Angela B. Chrysler's Blog, page 6

Pacing

Pacing makes or breaks a story. No matter how good the story is, or how well the author rights, if the pacing is off, the story will die. Go too slow and the reader will put down the book and ne’er return. Go too fast and the reader will get frustrated, confused, and feel cheated. Usually so much so that they won’t read any of your future books.

Pacing is simply how fast or how slow the story moves. Too slow and the reader is bored and stops reading. Too fast, and the reader isn’t given time to enjoy the adrenaline rush and tension. An author’s job is to build the pacing with a balanced ebb and flow much like the waves coming into shore. Too slow and the reader abandons the book. Too fast, and the reader feels cheated.

Pacing is 100% controlled by detail and action. Detail slows. Action speeds up. Too much detail and the pacing drags. Readers will become bored and stop reading. Too much action and the reader will feel cheated out of a story. Too little detail and the story feels rushed. Too little action and the story just drags. Never confuse action for detail.

Example: One romance novel I read got to the ending when the big battle scene comes. I was revved up, ready to go! I was so excited! And then: “I don’t want to bore you with the details.” Cut scene. (The author really wrote that. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”) WHAT! I screamed, “No! Bore me! Bore me!”

This author called an intense action scene “details” and skipped the blood bath that broke out between two Scottish clans in the middle of the Highland moors. I’m still sitting here waiting for my battle scene.

Pacing is all about the right balance between details and action.

Generally, there are three modes in a story:

Time passing
Exchange of information
Events unfolding

We will review each of these in turn.

Time Passing

Naturally, time passes in a story. Characters will eat, use the bathroom, sleep, and pour themselves a cup of coffee during their time with your reader. In Fantasy novels, characters could be travelling morning, noon, and night for months. In romance novels, characters could be sitting through a social event thinking for hours about their loved one while wishing the event to end. In Harry Potter, Harry sits on the train to Hogwarts for how many hours? How much an author decides to reveal can make those empty hours drag on forever.

The problem with passing time is its slow reading. Painfully slow. “Do we really need to see this?” was wisely asked in Mystery Science Theater 3000 when we watched a man open a folding stool and position his obese buttocks just so on the stool. Really? Do we really need to see this? Details is the culprit. Detail slows story.

I defer to my favorite author, Victor Hugo. M. Hugo wrote no less than 50 pages detailing every last balustrade and flying buttress in the Notre Dame Cathedral all before starting the story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It made for some insanely slow, dry reading. In Les Miserables, Hugo spent no less than three pages laying out this gorgeous walled in garden. Why? Because Gavroche leaps the wall. That’s all. All that detail for one brief fleeting moment. The most painful thing I read was the 50-page chapter in A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. It took me six months to read through that 50-page chapter. What happened in those 50 pages? I don’t remember. I remember it was dry as hell and hard to get through. I remember hating it. I remember very little else about that book. For the record, nothing happened in those 50 pages. It was all just mundane details and information.

Pacing here is all about balance. If the story is slow, limit the details and move on. Never keep a slow scene for the sake of characterization. When time passes or things happening are the things we all do every day (that morning bathroom routine), skip it. Most of the things spelled out for readers can safely be assumed. I know Harry Potter woke every morning and used the bathroom. I know he showered regularly and probably took two to three bathroom breaks during school every day. Thank god, JK Rowling skipped those parts. If you have a scene you’re hanging onto just to build on your character, scrub it. Develop your characters “in the moment” when things are moving along.

What is it: When you need to communicate to readers that time has indeed passed, but nothing relevant to the story has taken place within that time.

Problem: Laying out too much information during an already slow moment in a book can drag that already dull moment out longer making it a painfully dry read. Most readers stop reading and don’t come back.

Common error: Characterization. Many authors fill in dead scenes with the mundane actions to build on “characterization.” Unfortunately, unless the character is REALLY ECCENTRIC (Not even the Doctor from Doctor Who or Howl from Howls Moving Castle received this kind of attention) no character is so interesting that their mundane actions will keep a reader hooked. Build on characterization in other scenes where plot unfolds, action occurs, or information is exchanged.

Fix: Cut scenes. Limit details or skip these moments altogether. Only write what’s relevant to the plot. Ask yourself: “If I cut this scene, will the story/plot suffer? If your story remains unharmed/unchanged, cut it! It’s not important.

Exchange of Information

The hardest thing I’ve ever written was the 6,000-word chapter that provided my characters and my readers with the backstory. It took months to cut this 6,000-word beast down to 2,000. All the research I had done of the 10th century kings of Norway went into this chapter to give readers the “why” to all their questions. For me, it was fascinating. For readers…it was a massive, unnecessary information dump that dragged the story down.

Nothing is more important than bringing a character (and a reader) into the light. Answering those “why’s” that you built up. Unfortunately, if this is note done with care, you’ll lose the reader.

If you’re going to drag your pacing and lose your reader, most likely, it will be over the Exchange of Information. When done poorly, information is usually done with nothing happening. Nothing…is already not happening. Chances are, your characters are sitting down, relaxing, eating, resting, drinking, showering…already dull and mundane. Now you’re going to throw in some information that alters the plot. They find a note, uncover an artifact, are told of some argument a king had with a wench 30 years ago that altered events. For the author, it’s always a “big reveal.” They’ll pause and throw in all the right pauses. Clearly the author understands the weight of the situation, but will the reader? Here’s the problem, if your pacing is off, and it already is at risk of being off during an information exchange, you’ll bore the reader who will check out before you’re “big reveal.” You can’t cut the scene like you can with the passing time scenario. Exchange of Information contains vital information that alters or moves the plot. Pacing is your friend and your enemy here. Get it wrong and you’ve bored the reader who stopped reading your book or your “big reveal” was lost on the reader.

Keep this in mind, when you have information to reveal to your reader, keep things short, simple, and moving. Pacing is already not on your side. Keep the story moving with tension by avoiding unnecessary details. Get to the point and move on. Have that information revealed as quickly as possible: enough to keep the reader engaged, not so quickly that the big reveal is lost, not so slowly that the reader stops reading. Never combine “big reveal” with characterization. Think Star Wars. That “Big Reveal” of “No. I am your father,” was done after Luke lost his hand, after the confrontation between Luke and Darth Vader, and while Luke was hanging, just barely, on the satellite millions of miles over space. And just before he let go and fell.

Big Reveal Harry Potter: Book #1. Harry gets through to the Mirror of Erised. There stands Quirrel. The “OMG! It’s not Snape!” happens, oh! And he has Voldemort fused to the back of his head. You know that moment. Harry just fought a life-sized chess game and they were nearly eaten by Fluffy.

One more example: In Dolor and Shadow, the “Big Reveal” is when Kallan is told by her vile enemy, Rune, that “Ooh! by the way. We’re in Midgard, thousands of miles from home. An entire Dvergar army is on our tale. A crazed king is hunting you. And the only way you have of surviving is by trusting me, the man who killed your father. Stay here and die, go it alone and die, OR try…TRY to team up with me.” This big reveal comes at a slow moment in the story, but immediately follows a battle where Kallan may be dead. Just when the reader comes down off an adrenaline high, just when the reader is giving a moment to rest from the action, then they are giving the plot twist delivered in a heated conversation between enemies…if they don’t kill each other first.

