Analyzing My Motivations to Write

The following are responses to questions that I came across in a book about writing:

As a creative outlet, writing keeps my brain and spirit synchronized. Sometimes my brain is very active with cognitive busyness, but it does so at the expense of my languishing spirit. At other times, my spirit lifts as if on wings of a fairy while logic struggles in vain to be productive.

Writing is like doing a puzzle or solving a riddle; it's about making the pieces fit. Writing fulfills my need to have a project in the works. To complete a project would create a deficit; I don't like feeling that I don't have something in the works. So as long as I don't complete anything, I don't feel deprived.

My motivations for writing include the hope that readers would find a new way of thinking, be touched on an emotional level, would laugh, and/or be entertained or motivated to action as a result of reading what I've written.

Regarding the past, I wanted to be an "author" when I was a little girl; I always said "author" rather than writer because I thought an author creates, and a writer "just writes." Oh, if only I had been correct that a writer "just writes." Or maybe in that simple view that children have, I really was correct. My current delays, hesitation, and procrastination in writing are because I've forgotten that a writer "just writes."

Regarding the future, in response to the question, "What do you do for a living?" I would like to say that I "just write."

I don't know that I have expectations for fame or money. If I truly believed in the attainability of those goals, I would be writing more as well as more often. I wouldn't turn down money, but I don't think I want fame. I would have at one time, but now I think I'm content to sit back and watch others thrust themselves into the limelight.

I don't think I write in order to work through any lurking demons , but I do find that insight occurs as a natural by-product of writing. But, no, I don't think that's my purpose in writing.

It's becoming a bit clearer to me that I would like to make money from writing. I think there is a certain reluctance, a Bohemian mindset, that wants to deny this, but given the options of fame, money, or processing trauma, I'll choose money.

Also, I do like the reactions of others to what I'm writing. That's probably a part of why I wanted to write a blog. Sometimes when I write, I'm writing "to a reader." Sometimes the reader is me.

In summary, my reasons for writing are 1. as a creative outlet 2. having a project to work on 3. touching others 4. getting others' reactions 5. money

It would be more pragmatic, if I reversed the priority of my motivation to write: 1. money 2. getting others' reactions 3. touching others 4. having a project to work on, and 5. as a creative outlet.

Interestingly, at the center of each list is the desire to touch others. So, there you have it. If you have read this far, you must be at least a little touched, one way or the other.

Inexplicable Indignation

Occasionally, I have seen someone "blow" for no apparent reason. Things were going along fairly well, at least in my mind, and then "the blower" initiates the inexplicable indignation with the words "I cannot believe this." Obviously, the blower does believe it or believes enough of it to become the black hole that sucks the energy out of anyone within hearing distance. Next, the person spins around asking "Do you believe this crap?"

This scenario has become a common social interaction especially in the workplace. In the workplace, there is a captive audience (itself, a universe of potential black holes) and a lot of crap.

I usually respond to the "blower" in mild support, nodding and uh-huh-ing while hanging on to my mouse. So long as I have my hand wrapped around the mouse, I am connected and safe by virtue of numbers. Everyone else in the world who has a hand wrapped around a mouse at that moment is my ally. The real danger can occur when the blower cuts a co-worker away from the pack and herds that person toward the hallway.

In the hallway, not only is the co-worker alienated from allies and, therefore, vulnerable, but now other energies will be sucked out into the hallway contributing to the toxic mass and all hell breaks loose.

This may very well be the true nature of hell: toxic gasses of inexplicable indignation.

Hey you, you Haiku

Affirmations hope

Endure the groan of winter

Leaves in denial.

Loud librarian
Militant or messenger
Chastises children.

One of the things that differentiates the working class from the capitalists in Twisted Roots is where they spend their money. For example, there was more than one place to buy a tire and where you went said something about who you were.

A member of the working class would buy their tires from the Rural Roundup which had tires for every size vehicle including tractors and combines. If you were neither working nor had class, you bought a tire that would last only as long as the piece of crap riding on the tire. (Here I'm referring to the car, not the driver.) That kind of tire could be gotten just about anywhere, such as at a rummage sale or, if you were lucky, you might find one discarded in the alley behind some of the better homes in town. If you were really lucky and a little loose with your morals, that tire might be inside of a garage whose door had been carelessly left open.

However, if you were a member of the capitalists in town, you would call up the Tire Emporium and they would send a man to change your tire at the location where you need it. Then about 30 days later, the Emporium would send out an invoice for the cost of the tire and the labor. Although there might be an advantage in the convenience, the tires at the Tire Emporium cost about twice what the same tire would cost at the Rural Roundup.

Gil Garrison, the mayor, managed to find combine convenience with savings when he found himself stranded behind the Historical Society with not one, but two flat tires. It was unlikely that the tires had just gone flat on their own, but even without the slash marks, Gil might have been experiencing a little paranoia due to the fact that it was late at night, the Historical Society had been closed for the last five hours, and the Laurie, the Society's youthful director, lived on the second floor of the old house. He had to think of someone that he could call that had a few of his own skeletons in the proverbial closet in case questions might arise. Gil was relieved when Tom from Terry's Corner answered the phone and was willing to bring one of his own spare tires over to the Historical Society.

There was hardly room for a pair of slippers in Tom's closet.

Charlie's Column

The large house now occupied by the Historical Society had small panes of stained glass in the second floor windows. After dark, the flashing lights of the railroad barrier across the street made the stained glass twinkle like a kaleidoscope whose barrel was being turned by a hyperactive child.

Charlie could see the reflection of the colors on the computer monitor as he scrolled through the database. Laurie, the director of the Society (though she had questionable credentials) had developed a database that was supposed to be a geneological reference for the town's citizens. Having sent three or four smoke rings into the air, Charlie put his cigar on the edge of the table and tugged at the cuffs of his white starched jacket.

He had set up yet another column on the database for a family characteristic that hadn't occured to Laurie, but to Charlie, this particular characteristic was of intense, professional interest. To convince Laurie of its inclusion, he had rationalized the additional of the column as important in identifying people in the old family photographs that had been donated to the Society. It apparently hadn't occurred to Laurie (or she chose not to pursue the issue further), so she didn't ask how knowing the dominant hair color of the family would be relevant in identifying their ancestors in what were black and white pictures.

Her lack of interest was fortunate for Charley who had his own agenda for knowing the dominant hair color of the citizen's families. With only a small fraction of the families included in his own column, he already had noticed a pattern that might be of interest to Gil, the mayor. Or not. In either case, working on the database made him privy to the argument that took place on this particular evening. That argument would be of extreme interest to the mayor.

