tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33168087725594432222024-03-08T13:36:57.143-08:00As Long As I Can Be A Woman In ItVastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-85482892319745233782024-03-08T13:35:00.000-08:002024-03-08T13:36:24.492-08:00Genrefication....<p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>“Don't classify me,
read me. I'm a writer, not a genre.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--
Carlos Fuentes</b></span></i></p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mI0eVGz0KczgZnRyX9EJPMvKD9_iqSbgc-fWBNNDSVI4oldjnLQefHIJXolqLw205g7uqohaC2yXbaKf9PdHcQsuxV9wfJ5wWvrCXmPaQitvXLi0yFARHOUSXxfDh4CuLB22IHucFKCu_-tR5a94F9ceYjy_I5p3RDR3BtUOiUwo8NrbWSJ9dPyFd0o/s320/Genrefication%20Image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mI0eVGz0KczgZnRyX9EJPMvKD9_iqSbgc-fWBNNDSVI4oldjnLQefHIJXolqLw205g7uqohaC2yXbaKf9PdHcQsuxV9wfJ5wWvrCXmPaQitvXLi0yFARHOUSXxfDh4CuLB22IHucFKCu_-tR5a94F9ceYjy_I5p3RDR3BtUOiUwo8NrbWSJ9dPyFd0o/s1600/Genrefication%20Image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I've got a past. What I call fondly <i>the good ol' days. </i></b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;">I cling to memories of my
beginnings as a writer.</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Everybody starts out differently. I'd been writing, in one form or another, since childhood. First, stories sketched like comic strip tales. Later, in high school, a friend and I wrote</b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"> fantasy stories, ala Georgette Heyer, Christopher Lee fanfic, <i>Dark Shadows with </i>Barnabus Collins. Later still, another friend and I traded Rudolph Valentino stories. We were hopeless Valentino fans </b><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;">and we blissfully lost ourselves in
writing scenarios in which we, of course, were his lovers.</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Then one night I dreamed about Russell Crowe! So Valentino got
tossed to the side of the road in favor of swarthy Maximus in my new <i>Gladiator</i>
fantasy.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Then..<i>.then</i>...I had a relentless drive to
actually...<i>write</i>. A real story, as in submitting it. It was going to be
<i>shocking</i>, it was going to be a <i>best seller</i>. I was going to be <i>famous</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So I took off on a new journey with a new
destination. <i>FAME</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Funny thing, though, as illustrious
and famed as I planned to be, I still wrote for <i>fun</i>. It <i>was</i> fun.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>What more could there <i>be</i> to this writing gig, after all? One simply wrote a story, thumbed through a
list of agents, then simply plunked the manuscript into the mail.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>I'd like this
to be published, please</i>.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>The lucky agent, all a-flutter at the most magnificent
manuscript they'd ever received, would hasten to find me a publishing house and
there it would be. In like Flynn. I would soon be famous.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Please</i>.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Are you going to make me humiliate myself by telling
you the outcome to <i>that</i> dream?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Here's the thing, though. It was <i>so</i> much fun. I was <i>so</i> new,<i> so</i> green.
<i>So</i> full of hope. I was doing something I loved, and, joy of joys, it was going to make me rich and make me famous. <i>God, how I loved it</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>My first serious stab at writing was a Mafia story. It was,
at first glance, what is known in the publishing world as a 'hetero' romance or
a male/female romance, a story between a man and a woman.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I introduced a gay couple as supporting characters. The genre
bible said, this still falls into male/female romance. <i>Whew</i>. So I still
had that genre thing on track, that gave me a good insight into where I could
publish. Which publishers accepted what, and all that jazz. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Oh, but one thing</i>.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>It is still male/female romance <i>unless</i> the gay couple have on-screen sex.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Uh-oh</i>.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Okay, they <i>do</i> have sex on the page.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>So, does that
mean</i>...?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Oh, that's different<i>.</i></b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>You've now ventured over into
<i>mainstream</i>. It can no longer be a hetero romance if there is an other-than-heterosexual
sex scene or scenes in the story.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Very well, so I'll start looking for a publisher who...</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Now I <i>could </i>take the gay characters out of the story, the rules suggest.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Nah, I really like these guys, couldn't I just...?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Not in this story, and still call it a hetero romance. Now,
you <i>could</i> perhaps put them in their own story? <i>Then</i> that would be classified as
male/male romance. Another genre.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But they belong in the story.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Then no sex from them, and everything will fine. Unless, of
course, you go mainstream.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So, that story was shelved for a while. I did try to extract
the gay characters and give them their own vehicle. But you know how characters
are. The boys had none of that. So, hell. Nobody gets a story. Right?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Mainstream, remember?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Now this is too much of a headache. I'll just come back to
them later.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>On to another story. My first published story (under my C.
Zampa pen name), <i>CANDY G</i>. Piece of cake. Two men in a two-man romance.
Male/male romance. That was easy! Gender-ising, that is.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But there I am again. My current story is just the opposite.
A story of two gay men with a woman in the cast, a woman who has a huge point of
view in the story. She's the soon-to-be ex-wife of one of the characters.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>This time, it's the <i>woman's presence</i> raising the flags.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>She is allowed, but no on-screen sex scenes for her.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Yes, very well. I can manage that. The sex between her and
her husband isn't crucial to the story anyway. <i>Or is it?</i> I must decide<i> if </i>it's
important, based on genre guidelines, not by on how important the sexual
changes are in the relationship.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So it is still a male/male romance.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>At this point, I'm confused.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>The bottom line? <i>Life</i> is not compartmentalized by genres.
Real-life drama is a big mix of <i>everything</i>. Straight people and gay people
interact in real life.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But, to keep in perfect genre-fication, we have to pretend
that one of the genders does not really have sex. Well, I take that back. They
<i>can</i> have it, just don't<i> tell</i> about it. It'll just be their little secret.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Silly as it is, I have friends who write male/male fiction
who act like they'll get cooties if they look at pictures of straight couples
kissing. And, vice versa,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>author<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who do the same if male/male pictures are
posted. <i>Genre,</i> <i>baby, genre</i>. (In truth, it's bias and prejudice, but that's
another, much bigger issue). Never the twain shall meet in certain genres. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>For me, personally, sex is sex.<i> If </i>it fits a
character, any character, in the book, it belongs. <i>If</i> it is <i>crucial</i> to the story, <i>if</i> it's not just thrown in as sex for sex's sake. It doesn't turn me off,
doesn't offend me. Others might not feel the same, though, and they are completely
right in their own feelings. That's the beautiful part of human nature. We are
all different, and it should be okay that way.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I'm not complaining about these guidelines. They are there for specific reasons, and I understand them
completely. I adhere to them.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>But...But...</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I <i>do</i> miss the early days when I just wrote my
heart away, beautiful, <i>no</i>-<i>genre</i> writing, everybody all in the same story, gay,
straight, sex, no sex. Everybody had their place in my book. It was so simple, so pure. And
<i>fun</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I don't resent the way it actually is, these genre guidelines. I just miss
the absence of inhibition from those good old days. When I just wrote without having to fit a genre, but I wrote to the heart of the
story, whatever that heart might be.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>“My favorite genre is Beautifully Written Books of Any
Genre. Could we make that a genre?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-
Kristin Cashore</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-50793741091859674532024-01-28T13:46:00.000-08:002024-01-28T13:48:29.966-08:00Wait! Before You Read That Book.....<p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><em><b><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It was when I found out I could make
mistakes that I knew I was on to something. ~Ornette Coleman</span></span></b></em></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6JjfVsB00pyG3VBvXv3MCURFO_VsBXzAb2zcS12gudmZpo6vpiSTo8i5pDMwwLbEC4WTE8FM-RiohRm59jh7A079R5tcovKAKqvNZf1jz6dbpAGr1D0pw3xRE7AD7_5HgcT6CFjAFT8yrXTNSt_4UYIS7-0FerLwXUkFXTlJTGjVr5s_zSTYrmaCfJE/s1000/Woman%20Biting%20Nails.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6JjfVsB00pyG3VBvXv3MCURFO_VsBXzAb2zcS12gudmZpo6vpiSTo8i5pDMwwLbEC4WTE8FM-RiohRm59jh7A079R5tcovKAKqvNZf1jz6dbpAGr1D0pw3xRE7AD7_5HgcT6CFjAFT8yrXTNSt_4UYIS7-0FerLwXUkFXTlJTGjVr5s_zSTYrmaCfJE/s320/Woman%20Biting%20Nails.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span><br />
<p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>On a publisher’s loop once, a fellow author
mentioned that F. Scott Fitzgerald was known to have said he wished he could
get his books back so he could rewrite them.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>I immediately connected with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> sentiment.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>No, I only have one newly published book out
there in Bookland; but, even with that one book, I sometimes feel ‘writer’s
remorse’ (I don’t think there IS such a term as ‘writer’s remorse’, but it
seems to fit me so well, I’ll coin it myself).</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>I’m probably the only author on the planet who
literally cringes every time a potential buyer comments to me, <em>I’m just getting ready to download your book!</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>I have to bite my tongue to stifle the advance apologies
chomping at the bits to spew—<em>before
you DO read it, let me warn you—let me tell you ahead of time, you might think
it’s a ‘silly plot’—warning, warning—read at your own risk!</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>I’m not saying my book is bad.
It isn’t bad at all. It is what it is. Or at least I don’t think so. Some may
love it, some may like it, some may feel so-so about it.</b></span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>And some loathe it. But that is
true for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> book.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>What I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i>
saying is that I’m the first to acknowledge that this book—my first published
work in several years—has flaws that I can see.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>What I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> saying is that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> all</i> my
writing has flaws.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>What I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> saying is that just because I’ve sent this book out the door
does not mean I’ve ‘arrived’ at my pinnacle writing experience.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>One book—a hundred books—does not the perfect
writer make.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>This all could seem terribly hopeless, couldn’t
it? <em>Well, hell, Vastine, why even
keep trying? I mean, if you’re going to just keep messing up, if you’re never
going to get it perfect, what’s the point? How discouraging!</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Not so, my friend. Not only am I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> discouraged, I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ecstatic</i>. I can see my
mistakes.</b></span></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>I’ve been fortunate. Somehow, I’ve luckily
found a multitude of friends and supporters in the writing community who work
with me. But they don’t just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work</i>
with me. They <em>push </em>me. They
push me <em>hard</em>. They push
me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> hard sometimes I feel like Lucy
on the ballet episode—you know the one with the tough instructor who
perpetually snapped her baton at the bumbling Lucy?</b></span></span></p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFPkl65m1QGvBTp1fJX_LZ9Pl0FnshGu04qT6hkiA28Gzf9jGPVdlDkIB_0L57JB45iLjmZE9ebOxOcD8tnWN5c0T3urh8xS8WOIOcr5qL07hj9OHOCrpEHhdVgdUkM70ChtA8wB_xXqYIHxWFfv-Z3k22vjZ3Ksf-n9q2Y3ilUGoLhcLCeRHlssTwlc/s3600/Lucy%20Ballet%20Episode.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3600" data-original-width="2871" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFPkl65m1QGvBTp1fJX_LZ9Pl0FnshGu04qT6hkiA28Gzf9jGPVdlDkIB_0L57JB45iLjmZE9ebOxOcD8tnWN5c0T3urh8xS8WOIOcr5qL07hj9OHOCrpEHhdVgdUkM70ChtA8wB_xXqYIHxWFfv-Z3k22vjZ3Ksf-n9q2Y3ilUGoLhcLCeRHlssTwlc/s320/Lucy%20Ballet%20Episode.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>My teachers haven’t been tender. They haven’t
been afraid to tell me what I’m doing wrong. Although they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> praised my strengths, they haven’t been easy on my weaknesses.
