"In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable."
"The profession of book-writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business."
"Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard."
- John Steinbeck
In honor of Mr. Steinbeck, and for the edification of us all, here is his 1962 Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech. Enjoy!
Nobel Prize acceptance speech (1962)
Speech at the Nobel Banquet (10 December 1962)
"In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence — but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
"It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
"Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
"Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches — nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
"Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
"The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
"Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
"Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
"This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
"The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit — for gallantry in defeat — for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
"I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
"With humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.
"We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.
"Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world — of all living things.
"The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand.
"Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.
"Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
"So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man — and the Word is with Men." - John Steinbeck
Happy birthday, sir!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
THE ONLY WAY TO FAIL
I’ve been reading some interesting information lately - some of it on fitness and some on writing, but the same theme has been coming through. I would sum up this theme as this:
The only way to fail is to give up, to quit. As long as you don’t quit, you have not failed.
Think about that.
You’re working on a manuscript, you get discouraged at some point along the way. We all do - this is normal. It’s part of the struggle. Instead of working through that difficult period (which may include days of doing nothing but moaning and pacing) - instead of working through it, you say “Screw it, I’m not finishing this manuscript.” You throw the printout in the trash and delete the files from your computer.
There will be no book now, because you have elected not to continue. Furthermore, you may have quit right before your big break through - your “AHA” moment. What if, only a few days after that you had the “aha” moment and went furiously back to work on that manuscript and wrote a bestseller!
No bestseller, though, because you didn’t wait it out and go back to work on it. You quit.
You have just FAILED.
Yep. You did.
Failure is easy on the front end. You give up and that’s it. No effort required.
Except it’s not easy - because that failure will follow you around all the length of your days. It will kick you in your backside FOREVER.
It’s like a workout program. You workout and “try” to eat right for months and one day you get on the scale and it’s been weeks since you lost a single pound. You throw in the towel and say “I’m not doing this anymore” and you go back to eating three-cheese pizzas at 10:00 at night.
You failed. Not because you didn’t lose weight for weeks, but because you gave up.
That lack of weight loss was just FEEDBACK. The feedback doesn’t constitute failure. The feedback is data -information. It’s information you can use - that is, if you don’t give up.
While you struggle through that manuscript (or whatever goal you’re pursuing) you will suffer (just as you will with weeks of no weight loss on your fitness campaign), but if you look at that data you can instead ask yourself:
“What is this telling me? What can I learn from this?”
There is always something to learn from an experience, be it bad or good. So, look at the feedback and find the positive takeaway from it. It’s there.
Don’t give up. Don’t quit.
As long as you keep going, keep learning, keep working on your goal, whatever it may be, no matter how slow the progress, you have not failed.
When you persevere, YOU ARE A SUCCESS!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
The only way to fail is to give up, to quit. As long as you don’t quit, you have not failed.
Think about that.
You’re working on a manuscript, you get discouraged at some point along the way. We all do - this is normal. It’s part of the struggle. Instead of working through that difficult period (which may include days of doing nothing but moaning and pacing) - instead of working through it, you say “Screw it, I’m not finishing this manuscript.” You throw the printout in the trash and delete the files from your computer.
There will be no book now, because you have elected not to continue. Furthermore, you may have quit right before your big break through - your “AHA” moment. What if, only a few days after that you had the “aha” moment and went furiously back to work on that manuscript and wrote a bestseller!
No bestseller, though, because you didn’t wait it out and go back to work on it. You quit.
You have just FAILED.
Yep. You did.
Failure is easy on the front end. You give up and that’s it. No effort required.
Except it’s not easy - because that failure will follow you around all the length of your days. It will kick you in your backside FOREVER.
It’s like a workout program. You workout and “try” to eat right for months and one day you get on the scale and it’s been weeks since you lost a single pound. You throw in the towel and say “I’m not doing this anymore” and you go back to eating three-cheese pizzas at 10:00 at night.
You failed. Not because you didn’t lose weight for weeks, but because you gave up.
That lack of weight loss was just FEEDBACK. The feedback doesn’t constitute failure. The feedback is data -information. It’s information you can use - that is, if you don’t give up.
While you struggle through that manuscript (or whatever goal you’re pursuing) you will suffer (just as you will with weeks of no weight loss on your fitness campaign), but if you look at that data you can instead ask yourself:
“What is this telling me? What can I learn from this?”
There is always something to learn from an experience, be it bad or good. So, look at the feedback and find the positive takeaway from it. It’s there.
Don’t give up. Don’t quit.
As long as you keep going, keep learning, keep working on your goal, whatever it may be, no matter how slow the progress, you have not failed.
When you persevere, YOU ARE A SUCCESS!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
FEAR AND DOUBT
Quick post, but very important. Heed it.
Doubt is fear.
Fear is the dream killer.
The Dream is your Purpose.
You must fulfill your Purpose.
Fear and doubt exist only in your mind.
Fill your mind with other things!
Dream on, people! Never give up on your dreams!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
NINE DAYS IN DREAMWORLD
I work two jobs. A lot of people might not consider writing to be a job, but trust me it’s a job. I’ve talked about the work of writing on this blog before; but recently I had a bit of a revelation.
Here it is: I work really hard and I seem to have gotten so used to it that I’ve turned “resting” into a reason to self-flagellate. Somehow I’ve convinced myself that working two jobs, only making time for eating, working out and sleeping before going back to work again - somehow that isn’t working that hard.
Here’s what I mean.
Writing is work - hours of research, note-taking, plotting, planning, structuring, banging keys on a computer keyboard, then reading what you wrote and revising and revising and revising.
Meanwhile, I don’t make enough money (yet) writing to pay the mortgage, so I have that pesky “day job” thing (much talked about here on this blog). I groan at the thought of it. It’s a brain drain, too, because my day job is what most people would think of as a career. It’s intense and involves a high level of responsibility.
I live for the times when I can take some of my earned vacation time from the day job and spend whole days writing. One of those times is coming up for me. I have taken 4 days of vaca after Memorial Day so I can maximize my time off. Friday (when this thing will post) is my last day in the “office” until June 3rd.
I have nine days - count ‘em - 9 whole days - NINE - wherein I can write every single day without the brain drain/interference of the damn day job! Hallelujah and amen!!
Joy. Ecstasy. Euphoria.
Dreamworld.
So, the other day while lamenting to someone about how tired I was I suddenly realized something.
I realized that if I take some measly amount of time (like 2 hours) to do something in my “free time” (after the day job day has ended) - oh, such as reading a book that isn’t for research, or driving down to the Starbucks to get a frappuccino, or anything that isn’t directly associated with my writing - if I do anything like THAT, I start hearing that tape in my head that says “you’re lazy” “you’re not getting the work done” “you talk about being a writer, but you’re not writing right now” “this is why the book isn’t finished yet” “are you ever going to finish that thing?”
Yeah. I have tapes that play like that - some mean-looking chick who resembles Cruella DeVil sitting on my shoulder griping in my ear. I now refer to her as “Tape Lady”.
People, here’s why I’m tired.
Most people have a job that takes approximately 8 hours of their day - or so - and then they spend time with their family or friends, or watch TV or a movie, go to dinner or something that involves society with other people. Hell, some people do something called “relaxing”.
???
While they are doing that I spend the rest of my waking day writing, or working on something directly related to my writing (or listening to Tape Lady). A lot of writers work like this (most of them actually), but maybe they have someone in their house to buck them up and stop their version of the Tape Lady. I don’t.
I work this much, and this hard because I don’t want to do the day job anymore (not a new sentiment). I want to write full time, and if that ever happens, it won’t happen while I watch TV, or read someone else’s books, or go to dinner with family and friends.
I know that the sooner I get this first draft done, the sooner I can start revisions, and the sooner I can start those, the sooner I can finish this book and make it great, and the sooner I can do that - well, I might just finally reach my Dreamworld for real.
So, I push.
Then I wonder why in hell I’m so tired.
That mystery is now solved, and I have told the obnoxious Tape Lady to STFU. I’m working hard enough, thank you. If I want to take a break to read or go get a frappuccino, or just drive aimlessly around the lake, then Tape Lady can go jump.
