More on San Francisco and the Blog

Among the wonderful things I learned at the San Francisco Writers Conference was to blog seriously and well.  I have blogged seriously, but not always well.  More than a couple of entries have done me less than proud.  One was my infamous pity party on the page.  Another was my cutesy attempt to turn some of the hundred best movie lines of all time into a lesson on dialogue.

Ouch.

With that one I started toward point A and wound up zigging and zagging to the unknown.  No doubt, Rod Serling would call it "The Twilight Zone."

From here on I'm going to set up a different set of guidelines.  The problem is I don't have them all finalized.  I will promise not to post haphazardly, to consider each entry as a representation of my writing thrust into the blogosphere.  Because lord knows I learned the hard way about admitting to the world that I'm bleeding.  I'll bleed privately from now on.

In the original guidelines of the blog, I promised to post the good and the bad.  I can still do that, but with great care.  Therefore, I may not post every week, or I may post twice or three times in a week.  Depends on what's happening.  I'll formulate this as we go along, entry by entry.  It'll be a constant work in progress.

For now, though, let me share some of my San Francisco experiences.  I'll start with the Top of the Mark, where Princes, Presidents, Judy Garland and Elvis have spent time.  The view is amazing.  With good peripheral vision one can see both Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge.  I have good peripheral vision.  Breakfast is a bit pricey.  It's a solid $12.95 buffet for $35.95.  And Sunday's brunch is $70.09 per person.  I'm a cross between cotton candy and a medicine ball, and I couldn't eat thirty-six bucks worth of breakfast.

I discovered that a cab ride to many restaurants in North Beach, combined with a glass of wine, is less expensive than a single glass of wine at the Top of the Mark.  Still, I had a few up there because the view is so breathtaking.  It's what I'll think of when I hear the name San Francisco.

I adored Fisherman Wharf, particularly Scoma's, where a friend and I had a wonderful dinner.

I enjoyed the City Lights Bookstore.

San Francisco is not Maui, but it shouldn't be.  It is what it is and that's pretty damn awesome.  I understand why people love the life there.

Yes, I'll be back next year for the conference and the city.  It's a place that grabs you and holds on until your heart opens to it.  And, according to the song, you can leave your heart there.  Thanks, Tony Bennett.  I've had the devil's own time bringing mine back.  And the writer in me likes that.

Flowers in What's Left of My Hair

I'm writing this entry from my hotel room at the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins, the sight of the 2011 San Francisco Writers Conference.  I'm sure my view isn't the greatest, paying a conference discount rate, but I can see a bit of Fisherman's Wharf and the bay.  The view is spectacular at the Top of the Mark on the nineteenth floor.  With minor blocks, it gives a 360-degree view.  From it you can see a bit of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and most of Fisherman's Wharf.

The sight blew me away and brought a tear or two, as friends and acquaintances have lauded the praises of San Francisco for decades. I can't forget all of the movies I've seen set in San Francisco including Hitchcock's Vertigo, which shows this very hotel. And the novels I've read set here.  Finally seeing some of the sights with my own eyes pulled the emotions just over the edge.

And then there is the conference.

I feel like a junkie in the middle of a fix.

Dorothy Allison the first of our keynoters is one of the most amazing speakers I've ever encountered.  One sentence will break the room into belly laughs while the very next will send chills everywhere.

Yesterday featured David Morrell, father of Rambo, who holds the room with an economy of words.

Both inspired.

I'm going to post this now, short as it is, because I won't have time later.  Next week, I will lay out new guidelines for this blog based on suggestions from industry professionals. And also post some of the many things I've learned here at the conference.  If I listed any now, I would miss breakfast because I wouldn't be able to stop.

I will say, though, that I learned how to use a coffeemaker to brew tea.

I might have to invest in a coffeemaker for home.

Let's All Play

I think more people should learn how to play a musical instrument.  How about a guitar?  Keyboards?  Maybe even an autoharp?  It's fun.  I'm reminded of that from time to time when I play alone or with friends.

I'm not kidding myself.  I'll never be a star.  Never trot onstage with my guitar to the roaring screams of crowds and break into song, be that in an arena or a ten seat pub.  But it's fun to imagine it.  More so to get together for a mutual jam session and play as a group, everyone getting a chance to shine a little.  Maybe the experience stops there.  So what if it does?  It's a great way to while away a few hours enjoying either our own company or that of friends.

In the decades before television; the time when live concerts weren't nearly so prevalent; when radio was the primary entertainment for families, more people played instruments, in their living rooms, on their front porches, wherever and whenever the mood struck.

Stars emerged.  From Jimmie Rodgers to the Carter Family.  Robert Johnson to Doc Watson (pictured on right).  Most of the great blues artists from the 20's through the 40's were discovered playing on front porches or small joints.

Let's set that aside a second.  I've already said that we're not going to become stars here.  But we can become a little closer, sharing a creative endeavor rather a position in an audience.  Make no mistake, I love watching other people create whether at a monster arena or a ten seat pub.  Truth be told, most times I'd prefer the ten seater to the monster.

So why don't we do more of it?

Because we ... myself included, and I've been playing for forty-five years... aren't particularly happy starting with folk songs and one-four-five rock and twelve bar blues then, working together, building up the more complex material.  We want to play the guitar like Clapton or Slash or not at all.  We want to be Elton John on the keyboards instead of enjoying a little Heart and Soul.

Listening to the perfection of those who practice six to eight hours a day, five of which is nothing but scales and bleeding fingers has spoiled us.

But I say let's all learn an instrument.  I'll learn a new one.  I'll buy a banjo, or maybe I'll learn to play the autoharp like Maybelle Carter played it.

And writing songs is pretty fun, too.

I leave for San Francisco this Thursday for the conference.  I'm not expecting anything.  I have hopes, but mostly I was to see a beautiful city.