What is it: Balancing important plot reveals and information with pacing so as to not lose the reader.

Problem: Already too slow scenes are used to reveal important information, or information is lost between intense action scenes that drown out the need-to-know information.

Common error: Authors cram important information into an already slow scene.

Fix: Cut the detail and condense on the slow scenes, or cut the scene altogether and relocate your “important information” or “big reveal” to a scene or next to a scene with action.

Action

Action naturally is fast.

James caught the knife, dropped to the floor, and rolled just as Victor dropped his foot down.

Ironically, phrases like, “Suddenly,” or “As quickly as James turned around” or “Within a few breaths,” slows the pacing and do the exact opposite the author is wanting: to convey speed. Action, when poorly written, can be too fast or too slow. Too slow? The manuscript is watered down with modifiers meant to convey speed, or too much detail (AKA imagery) is given to paint the scene. If you need to paint the scene, do it briefly as soon as the scene starts. Preferably, as the character enters the room. If there is dialogue in the action scene, limit it. No one, no one really monologues mid-fight. Really. Save that for screen plays. Bad guys don’t monologue. If your characters do get into a discussion mid-fight, keep them fighting…or talking. Remember Pirates of the Caribbean 3: Worlds End? William and Elizabeth get married right there on deck…mid-fight. Best. Wedding. Ever.

Fights are fast. Escapes are fast. Tension and adrenaline come from speed and fast pacing. You want the reader to hold their breath with each page turn. Here’s another problem. Make them hold their breath too long and your reader will feel mentally fatigued after. They will stop reading if they find the book too stimulating. Let your reader breathe.

A properly paced book will have moments of mystery, action, adventure, and pauses. Let’s return to Mr. Potter. The first book launches into a mystery. Who is the boy who lived? How did he live? Why would a grown wizard attack an infant? What are these letters? What is Harry? Who is trying to talk to him and why? Mystery.

The mystery quickly turns to an adventure. Uncle Vernon buys a gun and sails them through a storm on the lake to a run-down cottage where they hide out. I always wanted to know what this place was and how Vernon came to own/rent it. Then Hagrid appears. We receive our information following that adrenaline rush and our mystery. But the information keeps us engaged. A gun is fired. Magic is used. Dudley gets a pig tail. Exciting stuff despite the slow pacing. Then we’re on to Diagon Alley. Wonder fills us and Harry. We hold our breath hoping Rowling lets us peer into every window. We’re like children condemned to riding in a cart and Harry (Rowling) is driving that cart. If Harry doesn’t look, then we don’t get to see.

The wonder continues to enfold, until we learn of strange things happening. Never a dull moment at Hogwarts, although we’re giving plenty of down time, which is always guaranteed to be interrupted with trolls in the dungeons and illegal dragon eggs and trips into the Forbidden forest. The mystery continues as we noticed some odd things happening and some really horrible things such as a creature drinking unicorn blood and Voldemort’s brief appearance.

A well written book will have a bit of every genre. Mystery, crime, adventure, action, and romance. Only fantasy, science fiction, and horror are optional.

Limit the detail. Provide detail only when it’s needed to paint the scene. Provide detail only on a need-to-know basis. Cut everything else out. During the action scene, take a page out of E.B.White. Drop the reading level down to a 4th grade reading level. Keep sentences short and brief. But pepper the paragraphs with long sentences.

Sentence structure goes a long way with pacing. “I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam I Am. I will not eat them in a boat. I will not eat them with a goat. I will not eat green eggs and ham. Leave me! Leave me Sam I Am.” Green Eggs and Ham provides a lot of action, tension, and is well paced, building adrenaline to the very end when finally, FINALLY he tries the green eggs and ham. Readers are worn down just as much as the protagonist. FINE! I’ll try your bloody eggs and ham! And then, relief. Writing is poetry. It truly is. And the words we use to form sentences create a rhythm. Change up the rhythm. During action scenes, use brief, clean sentences. Avoid complex words…and always…get to the point! Never miss important details. You want clean, precise sentences that provide speed and clarity. Avoid modifiers. Action scenes are the time for telling, not showing. Never, NEVER, embellish on emotions during an action scene. And if you do, it had better be as intense an emotion as the action. Like Luke learning just who his father is. The torment is just as intense as the lightsabers.

Be sure you don’t cram action scene after action scene into your book either. Let the reader stop for a rest along with your character. One of my favorite examples of this is in Lord of the Rings.

Right after Gandalf falls…we have a goblin attack and a cave troll. We have a narrow escape. And then, we are given a Balrog! The wizard and the Balrog face off. Another narrow escape, and Gandalf falls. But the author has mercy. We get a brief moment to breathe when the hobbits emerge from the mines. They fall to the ground and cry. Although inappropriate as goblins are right on their tails, we are still granted that moment to breathe.

“Let’s move,” says Aragorn.

“Give them a moment. For pity’s sake.”

“By nightfall these hills will be crawling with orcs! We move.”

The action continues, but briefly. The hobbits enter the woodland realm where things slow down and they can rest properly and mourn their friend. During our rest, when we welcome the slow pacing to catch our breath, we gain some vital information. We see just how evil the ring is, and how much it can corrupt even the best of people. Galadriel.

What is it: Bogging actions scenes with too much detail or giving too little detail as to lose clarity.

Problem: Action scenes that are meant to be fast are watered down with too much detail. Or, in an attempt to create speed, too much detail is omitted.

Common error: Authors try to use imagery and emotion to paint the scene at a time when the scene needs to be told and not shown.

Fix: Use short, clean sentences. Avoid large words and tell. Don’t embellish. Be sure every action is clear and you don’t omit so much detail as to lose clarity. Be sure you give the reader time enough to break after the action scene. Let readers catch their breath with a slow-paced scene following the action. This is a good time to let your characters (and your reader) reflect on what just happened and their feelings about the events.

Dialogue: One final word

I am huge on writing dialogue. Unless you can’t write dialogue, use this as your primary method for delivering information, emotions, and tension. Nothing builds characterization, tension, and pacing better than dialogue. Nothing shows the story more than dialogue. But mundane “small talk” in a book will kill your pacing. **cough** Jane Austen **cough**

Never…NEVER…put small talk in a book. Unless you’re trying to paint a tense/uncomfortable situation, never have your characters discuss weather. Everything you write must have a purpose. It must have a reason for being in the book.

One of my favorite examples is this. If your book were made into a movie, would the scene/character get cut? If so, then cut it. If the scene/character isn’t worth the budget, then it isn’t needed in the plot.

Dialogue has its place. Use it sparingly in action scenes.

Kindred by Tiffany Apan

 

Kindred (The Birthrite Series, #2) (Volume 2)


It is the summer of 1933 and nearly two years since that fateful Halloween night in Plains, New York.

Born and raised in Dayton, Ohio, eighteen-year-old Cletus Blake spends his days working to help his family through the massive economic recession spreading throughout the United States and many other areas of the world. As society struggles to accept that the economic surge of the 1920s are long gone, Cletus also clings to the memory of his last phone conversation with his cousin Dorothy. Having formed and maintained a relationship with two of her close friends - the recently married Reginald and Gail Carr Johnson - the three find solace in regular communication with one another.