The creative brain doesn’t work without the occasional recharge.
Meanwhile, day after tomorrow I get to have 9 whole days to write, and even though I will be working, I will only be working ONE JOB - my Dream Job.
I will be working that one job while burning earned vacation days from my other job; but...
Working only one job - and having that one job be my writing?
Now THAT is a freaking vacation!!
Tonight I’m going to bed earlier than usual (before 1:00 a.m) - after I stuff a sock in Tape Lady’s mouth. Then I’m working tomorrow in the day job and after that I’m taking the phone off the hook for nine days.
I’m sure my dreams tonight will be filled with the upcoming nine days of writing bliss. Then maybe someday it won’t be just nine days. Maybe someday it will be full-time all the time in Dreamworld - with time off for goofing off with family and friends.
I hope my dreams come true, and I’m working to make that happen.
I hope all your dreams come true, too - and I hope they last for more than nine days.
Polla filia,
J. F.
Here it is: I work really hard and I seem to have gotten so used to it that I’ve turned “resting” into a reason to self-flagellate. Somehow I’ve convinced myself that working two jobs, only making time for eating, working out and sleeping before going back to work again - somehow that isn’t working that hard.
Here’s what I mean.
Writing is work - hours of research, note-taking, plotting, planning, structuring, banging keys on a computer keyboard, then reading what you wrote and revising and revising and revising.
Meanwhile, I don’t make enough money (yet) writing to pay the mortgage, so I have that pesky “day job” thing (much talked about here on this blog). I groan at the thought of it. It’s a brain drain, too, because my day job is what most people would think of as a career. It’s intense and involves a high level of responsibility.
I live for the times when I can take some of my earned vacation time from the day job and spend whole days writing. One of those times is coming up for me. I have taken 4 days of vaca after Memorial Day so I can maximize my time off. Friday (when this thing will post) is my last day in the “office” until June 3rd.
I have nine days - count ‘em - 9 whole days - NINE - wherein I can write every single day without the brain drain/interference of the damn day job! Hallelujah and amen!!
Joy. Ecstasy. Euphoria.
Dreamworld.
So, the other day while lamenting to someone about how tired I was I suddenly realized something.
I realized that if I take some measly amount of time (like 2 hours) to do something in my “free time” (after the day job day has ended) - oh, such as reading a book that isn’t for research, or driving down to the Starbucks to get a frappuccino, or anything that isn’t directly associated with my writing - if I do anything like THAT, I start hearing that tape in my head that says “you’re lazy” “you’re not getting the work done” “you talk about being a writer, but you’re not writing right now” “this is why the book isn’t finished yet” “are you ever going to finish that thing?”
Yeah. I have tapes that play like that - some mean-looking chick who resembles Cruella DeVil sitting on my shoulder griping in my ear. I now refer to her as “Tape Lady”.
People, here’s why I’m tired.
Most people have a job that takes approximately 8 hours of their day - or so - and then they spend time with their family or friends, or watch TV or a movie, go to dinner or something that involves society with other people. Hell, some people do something called “relaxing”.
???
While they are doing that I spend the rest of my waking day writing, or working on something directly related to my writing (or listening to Tape Lady). A lot of writers work like this (most of them actually), but maybe they have someone in their house to buck them up and stop their version of the Tape Lady. I don’t.
I work this much, and this hard because I don’t want to do the day job anymore (not a new sentiment). I want to write full time, and if that ever happens, it won’t happen while I watch TV, or read someone else’s books, or go to dinner with family and friends.
I know that the sooner I get this first draft done, the sooner I can start revisions, and the sooner I can start those, the sooner I can finish this book and make it great, and the sooner I can do that - well, I might just finally reach my Dreamworld for real.
So, I push.
Then I wonder why in hell I’m so tired.
That mystery is now solved, and I have told the obnoxious Tape Lady to STFU. I’m working hard enough, thank you. If I want to take a break to read or go get a frappuccino, or just drive aimlessly around the lake, then Tape Lady can go jump.
The creative brain doesn’t work without the occasional recharge.
Meanwhile, day after tomorrow I get to have 9 whole days to write, and even though I will be working, I will only be working ONE JOB - my Dream Job.
I will be working that one job while burning earned vacation days from my other job; but...
Working only one job - and having that one job be my writing?
Now THAT is a freaking vacation!!
Tonight I’m going to bed earlier than usual (before 1:00 a.m) - after I stuff a sock in Tape Lady’s mouth. Then I’m working tomorrow in the day job and after that I’m taking the phone off the hook for nine days.
I’m sure my dreams tonight will be filled with the upcoming nine days of writing bliss. Then maybe someday it won’t be just nine days. Maybe someday it will be full-time all the time in Dreamworld - with time off for goofing off with family and friends.
I hope my dreams come true, and I’m working to make that happen.
I hope all your dreams come true, too - and I hope they last for more than nine days.
Polla filia,
J. F.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
THE LAST CHRISTMAS
It's Christmastime which makes me think of Daddy.
The other day one of my sisters called and told me that she and her kids had gone out and bought a real Christmas tree. Hallelujah and Amen!
You see, for years they had been using an artificial one. Now, if you have an artificial tree, please don't take offense, but me - I'm a real tree kind of a gal. She was so happy about it, and it smelled so good, and the kids had so much fun at the tree lot helping to pick it out - and all the things which I, too, cherish about a real Christmas tree.
Then we began to reminisce about Daddy and how he used to go with us to the tree lot. Daddy was very particular about picking out the tree. We would take it home and Daddy would make a fresh cut on the bottom and put it in the stand and make sure the water was done just right. Then we decorated that thing with lights and ornaments and tinsel - the works. It was a blast. It was a blast because it was a family activity. We were together.
Then I said "Remember that last Christmas we had? Remember that tree?" Which led to more reminisces and the two of us crying on the phone.
The three of us girls were all moved out of the house and living on our own. I had moved to Dallas and was working in The Big Law Firm. I used to drive home (Austin) from time to time and visit (it's 200 miles and it's The Most Boring Drive in Texas). I drove home every year for Thanksgiving, and then I would come home again for about 3 days at Christmas.
Mama got some hare brained idea that she didn't need to get a big tree and do Christmas with the same flourish anymore (because we girls weren't living at home anymore). Don't know how she came across this idea, but I never liked it. I rolled with it because I didn't live there and she was the one doing the decorating. She started buying these "table top" trees. They were real trees, but they were dinky. It just didn't have the wonder and majesty of our childhood trees.
Mostly, though, there was no family decorating going on. It was just this little tree where she hung some of those lifeless, meaningless, satin colored balls on it. That was it. No lights. The tree ceremony (family time) wasn't there.
One year, not too long after the "table top" tree era began, I had all I could stand and I insisted to my mother that we have a big tree, decorate it with all the lights and ornaments and put up all the other decorations, too. I said I would help with the putting up and the taking down. She wasn't too game for this suggestion. I pushed. My two sisters gave their second and third to the motion, and at last, it carried.
So at Thanksgiving time, we went to the tree lot, Daddy helped us pick it out and put it up. Three of our cousins popped in that night because they were in town, and their mother (my Dad's sister) wanted to drop something by the house. So, there we all were, Mom, Dad, me and my two sisters, my aunt and three cousins. We were all decorating the tree, drinking apple cider and hot chocolate, laughing and talking. It was awesome!
I came back at Christmas and it was so great to see that tree there, and all the other decorations. We were having one of the best Christmases we had in a long time. It wasn't just the tree, of course, it was what putting up that tree had represented for us - our Christmas spirit and the joy of all that wonderful Family Time.
On Christmas day, we opened presents, and later in the day I drove us all down to San Antonio and we went to this cool old historic place in Castroville, and then drove around some more and back to Austin. Daddy loved that driving tour. My grandfather had lived in San Antonio at the end of his life (there were more Greeks down there), and so the driving tour was filled with Daddy's memories of things Granpa said and did.
The day after Christmas I stood in the driveway getting ready to drive back to Big D. I had to be back at work in the sweat shop (that's just law firm life). Daddy asked when I would be back next. I told him maybe in January, but definitely for his birthday (mid-February). He said okay.