Revenge of Tom and Tex

When Jerry Jones bought the Dallas Cowboys in 1989, his first order of business was to fire Tom Landry, their legendary coach of 29 years.  The only coach they'd had up to that point.  Anyone could understand that a new owner might want to go in a different direction, but a fair and decent man, a man with any class at all, would have explained that privately to Coach Landry and given him a chance to retire with the dignity his place in professional football had earned.

Jones's second order of business was to hang on to Tex Schramm, the architect of the Cowboy brand, long enough to learn the ropes before putting Schramm unceremoniously out to pasture.

Had Jones any sense of honor he would have renamed Texas Stadium, Tom Landry Stadium.  He didn't do that.  And it took four years for Jones to induct Landry into the Cowboy's Ring of Honor, three years AFTER the NFL waived the usual waiting period and inducted Landry into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Schramm wasn't inducted into the Ring of Honor until 2003, three months after his death, and eleven years after he was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

It took the Texas Legislature to properly acknowledge Landry's contribution to the Dallas/Ft. Worth area by naming Interstate 30 between the two, "Tom Landry Highway."  They did so in 2001, the year after Landry died.  We used to call that stretch "The Turnpike."

The Cowboys have had success with Jones as owner, winning 3 Super Bowls and Cowboy fans remain fans, but there still exists a resentment of Jones for the way he treated Landry and Schramm, and, later, his Super Bowl winning coach, Jimmy Johnson.

In 2009, Jones built, thanks to the city of Arlington, an amazing Stadium that will host the Super Bowl tomorrow (Sunday February 6th).  Jones was hoping that this would put his dream stadium over the top in terms of legend.

Slight problem.

The weather.

From this past Tuesday, ice, snow and amazingly cold temperatures for this area (I've never seen it like this) have come close to shutting us down.  Add to that, this last day when the ice and snow started to melt, much of it slid off the top of the stadium damaging structures and injuring some workers.  One wonders whether the stadium will be deemed fit by the various safety marshals to allow people in.  This has caused many to wonder whether Dallas will ever get another Super Bowl.

If the game is delayed, then we have the answer.

All for you, Jerrah.

And somewhere, I suspect that Tex Schramm is laughing, and Tom Landry is smiling.

I leave for San Francisco in less than two weeks, and am proud of the first hundred pages of Catch a Falling Star.  I've said this before, but I'm quite serious when I say that this draft will be the last until and unless someone wants it.  I have too many other stories to tell.

I'll Miss You, Kaye!

A storyteller passed away this last Tuesday evening.  One I will miss for the rest of my life.  This person when pressed, and to be honest, it didn't take a lot of pressing, could spin yarn well into the wee hours of the morning.  It is true that this weaver of tales would tell the same story a number of different times in a number of different ways only occasionally matching a previous version, and that most likely by chance.  This didn't matter because charm and sincerity made up for it.

I inherited the first part without question.  If I ever spun a yarn the same way twice, it was under oath and hence couldn't be called a yarn.  I hope I inherited the charm and sincerity to go with it.

You can tell by the title that the storyteller was my aunt Kaye.  I'm writing this in Clarksdale, Mississippi, in the heart of the Mississippi Delta.  She will be buried here, next to my uncle, one of the best men I've ever known.

Do any of you blues aficionados recognize Clarksdale, Mississippi?  It is the home of Ground Zero Blues Club.  One of the owners is Morgan Freeman.  And it was the place where legendary blues singer Bessie Smith died in 1937, currently memorialized at the Riverside Hotel as the fourth historic marker on the Mississippi Blues Trail.

I remember it as the home of my aunt, uncle, and cousins.  True, most of the time we all met at my grandparents home in Joiner, Arkansas, but from time to time, we made it down to Clarksdale.  One in particular stands out, which I may relate some time.  I'll just say now that it involved my father and me escorting my grandmother back to Texas thirty-eight years ago.

Kaye told family histories mostly, things that happened when she was young, or things she heard that happened from people who saw.  The flood of the Mississippi River in 1936 is an example.  Maybe "histories" isn't a good word.  I think that "tales" is a better one.

I had so looked forward to many more years of swapping tales with her and listening to her correct my versions with inaccurate versions, which was fine because my versions weren't that accurate anyway.  I'll miss visiting her in Hattiesburg, though I'll still come to visit my cousin from time to time.  What seems odd to the point of the surreal is that on my mother's side of the family, I am now the oldest living member.  Yikes!  Me!  Holy shemama!

No new stories will issue forth from anyone born before 1957. So the stories of the family are mine to tell, with only two left to collaborate with.

In a family of storytellers, that's quite a responsibility to carry.

See y'all next week!

A Case Against the Bullies.

The parents of a 9 year-old boy are suing the Lewisville School District in Lewisville, Texas. I should say the parents of a deceased 9 year-old boy are suing the Lewisville School District.  The parents allege that the school district did not properly protect the boy from bullying.

The child was not murdered.

Young Montana Lance (pictured) hung himself in a bathroom at Stewart's Creek Elementary School, you see.  I find it interesting that the school district found no correlation between the suicide of Montana and bullying.

If I were a parent, I would see that as self-serving bullshit, kinda like the fox guarding the henhouse.  If the school district admitted finding a link, then that would set them up for potential liability.  Hence the lawsuit, and a conflict for me.

On the one hand, I hate lawsuits filed when something goes wrong, including, and maybe especially, when a loved one dies and no criminal liability exists intentional or unintentional.  It just smacks of greed or vengeance, neither an admirable quality.

I’ll leave that for another day.

On the other hand, bullying is a subversive, persistent, criminal behavior that has been tolerated forever with nothing more than lip service paid to it.  It is the bane of childhood for many, and is often met with disappointed looks from some parents who are secretly ashamed of having a wimp for a child, or aggressive parents stepping in to protect their child without teaching coping skills.  I came from both camps.  Name me a parent who wouldn’t secretly prefer to have a Super Bowl winning quarterback for a son than a bestselling romance novelist, particularly the dads out there.  If you can name one or two, do they really mean it, or are they paying lip service?

