Who Should YOU Be Thanking?

In your pursuit of your dreams--whatever they happen to be--has someone helped you along the way or given you a boost up the ladder?

Was it a teacher?  A guidance counselor?  A family friend?  Someone who had already achieved success in your chosen field of endeavor?  A boss?  A member of the clergy?  A coach?  Or was it simply a caring stranger who saw some potential in you and felt compelled to help nurture it?

Those of us who have been blessed by the generosity of mentors will readily attest to the life-changing potential that even one helping individual can bring to our lives and our quests.

Perhaps the gift they gave you was encouragement when your energy was being sapped by failures and setbacks; perhaps it was confidence in you when your own was flagging badly; maybe it was stinging--but objective--criticism when you lapsed into arrogance and overconfidence; perhaps it was sage advice and wise counsel that empowered you to solve an "unsolvable" problem; or maybe it was a simple word to the wise when one was warranted.

In my life, I've been blessed with several individuals (outside of family) who took an interest in me and my endeavors.

Ed:
Ed was a longtime family friend and the musical director/senior organist of his church.  He was a frequent guest in our home during my grammar school years and had encouraged my awakening interest in playing keyboards.  One day--after a considerable amount of persuasion on my part (perhaps badgering would be more accurate), he invited me to stop by the church after Sunday worship services and check out their beautiful pipe organ.  It wasn't huge by modern pipe organ standards, but in my eyes, it was mammoth and far more powerful than any instrument I'd ever played in my young life.  With its pipe chamber housing thousands of pipes of every size and description, it easily monopolized one entire wall of the building and could effortlessly vibrate the choir loft floor with its sonic power, clarity, and beauty.

After giving his offer considerable thought--about two seconds' worth--I jumped at the chance. 

Decades later, the memories of that wonderful day still flood back to me so vividly.  I hope the Good Lord forgives me for rocking His house the way I did.  After several hours of pure bliss, I was still going strong, intoxicated by the soul-stirring sounds that thundered from those pipe chambers and echoed throughout the building.  Finally, Ed had to pry me away from those keyboards; even then, I surrendered them with the utmost reluctance.  As we were leaving, I asked him--in complete earnestness--about becoming one of the church's organists.  Unfortunately, there were already four highly-skilled musicians on his staff; another one was simply not needed.  Complicating the issue was the fact that I couldn't read musical notation to any useful degree.  In his wisdom, he advised me to concentrate on my schoolwork; there would be plenty of time for music later.           

Over the next several years, however, I was a very frequent visitor to Ed's choir loft.  He allowed me to practice any time the church was empty, and gave quite generously of his time and talents in helping me develop my keyboard technique, interpretive skills, and sense of music appreciation.  He introduced me to so many diverse and in-depth facets of musicianship and--in a very real sense--gave me a priceless musical education that I value to this day.

Wherever you are, Ed, thank you so much for a gift that will keep on giving for the rest of my life.


Mrs. Porter:
When we see teachers portrayed in the entertainment media these days, they are sometimes characterized as cool, laid-back, and near-buddies with their students.

Three strikes and you're out, Mrs. Porter.

Mrs. Porter was my eighth-grade teacher: a stern, old-school (pardon the pun), no-nonsense, you're-in-my-house-and-you-will-behave-by-my-rules educator who could easily scare the living hell out of Hulk Hogan, James T. Kirk, Donald Trump, Darth Vader, Arnold Schwarzenegger, J. R. Ewing, Mr. T., and anyone else crazy enough to mess with her.  Barely five feet tall, with piercing blue eyes that were the forerunners of today's lasers, she ruled her classroom with a withering glare, an autocratic demeanor, and a wooden pointer that could annihilate an army of Star Wars fighters armed with high-tech weaponry.

Looking back, she was fortunate that our classroom lacked a National Hockey League referee.  Otherwise, she would've surely been the most penalized teacher in North America.  That wooden pointer of hers was as lethal in her hands as a hockey stick wielded by the NHL's dirtiest player.  I can almost hear the referee now: "Porter ... two minutes for slashing"; "Porter ... two minutes for spearing"; "Porter ... two minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct"; "Porter ... five minute major penalty for roughing"; "Porter ... two minutes for high-sticking."

You get the picture.  In every student's life, there is a Mrs. Porter.

In the 21st Century, an incriminating video would be taken with a cell phone, posted on YouTube, and a lawsuit filed.  Mrs. Porter would soon find herself working at a fast-food shack.  But back then, teachers were free to rule their rooms with impunity ... not to mention pointers, rulers, blackjacks, baseball bats, brass knuckles, tear gas, flamethrowers, and anything else that helped maintain order. 

And there was inviolable order in the classrooms of that era.

After my first day in her class, I vowed to find her good side--assuming she had one--and do whatever was necessary to get on it as quickly as possible.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for me to find Mrs. Porter's sole vulnerability: creative writing.