He said, with a big smile "Well, it sure was fun!" He'd had a great Christmas, and so had we all. I gave him a big hug and said "It was fun, Daddy." Then I said, "I'll see you next time."
We waved at each other, and I drove away.
Three weeks later my father got out of the shower, had a massive heart attack and died.
That great Christmas was my last Christmas with him.
More importantly, it was his last Christmas - ever.
Thank God we had made it so special. Thank God I was there. Thank God I had that time with him.
Thank God I have no regrets - because you can never unring those bells.
My Grandfather was a Greek from the old country and he said "Family is number one."
My friends, family is everything.
For me, the day after Christmas is always the last day I ever saw my Dad in person. I remember it in a special way every year. I remember what I said to him before I drove away.
"I'll see you next time."
And I will - someday.
Have a great Family Christmas like it's the last one you'll ever have. Make Christmas like that every year. Hug every single member of your family, because we only have now. We only have today. You don't know when "next time" will be.
Merry Christmas!!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
The other day one of my sisters called and told me that she and her kids had gone out and bought a real Christmas tree. Hallelujah and Amen!
You see, for years they had been using an artificial one. Now, if you have an artificial tree, please don't take offense, but me - I'm a real tree kind of a gal. She was so happy about it, and it smelled so good, and the kids had so much fun at the tree lot helping to pick it out - and all the things which I, too, cherish about a real Christmas tree.
Then we began to reminisce about Daddy and how he used to go with us to the tree lot. Daddy was very particular about picking out the tree. We would take it home and Daddy would make a fresh cut on the bottom and put it in the stand and make sure the water was done just right. Then we decorated that thing with lights and ornaments and tinsel - the works. It was a blast. It was a blast because it was a family activity. We were together.
Then I said "Remember that last Christmas we had? Remember that tree?" Which led to more reminisces and the two of us crying on the phone.
The three of us girls were all moved out of the house and living on our own. I had moved to Dallas and was working in The Big Law Firm. I used to drive home (Austin) from time to time and visit (it's 200 miles and it's The Most Boring Drive in Texas). I drove home every year for Thanksgiving, and then I would come home again for about 3 days at Christmas.
Mama got some hare brained idea that she didn't need to get a big tree and do Christmas with the same flourish anymore (because we girls weren't living at home anymore). Don't know how she came across this idea, but I never liked it. I rolled with it because I didn't live there and she was the one doing the decorating. She started buying these "table top" trees. They were real trees, but they were dinky. It just didn't have the wonder and majesty of our childhood trees.
Mostly, though, there was no family decorating going on. It was just this little tree where she hung some of those lifeless, meaningless, satin colored balls on it. That was it. No lights. The tree ceremony (family time) wasn't there.
One year, not too long after the "table top" tree era began, I had all I could stand and I insisted to my mother that we have a big tree, decorate it with all the lights and ornaments and put up all the other decorations, too. I said I would help with the putting up and the taking down. She wasn't too game for this suggestion. I pushed. My two sisters gave their second and third to the motion, and at last, it carried.
So at Thanksgiving time, we went to the tree lot, Daddy helped us pick it out and put it up. Three of our cousins popped in that night because they were in town, and their mother (my Dad's sister) wanted to drop something by the house. So, there we all were, Mom, Dad, me and my two sisters, my aunt and three cousins. We were all decorating the tree, drinking apple cider and hot chocolate, laughing and talking. It was awesome!
I came back at Christmas and it was so great to see that tree there, and all the other decorations. We were having one of the best Christmases we had in a long time. It wasn't just the tree, of course, it was what putting up that tree had represented for us - our Christmas spirit and the joy of all that wonderful Family Time.
On Christmas day, we opened presents, and later in the day I drove us all down to San Antonio and we went to this cool old historic place in Castroville, and then drove around some more and back to Austin. Daddy loved that driving tour. My grandfather had lived in San Antonio at the end of his life (there were more Greeks down there), and so the driving tour was filled with Daddy's memories of things Granpa said and did.
The day after Christmas I stood in the driveway getting ready to drive back to Big D. I had to be back at work in the sweat shop (that's just law firm life). Daddy asked when I would be back next. I told him maybe in January, but definitely for his birthday (mid-February). He said okay.
He said, with a big smile "Well, it sure was fun!" He'd had a great Christmas, and so had we all. I gave him a big hug and said "It was fun, Daddy." Then I said, "I'll see you next time."
We waved at each other, and I drove away.
Three weeks later my father got out of the shower, had a massive heart attack and died.
That great Christmas was my last Christmas with him.
More importantly, it was his last Christmas - ever.
Thank God we had made it so special. Thank God I was there. Thank God I had that time with him.
Thank God I have no regrets - because you can never unring those bells.
My Grandfather was a Greek from the old country and he said "Family is number one."
My friends, family is everything.
For me, the day after Christmas is always the last day I ever saw my Dad in person. I remember it in a special way every year. I remember what I said to him before I drove away.
"I'll see you next time."
And I will - someday.
Have a great Family Christmas like it's the last one you'll ever have. Make Christmas like that every year. Hug every single member of your family, because we only have now. We only have today. You don't know when "next time" will be.
Merry Christmas!!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
SYSIPHUS, ENERGY AND THE DREAM
You can have anything you want if you want it badly enough. You can be anything you want to be, do anything you set out to accomplish, if you hold to that desire with singleness of purpose.
-- President Abraham Lincoln
I have written many times on this blog how damn hard it is for most writers to make a living and write. Most of us are making a living with a "day job" and writing in our "free time" (yeah, what the hell is free time?). **grumble**
The goal (of course) is to eventually, FINALLY make enough money to jettison the day job and live in the bliss of this writing gig forever and ever, Amen.
That's the Dream.
My day job is intense. It's a high-responsibility job, dealing with serious matters that require all my brain cells to be on it! The hours are not cookie cutter either. If the work isn't finished in 8 - too bad. There are deadlines that must be met and you meet them - period.
So, at nights after I've met all the deadlines for that day, I write. On the weekends, I write. In my sleep I'm probably writing in my subconscious.
When I wake up in the morning it takes everything I have within myself to fire myself up again.
One. More. Time.
Feet swing out of the bed and meet the floor. I take a good deep breath. I say a prayer. Then I will myself to stand and MOVE!
I squeeze in a workout early and then I get the day job done and do it well (after all, it is *my* reputation on the line, irrespective of the fact that it's a "day job").
Then, there's a brief - very brief - break for dinner and I dig in to the writing for whatever evening I have left. At the end of that evening I have to somehow shut all that off and find some sleep - maybe.
Gearing up for that again and again, day after day can be challenging.
No breaks. An occasional dinner with a friend and then back home to write. Run an errand and come home to write. Vacations? Writing time without interference. Holidays? More writing time without interference.
I'm pushing this Dream up a hill as if it were a giant rock and I am Sysiphus; but, unlike Sysiphus I am not letting go of the damn ball so it'll roll back down again. I'm holding onto it for dear life, pushing with all I'm worth until I'm exhausted.
Then I push a little more.
My goal is to get it to the top and plant that sucker.
I stoke up prayers to my Creator on a daily basis. I like to keep that line as open as possible, so He will keep sending all those good vibes my way. Today I was drag-ass tired (as if that were a new occurrence with this sked).
I prayed for one thing this morning, and one thing only. I said "Lord, just give me the energy I need to attack this day and I'll do all the rest. Just jump start me, please. That's all I ask."
I'm back to pushing the rock. I have enough juice now for what's left of this day. I'll keep pushing until I see The Dream in all of its dimensions, proportions, lines, angles, textures, light and colors.
Then I'll pray for just a bit of energy and I'll push a little more. :)
I am relentless in my pursuit of this Dream. Sysiphus ain't got nothin' on me.
Polla filia,
J.F.
-- President Abraham Lincoln
I have written many times on this blog how damn hard it is for most writers to make a living and write. Most of us are making a living with a "day job" and writing in our "free time" (yeah, what the hell is free time?). **grumble**
The goal (of course) is to eventually, FINALLY make enough money to jettison the day job and live in the bliss of this writing gig forever and ever, Amen.