And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> been tempted to snarl at
them when they point out an imperfection in my perfect work-in-progress.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>But none of my mentors—not even one—will
hesitate to tell you that I never balk at their advice. As far as pointers that
can make my story stronger, get more bang for the buck with tightening,
structure, etc.? I'd be silly not to listen. My mentors will tell you
I grab help and run with it, feast on it with greedy passion. Sometimes I
cherish the negatives because I know, I just know from experience, they can
almost always be turned into positives. They have their own beautiful power.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>To find your pristine manuscript isn’t so
flawless after all…well, it stings. But I’d rather feel the sting now—as I’m
writing the manuscript—and learn to correct my mistakes than to feel the much
bigger bites of the readers who catch my blunders.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Winston Churchill said<em> I am always ready to learn although I do
not always like being taught.</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Like I said, I’m lucky.</b></span></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Of course I wince at first upon hearing my
errors. The opposite end of that spectrum, though, is the unfortunate author
who either has not had the opportunity to learn or who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> have the chance but refuses to accept they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> have weaknesses, even when those more
experienced have tried to point them out and help them improve. To ignore help
will keep them from growing. Even worse, to think they don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> help will stunt their writing
growth completely.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>An unknown author said, <em>Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were
counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player.</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>And that’s just it. By sending our writing out
to the public, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> sending our
errors to be counted. So, like the ball player, it’s in our best interest to
practice, to listen to the experienced ones who try to help us, to learn from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our own</i> experience, to be grateful that
we have the means to sharpen our skills.</b></span></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>In order to do all the above, we have to know
and accept that we are always going to make mistakes. We aren’t going to reach
that perfect moment in our writing when we know everything.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Harry Truman said, <em>It's what you learn after you know it all that
counts.</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Another unknown author said—and I love this—<em>Experience is what causes a person to make new
mistakes instead of old ones.</em></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>That’s the beauty of it all. In writing, as with
everything else in life, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> make
mistakes. And, as everything else, we grow from them<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> if</i> we use them as valuable learning tools instead of gauges of
failure.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Some time ago I stumbled on an excerpt of
a book. The short piece I read was so laden with mistakes and bad writing I
actually found it comical. But the tragic part? It wasn’t supposed to be
comedy.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>My first—and lingering thought—was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t this person</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have any one to help them, to mentor them?</i> How sad that was to me
to think.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>But, then, my thought progressed to, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what if this person</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DID have a mentor who tried to help them and they just</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew more than the person offering the
advice</i>? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That</i> would have been the
ultimate tragedy. Because that book is now out there with all its errors to be
counted. And if an inexperienced eye like mine could even trip all over the
mistakes and horrific writing, think how it will bode when an experienced eye
zeroes in on it?</b></span></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #660000; line-height: 107%;"><b>Falling prey to critical eyes is going to
happen to all writers. It’s part of the game. But when my writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> fall victim to dissection, at least
I’ll know in my heart the faults that get counted aren’t there because of my
refusal to have opened my mind to learning.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p></blockquote>
Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-29290281655745672842024-01-08T17:28:00.000-08:002024-01-08T17:31:17.834-08:00Leader of the Pack and All That Jazz....<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwzj6iMM-hoQWb5RIDh7aidbLX8KWQXMEHPMthW7T4v09ICxnjV53_aMDPOAr-hc0OC3pRU0HKNDtJWNthZz47dBfsdz0LOBZAPn13Z8GZg8ZHln_k-PSm-L3EWuWepIfylCWDNh9epYFIeEE-UpP2qlQY2nKjZ-8HhwiTXPfw-QVazc7vXwy4KW30Po/s1600/Alessandro%20smoking.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwzj6iMM-hoQWb5RIDh7aidbLX8KWQXMEHPMthW7T4v09ICxnjV53_aMDPOAr-hc0OC3pRU0HKNDtJWNthZz47dBfsdz0LOBZAPn13Z8GZg8ZHln_k-PSm-L3EWuWepIfylCWDNh9epYFIeEE-UpP2qlQY2nKjZ-8HhwiTXPfw-QVazc7vXwy4KW30Po/s320/Alessandro%20smoking.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Alessandro Gassmann</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>I want to see these bad, bad, bad, bad men come to grips
with their humanity. ----James Ellroy</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>He entered the joint.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Like sharks gliding silent in
the deep, we smelled fresh new talent. Every female gaze, including mine,
immediately zoomed in on him.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>The guys knew immediately—just male instinct, I
suppose—he was going to be a threat, he was going to be trouble with a capital
“T”. They knew he was competition because his kind always was.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Louie</i>. His name was Louie. He wasn’t very tall. Oh, hell, he
was<i> short</i>. Not even particularly handsome. Waves of red hair, freckles. Not the
average Joe we dames usually went for. But something about the way Louie wore
his jeans and white T-shirt, something in his cocky grin, the savvy glint in
his green eyes shouted <i>bad boy</i>. Very <i>good</i> bad boy.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>For me, it was love at first sight. Red-headed Louie—I don’t
even remember his last name—stole my heart.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Louie, the predecessor to the Fonz, the copper haired Brando
of Red Bluff Elementary. The newly anointed king of Mrs. Smallwood’s second grade
class.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>One Friday night at Jackson’s Skating Rink, bad boy Louie
asked me to skate with him and—there, with the rink dim except for the romantic
multi-colored lights dancing over the walls and floor—I lost my heart to him.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>And thus, this second grader, wearing my blue rhinestone trimmed glasses and</b>
<b>pigtails, began my love affair with bad boys.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>My weakness in fiction—films, books, to read AND to
write—are dangerous men. In my opinion, Scarlett O’Hara could have saved
herself so much time and grief had she only shared <i>my</i> taste in the wicked
pleasures of rakes like Rhett Butler instead of boring ol’, dry-as-toast Ashley Wilkes.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Hey, let me at the script for <i>Peter Pan</i>, and I’ll free
Captain Hook and toss silly Pan to the giant crocodile. I shiver and fantasize
about Lucius Malfoy in the Harry what’s-his-name film. You can have your Mel
Gibson in <i>The Patrio</i>t. Give me Col. William Tavington. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>In the fiction world, are these bad asses REALLY…well…<i>bad</i>?
Or are they just flawed? Are they tormented souls who, as James Ellroy
suggests, we want to force to come to grips with their humanity through our
writing?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Are we literary co-dependents where our lotharios, mob guys,
street-wise punks, highwaymen and pirates are concerned, with an unconscious
need to reform them?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>In true, everyday life, are these Robert Mitchum/James Dean
types really what our hearts desire? Would that kind of guy REALLY make us
happy, or have we romanticized them?</b></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOOQ_FPJcIaQ5nOqNIRQ6TeHNnT5j4wlWvBbIAo_mOohZcehdx-JgC0JBFpcgqBpEx4Ed-WPQ5BnRJO0eXzG1a6wguYrxgxcqR2i_fa3rgpjTA1B0LzA-xI-ZSvHDzze93Fc8pId2Yf-W5JVyhpA5oDoLJt8Lcg9lDBvYntZuAj0byybOzIH3A7QOMAY/s470/Robert%20Mitchum.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="362" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOOQ_FPJcIaQ5nOqNIRQ6TeHNnT5j4wlWvBbIAo_mOohZcehdx-JgC0JBFpcgqBpEx4Ed-WPQ5BnRJO0eXzG1a6wguYrxgxcqR2i_fa3rgpjTA1B0LzA-xI-ZSvHDzze93Fc8pId2Yf-W5JVyhpA5oDoLJt8Lcg9lDBvYntZuAj0byybOzIH3A7QOMAY/s320/Robert%20Mitchum.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Robert Mitchum</span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>If we DO lust for these menaces-in-men’s-bodies, even in
our non-fictional world, what is their allure? Is it our own unrequited dream of
living on the edge, flirting with danger, being the sensuous yet pure beacon on
his dark, tortured sea?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Remember the sixties' song<i>, Leader of the Pack</i>? Part
of the lyrics, I think, symbolized a common conception of these misunderstood
rascals: They told me us was bad, but we knew he was sad. <i>Get the</i> <i>picture?</i> the
crooner asked. <i>Yes, we see</i>, they replied. And, because he <i>was </i>sad,
that’s why, she says, she <i>fell for the leader of the pack.</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Powerful stuff these scoundrels have, the angst angle. Is
there room in our hearts for the guys from the <i>right </i>side of town, the guys who <i>aren't</i> sad and tormented?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Just as little Louie was an automatic threat to the second grade
male population—by simply by <i>being</i> Louie—are naughty boys a threat to the real-life
guys in white hats?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">In one of my favorite films, <i>Crossing Delancey</i>, the heroine
apologetically announces to the hero, “<i>You’re such a nice guy</i>.” His response?