Like Dorothy, Cletus possesses supernatural abilities inherited through his bloodline. His vivid dreams and visions - including ones of a beautiful young Romani woman and twin baby boys - continue to increase in strength. Meanwhile, Reginald and Gail begin falling prey to dark adversaries that have been lying in wait.

Evil surrounds at every turn, old friends race to help, and ancient evil re-emerges. A war between worlds brews beneath the surface, threatening to rip the protective seams that keep the portals sealed.

Then in the midst of it all, Cletus happens upon a caravan traveling through his Ohio town. The very familiar Romanichal family's history ties not only to his own past, but to all the kin of the four men that experienced worlds outside of their own on that summer solstice in 1844. All are linked to a future that will reunite the Blakes and the Livingstons, two families that at one time, shared a very unlikely friendship.

Kindred is the second full-length novel in The Birthrite Series. Picking up from where Descent and Sacred Atonement: A Novelette left off, the story continues to challenge all that is known about light and dark, good and evil. Passion, intrigue, and secrets abound as history unravels. Revelations uncovered in previous installments are given new perspectives, taking the reader on a thrilling ride into a world where nothing is ever what it appears to be.




PreviewView Book SampleOther Library in "The Birthrite Series" Descent (The Birthrite Series, #1) (Volume 1) Sacred Atonement: A Novelette (The Birthrite Series, #1.5)

About the Book

 

 

SNEAK PEAK

His eyes darted about and breath hitched when he saw the property of the Fleming Orphanage surrounding him. The summer breeze turned into a crisp, autumn chill as the song flowed with the wind that carried it. Leaves fell from their branches, blanketing the ground, seeming to undulate with the notes being played.

He was compelled toward the woods, feeling Dorothy’s presence and the grave danger she was in by being here. Confused and disoriented, he looked around, calling out to her, but she was nowhere in sight.

His voice was getting lost in the wind stirring up as it carried DeBussy’s song. The woods and empty buildings of the former orphanage took on menacing shapes, as if they were alive and mocking him. Every fiber of his being wrenched when he heard a distant howling from somewhere in the woods. His breath grew rapid as his lungs took in the icy air. The song to the moon faded and the sound of someone humming another familiar tune took over.

All the Pretty Little Horses…

Cletus tried moving in the direction of the hill, knowing that it would take him away from the property, but the wind increased in strength and invisible arms seemed to hold him back. He heard the howling again, only this time, it was much closer, sounding unlike any animal he knew of. A foul stench started crawling out from the buildings as the windows radiated a deep red glow.

(Like blood…)

The glow pulsed, spreading throughout the property as the stench of death and decomposition engulfed him. His body stiffened upon hearing a bloodthirsty growl closing in behind him.

He tried to run, but his feet were planted to the earth. He could sense it inching closer, crunching over the cold, drying leaves. The creature’s rancid breath assaulted his nostrils before it let out a deafening roar. Then the creature pounced, pummeling the young man forward…

 

Details


Author: Tiffany Apan
Series: The Birthrite Series, Book 3
Tag: 2017 Featured Reads
Publisher: Poets Labyrinth
Publication Year: 2017



About the Author Tiffany Apan

Tiffany Apan grew up among the thick forests of the Appalachian Mountains in Northeastern Pennsylvania. It was there she began honing artistic abilities and received much of her creative inspiration. A misfit among her peers (she was the only one in her fifth grade writing class obsessed enough with Vikings and Norwegian mythology to write poems about them), Tiffany was highly active in the artistic community in Wilkes-Barre, PA, involving herself in all music, theater, visual arts, and writing. Eventually, she settled quite comfortably into a role as “that artsy kid in black” who sits in a coffee shop, drinking endless amounts of coffee and tea while writing furiously in a journal or sketchpad.

After graduating high school, she left the Northeastern PA ghosts for the Southeastern PA zombies (Pittsburgh). Upon the move, Tiffany became involved with the indie film scene, landing supporting roles in a couple films. This also gave way to the release of her music with partner in crime, Jason English. Since then, she has gone on to act in several films and theater productions with starring and supporting roles, release music to critical acclaim, and receive accolades for her writing and producing.

The Appalachian Mountains serve as a backdrop for many of her stories, including The Cemetery by the Lake and The Birthrite Series. You can check out more of her work (writing, music, film, etc) on her website, blog, Amazon, and other social media.

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
FOLLOW 

TiffanyApan.com

Tiffany Writing Project

TiffanyApan (Facebook)

Birthrite Series (Facebook)

Twitter

Buy on Amazon

Goodreads

Smashwords

 

Celebrate with Giveaways
Giveaway #1

I am also giving away 2 sets of the first three installments in The Birthrite Series as ebooks (I will send a raffelcopter link):

Descent (The Birthrite, #1)

Giveaway #2

Sacred Atonement: A Novelette (The Birthrite, #1.5)

Kindred (The Birthrite, #2)

Dear Christian…again

On the subject of hate and fear…

I was watching Big Bang Theory the other day. Sheldon said something that bothered me. Quick recap:

Sheldon’s mother is a Fundamental Southern Baptist from Texas. Leonard’s mother is a professional psychologist and atheist. The women meet and, let’s just say it didn’t go well. Fast forward to this episode. The women will be reunited. In the car, Sheldon tells his mother, “Leondard’s mother is there.”

“Oh.” Sheldon’s mother attempts to stop a nervous frown, fails, and begins to fidget with the necklace on her chest. “That’s nice,” she says and pulls a crucifix from inside her blouse and promptly pats it to her chest.”

“Oh, mother, stop it,” Sheldon says. “She’s an atheist. Not a vampire.”

I didn’t laugh. I burst into tears. Sheldon hit a very real topic on the head with that line.

“She’s an atheist. Not a vampire.”

I nodded. Yeah. That’s what it is. They (Christians) treat us (Atheists) like a contagious disease. Like Satan is within me and if they get too close, they’ll catch it. They assume I’m without morals because I lack their god. They treat me like I’m a vampire. I’m just an Atheist. I finally have the words…It’s hurtful. Their assumption of me…it hurts. That isn’t very Christ-like at all. They do feel I’m inferior to them.

I know not all Christians feel this way. But my experience…My past…

I’ve been hurt, so very hurt by them. They’ve earned my hate. Do I act on this hate?

… … …

I don’t know. Many of my friends are Christian. My best friend is Christian. Many of my scars are from Christians and “good ol’ Christian values.”

Here’s the thing: every frickin’ one of them, without exception, has used a variation of one single line on me over and over again: “Well, we’re not those kind of Christians,” or “They’re not true Christians.” It’s hard to not lump them all into the same group when they’re all saying the same thing: they think they’re better.

My daughter came home from school last week angry because she was told she’s going to Hell. She was hurt. Being told something like that hurts. “Well, she should be,” the Christian says.” I’ve seen Christians smile at this, thinking that the hurt they inflicted is “God’s love working on them.”

So…I guess…I’m writing this because I need to say it to each and every one of you. You fucking hurt me! You’re rude about your religion! I have morals and ethics! I have a moral compass! And now you’re hurting my daughter! Why should I love your god when you treat me and my children like this? I judge your religion by your actions. In fact, we all judge every religion based on the actions of its followers. What I have seen from Christians is disgusting. They’re vile, condescending, hurtful people. They are power hungry, materialistic, and feel because they worship “the one true god,” they have a god-given right to treat the rest of us like shit. And when they instill hurt and fear in others, the fill up with pride thinking this is the work of their god.