She was returning some extra-credit essays to the handful of students who had chosen to write them. (Did you honestly think I'd pass up a chance to write?)  She approached my desk, handed my essay back to me, and actually gave me the slightest, almost imperceptible trace of a smile!  I couldn't believe it!  Mrs. Porter actually almost-smiled at me!  "This is very good," she said softly.  "The best one in the class."

Direct hit!  I was in.

I'm a firm believer in the philosophy of finding something that works and sticking with it.  Needless to say, I eagerly jumped on every extra-credit writing assignment she ever offered; each time I received the same subdued approval.  I devoted hours to polishing and buffing even everyday writing assignments until they were perfect in my admittedly self-serving effort to please her.  I even wrote some short stories (on my own initiative) and asked her to critique them.  Over the course of the school year, I would occasionally stay after school to work with Mrs. Porter on the rudiments of story construction, sentence structure, phrasing, vocabulary, dialogue, character development, and the joy of editing.

Yes, Virginia, there is joy in editing!

Like Ed had done for me musically, Mrs. Porter seemed to enjoy (or at least not scowl quite so intensely) helping me develop and refine this creative sense that comes so naturally for me.  I know I'm a more effective writer today because of her.

Thank you, Mrs. Porter, for showing me the wondrous power of words and the emotions, images, and entire worlds they are capable of creating. 


 
Mr. Peterson: 
Mr. Peterson's storehouse of knowledge amazes me to this day.  He was a high school English teacher who also taught American and English Literature, American Law, Civics, and American History.  One detail that stands out in my mind was his shaved head; this was decades before that look was rendered trendy by Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek fame.

As something of a "hobby," he was also a Shakespearean scholar and could recite from memory the collective works of the Bard.  (I remember having one hell of a time memorizing just the Gettysburg Address and the preamble to the Constitution!)

His was a teaching style I'd never encountered before.  Perhaps succumbing to an unfulfilled acting urge, he would stand at the front of the classroom and literally "act out" significant events of the Revolutionary War era and the founding of America.  His knowledge of historic American and English court trials was encyclopedic, and he recreated those events with the fervor of a highly-trained actor.  He frequently presented one-man shows, deftly switching between the roles of the principals involved in that day's event.  Before attending his class, I'd never even heard of journalist John Peter Zenger who was tried for libel after publishing newspaper articles castigating the British colonial Governor for corruption; nor had I ever heard of Thomas Paine's historic pamphlet, "Common Sense," one of many documents written to incite the American colonists into breaking away from British colonial rule and establishing their own nation and government.  Mr. Peterson possessed an uncanny command of dialects and could transition flawlessly from one to another in an instant.  You were never certain of who he was at any given moment.  That only added to the fun of learning in his class.

While it brought incredulous stares and a few snickers from some of my classmates, I personally delighted in his Shakespearean performances.  I enjoyed my first tastes of Hamlet, As You Like It (Mr. Peterson's personal favorite), Macbeth, and King Lear thanks to him.  The man's capacity for knowledge was astounding.

My practice of recreating scenes during my writing sessions likely stems from my experience with Mr. Peterson.  While writing Child of Privilege, I actually acted out certain key scenes, scrutinizing my characters' dialogue, movements, positioning, timing, and vocalization.  Now, a scene must "feel real" in my living room before it's allowed into the final manuscript.

This innovative teacher also brought a roll of pennies to each class.  When you answered a question correctly, he would toss you a penny, along with the promise that it would bring you good luck if you worked hard at whatever you pursued in life.        

Thanks, Mister Peterson.  Thanks for the Civics lessons, the American History lessons, the Shakespeare lessons, and the life lessons.  Thanks for the lessons in the value and relevance of literature in our lives.  Most of all, sir, thanks for impressing upon me the value of lifelong learning and how much fun it can be.

 
Chuck:
There are bosses who are nothing more than that: bosses.  They tell you what to do and you do it while counting the minutes until quitting time. 

Then there was Chuck, a Data Processing Manager (that's what they were called back in those days) for a major publishing company.  He wasn't a company man; he wasn't a "yes" man; he wasn't a micro-manager; he wasn't a slave-driver.  Rather, he was a shrewd judge of people and a born leader ... and I thank my lucky stars for the good fortune of having worked for him.

When I first started working for him, I was taking computer theory and business programming night classes at a nearby community college and I thought I knew something ... and my treatment of my co-workers reflected it.  To this day, I suspect that more than one of them may have commented privately to Chuck about my condescending attitude toward them.  When I wasn't busy being a jerk, I could usually be found absorbed in one of the department's many technical manuals and programming books.

My stupidity lasted a grand total of five days until I pushed the wrong button at the wrong time on the computer and promptly plunged the department into eight hours of unplanned downtime.  It took hours of needless extra work by Chuck, myself, the in-house programmer, and the eight keypunch machine operators to get the computer operational again.

Time to start looking for a new job, I feared.

Once the department was functional again, Chuck called me into his office.  I knew what was coming.  I walked in, quickly apologized, and offered my resignation.  "Nobody quits on me," he countered.  "I fire people.  And I'm not in the mood to fire you today ... not even after that dumb-ass mistake you just made.  Besides, I've noticed how much time you spend with your nose in those programming manuals; and I've seen some of your test programs.  You show some potential, and I might be needing another programmer someday.  Who knows?  If you continue with your programming studies--and, more importantly, promise to stop being such an ass-wipe--I'll give you another chance."

