Salon … haiku
Cut away past dreams
Transform me into more of
Who I want to be
☆
Category: writing
At the Root of Violence
At the root of violence and prejudice is the erroneous thinking that there is a “we” and a “they”. There is only “us.”
A thousand years from now, when we are time bleached bones, no one will care how the owner of those bones voted, what color the skin was, who they loved, how much money they had or what their title was. Given the horrific stories of weapons used to hurl small bits of metal at one another on roadsides and in churches, it might be a good time to take a harder look at all the ways each of us see ourselves as separate, better, more privileged, more worthy, more anything than others of us.
In truth, the cancer that is killing humanity is intolerance; adopting an attitude of superiority based on thoughts going on in our heads. Our self-imposed segregation into groups of like-believers who purposely engage in any form of intolerance only perpetuates and reinforces the “we” and “they” culture.
Are we consciously fighting hatred or are we feeding it with our own “acceptable” version of intolerance? Identifying ourselves as aligned with others who are similarly intolerant is a twisted and cancerous pride at being a “member” of a club built on mutual hate.
There is no “we” or “they”. There is only US.
Poetry Day – Haiku…White Riot
Haiku- White Riot
Jealous of the snow
All the summer cottonwoods
Throw down their white riot
Poetry Day- Stand Mother’s Day
STAND
You stand with us
You, who nurture cities
You, who stand as big sister
You, aunt
You, best friend
You, neighbor
You who nurture the soil and raise up food and blossoms
You who bring creatures home and show them humans can be loving too
You who protect us, heal us, inspire us and entertain us
You who teach us what we need to know
Mothers – all
You stand with us.
Vanity Schmanity: Self-Publishing Shame
“Writing is an act of ego. You might as well admit it.” William Knowlton Zinsser
An act of ego. Yes. Let’s get that right out there at the starting line. Writing, or for that matter, any art that is practiced must always begin in the depths of that small furnace of creativity that fuels the action of creating. It’s the same furnace where ego either burns you down to a liquid pile of defeat or forges you into a powerful blade that can vanquish doubt. Knowing this and choosing to wield your pen anyway, you will now face the next challenge; Self-Publishing versus Traditional Publishing. Or as some literary elitists prefer to see it; *Vanity Publishing* versus *Real Publishing*.
If you didn’t already think of yourself as a clever writer, you would only be writing in a private diary, locked with a key and tucked in a safe place where your sister won’t find it. The minute you hand your words to one other human being for their feedback you have taken the first step towards a life of more writing. That initial hit of praise can soar through your system like an opiate, making you crave another hit and soon.
So the big question I am wrestling is this: what is the definition of Vanity Publishing and is it still relevant in a world of eBook vs. paper book sales? I have a favorite author who also blogs and works the heck out of her writer platform. I get to peek into her day to day world like a viewer watching The Truman Show. Typically, I read her posts and find I’m nodding in agreement or laughing- as her posts are hilarious. The other day she wrote a piece on vanity publishing that pointed to a Florida bookstore that only sells self-published books by local artists. She referred to the store as a Vanity Bookstore. I’ve got to say, it rocked me back when I read those damning words.
Is that a fair statement? Vanity Bookstore? Or *Vanity Publishing* for that matter? Oh, don’t get me wrong. I know there is dreadful, self-aggrandizing drivel out there. Some of it, so bad that given a format it is deserving of, would rest at the bottom of Polly’s cage with cracked sunflower seeds obscuring the guano smeared letters. But, there is also a rising tide in the world of self-publishing and on its crest rides word gems and stellar stories. Those are told by amazing writers who want to put their work out there but shy away from the slave auction setting that has become Traditional Publishing.
Let’s get real. The big publishing houses will only select a tiny handful of authors to join their stable and of those, you can count on one hand which ones get the lion’s share of promo-money to get their books to reader’s around the globe. It’s a lotto win, not a guarantee of success when you are picked up by a publishing house. And even if you do win that lotto, you have a matter of weeks- less than six according to a New York literary agent-friend, and if your book doesn’t break the sound barrier within the pre-determined time frame then it will be put out to pasture like a lame horse. When that happens, your only chance of making money from your title is when stragglers trip over it at a bookstore, if they keep it on their shelves, or an eBook purchase when it’s offered at 99 cents. Or, you could wait until your contract with the publisher is over and then take back your work and go the self-publishing route, earning more than 80% of the cover price yourself.