Mayor of Twisted Roots

At least, no one was trying to cut Charlie's nuts off. Charley, could be aloof and particular about certain things that no one else in his barber shop or elsewhere seemed to care about, but still he was respected. Some folks even liked him in a lukewarm sort of way.



On the other hand, Gil, the mayor, was always in anticipation of being castigated. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't please some of the people all the time and none of the people some of the time. What got him re-elected over and over again was that he was the mayor in a population of really lazy folks.



It wasn't a physical kind of lazy; unemployment was actually very low in Twisted Roots, unlike most of the rest of the Midwest. There were some folks that held jobs that shouldn't have been working in the first place. One example is Peg-leg Porticia who worked at the lumber yard. You got to give her some credit, not meaning to be disrespectful to the physically-challenged. If a man wanted a twelve foot two-by-four, Porticia would hobble all the way out to the back building to fetch it. But once she was out there, she had to radio back for some assistance because she couldn't climb the ladder, let alone bring the wood back down with her. Anyone within fifty feet of the radio base, if they could make it out over the scratchy static, could hear her call for "customer assistance." It wasn't the customer that needed assistance at all; most folks with both legs could have got their own wood. Still, Porticia insisted on making the attempt explaining that "laws and statues" wouldn't permit customers to fetch their own lumber. No one questioned what statue she might be referring to and what the aforementioned piece of stone might have to do with fetching a piece of wood.



So, there it was. Most of the citizens of Twisted Roots were a lot like Peg-leg Portia except that their disability didn't extend itself to the physical. This, in turn, made Gil's perpetual re-elections likely to continue.



Gil probably got his intelligence passed down to him from the owners of the now-defunct coal mines that originally settled in and developed the area. Most the investors in the coal mines had made their money there and then moved to Chicago to build their homes along the lake. Only Gil's great-grandfather, Albert Garrison, had felt it his civic duty to stay in Twisted Roots. Besides, Grandpa Garrison had invested a lot of his coal money in cattle and a meat-packing plant that employed the surviving coal miners and then their descendants.



Those descendants built their modest homes on the ground above the coal mines, drank the river water despite the runoff of the the waste products from the meat-packing plant. They weren't any new families moving in so most of the ones that lived there had a really close relationship that replenished the town's population.



Not much else needs to be said to explain the nature of the citizen's laziness.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like a Medicine...

You know I couldn't read a serious article without wanting to inject some humor into it. So here goes ...

I finished reading an article titled "Is Laughter the Best Medicine or Any Medicine at All?" that was presented to the annual meeting of the Western Psychological Association. You can read it for yourself if you want at http://www.psichi.org/pubs/articles/article_81.asp

The author attempts to clarify the relationship between health and laughter, if there is one, particularly in response to a mythology that has evolved based on the 1960's experiences of Norman Cousins. Cousins had a serious illness and he found some relief in a wide range of positive emotions, including laughter. Apparently, some of what Cousin said about the therapeutic effect of humor, creativity, confidence, etc. has been distorted, giving some people the idea that Cousins laughed his way to a cure of a serious illness which was not the case.

What was most interesting to me in this article were the various attempts to operationally define terms such as humor trait vs. humor state, laughter, mirth, etc. Also, there was a mention in the article of several "humor tests" used to measure whatever it is that humor actually is. The tests included the Sense of Humor Questionnaire that includes subscales such as Habitual Sensitivity to Humorous Messages and Habitual Tendency to Permit or Suppress Emotional Impulses of Joy. Then, there is the Trait Cheerfulness Inventory and the Coping Humor Scale.

Amazingly ...

the author didn't find it necessary to define laughter as she felt that one either laughs or doesn't laugh. However, I disagree. So, of course, I decided to operationally define laughter for myself.

Disconcerting Lines of Development resulting in Lactose Expulsion via the Olfactory Orifice:

blowing milk out of your nose caused by an unanticipated burst of laughter.

Post-Learned-Autonomic-Response Spasms of the Diaphragm: hiccups after an intense bout of laughter.

Short-term Stoppage of Spasms due to Asphyxiation: laughing so hard you can't breathe.

Spastic Disposition Resulting in Descent of Fleshy Protuberance: laughing my ass off.

I will continue my own less-than-serious empirical investigations and hope to share a few more definitions. I'm also hopeful of designing a test or two to measure laughter. It should be the equivalent of a sobriety test except that you are forbidden to leave your house if you don't fail the test.

In the interest of furthering research, I hope you will share as well.

A Bailout, Charlie-Style

Speaking of bailouts, such a conversation was taking place in Twisted Roots between a local boy and Ted who owned Terry's Trading Corner.



“Well, no, it’s not that I mind paying," the young man said as he adjusted his John Deere cap. "But, damn it Ted, I think you should have told me how much these repairs was going to cost me before you went and fixed my car without an okay or something.”

Charlie had been taking in this conversation while he filled the tank of his cream-colored Cadillac. Charlie screwed the gas cap back on and, with his monogrammed hankerchief, he wiped a drop of gas from the chrome strip. As he walked toward Ted and the young man, he took out his comb and ran it through his jet black hair.

“I'm not a lawyer, but I think you could get arrested for that." Charlie's words startled Ted who hadn't heard Charlie's footsteps. "You didn’t even give this man an estimate?”

“I don’t mind really," said the young man. "But I ain’t got enough money. I’m coming up short. Ted won’t give me my car keys ‘til I pay the whole bill.”

“Well, you should mind, son, cause this man has taken advantage of you being young and all.” Charlie continued, “How many mechanics have you had to deal with in your lifetime?”

“Just Ted. My daddy did business with Ted. So I started coming here. Been coming here ever since. My daddy said Ted is the kind of mechanic you can trust. Ain’t many of them. My daddy said most these mechanical types might would tell you all kinds of lies. But not Ted.”

Charlie turned and looked down at Ted. He stared Ted right in the eyes while he slowly shook his head from side to side. Ted looked away, then looked back a couple times as if he was about to say something but had changed his mind. He was a scrawny, dirty man, and he was feeling might scrawny right about now. Charlie was rocking back and forth in his Wingtips still staring at Ted.

Ted looked down at the ground where his foot was grinding a cigarette butt to smitherines. “Well, in memory of your daddy and all, if you could just give me what you got today, we will just call it even.”

Charlie raised his head back with even more indignation, looking even taller. “Ted, you know damn well when the meat processing plant pays out. You do work there, don't you boy? Figured you did. So, this boy is going to need a little money left to tide him over ‘til then.”

By the time Charlie had finished with Ted, the bill had been cut by about a third and the boy paid half of that today with the promise of paying the rest next week. Then they all left Terry’s Trading Corner...Ted's tow truck, Charlie's Cadillac, and a quieter 1983 Grand Prix that had finally got a new muffler.

