Anny Cook's Blog, page 22

Between the Tracks

I rarely comment on controversial subjects--mostly because I usually don't believe I have anything important to add to the controversy. The truth is I have very few new thoughts to add to most of the tempests currently populating social media, whether they're political, cultural, or religious. Sometimes they're all three.

I've recently been considering where to put my writing skills to work. Do I continue to write romances few people read? Do I pen vignettes from my childhood? Where, oh, where do I wield my sword? I don't know.

But it occurs to me, little is written (possibly even nothing is written) about segregation from the the white viewpoint of someone on the outside, looking in. My early childhood was spent in rural Arizona. I could count all the black folks I'd ever seen on one hand. Then when I was ten, we moved to a small town outside Gary, Indiana. Even back then, there was a high black population. I was fascinated. I had so many questions, questions that turned out to have no answers in 'polite' society.

I wanted to know how they got their hair so kinky. And if their dark skin felt the same as mine. How DID they get such dark skin, anyway? Did they stay out in the sun longer? What kind of lives did they live? Where did they live? It never occurred to me they were people just like me. And then Ora came to work for us.

My mother had died, leaving four motherless children. My grandmother worked as a school teacher so she wasn't available to 'do' for us. So they hired Ora to clean and cook and do laundry and keep a wary eye on us. Sitting in the kitchen, watching her bake cookies or make dinner, I asked her all the questions that bubbled up within me, never imagining the incredible rudeness I was inflicting on her. I will say this. She never failed me. She allowed me to touch her hair. And tried to explain why the palms of her hand were pink when the rest of her was so dark. She told me about the little house and the neighborhood where she and her friends lived.

Summer came and my grandmother was at home so the chats with Ora became a thing of the past. Naturally, my brothers and I played more outdoors and so it was we discovered the Red Train.

That's exactly how we pronounced it, with awe and a little anticipation in our voices. The red train was an abandoned section of passenger cars, rusty and barren, but we thought it was the most fabulous discovery. It sat on a derelict section of track a couple blocks behind the house where we lived. I suppose I should explain our town was a strange spot where about twenty tracks all came together. We lived south of the tracks. Town which included the schools, churches, stores, etc., was north of the tracks. Anytime we went to an event in town, we always had to plan an extra twenty to thirty minutes travel time in case a train was crossing Main Street. That was a frequent occurrence.

Anyway, one day when we were playing in the train, I met Bobbie Jo. Now Bobbie Jo was...a girl, a black girl, my age. We immediately hit it off because we both liked to read and had vivid imaginations. She invited me to her house--and that was the beginning of a wonderful few weeks for me. Her family lived in a small house between the tracks. I thought it was the most fabulous thing I'd ever seen and at once I began trying to think of a way my family could also have a house between the tracks. Her daddy worked for the railroad and her mama had just had a baby.

I was enchanted when her mama entrusted me with Bobbie Jo's baby brother. She actually allowed me to hold him while I sat in the rocking chair. Life was complete. At every chance, Bobbie Jo and I found time to play and read and talk about the strange world we lived in. We speculated about all the things young girls discuss when they're on the edge of womanhood. And never dreamed our friendship would ever end.

Now my daddy was the preacher at the Baptist Church. And the deacons summoned him to a meeting one day where they informed him he would need to deal with severing my friendship with the little black girl. Our church was considered quite progressive because it allowed the children in Bobbie Jo's family to attend the Sunday School. But. Bobbie Jo and I had crossed a line because we actually dared to be friends. That was something the deacons and church board wanted nipped in the bud at once.

To that end, our family moved to a house way out in the country, far from the temptations and delights of Bobbie Jo's family. And I was informed by the head deacon if I persisted in the friendship, my father would lose his position as preacher. From the perspective of adulthood, I'm pretty sure my dad didn't know about the little meeting between the head deacon and me. But the consequences were clear.

I wept many bitter tears over the loss of my friend. And that was when I lost a deal of innocence, too, because until then, it never even crossed my mind that such hatred and bigotry existed, masked behind the sorrowful smiles of religion. And my heart still hurts for the loss of Bobbie Jo.

Author's note: This story takes place in the very early sixties...

Should We Care?

"Beauregard Barker was in hell. He was positive no place on earth could be any worse than where he was. He bit through his lip and turned his head, holding back a scream when jagged agony ripped through his shoulder. Something, a deep, primitive sense of danger, strangled his cry."~~Phantom's Rest by Anny Cook

Over the years since I became a published writer, I've talked a lot about how much I treasure a book that captures my interest from the beginning. Captures and holds it in the author's clenched fist right to the end. Publishing is in the throes of chaos and disorder. It might even be on the brink of extinction. If so, a large part will be borne by the authors who don't care. They don't care to craft a story. They don't care to spend the necessary time to shape an arresting beginning, an interesting middle, or an amazing, satisfying conclusion. 