What keeps rising in my mind in the great Indie versus Vanity Publishing discussion is that writing seems to be the only art form where people feel perfectly comfortable slapping a negative, mocking label onto your work because of the way it is served up to the public. Who are these *mean girl* people who revel in throwing down the V word like an insult meant to diminish the writer and their work?
Imagine this. You’re hanging out in Nashville on a Tuesday night. Looking for some food, cold beer and music you wander into the Bluebird Café over on Hillsboro Pike. A woman steps to the stage; slings her six string over her shoulder and cozy’s up to the mic. Over the next three and a half minutes you are transported to another plane of existence by her lyrics, her voice and the skill of her hands on the strings. Would it have ever occurred to you to say; even think, she’s a *Vanity Performer*. She isn’t signed to a record label. Hell, she even wrote her own song! Who is this chick and why is she taking up space on a stage meant for “professional” artists?
Hey! You with the shredded toe shoes! Yeah, I’m talking to you, skinny. Get off that stage and take your chine’s and demi-pointes with you, you poser. You aren’t signed with a ballet company so you’re a *Vanity Dancer*!
And you, with the paint brush and the forty-seven hour madness in your eyes! Take that canvas and go back to your garage where you belong! You don’t have an agent or a gallery representing your work so what are you doing at this fine art show anyway, you…you… *Vanity Painter*!
You catch my drift. Writing is the only art form that appears to be vulnerable to shaming through labels. Perhaps because the majority of the shamers have a degree in English that is currently in use lining Polly’s cage while they are paying their bills by hostessing at Applebee’s.
I’m asking the world in general to allow the Darwin theory to weed out the wheat from the chaff; survival of the fittest. Any individual with the ego, the courage, the talent and the tenacity to go through the process of self -publishing should have their day (or years or five minutes if it’s awful) in the published author’s glorious rays of sun. Once they upload their title into the Thunderdome that is Amazon Books, reviewers, trolls and meanies will either swoop in for the kill and pick their bones clean until they remove their title through sheer humiliation; or they will be raised up on shoulders with high praise; into the rarefied air of the best seller names where they can do lunch with Amanda Hocking in her Learjet as they wing their way to her private island in the Azores.
The waters of self-publishing are just as infested with sharks as traditional publishing seems to be. You could lose a limb either way if you don’t seek assistance in reading contracts and steer clear of companies that require exorbitant amounts of money from you along with your manuscript. There are also Fairy Godmother/father editors, graphic designers, formatting options, even promotional companies that can get your title out there for a reasonable fee. Many are not only legitimate businesses, but they can end up being life-long partners for you in your writing career.
Frankly, I can’t afford to be traditionally published at this point in my life, and so my titles will be self- published eBooks, and print-on-demand for those who prefer to read my words on paper. Call it whatever you want. The natural order of things will either crown me or kill me. Maybe I’ll be bleeding on the Thunderdome floor or maybe Amanda Hocking and I will be clinking champagne glasses at 30,000 feet. The point is, if my writing is fit to survive, it will. And if it’s not, well, you’ll never know unless I tell you that once upon a time I wrote a book.
Poetry Day: My Mistake
My Mistake
My mistake
was not
going down that road
to the place
where I
threw my arms open
to love –
vast, wild and freely given-
it was
in
assuming
that you
had come along
with me.
Reading/Watching/Listening: Spring Has Sprung
Yes, both Elizabeth Hunter and April White are FANTASTIC writers. Buy all their books and savor every word. I did. And I’m reading Changing Nature right now.
It rained yesterday! Which, if you’re not from California might not be super exciting, but if you ARE in California, caused you to break into spontaneous dancing.