Thanks ... I think.

"Now that you realize what a dumb s*** you've been, I'd suggest you get your ass out there and apologize for the extra work you made for the keypunch girls.  Then learn how to keypunch; they'll teach you, and they'll probably get a good laugh out of it.  Then learn our daily operations from top to bottom.  Learn how the department works and how we all get along and depend on each other to get our work done.  Put in your time, pay your dues, treat people with a little kindness, and it'll pay off for you in the long run."  He challenged me with a look that I came to know well through the years.  "You still wanna quit?"

With that inauspicious start began eight years of the best job I'd ever known with the best colleagues and the best boss I'd ever known.  Over the years, I came to regard Chuck as a friend as well as a manager.  It wasn't all that long before he did indeed promote me to in-house programmer where I remained for the rest of my tenure with the company. 

Our department eventually gelled into an extended family.  We celebrated holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, lunch-hour pizza pig-outs, "Secret Santa" parties, and the many funny moments that made life in a fast-paced, crowded, and noisy computer room a bit more tolerable.  Chuck managed the room sometimes with an iron fist, sometimes with kid gloves ... whichever was needed.  He was a capable, practical, seat-of-the-pants psychologist who instinctively knew how to get the best from his team.  And he made it easy for us to give him our best.

After Chuck eventually retired from the company, I moved on to other opportunities.  But I'll always be grateful to him for providing me with the foundation for a satisfying, twenty-plus-year career in software development as it's known today.

I was saddened to learn that Chuck had passed away a few years ago.  I think of him often and take a moment to realize just how lucky I was, especially when I read or hear about "bosses from hell" horror stories.

Thanks, Chuck for being the best damned boss I'd ever worked for ... even when I was so busy being an ass-wipe.   

I've been indeed blessed to know these--and many other--wonderful people who gifted me with their time, their wisdom, and their talents.  For the rest of my days, I'll value their kindnesses--and their memories--as precious possessions.

What about you?  Are there special folks like Ed, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Peterson, and Chuck in your past?  Maybe in your present?  Hopefully, in your future?  Take a moment to remember them--and thank them--either in person or in your thoughts.

A boost upward on life's ladder is a precious gift ...  almost as precious as the wonderful folks who give them. 

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See it ... Feel it ... Write it

I’ve always admired—and envied—those writers capable of envisioning futuristic civilizations and painting them in glorious detail on the printed page.  Specifically, I refer to those authors successful in the Sci-Fi, Apocalyptic, Dystopian, and related genres.  They not only perform the basic literary tasks of weaving stories, conceiving settings and locales, and fleshing out characters, but they also create in toto the yet-unknown societies in which their characters come into existence, live, love, fight, and die.  It takes a certain breed of writer to visualize an entire world and establish—with an acceptable degree of believability--the sights, morals, behavioral boundaries, smells, dangers, pleasures, sounds, and mores of existence for that world.  I’ve tried some tentative writing in these genres myself with less-than-pleasing results.  So, I must content myself with good ol’ current-day planet Earth.

But that doesn’t mean that those of us who choose to remain of this world are permitted to write shallow, empty, throwaway stories populated by shallow, empty, throwaway characters.  Regardless of whatever world a writer chooses to portray, the responsibility still remains to write worthy stories featuring characters endowed with vitality (positive OR negative), meaning, and depth. 

How?

Seeing, feeling, and writing are—in my humble opinion—three of the most critical skills necessary for an author to effectively convey a story (and its underlying message) to the reader.

Seeing—or visualization, if you prefer—requires a mind’s eye with 20/20 vision.  If you cannot see a character, a setting, a scene, a locale, or an environment on that movie screen in your head, what hope do you possibly have of painting that image on the canvas of your reader’s mind?  This skill is perhaps the most important of the three in this discussion.  Precise vision enhances a character’s “fleshing out” process, giving him/her a face, a human (or other) form, and an image that the reader’s imagination can process and mentally place onstage.

Remember the live radio shows of the 1920s, 30s, 40s, and 50s?  Before the widespread availability of television, they were THE preferred prime-time entertainment option for the millions of Americans who tuned in every night for the latest episodes of Burns and Allen, Gunsmoke, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Shadow, The Life of Riley, Dragnet, The Great Gildersleeve, The Lone Ranger, and a wide assortment of others.

Why were they so successful?

Through the creative use of background music, sound effects, omniscient narrators, ingenious scripts, and the considerable talents of vocal performers, these programs utilized the principle of the theater of the mind: presenting their stories so eloquently through words, music, and sounds that each individual audience member was able to mentally “complete the picture” in his or her own mind.  For the creatives of that era, this was by no means a simple task; nor is it for the current-day author with only the written word as a medium.

