F. Scott Service's Blog, page 3
December 28, 2015
Being Promoted
When I was promoted to sergeant while in Iraq, I really didn't want it. Well, let's be honest. Part of me did, part of me didn't.
I have to admit that when I joined the Army, I used to look at all the rank charts and my mind would fantasize about all those stripes on my arms. Part of me even wanted lieutenant's bars on my shoulders.
As a child, I would gaze with wonder and youthful adoration upon my father's old corporal stripes on his faded and worn Korean war uniform. I wondered what it would be like to wear them, to be in charge of men on the battlefield, to be a hero like the kind I saw in war movies.
Upon joining the Army, slowly but surely I began to change my mind about having those stripes. Perhaps I was getting older, more mature, my war hero fantasies fading with age, youthful infatuation wearing off. Perhaps I was beginning to realize just what it meant to have those stripes and the duty that came with them. I mean let's face it, being promoted to sergeant literally means 10 times the responsibility for about a 1 percent pay raise - perhaps I wanted to avoid that obligation. Perhaps I didn't want to be in charge of more people, the spotlight of answerability that much brighter. Perhaps I had realized that the rank I held as a specialist allowed me to repair helicopters and being promoted meant less of that work and more bureaucratic work. Perhaps I was realizing that although the Army had been an interesting experience for me, I really didn't like being in the military and I certainly didn't like war.
So, when my platoon sergeant came to me one day in my helicopter repair shop while we were in Iraq and told me my promotion paperwork had come through, I was apprehensive and told him I didn't want it. He laughed, as he knew me very well by then, turned, and as he was heading out the door still laughing he said, "Too bad. You're getting your stripes."
It was a surreal experience to say the least. As a matter of custom, my unit typically held promotion ceremonies at our morning accountability formations. I was the only one being promoted that day and as I was called to the front of the company to be "pinned" by my commanding officer I remember my knees being slightly wobbly, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Upon saluting him, he told me he was proud of me, that my new rank suited me, and gave me the traditional shove with his hand to make sure the small spikes of the new rank sank fully home through my uniform and into my skin.
Throughout the day, I was congratulated many times, people calling me "Sarge," many chuckling and asking me how it felt to be a glorified private.
As expected, I was inundated with more responsibility and I found there was a tremendous amount to learn if I was to adequately perform my new duties and discharge my new obligations. Slowly but surely I worked through that crash course and it proved to be the ultimate in "on the job training."
After a time, I began to realize that what had begun as childhood vanity and fantasy on my part to have those stripes on my collar was remade into an adult embracing the burden that higher rank entails and as a consequence growing into a leader and better person because of it.
I came to absorb being a sergeant, to love being a sergeant far beyond how good it felt to have the stripes.
I came to realize it as one of the greatest personal achievements of my life and I still feel a sense of pride because, as I've heard said many times, the sergeant is the backbone of the working end of the military. I was proud to be a part of that.
I have to admit that when I joined the Army, I used to look at all the rank charts and my mind would fantasize about all those stripes on my arms. Part of me even wanted lieutenant's bars on my shoulders.
As a child, I would gaze with wonder and youthful adoration upon my father's old corporal stripes on his faded and worn Korean war uniform. I wondered what it would be like to wear them, to be in charge of men on the battlefield, to be a hero like the kind I saw in war movies.
Upon joining the Army, slowly but surely I began to change my mind about having those stripes. Perhaps I was getting older, more mature, my war hero fantasies fading with age, youthful infatuation wearing off. Perhaps I was beginning to realize just what it meant to have those stripes and the duty that came with them. I mean let's face it, being promoted to sergeant literally means 10 times the responsibility for about a 1 percent pay raise - perhaps I wanted to avoid that obligation. Perhaps I didn't want to be in charge of more people, the spotlight of answerability that much brighter. Perhaps I had realized that the rank I held as a specialist allowed me to repair helicopters and being promoted meant less of that work and more bureaucratic work. Perhaps I was realizing that although the Army had been an interesting experience for me, I really didn't like being in the military and I certainly didn't like war.
So, when my platoon sergeant came to me one day in my helicopter repair shop while we were in Iraq and told me my promotion paperwork had come through, I was apprehensive and told him I didn't want it. He laughed, as he knew me very well by then, turned, and as he was heading out the door still laughing he said, "Too bad. You're getting your stripes."
It was a surreal experience to say the least. As a matter of custom, my unit typically held promotion ceremonies at our morning accountability formations. I was the only one being promoted that day and as I was called to the front of the company to be "pinned" by my commanding officer I remember my knees being slightly wobbly, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Upon saluting him, he told me he was proud of me, that my new rank suited me, and gave me the traditional shove with his hand to make sure the small spikes of the new rank sank fully home through my uniform and into my skin.
Throughout the day, I was congratulated many times, people calling me "Sarge," many chuckling and asking me how it felt to be a glorified private.
As expected, I was inundated with more responsibility and I found there was a tremendous amount to learn if I was to adequately perform my new duties and discharge my new obligations. Slowly but surely I worked through that crash course and it proved to be the ultimate in "on the job training."
After a time, I began to realize that what had begun as childhood vanity and fantasy on my part to have those stripes on my collar was remade into an adult embracing the burden that higher rank entails and as a consequence growing into a leader and better person because of it.
I came to absorb being a sergeant, to love being a sergeant far beyond how good it felt to have the stripes.