I have to ask.

We as a society secretly admire bad boy behavior, even when we condemn the violence and criminal activity often associated with it.  Look at Big Ben Roethlisberger and his Big Ben.  Even if half of what was reported about his exploits with women is true, then he deserves complete and total censure. Women should never have to be subjected to that.  But because he’s a multi-Super Bowl winning quarterback, we look the other way after a paltry four game suspension.  Actually, do we look the other way, or do we forget about it completely? Gents out there?  If you or I did just what Big Ben admitted to doing with his Big Ben in a restaurant restroom, would we escape with a little suspension? Unlikely.  Most of us would probably be fired if word got out.

We would then be properly ostracized.

Might be a little tough to get another job, you think?

But Big Ben is still making millions of dollars, and no one boos him, not even opposing fans.  He still has a shot of winning another Super Bowl this year, and three wins in the big one is Hall of Fame time.  Doesn’t quite seem right putting him next to Roger Staubach and John Unitas, does it?  Those men kept their wicks dry, or, I assure you, we would have heard about it, even post mortem in the case of Johnny U.

Then again, Lawrence Taylor is in the Hall of Fame.

Character doesn’t really matter, does it?

In my childhood, I didn’t have as much trouble with bullies as some of my friends. They tried to fit in, and paid a price, usually in the form of sucker punches and blackmail. I tried slipping away, keeping out of their path.  Sometimes I would hide in the bushes until the bully passed by. Other times, I took a different route home.

Oh, I had my share of trouble, and even a couple of fights.  Well, I can’t say they were really fights, but I tried.  I’ll spare the details, but suffice it to say that I learned to stay below the sightline of the big bad bullies.

Some laughed at me.  I cared, but not that badly.  I had a keen sense of self-preservation.

I wish the Lance family every success in giving Montana a voice in the horrors of bullying, and hope the lawsuit succeeds to that extent.  Alas, I think I know what will happen.

We’ll all raise our fists crying, “Yes, bullying is bad. Bullying is horrible.  No one should be subjected to bullies.”  We’ll rattle our sabers for a month or two, but when the smoke clears we’ll still be cheering for the assholes of the world.

What do y’all think?

Using Dialogue

Reading the list of AFI's top one hundred movie quotes reminded me of the importance of great dialogue.  Passive readers may think, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," when it comes to the distinct ways characters speak, but if a fiction writer really wants his or her agent to "show me the money," the characters have to sound unique.  They have to be themselves and a great deal of that is shown through dialogue.

Great dialogue is really "the stuff that dreams are made of."  It shows truth, and when the writer sits down at the computer and looks at his or her reflection in the screen, feeling that he or she should, "Fasten your seatbelts.  It's going to be a bumpy night," afraid that the page will scream out, "You can't handle the truth," he or she has to say to the world, "I want to be alone."

With no on around, you pick up the "Rosebud" sitting in the vase next to the laptop, sniff it, dreaming that some editor in front of the editorial board saying, "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse."  And the editor named Louis makes that offer, and after you ask, "You talkin' to me?"  and he says, yes, then you reply, "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," then when he asks if you want to know the numbers, you reply, "Go ahead.  Make my day." and then he can have, "My precious."

Dialogue is communication, and as a writer you never want an agent or editor to pick up your manuscript and think, "What we have here is a failure to communicate."  So you pick up your "Martini.  Shaken, not stirred," and resist the urge to procrastinate, to put down that manuscript believing that "After all, tomorrow is another day," you build that story for Louis, because, "If you build it, he will come."  And because stories come organically from the writer, you can, upon completion, proclaim, "It's alive!  It's alive!"

Remember that your manuscript is your baby, and when your agent puts it in the slush pile, you call that agent, named Tom Houston, and say, "Houston, we have a problem,"  "Nobody puts Baby in the corner."

When it comes to writing, "Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death," but you can take that manuscript and scream out, "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."

And that day when you get that sale you call your friends telling them, "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the fact of the earth."

How about a little scattershooting?

When you're writing murder mysteries you're telling your readers, "I see dead people."

You don't have to write at Starbucks.  I've tried and believe that "There's no place like home."  And when you have to force a line or two of dialogue, "May the Force be with you."

After that first novel hits the bestseller list, tell them, "I'll be back."  And when you look at your sailing craft in the marina that you paid hard-earned writing money for thinking, "What a dump," the answer is simple, "You're going to need a bigger boat."

When everything falls into place, look in the mirror, nod knowingly and think, "I'm the king of the world."

See y'all next week.  "Carpe Diem."

Censorship of Huckleberry Finn

I have great respect for editing and those who practice the craft.  Those who write for a living and those of us who aspire to depend on editors for so many things, from catching a misplaced modifier, to an illogical plot point, to letting us know that our protagonist had blue eyes in chapter one and brown in chapter thirty.

And that's just the beginning of what good editors do.

There is, however, an ugly beast called censorship, and Auburn professor Alan Gribben, to my mind, has ventured into that territory. I think he means well, but so do most censors.  Remember that the Volstead Act, prohibiting alcohol, brought organized crime to the forefront where it's been ever since.  But we had to protect our kids from the saloons and pool halls and drunken slobs, didn't we?  Hence Prohibition.  Hence Al Capone and all who have followed.

So what has Professor Gribben done?

Censored a classic to make it more "palatable."  Gribben has taken Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" and changed the 219 uses of the word "nigger" and replaced it with the word "slave," and changed the colloquial term "Injun" (remember Injun Joe?) to "Indian."

As a white man, I had to take a little time to see whether my knee-jerk reaction was well founded and not insensitive.  I think it is well founded and not insensitive.

Read the book.  I just did in the last few days.  It doesn't take long.

In no way is Twain (pictured) or Huck racist.  In fact, some critics have argued that Huck and Jim are lovers.  I personally thing that's overdoing it a bit, but there is no doubt that Jim is far more of a father and father figure to Huck than that mean, drunken sot of a bastard who actually sired him was.

