The Reading Problem

I’m suffering from The Reading Problem again and anew, the evil spell and joyful tonic of reading others and then struggling with the many fires they ignite in my mind. It’s like, gasoline has been poured on dry grass, matches tossed on it. A warehouse of explosives has…exploded. But the explosions are thoughts, insights, themes, concepts, ideas, visions, memories, epiphanies, realities, all brought up by others’ words.

My wife and I spoke about this sometime earlier this week, after watching Carpool Karaoke, Broadway edition. We ‘found’ James Corden early on in Gavin and Stacey. He lives up to my hopes that he was the talented individual that he seemed to be (thus vindicating my taste, intelligence, and insights, you see). But, as usual, I’m jealous of the little blue eyed bastard for doing neat things like singing with Lin-Manuel Miranda ‘and more’ – (like Audra McDonald, a pretty damn good ‘and more’, along with Jane Krakowski and Jesse Tyler Ferguson – yeah, ‘and more’). Which prompted the expected, “Gee, wouldn’t it be great to be so talented and to know such talented people and have them as friends and get together to do fun, talented things?” Like the artists and writers in Paris did. Dorothy Parker and friends. Or the Hollywood Vampires, or The Traveling Wilburys. “Let’s get together and do an album, Tom Petty.” “Sure, and let’s call Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison and George Harrison and see if they want to play along.” “Okay, Jeff Lynne.”

But I’m a writer, cocooned in my own self and its creations of doubts, suspicions and insecurities about who I am, hoping that I’ll grow out of it all some day (I’ll be 60 this year, and I hear that 60 is the new forty, but I’m hoping it’s the new 20) so I don’t socialize well, not like Stephen King and the Remainders. I’m more like J.D. Salinger with less talent and intelligence. So I don’t belong to any round tables and don’t do pop ins.

Reading is my outlet, along with conversations with my wife, a highly remarkable, intelligent, and well read person (you should play Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit with her). She tells me things, and that fires up my mind, like quoting American Dervish writer Ayad Ahktar about writing and his amazing accomplishments as she prepares for her book club.

My mind had already been inflamed by reading other posts. Sweet lord, the amazing writers out there, with insights and inventive, beautiful language. The subjects they choose, the rawness displayed as they strip naked and flash their pain. While I often debase the Internet of Things as the web of greed and misinformation, gems can be found without much effort. People are exploring themselves and telling us what they found, or what can’t be found, or what they’re hoping to find, and the trouble they’re having with their efforts.

If you want a similar mind explosion to what I endured, discover WordPress. Just follow along, and read.

Conveniences

Modern conveniences have spoiled me. Nuke something (via microwave) and have a meal in a few seconds. Refrigerators with built in ice makers. CD and MP3 players and home theater surround sound systems with speakers and woofers that are almost invisible. I use voice over Internet protocols, so I don’t have a telephone land line and don’t pay phone bills. Of course, the phones themselves don’t have wires, either. Just a handset and a charging station.

How fast can I travel the country, or the world, via aircraft? Many waits in security lines and processing to board the aircraft now take longer than the flights.

Once I thought color television was amazing. The rotating mechanical outside rotary antenna supplanted color television as an incredible addition, adding so many more channels. I think we were able to get about eight. Then came cable, and the cable explosion.

Now I don’t have cable or a rotating antenna, nor a satellite dish. I receive over the air broadcasts via a digital indoor antenna, and supplement my watching habits with Roku devices on two televisions. The third television is a curved, high definition smart TV. It doesn’t need a Roku. It has a wireless connection to the web, a ‘smart TV’.  Its screen is 55 inches but it weighs about forty pounds, though it has stereo speakers built into it. Through the Roku and smart TV, I stream offerings from Amazon, Hulu, Netflix, HBO Now, Acorn and Showtime. I have monthly subscriptions but these cost me almost nothing. I use Swagbucks to buy gift cards to pay for these subscriptions.

My computers have gone from heavy, thick machines with a small green screen (and no mouse or pointing devices, back then) to sleek, four pound laptops. Enhanced Graphics – wow, sixteen colors! – gave way to VGA to digital graphics and plasma screens. My mouse is wireless. I can take my computer anywhere and connect to wireless systems, using its battery pack to write and converse with people around the world, watch videos, or create posts, like this, that others can read within seconds of me clicking ‘publish’.