Are all Christians like this? No. Some Christians do keep their internal conflicts to themselves. But many of them, the majority of them in my experience, most of them, don’t. Most of them are just mean.

Racism

Recently, I’ve become painfully aware of one topic that has been creeping up more and more today. Ever since Trump took office, the subject of racism seems to be everywhere. I think often of what Morgan Freedman said. “[To end racism,] stop talking about it.” I respect Mr. Freedman, but I don’t think I agree with his approach. Prior to Trump, we didn’t talk about it. Now, everyone seems to be talking about. This change did create the racism. It only made those of us not talking about it aware that it was still very much a problem. In my world, racism was dead. In my own little world inside my closed box where ignorance kept me blissful…and delusional. Talking about racism didn’t suddenly create the hate that seems to be flowing through this country. Talking about, however, did make me aware of the problem. It violently stripped the delusion away leaving nothing, but the cold hard reality that racism is very much not a a thing of the past. With all due respect, Mr. Freedman, I must disagree.

I am not racist. At least, I hope I’m not. I certainly never intended to be. I’ll be revisiting this sentence shortly.

This topic bluntly surfaced last Friday. It was time to introduce my 14-year old to the 80’s/90’s action film. We started with Die Hard With A Vengeance. “It’s rated R for the swearing,” I told her. “I don’t care about the Fuck word. They do use the “N” word a lot.”

“You’re racist, Zeus!” says a distraught Bruce Willis.

“I’m not racist!” Samuel  L. Jackson shouts back.

“You are!” Bruce Willis says through his migraine. “You don’t like me because I’m white!”

Mr. Jackson’s eyes bulge. “I don’t like you because you’re going to get us killed!”

This got me asking the question: What is racism? When is racism racism? Is racism wrong? Am I racist?

Now, before I launch into this, a few things. I do not condone hatred. Slavery and segregation is disgusting. Every man, no matter race, gender, or background, has the right to freedom.

I ask again…is Racism wrong?

I sat down with my black girlfriend. She’s Black. Not “African American.” I checked. She hates the term “African American.” We reviewed this topic: I, a white girl who was raised Fundamental Baptist in your classic all-white small town. We had one black person in a town of 2,000. Oh, yeah. I’m THAT stereo type. My girl was raised as a second generation Southern Georgia family whose great great grandparents worked the cotton fields. She grew up in Buffalo where her black classmates beat her up because she was a smart black girl. This article is a summation of our conversation. Here is what we concluded.

 

Opinion, fact, or state of being?

 

Hate, racism, fear…these are all opinions and/or a state of being. Not Fact. Either something can be proven (Fact), it can be presented as a possible fact (theory), it is a feeling and/or emotion (State of Being), or it is an opinion (Belief that can not be proven). An easy way to think of this…adjectives are opinions. Nouns are facts.

The concept of right and wrong fall under the ethics category. The ethics and study of right and wrong can only be applied to a rule (social and/or personal) that has been defined by the populace as right or wrong. Ethics are our moral compass. Either as an individual or as a whole. It is wrong to kill. It is wrong to steal. Why? Because our moral compass, either social or personal, says so. A person can argue all day long on the right and wrong of swearing, killing, and pre-judgement of a person.

Is it wrong to swear? It depends on the rules laid down by any one group. The people in my former Baptist church? Swearing is wrong. The local college dive on a Friday night? Yeah, fuck that shit. Swearing is not wrong. On a whole, we can most likely agree that rape, murder, and pedophilia is very wrong depending on the culture that you’re in…hence the need for our legal system. We can also haggle over the degree of right and wrong. You said “fuck?” Probably not as wrong as killing someone. All of these are social rules. Not feelings.

In case you didn’t know, color is an opinion because it changes based on our brains, and the nerves connecting eye to brain. No one nerve is alike. Ask a color blind person if they see blue, green, or gray. Color is an opinion.

Let’s revisit the feelings.

 

Self-Preservation is at the core of Hate and Fear.

Fact: Hatred is a secondary emotion. Hate always follows fear. Fear does not always lead to hate. Fear can also lead to paranoia, running away, and/or discomfort.

Hatred, prejudgment, and racism. Is it wrong? Before you jump in screaming, “YES!” slow down.

Hating Hitler is neither right nor wrong. Hitler’s genocide? Wrong. Hitler hating Jews? Neither right nor wrong. Hitler acting on that hate? Wrong. You hating Nazis? Neither right nor wrong. Justified? We’re talk about that on another day. Hate does not bring into question a moral line. Hate and fear are only data. Data taken from the experiences that you have lived. I hate spirders. Scared to death of them. Then again, I was stuck in a nest of them when they hatched once. I was eight years old, locked in the back of the station wagon on the highway, and I couldn’t get them off of me. I’m entitled to this hate. It doesn’t make me right or wrong. You’re probabaly sitting there thinking, oh you poor thing. I’ve earned the right to fear and hate spiders and no one stops for one moment to think, “Is it right or wrong?” You can bet your ass I squash the damn things when inside my house every chance I get. Feelings are only input taken from a previous experience to aid in self-preservation. You walking around slaughtering everyone who you think is a Nazi? Wrong.

The act of hatred itself is neither right nor wrong. It is just a feeling. Feelings just are. This is a State of Being like having the flu, feeling sad, or being nervous over an upcoming exam. Feelings and emotions are only things that exist to aid with self-preservation and, at the core of all racism are emotions…the state of being. Hate and fear. Fear is neither right nor wrong. It just is. We act on that fear and judge people based on our fears, unknowns, and experiences. It is our experiences that we tap into when judging a person…all for the sake of self-preservation.  I hate my rapists. I hate the pedophile who preyed on me. I’m entitled to that hate. I’ve earned it. It is neither right nor wrong.

The Buddhist would say that so long as there is hate, there can not be peace. This is true. But my time for peace has not yet come. Those abusers have earned a whole lot of hate from me…hate that I have denied myself. And I have a whole lot of hating to make up for the decades I have excused them their actions. Don’t tell me that hate is not right or wrong. It simply is the state of being that I am in right now.

Self-preservation does not mean you or I have the right to kill, harm, or attack anyone…unless your life is in immediate danger (self-defense). We can all agree that harming another person is wrong (Back to that social norm again) unless someone is standing over you ready to take your life from you. Self-preservation again comes in and you fight. You walk away with earned hatred. Hatred just is. Killing is wrong. But is racism wrong? What is racism?

What exactly is racism? Is it the state of being or is it the acting upon the state of being? Or is it both?

“Directed against someone.”

“To distinguish [the race] as inferior.”

 

What if you don’t direct that hate? What if you hate, but you don’t feel you are superior? What if you keep your hatred for another race or gender to yourself? Is it then racism? I don’t believe it is. I believe racism is an emotion, a hate that stems from fear due to an unknown or known experience. A racist individual is simply exercising self-preservation. It may be inaccurate, but that is neither here nor there. The question is, is it wrong?

No. I don’t believe the feeling of racism is wrong. The racist person may be incorrect, but racism itself…I don’t think it’s wrong.