I came to realize it as one of the greatest personal achievements of my life and I still feel a sense of pride because, as I've heard said many times, the sergeant is the backbone of the working end of the military. I was proud to be a part of that.
December 10, 2015
Whatcha want for Christmas?
Recently, I was asked what I wanted for Christmas.
Funny question and one I really didn't know how to answer.
I've never known how to answer that one.
When I was young, I could think of all sorts of things, toys, trinkets, games, records, posters, anything and everything I thought I needed to fill my world. As a child, having those things really meant something to me.
Nowadays I don't feel that way. In fact, I spend time thinking of things I need or want to get rid of.
Has anyone ever noticed that no matter what you do, things accumulate seemingly on their own? Weird isn't it? They just appear... out of nowhere and sometimes I look at something in my house and wonder why it's even there to begin with. I have to laugh at myself because I know I bought it or acquired it somewhere but, I often forget why I felt such a need for it after a time. At the time, it seemed to be such an urgent need, something I absolutely could not do without.
And as usual, I start thinking. I think back on when I had very little, like when I came home from the war. I think of when I was homeless with nowhere to go. I think of how liberating and free that was. All that I owned could fit in my CR-V and I think of how happy I was without things.
I've found that things tend to make me feel weighted down. Things seem like a burden to me more often than not and I often feel that the best times in my life were when I was free of things.
I remember when I was younger and spent a great deal of time on the road. I was a drifter, free, rambling on from place to place, spending time in every state, meeting interesting people, and exploring the culture of America. I loved that and have a mind full of memories that make me smile to this day. I've crossed this country more times than I can count and back then all I had was a bag of clothes, a sleeping bag, a journal, my Honda Civic, and a full tank of gas.
I can remember picking raspberries in the mountains of Utah with a bunch of migrant workers so I could buy a tank of gas to get back to Denver. I remember being chased off the plains of Wyoming late one night soon after I pitched my tent by a pack of coyotes. I remember the waitress who chatted with me when I stopped by the restaurant she worked in late one night in Kansas City. I remember waking up soaked in sweat in my sleeping bag as I was camping in Florida one morning, only to take a sunrise swim in the ocean. I remember marveling at the Native American ruins in Arizona, cliff dwellings still intact. I remember going to the top of the arch in St. Louis, the Gateway to the West. I remember watching the surf on the coast of Oregon and walking the beach with the seagulls flying overhead. I remember Bourbon Street in New Orleans, with the music undulating through the air and the smell of good food. I remember the thunderous roar of Niagara Falls and wondering why on earth anyone would want to go over them. I remember the wind in the Badlands of South Dakota and the sunset over the farmlands of Illinois, corn gently swaying in the summer air. I remember field upon field of sunflowers in Nebraska and watching a lightning show on the horizon late one night while parked on the side of the highway.
These memories mean more to me than any "thing" I could possibly imagine.
I guess when someone asks me what I want for Christmas it isn't a thing that I want, it's the memory of spending and sharing time with them. No matter what happens, that will always be with me.
Funny question and one I really didn't know how to answer.
I've never known how to answer that one.
When I was young, I could think of all sorts of things, toys, trinkets, games, records, posters, anything and everything I thought I needed to fill my world. As a child, having those things really meant something to me.
Nowadays I don't feel that way. In fact, I spend time thinking of things I need or want to get rid of.
Has anyone ever noticed that no matter what you do, things accumulate seemingly on their own? Weird isn't it? They just appear... out of nowhere and sometimes I look at something in my house and wonder why it's even there to begin with. I have to laugh at myself because I know I bought it or acquired it somewhere but, I often forget why I felt such a need for it after a time. At the time, it seemed to be such an urgent need, something I absolutely could not do without.
And as usual, I start thinking. I think back on when I had very little, like when I came home from the war. I think of when I was homeless with nowhere to go. I think of how liberating and free that was. All that I owned could fit in my CR-V and I think of how happy I was without things.
I've found that things tend to make me feel weighted down. Things seem like a burden to me more often than not and I often feel that the best times in my life were when I was free of things.
I remember when I was younger and spent a great deal of time on the road. I was a drifter, free, rambling on from place to place, spending time in every state, meeting interesting people, and exploring the culture of America. I loved that and have a mind full of memories that make me smile to this day. I've crossed this country more times than I can count and back then all I had was a bag of clothes, a sleeping bag, a journal, my Honda Civic, and a full tank of gas.
I can remember picking raspberries in the mountains of Utah with a bunch of migrant workers so I could buy a tank of gas to get back to Denver. I remember being chased off the plains of Wyoming late one night soon after I pitched my tent by a pack of coyotes. I remember the waitress who chatted with me when I stopped by the restaurant she worked in late one night in Kansas City. I remember waking up soaked in sweat in my sleeping bag as I was camping in Florida one morning, only to take a sunrise swim in the ocean. I remember marveling at the Native American ruins in Arizona, cliff dwellings still intact. I remember going to the top of the arch in St. Louis, the Gateway to the West. I remember watching the surf on the coast of Oregon and walking the beach with the seagulls flying overhead. I remember Bourbon Street in New Orleans, with the music undulating through the air and the smell of good food. I remember the thunderous roar of Niagara Falls and wondering why on earth anyone would want to go over them. I remember the wind in the Badlands of South Dakota and the sunset over the farmlands of Illinois, corn gently swaying in the summer air. I remember field upon field of sunflowers in Nebraska and watching a lightning show on the horizon late one night while parked on the side of the highway.