So pitiful, yet so true-to life—he shudders and says, “<i>Oh, what</i> <i>a thing to
say</i>!” Bless his heart! She did <i>not</i> mean it as a compliment, and he <i>knew</i> it. In
the film, she preferred the womanizing anti-hero, an arrogant ass of an author
with an ego the size of New York City. Of course, in the end, our good guy won
out, but it was a continuous,</span> <span style="font-size: medium;">painful, uphill battle for him.</span></b></span></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUmtnu3n8qPoiHqNU1tKZqAV4qTaHs0ajbwiQW95o_3BuwXFAdN7Nsd1qaA6e1FZ_pdO3qsqr22qnxjrdd3uIYB2mtBhLnUrelYKlWwp2ctyHifjfS1RXfSvXEsZ-6P9nyzkOLHHpNEBx07YSbmYxTRCS_7j9aGsQg0kSBPB79k4hd1l5-ZxdJ9ZleDM/s1000/Crossing%20Delancey.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1000" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUmtnu3n8qPoiHqNU1tKZqAV4qTaHs0ajbwiQW95o_3BuwXFAdN7Nsd1qaA6e1FZ_pdO3qsqr22qnxjrdd3uIYB2mtBhLnUrelYKlWwp2ctyHifjfS1RXfSvXEsZ-6P9nyzkOLHHpNEBx07YSbmYxTRCS_7j9aGsQg0kSBPB79k4hd1l5-ZxdJ9ZleDM/s320/Crossing%20Delancey.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Peter Riegert and Amy Irving, "Crossing Delancey"</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Crossing Delancey</i> may be a fictional story, but it
personified a true state of many female psyches. Even mine. I related to the
heroine. I, too, dig that wicked allure, that <i>I’m going to break your heart and</i>
<i>you’re going to beg me for more</i> attraction which is old as time, still alive
and well.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Do bad boys <i>really</i> reform for us? Or do we write them
because it’s our only way to mold them into the sexy-attentive-obsessively
passionate-romantic-good-and-bad-at-the-same-time-always-handsome lovers we
want them to be?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>Russell Crowe said, and I thought this was very interesting, <i>I like villains because there's something so attractive
about a committed person - they have a plan, an ideology, no matter how
twisted. They're motivated.</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Is that what it boils down to? Are we attracted to something
as simple as their…commitment to their plan? The powerful drive in these bad boys, whether
it’s evil, just a little mean or just plain tortured?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-71341051431173514752023-12-09T18:51:00.000-08:002023-12-12T12:37:00.680-08:00DO MEN WHO WEAR GLASSES...?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbimm1XvkJD__CdjMU6mo6S286e6KH24Dzi-ZHB9gke5xZ2axOjU3L8kVrchMpHHnFgaDm06MhqYaxx_lkNluH4h1rW4sy6j1J_jvkb3vti9JnhHRKjavL1jaL-MWNWpv8WdtnyJPZFPETzjK26i8IktXNx84-TirDG7bKhEIEjFkhS7d-ULCsciFclA/s332/Harold%20Lloyd%20Portrait.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbimm1XvkJD__CdjMU6mo6S286e6KH24Dzi-ZHB9gke5xZ2axOjU3L8kVrchMpHHnFgaDm06MhqYaxx_lkNluH4h1rW4sy6j1J_jvkb3vti9JnhHRKjavL1jaL-MWNWpv8WdtnyJPZFPETzjK26i8IktXNx84-TirDG7bKhEIEjFkhS7d-ULCsciFclA/s320/Harold%20Lloyd%20Portrait.jpg" width="233" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZnFtQbbbFHv7tsxfUa8SqiVF4p1Nu_9txuIvXBN5U5oSAIzg8pmOlORW3T3zu1IVBPJhYFqYCBMn5CMbDoak8ZUywV1sWDCqnTZbtAsd8piSlhh49799Umy16C9bjflLvpzyebbtDLO2sn8KPwMi_swFKCdexwVuwcOzkf9SPtyTbm1RJUC3uuWnrQA/s271/Harold%20Lloyd%20on%20Train.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="271" height="20" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZnFtQbbbFHv7tsxfUa8SqiVF4p1Nu_9txuIvXBN5U5oSAIzg8pmOlORW3T3zu1IVBPJhYFqYCBMn5CMbDoak8ZUywV1sWDCqnTZbtAsd8piSlhh49799Umy16C9bjflLvpzyebbtDLO2sn8KPwMi_swFKCdexwVuwcOzkf9SPtyTbm1RJUC3uuWnrQA/w271-h20/Harold%20Lloyd%20on%20Train.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily
Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his
suit. ---Gene Simmons</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s
not it. It’s <i>Do</i> <i>guys make passes at girls who wear glasses?</i> Ah, that age-old
question. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> W</o:p>hen Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in
1937,<i> Men seldom make passes at girls who wear</i> <i>glasses</i>, it cemented the concern from spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of
passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at<i> guys</i> who
wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight?
I suppose we’ll never know.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>But what about <i>men</i> who wear glasses?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Speaking for myself, I can tell you in a heartbeat: I find
spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>I’ll tell you what attracts<i> me</i> to them, but first let tell
you this…</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And
right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic
genius of the silent era. His comedic talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need <i>sound</i> to
be funny. He didn’t need a <i>voice</i> to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’
arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape
and…<i>his spectacles</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand
between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises
mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass. A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind
those frames!</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or
a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido
when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is
the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I
fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks
the second I laid eyes on him.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>I know what you’re going to say.<i> It’s the Clark Kent
syndrome</i>. You’re going to tell me that I
think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Or is it? </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>You just might be right. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film
hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold
Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold
Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was
derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go
figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort
of.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But still.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when
I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later,
in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill. Tom, my husband.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>To me, there is something so very sensual about a man
stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez,
I said it. <i>Yes</i>. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience.
You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving
you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the
kill—with <i>you</i> as the target.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>But wait.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>He pauses to remove his glasses and, with that careful
deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets
them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to
consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription
get in his way.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely
sexy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s undressing without
undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture
to signal the attack is coming. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Oh,of course I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in school. It was second grade, for crying out loud! But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the
future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses <i>do</i> get
passes. Always have. Always will.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short,
dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and <i>not </i>wonder <i>who </i>is behind
them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he
sports spectacles? <i>Is</i> he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or
just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery
that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is
it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so
warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill,
Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May
those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!</b></span></p></blockquote>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-48481097157829810462023-11-18T16:36:00.000-08:002023-11-18T16:39:07.042-08:00A Hard Man is Good to Find....<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgWV5I8TtniMZlFqBinKeV9FprRnr9gfodyClMh4ezmL1lh0x0Ej3v5cJOCYHPUhhhepQr1NpnFOonX9ZxiPobC8J3pmQyBS93WSvuV8kh4omrPPQ7qgpd8mn6QUVqNFi_TdEzViEmySHFFmpMUzzlSZpY8UgYkVY4_THuVYiFPP3tVBLRub5RhKhGuQ/s317/safe-t-man.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="260" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgWV5I8TtniMZlFqBinKeV9FprRnr9gfodyClMh4ezmL1lh0x0Ej3v5cJOCYHPUhhhepQr1NpnFOonX9ZxiPobC8J3pmQyBS93WSvuV8kh4omrPPQ7qgpd8mn6QUVqNFi_TdEzViEmySHFFmpMUzzlSZpY8UgYkVY4_THuVYiFPP3tVBLRub5RhKhGuQ/s1600/safe-t-man.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;">A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West</span></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"> </span></i></b></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>It had come to this.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the
psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself
<i>here</i>, partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides, no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid
emotional veneer. But, then, that's one of the things I love so about him.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own
fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his
teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of
his thick, black-rimmed glasses.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of
puzzlement and humor. Not the kind of humor when one finds something
delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man
stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra
and panties.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly
glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our
general direction. </b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;">His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was
strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the
chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”</b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span>“This is Antonio.”</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Craggly cocked a eyebrow and nodded. The
wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a
bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine.
He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Antonio didn’t return the greeting.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the
chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened
the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you
and….” After clearing his throat, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span>Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to
explain.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>First of all, Antonio must NOT to be confused with his
cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is.
They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known
as <i>Safe-T-Man</i>. Big difference. Huge difference.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So there.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span>I know you think I'm crazy.</b></span> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Let me tell
<i>you</i> what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for <i>you</i> the reasons my darling Antonio is a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony
dear—real man.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>How many men would actually let you NAME them?</i> You know love Italian men, right? <i>Fine</i>. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I'm in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name can quickly be changed to--let me
think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>How many men would let you write, uninterrupted,
every evening, and still sit placidly while you did?</i> The freedom to work work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made<i>
very</i> possible with Antonio.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>How many men can be deflated and discreetly
transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your
closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case?</i> To be at your side
when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>How many men do YOU know who can double as a life raft?</i>
I, for one, am not a good swimmer, and I find this handy feature valuable
for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think?
Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful
Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair
kit. Punctures (no, I would <i>never</i> intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a
problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another
priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not
Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making noise and never complains when he's being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i>Antonio does not snore</i>. Well, unless you count the
occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are
a cinch with his repair kit.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical
romances with me, and never, never, never says a word</i>. Never interrupts the
film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries</i>.
He doesn't even eat.</b></span> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><i>On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion</i>. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he doesn't even eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio</i>. He never
looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances,
but never returns the attention. A faithful sort, he is.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushioned comfort</i>, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also <i>BE</i> the bed when
needed. Especially when camping.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>There are never disagreements over what
Antonio will wear</i>. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I
never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio listens to me, always giving me his
undivided attention</i>. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong,
silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet</i>. He
never leaves the toilet seat up.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Some might complain that Antonio makes his
companion do all the cooking</i>. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man
who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.</b></span></p><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Antonio’s ONLY disadvantage is that he is highly flammable.</i> </b></span></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;">No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He<i> is</i>, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or
bar-b-que pit. I must always be careful, but that’s okay.</b><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are
countless. Sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I
forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in many other ways.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and
his type really <i>can</i> be quite a sensible solution for companionship while
addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the
fact that Antonio has a <i>life-time warranty</i>, he's actually quite a bargain.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka
<i>Safe-T-Man</i>, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the standard, overrated
<i>blow-up doll</i>.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Dr. Craggly isn't convinced that Antonio isn't a sign that I’m a wing short of an airplane.</b></span> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>But I think Antonio is
beginning to grow on him.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p></blockquote>
Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-73253924354157952152023-11-08T15:34:00.004-08:002023-11-09T12:52:06.584-08:00WHO'S CHARACTER IS THIS, ANYWAY?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23iRBRO_B_B_UNp5g5KRmpGqdbA5EqX8tudRNFVbpBA_Bl2YvF4qpoooEW7BHw_3a0hGFdL3BW6qZlGvaQb2WE2pUhBkwkOQqKjsBYcLGqsZrFl3qbLzLKNOw5o51EirinZ3XDMFylTWLo_j3PbchyphenhyphenYh9yJR2c8AyPQoxOzdNPmnOeKvQ-d1Oj78cWl0/s615/girls-women-fight-over-man-fighting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="615" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23iRBRO_B_B_UNp5g5KRmpGqdbA5EqX8tudRNFVbpBA_Bl2YvF4qpoooEW7BHw_3a0hGFdL3BW6qZlGvaQb2WE2pUhBkwkOQqKjsBYcLGqsZrFl3qbLzLKNOw5o51EirinZ3XDMFylTWLo_j3PbchyphenhyphenYh9yJR2c8AyPQoxOzdNPmnOeKvQ-d1Oj78cWl0/s320/girls-women-fight-over-man-fighting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>He’s fleshed out in my head. Perfect. A Gene Krupa look-a-like. <i>Check</i>. A big guy, a thug. Check. Dark hair. Check. Sleepy eyes. <i>Yes</i>. Full lips. Oh, yes. Age? Forty. Good. That’s him. That’s the hero of my story. Ready, set, go.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;">Wait.</span></span></b></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>What’s that? Betty says he needs to be younger. He should be in his thirties. His thirties, she says? Okay, okay. That’s doable. Thirties it is. Once again, hands poised over the keys, I’m ready to begin.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Stop.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>What now, Betty? Oh, he should be more refined, not quite so
thuggish. A step up from a thug, perhaps just a gentlemanly mobster. Yes, I can see it. Of course. Drop the street talk, let him be more
educated. <i>Own</i> a joint, not just <i>work</i> it. Back to work I go.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Well, hell.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Excuse me? What difference does it make if he has a hairy
chest or not? Betty, you <i>are</i> joking, right? What’s wrong with a smooth chest?
