...Ain't No One-Person Job...

“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.”  - T.S. Tate

Last night I had a strange dream, and it's been with me all morning.

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.
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. 

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. 

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 didn't belong and that scared me. I cried and I cried and I cried. 

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.
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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.
Like many, I joined a handful of writing groups. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

They are, as James Arthur Baldwin says, the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.
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.

Only Until Forever...But After That...

“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.
Even longer,' Pooh answered.”  --  A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

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.

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.

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.

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."

My heart broke.

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.

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.

This week, it occurred to me just why this scenario troubled me so.

In the time I decided to pursue my writing professionally, I've made many friends---most of them on the Internet.

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.

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.

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.

I was wrong.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

I panic.

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.

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.

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.

I need to be like the dog at the gate. I need to realize, Okay, I'm on my own. I need to fend for myself. 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.

I'm not built to be in complete solitude, I need friends. But I CANNOT depend completely on them for my own confidence.

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, Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

 

 

Inspiration. Imitation. Creativity..?

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.

Then I stumbled on this quote from Dan Vylete, An original writer is one who imitates nobody, but one whom nobody can imitate.

And my question is this. Where do you draw the line between inspiration and imitation?

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.

When this happens, is it flattery to the original author? Does one even think about the original author?

Wait, I know what you’re thinking. No, I'm not talking about 50 Shades of Grey. I’m not even talking about plagiarism.

I’m talking about something that is not dishonest. Not illegal.

Something quite common. Sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

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.

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.

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'.

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 not 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).

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, Anything you can do, I can do better. Would he have cared? Probably not.

I, for one, see so many wonderful stories—concepts, characters, settings—I stay in a constant state of Why didn’t I think of that? 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.

As much as I cherish the world I’m inspired to write—the world which exists in my stories, Purly Gates 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.

That brings me back to the original question.

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 is 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.

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.

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: 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.

Maybe that thing you and I see in other author’s work---that thing that inspires us---is their passion. That 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.

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, 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. So, bottom line: be a great thinker. Gather inspiration from others, but...well, you get the picture. And the key word is think. For ourselves. And feel the story for ourselves. Getting an idea from another? We might can grow a story from another's seedling. The passion to cultivate it into our own unique tale? That has to be ours.

Because as Ella Wheeler Wilcox said, A poor original is better than a good imitation.

Just Daddy...

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.

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. 

But before a thought speeds to your mind, thinking how callous I am, let me explain. 

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. 

Oh, sure. There were the exceptions. And sometimes, as a little girl, I seethed with jealousy toward my friends whose fathers were 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 me “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. 

The beauty of it all? I now realize he couldn’t 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.

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. 

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. 

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?

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.

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. 

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 Eleventh Airborne and earned a Purple Heart. The man who did double duty and served in the Navy on The U.S.S. Wasp. 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.

The man who had a fascinating life, but who to me was just Daddy. 

Hardboiled and Loaded with Sin...

I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin. ---  Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely

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. 

Barbie. 

No last name, just Barbie. 

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, a role model for young girls.

Oh, really? Sugar, think again. Look, really look at the broad. 

Sure, she was a Dudley-do-gooder as a nurse...

Quite an accomplishment, considering she was a teenager.

She even did a stint as an airline stewardess, and quite a sexy one, too. Still, incredible for a teenager.

Through the years, there were very few avenues our lady did not pursue---up to and including an astronaut and a lawyer.

But, then, when you look really close at her illustrious history, you see those hints that the pretty little chickadee wasn't quite the teen role model after all.

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?

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?

Ouch! Well, on second thought, I can't actually blame the Barbster for not marrying this weirdsmobile.

But the clincher, the proof, that our Lady of Perpetual Goodness really might not have been such an innocent?

Did you know who Barbie was designed after? The doll who came BEFORE Mattel's Princess of Good?

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. 
 

Bild Lilli Cartoon and Doll

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). 

Bild Lilli---remarkable resemblance.

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. 

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.

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.

So ol' Barbie is pretty much my kind of lady.

But---hush, hush, keep in on the Q.T.---and don't tell our mothers just who we were REALLY palling around with.






 

Angel in the Outfield...

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

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.

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.

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.

Rick is gay.

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.

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).

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.

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.

Mike (left) and Rick

See where I'm going with this? Do you see the angel I see in Rick? Unselfish, loving, gentle, tireless. Angel.

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.

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.

And, like I said. I won't tolerate it.

Rick and Lyndie



All God's angels come to us disguised.  ~James Russell Lowell



PURLY GATES IS HERE!

Just a quick update to let you know my new short novella, Purly Gates, is now available at Amazon!

Click on image to purchase.

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!

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.

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.

But, like childbirth, I'd do it again and again.

You're on your own, Purly old boy. Good luck.