Nope.

Instead, they're banging out a book-of-the-month, bragging about how quickly they write, how many zillion words they write a day. To what purpose?

In the last few weeks, I've read a bunch of books. I admit I'm a very fast reader, voraciously devouring books at such a rate that I usually read over 500 books a year--in addition to the other responsibilities that make up my life. Unfortunately, only a minuscule number of those books are new.

When I was younger, I took pride in finishing every book I started, certain to do less was a failure. But now, from the increased wisdom of hardwon years, I know finishing a terrible book is a waste of precious time and effort. So. I don't read them. 

Make no mistake. I'm not talking about a book I find uninteresting. No, the books I reject commit the worst of sins. They're so boring I don't care to read past the first paragraph. I usually persevere to the end of the chapter, but no more. If the author cares so little to capture my interest that they can't write an engaging first chapter, then I feel no guilt in setting that book on the reject pile. 

I suspect some authors believe the genre will make or break their book. Not so. An accomplished writer can make anything interesting from math texts to geography to rocket science. One of the best books I've ever read was a history of the Mayflower. Some of the worst I've read were romances. I reiterate it wasn't the subject matter. It's the delivery.

Dammit. Take the time to write. Pounding the keyboard is not necessarily writing. Any cat or dog or toddler can do that. When you finish the first paragraph, read it and ask yourself, "Do I care?" If not, then walk away and find some other occupation. Please.

Forgotten Truths

Back when I was a young parent with several children struggling to learn despite various learning issues, I was required by the state I lived in to take a parenting class...every year. There was a good reason for that. Struggling children tend to act out a lot. Several of them is one family can prove to be quite chaotic. Hence, the class.

Oddly enough, I discovered one of the main principles in this class was also applicable to general life and worked well for managing general peace and tranquility, especially as I tended to be one of those people who tries to micromanage everything--and everyone--around me. Are you ready? Here it is. When encountering a frustrating situation, stop and ask yourself the following questions:

Is this my problem? It might be. It probably isn't.

For instance, you ask your child to make his bed. When you check on it later, you find a minimal job with wrinkled sheets and crooked bedspread. Stop. Think. Is this YOUR problem? Did he in fact make the bed? So, the problem is not his obedience, but YOUR standard. Will you be sleeping in this bed? Does it affect you in any way other than your pride? No? Then walk away. NOT your problem.

A second example for those who have adult children who are struggling. You know they are having trouble paying their bills. Your first instinct is to rush in and help out. STOP. Is this YOUR problem? Are they your bills? Or is it your desire to manage your child's life that urges you to 'help' them. Actually, if they're adults, then they've already managed things just fine. My experience is, they'll find a way to deal with THEIR life. NOT your problem.

One last example we live every day. Politics, crime, poverty and homelessness...or any other issue you can think of. Anxiety and stress are killers. Worrying about things YOU cannot change do nothing about the issue AND make you sick. So again, apply the test. Is this my problem?

Idiot politicians--ultimately dealt with at the polls. What can I do about this problem? Nothing until it's time to vote. Worrying in the meantime is counterproductive and silly. Research (NOT by reading facebook posts!) and be prepared with knowledge when the time comes.

Crime--everyone's problem, but what can I do? Be observant. Be aware of your surroundings. Do what you can to make sure you are not a victim. Be there for other victims. If appropriate, report your observations to the police or appropriate authority. Worry? Not appropriate.

In every case, for every issue, stop long enough to ask yourself 1) Is it my problem? and 2) What CAN I do about it? 3) What SHOULD I do about it? See example two above. Just because you CAN doesn't mean you SHOULD.

If it's truly not your problem, walk away. Heh, that's easier said than done, isn't it? Because the truth in the end is most things around us are not our problems. They're things we take on because we believe down deep that we can manage them better than the other guy. We itch to put in our two cents worth, to lord it over the other guy, to tell them how to live their lives, when in reality, we aren't doing such a hot job of managing our own.

So tell me...is it your problem?

Manipulation

Ah, yes. It's that time again. Political mayhem. As far as I can tell, it never goes away. It's sort of how a writer works--finish one, begin the next.

I wonder what would happen if the voters had no information about the candidates other than their public records? You know...basic info. Education, congressional voting record (if they have one), public service record. No info on age, gender, family, ethnicity, skin color, religion, appearance. No info on personal beliefs. No info on income or personal fortune/or lack of.