Ah. Betty thinks hairy chests are sexy. She would never be attracted to a
smooth-chested man.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Not being a selfish author, I would never dish up a
character to Betty who she wouldn’t be attracted to. After all, Betty is my
female eye, my pulse on the sex appeal of my book.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>By now, my character has been transformed—only slightly,
just minor tweaks here and there—but he’s still recognizable, still looks like
Gene Krupa. Hell, though, with Betty’s alterations, he <i>is</i> Gene Krupa. I can pull it off, produce a gangster-type hero who still fits into
my original vision. Who knows? The changes may make him even better.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Hold your horses!</b></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Now Betty disapproves of my character’s girlfriend, says
she’s too young for my Gene Krupa look-a-like. I must take Betty’s opinion
into serious consideration. Betty is a mature woman, after all, whose age group
will encompass a good deal of my reading audience. So now my character’s
girlfriend has been changed to be a woman closer to his age.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>But who knew?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Now Mary, another reader, weighs in. Mary is younger than
Betty, and feels passionately that the character should be with a <i>younger</i> woman.
Not only that, but she insists that the heroine be a <i>virgin</i>. The hero, Mary is
convinced, would <i>never </i>marry a woman who is not virginal. Mary feels <i>so </i>strongly about this that she says she will <i>not</i> read the book if the
heroine is not a young virgin, and, furthermore, she will not speak to me anymore
it this demand isn’t met.</b></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Literary blackmail.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Betty and Mary are now mortal enemies.
Who wins? Does a coin toss now decide my hero’s fate? Eenie meenie miney mo?</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>You think I’m joking. I’m not. This scenario actually
happened to me during my first book.</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>What did I decide to do? Who won…Mary or Betty? Neither. The
<i>hero</i> won. I decided to rely on the old tried-and-true decision maker: <i>my
gut</i>. It took some cleansing, but I managed to sterilize my brain of all
suggestions and start from scratch, just let my man evolve from his origin in
my imagination. I put <i>him</i> in the driver’s seat, told him, <i>you</i> <i>steer, buster</i>.</b></span></p></blockquote>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>A writer has to be careful. Sometimes you feel the need to mold the character to someone else's vision, not your own. Sometimes others have characters in their own heads and want <i>you</i> to bring them to life for <i>them</i>. And that’s when their contributions can
be deadly for your writing. You might, like I did, find yourself torn—even to the
point of damaging your friendship—if you can’t accommodate their ideas.</b></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of my current beta readers? We agree, we disagree. Most of the time, I fight his suggestions tooth and nail, just to let him know I’m in charge. More often than not, I incorporate his suggestions into the work. I trust his judgment and, more importantly, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">his instinct. So far, I've been lucky, because my own instinct has
coincided with his. When it doesn’t, it just doesn’t, and we agree those
indecisive issues will be an editor’s call.</span></span></b></p></blockquote>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So far, he hasn’t threatened beta reader blackmail over
any of our differences. And, remembering my ordeal with Betty and Mary, I
suppose I must be really, really grateful.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Who reads your work while you’re writing? Close friends?
Strictly other writers? Actual critique partners?</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>How far do you allow them to go with their input? How
seriously do you <i>take</i> that input? How do they respond when you disagree? When
you stand fast to your own idea and have to say <i>no</i>?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Have you ever had a Betty/Mary situation? And if you did,
how did you resolve it?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I’d love to know.</b></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-47120917176846841942023-10-12T18:02:00.009-07:002023-10-14T11:34:18.008-07:00RED ROVER, RED ROVER, LET VASTINE COME OVER....<p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i>I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute
nobody. </i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i>-- J. D. Salinger, "Franny and Zooey"</i></b></span></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyq0I5AxgjXItQz-NLN5-WmhiyP18rmymEqVAZfvsOQIhcc8utD2pzs8p88D59VjBO7wiNW6XZKijeDSTNTYHcPPm3OtkihgYAX0IOr7HoZ7VvWeXFiDpLY5sJX51b7UhCfvsNzc8SBVsQt9tJswJPucf8M5rSCmY-uiJb7V7tdVbo8SAytyJ8NiZ4js/s400/Kids%20Playing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="385" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyq0I5AxgjXItQz-NLN5-WmhiyP18rmymEqVAZfvsOQIhcc8utD2pzs8p88D59VjBO7wiNW6XZKijeDSTNTYHcPPm3OtkihgYAX0IOr7HoZ7VvWeXFiDpLY5sJX51b7UhCfvsNzc8SBVsQt9tJswJPucf8M5rSCmY-uiJb7V7tdVbo8SAytyJ8NiZ4js/s320/Kids%20Playing.jpg" width="308" /></a></b></div><b><br /><i><br /></i></b><p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">Red Rover, Red Rover, send that kid—any kid but Vastine—right
over! Oh, the memories. Do you remember that game from school? Even then, as
young as we were, we were being conditioned to try to fit in or be counted out,
even if it was just a silly sport.</span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I wasn't athletic. I was emotionally torn—half of me
praying that I wouldn't get chosen on a team because I knew I was lousy at
games and the other half of me was sad because I </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">didn't</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">—and I mean never—got picked for the teams. Well, I take that
back. I did get picked. Eventually. By whichever poor team got stuck with me. My
only hope was to be outed before the game was even under way.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">Not much has changed since those days of being afraid
of not being picked and scared of being picked because I knew I was going to
suck at any game.</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But <i>why</i> did
I still pitifully have that deep yearning to be picked me for a team? </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Why, even
when I knew I couldn’t perform, when I knew I'd end up running off the
playground feeling all this kid-like failure, did I </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">still</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> long to hear my name? </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Red
Rover, Red Rover, send Vastine right over. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Same reason any kid did and does. They want to be
acknowledged. They want to be accepted. As much as many of us—yes, even me—snort
that we don't care if we fit in, we don't care if we're popular, I think many
of us really, deep down, </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">do</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> want to
fit in. We want validation from any sector of life we've chosen.</span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And acknowledging that to myself is why I cherish the
Salinger quote. Because it takes courage to not </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">want</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> or </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">need</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> to fit in.
To</span><i style="font-size: 12pt;"> not</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> want to be somebody is not in
most natures. It's not in mine.</span></span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I've
been seriously writing since 2009. I became a published author in 2011. When I
made up my mind to write with a goal of being published, I had big dreams. I
had silly, unrealistic dreams. Dreams that my writing would be the ticket.
Nothing else would really matter. My pen would be my strength. My writing would
be so good it would sell itself.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">I can hear you laughing from here!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">No, no, no. I’m not saying my writing stinks. I do at
least have enough confidence in my craft to think I've some talent.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I've had a hard knock comeuppance in this game. And,
like those old days, I've found myself on the playing field, realizing that
fitting in just </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">might</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> be crucial.</span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">I once heard some writers being referred to as
'royalty' because of their popularity status. My heart sank clean down to
my feet to find myself back on the field where being 'able’—not as in just
decent writing, but strong in personality—was going to make a difference in
anything.</span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">I've yet to put my finger on how this all works.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The bottom line? I see that to pitch </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">me</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is a necessary part of this writer
success thing. And it’s <i>so</i> terrifying that I'm tempted to rush back to the
early days when I just wrote and I didn't give a hoot if I sold a book or not.
I simply wrote because I adored writing and because I had something to say and
I wanted someone—even if it was only one damn person—to read it.</span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I see something pitiful about myself, something that
makes that urge to do a J. D. Salinger and disappear. And that is this: I'm
lying if I tell you I do not </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">want </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">to
fit in. Come on. Even in the book, Salinger’s character only said he </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">wished </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">he didn't </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">want</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> to fit in. But he did. He did w</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">ant to be somebody.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">So do I. I really do.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">And let me tell you. It’s hard to admit that I wish I could
be part of the 'in' crowd. Many may not admit it, but more of us than will
admit wish we could be “royalty”, too.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">No, I’ll never be that author who’s a household name.
But I'll keep writing. Because I do love it, I can't live without it. No matter
where it takes me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I will know, with everything in me, that the 'not
fitting in' will not have </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">anything</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> to
do with my writing. It will not be because my writing isn't good enough.
Sometimes writing reminds me of this piano....</span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxh5WuwV-0lltcq46wPGXU_GF2Buz4uVNkBxnPjbpx63xrC4LBNvh16NY_Jy9znf3WQ3Pjo9SFgjAe3XrhyI79T6KRhDIDTE2gMuPtUXzlVPdeTC-oJRgHjer4scV_ApCqjRj-QQ0U_Plg5AGr6sFRpDqc17X3ob0U_cki9v_uhEYi1bIEdmOqzAWr-4/s400/Melancholy%20Piano.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="400" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxh5WuwV-0lltcq46wPGXU_GF2Buz4uVNkBxnPjbpx63xrC4LBNvh16NY_Jy9znf3WQ3Pjo9SFgjAe3XrhyI79T6KRhDIDTE2gMuPtUXzlVPdeTC-oJRgHjer4scV_ApCqjRj-QQ0U_Plg5AGr6sFRpDqc17X3ob0U_cki9v_uhEYi1bIEdmOqzAWr-4/s320/Melancholy%20Piano.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It just sits out in this foggy field, not being
played. Because it's alone out there and not seen by many, doesn't mean it has
no beautiful song inside it to play. And it doesn't mean it doesn't long for
someone to hear it. It does.</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-87099203489228251052013-03-18T12:14:00.003-07:002023-10-01T12:13:34.133-07:00...Ain't No One-Person Job...<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSwDK2d1YIocADTT6pBplSlltqq1DMZoYDu3183KSRFRfUwNyDaEFQMAO5xQXnrFk7WQWlm1g52mn9cktfkhuYO2_2kJrNRl4RGPghuSbLalZYTS_w5Sdz4b-bgxi21zfd26fINO-9sc/s1600/Victory+Waits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" psa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSwDK2d1YIocADTT6pBplSlltqq1DMZoYDu3183KSRFRfUwNyDaEFQMAO5xQXnrFk7WQWlm1g52mn9cktfkhuYO2_2kJrNRl4RGPghuSbLalZYTS_w5Sdz4b-bgxi21zfd26fINO-9sc/s1600/Victory+Waits.jpg" /></a></div></blockquote>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-size: small; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-family: times;"><strong><em>“Every success I have ever had or will have in the future comes not solely from my own ambition and hard work, but also from those that have encouraged, supported and challenged me. Success is never, ever a one person job.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- T.S. Tate</em></strong></span></span></span></blockquote><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="font-size: small; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Last night I had a strange dream, and it's been with me all morning. </span></span></span></span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: times;">
