What Are the Odds?

Okay, so there are lines going out the door at convenience stores and gas stations because people have gone crazy over the Powerball Lottery. The prize is, as of this writing, $1.3 BILLION. A sum I would wait in line for, except that--as I quote from some unknown but wise source--this is a game for the mathematically challenged. The odds are 292 million to 1 that plunking down real money for a chance at the fantasy is a complete waste. I've never been a gambler. Too many other ways to get rid of money.
You're winning odds are better for getting hit by an asteroid, being elected president of the United States, or becoming a saint. (Well, in my case, that last one might not be valid.) As someone who enjoys math (though I admit probability is my least favorite branch), I just don't see the attraction for a game with that much weight on the losing side.
So that begs the question, "Why exactly do I think my chances are better as a writer?"
Entirely likely success will be just as much of a wild goose chase for me as it is for those people in the gas station line. Still, we all have our dreams. Without them, life would be dreary indeed. I wish all those people in the lines the best of luck, especially the couple who want to use their winnings "to buy out Trump."
And I'll continue to take my chances in the publishing business.

Blogged Down

No news that a discarded Christmas tree is one of the saddest of sights ever. The most iconic symbol of holiday cheer and happiness kicked to the curb like an old drunk.
This entire month has passed in the usual blur of work, shopping, cooking, parties, more shopping and, in between all the holiday fuss, writing. Short stories, one with deadline in January (who thought that was a good idea??), a new novel clawing its way to the surface, book promos, etc. And this blog. Even though I don't have a vast following, posting once a month is my own personal touchstone, the place where I prove to myself that I can do this, with or without permission, support, or any other extrinsic reward. Hey, this is the writing life. Extrinsic rewards are in short supply.
But I was utterly "blogged down" trying to think of something interesting enough to me, let alone any poor sucker who happens across this entry.
Finally, today, December 31st, at just past three in the afternoon, I figured out what I'd write about: soldiering on even when it feels like my work is about as appreciated as last year's Christmas tree.
I'd seen a tree across the street, tossed in the snow, the perfect image. Scurrying into my coat, I went out to take the photo.
The tree was gone. Recycled. Turned to dust.
Oh, God--was this a symbol of my writing future? I had the choice to cave in or refuse to take such treatment from the Universe.
Somewhere, surely, there must be another tree lying at the side of the road. I hopped in the car, trying not to consider the sigilistic aspects of my quest. No tree = no blog post = no writing future.
But the Universe smiled, or possibly smirked, and seven or eight blocks from my house, I found the tree pictured above. So perhaps it is a sign after all. Perseverance. Always. Amen.

Letter to a Stranger

In honor of Veteran's Day and all the men and women who have served this country, I am posting the contents of a letter I wrote to someone I've never met. A writer friend asked a few fellow writers to pen a note to his father, a WWII vet, so here is what I came up with:

Though I don't know you personally, I'd like to thank you for your service in World War II. 
My father, though American, served with the British Royal Engineers in North Africa and Italy, and I grew up hearing some of his stories. As I got older, I realized these stories--funny ones, scary ones, reminiscences of people and places he always hoped to see again--were only the vignettes he was willing to share. There were many more memories he kept to himself.
He instilled in me a fascination for that period in history, and I am currently working on a short story set in England in 1944. In the course of my research, I learned about Operation Tiger, a rehearsal for D-Day conducted on Slapton Sands on the south coast of England. The exercise went terribly wrong when a convoy of LSTs approaching the coast was discovered by German E-boats out of Cherbourg. 946 men were lost. Because of concerns that D-Day plans would be disrupted, this tragedy was kept secret for 40 years. 
While this story may not be news now, I relate it here so that you will know such sacrifices will not be lost in the tides of time. Decades after the event, there are still those of us who are learning anew how indebted we are to the service men and women of WWII. The strength and courage of your generation will not be forgotten.

 

Poison Pen

October. The time of year when the veil is thin and dark thoughts creep about in the night. On our daily walks, Woki and I often walk past my grandmother's house. There are many stories I could post here about her. She probably had more influence on me than any other adult, which I consider a very good thing. It is from her that I get my insatiable drive to draw, paint, and write. She was the person who read me stories and taught me to appreciate classical music. Of the myriad memories I have of her, there is one that comes to mind at this time of year.
Whether it was a rainy October evening or some sunny summer afternoon, I couldn't say, but I remember my grandmother and my father talking about someone who "wrote with a poison pen". My child's imagination immediately conjured up Disney-esque images of some wicked person writing lethal notes by candle light in a stone-walled cellar riddled with spiders and bats.
It was a terrible disappointment to learn that "poison pen" was just another term for hate mail.
I'm definitely not into writing hate mail, but I'm still intrigued by those childhood images, and a poison pen letter offers a lot of short story possibilities. Especially this time of year, exploring the dark side (in fiction, let's be clear) is a delicious thrill. The cauldron is bubbling; a new story seems to be taking shape . . .