Now don’t get me wrong. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed to act on that hate. Hate all the people you want. French, Blacks, Whites, Irish, Jews, Christians, Men, Women, Atheists…Hating is unprocessed hurt. But don’t you dare act on that hate.

Internal conflicts: Acting on them externally or keeping them internal.

A person has the right to their internal conflicts. That is racism and hate. Each one of us has earned those internal conflicts. No person has the right to force their internal conflicts on another. That is the line. You have the right to your internal conflicts. You do not have the right to force those conflicts on another. Keep your internal conflicts to yourself. See a therapist. Don’t force your internal conflicts on anyone else.

This brings me to my previous statement: “I am not racist. At least, I hope I’m not. I certainly never intended to be.”

If there is no intent to be racist, then can you be? I don’t know. The conversation didn’t make it this far.

We did discuss prejudgement, generalization, and good old fashion pride. I am a New Yorker! I am filled with New York pride. Do I believe New Yorkers are better than Californians? No. But I do believe New York is better than California. In fact, I hate all other states for one reason: it isn’t New York. I love my New York so much that I don’t love any other state because it isn’t home. Am I better than the people in those other states? Hell no! I just don’t love their homeland because it isn’t my homeland, my beautiful New York.

How do I feel about the New York/North Eastern stereo types? Hurt. The majority of people I have met in New York are kind and warm. Many of us are cold, hard working, and focus. We are an impatient people. We are cold-hardy. Many of us use work to escape our problems. A lot of us also sit on our butts and collect child support/alimony/well-fare. Many of us hate pumpkin and maple. A lot of us loathe snow and the cold. I have yet to figure out these people.

I was taught by my Fundamental Baptist back ground that if you mention to a black person that they are black, they will mug you/beat you. I hate that lesson. We call that White Man Syndrome. I inherited that from my small town. I hate it. It’s hurtful to my friends. I know this stereo-type is wrong. I know it has no merit. Under no circumstances to I express this feeling/belief. I keep it to myself because its my own internal conflict. Not yours.

I was taught that atheists are bad. *smirks* I was taught that everyone except Fundamental Baptists were spawns of Satan. Now that I’m an Atheist…That is a topic for another time.

I will say this in conclusion, I do so very much hate the hate that has swept the country. We’re all talking about racism now. *smiles* I’m glad for that. I believe ignorance breeds hate and fear…Perhaps, in talking about it, we’re killing the ignorance and, in so doing, removing the fear of the unknown and with it the hate. Maybe Mr. Freeman was more wrong that I thought. Maybe, we all need to talk about it, just a little bit more.

2017: Looking Back

I’ve been quiet lately. Too busy in life to find time to write…but I miss writing. I miss you. The year is almost over and I feel I should tell you about mine. I went on Walk-About. I took a mental journey. I spent a year reflecting on me and…well…this is what I have learned this year.

I love food. I mean, I love food. It’s not that I didn’t love food before. It’s just that what I had before, I wouldn’t call it ‘food’ and, therefore, mistook my disgust for food a confusion of what food is. Now that I’ve sorted all that out, I love food!
I’m an exercising health nut. I still have no idea what to do with this information.
I love writing. I’m a miserable bitch when I miss writing. I currently miss writing.
Don’t stand on a hot coal. It fucking hurts. I stepped on a hot coal this summer. It was so hot that it glued itself to the bottom of my foot. I had to shake my foot to get it off.
I learned how important ice is. When the body gets burned, it tries to cool itself down by rushing liquid to the burnt area. This is not the best method to cool a burn as the fluid will cause severe inflammation that will cause additional damage to the body. Instead, apply ice, which will tell the body it won’t need to cool down the burnt area. Ice. Ice. Ice. For five hours. Get that temperature down. Ice can take a three-degree burn down to a two-degree burn.
Way too many people think eggs are the best things to put on burns. Don’t. This is stupid. Eggs may contain semolina. You are putting semolina on an open wound and you’re not applying the cold that your body needs to stop cooking. Eggs contaminate the wound, infect the wound, keep the burn cooking, and is just dumb. Stop putting eggs on burns, people.
I have bipolar. Bipolar fucking sucks. I have to take meds for the rest of my life. I have messed up chemicals in my head that make me sad for no stupid reason whatsoever. Sometimes, I get so sad, I want to kill myself. These fits of sadness often follow severe spikes of energy and euphoric happiness, which I love. But I can’t have one without the other. Bipolar sucks.
I love my children. I mean…I LOVE my children.
I love my husband. More than life itself. I love my husband.
All those times I felt dangerously high on life and I thought that high was coming for other people…it wasn’t. It was coming from me. I somehow believed that high was caused by others who made me feel good about me. Turns out, I make me feel good about me. Still don’t know what to do with this.
I miss booze. Not for the fun party sense. I miss the art form of wine. I miss Bailey’s. I miss Guinness.
I love German beer. American beer sucks.
I can write books so well that they can end of being #1 best selling on Amazon. Dolor and Shadow hit #154 this year! Makes me want to write more Bergen.
I miss Bergen.
I learned just how much being raped on 9/11 can fuck someone up. I also learned that I have no peers. That there are very few people who were raped like me. I feel so alone.
I’m still angry with my father.
I’m enraged at my rapists.
I have so much rage…Some days, I don’t know what to do with it all.
I still feel guilty for not being there on 9/11.
I miss New York.
The official hot dog brand of New York City is Sabrets. Sabrets is the only hot dog I can eat that does not give me indigestion, heart burn, or hot dog burbs.
Hot dog burbs are disgusting.
Deep fried Twinkies are FRICKING GOOD! They smell like a carnival.
French fries taste like deep fried Twinkies when deep fried in the same oil as the Twinkies. This too, is FRICKIN GOOD!
I saw my first monarch butterfly caterpillar this year.
I love Halloween more than Christmas.
I have a hole inside of me that makes me want to curl up and die…That hole is filled with hurt and hate. It hurts so much.
The Twilight franchise is actually really great to watch if you invite your 14 year-old’s friends over with the sole intent on bashing the living shit out of the Twilight series.
Luffy can still make me smile.
Luffy can still make me cry.
I love knitting. Probably more than I should.
I miss my friends down in North Carolina.
I’m sick of therapy.
I am sick of food. I hate food. I hate no words more than “I’m hungry” coming from my kids. On the advise of my girlfriend, I instead, gave each of my children $25.00 to buy their own groceries. This food covers breakfasts, snacks, and lunches for one week (They also get breakfast and lunch from school). I watched one child buy 100% junk food. Another buy 50% junk food, and the third buy eggs, bacon, whole grain bread, yogurt, and hot dogs. The child who bought 100% junk food is out of food already and is officially sick of carbs and sugar. He plans on buying meat and whole grain foods next week. He also devoured the beef and salmon that I served for dinner last night. I now only shop for me and family dinners. I love this arrangement.

 

Happiness: Marketing Ethics

Happiness Series
Marketing Ethics

Every day that I wake, I begin a battle in my conscious. What I want to do is at odds with what I feel I should do. “But it’s wrong. It’s got to be. So then why do I feel so guilty?” What I am certain is wrong is the feeling of urgency to sign on to the computer and join my author friends and community in a relentless marketing campaign to blast our message out there. A year ago, without hesitation, I would have told them and myself that this was the right way to do this.

