The Lighter Side of Uncertainty

CLEVELAND [May 28, 2006] --- There is a good friend who, given the opportunity, would purchase a map of the future. Knowing him, he would probably develop a business empire by selling glimpses into tomorrow. Failing that, he makes his own destiny. And he is very good at it. Most of us just try our best to pave the way toward a better life, we work as hard as we can to make things happen and we prepare for the unexpected.

The flip side to my friend with the powerful and fully funded vision is the artist; especially the committed artist. You know the type: often behaving as though interchanging the adjective’s meaning from devoted to institutionalized. It is a highly charged way to live and few would recommend it. Fewer still survive.

But the fact remains that we don’t know what will happen. We can’t; and no matter how hard we try to prepare, no mater how much we bank money, experience or even emotions, the future is in control. Yet some believe we actually do have control beyond the physical. That is, we can be the writer, the director and the production designer, even the dramaturge if we use the same tools we employ in the craft of creating. Personal coaches make millions showing this to others, and their techniques are widely varied, but one common thread appears no matter who is clicking the PowerPiont: positive living begins with positive thinking.

There is no real proof that this is so. A man on death row cannot think himself into freedom. Or can he? An otherwise healthy person can become so wrapped in misery that he or she imposes nearly the same consequences, so what’s to stop the prisoner from at least freeing his mind.

“Act as if…” was the advice from Dr. Melfi to a despondent Tony Soprano. Act as if you have the world and the world wants what you have. Act as if that contract is just around the corner and the change is coming. You just don’t know it yet. One thing is certain, change is coming. Given that exactly what that change will be, good or bad, is equally unknown, then why not give more weight – that mental energy – to the positive?

It seems so easy while sitting there, getting the pitch from the experts, the gurus and the masters. All you have to do is A, B and C and X, Y and Z will happen! Promise an improved quality of life and you are guaranteed a book deal. Offer a way to increase sales and watch the requests for all-day sessions come rushing in.

Put a sign near you primary workspace that says: “I will make $200,000 in 2006…then I will pay off the house.” Read it everyday and work toward that positive outcome and it will happen! So let it be written, so let it be done!

It’s almost June. Better get moving.

The Involuntary Time Machine

CLEVELAND [May 23, 2006] --- It is a strange sensation, going backward. More accurately the focus here is starting over. We witness this in others with equal amounts of pity and dramatic attraction. There is entertainment in the suffering of others, especially those who once stood atop great empires and seemingly unlimited resources.

And when it does not happen naturally, we seek to create such downfalls. How many of you snickered at the vitriol heaped upon the leader of our profession with the release of the film adaptation. (A) Best Selling primer on how not to write an English sentence...: that was within the opening remarks of a dishwater review for the movie. Make no mistake, when it comes to leaders, it is not quality, it is not even inherent talent, it is sales that makes the author successful. Dan, Michael, JD, John, Nora, James, Patricia, you know the last names, and though they will never make it on the NYT list of 25 Best, they are the best. They are on top and probably spend a good deal of their fortune paying those who will dodge the bullets for them (or take them outright) because we love to try and knock them down.

It has become painfully obvious that this is the nature of things, not necessarily the nature of man; of Americans. Just as water finds its own level there seems to be a great equalizer all around us. Not too high, not too low, that is the shift that keeps the universe rotating. For nearly five years the world looked promising and in many ways delightful. There was work to be done, labors of joy and generosity matched by unflinching selfishness and ego. The work that was created in that time was supposed to open new doors and fuel this dream machine for eternity.

Certainly there was risk. What if there are no takers, no agent willing to put his or her reputation on the line for a new artist? Once that was overcome, what if the agent was more predator than partner, taking exorbitant fees with little or nothing to show for it? Eliminating that possibility through due diligence, what about the product itself? Is it right for the marketplace? Is it interesting? Is it any good at all?

And there‘s the wait, the uncertainty, the glimmer of hope that seems to cool with time and distance.

But we press on, writing more until we have said all we can say, and refined (as best the author can without fresh eyes, professional eyes) until all that is left is the pathway. Dark and verboten it stretches out before the adventurer; like his stories, there is danger every step of the way. Without the possibility of failure, there is no value to success. But there comes a time when the sheer pressure of living on that path is enough to defeat the hero. After all, there really are no heroes, just those willing to take one more step, no matter what.

Times like these it is always good to remember a friend. At nearly twenty years into his personal journey of recovery and life renewing activity, a series of tragedies hit. It hit him hard. Death, alienation and a loss of center that would send most human’s reeling, but he stood tall – at barely five-foot-five – and cinched up his faith. He knew that he had a Higher Power, and that was not going to fail him, no matter what. He managed another step, and another and another.

Success is molded by such stories. We love to hear them as much or more than we love to snipe at the mighty. It is just that when we are living them – each agonizing moment, every terrifying morning – we can never see the outcome. We forget about the prize or why we started this journey in the first place. That’s when we need that time machine and a quick little visit to where we’ve been and where we are going.