All of these are almost taken for granted but the stuff in my car continues impressing me. I’ve had it almost two years, and two things, the climate control, the keyless entry, and the headlights, keep me impressed.

With the climate control, I rarely touch them. The air conditioning and heater are utilized to keep the temperature on my side of the vehicle at whatever I’ve chose. The fan kicks on to a higher speed if necessary to cope with colder or hotter conditions. Sometimes, when it’s really cold, I turn on the seat’s heater. All of this is a long way from rolling down windows, adjusting vents, sliding heating and air con controls back and forth, and turning fans on higher or lower. The car does all these things for me.

Likewise, the keyless entry impresses me. I put the fob into a pocket and forget about it. Press a button to unlock the doors. Press another to start the car. No key.

The headlights are always on, dimming themselves as needed, turning around corners to minimize blind spots, raising and lowering to keep level in relationship to the car and road’s angles. This, again, is a long way from the early days of turning the headlights on, stamping on a metal cylinder to toggle the high beams on and off. The metal cylinder gave way to switches on sticks mounted on the steering wheel column.

How long these will continue impressing me, I don’t know. Digital clocks and watches long impressed me. Cable television amazed me for about four years, I think, because it soon became a flawed offering. But the things that concern me each day are not these amazing devices, but more basic matters, like water and drought. Where are the modern devices to deal with those? And what about the hand gun deaths in the United States? I understand the second amendment but I really thought we could hold two positions in our minds and intelligently address these.

I must pause to write, too, and note, yes, and what of prejudices, prejudices based on sex, sexual orientation, religion, ethnicity, poverty, race, the color of your skin, or even your clothes or the way you wear your hair, and your politics, and your education, and the way you speak?

Of course, the flow is all about money. There is money in prejudice as fearful people keep pathetic power hungry people in leadership positions. If there was more money in solving the drought or improving water efficiency, more modern conveniences would emerge to deal with those issues. We see that happening on the power side. I have passive solar panels on my roof but I’ve had them almost ten years. I take them for granted, too, although I do pause when passing the invertor to see how many watts my system is generating, and I look at the electric bill each month. Yet its technology has already improved and that system is how the mechanical antenna with its rotor was like compared to cable.

I don’t mean this to sound or be self-congratulatory. It’s meant to be a reflection of the changes witnessed, no matter which direction they went, in my lifetime. The world amazes me, but I’m frustrated that we can’t solve or seem even to address some issues, because there’s no profit involved. Where profit becomes involved, like housing, heathcare, agriculture and politics in America, the results become depressing, with profits, power and control overwhelming the common good.

Yet, perhaps because I write fiction, and was raised on Star Trek, or maybe because I’m a natural optimist who hates giving up on anything, I keep hoping and believing that change will come our way. We’ve elected, at last, a black human to be America’s President. A female, at last, is being nominated for the Presidency (assuming all goes well between now and the convention). And the Pope has apologized for some of his religion’s more regretful recent issues, and is pushing his church to be a more charitable and humane organization, the way it was originally intended (I think…).

The USA has even re-established relations with Cuba. Back in my youth, in the 1960s, we were in the cold war with the USSR, which no longer exists, and fighting a hot war in Vietnam (which now manufactures our consumer goods). Hot wars around the world still subsume our energies and destroy lives and the planet. Cue Edwin Starr: “War! Good God, y’all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!” And people will argue, no it’s necessary to deter aggression and right wrongs.

Maybe it was once. But now I think of war as a small black and white portable television, with a tiny screen and limited reception. Unfortunately, there remains too much profit in war for anyone to rush to do away with it.

What we need to do is find the profit in peace. And then the modern convenience machine will go right to work.

The Usual

He wakes up

the usual time, after a usual night of sleep

with the usual shifts and movements

falling asleep to the usual thoughts

He does

the usual things,

feeds the cats the usual foods

in the usual order

He checks

the usual items,

the temperature outside and in

the forecast

the stock market

the news

the blogs

And he eats

the usual breakfast

drinks the usual coffee

shaves his usual face

dresses in his usual clothes

and embraces his usual self

on a usual day.

Conversations with Self

Perfect, I think, 71 degrees F in the house, perfect, I think, with a cool breeze laden with soft tinctures of damp grasses sweep in through the office window, an unexpected delivery. Outside, the sun is flexing its blaze, awing the blue sky. Outside promises heat, the kind dreamed of during frigid winters.