These memories mean more to me than any "thing" I could possibly imagine.
I guess when someone asks me what I want for Christmas it isn't a thing that I want, it's the memory of spending and sharing time with them. No matter what happens, that will always be with me.
November 30, 2015
Stolen Valor
So, as I was enjoying my morning glass of orange juice today, I came across something on the Internet that I had never heard of before. Stolen valor.
It was really quite random. I often sit and absently browse the Internet with my oj, just waking up, still drowsy, often reading the news or looking up silly things like basic training videos that more often than not evoke memories of what I call in my mind, "the good ol' days."
Anyway, I found a whole series of videos on YouTube regarding this stolen valor thing. Apparently, there have been quite a lot of people out there who will dress up in military uniforms to pretend they are a soldier in some form or fashion. Some of them pretend to be homeless vets and beg for money. Some of them use the uniform to get a discount at places like Starbucks. Some pretend to be combat veterans with medals and ribbons coming out of their ears. Some pretend to be soldier's in order to woo a young lady, a potential girlfriend. Don't ask me about that last one, anyone starting off a relationship based on a lie, especially a lie of that kind of magnitude must have some serious intimacy issues to be begin with.
Well, all these videos I found were of veterans and military people busting these imposters. I was completely blown away... really. I had no idea that people would even think to do this kind of thing. I was truly, utterly amazed. What was even more amazing is how badly these people tried to dress up their uniforms. Being a veteran, I can tell ya, it's very easy to spot a fake. One middle aged man "gave himself" a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and numerous others awards. Not so outlandish for sure, there a few of them floating around. But what was entirely amusing to me was how he pinned them to his uniform. They were haphazard, jumbled all in no particular order or alignment on his chest, just a big cluster of medals. What made it even worse was his Special Forces tab wasn't even on his shoulder, it was on his chest. I guess to the untrained eye this might not appear so bad... well who am I fooling or better yet who is he trying to fool. I can't think of anyone actually falling for such a slovenly job of putting together any kind of uniform. It really was quite hilarious and I couldn't help but chuckle, giggle, then just burst outright with laughter because that uniform was so absurd.
But this begs a question in my mind. Why would someone feel compelled to do this? Before I joined the Army, as a young boy, my father gave me his ribbons from the Korean War and I wore them out in the backyard with my friends playing war. But it would never occur to me to use them as an adult, trying to sneak, cheat, or falsely impress someone. Try as I may, I can't wrap my head around someone... faking themselves to that extent. It just doesn't make sense. It makes me wonder about the inner pride or self-esteem these people might have. Wouldn't you rather just be you and... be proud of who you are, for better or worse? And if you are so interested in the uniform, so interested in what it's like to be a military person, then why not join? At least you would be authentic. I'm sorry, I just can't understand why someone would feel the need to present themselves as something they're not. There are lots of things to be proud of other than being a soldier.
Some people who filmed and busted these people were very angry with them. They felt insulted and outraged that someone would do that. One guy was so angry he walked after the imposter, yelling at him for three blocks while the imposter tried to get away, taking off the uniform and apologizing profusely.
That I can understand. I can understand the anger and resentment. People who wear those uniforms have made tremendous sacrifices, have lost many people in their lives due to war, and there is a deep vein of pride that runs through them. That uniform is something they've earned, something they've bled for, fought for, something they feel honored to wear.
It made me think about those uniforms I have hanging in my closet. I don't wear them in public anymore and I certainly don't feel any need to advertise that I am a veteran but, they are protected by garment bags and I look at them every so often. Believe it or not, there is a pride that runs through me. I don't know if I could help it if I wanted to. I did earn those uniforms. They are a part of me as much as the hair on my head. I am part of them, they are part of me. They symbolize in a lot of ways some of the greatest challenges, some of the greatest pains and losses, some of the greatest acts of courage, and some of my greatest adventures of my life. More than that, I belong to a very small group of people who have sacrificed, sometimes everything they are, for something greater than themselves.
I'm sorry these people haven't found something in their lives to feel as I do. I hope they do. I hope that someday they won't feel a need to "fake" it. If I had any advice for them it would be find something in their lives they are proud of, no matter what it is.
I am who I am, for better or worse, and I like that.
Goodnight world.
It was really quite random. I often sit and absently browse the Internet with my oj, just waking up, still drowsy, often reading the news or looking up silly things like basic training videos that more often than not evoke memories of what I call in my mind, "the good ol' days."
Anyway, I found a whole series of videos on YouTube regarding this stolen valor thing. Apparently, there have been quite a lot of people out there who will dress up in military uniforms to pretend they are a soldier in some form or fashion. Some of them pretend to be homeless vets and beg for money. Some of them use the uniform to get a discount at places like Starbucks. Some pretend to be combat veterans with medals and ribbons coming out of their ears. Some pretend to be soldier's in order to woo a young lady, a potential girlfriend. Don't ask me about that last one, anyone starting off a relationship based on a lie, especially a lie of that kind of magnitude must have some serious intimacy issues to be begin with.