Bobbles, Lies and Killin’ Incorporated

[CLEVELAND] MAY 18, 2006 --- “Don’t judge me,” she said looking away. It was one of those admonitions: one-sided at best. She judges everyone. Everyone who steps past her booth in the middle of the mall enters and exits the invisible scan of her cool barometer. Few pass without some scathing remark, perhaps expertly crafted into one well placed word, or one look in her strabismus widened eyes. It is humorous and often, she is right. But don’t judge her. That is for God. "That is for Allah."

It is a small diversion that keeps her in the seven-dollar-an-hour seat from noon until closing. Hers is a thankless task; selling glass bobbles and shiny kitsch to passer-bys who have a little more discretionary cash than taste. And she knows it. “There’s not a thing on these carts that I would be caught dead wearing. Nuh-uh, I’d come back to life just to rip one of these bags off my shoulder and throw it in somebody else’s grave.” Catherine is six months pregnant with her third child: a little girl who sits like a well-placed melon between her breasts and pelvis. No more. From behind you would not know this slight frame was anything but thin with curves and rounds in just the right places. From the front she still seems slim, only a side view reveals her pending addition. To hear Catherine tell it, even her pregnancy is stylish.

So we entertain each other in those slow moments, which are many. The mall gives an insurance agent a retail presence, foot traffic, but no more. Anyone approaching the smiling man and his table of concept sheets and presumed expertise does so because he or she has decided to take a step. There is nothing anyone can do to change a position on these products and services, except to remind them that it is important.

For Catherine it is different. There is nothing on her carts of importance. Yet the attraction is there, clearly illustrated by the fair flow of women, young and old, who stop to look. Some buy, and she is eager to engage them with her unique charm.

People love to talk, especially when not being judged. The Marine follows his wife and daughter to within a few feet of the athletic clothing store. He stops and sucks his teeth in disgust. “Man, I ain’t going for this.” He is a big man, in Marine logo sweat pants and tee shirt straining at his battle-hardened upper body. “Fifteen years in the corps, nothing I ain’t seen.” When asked how it goes in Iraq. Again, the look of disgust returns. “Going fine, if you believe the lie.” He talks about private soldiers with superior equipment and pay three times a general’s draw. “Don’t hear about them dying or doing wrong. They are, getting away with shit that would get a G.I. court-martialed or worse. And they are getting killed, too. Just don’t make the news.” He watches his daughter get excited over a pair of $150.00 shoes and grimaces. “Nothing but a private war over there now, on all sides.” The stranger catches his eyes; the fire flickering in narrow lids and a direct stare. “Killin’ Incorporated.”

The mall is a daycare for unwanted adults, too. The mentally challenged redhead, about twenty, walks the halls with earnest purpose, cell phone to her ear and talking incessantly. It takes only a glance to see the phone has no outward display or lighted dial, even though that model would have both, were it powered on. The old man in the sweat-ringed fedora makes his rounds. Steady blue eyes reveals a fairly clear mind trying desperately to hang on to a fading body. And there are others, seemingly many others. But the insurance man takes the advice from the lady at the bobble kiosk.

Try not to judge.

The Extra Mother's Day Card

Monika bought an extra Mother’s Day card. She could not bear to face our first day honoring the single most important people on the planet without including Mary Collins. Mary is actually her mother-in-law, but the feelings were just as strong as it would have been for her own mom, Irma. Monika loved Mary Collins. Anyone who knew her loved her, too. Mary doesn’t need a card this Sunday. Neither does Claudette, Linda, and millions of other women who left their children on this plane to carry on.

Returning from a day of remembrance and celebration for the life of a very special mother, one can’t help but think of the disproportionate balance a woman is given when she gives birth. There, in the little house belonging to the closest living person to Mary Collins – her baby sister Ann – were two new mothers and their precious children. The women are very different, yet the things they have in common are huge. Warning: The writings of Elmer Polk are going to greatly influence the remainder of this piece. There are topics that are addressed in the books this page promotes that are meaningless to some and of paramount importance to others. One of those topics, obviously, is Radio, another is murder.

And there is race.

The two women, both of whom are remarkable people in their own right, are married to Linda’s oldest and middle sons. The men are Black, the woman are White. Their children will be whatever they want to be. Right now they are the center of the world for a couple of moms and dads, grand parents and great grand parents. Both of these special moms are open and honest about the potential anomalous character a segment of the American population views their relationships. They know it, and don’t care. Monika knows it and doesn’t care. We should all be so enlightened.

One of the women – they are both J’s – talked about the racial profiling her home town performed on her husband and on a visitor recently. She was certain that it is a common practice. Aware, disheartened, but it really changes nothing. This young lady is a gentle soul who still holds the sadness of the fairly recent loss of her mom to cancer. Even her sister has the same dark tint behind otherwise bright blue eyes.

