Just A Thought

Why do athletes point to the sky after victory over a rival?  Is it in thanks to God?  If so, where does that leave the rival?

Just A Thought

Given the traumas of our past, it is truly a wonder that we function as well as we do in the present.

The Godfather Of Adventure

Dirk Pitt’s father turned 83 today.  That master of the thriller/adventure tale, Clive Cussler, seems as active as ever these days.  I’ve lost count of the number of works he’s completed, not even including all of the co-written books.  He has helped countless people including this writer, with his great experience, encouragement, and generosity.  Truly a man of character.  Happy birthday, Clive, and many, many more.

Five Do’s And Don’t’s Of Writing Fiction

Three novels and six shorter works have hopefully given me a little insight into writing; things that work for me and things that don’t.  So, as if you hadn’t already read a bundle of suggestions, here’s mine:

• Don’t try to write like someone else.  Everyone has a style, and yours will evolve as you write, whether you want it to or not.  With my first novel, Relentless, the intent was to sound vintage Stephen King with a pinch of Clive Cussler.  It didn’t.  And when I finished the book, I was glad it didn’t.  For better or worse, it sounded like Joe DiMari.  So, be true to your style, your imagination, your words.

 

• Don’t write nice.  Your characters are individuals.  As you work with them over the course of the book, some become as friends, others as repulsive folks you have to deal with.  A Mafia hit man isn’t going to say “dang” and “shucks,” and his background will most likely be rough.  I lost a fan because she felt the language in one of my works was too blue, even though it was classed as adult reading.  Be true to the characters.

 

•   Don’t use big words when simpler ones will do just as well.  A big turn-off is to read something so embellished that you feel the writer is trying to impress with his/her knowledge of the language, rather than simply telling a good story – and isn’t a good story what it’s all about?  Impress with the tale, not your vocabulary.

 

• Do try to write with a flow.  This has been a difficult one for me at times.  I’m a comma freak, and every time I edit, it’s probably the commas that are placed on the chopping block more than anything else.  Also, I try not to use the word “that” so much in my writing:  It tends to break the rhythm of my sentences.  To me poetry and prose are cousins, because prose should, as much as possible, have a rhythmic, poetic flow.  Here’s an example:

 

He had wrinkles on his face. They were there because he had worked hard in the mines.

Or:

The miner’s face was deeply etched with years of toil and sweat.

With the latter sentence, you get that da-da da-da da-da da-da kind of cadence, much smoother and more pleasing than the “just the facts, Ma’am,” approach.

 

• Do realize that writing is difficult (but very rewarding).  Keith Richards once said that his blank canvas was silence.  Ours is a blank monitor screen, calling to us, “Okay, boss, what’s it gonna be today?”  To  me the process is truly amazing, because we are creating something from absolutely nothing but our skills, our research, and our  life experiences – creating something every bit as real as a one-of-a-kind furniture masterpiece.  And usually doing it alone, at a computer in some quiet room.  A famous writer (I forget the name) was once asked just how the creative process took place in them.  The writer replied, “It takes place at eight every morning.”  In other words, creativity for him/her was more a function of consistency and focus, rather than some innate resource to be called on at will.  If you’ve already worked on a novel, some days you just know you don’t have it.  The good writers go ahead and write anyway, figuring they can always hit delete, or edit, tomorrow.  But often, a strange thing happens.  The next day, you look at yesterday’s work…and it’s some of the best writing you’ve done on the project yet.  Don’t ask me how, but it often seems to work that way.  Maybe it’s the writing gods rewarding us for sucking it up.

Finally, if you want to write that novel, pick a time-no excuses-and start.  Stay with it, even when you don’t feel like it.  The first novel is the most difficult because everything is so new.  Develop a system that works for you.  And don’t be as concerned with what your audience will think and feel, as much as what your characters say to you.

Whether you continue on to writing other works, there is nothing like the pride of finishing that first novel.  A sense of, “I DID IT!”

 

A Logical Answer

I attended a job fair many years ago and couldn’t help  overhearing this exchange between a counselor and participant:

“If you could choose to do any job in the world, what would it be?” asked the counselor.