Well, all these videos I found were of veterans and military people busting these imposters. I was completely blown away... really. I had no idea that people would even think to do this kind of thing. I was truly, utterly amazed. What was even more amazing is how badly these people tried to dress up their uniforms. Being a veteran, I can tell ya, it's very easy to spot a fake. One middle aged man "gave himself" a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and numerous others awards. Not so outlandish for sure, there a few of them floating around. But what was entirely amusing to me was how he pinned them to his uniform. They were haphazard, jumbled all in no particular order or alignment on his chest, just a big cluster of medals. What made it even worse was his Special Forces tab wasn't even on his shoulder, it was on his chest. I guess to the untrained eye this might not appear so bad... well who am I fooling or better yet who is he trying to fool. I can't think of anyone actually falling for such a slovenly job of putting together any kind of uniform. It really was quite hilarious and I couldn't help but chuckle, giggle, then just burst outright with laughter because that uniform was so absurd.
But this begs a question in my mind. Why would someone feel compelled to do this? Before I joined the Army, as a young boy, my father gave me his ribbons from the Korean War and I wore them out in the backyard with my friends playing war. But it would never occur to me to use them as an adult, trying to sneak, cheat, or falsely impress someone. Try as I may, I can't wrap my head around someone... faking themselves to that extent. It just doesn't make sense. It makes me wonder about the inner pride or self-esteem these people might have. Wouldn't you rather just be you and... be proud of who you are, for better or worse? And if you are so interested in the uniform, so interested in what it's like to be a military person, then why not join? At least you would be authentic. I'm sorry, I just can't understand why someone would feel the need to present themselves as something they're not. There are lots of things to be proud of other than being a soldier.
Some people who filmed and busted these people were very angry with them. They felt insulted and outraged that someone would do that. One guy was so angry he walked after the imposter, yelling at him for three blocks while the imposter tried to get away, taking off the uniform and apologizing profusely.
That I can understand. I can understand the anger and resentment. People who wear those uniforms have made tremendous sacrifices, have lost many people in their lives due to war, and there is a deep vein of pride that runs through them. That uniform is something they've earned, something they've bled for, fought for, something they feel honored to wear.
It made me think about those uniforms I have hanging in my closet. I don't wear them in public anymore and I certainly don't feel any need to advertise that I am a veteran but, they are protected by garment bags and I look at them every so often. Believe it or not, there is a pride that runs through me. I don't know if I could help it if I wanted to. I did earn those uniforms. They are a part of me as much as the hair on my head. I am part of them, they are part of me. They symbolize in a lot of ways some of the greatest challenges, some of the greatest pains and losses, some of the greatest acts of courage, and some of my greatest adventures of my life. More than that, I belong to a very small group of people who have sacrificed, sometimes everything they are, for something greater than themselves.
I'm sorry these people haven't found something in their lives to feel as I do. I hope they do. I hope that someday they won't feel a need to "fake" it. If I had any advice for them it would be find something in their lives they are proud of, no matter what it is.
I am who I am, for better or worse, and I like that.
Goodnight world.
November 23, 2015
Iraq
You know, it's funny. To this day, I still think of myself as a soldier. The weird thing is that I am a Conscientious Objector. I know, it doesn't make sense, even to me.
I'll be blunt, I hate war. War is ridiculous and idiotic. Perhaps I still think of myself as a soldier because I was so well trained. Perhaps there is something hidden in me that still identifies with that uniform hanging in my closet. I really don't know and my mind has a hard time negotiating the two.
I think what it comes down to is that no matter how much I despise the notion of killing, the Army and Iraq got into me, got into my head and infused themselves within my personality. No matter what I do in a given day, no matter how long it's been since I left the Army, the "soldier" in me is always present, always wanting to have its voice in whatever I am doing, always adding its bit of advice when I make decisions.
I understand now that Iraq is a part of me and always will be.
There were so many things that happened during my tour of duty and I wrote about a lot of them in Lines. In Lines in the Sand I spoke of the man I aimed my rifle at one afternoon while traveling through Baghdad. I think of him often, what he might be doing, if he had a family, what he dreamed of in life, what were his interests or hobbies, what was his favorite thing to eat, was he in love... if he's dead. At the time, I realized in that moment when our eyes met and my finger was on the trigger, that no matter how much I despised war and felt how senseless the Iraq War was in particular, when it came down to it, if need be, it was him or me. That's hard to swallow. And that's one of the hardest things to reconcile to this day. There are two of me, kinda like the Light and the Dark sides of the Force from Star Wars.
Are we all like that?
How much does it take to nudge a peaceful, loving person into the dark?
Maybe for some more of a nudge than others. Maybe for others, not so much. There seems to be a lot of people out there all too ready to kill.
A lot of people I spent time with in Iraq agreed that we had unleashed something that would have devastating consequences in the future. I believe we were right. I fear that the Iraq War never really ended even if we technically don't have U.S. soldiers on the ground. I fear we may be going back, that it's only a matter of time and that the killing will continue.
When will we wake up as a species?
I'll say goodnight to you world with the words of Dwight D. Eisenhower: "I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity."
I'll be blunt, I hate war. War is ridiculous and idiotic. Perhaps I still think of myself as a soldier because I was so well trained. Perhaps there is something hidden in me that still identifies with that uniform hanging in my closet. I really don't know and my mind has a hard time negotiating the two.
I think what it comes down to is that no matter how much I despise the notion of killing, the Army and Iraq got into me, got into my head and infused themselves within my personality. No matter what I do in a given day, no matter how long it's been since I left the Army, the "soldier" in me is always present, always wanting to have its voice in whatever I am doing, always adding its bit of advice when I make decisions.
