Currently Browsing: Life
October 29
Forget the facts and let’s be practical
Whatever your story, whoever the players, the odds are good that the folks who saw your life unfold remember it completely differently.
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September 11
When I think of the 2,996 individuals who died at WTC, I think of Sandy Brace — the only one I knew — and try to multiply that out. I can never do it; it’s too big. I try anyway. She was an acquaintance at Writing.com back when I was an angsty, teenaged writer. She wrote about her family, her cats, the loss of her mother, staring out her office window on one of the upper floors of the World Trade Center and dreaming of what she’d write next. The need to live before time runs out. Her time ran out way too quickly for way too little reason. RIP, Bandit’s Mama. I barely knew you, but I’ve never forgotten. * Sandy’s writing profile (last login on 9/7/01): http://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/sandybrace About her life, and the day before her last: http://memorial.mmc.com/pgBio.php?ID=30 Her 9/11 memorial page: http://www.legacy.com/toledoblade/sept11/Story.aspx?PersonID=119106&location=2 * From Sandy’s poem “Transformation”: As each of us grows ever older, we return to our childhood. We return to the fragility and softness of those early years. There, if we are lucky and search for it, we will find The sweet wonder of our growing time and memories That fill our throats with joy. We will feel again the laughter And the peace of those distant years. […] I wearily endure the weight Of my time and a silence in my heart. I feel the stillness, But there is not sorrow. I sense quiet, but there is not loneliness. Withdrawing now from my world, I fold my soul into myself On this day that is mine, and I hug my aching bones. […] From “Sandra Conaty Brace: 25 Cats, 55 Words”: (Source: http://memorial.mmc.com/pgBio.php?ID=30) Sandra Conaty Brace might have appreciated a short biographical sketch about her. After all, she herself had mastered the 55-word short story — a challenge to the most diligent amateur writer. Mrs. Brace had published much of her work on Web sites dedicated to the genre. Mrs. Brace lived in Stapleton, Staten Island, and took the 7:40 a.m. ferry across the harbor each day to her job at Risk Insurance Solutions, where she was an administrative assistant. She shared her house with a husband, David, and 25 cats. Well, maybe not exactly 25. “It’s probably more,” Mr. Brace said, “But I lose count.” Dinner for the cats always caused a minor food riot, but even a riot can have its own poetry. Mrs. Brace placed cat food on seven plates on...
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WTC: In memory of one.
February 20
Some visual perspective on Bahrain
Here are my silly little Americanized comparisons to show how big Bahrain REALLY is.
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February 9
It’s nothing too terribly fancy, but I love it. I can’t tell you why. I found twelve of them at my mother’s house in a back room, drooled a little, and asked her where she’d found them. She said “Big Lots” and “a while ago”. A dated church bulletin crammed down in between the pages of the top one on the stack revealed what “a while ago” means. We’re talking 1993 here, folks. (At her church, that’s two or three pastors ago, even.) They’re slim, they’re comfortably floppy, they’re probably theme books, and there are hieroglyphics everywhere on the cover, but no company name to be found. They are each saddle-stitched in a (removable? Not mine, so I didn’t try too hard) vinyl slipcover, and there are maybe, maybe, 20-30 pages in each of these babies, max. I want some. They make me want to write quick short stories with a definite ending instead of the long rambling stuff I always start in Word docs on my computer and never finish. They also would work with my left-handedness, and not many journals actually do. Help me out. Where can I buy these? (And no, don’t think my mother will give me one for a second. No...
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The red marble, mystery notebook
January 12
The 10 phases of rejection
Rejected? No problem. Rejected again? Anger. Denial. Insanity. T.H. Mafi’s take on the classic cycle of a writer’s ego.
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January 3
Getting back on the writing horse
When unexpected things happen to interrupt your writing life, picking up where you left off and can be hard to do. Here are some ways to beat the slump.
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January 2
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster. ~~Isaac Asimov, science-fiction writer, 1920-1992 ....
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Six minutes to live
July 28
Indie publishing queen Zoe Winters, who keeps accidentally inspiring me to write these mondo-long blog posts when I’m innocently trying to procrastinate by reading her blog in the first place, spoke today about the myth of The New York Gatekeepers of Publishing. From Zoe’s post: There is a lot of hullabaloo about “good writing” vs. “bad writing”. And how do you know if you’re a “good writer” or not? The sad truth is that you can’t. I think one of the reasons the gatekeepers hold SUCH strong sway over unpublished authors is that they NEED to know if they’re good or not. And the reason they need to know, probably more than other types of artists, is that EVERYBODY thinks they can write. Whether they can or not. Everybody believes they have a book in them. It’s not like other forms of art like painting and sculpting and film where people seem to have some basic grasp of whether or not they suck. So many writers don’t have enough self-confidence. And those that do often end up being the ones everybody mocks for self-publishing crap. So people are afraid if they have self-confidence it must mean they suck and are just deluded. So much ego is wrapped up in the act of writing. When a NY publisher says: “Yes! We will buy this work!” They are validating you. They’re an authority figure. To many writers these gatekeepers mean more to them than end readers. She’s right. Validation is a slippery thing. I’ve found more trouble dispelling that crazymaking need for outward validation than any other aspect of the illusionary writing life. Every time I thought my big break was imminent, something always came along to knock me back down to my comfortable place on the bottom rung. Usually, it was me. And before you say, “Well, I don’t care what other people think, I’m writing for myself,” let me tell you: writing to publish “for yourself” as an end goal is impossible emotional level to hit and score against. Here’s why. As a naive college kid, I remember thinking, “I’ll be a professional writer when I send out my first query letter to a major publishing house.” Then I did just that, and it turned out to be not that big of a deal. My family was unimpressed that the Highlights editor hand-penned a couple of words on one corner of my green form letter. If I remember...
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How to make 100% sure you never get your big break as a writer
July 16
I read a blog the other day (3 Shared Paths, one of my favorites), and the latest post discussed the recent solar eclipse and how long it would be until the next one: 19 years. Rebecca mused on how long 19 years feels—not is, chronologically but really feels—and how much a life can change in that time span. My favorite gem: What will be the themes in your life 19 years from now? Take some time to really think about it because you’re building that time in your life right now. That hit a nerve. Definitely. 19 years ago, I was a different person. Hell, that was three whole people ago. In 1991, I was idealistic, lazy, depressed, and hopeful. Yes, all at the same time. I had my whole future ahead of me and I knew it, so I didn’t waste much time with the present. Unfortunately, that particular present was the last place I had the chance to see my great-grandmother alive. Or visit my childhood home which was later bulldozed for the maintenance area of a public golf course. And it wasn’t long afterward that I had a crisis of faith, my first broken heart (which is really the only one that matters, isn’t it?), and a breakdown in the identity of my youth. So much has changed since then, and I must have been the one that changed it—for better and for worse. I’ve rebuilt, and I’m better for it. You always are. It takes a lot of breaking to make a solid person. That doesn’t mean it was simple. When you’re a kid convinced of invincibility, as all kids are, the first problem is always the hardest. You disbelieve that bad things really are going to happen, or that your turn for old age is just around the corner. Rebecca’s blog post reminded me of a tiny poem I wrote when I was in my 20s: ~30~ when I am thirty I shall believe that I will die for as a child, both thoughts were equally impossible. I find it in a folder again every few years. Umm, yeah. It happened, just as I suspected it would. I was right. The poem’s a bit overdramatic, as many of my twenty-something and teenage poems were, but the concept still fits. Now I know, without a doubt, that I am going to die. I will have a last breath, leave my body, and go wherever...
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100 years are simply not enough