For example, I formulated a clear and highly-defined mental picture of each principal setting in Child of Privilege: the Van Werner mansion; Dana’s bedroom; Richard’s study; Red’s, the rundown honky-tonk where Dana performed her impromptu nude dance to pay for a bus ticket; the cold, dehumanizing jail cell where she spent the night dreading her father’s arrival; Beckett Junction which was inspired by an actual rural community with which I’m familiar; and the college-dorm-room clutter of Greg Parmenter’s cottage.

The same precise visualization applies to characters as well.  An interviewer once asked me to select a cast for a hypothetical Child of Privilege movie.     

If only it were true!

I answered this question very easily because I had long ago formed exact facial impressions of my principal players.  I can still vividly see Richard’s pencil-thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and ubiquitous scowl; Maggie’s demure manner, excessive makeup, and feigned smile; Dana’s warm brown eyes, sandy-blonde tresses, peaches-and-cream complexion, and girl-next-door charm; Reavis’s vulgarity, drooling leer, and insatiable sexual neediness; and Angelo’s inner misgivings, hangdog expression, and hidden fear. 

Now that you can “see” your novel, the next step is to feel it. 

I’ve always believed that readers prefer emotionally-rich and multi-layered characters.  Let’s face it: we are emotional creatures.  Your players need feelings—whether evil or benign--to enable the rest of us to relate to them on some level.  Otherwise, they may project themselves from the page as cold, empty, and unappealing.

So, what kinds of emotions should they display?  And where should those emotions come from?

From YOU, of course.  Who is better qualified?  You created them; you gave them form; you gave them their raison d’être.  Who better than you to program their hearts and minds with emotions that’ll endear them to your reading audience?  A daunting task?  Not at all.

I accomplish this in two ways: First, I endow nearly every character I create with some personal attribute of mine, a tiny piece of myself, you might say.  This serves as the character’s emotional foundation.   I then use the rest of the novel to continually build—brick by brick, emotion by emotion--upon that foundation, creating an emotional portfolio that ultimately enlivens the player with a certain humanness that a reader can sense and relate to quite readily. 

Second, I place myself in my characters’ roles.  I ask myself what emotions I would be experiencing if I were personally living each role in the story.

In a single word: empathy.

Would I be able to breathe under my smothering feelings of powerlessness as I listened to my parents battering each other in the next bedroom?  How would I endure the trauma and pain of being pummeled by my father for no fathomable reason?  What emotions would be swirling through my mind as I abandoned the wealth, social status, and luxury of my past and found myself riding some dingy bus bound for nowhere?  How embarrassed would I feel standing onstage and taking my clothes off before a honky-tonk packed with drunken strangers?  How would I cope with the despair of spending a night in a jail cell waiting for my father to arrive and drag me back home to a certain nightmare?

What depths of fear and rage would drive me when I finally confronted the man whose hired thugs had pursued me—like a hunted animal--across the country?

This was undoubtedly the most challenging aspect of writing Child of Privilege: defining and molding into words the emotional imperatives of such diametrically-opposed personalities as Dana, Richard, Maggie, Reavis, and Angelo.

The question of how successful I was can only be answered by the world’s book-buyers.

The final element—write it—is probably the most bewildering for many writers to master.  Once the plots and subplots are finalized, the characters outlined and “fleshed out,” and the timing, sequence, and logistics issues resolved, the author then turns to the world’s largest toolbox: the English language.

With options from collective pronouns to adverbs (vigorously frowned upon in some circles), from compound subjects to independent clauses, from the dreaded preposition to split infinitives, and from participles to adjectives, a writer can become overwhelmed—and some do—by the sheer number of variables involved in constructing even the simplest cognitive sentence.  Every sentence seems to require 100 decisions and corrections before it flows properly from the page.  Then there are questions of verb tense.  And what about singular vs. plural?  POV?  Flashbacks?  Narrative vs. dialogue?  Dashes?  Hypens?  Semicolons?  Commas?  Spelling?

Writing is such fun!

That’s why—whether I’m composing an email, zipping out a short story, or stringing 96K words together—Mister Webster (both printed and online versions) and my trusty thesaurus are never far away.  I’ve also started devouring every grammar book carried by my local library.

Inquiring minds want to know!

And so the creative process goes: conceived by your mind’s eye, birthed by your emotions, matured by your writing skills, and given in marriage to your readers’ eyes.

If all of that were simple, everybody would be doing it!

A parting thought: For those who are curious, the hypothetical cast of the hypothetical Child of Privilege movie can be found here: http://whisperingstories.com/the-writing-life-of-ross-ponderson/

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I Got Your Expert Right Here

The experts have warned me that I'm doomed to failure.  The experts have warned me that I'll be lost among the tens of thousands of other author hopefuls all searching for the same pot of gold at the same end of the same rainbow: the best-seller list.  The experts have warned me that my books will probably gather more dust than readers.

Well, I guess I’d better heed their sage advice (after all, they are the experts!), fold up my writing tent, and take up a more realistic hobby like growing candy canes in my backyard. 