I understand now that Iraq is a part of me and always will be.
There were so many things that happened during my tour of duty and I wrote about a lot of them in Lines. In Lines in the Sand I spoke of the man I aimed my rifle at one afternoon while traveling through Baghdad. I think of him often, what he might be doing, if he had a family, what he dreamed of in life, what were his interests or hobbies, what was his favorite thing to eat, was he in love... if he's dead. At the time, I realized in that moment when our eyes met and my finger was on the trigger, that no matter how much I despised war and felt how senseless the Iraq War was in particular, when it came down to it, if need be, it was him or me. That's hard to swallow. And that's one of the hardest things to reconcile to this day. There are two of me, kinda like the Light and the Dark sides of the Force from Star Wars.
Are we all like that?
How much does it take to nudge a peaceful, loving person into the dark?
Maybe for some more of a nudge than others. Maybe for others, not so much. There seems to be a lot of people out there all too ready to kill.
A lot of people I spent time with in Iraq agreed that we had unleashed something that would have devastating consequences in the future. I believe we were right. I fear that the Iraq War never really ended even if we technically don't have U.S. soldiers on the ground. I fear we may be going back, that it's only a matter of time and that the killing will continue.
When will we wake up as a species?
I'll say goodnight to you world with the words of Dwight D. Eisenhower: "I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity."
November 18, 2015
Some thoughts on Ebooks
So, in today's so called modern, high tech age I've been told that if you don't expand into the Ebook realm when you publish you are dooming yourself to losing a great many valuable and potential customers.
I think that's right... although part of my heart hurts to say and admit that.
An old English professor of mine once told me during a private conversation that he felt, "Speed reading is like speed sex. You don't get as much out of it and it isn't as much fun." We were discussing the merits of teaching people how to speed read in order to save time, get more things done in a day or with their studies. True, at first this may seem off topic and why in the world would I bring this up?
Well, no matter how much you may agree or disagree with him, he does make a point that resonates. The point he was trying to make, at least for me, is that reading a book is to be savored for all its flavors, the richness of it, the imagery, the story. Reading a book is to be digested slowly to allow yourself the time to fully absorb what the author has written, to immerse yourself completely and intimately enjoy the experience. It's a connection with the author, he's a confidant, a companion, a partner sharing what is churning in his mind with you.
Translating this to the digital Ebook world, I feel something has been taken away from the experience of reading by pushing buttons on a keyboard rather than turning the page of a book with my finger. For me, it's not as real on the computer. It's not as intimate. I've always felt something very special with the feel of paper, the weight of a book in my hands. On a computer, a book feels cold, impersonal, I often don't sense the connection I crave when I read. When I wet my finger slightly and turn the page of a book, I do feel that connection, it's tactile and tangible. I'm sharing with an author and I believe that elevates any story to a greater level. In short, turning a page is fun and I get a lot out of it, just like my professor claimed.
I know that this world is rush, rush, rush. Everybody's busy, busy, busy, and it is often more convenient to have a book on a tablet or computer. I also know a lot of companies would prefer not to spend money on paper production anymore. I also know that there are a lot of trees out there that would be thankful.
But, I can't get by my feelings. I like a book. I think we should all slow down and enjoy a good book, turning the page, stopping to smell the roses... maybe I'm just old-fashioned after all.
I think that's right... although part of my heart hurts to say and admit that.
An old English professor of mine once told me during a private conversation that he felt, "Speed reading is like speed sex. You don't get as much out of it and it isn't as much fun." We were discussing the merits of teaching people how to speed read in order to save time, get more things done in a day or with their studies. True, at first this may seem off topic and why in the world would I bring this up?
Well, no matter how much you may agree or disagree with him, he does make a point that resonates. The point he was trying to make, at least for me, is that reading a book is to be savored for all its flavors, the richness of it, the imagery, the story. Reading a book is to be digested slowly to allow yourself the time to fully absorb what the author has written, to immerse yourself completely and intimately enjoy the experience. It's a connection with the author, he's a confidant, a companion, a partner sharing what is churning in his mind with you.
Translating this to the digital Ebook world, I feel something has been taken away from the experience of reading by pushing buttons on a keyboard rather than turning the page of a book with my finger. For me, it's not as real on the computer. It's not as intimate. I've always felt something very special with the feel of paper, the weight of a book in my hands. On a computer, a book feels cold, impersonal, I often don't sense the connection I crave when I read. When I wet my finger slightly and turn the page of a book, I do feel that connection, it's tactile and tangible. I'm sharing with an author and I believe that elevates any story to a greater level. In short, turning a page is fun and I get a lot out of it, just like my professor claimed.
I know that this world is rush, rush, rush. Everybody's busy, busy, busy, and it is often more convenient to have a book on a tablet or computer. I also know a lot of companies would prefer not to spend money on paper production anymore. I also know that there are a lot of trees out there that would be thankful.
But, I can't get by my feelings. I like a book. I think we should all slow down and enjoy a good book, turning the page, stopping to smell the roses... maybe I'm just old-fashioned after all.
November 11, 2015
Veteran's Day
So, once again I had to be reminded that it is Veteran's Day.
It happens every year... and I'm still not quite sure I can articulate why it doesn't enter my mind to remember it. But I want to try.