I read a thoughtful opinion piece from Clarence Page, a member of the Chicago Tribune's editorial board.  Mr. Page, who also happens to be black, writes ...

Besides, making the book less controversial might make it more palatable for many classrooms, but it also risks taking away its edge, the risky subversive power of Twain's words and story that kept my classmates and me awake, alert and talking about it.

And that's the key, to my mind.  Let's talk about it.  In class.  Let's allow our young people to read literature and discuss all of the implications.  That's what literature is supposed to be about, isn't it?  It was when I went to school.  Let's not hide from the time that Twain writes about.  And let's damn sure not censor it.

I read it first (along with Tom Sawyer) when I was in the fifth grade.  Granted we were in the early years of civil rights legislation.  In fact, that was 1968, then year Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated.  We actually discussed Tom and Huck in class, discussing the evils of racism, we called it race prejudice back then, and ways to help all of us understand each other.

A whole bunch of racism was exposed, in society itself, and in the printed word, but not one serious accusation about Twain being racist was made to my knowledge.

I read Huck again as a junior in high school, and then again in college.  We had some lively discussions, I can tell you, but nothing about Twain's choice of words being bad or evil.

I agree with Mr. Page when he writes ...

I would rather see "Huck Finn" restricted to eighth-graders and older than see it shoved out of sight or watered down.

So would I.  Are you listening Professor Gribben?  Or are you hopelessly caught in the PC vortex?  One again, from Mr. Page ...

We should teach youngsters about history, not try to protect them from it.

I couldn't have said it nearly so well or compelling.

Now for a little scattershooting.

First, I weighed in at 265 this morning (Saturday morning).  I feel better, and am looking forward to the day when I can return to the pool and swim real laps.

I can't wait until my trip to San Francisco and the writers conference.

I know I haven't posted on my other blog for awhile, but I'll try to post twice this month to make up for it.

I'll see y'all next week.

Into the Woods

Happy New Year, everyone!  I know it's traditional to have a list of resolutions on the day of Janus, the two-faced God.  I've constructed one of those, too.  More than that, though, I want to keep on with the process of self-discovery.  Not the self-pity kind I indulged in a couple of months ago, and maybe not even the Scrooge-like analysis I had last week.  Real honest-to-goodness self-discovery is the goal here.

So, at the top of my list is to cultivate the good parts of my personality, to understand that my frequent lack of self-confidence stems from the fact that I ignore those good qualities and let them wither.  Many folks in various words have said that I must exercise those good parts to strengthen them like muscles.

Remember the movie "The Dead Poet's Society?"  Remember the bit that opened each of the Society's meetings?  In typical Hollywood arrogance, the screenwriters changed the wording of the great Henry David Thoreau (pictured), but let me quote the original.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

It's long past time I went into the woods.  Time that I stopped being frightened of my own potential.  Time that I discovered exactly what my potential is.  Time that I risked to gain rather than letting time catch up with me.  "To front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

New Year's Resolution Number One:  I'm going into the woods.  I'll read more.  The classics.  The genres I hope to write in.  To follow my own path wherever it may lead.  I've always wanted to be a great storyteller, and couldn't give two shits in a piss pot about being a great writer.  Well, what-the-eff is wrong with wanting to be the best possible writer as well.  BTW - a single word meaning "couldn't give two shits in a piss pot about," is "eschewed."  So, what's wrong with cultivating the ability to use either or both of those expressions depending on the situation?  Hmmm?

None, to my mind.  They're both expressive in their own ways.

Oh, and part of that is watching less television.  Sorry TVFN

New Year's Resolution Number Two:  I will not knowingly read any more bad writing or bad stories.  Period.  It'll take a little more time in the bookstore to accomplish this one, but I will.  I'll have to pick and choose carefully, because life is quickly becoming too short to read shit.  But along those same lines ...

New Year's Resolution Number Three:  I will read more new material than old, because I'm not writing in the world of Dickens, or Austen, or Thoreau.  I'm writing in the here and now, and even those stories I write about periods long since gone, I have to write from the perspective of the here and now for the here and now.

Ain't that right?  :-)

So, New Year's Resolution Number Four:  I mentioned last week, I will learn to love the man looking back at me in the morning.  He's a pretty good guy most of the time.  I'm resolved to make him better and to understand him better and try to understand other people better.

New Year's Resolution Number Five:  I'm going to cultivate courage.  I can't say I'm going to stop being afraid.  That's not realistic.  Fear is not a light switch to be turned on and off.  But I can resolve to ... what's the common phrase? ... feel the fear and do it anyway.

The art of doing that is called courage.

I have been afraid most of my life, you see, for stupid reasons and rational ones.  But setting all of that aside, a new almost overwhelming fear has latched its claws into my skin.  It's best expressed by a poem I learned in college, one you won't find in "Dead Poet's Society."  It's called, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

            The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

            And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

I'm walking up to that point of blushing unseen, and it's scaring the shit out of me.  So, by cultivating courage, I can accept this and make sure it doesn't happen, that I don't die without at least giving it my best shot.  To have the guts to walk out of that desert air and not waste myself and my gifts.  I feel I've done that to this point.

I want to contribute something.  To realize what Walt Whitman meant when he wrote ...

That you are here--that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

And yes, this one is in "Dead Poet's Society."

I'd so love to contribute a verse.

New Year's Resolution Number Six:  I will contribute a verse.  This year.

How about another verse from "Dead Poet's Society?"  Robert Herrick - To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,


Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day


To-morrow will be dying.

And so that I can put off the last part as long as possible ...

New Year's Resolution Number Seven:  In three parts ... eat healthy ... deliberate exercise three times a week ... reach out to others and care for them.

This last part may, in fact, be the most important one.  So be it resolved that I pay particular attention to that.

I weighed in at 270 yesterday morning.  We'll start there, and I'll resume posting my weight.

See y'all next week.