Or perhaps I’ll quote Vinnie Barbarino, TV’s eminent 1970s philosopher/Sweathog: “Up your nose with a rubber hose!”

I don’t care about the experts.  I can’t allow them to take something so precious—my dream of writing success--away from me.  Nor can I allow them to dictate to me.  Most importantly, I can't allow them to affect my writing.

My lifelong wish has been to succeed as a writer; not just a good writer; not just an average writer.  My Holy Grail is that golden circle of writing's elite, one of those iconic storytellers whose words mirror life and reflect it back to the reader--like a prism—in a kaleidoscope of varying hues and shapes.  Sometimes I worry that my mortality will catch up with me before I'm able to conceive, develop, and write down all the stories that dominate my imagination at times.  I surely hope that doesn't happen.

So many lives out there are—as Thoreau so aptly observed--being lived in silent desperation.  There are perhaps billions of people out there suffering in silence, fighting private wars against heartache, pain, disease, misfortune, cruelty, and, in some cases, themselves.  There are so many people out there for whom getting out of bed in the morning is a major accomplishment.  Rest assured, they have names, faces, and lives, and are all around us: they could be your co-worker, your best friend, your neighbor, the clerk at your local retail establishment, or the person sitting next to you in church.  They could even be a part of your own family. 

It is their stories that I want to tell as succinctly and honorably as my meager abilities will allow. 

I've always believed that life's most meaningful stories are those of oppression, of man's inhumanity to man, of fighting losing battles, and of sadness so paralyzing that dying peacefully in one’s sleep could be considered a blessing.  These are tales of inner conflict, of battle, and of fighting to the last ounce of one's strength.  As dark as that sounds, these stories can be transformed into tomes of overcoming, of victory, of finally beating down one's personal demons and living life in a productive, fulfilling, and joyous way.  I call them "people stories."  And some creative force I’ll never be able to define drives me to chronicle those battles and reduce them to words that the rest of us can take into our hearts, feel, and understand.

It's my goal to write about ordinary people beating odds that would terrify Las Vegas.  Look around you.  Everybody has a story; everybody is a story.  When I write a novel, a tiny piece of my soul is lovingly tucked between those covers along with my words.  I invest thousands of hours in the subtle nuances—the implications, the innuendos, the double meanings, and the hidden messages--of a novel.  If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a little secret: sometimes I envision myself living the lives of my characters.  Sometimes I’ll cry as I'm writing; sometimes I’ll laugh hysterically; sometimes I’ll become a shadowy character standing silently in the background.  For me, emotions are the heart, soul, and the very core of all great writing: panic, joy, anger, love, sorrow, hatred, envy, loneliness, revenge, despair, and fear all reduced to words and painted on a page like so much human graffiti.

The deepest fear of every writer lies in writing a boring book: a book that is so hamstrung and hog-tied by political correctness, empty rules, meaningless traditions, and outmoded conventions that its true voice is stifled and choked to the point of rasping silence.

I ask you, dear reader: of what possible value is a book that doesn't move you?

Every word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter of Child of Privilege—and every other novel for that matter--is there to engage you on some level.  Did reading it bring about feelings of contentment and relief?  Did you feel uneasy?  Uncomfortable?  Disturbed?  Angry?  Were there moments that made you laugh?  Cry?  Wonder?  Empathize?

EXCELLENT!  Then I've succeeded as a writer.  On the other hand, if you found my words and ideas boring, formulaic, predictable, or passive, I sincerely apologize and will try my damnedest to do better the next time around.

I keep telling myself that success’s lightning bolt could strike at any time, that I’ll someday achieve elite writer status, that my impossible dream will actually come true and my books will indeed claw their way onto the best-seller list.  That's pretty much all I have to keep me going as a writer.  That’s about all many indie authors have.  Some days, it's enough; on other days, however, it isn't, and I’m sorely tempted on those blue days to chuck it all into a closet and forget about it.

Looking back on Child of Privilege, I readily admit that it’s a violent, disturbing, and frightening story.  The feedback I’ve received—for which I am very grateful and humbled—readily reflects the book’s dark tone.

But please ask yourself this question: How violent, disturbing, and frightening is it to be pummeled at any second by somebody living in your home?  It’s a sad but horrifying fact that Domestic Violence is pervasive in our society, undelineated by income, race, culture, or class.  It causes untold misery and heartache for millions of people and destroys individuals as well as entire families.

It’s a classic people story, one I deeply felt (and still do) needed to be told.  Thus onto Amazon’s shelves came a novel about a lovable debutante serving as a human punching bag for her mentally-unbalanced and sadistic father.  While it saddens me that discomfort and revulsion will deter some folks from ever reading it, I know I left my best on those pages.  I’ll always be proud of my literary firstborn Child of Privilege.  My conscience as a writer is clear.   

The rest, dear reader, is in your hands.

Writers’ imaginations are abundant with stories both wonderful and repulsive.  There are stories about lives productive and aimless, about fortunes made and lost, about loves found and squandered, and about the day-to-day battles we all know as "survival."  We indie authors live to tell those stories, albeit through occasionally imperfect prose and sometimes poorly-constructed sentences. 