I guess initially when I came home from the war, I just wanted to forget about that entire horrible, wretched affair altogether. It's taken a very long time for my mind to process the trauma that ensued during my tenure in the desert and for years being reminded of it would provoke flashbacks, bad dreams, all the effects of post-traumatic stress, and at the time it seemed too much to bear. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of that year when my life changed so radically and permanently. I wanted to run from it as fast as I could, until it disappeared on the horizon behind me so that when I was able to stop running, when I looked behind me, all I would be able to see was a clean, beautiful sunset, golden rays gracing my eyes.
Maybe that's why I grew my hair and my beard out when I came home, why I isolated from people, why I tried my best to stay in the shadows. I didn't want anyone to know I was a veteran and I certainly didn't want to be reminded of it.
Some of it was shame, I must admit. For a long time after coming home, I felt ashamed to have been a part of that war, for what I had done, for what I had seen, and I felt my participation in it was criminal in a sense. I've reconciled a lot of those feelings, I'm a little more comfortable with it now but, I still question myself, however mildly.
I've never liked war, I don't know who does. I've always felt there are better ways to solve our problems and that war is essentially stupid. For the life of me, I still can't comprehend why people feel this incessant need to go around killing each other, even outside the combat theater.
So, I hid and did my best to forget and not let anyone know I was an Iraq War combat veteran. Even now, when people find out that I'm a vet and want to earnestly shake my hand, expressing deep, heartfelt gratitude at my service and sacrifice to my country, I still feel uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate their sentiment and it's kind of them to acknowledge veterans but, part of me doesn't even understand that I'm a veteran.
I know... it sounds strange doesn't it? But it's true. There is a very real part of me that to this day looks back on that time in my life and feels disconnected from it, detached, as if that was someone else who sweated out the days under that searing sun, as if I'm watching a movie with someone else as the main character.
I look at my desert uniform still hanging in my closet and it looks foreign to me as if it doesn't belong there somehow. I look at all the ribbons I earned on my Class A uniform and scratch my head, wondering who was it that earned all those things? Who is that once small child who used to play "war" with his friends out in the back woods? What is he now? Is that really me? Did I really do that? Did I really travel halfway across the world to confront someone who I know nothing about and they know nothing about me? Are those my ribbons and medals? What on earth do they all mean? What did I do that was so special as to deserve the thanks, the awards, the earnest handshake?
And yet, I know it was me. I know I lived it. I know I confronted issues within my mind that I never wanted to confront. I know I learned things over there that I never knew existed.
I can still remember the relentless heat, the sand, the helicopters, the gunfire, the mortars, the explosions, the anger around me, the disillusionment of soldiers fighting for something they had no idea or even cared about.
I can still see the palm trees outside my base perimeter, the long lines to the mess hall, the hole in the wall of the mess hall from where a mortar exploded, the wind rippled sand, the bombed out buildings of Baghdad, Blackhawk helicopters flying over my head so close the treads of the tires were clearly visible.
I can still hear the explosions of mortars while I scribbled in my journal, wondering if this was going to be the attack that killed me, the whine of the mortar that flew over my head, the gunfire in the distance, the whop of a rotor blade, the yelling, the rumble of a Humvee passing by me.
I can still feel the concussions, the sweat on my brow, the sweat running down my back, the weight of my rifle, the rumble of my stomach, the sense of losing myself to the effects of war.
I know all these things... and I know it was me. I simply know, that's all. To this day, I still have trouble integrating it, absorbing it, even owning it. It's a memory... was it real or something I dreamed? There are times when I honestly can't say one way or the other.
I often say that I'm on my second life now, that I've been reborn somehow and have been given a second chance to live fully. There is the pre-war me, the war me, and the post-war me. Three separate entities in one mind and body. They live together, sometimes uncomfortably but, they're learning how to get along no matter how many arguments they might have.
I guess for me, I just don't think about Veteran's Day.
But I do want to say, thank you all who take the time to acknowledge that, for whatever reason, there are people out there who have put their lives on the line for something, whether or not they even agreed or disagreed with the cause they did it for.
It's an honor to be acknowledged... thank you.
I'll say goodnight with the words of Douglas MacArthur: "The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."
Be at peace world.
It happens every year... and I'm still not quite sure I can articulate why it doesn't enter my mind to remember it. But I want to try.
I guess initially when I came home from the war, I just wanted to forget about that entire horrible, wretched affair altogether. It's taken a very long time for my mind to process the trauma that ensued during my tenure in the desert and for years being reminded of it would provoke flashbacks, bad dreams, all the effects of post-traumatic stress, and at the time it seemed too much to bear. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of that year when my life changed so radically and permanently. I wanted to run from it as fast as I could, until it disappeared on the horizon behind me so that when I was able to stop running, when I looked behind me, all I would be able to see was a clean, beautiful sunset, golden rays gracing my eyes.
Maybe that's why I grew my hair and my beard out when I came home, why I isolated from people, why I tried my best to stay in the shadows. I didn't want anyone to know I was a veteran and I certainly didn't want to be reminded of it.
Some of it was shame, I must admit. For a long time after coming home, I felt ashamed to have been a part of that war, for what I had done, for what I had seen, and I felt my participation in it was criminal in a sense. I've reconciled a lot of those feelings, I'm a little more comfortable with it now but, I still question myself, however mildly.