My perfection doesn’t align with my wife’s idea of perfection. When 78 degrees inflamed the office and the windows were closed against the 92 degree heat outside, my wife declared her pleasure with the heat. “I’d rather be too hot than too cold.”

Yes, all of it is a spectrum, I speak to myself. Nothing seems absolute. Everything in our existence seems to be on a spectrum. I toy with the spectrum of spectrums that merge and blend into a spectrum of reality and existence.

Is truth somewhere on a spectrum? No, but our understanding of truth exists on a spectrum, the understanding, interpretation and application of truth and facts through spectrums.

Spectrums and cycles. I travel cycles of darkness and light, balancing along spectrums of happiness. Spectrums of determination and desire. Spectrums of energy and willpower. Nothing is black and white for me and my spectrums. Emotions, dream, urges and frustrations pedaling with frenzy, I cycle through my spectrums.

I’m going through a cycle of thinking that propels me toward optimism, joy and happiness on my spectrum. Are joy and happiness the same, I question, and cast a net to define the differences. Imagination intrudes. Story concepts take seed and bloom. I want to be done with what I’m writing so I can write more, explore these other ideas, discover these characters and their situations, lay out their story. I want to finish painting the guest room and the bathrooms’ trim so I can work on the yard, cut the grass, pull weeds, trim plants and bushes. I want to walk a long distance in the hot sun and free the sweat from my body. I want to load up junk, and clean the closets and drawers, and take items to the Goodwill, and I want to sit somewhere by an ocean’s side, smelling its breeze, hearing those waves, sipping a beer, or wine, alone or with others.

Life is good, in this spectrum’s neighborhood. And then, I tell myself, go edit. Go proofread. Go write. And I close the window, because the breeze is gone.

Going Backwards

I dreamed I was going backwards last night.

It wasn’t a bad feeling, going backwards, although I was in a car, actually occupying the driver seat, and it wasn’t my car, but belonged to my late father-in-law, and it was a Prius, which I think is beyond what he would own. He was a Jeep man, fond of hunting and fishing.

But let’s step back to the dream.

I dream a lot. I don’t know the averages for people. Dreaming is a self-reported matter. According to people who study people, people aren’t reliable about self-reporting matters, and those are the people who would know.

My pa-in-law died in December of 1991, an intelligent, personable man from southern WV. A friend recently died, prompting me to think of friends, pets and relatives who have left one plane for another, but I don’t think that’s what this dream was about.

I was visiting him at his home, which, being a dream, wasn’t the home where he usually lives. I think dream experts tell us that dream houses represent ourselves. So do cars.

Which brings me to the car. Visiting my in-law, Jim, I gathered I was to drive his silver Prius (not the latest generation, but the last generation of car…an interesting side-bar, which could merit more inspection for its meaning in the dream), following a person driving another Prius that belonged to Jim (and, huh, also silver, it WAS the latest model). I thought we were going fishing. Fishing with Jim was a relaxing, meditative pastime, and a favorite. I miss fishing with Jim.

So I’m sitting in the Prius driver seat, waiting for the other fellow, when the car starts rolling backward. Jim and the others notice, frantically motioning for me to stop it. Of course, that’s what I want to do, but I’m unfamiliar with the car and don’t know where the brake is.

Can you believe that?

I think that confusion over something as simple as braking a modern car could be something to ponder.

Meanwhile, the car rolls down the driveway and into the street as I attempt to figure out what to do. Then, it stops.

That was enough for Jim. Like a TV sitcom, the next scene shows me being driven in the other Prius, indignant about being stripped of my right to drive another’s car. And then I arrive at a business and discover that I’m to intern there. Mildly astonished, I’m dressed in the sort of California Silicon Valley business cas that I wore for years so that’s not a problem. I also brought another pair of shoes, so I can take off my Nikes and put on something dressier, which I do. Wow, what strange forethought.

This isn’t a start up but a plush and modern office space. A guy is there, playing with a radio controlled electric car, racing it over the carpet. I watch him for a few moments before deciding I need to pee. Going to the first bathroom, I realize that their symbols for the bathroom’s sex are foreign to me (and they’re symbols, not letters). After looking at one, I go to the other restroom. There, I hear someone urinating. I think it sounds like a man so I begin entering. Two women exiting the restroom jokingly re-direct me. One knows who I am and why I’m there, and tells me she’ll inform HR that I’m there.