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</span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">What's funny about the dream is that---as much as you know I love the 1940's, as much as I live and breathe it---this was oddly the first dream I can ever recall that took place in the era.</span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Right, smack in the middle of World War II. If the dream hadn't been so damn scary, I could have relished that beautiful feeling of 'living' so very vividly during this period.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">The scene was---and I recall this with such clarity, the aura, the smells, the touch, the grit of it all---a huge, monstrously huge military airplane hangar which was being used as an impromptu shelter of sorts after some sort of attack. The surreal part of this was that wounded, dazed, mud-caked soldiers wandered among us civilians. Everyone was grimy, sweaty, including me. And everyone was confused and either numb or hysterical.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I remember walking and walking through this humongous hangar, lost and terrified. I didn't know where to go. I couldn't tell where I belonged. Oh, hell, I <em>didn't </em>belong and that scared me. I cried and I cried and I cried.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Each time stopped someone to ask for help, I met with nothing but blank stares. One soldier offered to direct me to the place I needed to go but he simply wandered off and left me. </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">The fear in this dream was so palpable. When I woke, I couldn't shake the feeling of loss and terror. Alone in that cavernous, strange place even though I was surrounded by thousands of people.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">And then, like sun parting thunderous clouds, a woman appeared. Bright, sunny, blonde. She wore a white shirt, white pants and pretty blue espadrilles. She knew me, she'd been looking for me, she said, and was going to accompany me to the wartime stenographer pool where I was supposed to be.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I breathed deep, relaxed, and stopped at a coffee shop within the complex for donuts and java. Everything was all right. I was still afraid---horribly so---but I wasn't lost. I had direction now, I no longer had to wander in the same daze as the rest of the crowd.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">On my way to the office this morning, the dream still haunted me. And, strangely---out of the blue---I began to think about writing. About my beginnings in writing. How, at first, I knew no one and I knew nothing about the business. All I brought to the author table was a little talent and a bunch of desire.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Like the dream, my initial entry into the world of writing was scary. And, like the dream, I wandered around in a huge space filled with people----SO many people---but I had no friends among them. No direction, just bumbling along, hoping to connect with someone to direct me.</span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>Like many, I joined a handful of writing groups.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>And then...then...like that beautiful, shiny lady in my dream, the gal with the pretty blue espadrilles, I made some friends. People who had already made their way around the big ol' hangar of all things aurhor-ly. The people who took my hand and led me to the places I was supposed to be. Who helped guide me through the processes, hooked me up with even more friends.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>These people are dear to me, have become bright icons of goodwill in my journey. When I think of them, I'm overcome with this swelling sense of happy gratitude, just as I was in the dream to finally find a beacon in the dark.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>A friend of mine often commented how 'it must be good to have connections.' To me, hearts who pay it forward to help other authors find their way aren't 'connections'. They're wonderful souls, guiding lights like the beautiful woman in my dream. They're sighs of relief in the dark, hands to hold, handkerchiefs to dry tears when something goes wrong, cheerleaders to root for you and to holler when things go right.</span></span></span></span> </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span> </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>They are, as <span face="Verdana, sans-serif">James Arthur Baldwin says, <span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><em>the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.</em></span></span></span></span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span>So...thank you, light lady from my dream, and all those in my real life who've taken my hand and helped to lead the way. </span></span></span><span><br /></span><span><br /></span><span><br /></span></span></blockquote><span>
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<strong><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></strong>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-67543214842716357262012-07-31T08:14:00.000-07:002012-07-31T08:14:05.176-07:00Only Until Forever...But After That...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><em>“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.<br />Even longer,' Pooh answered.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">One morning before daylight, I pulled into the parking lot at my office and there---curled in a ball against the gate----lay a dog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I got out of the car to open the gate and the timid critter only ventured away from that spot long enough for me to unlock and open the gate. I noticed, as soon as I passed through the entrance, he returned to his spot and curled back into his little cocoon---only now, with the gate open, he was all balled up in the middle of the driveway. Worried for his safety in that dangerous spot, I tried to shoo him away. He would forfeit his little nesting area; but, no sooner had I turned my back, he went right back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I worried about the little canine all morning and kept checking out the window to monitor his whereabouts. Sure enough, he remained close to that spot. For at least four hours. An example of dogged determination if I ever saw one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">One of my co-workers, watching him with me, commented, "Someone has dumped him off here. He's sitting there, waiting for them to come back for him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My heart broke. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I realized my co-worker was right. Loyal and trusting---and knowing no better---the pup knew nothing more than to wait for masters who were never coming to get him. At the spot where they left him so they wouldn't miss him when they returned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Finally, later in the day, a pang of sadness---empty, strange and inexplicable---surged through me when I realized the abandoned dog had finally vacated his station at the gate. He had finally realized no one was going to come back for him and he had moved on. He was now thrown into the population of strays whose owners had decided there was no place for him any longer in their lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This week, it occurred to me just why this scenario troubled me so. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">In the time I decided to pursue my writing professionally, I've made many friends---most of them on the Internet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As a child reared in a close-knit unit, surrounded by a small but loving circles of friends and family, I only knew one kind of friendship: the forever, through-thick-and-thin, come-hell-or-high-water, we're-in-this-together kind. And, to date, most of these relationships have endured everything life has thrown at them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But I'm naive, I wrap myself around what feels good and hold on like a tree branch in a raging rapids. Such has been the way with my Internet friendships. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'd never allowed myself to think, even for a second, that they could actually pull loose and drift away in that rapids. One for all and all for one, right? Forever, sisters, brothers, friends. Bonds made. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I was wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Fortunately, I don't suppose I can say I've had any traumatic partings from friends. I see it happen all the time in cyber space; but I've been lucky enough to just have soft 'driftings' apart. And I've also been lucky that most of the bonds formed are still there. Kind of invisible now, but still there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">But loss is loss. I've---oh, I'm embarrassed to admit this---for the longest time, was like that dog. I saw friends fading away, sort of grasped that the friendships had run their cyber courses; but still waited at that proverbial gate for them to come back and re-ignite that spark. They didn't. We've all been there---where we try to keep the ember fanned, we email, we post on Facebook to hold on to them, we just doggedly try. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Before you say it, let me assure you that I have been on the other end of it all. I've found myself floating away on a broken-off hunk of iceberg, father and farther from some friends. There were times it was ME who cut off the connection or allowed it to disintegrate. Never intentionally, it just happened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">And, yes, I'm a big girl. Get over it, right? Right. Life does indeed move on. New friendships have formed, and they are just as good, just as important, just as rewarding and fulfilling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">True, true. But my problem? Just as in my cozy youth, I somehow allowed myself to depend on the circle of friendship as a sort of fortress for confidence in my writing. I'd become used to this little unit to bolster my courage, to mentor, to cheer me on. And that, my friend, is good and well. But, when the time does come for that support to collapse, what's left? A scared, terribly insecure writer who's standing---trembling---under this fallen structure without the confidence to get out from under the rubble and make it on her own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I see now that I've maybe relied too heavily on that support and not enough on my own strengths. I see now that the ropes holding that little support raft can come quickly unraveled on the business of the cyber rapids. And, hell, this writer needs to learn to swim!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Hey, it's not the friends who are to blame. They've done what friends do. Befriended. Supported. Cheered. Taught. But life is life, and all good things really can come to an end. And when that end rolls around, I find myself lost and looking for those outside voices---not my own internal voices---to tell me I can do this. That I can write. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I panic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">A fellow author told me once that I seemed to need that outside support, that I did not seem to have the confidence to just...write...without someone egging me on, assuring me. And he was right, I see that now. In some ways, my cyber socializing has crippled more than it has bolstered. And it has been my fault for depending (hate to overuse that word, but it is so fitting) so much on outside validation instead of on my own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I freeze when plotting, when assigning traits to characters. Instead of listening to the characters as I should, instead of trusting my own judgement with plotting, I must confer with author friends to confirm my ideas are on the right track. Without that feedback, I can't seem to move on my own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Deep down inside myself, I think I'm a good writer, I have potential talent. But the sooner I learn that for myself and learn to build it---brick by brick---on my own, I'll be better off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I need to be like the dog at the gate. I need to realize, <em>Okay, I'm on my own. I need to fend for myself. </em>The puppy, by nature, will be able to forge his own new path. His support factor has left him and is not coming back. He has no choice but to go it alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'm not built to be in complete solitude, I need friends. But I CANNOT depend completely on them for my own confidence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So maybe, just maybe, I can keep a proper perspective on just how much to lean on friendships for support, but not as a replacement for self-confidence. Maybe just enough for them to gently nudge me and say---as I try to navigate on my own raft---as Milne also said in Winnie-the-Pooh, <em>Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. </em></span></div>