A Christmas Introspection

Many will have dreamed of a White Christmas this year.  I dreamed of one like I used to know.  It was the wonderful dream of a tree decorated with scores of lights and ornaments and tinsel, topped by a star.  Underneath, a wave of presents looking like a wheat field waited for our anxious hands to tear the wrapping off and discover the treasure within.

There, the five of us (mom, dad, sister, brother, and me), opened presents at four or five in the morning, whenever my sister woke up, and enjoyed each other's company.  Even while living on my own in the Jack in the Box days, I'd stay either stay over or, more likely, come after closing the place down.

I even remember the last present I gave my father, tickets to the Cowboy playoff game.  Christmas 1978.

He took my brother.

Dallas beat the Atlanta Falcons 27-20 on December 30.  They went to the Super Bowl that year, losing to Pittsburgh 35-30.

Starting the year after my father died, Christmas's changed.  Not the loot portion.  Neither of my parents received much when they were young due to depression finances so they took it out on their kids with extravagance.  My mom became even more lush without anyone to check her, but something else changed.  The spirituality of the season left never to return, so my brother, sister and I clung to what was left ... the packages.  Since my mom wasn't particularly demonstrative in handing out affection, we took what we could get.

There's something obscene in having a thirty-five year old, a thirty-one year old, and a twenty-six year old all still getting presents from Santa Claus, but my mom insisted at a certain point in Christmas preparations up until that time that all three of us go to bed while she finished up ... before Santa came.  And she would get mad when we told her that if there any heavy lifting to get me or my brother.  No, she said.  Santa would take care of it.  And she determined to spend to the penny the same amount on each of us.  She even apologized to me one year for spending five dollars less on me than my siblings.  Five bucks out of three thousand.

Did it occur to us at the time that something was dreadfully wrong here?  No it didn't, because the loot was the loot, and Christmas morning was all about the loot.  It would take a level of maturity our mother took great pains to check for us to refuse to accept so much.

About the adage, "'Tis better to give than receive," my sister expressed our attitudes perfectly by saying, "That's true.  But if someone gives, someone has to receive.  That might as well be us."

I laughed, having nothing more than a vague idea just how wrong these Christmas's were, that my mother was trying her damndest to buy our love when we should have reassured her, letting her know that she didn't have to go into debt at Christmas.  But hey, the loot was the loot wasn't it?

I tried so hard to find something more, like attending midnight mass, saying the rosary, whatever ... but looking back, it was cold on Christmas morning, even if the outside temperature was in the seventies.

My mom died the night before Thanksgiving 2000, and Christmas changed again, becoming about me and my sister.  I would spend some of it with her and her husband, then with her alone when he left her, and would visit other friends as well.  I did find a measure of spirituality but didn't really appreciate it, didn't really understand the dynamic of it or of my life for that matter.

My sister died six days before Christmas in 2006, and the day then became no more relevant to me than President's Day.  I spend it with wonderful friends and have dinner and conversations and even present exchanges, but try as I will, I can't seem to find the magic anymore.

It's not there.

I wonder now if it ever was.

It wasn't there this year, either, though my friends Aaron and Jill were gracious enough to cheerfully have me over again.  I am most grateful.

But something has become clear now.

Thanksgiving and Christmas have lost their meanings for me and I have to find them again.

It goes beyond that though.  I've lost my way through life.  I had a long conversation with a mentor at work, and damn, at the tender age of fifty-three I still have very little confidence in myself as a person.  She obviously hasn't been the only person to have noticed, though I thought I was brilliant at hiding it.

Well, actually that's not quite true.  There have been times in my life when I've had far more confidence in myself than now.  Never as much as I would like, but certainly more than now.

Which begs the question, how do I get it?  Or how do I get it back?

Books have been written on the subject, but it's not books that are going to get me through this unless ... unless they are mine.  :-).

A friend of mine told me not long ago that I changed after mom died, and then again after my sister died and not all of the change was good. Those things I can't see, but I'm feeling that he's right.  And if he is, then have I wasted more than ten years of my life?

No.  I've already had that pity party.  I'm not going to have it again.

But, factually, I allowed myself to be controlled by my mother from the beginning of time.  She, herself, was so scared that she couldn't be loved that she spend years trying to buy the love of people, her mom, me and my siblings, and even friends.  She had no concept that people could love her just because she was a good person.

So, she dangled the carrot and I jumped.  That cost me a marriage, and whatever self-confidence I may have developed.  Okay.  That's done and over with.

So, what steps do I need to take now?

Well, I need to lose weight and finish Catch a Falling Star.  No doubt.  But I'm thinking that those will have to be by products of a more confident me.  So I can't use those as crutches.  In reality, they are the symptoms.

Okay.  Fair enough.  So what do I do?  How do I gain self-confidence?  Don't I have to have at least a measure of success to be confident?  I haven't yet had success as a writer, less than zero success in relationships since I haven't really had many ... but I'm a friend and am blessed with a number of friends!

Let's start there, shall we?  That resonates.  I'm a friend and am blessed with a number of wonderful friends.

You know something?  I'm writing this part Christmas Eve.  I'm going to pause a while to watch It's a Wonderful Life, so let me do that and I'll be back next paragraph.

And here I am.  Can anyone watch that movie without crying?  I sure-as-hell can't.  And the only reason it played this evening on my television was tradition.  Since I first saw it, I haven't missed a year seeing it, so I thought to just put it on as background so as to claim that I watched it another year even if I really didn't "watch" it.  Couldn't do that, though.  Not at all.  Like reading nearly 900 pages to read Agnes telling David Copperfield, "I've loved you all my life," ... the most emotional line I've ever read in fiction ... I had to see the buildup to Clarence getting his wings. 

What a marvelous character actor Henry Travers was!

Anyway, back to my introspection.  It's impossible to gain confidence without success, isn't it?  Even George Bailey in the story had to face that.  Of course, George had amazing success that he didn't see.  He just had to be shown the difference he made in the world.

