Thanksgiving 2016

Photo: From freepik.com

Things I'm Thankful for in 2016:

--I've got a better half who's great to me and for me. I haven't always been with someone who was both (or either), so this is a welcome change. Many people don't have someone special at all. Some who are married can't even say that. How many miserable unmarried people do you know? I know some happily married people--and I know some that make you wonder.

--Jackson the Greyhound is 14 and still living the high life. Which, for him, revolves around eating and sleeping, and going for strolls and rides.

--My good career and benefits. Lots of people don't have either of those, too.

--Purpose outside of my job. I have someone and something to come home to. Many come home to a TV or computer. I have those (and I have blogs), but I have more, thank God. I know too many couch potatoes and phone slaves. No thanks.

--Creative ability. Not all the writing sells, but that's okay. Keep on keeping on. Boredom is a death to me, so I really appreciate this. I'll throw hobbies into this, too, as I think they're a branch of creativity.

--Respectful neighbors.

--Not too many financial pitfalls, though I probably need brake work as I'm typing this.




What I Want to Say I'm Thankful for in 2017:

--Better time management skills. I should be writing more, and more consistently.

--That the USA hasn't come under chaos or martial law by this time next year. I hope I look back upon this next year and chastise myself for worrying too much. We'll see.

--That the better half and Jackson are as happy with me then as they are now. Or happier!


What're you thankful for?

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Being Thankful--Happy Thanksgiving 2015

I recently asked some people to explain what non-material things--besides family, friends, home and technology--they were thankful for.  Here's mine:

--A job I like.  (Most people I know hate their jobs.  I love mine.  Not every day is a fairy tale, but I love the job overall.)

--A good career, with good benefits.  (I get lots of sinus infections--as if that was my career instead.)

--My numerous interests.  (Writing; literature; baseball; baseball cards; the writing industry; short story and novel reading [and writing]; antique buying and dealing; dealing baseball cards [I'm also a part-time picker]; football; walking; hiking; biking; movies...)  You get the idea.  I think boredom is the worst kind of hell.

--My abundance of energy. (Until lately, I could subsist quite well on 4-6 hours of sleep per night.)

--My "intelligence."  (Real or imagined.)

--My imagination. (Which can often get out of control, and which is often not a gift.)

--My health.  (I used to be a lot worse off, and my sinuses--as terrible as they are--used to be much worse.)

--My sense of humor.  (Again, real or imagined.  If I'm only half as funny as I think I am, then I'm still hilarious.)

--My proximity to mountains, beaches, rivers, hiking and biking trails, and big cities.

--My local sports teams.  (I've got the Patriots and Red Sox.  True, the Sox finished last the past two years, but even then they're entertaining.  And they've still got 3 World Championships in the past eleven years, with a few other post-season appearances thrown in.  Plus I've got Fenway.)

--Great neighbors.  (Bad neighbors can be nightmares.)

--Heat, electric and an affordable education.  (Most people in the world don't have any of those.)

AND A HEAD'S UP TO CHRIS AND JAY AND TO ALL MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS WHO MADE THIS THANKSGIVING STRESS-FREE AND WONDERFUL.  YOU'RE THE BEST!!!


WHAT'RE YOU THANKFUL FOR?  (It's okay to comment even if it's not Thanksgiving anymore.)

What Do You Do To Keep Hope Alive?

The question asked to me was: What do you do to keep hope alive while you wait?  The insinuation was: While I wait for the reply from a literary agent, or while I wait for the editor of a magazine I'd just sent my story to, or while I wait for my taking-forever novel to be done.

My response:

1. I look around at others who are only their jobs.  I remind myself that I don't want to look like that, for they often look miserable.

2. I write for myself.  To better understand my world.  To better understand me.

3. I don't feel bitter about the success of others because they don't write what I write and I don't write what they write.  Each artist and his work are a unique tandem, and so I remind myself that such comparisons are impossible.

4. I don't write because of my dreams.  I write towards my dreams.

5. I remind myself that, although agents are not infallible (re: J.K. Rowling), they are also not idiots.  They have to take on projects they believe they can sell, period.  They have mortgages, too.

6. I write different things.  Though my current novel is taking beyond forever, I have finished and sold some short stories.  Though only Alice Munro and two or three lucky others can make careers out of selling short stories, the fact remains that I have sold some, and this gives me confidence--which is invaluable, and can't be taught.

7. I think, "Why not me?"  Stephen King used to work in a laundry.  He lived in a trailer and typed Carrie on a laptop--a busted, old typewriter on his lap. J.K. Rowling was a single mom on welfare with three kids.

8. I remember that it's a business.  Dreams don't sell.  Good writing does.

9. I always have something to work on next.  After I send out a short story, or a query letter, etc., I get busy on the next page of my story and novel.  I don't leave myself time to worry about the stuff I just sent out.  I'm not J.D. Salinger or Harper Lee anyway: One novel probably won't make a career for me.  Best to be working.

10. I write.

What do you do to keep your hope alive?  What are you hoping for?