An HR woman arrives and tells me to go with her. But I can’t, I want to get my shoes, and also, where are my sunglasses? Ah, my shoes are on my feet and my sunglasses are in my hand.

A dream trend is developing.

I apologize for being there, explaining that I didn’t know that my father-in-law was going to set me up to intern, and get ready to tell my work history – twenty years in the USAF, a few years with different medical device start-ups, and then NetworkICE, ISS and IBM that culminates in another twenty years of work. The HR woman asks if my wife is coming. No, why would my wife be coming? She’s hoping she was because she liked her the last time. What? There’s discussion about my wife and her name and when she was there. That’s when the dream slides out of my awareness.

And now I see it all. The dream is about my confusion. What confusion? I’m not certain. See, the essence of being confused is that you’re unclear ’bout what’s going on.

I bet why I’m confused will come to me later, after I sleep on it.

 

Love Story

In retrospect, I’m recommending a movie that came out in 1970. I’m speaking with people born in 1990 or later, because, see, they’re less than 25 years old. It’s thought arresting for me, that thes…

Source: Love Story

I mark the small firsts

The first story I wrote. Shuddering and shaking my head, I recall it was just yesterday, sitting in sunshine, that I attempted a memorable first sentence, a yesterday that’s 37 years back on time’s circle.

The first joy from creating and telling a story.

The first rejection. Yes, that first form letter from Issac Asimov’s Science Fiction and Fantasy.

The first dejection and introspection on what went wrong. Introspection – another way of saying that my heart and soul were torn out of me, leaving burnt, shadowy images of my existence. Really.

The first book purchased on short story writing. Damon Knight’s book. Bought it through Writer’s Digest. It’s still up here on my bookshelf, to my right.

The first decision to try again. Not really a decision. Hurt and angry, I was certain I was a writer. Still trying to prove that, but I think most writers are always still trying to prove that in myriad ways.

The first pilgrimage to a writers’ conference to figure out how others do it. That was in the late 1980s, when I attended a writer’s conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio, chosen as much for what was being offered as its close proximity to home. I was in the Air Force and assigned to Germany then, so if I was going to the United States to attend a conference, I’d also visit Mom in Pittsburgh, PA.

A personal rejection from an editor or publisher, instead of the form rejections. I never met George Scithers, but he wrote me a beautiful rejection letter. I was upset because I was rejected but my wife pointed out the positives in the letter. TYVM, George Scithers.

The first critique group, and the first insights into the creative writing reading publishing editing marketing selling labyrinth. Some people like everything explained. Others want to unravel themselves. Some enjoy happy or Hollywood endings and some think life is gritty and there aren’t happy endings. After a while,  I recognized, just write what I enjoy. I know that what I enjoy is far of the mark for most people, but I’ll have one happy reader.

Finally, the first sale and publication. “Marketing Wars”, Abyss and Apex Magazine. Yes, I remember.

A fan, the first! Sure, it was my nephew but he’s smarter than me and effusive in his praise.

The first glimmer that I wanted to write a novel.

The first draft of the first novel.

The first overwhelming sickness when reading the first novel and realizing I’ve written a piece of shit. Still have it, with the promise, I will edit it. Yeah.

The first realization that every almost writer experiences this.

The first jealousy of other first writers’ debut successes. Yes, I get jealous of them, of their writing, their talent, their success, their interviews, their big money. But I hunt down information on them. I learned that Andy Weir wrote and was rejected and gave up for a while before The Martian. JK Rowling went to being an overnight sensation after years of efforts. Kathryn Stockett endured five years of rejections before The Help was published.

The first time that I sucked in my breath, grit my teeth, and told myself to keep writing. I don’t recall the exact date/time/space or the events surrounding it but I do recall sitting, fists clenched, sighing with dejection and thinking, do I want to keep trying?

And the first time that I realize that I don’t want to, nor stop, writing, no matter how hard it is. No, because writing is fun, satisfying, intrinsically rewarding. Concepts, ideas, stories  and characters wash in, an ocean that never stops. Many hit the beach and I wander along, picking them up, adding them to the collection. Some grab me tightly and don’t let go.

So I write.

By the way, Returnee, up there at the top, is the first novel I decided to self-publish. It’s available over on Amazon.

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