Salon … haiku
Cut away past dreams
Transform me into more of
Who I want to be
☆
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.
Actual exchange this morning while out with my dog.
Other: “Wow. she’s really showing her age. How old is she?”
Me: “Uh…Seven.”
Other: “Yeah. That’s about as long as they live. Oh, well.”
Me:
I say nothing..aloud. If I said what was going through my head at the moment I’m pretty certain that Other’s head would have exploded. Instead I patted my dog and turned back towards the house. In my head, aside from the tirade of profanity that was creeping up my collar, I was thinking, I hope like hell she never volunteers to be a grief counselor. So not helping.
I’ve known Other for a couple decades and there hasn’t been any signs of dementia or other disorder that might cause her to blurt out any unfiltered thought that pops into her head. That leaves one conclusion. Terminal rudeness.
Imagine this line of thinking if we adjust the scenario with one exchanged detail…
Me: “Wow, your mom’s really showing her age. How old is she now?”
Other: “Eighty nine.”
Me: Shaking my head on an exhale. “Yeah, that’s about as long as they live. Oh, well.”
You see the problem. Apparently, on her planet, ours was a normal exchange. I don’t want to live on her planet. I don’t even want to visit there.
I know my dog is getting older. I know Great Danes don’t have as long a life as smaller dogs. No shit, Sherlock. Just let me bathe in the bubble of *happy dog time* that I do have… And I swear to god, if you say one rude thing after she’s gone, I am egging your house on the hottest day of the year.
There. I feel better. Now, THAT helped.
I have a big dog. A Great Dane in fact, and this morning I was out back collecting some spring flowers that only seem to thrive in the places where we’ve dumped her winter offerings collected from the snow covered yard. A 135 pound dog can create an impressive volume of offerings. It’s a ritual; following her after her daily constitutional with the blue metal scooper and carrying the mess to the side beds to toss it just over the ornamental rail where it decomposes beneath grapevine, clematis, day lilies, azalea and other sleeping things in the garden.
By May, after the mess has been incorporated into the soil and mulched, it’s a tiny jungle of green. As I crouch down to move the lush green leaves and collect the delicate violets and lily-of-the-valley that grow there, every brush of my hand against the petals will cause a cloud of heady fragrance to perfume the air. The amazing scent these tiny bell shaped flowers give off herald spring and all the little things that have returned after our punishing Michigan winters. They bloom and thrive for a few short weeks and then they’re gone. Waiting for next winter’s feeding to gather the steam to do it all again.
These beautiful, tiny wonders were fed from the mess that was once dog crap. Hey, it’s fertilizer. Whether it comes from cows or another creature, the nutrients and organisms make for rich ground.
Dog shit. Who knew that out of such an unpleasant situation, some of the most fragrant and lovely flowers could rise from the muck and thrill the lucky recipient of the bloom? It got me thinking about other things; people even, who started their lives in awful, challenging and difficult situations and somehow turned their time on Earth into a blazing wonder of creativity.
I have bought, and received, gorgeous hothouse flowers; roses and other things that look absolutely perfect from a distance. Moving closer I am always disappointed to find there is hardly a scent to them at all. Pressing my nose right into the blooms I find nothing; as if they were silk and a Made in China paper tag should be found stuck to the stem near the plastic thorns.
These flowers have been given the perfect setting, just enough water, nutrients, light and tending to produce perfect petals and uniform color. They bloom on time for the growers and are cut and delivered to market like obedient little children; having done their homework and gotten the proper eight hours of sleep each night. Everything…right. Everything…calculated and perfect. And they are that; perfect. Flawless. Soul-less. Lifeless and perfect.
These hot house flowers are like so many boarding-school, trust-fund children; their path from birth to death a safe and predictable journey. Bred and trained to maintain the family’s reputation and to protect the fortune amassed by relatives until the young reach an age when they can quietly whither in their private gardens observed by those who can afford the luxury of their physical beauty.
Call me crazy but I’ll take a handful of dog-shit-fed, knock-you-on-your-ass-with-their-heavenly-scent, drive way throw off, back-garden lily-of-the-valley any day over the surgical beauty of a hothouse rose.
I’ll take my friends and my heroes like that too. The people I know who started out fighting their way through the shit are the shining stars that make life fascinating. They took what they were fed and used it as fertilizer for books they’ve written, for art they have made, for inspiration to grow on through the mess. The ones who came from nothing; even the wealthy rebels who rejected the attempts to conform them to the family cookie cutter shape, they have brought a bouquet of fantastic memories to anyone lucky enough to meet them.
Here’s to starting life in a pile of crap and coming up smelling like heaven…
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.
“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.
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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I made this for anyone who needs it. You’re welcome. Copy and paste into asinine debate areas and message threads.
People of Earth
This debate has been resolved.
There is no further need to post your own
personal opinions on this topic
as they are now irrelevant.
The final word on this topic has been decided by:
(Select one or all that apply)
The _____________ religion,
The ____________ political party,
The ____________ gender,
Ms./Mr./Mrs. _______________; a self-proclaimed genius.
Thank you for your participation.
This resolution is now International Law.
You may return to your lives.
Move along…
There is nothing to see here.
∞Mdh2015∞