The other woman, an attorney in California, like her husband, seemed to want to learn as much as possible about her husband’s background. They peppered the older cousin with questions; of course he was more than happy to respond. Beyond motherhood, beyond self improvement and strong self esteem, these two women are to be commended for something else: following their hearts, minds and loves. It is not as bad as it was when this little town was pulling itself out of the antebellum psychosis – a condition that is not that far behind us and still exists in some places – but you know and we know that it is alive, hidden in the twilight between morality and injustice.

Mothers just might be the final arbiter. When enough have dissolved our differences by replacing race with love, then perhaps we can all start to see that there really was no difference to begin with.

Thank you, Moms everywhere.

Eyes as Big as theWorld

[CLEVELAND] MAY 9, 2006 --- “I want to write a children’s book.” Eyes sparkled at the notion. She was an educator and a mother. But that was not enough, she said later. There had to be training, a return to school. It was a slow response to a family member who suggested that he had started writing. It seemed to remind her of the dreams still on the drift. “I can do so much more.” It was whispered, as though saying it out loud would lessen the accomplishments. She was a mother, and a good one. A boy and two girls, all as handsome as she: freckles and crafty blends of American heritage, their features fit a harmony of beauty and grace. Even when they went astray, there was grace.

The little town was a burden. Like a restless feather in a down comforter poking to get free. The community, the town, the region, even the state was locked in the middle. Just south enough not to be north, north enough not to be totally south; not east nor west, nor mountains nor streams. It is Bluegrass, a bit of irony that attracts the world's most beautiful animals and the people who love them. As a child, peering over the big vinyl roll that based the classic car windows, even an active imagination could not turn the grass blue. But the magnificent creatures that proudly pranced and played quieted all questions, all objections that the title of the place had no basis in fact. The grass is not blue, but it is as rare as the name suggests because it feeds those wonderful, fast and royal beasts.

More irony was found in the alternate fields: tobacco. Burley leaves sway in the late summer wind, as proud as the steed in a vegetable sort of way. It was not grown to be eaten - nothing so vulgar. Like the horse, it is not stock, but luxury, savored in smoke or chew just to fulfill a desire, not a need. That came later.

Down the road there is also corn, barely, wheat and rye. Only the weakest stalks are made into feed. The rest travel another road that pampers and ages the ancient recipes into the only drink worth drinking: Kentucky Bourbon.

So here the mundane is transformed into the miraculous. The grass is blue and the beasts are bred to entertain. Yet the people are the true wonder. Once a bulwark against freedom for the ones who did bear the burdens, the under-road widened in Kentucky. In spite of the fierce resistance the under-class thrived. And today there is a touch of harmony the rest of the country could envy, if they only knew.

So the lady quietly dreamed. Her children grew and needed her less, then became parents and needed her more. Her husband supported her, but the brick and mortar of desires and goals faded into a gossamer mist. Dreams, just dreams were all that was left when the fight was done. What was left is what is – ultimately - all that is left of these lives: love. The lady was a lady, and she is loved. Loved by her family and by strangers who never had a chance or the courage to let her know before it was too late. Loved and admired for daring to dream, though some might have fallen short, the lady dreamed big dreams. Don’t we all?

Now sweet lady of the small part of America with the big heart, your dreams can rest with those you left behind. There are many more chances for those dreams to come true because you left the world so much better than you found it: filled with the laughter of children and more dreams than we can count.

The Price of Integrity

[CLEVELAND] MAY 7, 2006 --- Check your motivations. That was the advice echoed back from a good friend, and not a moment too soon. Being an educator, a coach or a talent developer means dispensing advice from the warm side of the river: you are not the one being cut by the chill and chased by the challenge. It seems easy to stand there shouting the right things over the rapids. But the real reward is when the student surpasses the teacher. And there is no better illustration of that moment than when the student pushes back with a bit of the sage wisdom once - almost absently - delivered by the coach.

Check your motivations. That was a particular favorite catch-all. Part Golden Rule, part common sense and part faith that there is balance in the universe; it guides actions in many, while eluding most. Someone once said, “Work as though you don’t need the money.” As writers, we all know that sensation, but in the world of straight lines from task to paycheck, it is sometimes difficult to see traps along the way. It is often easy to ignore your motivations.

Recently this third tier of a life’s work has come under great scrutiny. Licensed under the NASD, the National Association of Securities Dealers, one finds that the white light is always on. Through the testing and registering process, one thing is made very clear: you are obligated to do the right thing. That failure to meet that obligation could mean fines, suspension and even a prison sentence. When you are charged with handling other people’s money there is no room for error and no forgiveness for lapsing judgment. So when recently faced with a small dilemma - whether a person is insurable or not based on a timeline that was clear and understood – the thought entered this over-burdened and highly stressed mind: is there a way around the rules?

Check your motivations, the once advisee said, without blinking an eye. He knew there was no chance that the rules could be bent. He also knew that his friend and future insurance agent would have asked the same question; internalized the consequences at the very least. Motivations go askew when times are tough. But acting on those false signals will only make matters worse.