That's the Dream.
My day job is intense. It's a high-responsibility job, dealing with serious matters that require all my brain cells to be on it! The hours are not cookie cutter either. If the work isn't finished in 8 - too bad. There are deadlines that must be met and you meet them - period.
So, at nights after I've met all the deadlines for that day, I write. On the weekends, I write. In my sleep I'm probably writing in my subconscious.
When I wake up in the morning it takes everything I have within myself to fire myself up again.
One. More. Time.
Feet swing out of the bed and meet the floor. I take a good deep breath. I say a prayer. Then I will myself to stand and MOVE!
I squeeze in a workout early and then I get the day job done and do it well (after all, it is *my* reputation on the line, irrespective of the fact that it's a "day job").
Then, there's a brief - very brief - break for dinner and I dig in to the writing for whatever evening I have left. At the end of that evening I have to somehow shut all that off and find some sleep - maybe.
Gearing up for that again and again, day after day can be challenging.
No breaks. An occasional dinner with a friend and then back home to write. Run an errand and come home to write. Vacations? Writing time without interference. Holidays? More writing time without interference.
I'm pushing this Dream up a hill as if it were a giant rock and I am Sysiphus; but, unlike Sysiphus I am not letting go of the damn ball so it'll roll back down again. I'm holding onto it for dear life, pushing with all I'm worth until I'm exhausted.
Then I push a little more.
My goal is to get it to the top and plant that sucker.
I stoke up prayers to my Creator on a daily basis. I like to keep that line as open as possible, so He will keep sending all those good vibes my way. Today I was drag-ass tired (as if that were a new occurrence with this sked).
I prayed for one thing this morning, and one thing only. I said "Lord, just give me the energy I need to attack this day and I'll do all the rest. Just jump start me, please. That's all I ask."
I'm back to pushing the rock. I have enough juice now for what's left of this day. I'll keep pushing until I see The Dream in all of its dimensions, proportions, lines, angles, textures, light and colors.
Then I'll pray for just a bit of energy and I'll push a little more. :)
I am relentless in my pursuit of this Dream. Sysiphus ain't got nothin' on me.
Polla filia,
J.F.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
A STORY OF PIES
This is a story of pies - Thanksgiving pies. For the love of Gluten, who doesn't like pie?
I love pies, and I committed to baking two of them for the family Thanksgiving feast.
I am a Queen of Pie Crust, but this time I decided to try out a "new" pie crust recipe that involved two things I had never used on pie crust before: my food processor (always made pie dough by hand with a pastry cutter); and vodka.
Yes, friends, I said "vodka"!
Apparently, water binds the floury bits and the fatty bits, but it can cause the crust to be tough when that gluten stuff forms. I had always solved this problem by making certain I didn't "work" the dough too much.
According to this new recipe I found, you can also solve this problem by making half the moisture (2 tblsps) vodka. The vodka is 60% water which will help bind the ingredients, but it's also 40% ethanol which burns off during cooking - and of course, it's virtually flavorless and colorless. The ethanol part is the part that keeps all that gluten-ey stuff from toughening up.
Hey, I was game, so I tried it.
I'm here to report that the dough was tasty and tender. I'll let you know tomorrow (after we cut and eat the pie) if it was also flaky and good after cooking.
If they taste as good as they look, I think we're in for a treat. :9
Here's what we have: 1) apple pie filing, then with the top crust on, then the finished product; and 2) cherry pie filling, then with the top crust on, then the finished product. That stuff on top is cinnamon/sugar sprinkled on when they came out of the oven all piping hot. Yum!
Now on this happy note, I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving!!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
I love pies, and I committed to baking two of them for the family Thanksgiving feast.
I am a Queen of Pie Crust, but this time I decided to try out a "new" pie crust recipe that involved two things I had never used on pie crust before: my food processor (always made pie dough by hand with a pastry cutter); and vodka.
Yes, friends, I said "vodka"!
Apparently, water binds the floury bits and the fatty bits, but it can cause the crust to be tough when that gluten stuff forms. I had always solved this problem by making certain I didn't "work" the dough too much.
According to this new recipe I found, you can also solve this problem by making half the moisture (2 tblsps) vodka. The vodka is 60% water which will help bind the ingredients, but it's also 40% ethanol which burns off during cooking - and of course, it's virtually flavorless and colorless. The ethanol part is the part that keeps all that gluten-ey stuff from toughening up.
Hey, I was game, so I tried it.
I'm here to report that the dough was tasty and tender. I'll let you know tomorrow (after we cut and eat the pie) if it was also flaky and good after cooking.
If they taste as good as they look, I think we're in for a treat. :9
Here's what we have: 1) apple pie filing, then with the top crust on, then the finished product; and 2) cherry pie filling, then with the top crust on, then the finished product. That stuff on top is cinnamon/sugar sprinkled on when they came out of the oven all piping hot. Yum!
Now on this happy note, I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving!!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
THE QUINTUPLE WHAMMY OF ALCOHOL
Yeah, there are the calories: worse for mixed drinks than for beer, or whisky, or wine. So, from a straight calorie perspective choosing from one of those three categories with no mixers is the best choice.
Unfortunately, no matter the choice, here is what one drink can do for you for 48 hours:
• Increases your output of cortisol (this is the infamous "stress" hormone), which, among other things, encourages belly fat and decreases your body's production of testosterone. This is bad for both men and women, because, while the male gender requires more testosterone, both genders require it for libido and lean muscle tissue growth. Bummer on the low sex drive combined with flab.
• Increases your body's fat storage rate.
• Decreases your body's overall metabolic rate - the Resting Metabolic Rate, or RMR.
• Decreases your body's fat burn rate.
• Increases your appetite - because when you're taking in more calories, burning fewer calories, burning less fat and storing more fat, this is what you want - more food.
Does this mean you shouldn't drink? NO.
I drink, and I enjoy it, thank you very much. I am a huge fan of beer and ale (none of the "lite" crap for me, thank you), great wine and neat scotch. So, no, the above is not here to lecture anyone or tell you not to drink.
I write the above because you and I should know these things if we are in weight loss mode, so we make informed decisions about our alcohol consumption, and we can avoid alcohol when we want to accelerate our ability to carve off the pounds.
It also means that armed with knowledge, we can select a better alternative off the drinks menu, and drink in moderation at times so we can better maintain our fitness goals.
Yes, wine is supposed to have some benefit for our hearts, and beer has some nutritional benefits, too; but, all of this information needs to be taken together to achieve whatever goals we each have for our fitness and nutrition. No one thing is an absolute to be applied without balance.
Knowledge is power, people!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Unfortunately, no matter the choice, here is what one drink can do for you for 48 hours:
• Increases your output of cortisol (this is the infamous "stress" hormone), which, among other things, encourages belly fat and decreases your body's production of testosterone. This is bad for both men and women, because, while the male gender requires more testosterone, both genders require it for libido and lean muscle tissue growth. Bummer on the low sex drive combined with flab.
• Increases your body's fat storage rate.
• Decreases your body's overall metabolic rate - the Resting Metabolic Rate, or RMR.
• Decreases your body's fat burn rate.
• Increases your appetite - because when you're taking in more calories, burning fewer calories, burning less fat and storing more fat, this is what you want - more food.
Does this mean you shouldn't drink? NO.
I drink, and I enjoy it, thank you very much. I am a huge fan of beer and ale (none of the "lite" crap for me, thank you), great wine and neat scotch. So, no, the above is not here to lecture anyone or tell you not to drink.
I write the above because you and I should know these things if we are in weight loss mode, so we make informed decisions about our alcohol consumption, and we can avoid alcohol when we want to accelerate our ability to carve off the pounds.
It also means that armed with knowledge, we can select a better alternative off the drinks menu, and drink in moderation at times so we can better maintain our fitness goals.
Yes, wine is supposed to have some benefit for our hearts, and beer has some nutritional benefits, too; but, all of this information needs to be taken together to achieve whatever goals we each have for our fitness and nutrition. No one thing is an absolute to be applied without balance.