But our literary hearts are in good places.

We’re anxious to tell you about the hidden lives unfolding in the next apartment, in the house across the street, on the other side of the country, and on the other side of the world.

What does it cost you?  With a trip to your local bookstore (assuming there is one!) or a log-on to Amazon to buy a tangible copy or a download, you can purchase your key to the world of people, stories, and ideas.

A true bargain if you ask me.

Allow me to convey to you--through my words--how it feels to ... whatever.  Allow me--and other writers out there--to be your looking-glass onto this huge, crazy world and the people who inhabit it.  I volunteer to act as your conduit into the thoughts and feelings so keenly felt by the people who surround you every day.

Yes, dear reader, I still want to be a writer, an elite writer.  With Child of Privilege, I've already begun that arduous journey.  I invite you to join me in exploring those roads less traveled that silently await us just over the horizon.

There's so much I want to tell you about.  Let's explore people, places, ideas, and life itself--through the written word--together.

I’m looking forward to your company.

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Inteviewing The Interviewer

This time around at the Country House, I'd thought I'd try something a little different from the usual ranting, commenting, raving, and general curmudgeonliness (whew!).  This get-together will be an interview with a writing colleague who was kind enough to interview me on her blog.  Her books look frightening enough to scare a politician into complete honesty!  Since turnabout is fair play (and the hot toddies are ready), please allow me to introduce indie author Mercedes Fox.

What is your author name (Pen name)? Mercedes Fox

Why do you write?  It’s something I’ve always wanted to do since childhood. I’ve never been bashful about telling what I’m thinking.

What is the current book you are promoting?  I’m pushing ‘Poaching the Immortal’. It’s the second book in the ‘Vengeance of the Werewolf’ series. It stars Ted Applegate who goes on a hunting trip only to discover he’s the hunted. It just released this month.

What is your next project?  I’m working on my fourth book. It’ll be the third in my ‘Vengeance of the Werewolf’ series. This time I’m delving into the character of Nico Howell. I left some open questions about him and his broken arm in the first book.

How do you write your books?  I don’t use an ‘office’ per say. My spot is on the sofa with my Macbook in my lap and my fur babies sitting next to me.

Who inspires your writing?  I would say JK Rowling, R.W. Ridley, Sara Shepard, Jonathan Stroud, Charlene Harris, JK Brandon, and even though I don’t much like their books Stephanie Meyer and EL James. I prefer Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight movies and it’s nothing to do with the ‘sparkling vampire’ issues so many people have. Same with EL James. I don’t like Fifty Shades of Grey movie or books. But they both inspire me because like JK Rowling they were nobodies who came up with a beautiful idea and wrote it down and look where they are now. This is what inspires me. When I see an indie author like myself breaking out, that’s motivation. I figure if they can do it, I can do it.

Who is your favorite author?   I have a couple, JK Rowling, R.W. Ridley, Sara Shepard, JK Brandon and Jonathan Stroud.

What is one thing you hate about being a writer?  Marketing. It’s a lot of work getting your name/brand out and viewed and making book sales. When I released my first novel ‘Vengeance of the Werewolf’ I pushed it out on social media and sent a copy off to 75+ Barnes and Noble stores across the nation. I contacted bookstores within 100 mile radius of home asking to have my book featured on the local author racks. Needless to say, it was a waste of my time. I was on the brink of giving up.

I'm glad you didn't give up, Mercedes.  Your books are starting to garner some great reviews on Amazon and should soon be attracting a lot of attention to you and your writing.

Thanks for stopping by the Country House!

How can readers discover more about you and your work?

Website: http://www.mercedesfox-author.com

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The Forgotten Music

Music and I go back a long way together.

It got somehow wired into me at a very early age and I've been expanding the circuits ever since.  I can remember--at age 4--lying next to the huge Grundig-Majestic Hi-Fi (that's Hi-Fi, NOT Wi-Fi!) in our dining room and listening to my parents' small collection of 78-rpm records.

I wonder how many of you are wondering: What's a 78-RPM record?  What's a Hi-Fi?  And what the hell is a Grundig-Majestic?   

Does anybody remember Arthur Godfrey's The Man With The Weird Beard?  Or (with all due apologies to my Native American readers) Heap Big Smoke But No Fire?

I do.

Or Rosemary Clooney's Half As Much?  Or Come On-A My House?  Or Patti Page's How Much is That Doggie In The Window?  Or Sammy Kaye's In The Mission of Saint Augustine? 

I do.

The advent of the 45-rpm record cemented my lifelong love affair with music and I've never looked back.

I know: What's a 45-RPM Record?

Google it; and if you must ask what Google is, I welcome you to the 19th Century.

I cut my musical teeth throughout the 1950s, '60s, and '70s.  In particular, the '70s were--IMHO--the zenith of rock and pop music.  It was such a musically diverse era; it literally had something for everyone.