The friend was correct – and right on time – in reminding this hopeful traveler of the rules. There were times when the motivations were simple: the easier, softer way; the selfish way; the short term fix. Those days were fraught with fear, unfulfilled dreams and abject failure. Not a good way to go through life.

So motivations are checked and double-checked. And as is often the case, those who might have a shorter road behind them are the ones who remind us of the challenges and traps mounted and avoided along the way. No matter where the advice originated, it is always a good place to start.

Check your motivations.

2005

Imagination v. Experience

CLEVELAND [May 2, 2005] -- Writers have a unique advantage when it comes to government support for the profession. It is such a nebulous endeavor that many things done strictly for personal pleasure by, say, an advertising executive, can be deemed research and vital to the job by a writer. This is by no means offering tax advice, but when you compile ideas for a living, even a meager living, then the expense of discovering the world can – emphasis on the can– be deductible. But how much first-hand experience is really needed to craft a story, an article, an essay, when the imagination, the world’s greatest library, is freely accessible? Two quotes come to mind on the topic, and forgive this deficiency but their origins have been forgotten. One is the adage: “Don’t just write what you know, write what you don’t know about what you know.” This is a fascinating awakening and a clear departure from much of the MFA instruction in creative writing.

When the stories featured under the banner The Radio Murders were coming to life, the writer took Radio as a foundation, a stage from which to discover and invent new worlds. The profession, the people and the general atmosphere of radio is well understood, but that was only so helpful in creating the characters who emerge and the events that take place in the offered five volumes. There was plenty of fact-finding and long, luxurious swims in new cultures, new worlds and the languages of people completely foreign to the author before setting to page. This brings to mind the second un-attributable exchange. A famous author had written a passage in a famous book whereby one of the more horrifying battles of WWI was exquisitely re-created. It was long held that this writer/adventurer had been involved in that battle, either as a corpsman or an officer. The clever author let the image fly unchallenged while his book sales soared. Later in life, when asked to recount his true participation in the Great War, the author admitted that he had never been on that bloodied patch of land. And, in fact, had never been to war; that he served his country as a military instructor and never left the homeland. The interviewer was quite puzzled and asked how such vivid detail could come to a man with no direct knowledge? “Young man,” the author spoke in soft and stern tones, “I imagined it.”

Imagination is a great thing for the fiction writer; it takes us places few have ever visited and is completely beyond challenge. Who’s to say what daily life on that Greek Isle is really like, or how prostitutes live on a protected floor in an otherwise unlivable public housing high-rise. What vetting can be done on a fictional police force situated on a slip of land that juts into the Gulf from a famous Florida peninsula? The place is there, but that is where the facts end and the imagination begins. Well-researched stories, even works of fiction that skirt the edge of human experience, are always better received than those totally conjured by a lone spirit. Poe, one of this writer’s favorites, was constantly researching subjects for his dark visions - if involuntarily so - by self-medicating a deep psychosis. London sailed extensively, was a forester and lived much of his work, as did Twain and Hemingway. But for every great writer who lived wildly interesting lives and wrote of what he or she saw, there are many whose adventures are only limited by imagination and see inner and outer worlds inconceivable except on the page. Imagination is the mind's original Google; infinitely faster and farther reaching. Now, if only we could find a way to make this abundant resource deductible.

Hey! That Was My Idea

CLEVELAND [May 4, 2005] -- Something that universally plagues writers can be described in one word: derivative. Most who express opinion, novelty or create worlds in print are willing to accept nearly any criticism. It is part of the job, should one be lucky enough to ring a living from the practice. One of the most stinging critiques of this PM member’s early works included the words cliché and, “you think this hasn’t been done before? Well it has.” This biting, almost dream-killing comment came from someone very close. Paraphrasing from an essay mentioned earlier in this space, we know what that shark looks like…Yet the idea that our work is not totally, completely, unequivocally original should bother no one; not the reader, the critic nor even the author.

In the Twenty First Century, five-hundred-fifty-five years after Herr Gutenberg smelted something that looked like an “A” onto the end of a tiny ingot, it should be no surprise that the same basic plots have been used and used again, ad infinitum. In a remarkably detailed and consuming study, English journalist and editor Christopher Booker examined the futility of attempting originality in his door-stopper of a book The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories. Most who have attempted the craft of fiction don’t need to read this nearly eight-hundred pages of distilled anxiety. Most of us know that the more we try, the more our stories sound like something we read as children, or worse, something we saw on Law&Order – that was another of the slashing observations made by the cherished critic mentioned earlier.

Yet we work so hard and when in the zone, the stories come at us from some place so deeply excavated that there seems - at least to the creator - no resemblance to any predicate. We weave and bob with such deftness and light touch that even the great satirist Booker might find it difficult to fit the twists and turns into one of his seven-sizes-fits-all models.

Then this happens.