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<br /></div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-88340943085070712712012-07-02T08:48:00.001-07:002023-11-09T12:12:35.739-08:00Inspiration. Imitation. Creativity..?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPlBXyjFVI-BFS5RUGYw641sX37noVuTZyd0hVVmhYPxjDV_SauYLJvnIJPaOl54g7H0HxhUn-nDBFSXsC1jOxK8qZWqK2cEEYdp1HXc21wcsN6yAGv345rGcVKSPJC9w0Sh3_aXJ18Q/s1600/Creativity.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPlBXyjFVI-BFS5RUGYw641sX37noVuTZyd0hVVmhYPxjDV_SauYLJvnIJPaOl54g7H0HxhUn-nDBFSXsC1jOxK8qZWqK2cEEYdp1HXc21wcsN6yAGv345rGcVKSPJC9w0Sh3_aXJ18Q/s320/Creativity.jpg" vca="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I've had something on my mind, and I kept thinking I wanted to blog about it. But when I DID sit down and try to write my feelings, I found it was more of a question in my head than something I could actually expound on with the pretense of knowing what the hell I was talking about. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Then I stumbled on this quote from Dan Vylete, <em>An original writer is one who imitates nobody, but one whom nobody can imitate.</em></b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>And my question is this. <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Where do you draw the line between inspiration and imitation? </span></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>So you see a story you like. You feel you could write it yourself, maybe throw in some variables and maybe even make it better. So you take the story's exact dynamics and just weave them into your own version. I.E., setting, date, details—just take out the original characters and throw in your own. Piece o' cake.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>When this happens, is it flattery to the original author? Does one even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> about the original author?</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Wait, I know what you’re thinking. No, I'm not talking about <span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><em><span>50 Shades of Grey</span></em>.</span> I’m not even talking about plagiarism. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I’m talking about something that is not dishonest. Not illegal. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Something quite common. Sometimes subtle, sometimes not.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I’ve even heard tales of publishers who scout other publisher’s work to get ideas, then commission their own staffs to mimic. This is probably legitimate. No harm, I figure. Not innovative, though, and certainly no gold stars for originality, either.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I suppose, if I were the original author—if my work was unique in any way, if it was something I loved, literally lived and breathed it—I'd be ecstatic that it was taken seriously enough for someone to want to recreate some form of it. Depending, I guess, on just how many parallels there were to my work. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Once, with one of my very first stories, a young man who read and critiqued for me was so taken with my story and the characters, he warned me he might just do his own version of it, to see what he came up with. He joked that he would be my first 'fanfic'. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Of course, as brilliant and talented as he was, I felt good old fashioned fear because I knew he could do it much better than I could. He was an experienced writer, I was not. That beautiful vision which had been mine for so long would—if he borrowed it—become his. No one would ever know where his idea had originated, who the true birth parent had been. But, nonetheless, how could I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> have been flattered by the fact someone thought my creation was good enough to even consider using. Good enough to inspire another to build his own foundation on. (Not the writing, mind you, but the concept, the characters).</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>However, if my work had been published first, he would have been taking the chance that his own production would smell of copy cat. It might even have knocked his reputation for originality down a couple of notches, depending on just how similar his own creation was to mine. He might have been perceived to sing the song from the musical, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anything you can do, I can do better</i>. Would he have cared? Probably not.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>I, for one, see so many wonderful stories—concepts, characters, settings—I stay in a constant state of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why didn’t I think of that?</i> I’m inspired by them. I’m inspired by the sheer quality of many stories, by the emotions they evoke in me, by the worlds I’m drawn into by the mastery and talent of the authors. Most of all, by the originality of the characters. So, from experience, I can assure you how easy and tempting it is to borrow what one sees.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>As much as I cherish the world I’m inspired to write—the world which exists in my stories, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Purly Gates</i> for instance—I’m thrilled when I see others who have gone before me in this sub-genre, and just as thrilled to see those I’ve inspired to follow me. Why? Because I love the world within them, and long to see it appreciated with hopes of it expanding and becoming more recognized.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>That brings me back to the original question. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Put the shoe on the other writer’s foot. How far would you go to recreate another author’s story? How much of its likeness could you borrow before crossing the line from inspiration to imitation? If you are motivated to recreate some or all of what you’ve read, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> your motivation? A pure, simple, genuine love for the idea? Does it stir something in you, does it make you want to dive into that world yourself and experience it in your own words? If so, wonderful. Go for it, give it all you have. Please, though, at least try to give it your own fingerprint. To reproduce it too exactly is simply…well, a remake, a reproduction. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Or do you recognize the potential in something that was successful and see it as an avenue for yourself? Is it simply a case of a competitive spirit? Hey, that’s fine, too, I suppose. In my own experience, it merely produces a flat image of my goal, and my insincerity—driven merely by competitiveness—is apparent. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>No matter what the motivation, no matter where the idea sprang from, one thing is true. There is a secret to carrying it off, to making it your very own, to making it unique with no traces of anyone else’s voice. And the secret is this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The best stories, the best characters—the ones that reach out and touch readers, that readers relate to and cherish—are the ones written from the heart. The stories written out of passion for the subject, for the characters. </i></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Maybe that thing you and I see in other author’s work---that thing that inspires us---is their passion. <em>That</em> we cannot copy. Just as we have our own fingerprints, our own individual DNA, we can't recreate someone else's passion and make it our own. For a writer, their passion and love IS their personal literary DNA. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><span><span>I found this quote by Martin Heidegger, and it sort of imparted (for me, anyway) an idea of what writing when inspired by another's work should amount to, </span></span><span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span><em>The great thinker is one who can hear what is greatest in the work of other "greats" and who can transform it in an original manner. </em>So, bottom line: be a great thinker. Gather inspiration from others, but...well, you get the picture. And the key word is <em>think</em>. For ourselves. And <em>feel </em>the story for ourselves. Getting an idea from another? We might can grow a story from another's seedling. The <em>passion</em> to cultivate it into our own unique tale? That has to be ours. </span></span></span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia;"><b>Because as Ella Wheeler Wilcox said, <em>A poor original is better than a good imitation. </em></b></span></span></div></blockquote>
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<br /></div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-58221204539924132562012-06-17T09:40:00.002-07:002012-06-17T09:40:53.752-07:00Just Daddy...<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My problem with writing about my Daddy? I just can’t think what to say. Well, not the traditional tributes, the American Greetings salutes to fatherhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We buried my father on February 2, 2009. When the lid to the casket closed, a panic
swooped over me. I would never, ever see
him again this side of Heaven. Never. And with the closing of
that lid, everything I could have, would have, should have asked him about
himself was sealed forever. No more
chances to “get to know him better.” I
had my chance and all I could do was hope I had learned enough. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But before a thought speeds to your mind, thinking how
callous I am, let me explain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I grew up in an era when so many dads were---well---just
dads. They married our mothers and
became fathers. Simple. Having kids was just part of being married
for so many men in this era. Part of the
job---just went with the territory. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, sure. There were
the exceptions. And sometimes, as a
little girl, I seethed with jealousy toward my friends whose fathers<b> </b><i>were</i><b><i> </i></b>the
exceptions. The dads who called their
daughters “Princess”. I honestly
convinced myself that my dad would have been a better dad if he would have only
called <b><i>me </i></b>“Princess.” But he
didn’t. Oh, well, I survived the beastly
abuse of not being the little princess of my daddy’s eye. I somehow managed to shoot to adulthood as a
fully functional, well adjusted woman in spite of this atrocity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The beauty of it all? I now realize he <i>couldn’t</i><b><i> </i></b>have been a better father. Even considering the fact that he never had a
pet name for me, that he didn’t take me fishing, that he didn’t play games with
me---he still couldn’t have been a better father.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He supported his family on $2.15 an hour with his Post
Office job (before it was union and before it was called Postal Union) and
pushed a broom at a junior high school (in the days before they were called
‘middle school’) after work to make extra money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Times were hard, money was short. Suppers consisted often of pinto beans and
cornbread or, on Sundays we ate scrambled eggs (never knew the Sunday egg
connection---have made a mental note to find out from my mother). But we ate. We didn’t want. We were happy. We were a family and our house was a warm
sanctuary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought I knew my daddy as well as I needed to. He wasn’t my best friend. He was my father. The man who raised me. In the world I lived in (this is the world
before time-outs replaced spankings), your daddy was just your daddy, and that
was all he was supposed to be. What more
did you need to know?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, I had a startling revelation that he might be a little
more than that when I got married. The
morning I was scheduled to leave my girlhood home to move to Alabama as a married woman, I got up early
to say ‘good-bye’ to my daddy before he left for work. He hugged me so tight that I couldn’t break
his hold. When he finally let go, he’d
been crying. Tears were in his
eyes. How dare he? This man who was supposed to be as
indifferent as I was? Crying? Yes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">From then on I realized he was more than just my father, but
was a man with feelings and a personality I hadn’t gotten to know. He was a man who had a whole life before I
came along, a man I never knew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thank God for revealing this to me while he was still
alive. For letting me learn about my
father---the man who served his country in World War II in the <i>Eleventh
Airborne</i> and earned a Purple Heart. The
man who did double duty and served in the Navy on <i>The U.S.S. Wasp</i>. The man who sort of looked like a
combination of William Holden and Paul Newman when he was young. The good looking man who married my mother
and conceived me and my siblings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The man who had a fascinating life, but who to me was just
Daddy. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-48548088674894278812012-05-30T12:28:00.000-07:002012-05-30T18:03:40.845-07:00Hardboiled and Loaded with Sin...<div class="quoteText">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin. --- Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">You know the dame. You grew up with her. If you were like me, she was pretty much your best friend when you were a kid. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Barbie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">No last name, just Barbie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I started thinking about our ol' pal, though. And I had to wonder. Did our moms really know who we were hanging out with? Didn't our dear mothers do the math? The doll was produced to be, as she was introduced to the public in 1959, <i>a role</i> <i>model for young girls</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Oh, really? Sugar, think again. Look, really look at the broad. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Sure, she was a Dudley-do-gooder as a nurse...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3wjT-zMwy6aWmeOnmSRBAwT1c_YmhS9Rz9n35AgOJrUIhxU8N1OfG5D49vMywbendWs1lCpQ_Do8dECVIMihcO88rijQrwZHgjkZP_Vy5-YaKxTUAkjANdqXYRLQJfPAk7pKX0-Qb0M/s1600/Barbie+Nurse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3wjT-zMwy6aWmeOnmSRBAwT1c_YmhS9Rz9n35AgOJrUIhxU8N1OfG5D49vMywbendWs1lCpQ_Do8dECVIMihcO88rijQrwZHgjkZP_Vy5-YaKxTUAkjANdqXYRLQJfPAk7pKX0-Qb0M/s1600/Barbie+Nurse.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Quite an accomplishment, considering she was a teenager.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRltZNIy8zKP_5Yp2bkO1UpbOm7C7crRJmugd9ROcWl42KdHYgDWQFz7z1iA2mfm8MKVo-YbIJg4uFuyb9Jf26DRei9xBZIzXKBUJ1TO1S41jqApJoM7vH_u3_G-_743HMDm9XvONBqFw/s1600/Barbie+Stewardess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRltZNIy8zKP_5Yp2bkO1UpbOm7C7crRJmugd9ROcWl42KdHYgDWQFz7z1iA2mfm8MKVo-YbIJg4uFuyb9Jf26DRei9xBZIzXKBUJ1TO1S41jqApJoM7vH_u3_G-_743HMDm9XvONBqFw/s1600/Barbie+Stewardess.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">She even did a stint as an airline stewardess, and quite a sexy one, too. Still, incredible for a teenager.