It was the era of the singer/songwriter.  If you could write a hooky chorus, could carry a tune across the room, and play a guitar or piano reasonably well (and if you couldn't, you simply teamed up with a good sideman), you had a fighting chance of making it big on the Billboard chart.  Crooners like Lionel Ritchie, Neil Diamond, Billy Joel, and Barry Manilow filled with AM airwaves with their smooth, lavishly-produced sounds.  For those who preferred their music with an edge, Jim Morrison, Jim Croce, Lou Reed, Sly Stone, and Alice Cooper were right at home in the Baddest Part of Town.  Troubadours like Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor, Lobo, Bobby Goldsboro, and Roger Whittaker lulled us into the comforting belief that the music would go on forever.

Women of talent added their tracks as well, showcasing the considerable skills of Carole King, Melissa Manchester, Janis Ian, Carol Bayer Sager, Janis Joplin, Carly Simon, and Helen Reddy. 

Then there were the duos: Air Supply, the Carpenters, Loggins and Messina, the Captain and Tennille, Seals and Crofts, Sonny and Cher, England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Hall and Oates proved that two talents were indeed better than one.

Let's not forget the groups.  Oh, those awesome (or should I say Groovy) groups: The Mamas and The Papas, Cryan Shames, Buckinghams, Lovin' Spoonful, Association, Cyrkle, Ides of March, Hollies, Kinks, Zombies, Turtles, Grass Roots, Rascals, the Stones, Monkees ... and those 4 guys from Liverpool.

The Beatles were the only group in the history of the world to be banned outright from my house.  Why?  Because my father despised them with every ounce of his strength.  I was told in no uncertain terms that their records were not allowed in the house and that I was forbidden to listen to that s***.

Naturally, I obeyed ... for about four hours.  That's approximately how long it took for me to run out to my favorite stereo store and purchase my first pair of stereo headphones.

Yeah, I defied him.  Yeah, I disobeyed.  Mea Culpa.  Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.  Long live the Fab Four.  Heh heh.

Finally, for those whose tastes tended to run orchestral (and mine still do on occasion), the iconic Percy Faith took contemporary music to an entirely different level, executing his intricately-layered arrangements through the skillful interweaving of lush strings, full brass, horn, and woodwind sections, and tightly-harmonized voices.

There was indeed something for everyone during those halcyon days.

But, as with all good things, that golden era came to a crashing end beneath the tsunami wave known as disco.  The chart-topping artists I'd spent hours listening to were shamefully relegated to the music stores' discount racks or to the anthology sections.  The lesser beings sadly took their rest in music's graveyard.

Let's take a moment to pay our respects to some of those musical memories.  Some were moderate hits here in the U.S.; some never enjoyed the glare of the spotlights, the deafening roar of applause, or the approbation of the sales charts; some were rough, early creative efforts; some were intended to be nothing more than album "filler" tracks; some were hits in other markets; some were tracks that simply never caught on with record-buyers.  But I've found them to be tiny nuggets of listening pleasure nonetheless.  They, too, deserve to be enjoyed and remembered.

Here's a sampling of some of my favorite forgotten tracks.  How many do YOU recognize or remember?:

1. Summer Sun by Jamestown Massacre.
2. Take Me In Your Arms by Jefferson.
3. Tomorrow Is The First Day of the Rest of My Life by Lana Cantrell.
4. It's Only Make Believe by Wind.
5. If You Remember Me by Chris Thompson.
6. Hello Out There by Nick Noble.
7. King of Nothing by Seals and Crofts.
8. Mornin' Beautiful by Tony Orlando and Dawn.
9. San Francisco Is A Lonely Town by Glen Campbell.
10. Don't Give Up by Petula Clark.

Some of these can still be found on YouTube and elsewhere on the Internet.  If you have a few moments and are so inclined, try giving them a listen.  You might be pleasantly surprised at some of these forgotten musical morsels.

Oh yeah ... Long live the Fab Four ... with or without headphones.

Heh, heh.

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A Marriage Made In Common-Cold Heaven

I’ve come to the conclusion that Wal-Marts and video arcades can be hazardous to your health.

On Saturday night (11/7), in an effort to escape the confines of my house for a few hours (and to search for some writing inspiration), I picked up a few household essentials from my neighborhood overseas factory outlet store which took perhaps a half-hour at most.  Maybe it was just my imagination (sounds like a great song title, doesn’t it?), but the store seemed unusually crowded for a Saturday night.  I then proceeded to a local video arcade/sports bar for an hour or two of gaming, watching assorted sporting events on their billboard-sized televisions, and indulging in a couple of glasses of wine.

Everything was good.

The room is nicely equipped with an assortment of old- and new-school games: skee-ball, basketball, auto racing, kill-everything-in-sight video games, a variety of “ball-toss” contests, TV-game-show-based challenges, trivia contests, air hockey, horse-racing, and those impossible-to-win pick-a-prize-and-retrieve-it-if-you-can rip-off machines.