I Need a Bailout

I need a bailout. I have been neglectful of my responsibilities to my fictional characters, greedy in the use of my time, wasteful in my keystrokes, and just another typical lazy American thinking I can get by on my arrogant attitude and pollyanna optimism.

It is so much harder not to write than to write. It is so much more effort to flog myself for not writing than it is just to sit down and write. I need a bailout. I need someone to pick up my lazy wrists, flop them on a keyboard, and bring my neglected characters back to life.

I took a look at Charlie today. I realize you don't know him, but you could when his story is published, assuming I ever finish it.

Charlie has dark, oily hair and very long legs and arms. When he sits in one of the barber chairs and stretches his legs, his feet are clear over on the other side of his shop. He puts his hands behind his head to take a little snooze and his elbows nearly graze the yellow ceiling tiles that are stained by years of his ever-present cigar.

Charlie learned his trade at Bethel Estate, otherwise known as State Prison in Bethel. He secretly enjoyed sculpturing stubborn nappy hair into billboards for gang signs and coaxing thin strands of blonde static electricity to lie down with their brethren. The aroma of hair and shaving products and the glistening shine of scissors and razors tickled his delicate senses. Cutting hair was a reprieve (we dare not say “escape”); it was a time-out from the smell of urine-stained beige and starched blues. It was a place where men could laugh and joke with each other, sometimes even directing their jokes at the ever-present eyes standing a few feet away. But Charlie’s pleasures were hidden, restrained behind the boyish face, and masked by his best attempt to look stern and worldly in order to survive in a stern and other-worldly environment.

By the time, Charlie arrived at Twisted Roots, many years after learning his trade, the stern and worldly countenance would be a constant veneer. Deprivation of love would starve his full face, smiles would be rationed to only a few, and his olive skin would yellow and sag from the weight of sins unforgiving and nearly as many unpunished.

It was from his careful observations of people that Charlie learned to fit into the town’s population as if he had been there all his life. For some of the younger folk, it seemed as if Charlie had always been there, perhaps conceived from some anonymous donor and immediately full-grown.

Charlie has an important role to play in the strange town of Twisted Roots. Regrettably, no one may ever know about his contributions and retributions if his story is never finished.

Please support my cause. Please, please support the Filed and Forgotten Universal Character Keeper (FFUCK) Act and give me the bailout, however undeserved. Thank you, and once again, God Bless America!

SECRET RETREAT

"artwork by Jane Luce"

"There was in me a secret retreat. Words and cadences haunted it like song-birds in a magic wood." ... Edith Warton, First woman Pulitzer Prize winner in fiction

Back in the days when I was more adventurous, I attended to internal stimuli in a spirit of discovery. In other words, I meditated and I did it with a sense of adventure, anticipation, and the expectation that something wonderful would present itself.

I remember that I once meditated with the intent of discovering my "animal shaman." Native Americans did this, I was told, so I, too, would be open to an introduction to an animal that would guide my meditation and open doorways to a new and wonderful enlightenment.

I began my meditation in my usual way, visualizing myself walking down a primitive staircase that twisted and turned, descending into a dark cavern. Just before I was on the floor of the cavern, I imagined myself lying on a smooth, black stone from which I could slide the rest of the way into the cavern.

When I arrived at the cavern's floor, I looked around for my animal shaman, and then saw a large dark creature sitting upright with her back to me. I was startled at first, but the animal continued to sit quietly, apparently not concerned about my playground-slide-entrance. As I took a deep breath contemplating my next move, the animal slowly turned in the barbershop-swivel-chair toward me. Our eyes met, and hers were large and gentle.

While I began to realize that I was in the presence of a spiritual being, I was at the same time having some real doubts about whether this was really my animal shaman. After all, I was pursuing a Native American meditation. This animal was large and kind and seemingly wise, but how could she be mine? She seemed to be on the wrong continent though I suspected the spiritual world didn't have the same geographical divisions as Planet Earth.

Yet, there she was. I was in pursuit of an animal shaman that a Native American might cherish, or at least recognize. I was thinking of maybe a doe or a rabbit or a song-bird. There she was ... my animal shaman was a baboon!

The baboon and I engaged in some meaningful conversation, most of which I really don't remember. But when I think of my "secret retreat," the caretaker is a large, dark baboon whose memory brings me a moment of peace and amusement. What more could I have asked for?

KEYBOARD ENERGY

I'm writing again after a too-long absence. My fingers on the keyboard take on a new energy when I'm blogging rather than during other activities. When I'm working, the keyboard is just a tool to be used. When I'm blogging, it feels more like I am the keyboard's tool and the keyboard is using me. To be needed is a good thing.

Backspace gives me a workout any time I'm writing. He has been lonely lately without me to push around. Backspace enjoys the determined reach of my right pinky in the same way we enjoy the outstretched arms of a loved one. The left pinky doesn't offer the same experience because Escape really wants to be left alone. Escape isn't touchy-feely; touchy-feely is the last resort.

Shift is a dancer. She is well-rehearsed, agile, loose, and limber. She really hasn't noticed the difference between whether I'm blogging or working. because she gets her exercise regardless of my intentions. For Shift, dance can be work and play at the same time. Her name is really a misnomer if you are thinking she is shifty in a Chicago kind of way. Not only is she essential in a big way, she has taught me to network. Check out Caps Lock and you'll see what I mean. ESSENTIAL!

The key that presides over these activities is, of course, Control. Control is not an easy reach, not to be used for frivolous purposes. Control is Escape's twin brother, slightly larger and more dominant than Escape. Control hangs out a lot with Alt and Delete; that says a lot about why Escape is the way he is.

Then there is Alphabet. Who doesn't love ABC's?

I know I shouldn't have a favorite but I can't help myself. I'm very fond of Enter. I can't quite put my finger on exactly why. Here again, I think her name is a misnomer. I think her name should be More. Want to continue? Want more? Just press Enter.

See how that worked? And who doesn't want more?

A QUESTION OF BALANCE

On the question of balance, for me it is the essential question.

I am not a person that adopts moderation into her life. Whatever I am doing is all that I am doing. Of course, I can multi-task. Research has shown that women are much better multi-task'ers than men and we have to be or, at times, we choose to be. However, even when I am multi-tasking, my attention is primarily focused on the one all-consuming task while the minor tasks are done mechanically by rote.

This question of balance is more of a problem the more time I have available. When pressed by a work schedule, appointments, obligations, and recreational plans, I have to relent to the clock and the calendar and I do multi-task at times. It is when I have the freedom to stay in my tunnel-vision world with one all-consuming task that balance becomes non-existent.