Knowledge is power, people!!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
ROUTE 66 AND THE EPIC GRAND CANYON ROAD TRIP OR HOW I CAME TO SPEND THE NIGHT AT THE SOUTH RIM WITH SAFEWAY GROCERY BAGS FOR LUGGAGE
Route 66
Lyrics by Bobby Troup
If you ever plan to motor west,
Travel my way, take the highway that is best.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
It winds from Chicago to LA,
More than two thousand miles all the way.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Now you go through Saint Looey
Joplin, Missouri,
And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty.
You see Amarillo,
Gallup, New Mexico,
Flagstaff, Arizona.
Don't forget Winona,
Kingman, Barstow, San Bernandino.
Won't you get hip to this timely tip:
When you make that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Won't you get hip to this timely tip:
When you make that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Daddy always played and liked that song and I didn't get it. That's because when I was a kid and he was playing it, I didn't know about Route 66 - now I do. I not only know of its history because I read about it - now I know part of it first hand.
Somewhere today I saw someone mention driving a Mustang down the epic Route 66, and I thought "I've done that." Not the entirety of Route 66, but a portion of its heart. In fact, it was only a few years ago when I did that.
I began to think about that trip. It was a crazy, spur-of-the-moment, Maverick kinda thing I would do. :) I could blame my Texan-ness on those "Maverick" tendencies I have, but I come by them honestly from my Dad, Louie.
Either one of my two sisters would have been game for this hare-brained last-minute idea (as they share that "Louie" DNA), but, as it was, my sister Carol was the one who was with me.
We were in the middle of freaking nowhere for a good deal of the trip, and some would think two girls alone in the desert driving bat-out-of-Hell style from Vegas to the Grand Canyon is risky - a little too much "Thelma and Louise". Maybe it was, but I don't think so. We had a blast.
In this case, The Middle of Freaking Nowhere began in what is officially referred to as the "Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area". Aptly named, if you ask me. It's a "wilderness" alright.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. This story actually begins with Las Vegas.
I had just sold my first book for publication and I had a little extra money - very little. :) Anyway, I was supposed to go to a writing conference in Vegas, and I was also going to have a meeting with my agent there. I asked my sister, Carol, to go with me because she had never been to Vegas.
So off we went via American Airlines to Las Vegas where we found ourselves driving up the strip in my rented red Mustang hard top. It had some forward motion to it - just a little bit. The sound of an engine like that makes my foot suddenly become heavier. :)
On Friday, things with the conference were not yet in full swing, so we had decided to take a little trip down to Hoover Dam just to see the historic monolith. Off we went. It was very interesting and imposing. Wow! If you ever get a chance, check it out.
During the tour, etc., I got a burr under my saddle (as we say in Texas) and started thinking how fun it would be to see the Grand Canyon. I had a map, and I was familiar enough with the territory to get there (so I thought). I had a rental car that moved and an itchy "trigger" foot. :) It seemed a shame not to exercise both.
It was 2:00 in the afternoon. I was thinking this trip was about 175 miles and with all the lead out of it, about 2-1/2 hours. We could watch the sunset over the Canyon, grab a bite to eat on the way back and be back in Vegas in the nighttime. So I thought.
Well friends, from Hoover Dam it is 241 miles to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, and no matter my speed, it's still about a 4 hour trip. This was October and I was driving against the setting sun. So, my calculations on distance and time were wrong and I had not taken into consideration the fact that I would be driving east.
Of course my sister totally agreed to the trip. We hopped in my rented car, crossed the Hoover Dam (very narrow two-lane road, usually loaded with tourist traffic and it takes a bit to get all the way across). Once across we were officially in Arizona. We plowed down US Highway 93. That bad boy opens up into the aforementioned Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area a/k/a "The Middle of Freaking Nowhere".
You see nothing for miles and miles, and when I say "nothing" I really mean NOTHING. There are no gas stations, no roadside stops, no other merging highways. You look to the right of the highway and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and a big row of mountains. You look to the left of the highway and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and a big row of mountains. You look straight ahead and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and an open road.
Maybe, if you're lucky, off to the side, you'll see some lone, random mobile home waaaayyyyyy in the distance at the end of a narrow, rutted, dirt road.
Maybe.
If you're lucky.
You lose cell service out there shortly after you leave the Hoover Dam area. You pick it up again about 30minutes later. How many miles were we without cell service? Well, I don't know. I only know the minutes, not the miles.
You see that whole "open road" thing makes my foot start feeling that extreme heaviness again, and then there's the Mustang hard top... let's just say this girl was pedal to the metal. Did I mention that the middle of nowhere also has nearly zero traffic and no cops?
Juice under the hood. Gas in the tank. No traffic. No cops. Get it?
So 30 minutes were (cough) quite a few miles. I was putting a lot of asphalt under the wheels in short order. :)
Then we arrived in Kingman (check those song lyrics, folks). We continued along Interstate 40 for a while - that's one wide open divided highway. Then on down the way, about halfway to Williams, Arizona is where you can hop off onto The Legendary Highway, Route 66 and continue eastward until you get to Williams (Williams is where you change roads to get to the Grand Canyon).
I cruised down Route 66 in my rented Mustang thinking about the road's great history. I thought of Daddy. He would have loved it.
By the time we got to Williams we were running out of daylight in a big way. We were not going to be watching that autumn sunset from the South Rim. So, we pulled into a Safeway in Williams and got a few things we needed: toothbrushes, tooth paste, deodorant, some soap - you get the picture. Everything we needed for the night was in our Safeway Plastic Grocery Bags. Uh-huh, our "luggage".
Remember our original plan was to see the sunset at the Grand Canyon and then drive back to Vegas. With no daylight we weren't going to see the Grand Canyon until morning, and we didn't drive all that way not to see it. So, we were staying the night somewhere until sunrise. We had no idea if we could even find a room when we got to our destination. We might have been sleeping in the car for all we knew.
Hopped back in the 'Stang and blasted up Highway 64 out of Williams headed for the South Rim and a little town called Tusayan, Arizona. It's nice. I recommend it.
Along the way you increase elevation and you travel through a very dense, piney forest - Kaibab National Forest, which blends seamlessly into Grand Canyon National Park. I did not know this until the next morning (when I could see it), but that forest extends all the way up to the South Rim of that yawning, mile-deep abyss. Meanwhile, it was already utter blackness and we couldn't see much of anything except what was in our headlights.
Arriving in Tusayan we drove up to the South Rim and checked on availability in the lodge there in the Grand Canyon park proper - none. We drove back into Tusayan on the road that went right past the South Rim lookout. We couldn't see a thing, but I swear I could feel the immensity of the gaping hole to our left as we drove by in the pitch darkness - eerie.
Back into Tusayan proper and we proceeded to try to find a room. First place we checked had none, zero, zippo. I was getting worried. There aren't a lot of options up there.
It may have been early October, but keep in mind we were dressed for Vegas and the Hoover Dam. Not cold there in October. South Rim of the Grand Canyon - COLD in early October. Sleeping in the car was looking far less attractive at this point.
The next place we tried was this quaint little lodge on the main street. It had one room left. We parked the Mustang and checked in, with our "luggage". We laughed about that "luggage" all evening. Hell, we still laugh about that.
We had dinner at a little diner and then back to our room. We slept and arose at 4:00 a.m. Checked out and drove on up to the lookout over the South Rim. We waited about an hour in the car, in the dark. The temp was right at freezing - not kidding. We were freezing our butts off with no coats. Then finally as the sun began to shed some of its light from the east, we got out and walked to the rim lookout. The below is only some of what we saw that very early morning.
Then it was back to reality. I had a 1:00 p.m. lunch meeting with my agent on the schedule. I was 5 hours from Vegas in the same clothes I wore the day before and I looked like crap. It was time to get high behind.
