another place, but they decided to take only one car to save on gas and to toss less pollution into the air?

I’m sorry, but the carpool lane should be reserved for driving-aged persons who take the time to plan, and who are willing to sacrifice a bit in the name of line-cutting and environmental responsibility.

The non-driving-age passengers should not count because no car was taken off the road by the actions of the adult and child being in a car together. Unless I get to pack up one of my dogs and use the carpool lane—that would make things fair.