“I would love to be a comedian,” was the reply.

“And what is it,” the counselor asked, “that you feel is preventing you from reaching this goal?”

A pause, and then, “I’m not funny.”

What Type Are You?

What is your work style?  Do you put off and then suddenly go at it with urgent intent at the last minute?  Or do you plan ahead, leave yourself plenty of time and methodically complete the project, perhaps even ahead of time?  Possibly, you take the spurt – crash – spurt approach?

Everyone has their own style.  Myself, I often let something nag at me for a while and then suddenly get into it.  And once I do, I’m almost obsessive about completing the work.

After seeing this pattern for a good many decades, my wife summed it up perfectly.

She looked at me with a slight smile and exclaimed, “You know, you’re either a firecracker or a slug!”

Alas, ’tis true, ’tis true.

Just A Thought

Our true character is reflected in the way we treat others who can do nothing for us.

My Favorite Teacher

I know:  The title looks like some essay assignment that you’d need to stretch into 500 words and finish with a sigh of relief.  Finito.  And where’s my B+?

I sat here, trying to think of something interesting to write about.  Something humorous, witty, honest, unique, and meaningful.  And, instead of a subject, I thought of a man.  One that I don’t even remember talking to, though I’m sure I did in passing.

Lloyd Richards was an English teacher at the high school I attended in the early 1960’s.  Bespectacled, graying and serious on the outside, he was one of those people you’d pass by and probably not even notice.

It wasn’t until he stood before a class, in a day-to-day capacity, and you got to know him, that you appreciated the man and his character.  His manner was low-key, soft voiced.  I don’t recall him needing to discipline all that much, the fifteen and sixteen year-olds that he taught.  He was just a person that connected with kids, with people.  He was self-deprecating in a humorous way, yet you found yourself respecting him even more for it.  His approach seemed to be half on the subject of English, and the rest on related or unrelated subjects of living.

He was one of those people who you measure things against.  How  do I conduct myself under certain circumstances?  How do I treat others?  Can there be humor, even in the depths of sadness?

He’d talk of his sons when they were teenagers – apparently large teenagers – when he would look upward into their eyes and tell them that as long as they parked their shoes under his table, they would follow his instructions.  And the twinkle in his eyes told you how much they’d listened.

He’d talk of loss and of death.  That a person does their grieving in private.  That carrying on in public is more for the griever than the departed.

And he respected his students as well.  He didn’t have to say it:  You could tell in his actions, in his words.

He gave us an assignment once, to write a sentence or two about life.  The next day after the work was handed in, he stood before the class and announced that he’d picked a few of them to read aloud.

No names mentioned, he began to read.  With some teachers, the reading would have been rote, mechanical, let’s get this over with, or they would have chosen not to read them aloud at all.  With Mr. Richards, it was different.

He handled each piece as though talking intimately with a friend.

And then he came to mine:  I could tell from the opening five words.  And I tensed up.  It was only a sentence long, but I’d put my feelings into it, and now those feelings were on display.  The line went like this:  Life is like a highway with many twists and turns…and an occasional straight away.

He read it with a tenderness that I remember to this day – an affirmation that my work – that I – was worthy of his respect.

Years later, when I became a special education teacher, I tried, though not always successfully, to emulate the lessons he taught.

Have I conveyed the man to you?  I’m not sure.  But I do hope that you too had a teacher along the way who taught more than just their subject.

Okay, I’ve gone over 500 words.  Now, about that extra credit…

 

 

Too McLate

This story was reported in the Omaha World Herald newspaper a couple of years ago.  I have changed the original narrative into a verbal exchange, for effect.

A man approached an employee working the counter at a McDonald’s, and pulled a gun.

“This is a hold-up, gimme all the money in the register.”

Worker:  “I’m sorry, sir, but the register cannot be opened without a customer order.”

“Well…gimme an Egg McMuffin.”

Worker:  “I’m sorry, sir, but our breakfast menu is no longer available.”