Two years after completing the fourth story in the series collected under the banner The Radio Murders, a small device shows up in a very unlikely place. If one were being realistic, the disclosure came from a very likely place: the TV mystery drama Numbers, or NUMB3RS, if you like. This is a fairly well-conceived TV show, as TV shows go. And the device used as a very small tool by an antagonist in this writer’s Silverreed was blown up to a mystery divulging plot turn in the hour-long show. Yet it still struck a cord, mainly because the method and manner of the technique was deemed - at the time - totally original, and not just by the author, but by independent readers; some with a background in this sort of thing.

Once again it is proven that no matter how hard we try, attempting to write anew is a self-defeating endeavor. Some of the best advice this writer ever received was the following: just as you cannot invent a new story, so no one can tell your story. It is not the plot, nor even the characters and location that give your work its stamp of originality, it is the way in which you tell it. As long as there is no intended fraud or thievery in the creation, every story is new and every writer ought try their best and forget about whom might have pondered the same What If? before.

Sex. Smiles and Smells

CLEVELAND [May 10, 2005] -- Here we stand, on the bridge of human emotion, trying desperately to make the connection. It is never easy, but the best way to seal a place in the memory of a reader – or anyone for that matter – is to tap the vein of emotion. It is this PM member’s experience that certain things do hold greater sway in the organic PowerPoint of our internal view. Smells trigger an array of responses. Moments of laughter seem to take many years to fade. And intimacy is eternal. Even bad sex occupies a room with a view and never denies those memories – if needed - from instant consciousness.

Writers crawl a cobbled path in an eternal pilgrimage for the emotional truth of a given moment. From this standpoint, life is easy; filled with tiny signals, defying detail by their minutia, yet communicating clearly all worries, hopes and fears. Detailing life in words is most difficult when those layers of human detritus must gain substance before passing into memory.

Imagine being in the company of a stranger, perhaps at a job interview or striking up a conversation on an airplane. What reaction would greet you if you said, “my daughter has leukemia,” or “my daughter is enrolling in Clown College,” or “what stinks in here?” The reaction would be quite different for each comment, but you will be remembered. When attempting to create life, one can imagine the difference between a wonderful painting and an artistic photograph. The interpretation is that of the artists, as is the individual point of view. But the painter takes time, talent and inspiration, combined with an innate desire to express that moment. The results are almost always raw emotion, if only for the creator. An accomplished artist can transmit that emotion to most viewers. The photographer need only capture the moment that was present at the time of the shutter blink. It takes immense skill and an artistic eye to know when and how to push the button, but the two media occupy far different emotional landscapes.

This writer is about to enter a phase of the work where the first rewrite begins. It can be said that this is a favorite part of the process. The story is told, start to finish, and now the emotion is carefully coated. Atmosphere is the watchword: are we in the room, do we smell the smells, feel the heat – or cool – do we see and hear the people, are we in their heads?

If it is sex, can we taste the briny, the bitter, the tang and the sweet; are we aroused? If it is funny, do we laugh? If it is anger do we burn? If is danger, do we pulse in the neck and tighten in the stomach? If it is resolve, do we relax and feel happy and, finally, safe? Quick! What color is her hair? Is he fat or thin? Where did he learn to shoot? Why is she so stupid – or smart, or brave or skilled - all of a sudden?

Does it all make emotional sense?

The first rewrite should be a joy, because it is the only time when you are a reader with the power to change things. In fiction, no one can hear you scream…when the sloppiness of the first draft passes before you. But when you are done, and do one more and perhaps another, then the reader had better smell the onions on the antagonist’s breath, and feel the fear as the hero risks all. And, oh yes, not only hear the screams, but the subtle chafe of strawberry-blond hair pressed against fragrant percale sheet.

Can you feel it?

The In’s and Out’s of Action

CLEVELAND [May 12, 2005] -- A wounded man runs through the woods. Shock closes on his senses and he knows that stopping means dying. So he plays chess with the last mental energy that drains from his life. Move by move, he recounts great games, both his and others in the pursuit of logic, strategy and domination. It is the only thing keeping him alive, and soon even that will fail.

That was beginning of the end; the final phase in hurried steps of a five month saga. In reality the tale covers only a span of about a week for those living it. But creating a world of danger, confusion and pure evil takes a little time. This is where the real carry-over quality of a story happens: in the simple question, “What happened?” We all know of the famous sitcom bannered as “it's about nothing.” And we all know that was far from true. So it is with a good story, something is always happening. It is much like the cartoonist having drawings flow with life in those extreme moments when motion overtakes thought and deed become heroic by sheer force of will. So must the action sequences in a written piece have those lines of motion and details blurred by speed.

In this PM member’s current work, evil has lurked and with a few strategic exceptions, the violence is seen as a tiny denouement to some horrible psychotic episode. It is often enough, at least in the early stages of our types of stories, to see the quiet, lifeless images of these unspeakable acts. But after the conditions have been firmly defined and the reader’s vision becomes accustomed to the level of cruelty of which these characters are capable, it is time to buckle them in and take them for a ride.