We were driving through the Kaibab forest at a pretty fair rate of speed when we spied a bull Elk on the side of the road - and he was facing the road, as if he was thinking about crossing it. This thing was immense! I had to take my foot off the gas, because if you hit one of those you're dead. He would walk away, but we and our car would be the road kill! That's an animal about 5 feet at the shoulder with a weight from 700-1,000 lbs! It's like running your car into a brick wall. So, light on the gas until we passed him. He looked at us like he was bored and then turned and walked back into the forest.
Magnificent beast.
Disaster averted. Back to pedal to the metal.
A brief stop for breakfast in Williams and then hell bent for leather back through Kingman, The MOFN Wilderness, over the Hoover Dam, and then blew through Boulder City, Henderson and Viva Las Vegas!!
I had slightly more than 1 hour to get ready for the meeting with my agent. Back to the hotel, speed shower/makeup/hair/nice clothes and Voila! There I was at a table in Olive at the Bellagio having lunch with my agent, just as planned.
In the past 24 hours I had driven 536 miles, seen the Hoover Dam and the Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area, driven on the Legendary Highway/Route 66, seen the Kaibab National Forest (complete with intimidating bull Elk) and watched sunrise over the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Oh, and I had seen the Safeway in Williams, Arizona and invested in some of their "luggage". ;)
It's one of the best drives I've ever made in my life. :) Wooo-hooo!!
So, there you are - that's how I came to spend the night at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon with Safeway grocery bags for luggage. :)
Freaking Epic.
Polla filia,
J.F.
Lyrics by Bobby Troup
If you ever plan to motor west,
Travel my way, take the highway that is best.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
It winds from Chicago to LA,
More than two thousand miles all the way.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Now you go through Saint Looey
Joplin, Missouri,
And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty.
You see Amarillo,
Gallup, New Mexico,
Flagstaff, Arizona.
Don't forget Winona,
Kingman, Barstow, San Bernandino.
Won't you get hip to this timely tip:
When you make that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Won't you get hip to this timely tip:
When you make that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Get your kicks on Route 66.
Daddy always played and liked that song and I didn't get it. That's because when I was a kid and he was playing it, I didn't know about Route 66 - now I do. I not only know of its history because I read about it - now I know part of it first hand.
Somewhere today I saw someone mention driving a Mustang down the epic Route 66, and I thought "I've done that." Not the entirety of Route 66, but a portion of its heart. In fact, it was only a few years ago when I did that.
I began to think about that trip. It was a crazy, spur-of-the-moment, Maverick kinda thing I would do. :) I could blame my Texan-ness on those "Maverick" tendencies I have, but I come by them honestly from my Dad, Louie.
Either one of my two sisters would have been game for this hare-brained last-minute idea (as they share that "Louie" DNA), but, as it was, my sister Carol was the one who was with me.
We were in the middle of freaking nowhere for a good deal of the trip, and some would think two girls alone in the desert driving bat-out-of-Hell style from Vegas to the Grand Canyon is risky - a little too much "Thelma and Louise". Maybe it was, but I don't think so. We had a blast.
In this case, The Middle of Freaking Nowhere began in what is officially referred to as the "Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area". Aptly named, if you ask me. It's a "wilderness" alright.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. This story actually begins with Las Vegas.
I had just sold my first book for publication and I had a little extra money - very little. :) Anyway, I was supposed to go to a writing conference in Vegas, and I was also going to have a meeting with my agent there. I asked my sister, Carol, to go with me because she had never been to Vegas.
So off we went via American Airlines to Las Vegas where we found ourselves driving up the strip in my rented red Mustang hard top. It had some forward motion to it - just a little bit. The sound of an engine like that makes my foot suddenly become heavier. :)
On Friday, things with the conference were not yet in full swing, so we had decided to take a little trip down to Hoover Dam just to see the historic monolith. Off we went. It was very interesting and imposing. Wow! If you ever get a chance, check it out.
During the tour, etc., I got a burr under my saddle (as we say in Texas) and started thinking how fun it would be to see the Grand Canyon. I had a map, and I was familiar enough with the territory to get there (so I thought). I had a rental car that moved and an itchy "trigger" foot. :) It seemed a shame not to exercise both.
It was 2:00 in the afternoon. I was thinking this trip was about 175 miles and with all the lead out of it, about 2-1/2 hours. We could watch the sunset over the Canyon, grab a bite to eat on the way back and be back in Vegas in the nighttime. So I thought.
Well friends, from Hoover Dam it is 241 miles to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, and no matter my speed, it's still about a 4 hour trip. This was October and I was driving against the setting sun. So, my calculations on distance and time were wrong and I had not taken into consideration the fact that I would be driving east.
Of course my sister totally agreed to the trip. We hopped in my rented car, crossed the Hoover Dam (very narrow two-lane road, usually loaded with tourist traffic and it takes a bit to get all the way across). Once across we were officially in Arizona. We plowed down US Highway 93. That bad boy opens up into the aforementioned Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area a/k/a "The Middle of Freaking Nowhere".
You see nothing for miles and miles, and when I say "nothing" I really mean NOTHING. There are no gas stations, no roadside stops, no other merging highways. You look to the right of the highway and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and a big row of mountains. You look to the left of the highway and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and a big row of mountains. You look straight ahead and there are miles of flat, brown, dusty landscape and an open road.
Maybe, if you're lucky, off to the side, you'll see some lone, random mobile home waaaayyyyyy in the distance at the end of a narrow, rutted, dirt road.
Maybe.
If you're lucky.
You lose cell service out there shortly after you leave the Hoover Dam area. You pick it up again about 30minutes later. How many miles were we without cell service? Well, I don't know. I only know the minutes, not the miles.
You see that whole "open road" thing makes my foot start feeling that extreme heaviness again, and then there's the Mustang hard top... let's just say this girl was pedal to the metal. Did I mention that the middle of nowhere also has nearly zero traffic and no cops?
Juice under the hood. Gas in the tank. No traffic. No cops. Get it?
So 30 minutes were (cough) quite a few miles. I was putting a lot of asphalt under the wheels in short order. :)
Then we arrived in Kingman (check those song lyrics, folks). We continued along Interstate 40 for a while - that's one wide open divided highway. Then on down the way, about halfway to Williams, Arizona is where you can hop off onto The Legendary Highway, Route 66 and continue eastward until you get to Williams (Williams is where you change roads to get to the Grand Canyon).
I cruised down Route 66 in my rented Mustang thinking about the road's great history. I thought of Daddy. He would have loved it.
By the time we got to Williams we were running out of daylight in a big way. We were not going to be watching that autumn sunset from the South Rim. So, we pulled into a Safeway in Williams and got a few things we needed: toothbrushes, tooth paste, deodorant, some soap - you get the picture. Everything we needed for the night was in our Safeway Plastic Grocery Bags. Uh-huh, our "luggage".
Remember our original plan was to see the sunset at the Grand Canyon and then drive back to Vegas. With no daylight we weren't going to see the Grand Canyon until morning, and we didn't drive all that way not to see it. So, we were staying the night somewhere until sunrise. We had no idea if we could even find a room when we got to our destination. We might have been sleeping in the car for all we knew.
Hopped back in the 'Stang and blasted up Highway 64 out of Williams headed for the South Rim and a little town called Tusayan, Arizona. It's nice. I recommend it.
Along the way you increase elevation and you travel through a very dense, piney forest - Kaibab National Forest, which blends seamlessly into Grand Canyon National Park. I did not know this until the next morning (when I could see it), but that forest extends all the way up to the South Rim of that yawning, mile-deep abyss. Meanwhile, it was already utter blackness and we couldn't see much of anything except what was in our headlights.
Arriving in Tusayan we drove up to the South Rim and checked on availability in the lodge there in the Grand Canyon park proper - none. We drove back into Tusayan on the road that went right past the South Rim lookout. We couldn't see a thing, but I swear I could feel the immensity of the gaping hole to our left as we drove by in the pitch darkness - eerie.
Back into Tusayan proper and we proceeded to try to find a room. First place we checked had none, zero, zippo. I was getting worried. There aren't a lot of options up there.
It may have been early October, but keep in mind we were dressed for Vegas and the Hoover Dam. Not cold there in October. South Rim of the Grand Canyon - COLD in early October. Sleeping in the car was looking far less attractive at this point.