Today, I’m certain it’s wrong.

What I want to do is watch my children grow. I want to tend to my gardens and learn how to cook over a campfire. I want to read books about self improvement and learn this thing I’m trying to figure out called intimacy. I want to learn what nearly every parent in America continuously fails to teach their children: how to have a marriage and how to raise a child. These are two lessons I must impart on my children. But I have to learn them first. I’ve turned to the Old World. But if I’m pursuing all these goals,  I can’t be online marketing my books to the masses. Does it matter anymore?

Don’t get me wrong, Kallan is kick ass and I would love to be known for my stories and to never have to worry about money again, but marketing isn’t sitting well with me these days. Recently, marketing has burned me.

You see, in addition to my gardening, I’ve also gone “all natural” in the food department.

I didn’t realize how bad things in America has gotten until only this last few weeks. Fellow Americans. We’re being lied to.

Example: This last year, I’ve been gradually switching my family’s diet from processed to raw ingredients. Raw ingredients consist of stone ground flour, cane sugar, molasses, tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms, meat from the butcher, eggs, butter, cream, and yogurt just to name a few. Nothing else. If I can’t make it with raw ingredients then I go without. Let’s talk bacon. I priced bacon and realized that the bacon from the butcher was two whole dollars cheaper than what I buy. That didn’t take a second for me to switch.

Let me tell you about fresh bacon. It cooks faster and there is less grease. You will feel full eating fewer pieces. I also learned that bacon will keep in the fridge for nearly 6 weeks. In the meantime, packaged bacon that was sealed in the factory wouldn’t last longer than three weeks. This fascinated me so I researched the why’s. I learned that factories, have been injecting water into bacon so they can sell you less bacon for more money than what you get at the butcher. The added water creates a breeding ground for bacteria and grossly reduces its shelf life. The grease is due to the poorer quality of meat factories use.

I can’t look at packaged bacon anymore without thinking how much I’ve been “tricked” into buying their marketing. The bacon example is just one of hundreds I’ve discovered this last month.

More and more I’m learning about ethics and also, what marketing entails. I guess you can say, I’m having an ethical movement and the more I learn about marketing, the more it challenges my ethics. And my ethics are winning.

Simply put, marketing contradicts my ethics. So how can I sell my book to you when the very act of marketing rubs me the wrong way? What does this mean for Brain to Books? What does this mean for my writing? I want my writing and my stories to be so good that you tell your friends and my stories sell only on word of mouth. Does this mean I just need to get better at writing? Better at story telling? Better at…

What do I want?

My thoughts immediately turn to my gardens. My birds.

I just got back from camping. I found a nest of black-eyed juncos. There were four babies all with adult feathers. I watched the mother purposely under feed each child. Oh, she fed them… just enough. Her decision, in turn, motivated the fledglings to leave the nest. After the second feeding, when babies were still squawking for more, I watched the mother sit with the male and lounge. She could have gotten them more food. The male was guarding the nest. Instead, I watched the impatient fledglings stretch their wings and flap, eager to leave the nest. I almost could hear them say, “Fuck it! I’m getting my own food!”

They beat their wings, eager to fly. That’s when I realized, they beat their wings, which built up the muscles so they could fly. In a week, one or two would make their first flight. This happens in my yard all the time. The fledgling, not yet ready for flight takes the leap and glides to the ground. The mother continues to feed the out-of-nest fledgling. The fallen fledgling will fly within the week.

I return to camp with my babies and breath deep the forest air. What I want has never been clearer. The question I’m now faced with is, “if this is what I want, then what am I doing online?”

 

Summer of Zombies

[image error]

Kick off your summer with the Summer of Zombies Blog Tour hosted by zombie enthusiast Jay Wilburn. This June, Jay features the best authors and current releases in zombie fiction featured for your summer reading pleasure.

Where: Online! Start your zombie summer tour on Facebook or view the Master Schedule

When: 1 June 2017 through 30 June 2017

Links: Submit your name to the raffle

 

Jay is organizing a Round Robin Story! Check back soon for more!

Click here to read my featured spotlight.

Zombies From Space…and Vampires
eBook: Free
Authors: Angela B. Chrysler, Angela Chrysler
Series: Zombies From Space
Genres: Dystopian, Science Fiction

Alien invasion? Zombies? Vampires!? I don’t think so!Aria was an average 19-year-old with average problems. Average was quite realistic until zombies landed their UFO in her backyard. If Aria wants to survive, she’ll need some help, and who better than a pirate captain, a steampunk inventor, a b... More info →

Dear Christian…

Dear Christian,

Several times, I’ve sat down to write this to you, but each time, I think “No. Just turn the other cheek and walk away,” and I do. But the emotion plagues me and ruins my day. For me, I have to write this. For me, I have to get this out. I just have so much to say…

Dear Christian, I was once like you. I loved Jesus. I was even baptized. I loved nothing more than my Jesus. Let’s be clear, my issue here is not with Jesus or with your god. It isn’t with the Bible, which is one of my favorite ancient texts, BTW. My issue here is with you and the lies you believe as history.

I have ethics. Strong ethics. I know why my ethics are there. I went through and hand picked each one then weighed in a logical argument for each. I have decided to hate hate. I love life and am fine with all people so long as they don’t hurt others or animals. I believe a person has the right to say and do whatever they want so long as it doesn’t hurt others. I believe a person has the right to hurt themselves. I believe those people need help and I sympathize with them, but I still respect their rights. I believe in good health, mental health, and the benefits of yoga, meditation, deep breathing, and flossing. Wear sunscreen. I’ve seen skin cancer. It’s deadly. Wear sunscreen. I value education, information, knowledge, and truth. Not the stuff you call truth, but the scientific term…the legal term for truth. You know what I mean. The “truth” they use in a court room to determine guilt or innocence that could mean the difference between incarceration, freedom, and death. The truth that Doctors, lawyers, and scientists use. I believe in the strength of knowledge. I value honesty and a healthy body. I value peace, happiness, and awareness.

Dear Christian, my issue is with you who have reprimanded me about my ethics when you clearly have fewer ethics than I. I hate hate, yet everywhere I look, I see you and your communities promoting hate. You don’t turn the other cheek. You’re throwing the first punch. Hate starts with the judgement you place on others. You’re violent, aggressive, fearful, and angry. You’re the first to feel threatened. You’re the first to get angry and defensive the moment anyone around you disagrees with you. The world is too small to house that ideal anymore. Everyone is different and so many times I’ve seen you desperate to keep each and every difference in check to make sure it aligns with an ideal you inherited from your parents.

You worship a god without knowing the history. You probably haven’t read the Bible from cover to cover. If you did you would probably think, “What the hell is this shit!? I’m supposed to dip a living bird in the blood of a dead bird?” (Leviticus) You most likely don’t know the history of the text and how it evolved. You attend a community without knowing its roots. You were born again out of fear and conditioned to never question your elders who wait in ready with that label “Doubting Thomas.” I know because I was just like that once.