Even now with about 45 minutes of free time, I find myself engrossed in trying to figure out the perfect word, re-checking my punctuation, and staring deeply into the computer screen in front of me visualizing the finished blog entry. If I would move along and just get the damn thing written, I would have time to get something else done in this 45 minute pause in my day. That, I think, is what a person who understands the need for a balance of activity in her day would do. I say that with the certainty that children have when they can only imagine what a grown-up might do.

This summer, it looks like I might have more free time than I can deal with productively. I have several tasks: hustling money to carry me through to fall, finishing my novel that I'm convinced will be finished before the next frost, doing arts and crafts to keep me creative and for charitable work, and maintaining my house and yard more successfully than I have in the past several months.

The rational part of me suggests that I need A Plan. For example, I could block out times for these pursuits on a calendar. The part of me that knows me best knows that itself might be a waste of time. Those blocks of time will be contingent on what the hot topics are on The View, what my grandchildren want to do, and which of those legitimate and necessary pursuits blocked out on the calendar take over parts of the calendar that they are not entitled to according to The Plan.

I have A Plan for my garden. Within that plan, I have an area that perennials are allowed to take over in any way they choose. The area is right in the middle of the garden but the perennials are not to go too far north or too far south. In fact, one of my activities this summer will be to put some clear restraints on the heather that threatens to take over the entire garden if it is permitted.

Perhaps I need to block out some time in The Plan on my calendar for my perennial life. The perennials in my life are habits I'm not likely to change, people too precious to exclude from my calendar, and impulses that threaten to take over my entire life if permitted. My perennials are essential in my life just as they are in my garden. I just need to maintain them in their special place in the center of my life, encourage their continued growth, but just not too far south or too far north.

That might not be exactly what grown-ups do, but its my crayola version of balance.

Be Optimistic - wikiHow

I really like this article so I want to share it. Moreover, I need this article so I'm posting where I need it most ... where I write!

Be Optimistic - wikiHow

How to Be Optimistic

from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit

While being skeptical can be a healthy way to avoid getting taken advantage of, being pessimistic - that is, always assuming the worst - can have major negative consequences on your life. Seeing only the negative aspects of any situation can cause you to miss opportunities, neglect problems that need to be solved, and fail to take action that would otherwise improve your relationships and quality of life. Optimists, who are so much more at peace with the world, train themselves to look for the light at the end the tunnel. If you've always had a pessimistic worldview, it can be difficult to shift your focus, but it is possible to start seeing the glass as half full. Not half empty.

Steps

1. Let go of the assumption that the world is against you, or that you were born with a gray cloud over your head. It is an assumption that has no basis in reason or science. To believe that the universe or a spiritual entity has singled you out and shifted the world order just to make your life miserable is both self-centered and illogical. Be humble and stop pretending you've got the world all figured out. Sometimes bad experiences lead to good experiences, and you can't predict the future, so you can't assume it'll always be bad.
   
2. Look for the source of your pessimism. Deep-rooted negativity can often be traced to childhood experiences, when growing minds observe their circumstances and make presumptions about how the world functions. If all you saw growing up were disappointments, betrayals and failure, it's no surprise that now it's what you expect from the world as an adult. Sometimes we pick up a flair for pessimism from a parent who made negative assumptions about the world somewhere along the line. Either way, the sooner you can attribute your pessimism to a unique set of circumstances rather than the state of the world itself, the easier it'll be to change your perspective.
   
3. Understand that the past does not equal the future. Just because you've experienced pain or disappointment in the past does not guarantee that it's all you'll experience in the future. There were many things in your past that you couldn't control, and everybody comes across unfortunate circumstances at some point in their lives - you're no exception. But there are also many things in life we can control to one degree or another, and therein lies the possibility of change. A day or week that starts badly will not necessarily end badly. Do not make a bad start turn into a self fulfilling prophecy for a bad ending.
   
4. See yourself as a cause, not an effect. You don't have to be a product or a victim of your circumstances. Stop thinking about what is happening to you and start thinking about what you can make happen. If you're not happy with the way your life is now, set goals and move on. Use your past negative experiences to build character and make better decisions, instead of letting pessimism turn you into someone who avoids risk at all costs. Sometimes it is necessary to take risks to receive rewards. Moreover, taking no action is taking an action. It is better to play to win rather than merely to avoid losing.
   
5. Accept pain, failure and disappointment as a part of life, not the entirety of it. Life involves taking many risks every day, and not all of them will end positively. That's what defines risk. But the flip side is that some actions will lead to good results, and it's generally better to have a mixed bag than to have nothing at all. Ideally, the good stuff will outweigh the bad, but you'll never reach that point unless you put yourself out there and hope for the best. When in doubt, remember Lord Alfred Tennyson's words of wisdom:I hold it true, whate'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.
   
6. Be thankful. Everyone has something to be grateful for. Make a list of the good things that have happened to you. If nothing instantly springs to mind, you aren't trying hard enough. The key to being an optimist is recognizing the benefits and possibilities of any situation, and understanding that it could always be worse. If all else fails, think of how life could be worse, and flip the thought process to recognize what you do have. For example: "I'm flunking out of school" can turn into "Well, at least I have a chance to go to school, and I still have time to turn my grades around." Get a notebook and a pen, and write down all the good things that you have. Every time you are feeling negative, read through them and remind yourself that it's not all bad.
   
7. Use positive affirmations. Write down short statements that remind you of what you're trying to change about the way you see the world. Put them in places where you'll see them every day, such as on your bathroom mirror, the inside of your locker, on your computer monitor, and even taped to your shower wall. Some affirmations to start with are:
   
   • "Anything is possible."
     
   • "I create my circumstances, my circumstances don't create me."
     
   • "The only thing I can control is my attitude towards life."
     
   • "I always have a choice."
     
   • "Look at the little things in life that are good and it will make your life a WHOLE lot better"
     
   
   
8. Remember that life is short. When you feel pessimism clouding your judgment or you start to feel down about the future, remind yourself that every minute counts, and any time spent brooding guarantees nothing but less time to enjoy whatever life might have to offer. At its core, pessimism is impractical because it causes you to spend time dwelling on things that haven't happened yet and aren't guaranteed to happen, and it prevents you from getting things done. Pessimism breeds indecision. It's a waste of time, and time is a limited resource that you can't afford to take for granted.
   
9. Be a balanced optimist. Nobody's suggesting that you become an oblivious Pollyanna, pretending that nothing bad can or ever will happen. Doing so can lead to poor decisions and invites people to take advantage of you. Instead, be a rational optimist who takes the good with the bad, in hopes of the good ultimately outweighing the bad, and with the understanding that being pessimistic about everything accomplishes nothing. Prepare for the worst but hope for the best - the former makes you sensible, and the latter makes you an optimist.
   