I've never liked war, I don't know who does. I've always felt there are better ways to solve our problems and that war is essentially stupid. For the life of me, I still can't comprehend why people feel this incessant need to go around killing each other, even outside the combat theater.
So, I hid and did my best to forget and not let anyone know I was an Iraq War combat veteran. Even now, when people find out that I'm a vet and want to earnestly shake my hand, expressing deep, heartfelt gratitude at my service and sacrifice to my country, I still feel uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate their sentiment and it's kind of them to acknowledge veterans but, part of me doesn't even understand that I'm a veteran.
I know... it sounds strange doesn't it? But it's true. There is a very real part of me that to this day looks back on that time in my life and feels disconnected from it, detached, as if that was someone else who sweated out the days under that searing sun, as if I'm watching a movie with someone else as the main character.
I look at my desert uniform still hanging in my closet and it looks foreign to me as if it doesn't belong there somehow. I look at all the ribbons I earned on my Class A uniform and scratch my head, wondering who was it that earned all those things? Who is that once small child who used to play "war" with his friends out in the back woods? What is he now? Is that really me? Did I really do that? Did I really travel halfway across the world to confront someone who I know nothing about and they know nothing about me? Are those my ribbons and medals? What on earth do they all mean? What did I do that was so special as to deserve the thanks, the awards, the earnest handshake?
And yet, I know it was me. I know I lived it. I know I confronted issues within my mind that I never wanted to confront. I know I learned things over there that I never knew existed.
I can still remember the relentless heat, the sand, the helicopters, the gunfire, the mortars, the explosions, the anger around me, the disillusionment of soldiers fighting for something they had no idea or even cared about.
I can still see the palm trees outside my base perimeter, the long lines to the mess hall, the hole in the wall of the mess hall from where a mortar exploded, the wind rippled sand, the bombed out buildings of Baghdad, Blackhawk helicopters flying over my head so close the treads of the tires were clearly visible.
I can still hear the explosions of mortars while I scribbled in my journal, wondering if this was going to be the attack that killed me, the whine of the mortar that flew over my head, the gunfire in the distance, the whop of a rotor blade, the yelling, the rumble of a Humvee passing by me.
I can still feel the concussions, the sweat on my brow, the sweat running down my back, the weight of my rifle, the rumble of my stomach, the sense of losing myself to the effects of war.
I know all these things... and I know it was me. I simply know, that's all. To this day, I still have trouble integrating it, absorbing it, even owning it. It's a memory... was it real or something I dreamed? There are times when I honestly can't say one way or the other.
I often say that I'm on my second life now, that I've been reborn somehow and have been given a second chance to live fully. There is the pre-war me, the war me, and the post-war me. Three separate entities in one mind and body. They live together, sometimes uncomfortably but, they're learning how to get along no matter how many arguments they might have.
I guess for me, I just don't think about Veteran's Day.
But I do want to say, thank you all who take the time to acknowledge that, for whatever reason, there are people out there who have put their lives on the line for something, whether or not they even agreed or disagreed with the cause they did it for.
It's an honor to be acknowledged... thank you.
I'll say goodnight with the words of Douglas MacArthur: "The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."
Be at peace world.
November 8, 2015
More Thoughts on Self-Publishing
Hello world.
One of the most startling things I realized when publishing my book and again something that never occurred to me, although I must admit all the signposts were there, is that what I was really doing was creating a business for myself.
I think this is yet another thing for aspiring authors to consider when they have their manuscript ready and taking that deep breath before making the decision to self-publish.
Self-publishing can be interpreted in many different ways... and there are many different ways to go about it. You could, for example, take your manuscript to a printer and simply have it printed up, it sounds simple enough but, it's not that easy. The interior would need to be formatted. You would have to find and hire someone to create a cover design. Or if you are savvy enough, you could create your own. You would also have to file for a copyright. You would also have to obtain an ISBN and LCCN. The list goes on. See what I mean?
Once you have your book, then what? Now it is completely up to you to figure out how to promote it, distribute it, and you would be solely responsible for the shipping of it to anybody who bought it. What if someone wanted to return it? Do you have space to store books? Where do you go about promoting it? Local bookstores? The Internet? Should you contract with someone to build a website? How will you get your website to attract attention? How do you get the word out in this very busy world where it is easy to get lost in the shuffle... all too easy. That's a lot to handle.
Guess what? You're creating a business for yourself and if you don't have a good amount of time to devote to it, it can be difficult to wrestle with all the ins and outs of it.
That's where self-publishers found their niche. In all reality, most of them are not what you might call self-publishers, the name is kind of a misnomer... they are really what's called "Author Services Providers." And that's the beauty of them.
Most of them, the reputable ones, will handle all of these details that quite frankly can be easily overlooked in the confusion of trying to get your book on the market. And the reputable ones know what they're doing. They have staff who are experienced and knowledgeable, have been around the block a few times, and the good ones will work with the author intimately, not just because they are getting paid and there is incentive for them to produce a good product because their company's name is on the book but, because they are professionals and they care about the product they are producing.
For me, as a beginning author, I found it much better to contract with an Author Services Provider or Self-Publishing company. I needed the guidance. I needed their professional skills and opinions. Quite frankly, I couldn't have done it alone. Well... that's not quite true, I'm sure I could have but, the time it would have taken me would have been astronomical and the road would have been a lot more bumpy.