Oh, yes. I was like you. Scared to death of Hell and burning forever in a lava like heat because I had an impure thought that my elders told me would send me to Hell. I attended lessons where we were taught to look at others and notice their faults. “See how loud they are. notice how rude they are. Look at how dirty they are. It’s because they don’t know god.” Dear Christian, these were the words your brothers in fellowship taught me. These are lessons that I, as a mother, would punish my children today for repeating or thinking. Those lessons you taught me, this is how hate starts. This is what it looks like to teach hate. It starts there.

Dear Christian. I am writing to tell you I don’t want your hate. Keep your anger and fear to yourself. Stop arguing with me about the roots of your religion and how things happened. Just because you believe in a god does not mean you have divine truth that grants you the knowledge of that religion.

Dear Christian, most Atheists know more about your religion than you do. Sorry to say, but you’re in the dark. While the rest of us are learning through written works and archeological evidence about the blood trail your religion has created, those who are desperately cleaning up the mess are telling you not to look. Atheists can examine, study, explore, question, learn, and look at the very thing your religious elders are keeping from you. Deal with it. Atheists know more about your religion than you do.

Dear Christian. They’re lying to you. They’re telling you lies that have been passed down from generation to generation. The world is older than ten thousand years. Evolution does exist. We did evolve from an ape-like creature. News flash. We still are ape like. Ever seen a human in an emergency? We run to the trees. Trees are safe. We also have families, emotions, grooming skills, and social habits just like an ape.

Dear Christian, there are currently 989 Christian Hate Groups alive today. The KKK is one of them. Christianity means intolerance. If you are not part of one of these groups, then you are in the minority. If you think those hate groups are the exception, then you are in denial.

I once sat down with my pastor and asked him if he knew about the history of the Christian church. He said he did. When I asked him why he wasn’t telling the truth and teaching the history of the Christian church to the congregation, he said, “If I told them the truth, they would get rid of me and no congregation would want me. I’d be out of a job.” I have since spoken to a number of pastors who all said the same thing. Your pastor knows a lot about what the rest of the world knows. Christianity is riddled with blood. Dear Christian, the only one who doesn’t know this is you.

Dear Christian, please stop teaching your children to judge and hate others. Please stop teaching that you and your children are better than the rest of us because we’re not like you. There really is no difference between you and the racist hate groups. Dear Christian, the lead organizers of these racist hate groups are Christians.

Dear Christian, please stop teaching and nurturing intolerance. The world is too small for your prejudice and I’ve lost the stomach for your hate.

 

Respectfully,

The Atheist

Identity

Have you seen the new Disney movie, Moana? I loved it. It runs on replay over and over in my head.

“Who am I? I’m a girl who loves my island. I’m a girl who loves the sea. It calls me.

I am Moana.”

Identity. That was what the movie was about. More than ever that theme rings true to me.

I feel like I’ve been looking for me since I was 15 years old. I began this journey through an existential debate I was having with the pedophile who was raping me at the time. He made one thing very clear: My self worth is only measurable through my success. Success is defined only by my importance. And importance is only measured by what I contribute to this world. I have three generations, and then I’ll be forgotten, unless… unless I find a way to be so great as to be remembered.

In short, Unless I am as great as Beethoven, Shakespeare, or Einstein, then I am nothing.

This is the pressure I have been under since I was 15. I’m nearing 40. The tapes still play. “I have to be revolutionary, or I’ll be nobody.” It’s a quest for honorary immortality. And I have a line ready for every reassuring response you can think of.

“That’s a high bar. You can’t possibly do that.”

“Well, not if I stand around talking about not doing it.”

“I can do it. I just need to persevere.”

“Commitment.”

The lines he conditioned into nearly 20 years ago are still on repeat, and the tape isn’t wearing out anytime soon. But I’m tired.

“Beethoven didn’t get tired. Raise that bar!”

I don’t want to be insignificant. So I write in hopes that I will write something great…

I breathe in. I meditate. I still the voice in my head.

“I’m a girl who loves my island… Who am I?”

I push through the motions of Tai Chi. When you slow down, you can hear the earth breathe. When you hear the earth breathe, you find yourself. It grounds you.

“I’m a girl who loves my gardens. I’m a girl who loves the earth. It calls me. I love all living things around me. I love the rain, the sun, the birds. I love knitting, and baking. I love my cats. I love my children, and growth, and love. I love my Isaac. I love dancing in the rain. I love all seasons.  I love New York! And I love the country…and I love the city. I love Ireland. I love green, and all living things. I love animals. I love peace and calm and relaxing. I love my children.

I love story!

I love the way the winds sweep across the mountains and the smell of earth after the rains. I love the smell of ozone and the taste of chlorophyll. I love learning and growing and living. I love my life.

I’m a girl who journeyed through years of pain and abuse and torture to know how wonderful this world can be. I’m a girl who saw all living things suffer and bleed out and die. And I’m a girl who knows they didn’t have to die. I’ve seen so much death, because I’ve known so much life. I’ve seen so much violence and torture, to appreciate, value, and crave peace and calm. I am a creator!

I dance with thunderstorms. I can smell the rain. I can smell ice weeks before the snows. I don’t care what people say. They look on and I don’t care. I am a girl who, when I am still, I can hear the earth breathe and I breathe with it.

This is who I am. This is what I want. To create and live and know. But to do that, I can’t be on this computer…talking to you all the time. Which means my pursuit for significance, requires that I must trade in my happiness. Is it worth it?

 

…

 

I don’t want to be forgotten. I want to be remembered. I don’t want to die. I love it here. *gently smiles*

This is why Christianity never worked on me. Christians teach and they believe that Heaven is better than Earth. Christians believe that Earth is an awful place…and there is someplace better. Christianity thrives on the concept that streets of gold and crowns are better than the dirt beneath my feet. It’s not. If Christ really knew me… if he were really real, he’d know me. He’d know that I already am in Heaven. That there are no promises he could make that would make me want to leave. If Christ were really real, he’d promise me I’d never leave. Promise me I’ll never leave my forests. That I’ll always grow my gardens. That I’ll always smell the rain… But god doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s in my heart. I don’t want him to “prepare a place for me.” I’m already here. I’m where I belong.

Like all of you, I’m afraid of mortality. I’ve seen enough of it to know. Held dying kittens in my arms. Watched suffering animals scream. I’m looking down at the face of my existence. Mortality reminds me most of what I hate. I hate endings and pain and goodbye. I hate hate.

I hate Fear. This is about what I fear… and not what I want.

Fear of being forgotten. Fear of being insignificant. It’s fear that pulls me away from my happiness. It’s fear that calls me away. It’s fear that I’m fighting for. *smiles* But I’m too afraid to stop harboring this fear. I’m too afraid to stop being afraid.

I don’t want to be forgotten. And I want to live right now. In this moment.

I want to write. But what am I writing for? Am I writing for this? Or am I writing for me?

“Please don’t forget me,” the voices scream in my head.

“Then make them remember you,” they scream back.

Over and over these words play on. And I’m missing this moment. I’m missing now because of this war that’s in my head.

Slow down. Just breathe. Breathe in…two…three…four. Breathe out…two…three…four.

I hear the earth. It’s calling. Slow down. Let go. And breathe.

 

Perhaps it’s time to let this go…

One Hundred Years Ago…

It is 8:53 AM. Of the last 48 hours, 22 of them were without power. Losing power wasn’t the hard part. One hour before the power went out,  my youngest daughter received a second degree burn. She was making ramen and spilled a bowl of boiling water down herself. I never moved so fast.