House of Cards

Monday morning, and I have my writing plan for the week. To keep myself on task, I set up assignments for each day, and each day's writing is dependent on finishing the work of the previous day. Revise a story, post a blog, outline a new draft, check over submission possibilities, send work out. In my mind, at least, it's a logical and orderly process.
Furthermore, setting specific goals is my way of combating procrastination, the bane of any writer's existence. It's so easy to procrastinate. Household chores beckon, there's something I need at the store, Woki gives me a "let's go for another walk" stare. Ten thousand distractions. But I won't be tempted because I have my plan.
Until I don't.
The photo I took yesterday (on my brand new phone) for the blog post I want to write isn't syncing to my computer. In fact, my entire photo library seems to have a major issue, which stems suspiciously from the acquisition of the new phone. Apple Care can't solve the problem and the earliest available appointment with the Genius Bar isn't until Thursday afternoon. #&%!$!, as they used to say before cussing became basic to contemporary vocabulary.
So my carefully constructed plan is in the crapper. Just trying to set up a time to get the trouble fixed--never mind actually fixing it--has trashed my schedule. My house-of-cards writing plans have fallen like, well, a house of cards, and walking another 6 miles, mowing the lawn, or cleaning out the gutters has taken on unexpected appeal.
Flexibility has never been my strong suit, but I need to focus on writing, not leaf-clogged gutters. Ergo, this entire post is an exercise in working through the issue. Photo courtesy of Morguefile.com, and text akin to moldy, rotting gutter slime, here it is. Old dogs and penmonkeys can learn new tricks.
But now, perhaps, it's time for a walk.

Outside, Looking In

This photo was taken in Unionville, MI, a town I drove through this summer that was unique for its abandonment. Shop after shop stood shuttered and neglected, furniture and merchandise left behind along with hopes and dreams. My reflection is just visible at the edge of the dusty window as I stood snapping pictures, sad for the economic downturn of this once vibrant town and state.
Naturally, my imagination began to spin stories: who owned the glassware? Was it the pride and joy of a farmer's wife, or the everyday pieces used in the grand home of a lumber or auto baron? And what would become of these things now? The fate of these delicate, gentle reminders of a bygone era when families took the time to sit at a table, perhaps enjoying the rare treat of ice cream served in a graceful shell-pink glass dish, troubled me.
I believe it was Chekhov who, when asked where he got ideas for his stories, replied, "Everywhere." Then, he picked up a nearby ashtray and said if he was so inclined, he could write a story about it. He would have had a field day with the glassware in this shop window.
Indeed, there are stories everywhere, but it seems the ideas for them come most often from observing something from physical or emotional distance. It's not always a comfortable place, but it affords a perspective that "insiders" rarely have.
One of my oldest friends recently criticized a description of boarding school life in one of my books. She attended boarding school; I did not. I paraphrase, but she said something like, "You were in our group, but not really of it."
Fair enough, and true enough, but that doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about. My perspective, I believe, is broader than her fond and particular memories and, by virtue of the fact that I wasn't of the group, I had a more fluid point of view. Forest for the trees sort of thing.
It's what writers do. We stand on the outside, looking in, and report on the world as we see it.

Visitations from the Past

Inside the sun-bleached cover, the pristine pages are thick and oatmeal-y, a quality uncommon in recent publications. The author, Isser Harel, was born in 1912. The events of the non-fiction account of the capture of Adolf Eichmann occurred in the 1940s and 50s. My husband purchased the book--new--in 1975. For forty years, it sat on a shelf in his office, unread. But here's the thing about books: they don't lose their value or relevance over time. Two weeks ago, he picked up The House on Garibaldi Street (Viking Press, 1975) and began reading a chapter or two each evening. The third night, he thrashed in the grip of a nightmare, literally screaming in his sleep.
I haven't read the book, but I get the general context, and there is plenty of nightmare-inducing material. Coincidence or not (and I don't believe in coincidence), I'm also reading about events from World War II, researching a short story I feel compelled to write. The story is based on a railway disaster in England (Soham Railway Disaster  June 2, 1944) but is germane to recent railway crashes here and in Canada. This is my first attempt at historical fiction, and immersing myself in the details of that era has fomented my own night terrors of running through the woods, hiding from jack-booted thugs.
There are probably multiple reasons that the Harel book and my WWII story have swirled out of the mists of time to haunt us now. That era has always held fascinations, both nostalgic and terrifying. Everyone knows revisiting the past offers important lessons for the future, but is anyone paying attention? Though I prefer to steer clear of politics, given the current crop of buffoons and jack-a-napes running for the highest office in this land, I'm alarmed. Hitler wasn't taken seriously at first, either.
We need our stories of the past, the present, and the future to remember where we've been and hopefully, to light a safe and sane path to the future. Every day, when I sit in my little office, with my imaginary friends, it's my goal to carve out such a path, even it it's only for myself. Given the power of the written word, if I'm good enough and lucky enough, that might not be a complete waste of time.