So where to start?  It's going to sound trite, and sentimental, and stupid, but I have to start each day by looking in the mirror and finding a way to like the guy looking back.

The dude I see there now is one selfish son-of-a-bitch and has been for a mighty long time.  That's pretty harsh, but true.  So I have to start by looking past that and into the good parts.  They are there.  I know they are.  From time to time they just sort of jump out and announce themselves briefly before returning to the safety my heart's cellar.

My friends can see those good parts from time to time.  I have to look with better eyes.  And, well, I have to start another Christmas tradition, someway, somehow.  Too late for this year, but I can certainly spend this next year considering just how to do that.  A possibility occurred.

Prior to the publication of a particular work of literature, Christmas was a time for revelry and celebration.  Lord knows I've been through those times, haven't I?  But from the time of this particular work of literature, the emphasis has shifted to giving, particularly to the poor.

That particular work of literature?  You know it.  It's pictured above.  It's, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens published December 19, 1843.  Then came the popular carol, "Good King Wenceslas" in 1853, about a king bringing meat and drink to the poor.

And the last line of that song is, "Ye who now shall bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing."

Wow.  So what do I do?  I'll start greeting the dude I see in the mirror every morning like my best friend in the world.  Every morning.  Right now, that's the poor guy I need to bless.  Dude?  Guy?  How about man?  Never have I been comfortable referring to myself as a "man," or being referred to as a "man."

That's telling, too.

I have a lot of work to do, but it's not too late.  Not at all, and there is still time to make progress before San Francisco.

It's now Christmas morning, and I feel good.  I've taken a step.  And I suspect that if I can somehow develop some measure of confidence, then other good things will fall into place. 

Including finding my way to help the real poor.

See y'all next week.

Oscar Time For Colin!

I have to be reminded from time to time that stories don't have to be about war or forbidden romance to be compelling.  Sometimes, the best stories are about simple things brought into an intense spotlight.

The movie "The King's Speech" is exactly that.  The evolution of war and the consummation of forbidden romance are supporting tales to this wonderful story of the courage of a king and the development of a friendship with a commoner.

The king is George VI of England, the reluctant king, and the man who ascended to the British throne when his brother Edward VIII abdicated to marry twice-divorced Wallis Simpson in what was called "The Love Story of the Ages."  This tale tells how the King prepares to present a speech over the radio.

Huh?  What?

How he prepares to make a speech?

How about if I added that the speech was to be broadcast live over the radio?  Not convinced?

How about if this speech had to rally the British Empire against the tyranny of Adolf Hitler?  A little better?

Let's add something to that.  We already know he never wanted to be king.  Now you see...

... the poor man suffered from a bad stammer and had since boyhood.  Most of us take for granted the ability to speak with one another, or even speak with several at once.  This man was uncomfortable speaking to individuals he didn't know, but as the son of the king was expected to speak publically.  When in 1925 the, then, Duke of York, botched a speech at the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley he sought the help of Lionel Logue, an Australian speech therapist and hack actor and resolved to make as few public speeches as he could get away with.

His father dies.  His brother abdicates.

Now, what happens when this shy, reluctant king with a cataclysmic stammer must rally the British Empire for war with a speech broadcast live over the radio?  Ah!  That is what the very best stories are made of.

That, and the developing friendship between a King and a commoner, probably the only commoner who could get away with calling the King of England, "Bertie."  And how the latter helped the former overcome the impediment to give a brilliant speech and prepare the Empire for the dangers ahead.

I don't suffer from a stammer, but don't think I could broadcast live to the world with the intent to rally the troupes.  What a burden that would be to carry, don't you think?  How many of us could do it, even without the extra challenge he faced?

Oh, folks, what a movie this is!

Colin Firth was brilliant as King George VI, and Geoffrey Rush shined as Lionel Logue.  This is the best movie I've seen this year, just nudging out "The Social Network."  I'm going to see it again, maybe a few times.  What that man did way back in 1939 was courageous beyond belief.  Courage is doing something you're afraid to do. 

I have a newfound admiration and respect for King George VI.

And Colin Firth should win the Oscar for playing him.

Now on to a little scattershooting...

My sister died four years ago today (Sunday the 19th).  I still miss her, but am determined to enjoy Christmas this year.

For the first time in awhile, I have a Christmas song of the year, one that really touches me.  It's Vince Vance and the Valiants, "All I Want For Christmas is You."

I am determined to not gain weight over the holidays, and have composed a list of reasons to lose weight.  The first item on that list is that I want to be able to tie my shoes and breathe at the same time.

Catch a Falling Star is progressing nicely.  I'm nearly at page 200 on draft Lucky 13, and liking the way it's coming along.

I'm looking forward to my trip to San Francisco in February, hopefully to sell the novel, and head toward writing for a living.  Damn I want to be writing for a living.

But then that's what this blog is about ... the road toward that very thing.

Happy Holidays to all of you!

See y'all next week.

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

I watched the "Ice Bowl" on television.  The game in1967 when Bart Starr on fourth down quarterback -neaked into the end zone behind guard Jerry Kramer and tackle Forrest Gregg (later a Cowboy) to win the NFL championship.

That game solidified Vince Lombardi's reputation as a coach, and Starr's as the quarterback just behind the great Johnny Unitas.

But what about the losing quarterback that day?  The one who had the game won until the final few seconds?

Don Meredith was a brilliant quarterback.  He was tough.  He was intelligent, and, in the words of Tom Landry, "the best player I ever coached."

Every home game he ever played was in north Texas.  He played high school in Mt. Vernon, college at SMU, and his entire pro career with the Cowboys.

When he retired, I couldn't understand why.  He had barely spent nine years in the NFL.  He was just coming into his prime.  Had barely lost NFL championship games to Lombardi's Packers.  Barely.  Each game could have gone either way.  A play here or there could have turned the tide.  But he called it a career a season after the Ice Bowl.