I pulled her shirt off, grabbed stuff out of the freezer and just started shoving it on her. When it was all done and said, her belly, where the majority of the water hit, was left unharmed. The ice worked that quickly. Her arm has a minor, almost rash-like burn where the fork touched her skin. You can see the fork prongs branded on her arm. I also had iced her arm.

The worst of the burn, however, went to her foot where I didn’t even know she had been burned. Despite wearing socks and shoes at the time, the water went right through the sneaker. By the time I realized the boiling water had hit her foot, she had three boils on her foot and a state of emergency had been announced in my region due to a tornado warning…the first tornado warning in 15 years. All travel was banned. Twenty minutes later, we were without power. It was 7:00 PM Monday night.

Prior to Monday, I would have said electricity gives you movies, video games, and Netflix. It’s like we go camping without the cell phones. Turn off the lights and read by flash light. Today, I will tell you that electricity gives you ice, sanitary working conditions, and hygiene. These were things I didn’t care about until I realized I had to clean and dress a two degree burn without light, hot water, or ice. I had been working in the garden all day and had no hot water to scrub my hands. I washed them in cold water. Scrubbed them best I could, and then rubbed them down with alcohol for good measure.

I often think back to a hundred years ago. “What was it like?” I dreamed about baking in dark brick kitchens lined with solid wood tables lit by multiple roaring fireplaces. I ache for silent evenings without phone or television. Monday night, my son did his homework by candlelight while I knitted in the dark… my cat curled up in my lap. The silence was blissful (Electricity is loud).

By Tuesday morning, we still had no power. The winds, which reached 70 miles an hour Monday night, uprooted an entire tree and dumped it on a power distribution plant. 12,000 were without power from Monday night into most of Tuesday. I woke to the grind of the mortar and pestle. My husband had the older two children grinding coffee beans by hand while he built a fire in the fire pit to boil water. Twenty minutes later, my youngest was up.

The boils on her foot had doubled in size. At 7:10 AM, I drove my oldest two to school, then drove to the Doctor’s office. I had no cell phone. I had no power to charge it the night before and the phone was dead. I had no access to news, to updates, to anything…I couldn’t even check to see if the State of Emergency had been lifted.  School buses were out in force. I was driving.

I arrived at my doctor’s office and a passerby with a badge let me in.

I saw the familiar face of my doctor’s nurse and burst into tears.

“The ice box is warm. We have no ice. We have no phone to call the doctor. There is even a burn ban in New York State until 14 May. We’re waiting for the fire department to fine us for cooking breakfast this morning over the fire pit. I can’t even wash my hands to attend my daughter’s wound.”

“Did you go to the emergency room?”

Now this is a topic I am passionate about. The emergency room is for emergencies. Emergencies are defined only as life or death moments. If you lost an appendage, lost consciousness, or lost a considerable amount of blood… if death is in question, get thee to the ER. If you wouldn’t call 911 or an ambulance for assistance, you shouldn’t go to the ER.

“No. I didn’t go to the ER. She burned her foot. She isn’t dying. There was a no-travel ban on the roads, and every emergency operative was swarming over the county-wide emergency due to the storm and lack of power.” My neighbor had reported that he was getting no answer at the police station, the electric company, or the emergency line they provided. Emergency  officials were simply swamped with work taking care of the most urgent of emergencies.

I had an appointment at 9:00 AM for my daughter and was back at the medical center within the hour.

The Doctor taught me how to sterilize, lance, clean, and dress the wound. She gave me all the supplies. I returned home where we still had no power.

No showers? Fine. I have two teenagers in the house, but we’ll get through it.

No lights? Fine…or I did until I realized the electric company wasn’t even telling us when power would be back on. It could be a week. Prepare for a week.

That changed everything. We had a limited amount of time to get things done and then we were SOL. Suddenly, everything had a deadline. Hurry up before the sun sets.

My kids got to work, strategically setting up candles around the house for sunset. Here is were I was thrilled over the home I have. The house I have was built in 1906. It was designed for a life without electricity. Instantly, I understood the purpose of the solar and sitting room. We have two. I opened the drapes and let the sun shine in. I had made plans to collect everyone in the one room after sunset to reduce the use of candles. Reduce the use of candles…It’s amazing how much my thoughts have changed. We pulled out the board games, I collected my knitting… Evening entertainment was not an issue.

I walked into the kitchen and gazed at the mess. No water to wash the dishes. The nearest water? The creek half a mile away. Hot water? None. I could boil it. Fire ban until 14 May. We have no heat.

Cooking? We have the burn ban. We do have a grill. I have no idea how to use it. I had three hungry children asking for dinner at 3:30. My husband would work well after 6:00. I could cook on the stove. I knew how to build a fire and cook meat and sauces on an open flame, which would have been sufficient if there wasn’t a burn ban. I had only two hours of solid light left meaning it would be dark once my husband got home to cook.

I suddenly wanted a Franklin stove in my kitchen.

Had there been electricity, I would have baked the breads and the biscotti and had intended to bake Tuesday morning. Had I at least the right to build a fire outside, I would have fried up the hamburgers. So many variables just fell together…or apart… as soon as I lost my freedom to cook, to bake, and to sanitize.

I turned to the one thing I could do. I gardened. The weekend prior to the storm, my husband and I had laid out plans to do a container garden. On Saturday, we purchased all the veggies and the supplies required to pull this off. Tuesday, I finally sat down with the veggies and potted them. I spent the next hour reading up on how to grow veggies all through winter. I needed a rain barrel. I needed a fire pit. I needed a bread oven outside so I could continue to bake even through the zombie apocalypse. Still… One thing weighed heavily on my mind. Ice.

Many who read this will probably be thinking, “Just go to the store and get some ice!” I tried that. Because the power was down, all stores were either closed or taking cash only. All the money  I had was in the bank in credit form only. Buying ice was not an option. There I was, without currency, fire, hot water, or ice. Buying a generator never looked more appealing. But I didn’t just want a generator. I wanted to be self-sufficient.

While I pondered these findings, I redressed my daughter’s wound with brine and burn cream. The only reason why her stomach and arm isn’t covered in boils to match her foot is because of ice.

Ice.

A hundred years ago, they didn’t have ice. How many burns have since been reduced, minimized, because of ice? How many infections were caused because they didn’t have the clean environment to sanitize and dress the wound? They also didn’t have ibuprofen to keep a fever down. They had St. John’s Wort…and it’s aspirin like quality, but not ibuprofen.

How quickly something like a burn became horrifically dangerous.

Power came back on at 5:40 PM Tuesday night. I literally jumped up and ran to the kitchen. I cleaned, fried up the hamburgers, and and baked that biscotti.

It is now 10:25 AM. In the last few hours I’ve baked soda bread, a pull apart monkey bread with mini cinnamon rolls, made two runs of French Press coffee, drove my daughter to school, and wrote this article. I am tempted to make ciabatta next for sandwich bread and some wheat bread.

Ice.

Cooking.

Hot Water.

 

 

 

 

A post shared by Angela B. Chrysler (@abchrysler) on May 3, 2017 at 7:31am PDT

A post shared by Angela B. Chrysler (@abchrysler) on May 3, 2017 at 7:31am PDT