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Through the years, there were very few avenues our lady did not pursue---up to and including an astronaut and a lawyer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">But, then, when you look really close at her illustrious history, you see those hints that the pretty little chickadee wasn't quite the <i>teen</i> role model after all.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh5YPrSf7LOnKRAooJ_QoH_puATZI0vsOxCaQvJns_XBghKbl67OdSVzzsiXkaHNBUbcQ3GNIlfLutUyyFYXETZSNJFBAyhLJimrUvuW-pErh6gZA3fczxYCZg4-a6TfGxYL0tMQ4tvU/s1600/Barbie+Negligee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh5YPrSf7LOnKRAooJ_QoH_puATZI0vsOxCaQvJns_XBghKbl67OdSVzzsiXkaHNBUbcQ3GNIlfLutUyyFYXETZSNJFBAyhLJimrUvuW-pErh6gZA3fczxYCZg4-a6TfGxYL0tMQ4tvU/s1600/Barbie+Negligee.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh, come on! See-through lingerie for slumber parties? And just look at that catty non-smile smile. Is the gal a lady of the night or what?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNM82OkzEWN2cXtcAvnNJkQkWFxqL9mElR2eDodanb2s1so3k8O8lNAx8l2DFsEZvwHUN14aIy7zk6oz488wObqQ8T3LykplEjHERhPJbiubwP6klW9KHhF5-LqJOnzyKQo-J52SmwZc/s1600/Barbie+Bride+and+ken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNM82OkzEWN2cXtcAvnNJkQkWFxqL9mElR2eDodanb2s1so3k8O8lNAx8l2DFsEZvwHUN14aIy7zk6oz488wObqQ8T3LykplEjHERhPJbiubwP6klW9KHhF5-LqJOnzyKQo-J52SmwZc/s320/Barbie+Bride+and+ken.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Okay, okay. So she did have a million wedding dresses and even sprang for her long-suffering gigolo boyfriend Ken a wedding tux. But they never married, did they?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOvwBvQ9PGBG_VVgWfm3A1N527CTwCWPrxcGWyEx0nQr7rv2ol_YaoDctB8nC-c73MjNOZ23SdqqCpCdUPDYsgbMOIjt0oIEMQhRdJw_XgpQcbVW3WPx2XYGlIex-oqA_aR3LJ2jdt5k/s1600/Ken+Bad+Hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOvwBvQ9PGBG_VVgWfm3A1N527CTwCWPrxcGWyEx0nQr7rv2ol_YaoDctB8nC-c73MjNOZ23SdqqCpCdUPDYsgbMOIjt0oIEMQhRdJw_XgpQcbVW3WPx2XYGlIex-oqA_aR3LJ2jdt5k/s320/Ken+Bad+Hair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Ouch! Well, on second thought, I can't actually blame the Barbster for not marrying this weirdsmobile. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">But the clincher, the proof, that our Lady of Perpetual Goodness really might not have been such an innocent?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Did you know who Barbie was designed after? The doll who came BEFORE Mattel's Princess of Good?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ruth Handler, who designed Barbie, modeled the doll after a smoldering, sort of exotic---well, damn---I’ll just say it --- prostitute character from a German comic strip, Bild Lilli. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmYCq3y4uj3Wz8p_TVN1AlkCBBxtlIp_ueZhHp4XCcW7NE_yLgRpxSisa69e-6S_iuAIgEjQRx9nNd7uxp54FbVe3D4OWiWF3bDl8b9lWCa5IfV8WEEJ4e7rEbM9f65iLUX3uBAuWBFU/s1600/Bild+Lilli+Cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmYCq3y4uj3Wz8p_TVN1AlkCBBxtlIp_ueZhHp4XCcW7NE_yLgRpxSisa69e-6S_iuAIgEjQRx9nNd7uxp54FbVe3D4OWiWF3bDl8b9lWCa5IfV8WEEJ4e7rEbM9f65iLUX3uBAuWBFU/s320/Bild+Lilli+Cartoon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Bild Lilli Cartoon and Doll</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Germans designed their doll after a sultry semi-porno character, and she bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Barbie --- or rather, Barbie bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Lilli. (Bild Lilli, alas, came first). </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8sKiHpjdy_36INO24PFdIyGnAgCYV-CvA9v5LfMSQsW8X2pL7fB-tB0nkU_4jUZj4vxb36TiKZKSQ1mIrqOaTKuSchrihXAh2R4XpOsvZsr4Tnrf3C9CrHMIC6nndO_u8vX4etFKqUAQ/s1600/Bild+Lilli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8sKiHpjdy_36INO24PFdIyGnAgCYV-CvA9v5LfMSQsW8X2pL7fB-tB0nkU_4jUZj4vxb36TiKZKSQ1mIrqOaTKuSchrihXAh2R4XpOsvZsr4Tnrf3C9CrHMIC6nndO_u8vX4etFKqUAQ/s320/Bild+Lilli.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Bild Lilli---remarkable resemblance. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ah. But, whereas the German Lilli is rather a---how can I say it delicately---strumpet, her American twin, Barbie, is the wholesome girl next door---if you ignore her ‘teenage’ 36-26-36 measurements and her sleek, Cleopatra-type exotic eyeliner. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Handler named the American bombshell doll---who walked into American history wearing nothing but a sexy black-and-white one-piece swimsuit---after her daughter, Barbara.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Well, honey, I certainly have nothing against a spicy gal. All my heroines in the movies and books are fire crackers, tough dames with smolder and sex appeal. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">So ol' Barbie is pretty much my kind of lady. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">But---hush, hush, keep in on the Q.T.---and don't tell our mothers just who we were REALLY palling around with. </span></span><br />
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</div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-71420526054591625982012-05-17T09:37:00.001-07:002012-05-17T09:37:56.267-07:00Angel in the Outfield...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXLPR4Q-gPhrzkIqKAyaikfWhB7qSEPYQFnOcWhLk5iDVbMORZG5EQ0v0TWWbeVfa6Zop9q1EoOhDeoXODS5GkYURo2kGfd61TXLf0PnldiDyiFdBSUOH9xwVk2afjQF1VMzEjePtrOU/s1600/Hop.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXLPR4Q-gPhrzkIqKAyaikfWhB7qSEPYQFnOcWhLk5iDVbMORZG5EQ0v0TWWbeVfa6Zop9q1EoOhDeoXODS5GkYURo2kGfd61TXLf0PnldiDyiFdBSUOH9xwVk2afjQF1VMzEjePtrOU/s1600/Hop.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><em>How wonderful it must be to speak the language of the angels, with no words for hate and a million words for love! ~Quoted in The Angels' Little Instruction Book by Eileen Elias Freeman, 1994</em></strong></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I thought hard about my contribution to the Blog Hop Against Homophobia. There are so many issues to be addressed. So many important, critical issues.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I'm not a gifted orator, certainly not qualified to voice with the adequacy necessary to express my feelings on the issue of hatred. Bigotry. Intolerance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">So I'm just going to share how the hatred and gender bias hits me where I live. I'm going to introduce you to a real-life angel, a beautiful friend. A guy named Rick.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Rick is gay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Everytime I hear hateful remarks about gay people, my first reaction is always a very defensive, hackles-raised ire. Because if you're hating homosexuals, you are hating my friend Rick. And I just won't tolerate that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Rick is a friend of my daughter's and my late son-in-law, Mike. He'd been close friends with Mike's mom before she passed away (when Mike was a teen). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">He's always been a wonderful man. I even have a huge crush on him, and he knows it. But when Mike became ill with Stage IV lung cancer, Rick kicked into high gear and literally became a fierce guardian of Mike and my daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Rick came to clean the house when Lyndie was too tired with trips to M.D. Anderson. Rick prepared meals for Lyndie and Mike. Rick tended the dogs when Mike and Lyndie took much needed get-a-ways to the lake. Rick remembered how much Mike loved his childhood aluminum Christmas tree and bought he and Lyndie a beautiful seven-foot replica, complete with ornaments and lights. Rick taxied Mike to and from M.D. Anderson for chemo and radiation when Lyndie was not able to do so. Rick always made sure to bring flowers to Lyndie's work to cheer her up during the illness, to let her know she wasn't forgotten. When Mike was unable to work, Rick visited him at home and kept him company. Rick was always there, at the drop of a hat, anytime Mike or Lyndie needed him.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9p9TqsEHBDfSFQf4RkhEG-PUWxioJAhqYuRIimQ5XUVnfqE8u8Cths4NYVTiJ8UnXAlIn0tfAs3_Q_RTUX5SE6uHh9mvFSiqpa5fbjZ4u8LZew1K3d62DP4Zn48B6BZCBXv1xeyErm9g/s1600/Rick+and+Mike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9p9TqsEHBDfSFQf4RkhEG-PUWxioJAhqYuRIimQ5XUVnfqE8u8Cths4NYVTiJ8UnXAlIn0tfAs3_Q_RTUX5SE6uHh9mvFSiqpa5fbjZ4u8LZew1K3d62DP4Zn48B6BZCBXv1xeyErm9g/s320/Rick+and+Mike.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Mike (left) and Rick</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">See where I'm going with this? Do you see the angel I see in Rick? Unselfish, loving, gentle, tireless. Angel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">When Mike passed away, it was Rick who completely decorated the memorial chapel. Beautiful flowers, candles, photos. Rick constantly visited Lyndie in those horrible early days, he still does. The beautiful flowers continue to arrive for her. He's still there. He was and still is a friend to my children in every sense of the word, and beyond.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">So you see why I might get a little bit angry when I hear homophobic remarks? Why I take very personal offense? Because if you say these horrible, hate-filled things, you say them about this angel on earth. You say them about my Rick. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">And, like I said. I won't tolerate it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5On3yUptDvjF0-Qifeak2TXgDn7BOiOQa-2MTz_auTFl0wocyUS6shLcxppK3jNOWUxQX0TZHg1fud6W_t68b44tpXub-9JM3I2HAHCnPYA-Qjc64UhTwEPqKtBy0hRctydN8ojYAwM/s1600/Rick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5On3yUptDvjF0-Qifeak2TXgDn7BOiOQa-2MTz_auTFl0wocyUS6shLcxppK3jNOWUxQX0TZHg1fud6W_t68b44tpXub-9JM3I2HAHCnPYA-Qjc64UhTwEPqKtBy0hRctydN8ojYAwM/s320/Rick.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Rick and Lyndie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><em>All God's angels come to us disguised. ~James Russell Lowell</em></strong></span></span></span></div>
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<br />Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-46280545533366842952012-04-26T05:31:00.001-07:002012-04-26T05:31:43.599-07:00PURLY GATES IS HERE!<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just a quick update to let you know my new short novella, Purly Gates, is now available at Amazon!</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007XEOQX8" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUU9oP8hvp1ojrmrZQZ9vKHk0RoBp-mw4cE384OFLoZkPc-ZgES_UvJEYNosJMiAijGUoGd56WbZ3SAU3eKLRZSmYV61Bf59a2mwG1XUlPYYsaNKLiwEY2euOPC994R84Q2tN9j2gwHU/s320/purlygates_1_vastinebondurant.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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Click on image to purchase.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm excited. It's been a slow road to finishing a story, any story. So this is a milestone of sorts. It did set a fire under me, though, because I truly did enjoy writing those last words, closing the pages to a work in progress. Methinks I need to do it again. It could be a nice habit!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I'm also scared. Here's another baby, thrown out of the nest and into the world. He's no longer mine, he's on his own. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Ah, well. It was a wonderful experience, regardless. You know I always liken writing books to childbirth, and so it is. The huge joy, excitement...pain...fear of the unknown...the giving birth and then the letting go and being helpless to defend them when others don't like them. And being happy when some do like them.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">But, like childbirth, I'd do it again and again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">You're on your own, Purly old boy. Good luck.</span></div>
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</div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-112111754352232402012-04-15T07:57:00.002-07:002012-04-15T08:43:50.170-07:00COMING SOON...Purly Gates...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv0HnLGZjiVTxd1JWP5HY7Do9wY99T31fj6ZyaP0dkBKLyCs4r0Gwcpb1tlh96-IM9krpevUOiCew34-95yy4ypOVPOwVAeWZ6aPfqvclQI6rHbLyBl9UoHsKPB296kyNkRapnaoZBBg/s1600/purlygates_1_vastinebondurant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv0HnLGZjiVTxd1JWP5HY7Do9wY99T31fj6ZyaP0dkBKLyCs4r0Gwcpb1tlh96-IM9krpevUOiCew34-95yy4ypOVPOwVAeWZ6aPfqvclQI6rHbLyBl9UoHsKPB296kyNkRapnaoZBBg/s320/purlygates_1_vastinebondurant.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cover Art by <a href="http://emmyellis.com/id14.html">Emmy Ellis</a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When my first novella, Candy G (under <a href="http://www.authorczampa.blogspot.com/">C. Zampa</a> pen name) was released, I sincerely thought I'd have a boat load of stories to follow it. It was not to be. Instead---partly due to life and its obstacles and partly due to the simple fact I am a hopelessly slow writer---I have just now written the words <i>The End </i>in a story for the second time. Nevertheless, I'm ecstatic. I feel as high on having completed this one short novella as I would be having a hundred stories under my belt. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My first story under the Vastine Bondurant pen name turned out to be a m/m historical. When I envisioned the title, I envisioned a male/female couple but these guys took over the story and...well...here they are. </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Since this is a shorter work, I'm taking the opportunity to self-publish it (with help of a professional editor and formatter), and it will be released soon.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So today, let me introduce you to my newest characters, Purly and Lucky in <i>Pearly Gates</i>. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Here's a peek at the boys.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><u>Blurb</u></span></span></span></div>
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<i>Eventually soul mates
meet, for they have the same hiding place.