The man walked away.

 

 

 

Caprice On Ice

Now that a hard winter is past us, it’s probably safe to write a story about said season without hearing an uproar.

Winters are usually a take-your-pick kind of season.  It seems we have either snowy ones or cold ones in the Midwest.

But one year, (to set the drama) my destiny lay not in the flakes nor the frigid air.  No.  It lay in the ice.

We lived in the country during the 90’s, and with more open spaces than in the city, winter’s effects were usually magnified.

One morning we awoke to a beautiful winter scene of glistening ice covering the countryside.  But, being that my wife, my son and I all needed to get to work, we knew that the affected landscape also included roads.  Icy gravel roads that we had to traverse.

Against my wife’s and my advice to wait a bit until the temperature moderated and the ice melted, my son left for work in his pickup truck at his usual time.  In fifteen minutes, he was back.  The pickup had not gotten stuck:  It had simply slid into the ditch.

And so, I waited another couple of hours, until I thought conditions had improved somewhat.

Now, a 1984 Chevy Caprice is really not your rugged type car.  In fact, in the vernacular of the car world, it and all of  its cousins – the Ford Crown Victoria and the Lincoln Continental – are referred to as “floaters.” Their ride is velvety on the highway, and they handle reasonably well in the city, but they’re not “country” vehicles.  Rear wheel drive and low to the ground make them lousy in snow.  But, in all fairness, nothing does well on ice, and this is what we faced that morning.

I’d bought the Caprice when we still lived in the city, and, as with all of my cars, I planned to keep  it until it started becoming unreliable.  Just me:  Seems I can’t get rid of a vehicle until it’s on its last legs.  Country-fied or not, it would have to do.

I waited until about ten o’clock that morning, and then decided I’d give it a try.  Our driveway opened to a quarter mile upgrade to the stop sign, and there the road leveled off.  Make it to the intersection, and you were home free.

I took a run down the driveway and onto the gravel road.  Traction seemed okay as I passed my son’s pickup sitting in the ditch.  I was about midway to the stop sign.  I think I’m going to make it.

The rear wheels start to spin, and the Caprice comes to a complete stop, the tires whining uselessly.  I step on the brake and an odd sensation overtakes me.  The car doesn’t stop, but instead begins sliding backwards, down the incline, heading straight toward my son’s white pickup, its driver’s side door looming closer and closer.  I think that a family story is forming, one that I will never live down.

But the Caprice mercifully stops six feet short of the truck, still on the road.

I put it in park, gently exit the car, and survey my predicament.  If I try to go forward, the Caprice might just continue slipping backwards, into the pickup.  And there is not enough space to try backing the car away from the truck.

So, out of desperation, I bend over, grasp the corner of the rear bumper, and push.  Miraculously, the rear of the car slides sideways toward the center of the road, away from the truck.  I push again, and it slides a little more.  Forget any monumental feat of strength:  It was a case of the road being just that icy.

I push again, and my smile of satisfaction suddenly changes to one of shock, as the rear end not only slides sideways, but then the entire car resumes its backwards slide down the road, with me attached.  The rear wheels are not moving, because the transmission is still in park.  Nevertheless, they slide along the ice like sled runners.

The Caprice spins 180 degrees, the front end now heading down the road with me still grimly gripping the rear bumper.  Its starts to head toward the ditch on the other side of the road, as I try to “steer” the 4000 pound machine with the bumper.  You can guess how effective that is.  Luckily, there is no one around to see this car-turned-sled with the guy skating along in back.

The car continued on, and were it not for a ridge of gravel along the edge of the road, it would have plowed into the ditch, claiming two family vehicles that day.  As it was, the ridge slowed the Caprice and it eventually stopped short of the ditch.

Another DiMari made the walk home.  I’d had it.  There was no way I was going to try and move that car.

Later in the day, the ice melted enough where we pulled the pickup out of the ditch with a tractor, and the Caprice was able to move on its own.

The only one of us three who made it to work that day was my wife, who waited until she was sure the ice had melted.  To her credit, she never gloated…much.