10. Keep a List of Motivational and Inspiring Quotes. There are so many brilliant and well-spoken quotes, lyrics, sayings, anecdotes and hyperbole present generally throughout history along with the same that specifically target your personal tastes. You have a certain song that you feel speaks to you? Search for the lyrics and check it out more in depth, perhaps you can pick out a couple great lines, write them down. Maybe during a particularly tough day someone mentions some saying that gives you a rare boost of motivation, write it down. For example some 'fortune cookie' ones:
    
    • Even the longest journey begins with a single step
      
    • Life has a way of reminding one that it can be worse
      
    • Until one understands the low and darker side of life, the appreciation of the awe-inspiring highs will remain stagnant
      
    
    

Tips

• Look happy. Studies have shown that putting a positive expression on your face can actually make you feel happier and more optimistic about the future.[1]
  
• Practice by conveying these ideas to others. If you hear someone being pessimistic, counsel them based on these steps. Sometimes it's easier to understand a perspective if you explain it to someone else first.
  
• Always make the effort to try and find something good in every bad situation. It may be relatively minor in the scope of things, but there is always something positive to be found. It may seem silly at first, but as it becomes a habit, you will see that your attitude begins to change.
  
• Make a list of the things you want, imagine yourself already having them, and use the subconscious mind to put your optimism to work.
  
• Actually the world doesn't look down on you, your mind plays tricks so you think it does. Never let anything look worse than it is. It always has a way of getting better. Smile and don't let little things bother you..
  

Warnings

• Avoid negative people. If you can't avoid them, learn how to not let them get you down.
  
• Don't let your negative feelings control you.
  
• Don't confuse pessimism with depression. Depression can make everything look worse than it is.
  
• You can only change you. You can't change other people.
  
• While it is true that you create your own circumstances, accept that the past is the past. Don't let negative circumstances trigger irrational guilt.
  
• The past is the past. It's over. It's done. Let it go.
  
• Realize that it's not about what happens to you, it's about how you react to what happens.
  
• These steps are important because you can't always rely on other people to make you happy. After all, you won't be with other people forever, you'll be with yourself forever.

Sources and Citations

↑ Feeling and Facial Efference: Implications of the Vascular Theory of Emotion. Psychological Review, 96(3), 395-416.

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Beauty or Brains?

This ad for Palmolive Soap says, "Most men ask, 'Is she pretty?', not 'Is she clever?'" The ad goes on to say, "Brains or beauty? But why choose? Combine beauty with cleverness, charm with wisdom. Develop your beauty to bring out the sweetness of your personality. That's what thousands of girls have done - and found new happiness as a result."

Where, or where, to begin with this one? I'll begin with the ending, the last couple lines of the ad. "Note carefully the name of the wrapper. Palmolive Soap is never sold unwrapped."

It seems wrapped a little too tightly, in my opinion. There is no room in this ad for the possibility that a "girl" might choose brains over beauty. There is no room for the possibility that the "girl" chooses not to be sweet because she is less vulnerable as she is. Heaven forbid that she be entirely disinterested in men in the first place.

This musing isn't intended to be bitter though it might come across that way. It is, in fact, entertaining to read vintage advertisements because they say so much about where we have come from and how far we have yet to go. It leads me to wonder what nit-picking and finger-wagging will come from readers 100 years from now when they look at our products and what the ads have to say about who we have been. (Will there even be a readership or will it be an audio-visualship or a tactileship or a smellyship?)

Some things, perhaps, shouldn't have changed in the past few years. An advertisement in a 1922 copy of the Breeder's Gazette (a newspaper for farmers in case you're wondering) says of the "new" Dodge Brothers Business Sedan, "... one that offers weather protection and comfort the year round; a car dignified in appearance and economical to run." Something other than horseback that is economical to run? That's what I call a "concept car".

Another thing that has to be said for the vintage advertisements is the quality of the artwork. There is real beauty produced by hand and pen and ink rather than keystrokes on a computer or a digital camera. Even the photographs of over eighty years ago are quite amazing considering what the photographers had to work with at the time.

It's just a shame that some of the brains and beauties of days-gone-by weren't as valued in their time as they are today. Maybe this means our value will appreciate as well.

Jumping, Spinning ... Earthquake???

In my last blog, I mentioned that I might jump and spin the following morning. It wasn't actually the next morning that got me jumping, but this morning at 4:30 a.m., I jumped and spun when the 5.2 earthquake shook me and the dog. Because I experienced our "big one" here on the Madre Fault in Illinois in 1968, I immediately realized what was happening. However, since it wasn't accompanied by the huge explosive sound that I remembered from 1968, I nearly talked myself out of believing it was happening again.

Of course, I then blamed the dog for the fact that my bed was shaking. In the past, she has intentionally bumped up against my bed in order to wake me up, and, this morning, she was clearly up against my bed as closely as she could manage it. Nevertheless, I couldn't really blame her for the fact that something on my dresser continued to rattle.

There is an interesting bit of synchronicity involved in this blogging and jumping phenomenon. That is that my friend, Joanna, on her most recent blog, wrote about our changing weather patterns here in the Midwest and noted that the one weather event least likely to be predicted with a high level of accuracy is the tornado. Granted an earthquake isn't a weather pattern (as far as I know), but it's interesting that while I was thinking about jumping up in the morning to begin the day, she was thinking about the unpredictability of nature's events in the Midwest. If you would like to read her blog and, perhaps, her next prophetic entry, you can find her at http://sceamingyawndog.blogspot.com/.

You can continue to find me here with at least my fingers on the keyboard doing the jumping, spinning, and pouncing ... I hope.

GIVE US THIS DOG ...

My dog is very much in tune with my schedule, or should I say "my undisciplined day." Every morning, I hear her stir in the living room when my alarm clock goes off the first time. Her "stirring" is just the changing of positions on the couch because she knows I'm a long way from getting out of bed. There's a bit more stirring the next time I get up to smash the snooze setting. She begins to get her hopes up when I go into the bathroom, but she knows that it is not a given that I'm going to stay up. However, her excitement explodes when I finally come into the dining room to shut off the second (emergency) alarm clock. She jumps, she spins, she pounces. She knows this is it!

The day has officially begun! When she sees me slip on the laceless taking-the-dog-out sneakers, she smiles (really). She romps to the back door and stands wiggling her behind, sniffing at the crack in the door frame. The world has awakened, a new day has begun, and the sun has risen in brilliant splendor. There is new stinky stuff to roll in, new pedestrians to frighten, and new grass on which to defecate.

After putting her in the back yard, I come back inside the house, closing the door between me and smells, the pedestrians, and the sunshine.