Then he gave pro football his greatest contribution ... his presence from 1970 on Monday Night Football.  How many of us remember that the original Monday night trio was Keith Jackson, Howard Cosell and Don Meredith.  It was 1971 that Gifford, Cosell, and Meredith became a team.

And what a team.  The three of them changed football.  They blended together like the Three Stooges, or Johnny, Ed, and Doc.  And Dandy Don was the analyst and the comic relief all at the same time.  He brought the concept of entertainment to pro football announcing, something no one ever had before and no one has since.  He knew the sport and knew how to entertain while keeping the sport serious.

He became more famous than when he was a player.

I remember once when the camera showed a fan live flipping the bird to the nation. Gifford and Cosell were dumbfounded.  Didn't know what to say.  Meredith told a shocked nation that the fan was "telling everyone that his team was number one."  It broke the tension and brought Gifford and Cosell back into the picture.

Of course there was controversy.  Like when he was stoned on a broadcast from Denver and said, "Here we are in the Mile High city ... and I sure am."  Of course, the fact that Cosell had once puked on Meredith's cowboy boots and passed out, forcing Keith Jackson and Meredith to do the game alone doesn't get that much press.  Yes, he referred to the then President as "Tricky Dick."  Who cares, now?

I don't.

I just miss the man and what he brought to the sport.

He died this last Sunday, after hurting for a long time.  What I'll always remember about Dandy Don was that on any given Monday night, when a team would make a play to put the game out of reach, he would sing the lyrics to an old country song.

So, Don, I sing it to you now.  "Turn out the lights, the party's over.  They say that all good things must end."

Oh, heavens, I haven't said what I learned from Don Meredith.  Simple.  I learned to have fun doing what you do.  And I learned that having fun will get us through the most difficult of times.

And Don, stealing from Bob Hope, let me add, "Thanks For the Memories."

On To The Next

Every aspiring author has chosen at least one book off the shelf, read all or part of it, and wondered how the hell it got there in the first place.  I have one of those sitting next to me right now.  It's title I will keep to myself because a friend fervently recommended it to me and I'm still pondering how I will answer the question, "What did you think?" when this person asks.

Oh, hell, I already know how I'll answer it.  I'll be honest.

And I know the why those books end up on the shelf.  Other people like them.  Or some editor thought that people would like them.  I am progressing well on Lucky 13, preparing for the San Francisco Writers Conference over President's Day next February.  But here's what has to happen.  Regardless of what happens with Catch a Falling Star there I will be done with it until and unless an agent or editor requests it.

I'm tired of it.  Sick of it as a matter of fact.  It's time to move on to other stories and other characters.  Other books.  Sometimes I wonder at all the time spent on Falling Star.  But why?  I've learned so much.  Grown so much as a writer through those pages.  And I'll keep growing until it's finished.

Then it's on to the next.

For now, here's a little scattershooting.

Recently I saw a wonderful production of The Nutcracker. So here's a big time shout out to Victoria as Clara and Olivia as the Sugar Plum Fairy.  Both of you were amazing!  And, both are daughters of friends of mine.

And how about a shout to Tchaikovsky for writing such diverse, memorable music that is as much apart of the Holiday Season for me as Christmas Trees and ... whoa! ... Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

So what will be my next project when I'm through with Falling Star?  I have two in mind, one a Young Adult fantasy.  I'm leaning toward that one because I can already tell that it will be fun to write.  The other will be for readers coming out of Young Adult mode and is a more complex story.

Hell, who knows?  I might work on them simultaneously, though I've never been successful when trying that approach.

I'm looking forward to the release of the latest movie based on the Narnia Chronicles, this one, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader."  I loved the books when I was a kid, and ... well, we'll see.

Needless to say, I'm looking forward to Part 2 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows next July.  And ...

I got away last week from admitting to my weight last week.  To be honest it didn't occur to me to do it.  So, this morning I weighed in at 266, down a total of 19 pounds, but up two from the previous week.  I think dinner at Rathbun's followed closely by Thanksgiving had a lot to do with that. 

OH!  And I posted the prologue to Catch a Falling Star on my other blog.  Catch it at this link ...

http://storiesoftherock.blogspot.com/2010/11/prologue-catch-falling-star.html

Happy Holidays!

See y'all next week!

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

I'm cheating this week.  The following isn't my own, but I wish it was.  This famous editorial was originally published in the New York Sun on September 21, 1897, and is widely available on the internet today.

But no one under thirty I've spoken to in the last few years has heard of it or it's one-time famous proclamation.  The writing is antiquated, using the masculine for the collective whole, but it's the idea that still resonates.

The writer?  Francis Pharcellus Church (pictured).

______________________

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor—

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

115 W. Ninety-Fifth Street

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

________________________

Virginia O'Hanlon Douglas went on to a career as an educator that lasted nearly half-a-century.  Until she died in 1971, she would send a nice copy of the editorial to anyone who wrote to her.

Maybe one day I'll write something as good and as lasting.

See y'all next week!

Hello, Harry

I just saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One today.  And what a wonderful movie it was.  Just after walking out, I marveled at how fortunate moviegoers have been to have such a wonderful cast, for the most part intact, throughout the series.  The one notable exception resulted from the death of Richard Harris.  Even with that, Michael Gambon stepped right in and played a very different but just as brilliant Dumbledore.

Like the books, we've had the opportunity to watch the trio and company grow into adults.  This last movie doesn't have any of the whimsy of the first one, and shouldn't to my mind.  By now the perils in the wizarding world are coming to a head.  Childhood is at an end.

I've seen a few movies series, and read a fair few novel series.  In both areas, Harry Potter is the best.  Yes, better than Star Wars.  Better than Indiana Jones.  Better than Sherlock Holmes.  The stories have deepened as they've gone along, both in the books and the movies.

This is what I love about storytelling.

I told some folks after reading the novel of the Deathly Hallows, that taken as a single work ... and I do think of the Harry Potters as one long novel in seven parts ... then it supplanted David Copperfield as my all time favorite.  I'll back off a little on that, but depending on which day you catch me, one or the other will be at the top of the list. 