The next place we tried was this quaint little lodge on the main street. It had one room left. We parked the Mustang and checked in, with our "luggage". We laughed about that "luggage" all evening. Hell, we still laugh about that.
We had dinner at a little diner and then back to our room. We slept and arose at 4:00 a.m. Checked out and drove on up to the lookout over the South Rim. We waited about an hour in the car, in the dark. The temp was right at freezing - not kidding. We were freezing our butts off with no coats. Then finally as the sun began to shed some of its light from the east, we got out and walked to the rim lookout. The below is only some of what we saw that very early morning.
Then it was back to reality. I had a 1:00 p.m. lunch meeting with my agent on the schedule. I was 5 hours from Vegas in the same clothes I wore the day before and I looked like crap. It was time to get high behind.
We were driving through the Kaibab forest at a pretty fair rate of speed when we spied a bull Elk on the side of the road - and he was facing the road, as if he was thinking about crossing it. This thing was immense! I had to take my foot off the gas, because if you hit one of those you're dead. He would walk away, but we and our car would be the road kill! That's an animal about 5 feet at the shoulder with a weight from 700-1,000 lbs! It's like running your car into a brick wall. So, light on the gas until we passed him. He looked at us like he was bored and then turned and walked back into the forest.
Magnificent beast.
Disaster averted. Back to pedal to the metal.
A brief stop for breakfast in Williams and then hell bent for leather back through Kingman, The MOFN Wilderness, over the Hoover Dam, and then blew through Boulder City, Henderson and Viva Las Vegas!!
I had slightly more than 1 hour to get ready for the meeting with my agent. Back to the hotel, speed shower/makeup/hair/nice clothes and Voila! There I was at a table in Olive at the Bellagio having lunch with my agent, just as planned.
In the past 24 hours I had driven 536 miles, seen the Hoover Dam and the Mt. Wilson Wilderness Area, driven on the Legendary Highway/Route 66, seen the Kaibab National Forest (complete with intimidating bull Elk) and watched sunrise over the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Oh, and I had seen the Safeway in Williams, Arizona and invested in some of their "luggage". ;)
It's one of the best drives I've ever made in my life. :) Wooo-hooo!!
So, there you are - that's how I came to spend the night at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon with Safeway grocery bags for luggage. :)
Freaking Epic.
Polla filia,
J.F.
Monday, October 1, 2012
THE LINE OF WORDS
"The line of words is a miner's pick, a wood-carver's gouge, a surgeon's probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year...The writing has changed, in your hands, and in a twinkling, from an expression of your notions to an epistemological tool."
- Annie Dillard
"There's no writing, there's only rewriting."
- Lisa Cron
I wrote in my last post how challenging this writing life can be (challenging is a euphemism, in case you wondered).
Today I printed out the first 90 pages of this current manuscript.
For reasons too complicated to go into here, I wrote a new part onto the beginning of it, then bridged that to what was already there, and now I need to go through the "already there" part and bring it into line with this new beginning. For this I decided I needed to print it out and just work it with a red pen.
There is an author named Gerard Houarner who once wrote a post about the "Span of Control" a writer tries to have over the whole of the work. An artist can look at her painting or sculpture and see it whole in one glance. Not so much for a writer. We hold the story in our brains, and in my case I run it back and forth like a film - fast forward, stop, rewind, play again. To hold it in its entirety within one glance is not possible.
Keep that in mind - it's important for this ramble.
I couldn't work without a computer. In fact, I'm a bit of a techno junkie (but not completely addicted). It's so easy to type all the stuff that's in my head and then revise it and save it and there it is. I could never do that with paper and a typewriter. I thought about that the other day. Lord! They used to type all this stuff! No wonder Steinbeck had his wife type everything! (Check the dedication on "Grapes of Wrath" - "To Carol, who willed this book" - he should have also mentioned she typed it, again, and again, and again...). Still, even the computer can be a challenge.
All of that being said, between the rewinding of the "Span of Control" in my mind like film, and the sitting for hours at the computer writing that new beginning.... well, I was feeling so down about the work.
I was pushing hard to get this new beginning finished up, and then to connect it to the prior beginning. Last night I got there, but then I was tired - in the emotional sense. We writers and artists are emotional beings (or else we couldn't write or create art - that takes some pretty intense sensory faculties, which breed strong emotional reactions).
So, to bed I went last night, fatigued and telling myself the book was crap, and praying to God I could capture what I'm trying to say in all those rewrites I know I will do. I woke up feeling the same way. It's a rotten way to wake up.
I hate to tell you this, but, that feeling is a common occurrence in this writer's world. It is juxtaposed against those moments when I feel I have just written something so brilliant it cannot possibly be mine - when I look back at it and say "Did I write that? I know no one else has been in my manuscript typing. Huh, well I guess I did write it. Hell, that's good! I'm good!"
I will also go on record as saying I think those awful moments of thinking I've just written the worst thing known to mankind - they are necessary moments. These moments are the ones that light the proverbial fire under my feet. It is analogous to the sentiment expressed by this old axiom: "Debt is to a man as spurs are to a horse." Well, those down moments are spurs to me, people - dig 'em in and watch me run!
Now add this equation: Span of Control not being felt by looking at the computer screen (irrespective of my love of technology) + gloom and doom over the latest efforts at writing = my conclusion: print this bad boy out on real paper - all 90 freaking pages of it!!
Get it in front of me in 3D!!
Me to myself: "Just do the work, you idiot! Nothing great will be written while you piss and moan about how bad it is."
Occasionally, and only occasionally my alter ego makes some pretty good sense. :)
Low and behold, I picked up those 90 pages off of my wonderful little laser jet, and as soon as I had it in my hands my whole aspect changed. BOOM!
This is going to be a real book! I can do this, I've done it before.
This ain't my first rodeo! (I know, spurs, horses, rodeos - I'm Texan, deal with it. Also, I literally have ridden in a rodeo when I was 11 - in the opening parade and the junior barrel races, so the rodeo thing fits); but, I digress. :)
Looking at it in print brought back all that familiarity with the process, I guess. I've been published before. I know this drill.
Tonight with those 90 pages in hand I will not wield a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, or a surgeon's probe as Annie Dillard would suggest.
This artist will wield the red pen like the sculptor's chisel. I will make that block of writing "rock" breathe life!
I will sculpt the line of words into that true vision I have in my mind, and heart and soul.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
- Annie Dillard
"There's no writing, there's only rewriting."
- Lisa Cron
I wrote in my last post how challenging this writing life can be (challenging is a euphemism, in case you wondered).
Today I printed out the first 90 pages of this current manuscript.
For reasons too complicated to go into here, I wrote a new part onto the beginning of it, then bridged that to what was already there, and now I need to go through the "already there" part and bring it into line with this new beginning. For this I decided I needed to print it out and just work it with a red pen.
There is an author named Gerard Houarner who once wrote a post about the "Span of Control" a writer tries to have over the whole of the work. An artist can look at her painting or sculpture and see it whole in one glance. Not so much for a writer. We hold the story in our brains, and in my case I run it back and forth like a film - fast forward, stop, rewind, play again. To hold it in its entirety within one glance is not possible.
Keep that in mind - it's important for this ramble.
I couldn't work without a computer. In fact, I'm a bit of a techno junkie (but not completely addicted). It's so easy to type all the stuff that's in my head and then revise it and save it and there it is. I could never do that with paper and a typewriter. I thought about that the other day. Lord! They used to type all this stuff! No wonder Steinbeck had his wife type everything! (Check the dedication on "Grapes of Wrath" - "To Carol, who willed this book" - he should have also mentioned she typed it, again, and again, and again...). Still, even the computer can be a challenge.
All of that being said, between the rewinding of the "Span of Control" in my mind like film, and the sitting for hours at the computer writing that new beginning.... well, I was feeling so down about the work.
I was pushing hard to get this new beginning finished up, and then to connect it to the prior beginning. Last night I got there, but then I was tired - in the emotional sense. We writers and artists are emotional beings (or else we couldn't write or create art - that takes some pretty intense sensory faculties, which breed strong emotional reactions).