Like the Wal-Mart, the arcade was much more crowded than usual for a Saturday night, and the gaming room was literally wall-to-wall people.  Still, I had a good time, enjoyed a couple of hours of inexpensive fun, and even won a handful of cheapie prizes.  I returned home feeling tired but content.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning: I woke up with the sensation that my throat was on fire.  Knowing most colds require approximately 48 hours to incubate after infection, I didn’t need Marcus Welby to trace the origins of this nightmare-in-the-making back to somebody either at Wal-Mart or the arcade.  Rest assured, I devote several minutes of each day to cursing his/her existence and placing exotic poxes upon his/her house.

It started out as a small spot of inflammation; but by the end of the day, the entire back of my throat cried out for the services of Hook and Ladder Company #1.

By Wednesday, my head felt like a throbbing balloon filled and stretched to the breaking point with scalding hot water.

By Thursday, the invader had marched its way down into my chest, swelling and inflaming everything in its path.  My voice now sounds two octaves lower; my lungs are irritated from intermittent fits of sneezing and coughing; I can’t stay out of bed for more than 20 minutes at a time; my nose bears a striking resemblance to that of a certain legendary reindeer (how appropriate, given the season!); and even brushing my teeth requires a major effort.

What hurts?:

• Sinuses
• Head
• Eyes
• Teeth
• Chest
• Limbs
• Fingernails
• Gums
• Nose
• Ears (20% of my hearing is gone)
• Every muscle
• Hair

As I write this, what I’m dreading the most is the frightening possibility of this malevolent invasion force—bent on occupation and destruction--marauding its way down into my lower GI tract.  I’m already anticipating mass evacuations of the existing population, if you catch my drift.

Oh, the humanity!

But I’m prepared for the worst.  I have a full bottle of Kaopectate at the ready.  However, I’m really hoping that all-out warfare can be averted.  I’m open to a negotiated settlement.  Is Henry Kissinger still around?  Hello, Hilary?  Is John Kerry looking for some side work? 

Thankfully, I have two sources of comfort available to me in this time of trial: chicken soup and tea.

My mother—may she rest in peace—was a lifelong believer in the supernatural healing qualities of chicken soup.  I think she could easily convince even the most hard-boiled scientist that this folksy, old-school elixir was a sure cure for many ailments.

While not exactly the preferred fate of the world’s chickens, they could draw at least some minimal satisfaction in knowing that they sacrificed their lives for the cause of comfort and healing rather than ending up unceremoniously surrounded by biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy, and Cole slaw in some brightly-colored cardboard bucket.

‘Tis a much higher calling, in my humble opinion.

A huge pot of simmering chicken soup was a ubiquitous sight on our kitchen stove.  On those days when she had the time and the energy (or when someone in the family was sick), Mom would boil chicken parts, peel off the meat and painstakingly cut it into bite-sized chunks, slice and add a variety of veggies and produce, add her own special formula of secret herbs and spices (take THAT, Colonel Sanders!), fill it out with two packages of fine egg noodles, and slow-simmer it all for hours. 

That, dear reader, was chicken soup. 

If homemade was not an option for some reason, the only store-bought alternative she ever served in her kitchen was Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.  Period.  For some reason—which went to the grave with her—other brands apparently failed to meet her time-tested, old-world standards.

Good for you, Mom.

Tea with lemon and honey was another “comfort food” that dominated my Google search results for cold remedies.  I’ll admit to being an infrequent tea drinker in recent years … and the tea was iced on a majority of those occasions.  While I don’t normally keep honey or lemon on hand, I was relieved to remember that I’d recently bought a box of Lipton Tea Bags for my writing sessions.  I apologize in advance to tea purists everywhere who cringe at the very idea of Lipton Tea.  In my defense, I’d seriously considered Earl Grey as well (as a retired Trekker, I considered that moment of good taste very Jean-Luc Picard of me); but I ultimately decided to go instead with a household name with which I was more familiar.

I thanked the fates for prompting me to pick up those teabags during one of my late-night shopping excursions  

After three minutes in my ancient microwave, the tea was ready for sipping.  The steaming vapors instantly soothed the raw, inflamed flesh at the back of my throat.  I cannot begin to describe the feeling of relief as the mellow, aromatic liquid cascaded down my throat spreading warmth and comfort to those tormented tissues that have been irritated for the better part of a week.

Those precious sips of tea felt sooooooooooooo good! 

For a few wonderful moments, the pain was nearly gone … and the humble cup of hot tea had found itself another fan on this side of the Atlantic.  The relief, of course, was temporary but most welcomed.

I found myself profoundly grateful to the wonderful people of the United Kingdom who—even in their darkest hours—have always steadfastly maintained that any time was a good time for a nice cuppa.

You are so right, my friends.

My eyes are beginning to hurt again from staring at the computer monitor for too long.  I feel a compelling need to get back into bed.  My writing and networking activities will be somewhat curtailed until I finally get this viral monster off my back (and out of my system).  But, first on my agenda will be a hot bowl of chicken soup.  Some time afterward, I’ll again pamper myself with the simple luxury of a soothing cup of tea.

Maybe I’m on to something good here…. 

Ahhh … ahhh … ahhhhhh … ahhhhh … AH CHOO!

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