So, my son was on Easter break last week, which meant we were both running around visiting family and friends, which was a lot of fun! But kind of tiring, too. Happily, I’m back home today and I’d like to report that I am approximately 1/3 finished with the first draft of the next Elemental World book, which features Murphy and Anne, who were supporting characters in Building From Ashes. More about them and the new book on the blog tomorrow.
Try to hold in your excitement.
Until I come out with that book, let’s talk about what I’m RWLing to when I’m not SLAVING AWAY LIKE A DRUDGE FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE!
(Banner stolen from April’s website. April, please don’t sue me.)
Reading:…
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Pro Bullying: Indiana, Let’s Call It What It Is
Indiana just made history passing a piece of legislation neatly wrapped and sanitized in the guise of “religious freedom.” First off, religious freedom in America is a given. It’s why those tight-ass pilgrims boarded rat infested ships and sailed to a land filled with Indians living peacefully and shoved their way into the picture. We already have “religious freedom” built into our constitutional rights.
A “Religious Freedom” bill is nothing more than a free pass to be an asshole to other people.
Indiana’s bizarre legislation, like Hobby Lobby and all the other conservative, “I want to control YOUR life”, organizations have begun what they think is a stealthy campaign to bring that old-time religious bullshit right into everyone’s living room. THIER old-time religion; effectively negating my personal beliefs in favor of their own.
They have purchased the elections of politicians and have enlisted the money power of one-per-centers whose corporate affiliations stand to earn windfalls of cash if the war-machine that is currently running the Hill have their way and successfully wrangle us into yet another never-ending war where they can peddle their products to the military. And the church goers don’t even care that their religious agenda is petty cannon fodder for the money men’s larger agenda.
Let’s cut the crap and call this exactly what it is. It is Bullying; plain and simple. It’s gathering the biggest, beefiest guys at school and beating the crap out of any skinny kid whose red hair and freckles “offend” you. It’s taking over student council and voting in a “No-Fags-At Prom” rule and the school board is letting you do it, because the board members are your parents and they hate “fags” too.
It’s pretending to be concerned about the “unborn” by hiring legal and public relations bullies whose job it is to find a way to shove your religion inside my uterus.
Bullying is locking arms across the front door of a place of business and barring the entry of a GLBT person or ejecting them from a business based on your own homophobic code of “ethics”.
What these groups are doing is attempting to dismantle the ACLU and any legislation that currently protects the rest of us from their bullying.
Whether you openly wear a white hood and spew hate rhetoric or you hide behind a cross and make up some outrageous bullshit about what Jesus would or would not do to the people you happen to hate, it is what it is: BULLYING.
The irony is thick as we are now surrounded with anti-bullying campaigns in our schools, while adults are spending more than some nations have- just to get in the pants of someone they are bullying and put a stop to something personal that they have no business even knowing about in the first place.
It’s Bullying. If you’re going to do it while you wear your pretty pastel clothing to Easter service, at least have the balls to admit what you are doing.
TRUTH: what a concept.
While you’re at Fed-Ex/Kinko’s getting your Pro-Life posters printed, make it a two-for-one and make your Pro-Bullying posters as well.
I can’t wait to see how they’ll spin that.
Hearing the Call from the Edge of the World
Scottsdale, Arizona.
In the pre-dawn light today, I saw a friend had posted a Facebook check-in from Scottsdale, Arizona. Not familiar with the restaurant name, I clicked the map and saw that it was less than a mile from the house where my parents had lived from the early 1970s until they died; she in 1997; he in 2001. Stretching and zooming on the Google map I browsed the now-unfamiliar road veins that litter the Valley all the way out to its mountainous borders.
Back in 1971, I sat in our house in Des Plaines, Illinois looking at another map of Scottsdale. I hated it already though in truth, I had no clue what I was looking at. What I did know was that the inked dot on Lincoln Drive marked the place where our new house was. In six months-time, smack in the middle of my senior year of high school, we would be packing everything we owned and moving out west. On the map of the dreaded destination my finger traced the nothing just a few blocks away from the new neighborhood. I remember feeling very much that my life, like the horrible place we were headed to, was also teetering on the edge of the world.