So, to bed I went last night, fatigued and telling myself the book was crap, and praying to God I could capture what I'm trying to say in all those rewrites I know I will do. I woke up feeling the same way. It's a rotten way to wake up.
I hate to tell you this, but, that feeling is a common occurrence in this writer's world. It is juxtaposed against those moments when I feel I have just written something so brilliant it cannot possibly be mine - when I look back at it and say "Did I write that? I know no one else has been in my manuscript typing. Huh, well I guess I did write it. Hell, that's good! I'm good!"
I will also go on record as saying I think those awful moments of thinking I've just written the worst thing known to mankind - they are necessary moments. These moments are the ones that light the proverbial fire under my feet. It is analogous to the sentiment expressed by this old axiom: "Debt is to a man as spurs are to a horse." Well, those down moments are spurs to me, people - dig 'em in and watch me run!
Now add this equation: Span of Control not being felt by looking at the computer screen (irrespective of my love of technology) + gloom and doom over the latest efforts at writing = my conclusion: print this bad boy out on real paper - all 90 freaking pages of it!!
Get it in front of me in 3D!!
Me to myself: "Just do the work, you idiot! Nothing great will be written while you piss and moan about how bad it is."
Occasionally, and only occasionally my alter ego makes some pretty good sense. :)
Low and behold, I picked up those 90 pages off of my wonderful little laser jet, and as soon as I had it in my hands my whole aspect changed. BOOM!
This is going to be a real book! I can do this, I've done it before.
This ain't my first rodeo! (I know, spurs, horses, rodeos - I'm Texan, deal with it. Also, I literally have ridden in a rodeo when I was 11 - in the opening parade and the junior barrel races, so the rodeo thing fits); but, I digress. :)
Looking at it in print brought back all that familiarity with the process, I guess. I've been published before. I know this drill.
Tonight with those 90 pages in hand I will not wield a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, or a surgeon's probe as Annie Dillard would suggest.
This artist will wield the red pen like the sculptor's chisel. I will make that block of writing "rock" breathe life!
I will sculpt the line of words into that true vision I have in my mind, and heart and soul.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Friday, September 14, 2012
SOLITARY
In case you’ve ever wondered, this whole writing novels thing isn’t for sissies. It’s hours of time in solitary, scratching away on a notepad with a pencil or pen, banging away on the keyboard of a computer, agonizing over some damn scene that will not cooperate, pacing around the house trying to get your blood flowing again, only to sit down and go back to the same agony in hopes that you have a breakthrough, and the thing begins to move better (which it does - eventually).
Then there are the dreams (as in the ones you have while sleeping) - the ones that solve some writing problem, and the ones that replay your agony in your sleep. I like the first kind - surprise, surprise.
I am, as if you couldn’t tell, in the depths of writing agony right now. It won’t last and I know that. I’m an old hand at this. I just wish to hell it would shorten its run. I’m ready for the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
I was published once before and it worked out okay (from a sales perspective), but then some bad things happened in my personal life (involving the death of my mother) and some other bad things happened with my then agent (which actually only came about because of the break I took because of my mother’s illness and death).
So, here I am, in the desert once again, agent-less.
Make no mistake, the agent-less status is my doing - I let my old agent go.
No, you don’t do that because you had a bad day. You don’t even do that because you think you got a slightly bad deal on the last book. Not even.
You only do that, ever, as the absolute, last resort of all last resorts. You only do that after you have thought everything through rationally, reasonably, patiently, weighing all your options - while you’re sober. You only do that when you’ve tried everything and nothing else works. You only do that when not having an agent will be no worse than having your current one. That’s the *only* time you ever do that. So, don’t do that unless *all* of the above has occurred to you.
Why?
Because agents are too hard to get.
No, it is not easier to get an agent once you’ve been published. It just isn’t.
Is.
Not.
So, for all the aspiring writers out there, don’t delude yourselves into thinking that the previously published have some easier deal than you. Unless your name is something like John Grisham, Nora Roberts or Janet Evanovich (or others in the same galaxy of stars). If you live in that galaxy, then and only then can you call your own shots; but, it isn’t easier for the rest of us.
So, I must finish this manuscript first and foremost, and it must be wonderful (and it will be, by God). Then I will go out and query and do my best to find that agent who loves my work.
Before you Google the name on this blog - no, I was not published under this name before, and I’m not telling you what that name was. I’m not telling because I left that behind me. I’m writing something different now and it doesn’t need to be associated with the life I had before tragic circumstances re-routed my universe.
Being a person who believes in her dreams, I wasn’t about to give up on mine just because the world temporarily got the better of me. It was temporary after all. As Vincent Gardenia says in “Moonstruck” (playing the role of Cosmo Castorini) - “Everything is temporary!” [Writer credit: John Patrick Shanley].
The writing dream lives, and I work through all the solitary, crap days of sitting on my bum and pounding this keyboard and honing those passages until I just can’t stand it anymore.
And sometimes on nights like these, I take a break, put on a little Joni Mitchell “Night Ride Home” and pour myself a glass of Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban (neat), and wait for the edge to wear off.
Maybe I’ll write some more tonight, or maybe I’ll just *be* for a while, let my mind drift and unwind.
Then tomorrow I can start fresh. Maybe find that breakthrough. See the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
Take me home, Joni.
Bottoms up!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Then there are the dreams (as in the ones you have while sleeping) - the ones that solve some writing problem, and the ones that replay your agony in your sleep. I like the first kind - surprise, surprise.
I am, as if you couldn’t tell, in the depths of writing agony right now. It won’t last and I know that. I’m an old hand at this. I just wish to hell it would shorten its run. I’m ready for the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
I was published once before and it worked out okay (from a sales perspective), but then some bad things happened in my personal life (involving the death of my mother) and some other bad things happened with my then agent (which actually only came about because of the break I took because of my mother’s illness and death).
So, here I am, in the desert once again, agent-less.
Make no mistake, the agent-less status is my doing - I let my old agent go.
No, you don’t do that because you had a bad day. You don’t even do that because you think you got a slightly bad deal on the last book. Not even.
You only do that, ever, as the absolute, last resort of all last resorts. You only do that after you have thought everything through rationally, reasonably, patiently, weighing all your options - while you’re sober. You only do that when you’ve tried everything and nothing else works. You only do that when not having an agent will be no worse than having your current one. That’s the *only* time you ever do that. So, don’t do that unless *all* of the above has occurred to you.
Why?
Because agents are too hard to get.
No, it is not easier to get an agent once you’ve been published. It just isn’t.
Is.
Not.
So, for all the aspiring writers out there, don’t delude yourselves into thinking that the previously published have some easier deal than you. Unless your name is something like John Grisham, Nora Roberts or Janet Evanovich (or others in the same galaxy of stars). If you live in that galaxy, then and only then can you call your own shots; but, it isn’t easier for the rest of us.
So, I must finish this manuscript first and foremost, and it must be wonderful (and it will be, by God). Then I will go out and query and do my best to find that agent who loves my work.
Before you Google the name on this blog - no, I was not published under this name before, and I’m not telling you what that name was. I’m not telling because I left that behind me. I’m writing something different now and it doesn’t need to be associated with the life I had before tragic circumstances re-routed my universe.
Being a person who believes in her dreams, I wasn’t about to give up on mine just because the world temporarily got the better of me. It was temporary after all. As Vincent Gardenia says in “Moonstruck” (playing the role of Cosmo Castorini) - “Everything is temporary!” [Writer credit: John Patrick Shanley].
The writing dream lives, and I work through all the solitary, crap days of sitting on my bum and pounding this keyboard and honing those passages until I just can’t stand it anymore.
And sometimes on nights like these, I take a break, put on a little Joni Mitchell “Night Ride Home” and pour myself a glass of Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban (neat), and wait for the edge to wear off.
Maybe I’ll write some more tonight, or maybe I’ll just *be* for a while, let my mind drift and unwind.
Then tomorrow I can start fresh. Maybe find that breakthrough. See the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
Take me home, Joni.
Bottoms up!
Polla filia,
J.F.
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