I pop a couple pills with my Diet Coke and wonder what she knows that I've overlooked. Tomorrow morning, I'll jump, spin, and pounce ... maybe.

HATE IS NEVER AMUSING

I am never surprised when a person expresses hatred across the board. That is what hateful people do. They hate themselves and everyone else. I get that.

I am, however, surprised by a member of any minority or oppressed group that expresses bitter, angry words or actions toward a member of an oppressed group outside of their own. One might think that someone who has been a victim of hatred would have a special sensitivity regarding the feelings of another oppressed person. It doesn't seem to work that way. I receive the cruelest, sickest "jokes" via e-mail from a person who has probably been many times on the receiving end of similar nastiness.

Apparently, sensitivity is overridden by pecking order. It is as if this mean-spirited "jester" feels a need to "even things up" but is too cowardly to confront the individuals that ridicule him.

Why have I not confronted this person regarding his meanness? Up to this point, I have ignored and deleted the cruel words that apparently amuse him. I have tried to retain a morsel of respect for him as a person. I have tried to understand the pecking order and the fact that he is a target in the pecking order as well as a participant.

Today, understanding has worn thin. I'm feeling hateful and I'm tempted to blame him for making me feel that way. I refuse to join the pecking order.

P.S. Since venting about this, I contacted the person and asked that I not be forwarded any more insensitive "jokes" as my patience has worn thin. I received a very gracious reply. Perhaps, if we all became proactive (belated as mine was) in dealing with the barrage of hateful, forwarded e-mails, we will reduce the number of uninvited spam-and-slam crap in our inboxes. It's worth a try.

Abuse and Neglect of Characters

The movie, Stranger than Fiction, starring Emma Thompson as a writer whose main characters were always killed by the end of the novel, explored the writer's responsibilities to her characters especially regarding the ending of their lives. However, even when it is not a matter of life and death for the characters of fiction, does the writer bear some responsibility for the characters' well-being? What if the writer is guilty of abuse and neglect of her characters?

Every thirty-eight seconds, a fiction character is a victim of psychological abuse. Psychological abuse occurs when the writer toys with the emotions of a character, arousing a warm flame only to douse it with ice water. For example, the character experiences joy and rapture having just met the man of her dreams with whom she will share a forever-and-ever ending. Then, invariably the writer steps in and dashes all hope by introducing the dream man to the wealthy widow who just moved in next door. Another example is the noble story of surrender and acceptance of a character deserted on an uninhabited island. He learns to survive, cope, and even thrive with only a chimpanzee by his side. Again, the writer is so presumptuous that she will send a helicopter in to return him to the pampered wife and child who were yet to notice that their breadwinner hadn't returned from his business trip. As pathetic as these circumstances are, there is an even more despicable affront to characters by far too many writers. These writers, whose immense numbers are difficult to estimate, are guilty of neglect.

The neglect of characters usually starts with a relatively benign act by the writer such as filing away a chapter in a three-prong folder or saving a file on a flash drive. While these acts appear to be responsible and even conscientious, the worm soon turns. The character waits for the writer, unaware that the writer, whether intentional or not, will not return. The character fails to thrive while in the file cabinet. Hidden away from sunlight and social contact, the character begins to shrivel and fade. What was once a well-developed character having contradictions, strengths and foibles becomes reduced to scrap paper. On the flash drive, the character waits behind documents recently opened. The longer the character waits, the further she falls behind other, more pretentious documents, like spreadsheets, for example.

What can be done for these neglected characters? Is there any hope? There is, but it involves a difficult form of treatment. The character cannot simply be returned to where her story left off. If there is to be any salvation for her, she must suffer in order to be saved. The writer must put her in some precarious situation in which only the cruelest wordsmith would be willing to abandon her a second time. Either the character must be immediately immersed in a powerful, threatening series of events that threatens either her existence or the existence of a loved one, or the character must face a competing character in another book by the same writer and be willing to grab the limelight, outshining the competitor, and subsequently once again securing an honorable place in the writer's note cards.

If writers have a heart, which they claim they do, they must no longer avoid looking into the pale faces of their forgotten characters. The abused and neglected characters, the forgotten leaders of tomorrow's best-selling list, deserve to be given their God-given rights and privileges. Write your congressional representatives today and ask them to support the Filed and Forgotten Universal Character Keeper (FFUCK) Act. Thank you and God Bless America!

Fearless Moment

When does the fearless moment occur? Where are we when it happens? Why is it that the fearless moment usually lasts for only a moment and then we return to our normal state of anxiety? Is being fearless overrated? Is it so bad to be in a state of anxiety if that is indeed our normal state? Aren't these just artificial labels for the purpose of ... what purpose?

We are like drug addicts that have once experienced that perfect high and spend the rest of our lives trying to re-enact it. We think of those moments that we felt like King Midas and everything we touched turned to gold. There were those moments of perfect synchronicity when the planets are correctly aligned and we are blessed with miracles. We recall those rare experiences when time seems to slow down and we are acutely aware of our every perception within every second. Of course, then there is that illusive zone where creativity thrives in spite of our fearful nature.

We analyze those seemingly sacred moments in an attempt to induce the birth of just one more. We tell ourselves that we could do so much more, enrich our lives and the lives of others, if only, if only, we could ... Yet, for all our efforts, we stop and ask ourselves, "When does the fearless moment occur?" and there is no answer. We sit quietly and we wait. In the waiting, we find breath. Like a butterfly that hovers nearby, the fearless moment seems so close. We see it, we reach for it; we reach for it in the belief that to grasp it is to have safety, to be fearless. However, the grasping fingers tremble. The fearless moment is gone.

New Sins from an Old List

The Vatican has released a new, more modern list of sins. The new list includes sins relevant to bioethics, stem cell research, drug trafficking, cloning, and responsiblilities to the environment. Apparently, the Vatican feels the Ten Commandments need a make-over.

Here are a few more sins to upgrade the old list:

1. Thou shalt not text message while in a conversation with someone present. Even if you are nodding your head and saying uh-huh occasionally, the person present knows that he or she is being ignored and that someone else has your attention.

2. Thou shalt not view pornography on a computer in a public place. This is not a commentary on pornography per se, but if others see you looking at pornography, then they have this visual of you and what you most likely would be doing if you were not sitting in a public place, and people would prefer the pornography minus the visual that includes you.

3. Thou shalt not talk to strangers in restaurants. The strangers are there to eat and visit with their friends and family. They did not go there for you to intrude. The next "sin" probably applies to you as well.

4. Thou shalt not call customers, patrons, or other unrelated people "hon" or "sweetie". It is disrespectful to other people to force terms of endearment on them.