If we have done our jobs, the plight of our hero is the vehicle for this frenzy of emotion, physical reaction and the <I>chase of death. For this story, there are convenient woods and a clearly inconvenient loss of weapons and severing from the outside world. It helps if our hero – a man whose only powers are intellect and the ability to read others with a great degree of empathy – is severely wounded.

Now we are ready to run.

Details of disaster must have a rhythm of their own, otherwise one risks slowing the pace by explaining the color of the wind. Yet it is the details that make the heart race and the pores open. Tree roots rise to trip up unsteady feet, the forest floor rustles and screams, giving away his location, branches snap and slap already damaged skin and threaten the one good eye. And then, just as all hope is lost and the <I>unfriendlies</I> move in for the kill, something happens! There is an escape, if ever so slight and possibly more dangerous than letting the mob overtake him, still he must act! You know the rest.

Action scenes are this writer’s agony and ecstasy. They take longer to compose and are never fully hardened.

There is always something that can make the place more treacherous, something that will make the danger more consuming and something to make the resolution more exciting while remaining credible. Hanging by a thread just does not happen. Outrunning fireballs defies the laws of physics. And dodging bullets is akin to, well dodging bullets. Please, do not try that at home. But there are ways to take the reader with us on that last, desperate sprint; fleeing for our lives and nearly losing it at every turn. The most important way is to instill enough positive emotional capital in the pursued to make us want him to survive; and equal amounts of disdain for the pursuers.

While plot, character and narrative are the cerebral cortex of a good story, action is the medulla oblongata. Without it a story can contain all the carefully composed sentences in the known universe, and still, nothing happens.

Theatre of The Mind

CLEVELAND [May 15, 2005] -- Dennis Miller was fired this week. It was an unceremonious ending to an ill-conceived detrusion in a crowded sky. It was not just the comedian and essayist caught in the The Fall; there are underutilized, overpaid signals bouncing off satellites and riding coaxial cable all over the country. The price of disposable information, and empty names heading unwatchable chat shows, has finally outweighed any imaginable value. Mr. Miller just happens to be one of the few broadcast professionals caught in the tsunami. Add Tina Brown and John McEnroe to the cliff divers and you have a pinhole view of a much bigger problem - but that is for another version of these Personal Notes. This discussion is more fundamental and relates directly to the vocation and avocation most shared by reader and writer. Mr. Miller is a brilliant satirist and observer of the human condition. He has made a good living by raising smug to an art form, and that is a high compliment. But the most recent casting into the oubliette was not due to his point of view, his humor nor even his overall appeal; it was and is his writing. Dennis Miller never fully perfected the art of writing for the spoken word. That is not to say he cannot master a monologue. Most of the scripts are flawless for short-burst readers, but that is not the medium that gave him fame. Were one to read what was said, the humor, rhythm and bite of the piece would hold much more salience than watching the verbal high-wire act that seems to surround his every concise collocation.

Writing for a speaker and writing for a reader are two very different things. It is this PM member’s experience - more than three decades of writing for radio in various forms - that the former is good training for the latter, but one must learn the distinction in order to excel in either. Mr. Miller’s act can be likened to the great Mort Sahl. Anyone over fifty can and should remember his bi-monthly appearances on any number of TV staples. Mort was a master at nearly laughing at his clearly articulated observations, but only enough to get us to laugh along with him. His sentences were intelligent, short and always, always on point. He never left the viewer too far behind his careful sightings of the obvious, dubious and ridiculous; yet one did not mind being led by the eyebrows into the absurdity of the Great Society and the Age of Watergate. When Mort was on, the man behind the curtain was no longer safe. So it is with Dennis Miller. But rather than paddling us down the River Styx that is today’s news, he drives the speedboat, full throttle and dares us to hang on.

The natural parallel to the monologist verses the essayist is the audible verses the read. A very good and growing industry is made of books on tape. What was once reserved for the vision impaired is now vital for the time-disabled among us. Always on the move, and ever weakening eyes, make books better told than beheld by the mind’s theatre. It is grand theft to hear the unabridged work of a well-written story in which someone has invested months, often years crafting for the eye and the imagination. In Radio we call it Theatre of the Mind. It is the understanding that the portal entered may start with the ears, but the path leads to the infinite staging by the listener’s experiences, hopes and dreams. When done correctly, we become intimate to the point where the listener is certain that were we to meet on the street, it would be akin to Old Home Week.

Reading can and should contain similar intangible enlightenments. Characters never have the same life, motivation or meaning when drawn through the finely tuned impression of a voice artist. In the final appraisal, it all filters back to the difference between the skills; forever remaining at odds. When it is time to consume a good book, even a diversion or something fun to pass the time, let the sounds come from that inner voice that brings characters to life and situations into virtual view. Like ears to Radio, there is so much more to reading than actually meets the eye.