Beyond the little neighborhood surrounding the 82nd Way Cul-de-sac, was desert stretching out until it bumped up against the mountains that I could see in the distance from my second-floor room. A few blocks away you could rent a horse for $25 on the Pima Indian Reservation and ride all day. All the way up to Taliesin West nestled in the foothills of the McDowell’s, the only big road you crossed was Bell. It was so empty then that a car half a mile away could be heard; plenty of time to push into a gallop across the two lane pavement to the safety of the other side. Back then, names like Gainey and McCormick graced real working ranches with corrals and Drinkwater was Herb, the mayor.
I was furious that my father had bought a house so far out from everything. What mad voice had he listened to that told him to drag us out on the edge of the world? In the following years the landscape has changed as thousands have moved to the Valley. This morning, looking at the new roadmap it occurs to me that even I, a former Arizona tour-guide, might have a hard time finding my way around the tight web of highways and neighborhoods that jam pack every square inch of land where I used to hear the click of horseshoes touching rock.
The old map of the Scottsdale area , circa 1970s
That made me think about my father’s other choice of the house where I had sat in my glorious teenage angst holding the hated map to the “new” place out west. What was he listening to back in 1959 that inspired him to make a life on the edge of the northwest Chicago suburbs? The edge of the freaking world. One town over and forests gave way to farms. The wild plan to build a giant shopping center in the middle of nowhere and call it Woodfield held the same weight in my young mind as George Jetson’s flying car. Today, of course, you would need to enter an address in a Google search to locate that mall amidst the suburban sprawl. Was my father trying to get away from civilization through his choice of real estate or was he hoping other family would follow?
Which made me think of my grandfather, who crossed an ocean as a teenager, leaving the tiny Sicilian village of Gratteri for the bustling streets of 1905, Chicago. That same call my father had heard twice must have started in his own father. The call to push out and make a new home where you could breathe. The money my grandfather had saved working on the rail-yards was used to start a business and make a home in Melrose Park. Back then that was the edge of the local world to Chicagoan’s before farms yawned their way across Illinois to the Mississippi. Some of that rural-ness was still there in some form when I was a kid. I remember my grandfather making my dad stop the car on some dirt road and taking his pocket knife out to cut some mushrooms he had seen growing beneath a tree. He knew his plants and proudly cooked it up for us. Today, that would be a gourmet find. Back then it was Grandpa being weird again.
Tomorrow morning I’m heading out on a short road trip. Back to Chicago. Back to the city, now chock-a-block filled with a million souls and the ghosts of a thousand small businesses that rose and fell with disinterested younger generations. The new businesses that were built on their bones are also gone now and have been replaced again.
My son lives in the heart of the city; back to where my family’s Chicago story began. I’ll talk with him about the call I’m now hearing in my empty nest. It sounds like a sweet lullaby inviting me to follow a dream to the end of the Leelanau. You could say it’s the edge of the local world to me. There’s a little town up there where the buildings stop just a few blocks from Grand Traverse Bay. Beyond them the farms and vineyards stretch across the peninsula until they reach the other little towns that line the waters of Lake Michigan. In the middle of the town that’s singing to me, there’s a perfect business for sale and the promise of many new days in a place where I can breathe…and dream.
I hear it. More so, I can feel it; the pull of my heart needing to spend time in smaller places right now, before the rest of the world arrives and they change forever. I need to do this before the road maps need to be redrawn to accommodate the farm-turned neighborhoods and shopping centers that will inevitably arrive even into these quiet spaces. My dad would have loved this place. My grandfather, even more.
The timing is right and it feels like one of those decisions if left unmade will become a gnawing regret in time. I’m listening to the song that little town is singing to me while it’s still possible to tell someone to take a right at the apple orchard and look for the big red barn so they could find you without a GPS voice breaking the quiet of the drive. It should be now, before there is no one left in that new place who remembers the sound of morning birds rising in a field or a single car approaching from half a mile away.
Strange Love
Forget trying to understand why it happens. Embrace the weirdness of love. Happy Valentine’s Day. ♡
Word Ninja Girl 