5. Thou shalt not make noises unnecessarily while in a bathroom stall in a public facility. While some noises are unavoidable, singing, whistling, or excessive groaning make you seem mentally imbalanced and make other people uncomfortable.

6. Thou shalt not continue to talk to someone while they are walking away from you. Obviously, they aren't interested in anything else you have to say or they would have stayed around for more of your pearls of wisdom.

7. Thou shalt not tell another person how blessed he or she is. One person's blessing is another person's burden so don't presume to know which ones are which.

8. Thou shalt not send out "holiday" letters at the beginning of a new year. You know better than to think other people really care about your long list of accomplishments and amazing travels. If they want something to make themselves feel bad about their inadequate lives, they will watch Access Hollywood.

9. Thou shalt not look to the car next to you at a red light. It's just creepy, so keep your eyes on the road. This also applies to elevators and escalators.

10. Thou shalt not tell another person to smile. Especially don't tell the person that a smile improves one's appearance. Non-smilers are usually just fine until they are told that they are ugly and a smile might help.

I don't know how the Almighty limited her list to just ten; there could easily be more than ten on my list. I guess that's what makes her the Almighty instead of me or the Vatican.

The Zone

Creative people often speak of having "entered the zone", a place where time loses importance and the focus is exclusively on the creative process. They allow the muses access to their subconscious mind, to freely dance and play with their own words, longings, and experiences. Furthermore, they trust that some beneficent force will act as a screen, filtering out negative influences while allowing the cream of the collective unconscious to flow in.

Those of us who are amateurs wait hopefully for the muses to guide us into the zone. Sometimes we manipulate the time of day or our location or the use of tools (a computer or notepad?) to seduce the muses into giving up their inspiration. Other times we grit our teeth and close our eyes in an attempt to force the arrival of anything that might pepper our blank slate.

I confess that I expect the muses to arrive by way of a mail order catalogue. I will read every entry in the writer's book club flyer searching for "The One", the book that contains the secret to writing and will reveal itself to me for $19.95 plus shipping and handling. More often than not, I'm disappointed when it arrives. Either it demands work ("develop your craft") or attempts to entrap me in structure and terminology when all I really want to do is write something worth reading. It's not likely that I will, in this lifetime, do anything worth being written about by someone else. So the remaining alternatives for me seem to either be forgotten or to write.

Often these books on writing are a collection of personal experiences of writers about how they "broke into publication." One entry in one of the several books like this that I own is my favorite. Both the title and the entire article is "Just Send the Damn Thing In."

I also like to read quotations from writers. The Nebraska Center for Writers has on their website (http://mockingbird.creighton.edu/ncw/quotes.htm) an extensive list of quotations that are categorized according to craft, editors and critics, publishing, reading, teaching, and the writer's life. I could spend days perusing this website. It's loaded with wisdom and inspiration.

For example, Alice Walker said "Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence." She lost an eye when her little brother shot her with a BB gun. Maybe what she intended was that writing saved her from doing violence. That I understand completely.

Grace Paley, a proficient writer who died within the past year, said, "The best thing is to read and write, no matter what. Don't live with a lover or roommate who doesn't respect your work. ... Write what will stop your breath if you don't write." I have learned the hard way to avoid talking about writing to anyone who is not supportive. It's bad enough to have an inner critic but when it becomes externalized and tangible, even writing may not be enough to save me from doing violence.

I like the Nebraska website. It's free and I don't have to pay for shipping and handling. However, it's cost is in spending time outside the zone. It's only during the time in "the zone" that I can't breathe unless I write.

POV (Prisoners of View)

The point of view (POV) in a story is an important element of writing according to those who claim to know something about writing.

A story could be told in first person. According to some writers, the story in first-person is the easiest to write because it is the one that we have most experience with in our everyday conversations. This says something about our self-centered nature if, in fact, most conversational statements begin with "I".

The story could also be told in third-person; the omnipotent, omniscient narrator tells as little or as much as the reader/listener is supposed to know at any one time. This is what many people think they are doing in everyday conversations while they are overusing the pronoun "I".

The limited omniscient POV tells the story as understood by one of the characters. This is what the "I" users are actually doing. The stream of consciousness POV not only tells the reader about what the character is consciously aware but also about the character's unconscious processes. I've decided not to comment on this one, but will instead invoke the Fifth Amendment. The objective POV follows the action and the dialogue, leaving the readers/listeners to interpret for themselves motives and internal conflict. Isn't that what journalists used to do before Fox News?

Moreover, the story might change from one point of view to another as long as the reader/listener understands whose head or heads that he or she is in. Now, isn't that simple? The best way to keep the reader informed in this more complex style of POV, of course, is stay in the same POV for the entire scene or chapter or conversation.

In other words, it's all about perception. As characters on the world stage, perception is reality and vice versa.

I'm glad I was able to take time out of my busy day as I am, in fact, able to clear this up for you because this is the way I see it ... so should you.

Common Sense Tells Us

This might be an appropriate time to look back at another time when it appeared that the rights and aspirations of black men were in conflict with the rights and aspirations of both white and black women.

In 1866, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony formed the American Equal Rights Association. The organization was dedicated to universal suffrage, voting rights for white and black women and black men.

The Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868 extending protection to all citizens against unjust state laws. Furthermore, the Amendment defined "citizens" and "voters" as "male."

In 1870, the Fifteenth Amendment enfranchised black men. The National Woman Suffrage Association (NWSA, led by Elizatbeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony) refused to to work for the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment, insisting that it be scrapped for a Sixteenth Amendment which would have provided universal suffrage (to include black and white women as well as black men).

However, Frederick Douglas, who had previously seemingly supported voting rights for not just black men, but also black and white women, broke away from Stanton and Anthony over the NWSA's position of universal suffrage, in order to secure ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment, voting rights for black men only.

In 1872, both Susan B. Anthony and Sojourner Truth showed at up at polls to vote (in New York and Michigan, respectively), but were turned away. Anthony was, in fact, arrested and brought to trial for attempting to vote.

Several women attempted to use the Fourteenth Amendment in the courts to secure the right to vote, but they were unsuccessful. The Women's Christian Temperance Union became an important force for women's suffrage, but would see no immediate results of their efforts. (The liquor lobby feared if women had the right to vote, they would prohibit the sale of liquor.)

In 1878, a Woman Suffrage Amendment was introduced in the United States Congress. The wording remained unchanged but it wasn't until 1919 that the Nineteenth Amendment finally passed both houses and was ratified on August 26, 1920 ... This was fifty years after Frederick Douglas broke away from the women's suffrage movement in favor of securing the vote for black men, leaving black and white women still without the rights of citizens.