The Waiting Game

CLEVELAND [May 19, 2005] -- “Don’t bother Grandmother until her stories are over.” The command was emphatic enough for the title Grandmother to attain regal status and the consequences of disobeying too painful to contemplate. The word, the name for the stately old lady – never call her that, please! – was actually reinvented: Grand mu•thah, elevating this matriarch above all others. But for the small boy who loved to hear her stories and count the stars in her eyes, this was a sentence to eternal anticipation. The hour and a half consisted of three daytime dramas that were so dull as to coax an instant headache. This was the earliest recollection of time; more accurately, of waiting. It was no friend then and it is still a dubious ally at best. Time is fluid like the hot tea spilled from the pot; the drops hitting your bare foot triggering a slow climb to the nerve centers. Time is criminal; the afternoon that mysteriously abducted the morning while there is still so much to do. Time is magical; turning the infant into a college graduate. Time is heartless; stealing that stately old lady – please! – the youth from her daughter and the invulnerability from her grandson.

Now time is playing another role, that of ice sculpture in the way of a dream. It unleashes our rarer monsters to wield weapons of anxiety, self doubt and pending doom upon the landscape of hard work and hopes. Is there no better demon to paint on a pole, and underwrit, 'Here may you see the tyrant?' Time may not be as onerous as Macbeth, but when it fails to cooperate for the sake of noncompliance, then a tyrant nonetheless.

Most who scan these pages know well the experience of waiting for the fruits of their labors to ripen. We steal moments here and there to sculpt a vision that, we hope, will free us from drudgery and present endless possibilities. Some have taken great risks in suspending paychecks, and breaching the bounty for future security on a bet that investing in this talent will far outweigh annual yields and compound interest. After all, who would not love to make a living from a creation that is yours and yours alone; to sit and feed a page, a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter, a book for which a stranger is willing to pay? It was pointed out not long ago that everyone wants to do this, or something very close to it. So the field is overgrown with waiters.<img align=right src="http://www.badfiction.com/images/mary liza.jpg">

Yet there is no time to waste. While waiting for the work to catch from last year, one must continue to create, to feed the time-line for tomorrow’s waiting game. It is good advice that once one project is done, it’s on to the next. If one is represented, then let that professional take over while you work as though what forms beneath your fingers are the very first words of the toddler. Then time can become neutralized, if not an ally.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Most humans have this awful habit of placing future events inside the same box with present-day realities. It never works that way. When the news revels in dire predictions, “based on current trends,” it becomes high comedy. There are no trends in human existence, only detours. So it is with that moment when someone with the power to exact a change finds your work compelling enough to take it into the conference, stand before her peers and say: “This is good, very good. And I think we ought to take a closer look.” We never know how close we come to that magic moment before it hits, but it is guaranteed that the more time we waste thinking, worrying, wondering if such words are uttered on our behalf, the less likely such an event becomes. Desire, anticipation and time are mutually exclusive concepts. So perhaps the best thing to do is leave them all to a higher power and get back to work. This PM member has deferred such matters to the realm now occupied by Grandmother. There is no doubt that she will stand and present our case at every opportunity…as soon as her stories are over.

Teacher, Part One

CLEVELAND [May 19, 2005] -- “Charles…” he would say in a voice so beautiful that even the crag-bottom tones glimmered like black diamonds. “Not only is the majority seldom correct, it has never been right, about anything.” With these words a spirited discussion ensues. It is early evening and the older daughter is out, the middle boy sits, basically bored with the talks. But the younger engages. He is fearless and will not let the doctorate student get the upper hand, not in chess, not in politics, not in current events. The adult pushes and prods; says outrageous things and makes shocking – albeit historically grounded-assertions. “Communism is wrong because this textbook says it’s wrong.”(A conclusion the student made after some discussion). “Take away the embrace of racial hatred and homicidal tendencies and the Third Reich was a perfectly sound system of government (after all, the majority voted Hitler to power.) Think for yourself and the world will be a very lonely place.” It was the red pill-blue pill equivalent to a young mind; and Alfred was going to make sure young Charles chose wisely. This boy did choose awakening, and marveled at literature - reading slowly, understanding as much as he could. They discovered music – Alfred is near a concert pianist and even parked his Baby Grand in the family’s living room while he lived in a room in a stately mansion on fraternity row of the Western Reserve Campus. They went to see Shakespeare and other performances. The boy can still smell the grease paint on one especially accomplished Falstaff and remember the closing scene in Hot L Baltimore. But most of all they learned, perhaps together, that the world is wide open with clearly defined roads; many well traveled, as the poet laments, but some less so.