---- Robert Brault</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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A lonely stretch of beach becomes a hiding place for two men
who are determined not to be ships just passing in the night. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
Purlman “Purly” Gates—dark, brooding, mysterious, hiding from
his past and the hefty price on his head—is hopelessly attracted to the young
man who strolls the beach every morning. At the risk of his own exposure and
its deadly consequences, Purly succumbs to his desire and sets out to lure the
beautiful enigma into his lair.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lucky Cleary wants the swarthy stranger who watches him from
the shadows of the cottage deck. His morning promenades finally pay off when
the man steps out onto the beach and into Lucky’s life in a move to bring their
paths together.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But Lucky has a secret as well—a past mistake following
close behind him, promising certain death if it catches up with him. And when
he discovers Purly’s identity, not only does Lucky want the man more than
ever but he sees the loner as a shelter, an escape to safety.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Is the meeting of these two souls a beautiful destiny or
merely a cruel twist of fate in which their desire is nothing more than the
kiss of death for them both?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<u>Excerpt</u></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It
had been one week. Seven days to be exact. Lucky had not returned for his
morning walks. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Daily
Purly gazed along the shore, halfway hoping to see the man with the
honey-colored curls. It was wrong to wish it, he knew that. But he hadn’t
anticipated the ache at seeing that Lucky’s path in the sand, the only sign the
beautiful enigma ever even existed, had faded with the tide. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It
was for the best. Yes, as surprisingly painful as it had been to watch Lucky
leave that day with his shoulders slumped—to see him cast a sad smile at his
dogs then follow them onto the beach and out of Purly’s life—there was no way
Purly could deny it had to be. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It
<i>was </i>for the best, but…</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Damn! </i>How the hell had Lucky managed to
possess him—lock, stock and barrel—in the span of one week? A pinhead of time
in the big scheme of things. A complete stranger at that! And only thirty
minutes of that week, if even that much, had been spent face to face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Loneliness.
Of course. That was all it had been. An eternity without having touched
another, slept with them, tasted their lips. Longing pent up inside him,
miserable and swelling, torturing him for release.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Yes.
The shy man with the eyes of crystal green had just happened to cross Purly’s
ravenous path and stood right before the jaws of this hungry beast. It could
have been anyone, any man, and the effect would have been the same.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It
sounded logical, but…</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Purly
placed a recording on the spindle, wound the crank on the phonograph and rested
the needle carefully where the <i>Moonlight
Sonata</i> was to begin.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The
music—rich and beautifully gloomy—filled the area and shards of moonlight pierced
through the dilapidated blinds to paint silvery stripes on the floor and walls.
The perfect setting for a man determined to brood.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Plucking
his ever-present cigarette from the ashtray, Purly headed for the deck and
stepped out into the balmy night air. The ocean’s roar, rolling then subsiding,
blended with the melancholy sonata. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Beyond
the shore a wide ribbon of moonlight split the endless black horizon. To the
west, lightning illuminated a cluster of clouds and seconds later the rumble of
thunder echoed in the sky. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> And then he spotted them. There on the beach,
silhouetted against that wide smattering of sparkles on the waves, stood three
figures—Lucky and his two dogs. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Before
Purly could pull the lever of reasoning and caution, waves of warm, exquisite,
excruciating heat rushed through his body. And, abandoning the damn internal
warning sirens altogether, he tossed his cigarette, bolted down the rickety
steps and out onto the cool sand toward Lucky.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What
he’d say when he reached Lucky’s side, he didn’t know nor did he care. He only
knew he<i> did</i> have to reach his side.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Standing
within several feet of him, Purly said nothing, just gazed at Lucky’s back—at the
wind dusting through his curls and rippling the loose-fitting white shirt and
trousers about his limbs. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The
dogs galloped from the tide to pounce on Purly as though running into a
long-lost friend and, thrusting their wet paws on his chest, sent him sprawling
onto the sand. Only then did he realize he’d stepped outside in his thin
undershirt and shorts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lucky
turned to face the commotion. With his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he
studied the scene through those dark lashes and rested a serene smile on Purly.
He shrugged, tilted his head and sighed. “Purly.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Struggling
to his feet in spite of the eager dogs, Purly searched Lucky’s face,
registering every smooth inch of it, before looking into his eyes.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A
lie formed in Purly’s mind, an excuse for being out on the beach at this time
of night in his undershorts. But Lucky’s gaze, although so languid and cool,
somehow managed to shoot fire straight to Purly’s soul, melting the budding
falsity.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Instead
of the bogus story he’d planned, the truth issued from his lips. “I’m sorry,
Lucky, about the other day.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lucky
bent to ruffle the white fur at each dog’s neck. Since their meeting, all the
boyish nervousness seemed to have vanished from his eyes, his bearing. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">He
said nothing, just continued to lavish his attention on the canines.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The
silence prompted Purly to step nearer, determined—hoping to God the chance
hadn’t passed forever—to draw some sort of response from the man. “I’ve missed
seeing you in the mornings.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Still
no reaction from Lucky.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Stubbornness
in his resolve now, Purly boldly closed the space between them and stooped to
rest his hand on Lucky’s. To demand his attention. The touch of the man’s skin
sent heat rushing from Purly’s fingertips straight through his body. “I’ve
missed <i>you</i>.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The
sentiment spewing from him was so foreign to his ears—the unfamiliar concept of
missing, longing out loud—he might as well have been speaking in tongues.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Finally
Lucky straightened, gently withdrew his hand from beneath Purly’s and brushed
the sand from his own palms. His voice, wafting on the ocean’s breeze, seemed
to have drawn the thought from Purly’s very mind, “Do you want me?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> And Purly knew he’d utter the tiny word—the
lone syllable possessing the power to shatter the huge boulder on his shoulders
with the force of a hundred earthquakes. The answer that would plunge him into
a dark, horrifying unknown and yet set him beautifully free. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Yes.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><u><span style="text-decoration: none;"><br /></span></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-48396165414527026162012-03-15T11:55:00.002-07:002012-03-15T11:58:21.741-07:00Coffee, Books and...Lipstick...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all ---- </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Laura Ingalls Wilder</span></em></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNk4K83PsyWrI4ogLb1BTIhnI0jpxXABndP4meKAmCtMTomKYSVSuGciLM-Xa5_TSQF2tVG7EAMoGxt3c8IaDbS5P0nqtceZ0J3zcbWpEfOOfSk8TY623cqQapqOcrlWY30RTWQfWJm-Q/s1600/coffee_and_books--catherine_hadler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNk4K83PsyWrI4ogLb1BTIhnI0jpxXABndP4meKAmCtMTomKYSVSuGciLM-Xa5_TSQF2tVG7EAMoGxt3c8IaDbS5P0nqtceZ0J3zcbWpEfOOfSk8TY623cqQapqOcrlWY30RTWQfWJm-Q/s320/coffee_and_books--catherine_hadler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm Vastine Bondurant. Welcome to my place!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I put off launching my blog for a long time, waiting for the perfect subject. Something that would make me sound provocative, really interesting. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Truth is, I'm not extraordinary. I'm just a girly girl who's ready and excited to start writing---creating---one of her favorite worlds: guys and girls. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I'm a published author in the m/m genre, which I adore, but somehow the time just wasn't quite right to begin writing mainstream and m/f romance. <em>Until now</em>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">The characters in my head are like me. They ARE me. Basic, nothing fancy, but hopefully SO simple and human you'll relate to them, you'll recognize bits of yourself when you meet them. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">My fictional boys aren't perfect. If you met them in real life, you'd knock them upside their heads. But you'd love them in spite of yourself. My gals aren't perfect either because they all carry little doses of me in them. Most of them are much bolder than me, and that's the fun part---painting dames who, even though they're imperfect, are what I'm not adventurous enough to be.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I crossed this painting by my favorite modern artist, Jack Vettriano, titled <em>Back Where You Belong</em> a while back and I knew...I just knew...I needed to write the feelings it inspired in me. Man, woman, love, anger, lust, sex, masculine, feminine, tears, stoicism. Romance. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGfkL8fKWemY4KwJTgVDHzOSKf8GhCGEjOSdUSf_mqgY1p-Y40LI1dp40LKM15gCuNfQmHhUJhnGw9_RbscpYSTFSQQcKHFrg12GdmhsTDAkHqZAkOdLsaurtu30j3mJ9CXfLKRyy4kM/s1600/Back+Where+You+Belong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGfkL8fKWemY4KwJTgVDHzOSKf8GhCGEjOSdUSf_mqgY1p-Y40LI1dp40LKM15gCuNfQmHhUJhnGw9_RbscpYSTFSQQcKHFrg12GdmhsTDAkHqZAkOdLsaurtu30j3mJ9CXfLKRyy4kM/s320/Back+Where+You+Belong.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Back Where You Belong by Jack Vettriano</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">And who IS Vastine Bondurant? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">A simpleton, a romantic. A woman who can survive anything as long as she has the basics: coffee in the pantry, a working coffee pot, books and...most importantly...lipstick.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt-rqCSMTF9lRdZ51dX-bEr-YmIkk3KeMkfob0JIhF73VCc_oMRpHviEzxepofbLYBBe-uPBUK5zGlw8lTCW9I5j_cFCMkPx9IGznQ-LCnPJh5RZVtzYlQmprbwlONwpNvwhgzhfhiBw/s1600/lipstick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt-rqCSMTF9lRdZ51dX-bEr-YmIkk3KeMkfob0JIhF73VCc_oMRpHviEzxepofbLYBBe-uPBUK5zGlw8lTCW9I5j_cFCMkPx9IGznQ-LCnPJh5RZVtzYlQmprbwlONwpNvwhgzhfhiBw/s320/lipstick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Yes, I am the Talullah Bankhead from the film Lifeboat. The woman who---even when her ship is sinking and she's stranded in the middle of the ocean on a lifeboat with a bevy comprised mostly of men (oh, the hardhips)---stops to put on her lipstick. The woman who even THOUGHT to rescue her lipstick from a sinking vessel. A woman who knows her priorities. Yes, that's Vastine.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqvHLg0AercJ6hfRVTnxxw54_2-55gzqJT8l8Jev6Cs1cEzuTW5y7XIndoCa2obAKZiOBbrbBzBxZ44iPuQ8AroyRYhdpe7qJtOUWwU56QcVDvLDfxjeFzH9aFyG274hT9J5nOOENTY8/s1600/Lifeboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqvHLg0AercJ6hfRVTnxxw54_2-55gzqJT8l8Jev6Cs1cEzuTW5y7XIndoCa2obAKZiOBbrbBzBxZ44iPuQ8AroyRYhdpe7qJtOUWwU56QcVDvLDfxjeFzH9aFyG274hT9J5nOOENTY8/s320/Lifeboat.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Did you think I was joking about the lipstick on the lifeboat full of men? Would I joke about lipstick or men?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I'm a woman hopelessy lost in this decade, who would be hunky dory to be back in those other eras---the 20's, 30's, 40's. Times that were probably not all we've romanticized them to be, but are so vivid and exciting in my imagination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">I look forward to getting to know you. I'll always welcome your input on romance, on writing, on life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">Hope to see you again soon. </span></div>
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<br />Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316808772559443222.post-51314157145885633922012-02-04T00:54:00.001-08:002012-02-04T00:54:11.292-08:00Coming soon! Posts from Vastine Bondurant!Vastine Bonduranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11060304787831671972noreply@blogger.com11