I admit that my nerves are rankled by a history past and the one forthcoming. Can't we all just get along? ... at least long enough for common sense to prevail? Common sense and a sense of fairness seem to have once again been overshadowed by self-centered arrogance.

Is it Barack Obama's assumption that he is entitled to be the presidential nominee at this time? ... rather than a woman with more years of experience working for all Americans and working for us since Obama was in high school in Hawaii? ("Barry" in the multiethnic classroom and "Barry O'Bomber" on the basketball court.)

Is it also an assumption that women will someday have their first woman president ... perhaps fifty years after this election? Oh, golly, I can hardly wait!

The Blogs of Others

As I was considering what I wanted to write, I looked at the blogs that a couple of other folks have imposed on the cyber-psyche and I have to admit that it was a little scary.

One of the blogs that caught my eye was a gallery of doodled-on post-it-notes. That was kind of cool but then I realized that post-it-notes are most readily available to a person while they are at work or sitting in a classroom. So, this blog was an admission that when they were supposed to be doing something productive, they were doodling on post-it notes. It was probably during this "work-time" that he/she decided it would be cool to post them on a blog.

Further into the blog, I saw that other people were also contributing their doodled-on post-it-notes most likely doodled and posted during their "work-time". Is there a growing epidemic of doodling? Have we become so bored with, first, computer solitaire and ,then, video games that we are now reverting back to a simpler, more basic vehicle for avoiding work ... doodling? Will we next take up carving wood chips to avoid work? Or will we just browse the blogs of the doodlers?

That reminds me. I need to shop for a pocketknife so I'm ready for the next cool trend.

Post-Super Tuesday Notes

I confess to being a recovered Republican. I was in a mixed-race family: one Democrat and one Republican. That made every race interesting. But that was back in the days when Republicans were compassionate and not just in word but also in deed. It was actually possible to be a fiscal conservative and a social moderate. My Republican step-father cried when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assasinated and it broke my step-father's heart to see the rioters burn themselves out of their own homes. He was my example of a kind, but cautious Republican.

However, the first Bush and the first Gulf War rehabilitated me. Somewhere, I had been told that Democrats start wars and Republicans end them; I am a pacifist through and through and I believed that lie. Now, I know better and I have been a Democrat ever since.

When Obama first announced his intention to run for president, I was excited for my own state's senator. I was happy with his anti-war rhetoric. The rhetoric continued but without much substance. He said he was the voice of change but the rhetoric hadn't changed. It was still more style than substance. So, I got over being angry at Hillary for appearing to support Bush the Sprout.

I also remembered my roots. I didn't mention that I managed to balance my Republican-leaning with my strong feminist principles. It didn't make sense to me that women could become automonous individuals while still depending on Big Brother in Washington to take care of them. (I'm now older and realize that we all need some help; sometimes we needs lots of help.)

So, yesterday, even though I knew that most other Democrats in my state would be voting for Obama, I proudly went to the polls and voted for Hillary. Once I was alone in my car, I started to cry. I thought about being in high school in the 1960's when the length of a girl's dress was deemed acceptable or not by the male coaches. After lunch, we all went to the gym. If the length of a girl's dress was suspect, the male coach would have the girl get on her knees on the gym floor. If the dress didn't touch the floor, he made the decision to send her home to change to a longer length. That might sound trivial but I haven't forgotten how demeaning it was just to watch that happen to another girl.

It was also during that era that a man could beat his wife without interference from the police as long as it happened behind the doors of the man's "castle". If an employer asked for sexual favors from a female employee, she had better agree to it if her income was needed at home, which it almost always was.

I am proud, so I cry. Hell, I am thrillled to have voted for Hillary. I understand why she gets the votes of women over 45 years old while Obama gets the votes of the younger women.

We remember. So does Hillary. The girls in the class of '68 thank you, Hillary!

Hitchcock's McGuffin

According to a story in Harper's Magazine by Art Spiegelman, Alfred Hitchcock called a plot device, which has nothing to do with the story yet to be told, a McGuffin. The purpose of a McGuffin is just to ignite the telling of the story.

I tried to think of an example of this (I thought about it for about 20 seconds) and I couldn't come up with one. Rather than expend any more brain energy, quite naturally, I Googled an image of Alfred Hitchcock. One of the pictures was of Hitchcock standing next to a suggestion box holding a large, sturdy noose. He has one hand above the knotted noose and the other on the loop of the noose.

Now I see that this picture of Hitchcock could itself be a McGuffin and that a McGuffin is also much like a writing prompt. (I referred to a writing prompt in a previous blog.) It could be used in various genres. For example,

Romance: She noticed the strength of his sinewy hands holding the noose in a way she never had when he was cleaning her septic system. The kindness in Reuben's eyes let her know that he was there to save her from the evil dental hygienist who had only been after the inheritance from her dead husband. She stepped into his arms and the noose draped around their bodies creating a bond that would hold them until death do they part. It was then that she learned that her little brother had joined a circus and her parents, on their deathbeds, pleaded with her to find the boy and bring him back to visit their graves.

Spy thriller: Little did Ingor Spitowski know that Filmore had known her about the key that she carried in her shoe that opened the door leading to the President's vault at the end of the tunnel. Filmore had tempted her to the roof with promises of hemp by-products. But he had to keep her alive, wriggling in the noose, until she told him where she had hidden her left shoe, a pump previously worn by Barbara Walters on the View. Once Barbara's shoe was recovered, the interview with Putin began with questions about his chest hair exposed during his recent vacation at the beach.

Horror: too obvious

Anyway, I like the idea of using images as prompts. I also like using Google as a substitute for original thinking. Who doesn't?

Writing Prompts

Some writers, or so the magazines for writers tell us, use writing prompts in order to loosen up the nuts, grease the wheels, and jumpstart the creative engine that is responsible for selecting a few words from a lifetime accumulation of blah blah blah and put it on white paper. The writing prompt might be "Write a story about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister that walked into a strip club." So once it is written, what happens to the story ? It could be filed away until there is a demand for religious erotica. It could be folded into a thong-shaped cross. (Actually, isn't a thong already in the shape of a cross?) Most likely, it is tossed into a wastebasket, but how inspirational is that to begin each morning trashing one's hard work?

On the other hand, there is a spiritual truth involved. The response to the writing prompt is an idea that has been cast into the ooze of the universe thereby creating a ripple in the ooze. The movement of molecules in the ooze's ripple creates heat, in other words, energy which loosens nuts, greases wheels, and jumpstarts the creative engine. Ideas are manifested as keystrokes and keystrokes cast out ideas creating more ripples of ooze. The universe is forever and irrevocably changed by a few words about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister in a strip club.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all. So, there was this priest....