How would we vote, then? What would we base our decisions on?

I remember what a brou-ha-ha there was when Kennedy was running for president because he was Catholic. Hoo, boy. The country was gonna come to a nasty end if he won! He died and we ended up with Johnson. Was he any better? What about Tricky Dicky? Or any of the other presidents we've saddled ourselves with the last fifty years?

Probably the greatest sleight of hand has been the notion that the President has autonomy and can make wide sweeping decisions without the consent of the Congress. Everyone blames the current incumbent and ignores the truth. For every issue We the People are concerned about, we SHOULD be blaming--or crediting--the Congress. Money? War? Public programs? Social Security/Medicare? Veteran's benefits?

ALL, I say all of those are controlled by the Congress.

Here's the scary part. Most of them have been in Washington more than twenty-five years. Some as long as forty plus. Tell me, my friends...what has changed during that time period? Nothing, absolutely nothing. We hang a new hat by the White House door, but we change nothing in Congress--and then we wonder why we have the same old, same old.

Until we start looking at the voting records and affiliations of our congressmen/women, NOTHING will change. Electing a new individual to sit in the White House and look pretty isn't gonna do it. The good old boy network isn't there. It's over in the Capitol, playing Monopoly with our money and lives.

And we're blindly believing anything the media serves us. Perhaps...we're gonna get what we deserve.

Hair of the Dog

I sort of drifted off the track over the last couple weeks. Planned to blog two or three times a week, but the great blizzard took over my life and everything else went out the window. So I'm aiming for a fresh start on the 1st day of February.

I've had plenty of time to mull over all sorts of topics. But this blog's topic is one I've wondered about for quite a while. It's about the management of body hair. Two people arrange to go out to dinner. Here's how the play-by-play stacks up:

HE: Shower, shampoo, shave face/or NOT, dress.

SHE: Shower, shave legs/underarms/other pertinent parts (including her face if she's my age!), shampoo/blowdry/or NOT, dress, makeup, etc.

How is that fair? Who decided women had to do all this crap to be attractive? Probably it all started with the safety razor. But if books--especially historical romances--mentioned the hairy legs, etc. of their heroines, what do you suppose that would do to the story?

You might wonder why I'm even asking, but recently I watched a rerun of a fairly popular TV show. The male character met a female character he found very attractive and proceeded to try to engage her interest. Then...he discovered she didn't shave her underarms and legs and suddenly he couldn't get away fast enough. So. Why do American men (in particular) demand hairless wussies, yet expect women to find their hairy baboon bodies attractive? If de-hairing the body is so important, why don't the guys do it? And I'm NOT just talking about the manscaping some models do.

In the interest of equal time, guys should have to ALSO shave underarms, legs, pertinent parts...heck if they're really hairy, whisk that razor back and front. How long do you suppose it would take them to get ready to go out?

Dumbing Down

When I started reading (around age five) my father started me with the Bible. It was a book--actually, one of the few books in our house at that time--so that was my beginning reader. Now I don't know if any of you have read the King James Version of the Bible, but it was translated in the 1600s so it's contemporary with Shakespeare. To this day, the poetry of the King James Version sings to me.

Recently, I sent a new manuscript to several beta readers. As is usual with the readers I choose, they offered comments and suggestions for which I'm very grateful. But one particular issue common to all of them was their comments about a couple words I used. Yes, they were 'made-up' words, but then our entire vocabulary consists of made-up words. They all began somewhere.

So one of the sentences mentioned was the following:

     On the underground market the boots would fetch enough distris to buy an entire herd of shnormies.

They questioned 'distris'. Why not use coins instead? Prior to this point in the book I had described shnormies (a riding beast), but I didn't explain distris because I thought the meaning was clear from the sentence. I submit that if this book was placed in Regency England, the proper names for coinage would be used with no further explanation.

Deducing word meaning from the context was how I learned to read. Is this no longer taught in school? We didn't own a dictionary when I was very young. I was expected to figure it out by adding up the clues in the text.

So here's my question--are we as romance writers dumbing down our writing? Are we so anxious to be everything to everyone that we're nobody to anybody? Am I the only one who enjoys books that stretch my imagination and mental muscles? And how far are we prepared to go to appeal to everyone? Not all readers want to read a book that appeals to the lowest denominator.

Vocabulary and imagination shouldn't need to be sacrificed so we can appeal to every possible reader. I believe if the story is well written and engaging, it will reach the readers who will enjoy and appreciate it the most.

What say you?