It was then that an idea took root: that no one can, nor should dictate the way another thinks or feels. That no one can embarrass, cause anger, fear or – outside of love – deliver any emotion to you without your complicity. That if you decide to act like an animal, then it is your choice, not the fault of the animals around you. They are but a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream, a scrap of curious history, devoid of reason in their ridiculous plebeian logic. It was a stinging realization, delivered in many literary allusions from Twain, Durant and London. “There are no absolutes,” he announced, “only relatives. We must learn to get along with the relatives!” One nasty little relative was that the society in which the boy was so desperately tying to fit was not worth the struggle. It did not matter if he was called names – and he was – it did not matter that vile motivations were attached to his desire to learn, to achieve and to experience the ideas of the widest variety of people in his small world would. The breakaway complete, there were still many things with which the boy had to deal. An addictive personality, it is said, is a given. And alcoholism ran its course. The disease did not win, simply called a truce, and that is as good as it gets.

The Mentor comes in all shapes and sizes. There are those who hold the boy’s hand until he is not only across the street, but on to the next intersection. And there are those who give instruction, watch over the first exercise, watch still the next – although secretly – and let the student travel his road. This PM member learned from Alfred, the philosopher and mathematician – truly a beautiful mind – but he also learned from Willie, his father’s painter helper who was a heartbeat from the penitentiary. He learned from J’mal, the Black Panther, and Randy, the Recon Ranger who ferreted out tunnels in Vietnam. He learned from bartenders and blonde heartbreakers; from a child and from presidents. And he learns still, from you.

What we do is not noble, it is not particularly special nor requires much more than time, patients and Strunk’s and White’s little book of suggestions. A computer helps, as does the Internet. But ultimately what we bring to the page is us: our experiences, our empathy and our highly over-valued points of view.

“Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

-Mark Twain

One must admit, there is some comfort in removing that great responsibility of having to amount to something.

The Three Worlds

CLEVELAND [May 27, 2005] -- Those to whom you entrust your work come in three categories: Dream-makers; Dream-breakers; and Honest Brokers. Collectively, some call them First Readers, and we all have them – or should – fresh eyes to help assuage the disease of ego and see the thing for what it is. There is a common, perhaps even prevailing notion that most writers have no idea if what they are concocting has any merit at all. They work hard and apply all the rules of the craft. The good ones find new ways of burdening a character or adding another layer of flesh on the imagined skeleton. But there is still no way to know for sure.

In an article about the Random House CEO Peter Olson, dubbed the most powerful man in publishing, NYT writer Lynn Hirschberg recounted a brief conversation between Mr. Olson and Toni Morrison. Such an exchange echoes on Olympus, yet remains small-talk. Ms. Morrison’s ‘Love’ was scheduled for release. It was the beginning of the Summer of Attrition throughout the industry, 2003, and talk of firings remained the overtone of the Book Expo America, the annual trade show that was held at the Convention Center in Los Angeles that year. After a few playful words about the pre-eminent author, “having a job,” Mr. Olson admitted that he hadn’t read ‘Love’ yet and asked how was it? Ms. Morrison, ever confident in her art, simply said, “It is perfect.”

Writing is an insular pursuit. Powerful writers are often the victim of their celebrity. There comes a time when the weight of their reputation off-balances any sound criticism. Toni Morrison’s “Love’ may well be perfect. But such bravado is not something this tinkerer of small tales ever wishes to acquire. It is important to remain unsure, always searching and always wondering if the praise was more honest than the slam.

In an effort to gauge the success or failure of a given work, a circle of interested parties are employed – volunteered is more accurate – to walk the path of the story. Typos and ill-conceived passages are graciously pointed out and, if possible, set aside from the task at hand. That is to evaluate the work. Never mind that you know the author, and would not like to hurt anyone’s feelings. Never mind that you are not a trained editor; you are asked to do a great favor and act as any reader would. It is probably the most difficult thing a person could do: forget about being a friend, interested in the feelings of another and just read. The success of a good writer and the reality-check of a bad writer depends upon it.

As the creator of artistic expression, one must care what others think. But those opinions cannot shade the intent. There has never been a book, a score or a visual of any kind that was universally favored. Someone is going to love it and someone is going to hate it. The trick for the honest author is to find the hater who is still willing to spend several hours with such dreck – his word, of course. Then, one must take the onslaught. One exercise that might help is being one’s own worst critic. Take your most treasured work and rip it! Brutalize the plot; the thin, insipid, imitation of life. Strip the characters; cliché figures about as animated as Gap manikins. And ravage the dialogue; barely worthy of The Hardy Boys. If you approach this with the correct state of mind, it can become a refreshing release from the impossible burden of chasing perfection.

Imagine how much better Star Wars could have been if someone had the balls to tell Mr. Lucas that his creation was a rewrite or two (three for the first two episodes) from complete; or suggest to the committee of authors of the Bible that they might want to stick with a consistent narrative; or mention to Jackson Pollack that if this is his painting, them what must the drop cloth look like? Honest appraisal all, yet words that were never uttered.

It has been said in these Personal Notes that what we do is not A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, it is not even mildly important in the Grand Scheme, but it is a work, a creation and meant for others to enjoy. That, by definition is art, and thus will be equally loved, hated and ignored.