Weekends at Bellevue--Julie Holland, M.D.

photo: Book cover, from Goodreads

Fascinating book about a woman who had been in charge of deciding who does, and does not, get admitted to a stay at Bellevue.  She did this for nine years.  Obviously the book is about many of the patients, but the coolest thing about the book is the sheer number of other things it's also very much about: admitting you're crisped at your job; branching out; moving on with life; the different forms of mental illness; how we're all mentally ill, in varying degrees.  Having the courage to switch gears in life.  Changing as a person.  Letting down your often necessary defenses--and then realizing that doing so makes you incapable of doing the job you needed the defenses for to begin with.  I saw a lot of myself in here, and a couple of family members and friends--and a few ex-friends.  It helped me to understand all of them better in small, but important, ways.

It's a quick read.  You may grit your teeth at the oddly sudden and thorough instances of her sexual interludes, as I did, though I understood they were meant to underscore her adrenaline addiction.  All of the psychopathy stories are quick snippets, from the unknown patients, to Spalding Gray and the aftereffects of 9/11 on NYC.  She doesn't linger too long on any one person or event, but mentions the big ones long enough to sustain the shock and horror they instilled in her and everyone else.  Many of her patients, for example, saw dozens of professionally attired men jump out of the WTC to their deaths.  She says that, more than any other facet of the attacks, it was this that mostly traumatized and PTSDed her patients--watching the bodies fall.  And land.  Her narrative voice skims and occasionally probes, while at the same time staying far enough away from the patients so the reader doesn't feel like a morbid voyeur, rubber-necking at the psychopathic miseries of others.

I read this because I thought such a character had a place in one of my novels--where else, perhaps, would a possibly real, re-visiting Jesus or Lazarus be sent, after all, but to a place like Bellevue?  I don't know that such a plan would work now, but I liked the experience of reading this to find out.  It took two days to read.  Highly recommended.

Musings by the Firepit, Part 2

The writing has not gone well.  Short stories are being rejected (though I only sent out a couple to a few places) and novels are not being written.  I am very confident that I'll write more--and more consistently--once I'm in my own office in the new house.  I always wrote more there--but not always better--and of course that was a much different time.  And I was a much different person.  But I do feel strongly that I'll get more done, and focus better.

But that's just Resistance, as Steven Pressfield would say, and he's right.  I could write more RIGHT NOW.  I could stop "researching" so much and use what I've got RIGHT NOW.  Anything else is some kind of excuse.  I know this.  I know this.  I know this.

The fire is smoldering; the light is dimmer (though nothing can compare to the inferno I've sustained for the past few hours!); and the flickering flames, still strong, are clearly petering out.  I'm finishing my drink.  I don't want to put the last of the short, thick logs on because they take forever to burn.  And somewhere off in the neighborhood, some guy has emptied his bottles and cans into the huge recycling bin we all have--surely a loud sign that the July 4th weekend is over!

And yet I will write to the last, to the last flicker, to the last remnant of smoldering wood, to the last drop of my drink.  Because we don't ever want the fire to go out, do we?  We don't ever want to be done.  We will fight to the last--we will rage to the dying of the light.  My better half is in bed, sleeping, and this fire keeps crumbling...I know I'll have tomorrow, but how many more tomorrows will any of us have?  How much fire is left?

I dedicate this to my father and Mary, both who died too young.  May their flames burn on.

Musing by the Firepit

Hey, it's been a long time.  Again.  Sorry for the disappearance; buying another house, doing something with mine, professional responsibilities, dealing with agents, lawyers, inspectors...No time at all to blog, or to write anything.  Last night was the first time in a long time that I was able to write anything at all; but write I did, for a couple of hours, with breaks, over an awesome firepit that was so well stocked that I could see more than well enough to write by just the firelight, up until I decided to let it go out at 1 a.m.  It was a wonderful release, so here's some of it, with possibly more to come next time.

Just at midnight, so July 5th.  I'm writing by my firepit's warm glow.  On an 80 degree night, I'm so close to it, and it's so hot, I'm melting.  The flickering effect is very cool.  I've always wanted to do this...Wait, it's getting lower...There.  Took some doing, but awesome job.  I look forward to doing this in my new home's fireplace--all winter!  He'd be surprised to know this, but I think of my father every day.  I wish he'd told us more of what he was going through.  I would've gone over more; I would've told him I'd loved him more often; I would've asked to stay the night, spend more time.  I miss him all the time.  It was so fast--better for him, of course, but...I can't believe he's gone, though it's been since the beginning of March and you'd think I'd be over it by now.  Nothing's the same...

This firepit is one of the few things that calms me down.  I need to actively do more of that, everyday.  I need to calm down and appreciate everyone and everything more--my better half, my pets, my homes, my career, my health, my friends, my abilities, my writing.  Everything!

To calm down every day, I could have my ice coffee every morning with raisin bread, like my father used to.  I could wake up earlier so I'm not always hurrying and stressed.  I have a feeling that I've been like that for so long that I'm stressed without realizing it.  I need to read and write every day.  Maybe have a firepit or a fireplace fire more often.  The flickering flames and the crackling embers are fantastic!  I just need to be happier!  I can be, and I should be, so why aren't I?