Take a Nap

There are all sorts of coping mechanisms. Some folks ignore the chaos around them. Some try to control it. Some find solace in music or reading or television. Personally, I take a nap.

I've heard some people talk about taking a walk, but that isn't always convenient. It might be raining or snowing or windy or cold. Napping is always available. Napping doesn't require any equipment (except for a soft, cozy, thick afghan). It can happen anytime of day. And napping has no particular time requirements. You can nap for fifteen minutes or three hours.

Living in the moment is okay. But for a really positive experience...take a nap.

Chimes of Time

When I was a small child, one of my earliest memories is napping on a pallet on the floor at my grandparents, listening to the soft chimes of their clock. It chimed on the quarters and half hour in addition to marking each hour. That was over sixty years ago.

My grandparents are long gone, along with their possessions. And I hadn't thought about the clock in many years...until a cousin, Carolyn, wrote to ask me if I wanted my grandparents clock. Oh, how excited I was. Immediately, I wrote back, "Yes, yes, yes!" I was so thrilled when it arrived in the mail, along with two plates from my grandma's kitchen.

Now as I sit in my office, I listen to the clock chiming, bringing back distant memories of another time and place. It sits on this small bookcase right outside my office door, reminding me that time can bring joy and sweetness, even as it rushes by.

New Years Eve Watchnight

This morning I read through my Facebook feed, noting Happy New Year wishes and the sharing of plans for the evening. There seemed to be a 50/50 split between staying at home and going out to party. I freely admit the very idea of partying at midnight gives me the shudders.

I've been looking back, way back to the time when I was a youngster. I don't remember any particular celebrations for New Years until I was in my teens. There might have been some, but they weren't very important to me. Our family was what was known as a 'religious' family so drinking and dancing weren't our way, anyway.

I do remember the Watchnights of my mid-teens, though. As I've mentioned before, it was a very turbulent time. The body count from the Vietnam War was posted every night in the upper left hand corner of the TV screen during the news. The numbers were a constant reminder of our soldiers at war. The civil rights wars at home were no less disturbing. Riots, assassinations, burning cities, murders all led to instability and insecurity. Young people held demonstrations against all sorts of things. Woodstock shook up the establishment.

The young of today think they are living in uncertain times. Every generation believes that. Every generation has their own demons, their own problems to face.

But I was talking about my times...

New Years parties were mostly for the wealthy and celebrities. Every day folks might have a small dinner or something like that, but 'good' people didn't go to bars or clubs. They celebrated with family and friends.

Our family attended a church that held a Watchnight service every New Years Eve. We arrived at church around 8 PM for a pot-luck dinner. I always loved pot-luck dinners at church because all the women brought their best dishes. It was a feast. After dinner, some folks visited while others play board games. And then around 11:30 everyone went upstairs to the sanctuary for the Watchnight service. We sang hymns. Several people read passages from the Bible that they found relevant to hope for the New Year. And at midnight we prayed for peace and compassion. After a last hymn, everyone went home.

I can't say if our celebration was better or worse than any others. But when we woke up on New Years morning, we faced that day with renewed hope. Perhaps, that's all we can really do. Face each new day with hope.

Christmas Child

My last Christmas post for 2015...

Christmas 2003. It was a busy, busy year. In June we moved from New York to Maryland because the house hunk was transferred. Moving is always stressful, but this time it was particularly so because we lived in our last home for nineteen years. So much stuff. So much stuff to sort and get rid of or throw out! Then in mid-September Hurricane Isabel roared into Maryland. Fortunately, we were not near the flooding, though one of the trees behind our building ended up on our balcony.

Our younger daughter was pregnant, due in late December. We made arrangements to stay with our oldest son. Our daughter and her boyfriend were staying in a small room so Christmas was celebrated at our son's apartment. No baby. It appeared that the baby was in no hurry to arrive. We made arrangements to wait the baby out, but by December 29th, we were running out of our medications and reluctantly made the decision to go home the next day. That afternoon our daughter called, "Don't go yet! I've started labor!"
In a little while, her boyfriend called. "She wants you to be here when the baby's born." So we hopped in the car and made the forty-five minute drive across the Hudson River to the hospital. When we arrived, he was waiting for us and ushered us up to the maternity floor. She didn’t quite make it for Christmas, but on December 29th close to midnight, the househunk and I were with my daughter and her boyfriend, present when Daisha Monet made her entrance. 
Witnessing the miracle of a new baby never gets old. The precious gift of a new life—especially at Christmas—is a reminder of the real reason we celebrate Christmas.
She's twelve this year. Happy Birthday, baby!!!