I can't remember if I've mentioned it in this blog, but I'll write it again anyway, I think writers everywhere should bow to J. K. Rowling for nearly single-handedly creating a new generation of readers.

I can't claim to have my finger on the pulse of society now or at anytime, but it seemed that in the time before Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone came out, video games took up an amazing amount of time in a lot of kid's lives.  Harry Potter didn't stop it, but did wedge into it just enough to show folks the joys of reading and of imagination.

I was actually a late convert to Harry.  Didn't really jump in until I heard rumors that movies would be made.  So I hopped on the train early in 2001, reading all four (by that point) just in time for the first move.  I loved it.  Totally.  Completely.  No, it didn't conform to how I envisioned the story and characters, but I didn't care.  I started seeing them as different ways of telling the same tale.  Kind of like one parent will tell you the story of the Three Little Pigs, one way.  The other parent will tell it totally different.  And you love both.

Ah, then I got serious.  After a two/three year wait, I pre-ordered my copy of Order of the Phoenix and picked it up at the midnight party.  Sat it down on my nightstand and tried to go to sleep.  I couldn't sleep.  I had to read a chapter ... or two ... or three.  I set it down at about four in the morning, woke up at eight and started some more.  My friend Bruce called and asked if I would like to join him and his family at a Ranger game.  We went.  They lost.  I read through until the next morning loving every minute of it.

A similar thing happened with the Half Blood Prince, only I didn't go to a Ranger's game.

I made no pretence of sleeping when my friend Jill and I picked up our copies of the Deathly Hallows.  I read taking naps until I finished the whole book.

What a time I had with each one. 

So, having read all seven more than a couple of times, and having now seen seven of the eight movies, I'm so looking forward to the completion of the tale in July, but will be sad to see the final "new" Harry Potter of anything on the other.

Wow.  There will be a day when nothing new will emerge from the Potterverse.  Whoa!

Then again, like Rick and Ilsa will always have Paris, we'll always have the books and the movies.

Here's hoping that Part Two will live up to the magnificence of Part One.

I weighed in at 264 last Sunday.  Down a total of 21 pounds!

See y'all next week!

This Is What I Know

I just read a wonderful blog entry by Roger Ebert.  Actually, all of his blog entries are wonderful, he happens to be one of the best writers in the country, but this one resonated.  It was about loneliness.

His previous entry had inspired some 400 replies, many from people who had no friends or never spoke to their family or were just recluses.  Some were victims of abuse.  Some not.  Some had never had sex or even dated.  Some not.  Some relished the solitude.  Some not.  All found solace on the internet.

It made me think about my own writing; the characters I create.  To one degree or another nearly all are lonely.  There is a reason for that, I suppose, and I’ve been thinking about it all morning.  Looking back, my parents were horribly lonely people.  For the better part of my acquaintance with them, they could not, for the life of them, get together for any length of time.  They were two people under the same roof, but they didn’t like each other.  They loved each other, but neither knew how to express it.  How they managed to produce my brother remains a mystery.  One night they must have independently decided any port in a storm, and turned to each other for some comfort.

My mother told me after a couple of glasses of wine, that she decided the moment she laid eyes on my father that she would marry him.  Looked back with regret that he didn’t have a chance.  My father wanted a Southern Belle for a wife you see, and my mother played the role brilliantly, bringing up the curtain on the real Janell only after the wedding.  It didn’t come up at once, though. They had me a month after their first anniversary.  I have pictures of them from back then.  They were in love.  Their eyes shouted it through the black and white image into the real world.

My sister came along four years and two days after me.

The love was still there.  Then my father had what he called a “nervous breakdown.”  Totally lost control of his emotions.  He wasn’t violent, though he possessed a temper he struggled to control with every ounce of strength he could muster.  He couldn’t stop crying, you see.

He checked himself into a mental hospital and went through something they called “shock therapy.”  Quite literally, they attached electrodes and shocked him when his behavior deviated from the desired.  He claimed until he died that it helped.  I don’t believe a word of it.  Like a prefrontal lobotomy, it changed him.  Made him distant, even cold.  And didn’t even come close to addressing the cause, which we discovered in 1979 was a hereditary brain tumor.

From here things went south for my parents.  We moved from Memphis Tennessee to Dallas Texas (my mom wanted to move to Phoenix, which may have contributed to their issues).  My father’s father came with us.  Once there, my mom immediately found work, but my father didn’t.  Mom took on a second job, and a third.  My grandfather rode my father hard for not having a job, particularly when Mom was supporting the family.  The old man was born in 1890.  His values wouldn’t permit the “little woman” supporting the family.

So he left on bad terms.  My father found a job not long after, but the loving part of him became a shadow.  Only once since then did I see real tenderness from him, and that was when I caught him in a bout of insomnia petting our dog Trina, talking to her.

She understood.

By the mid to late seventies, no one in our family knew who the others were.  We existed.  That was all.

I’ve written about spending entire summers alone with my own imagination from sun up until my parents got home, traveling the area on my bicycle, or, occasionally on foot through the sewers (how I never got lost is as much a mystery as my brother’s conception).

I’m sure that whatever I write loneliness will be a theme.  Write what you know, they say.  I’ve known loneliness since childhood.

I should say here, before I’m accused of another round of self-pity, that I’m blessed with wonderful friends, even friends who consider me part of their family.  I certainly didn’t follow the path of many of those Roger Ebert wrote of, the ones his friend the late Studs Turkel would have beautifully profiled in his many studies of people.  Too, loneliness is universal.  People read and watch stories about it because all of us understand it like Trina understood my father.

I’m a happy person overall.

In the grand scheme of things, that’s what matters.

Stay tuned.  On one of the Sundays past Thanksgiving, I will post my favorite piece of Journalism.  It is, to my mind, brilliant old-fashioned though it may be.

I weighed in at 266 last Sunday, nineteen pounds down from my high.  See y’all next week.