But here's the deal. No matter if you go with a company or you completely go it alone, in the end, it's your business. You run the show. You have the decision power. When the book is finally "out there" then more likely than not, it's gonna be up to you to take the reins and do what you can to sustain what they helped you create.
Some companies help more than others. Some will dump you once they have their money and your book is on the market. A good company, in my opinion, will always be there for you to ask questions of, their role changing to more of a consultant, not the leader.
For me, I found that to be quite satisfying and I am eternally thankful that I spent the time doing as much research as I could until I decided on the company I contracted with. It paid off. They are still with me, still by my side as I drive the cart down the trail.
It just never occurred to me when I was writing my manuscript that I would not be merely a writer... but that I would have my very own business. It's kinda crazy when I think of it but, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Goodnight world.
One of the most startling things I realized when publishing my book and again something that never occurred to me, although I must admit all the signposts were there, is that what I was really doing was creating a business for myself.
I think this is yet another thing for aspiring authors to consider when they have their manuscript ready and taking that deep breath before making the decision to self-publish.
Self-publishing can be interpreted in many different ways... and there are many different ways to go about it. You could, for example, take your manuscript to a printer and simply have it printed up, it sounds simple enough but, it's not that easy. The interior would need to be formatted. You would have to find and hire someone to create a cover design. Or if you are savvy enough, you could create your own. You would also have to file for a copyright. You would also have to obtain an ISBN and LCCN. The list goes on. See what I mean?
Once you have your book, then what? Now it is completely up to you to figure out how to promote it, distribute it, and you would be solely responsible for the shipping of it to anybody who bought it. What if someone wanted to return it? Do you have space to store books? Where do you go about promoting it? Local bookstores? The Internet? Should you contract with someone to build a website? How will you get your website to attract attention? How do you get the word out in this very busy world where it is easy to get lost in the shuffle... all too easy. That's a lot to handle.
Guess what? You're creating a business for yourself and if you don't have a good amount of time to devote to it, it can be difficult to wrestle with all the ins and outs of it.
That's where self-publishers found their niche. In all reality, most of them are not what you might call self-publishers, the name is kind of a misnomer... they are really what's called "Author Services Providers." And that's the beauty of them.
Most of them, the reputable ones, will handle all of these details that quite frankly can be easily overlooked in the confusion of trying to get your book on the market. And the reputable ones know what they're doing. They have staff who are experienced and knowledgeable, have been around the block a few times, and the good ones will work with the author intimately, not just because they are getting paid and there is incentive for them to produce a good product because their company's name is on the book but, because they are professionals and they care about the product they are producing.
For me, as a beginning author, I found it much better to contract with an Author Services Provider or Self-Publishing company. I needed the guidance. I needed their professional skills and opinions. Quite frankly, I couldn't have done it alone. Well... that's not quite true, I'm sure I could have but, the time it would have taken me would have been astronomical and the road would have been a lot more bumpy.
But here's the deal. No matter if you go with a company or you completely go it alone, in the end, it's your business. You run the show. You have the decision power. When the book is finally "out there" then more likely than not, it's gonna be up to you to take the reins and do what you can to sustain what they helped you create.
Some companies help more than others. Some will dump you once they have their money and your book is on the market. A good company, in my opinion, will always be there for you to ask questions of, their role changing to more of a consultant, not the leader.
For me, I found that to be quite satisfying and I am eternally thankful that I spent the time doing as much research as I could until I decided on the company I contracted with. It paid off. They are still with me, still by my side as I drive the cart down the trail.
It just never occurred to me when I was writing my manuscript that I would not be merely a writer... but that I would have my very own business. It's kinda crazy when I think of it but, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Goodnight world.
November 5, 2015
A Few Thoughts on Image Disparity
So, just a few thoughts on something I'm not sure a lot of people think about until they run smack into it and potentially have to wrestle with it... image disparity.
Self-publishing, for me anyway, was largely a crash course that I felt my way through as the process developed. I really had no idea what I was getting into, all the steps and decisions and hiccups along the way until I was actually holding my book in my excited little hands.
One of the things I never gave a thought to but became important as time progressed is image disparity between a computer image and the actual print copy of the cover of a book.
After working with my cover designer from the self-publishing house I contracted with through many revisions and adjustments, I sat back on my couch and grinned tremendously. I was looking at the finished product of my book cover, the finished image on my computer. It was perfect... all the colors, the saturation, the contrast, the brightness, the color balance, the hue. It was exactly what I was hoping and looking for.
Imagine my surprise when I received the print copy to review and the cover wasn't the same. The colors were much more intense, saturated, too vibrant... it was not at all what was displayed on my computer screen. Obviously, adjustments had to be made.
And they were but, in today's modern, long distance, email world it took time to get everything right. And I can't help but wonder sometimes that if I had been knowledgeable enough to begin with, been aware of image disparity and attempted to compensate for it initially, then some time and hassle could have been avoided.
So, for anyone out there who might be embarking upon the wondrous but often confusing world of self-publishing and who is not aware of this little but important issue, keep it in mind. You might save yourself a little headache along the way.
Goodnight world.
Self-publishing, for me anyway, was largely a crash course that I felt my way through as the process developed. I really had no idea what I was getting into, all the steps and decisions and hiccups along the way until I was actually holding my book in my excited little hands.
One of the things I never gave a thought to but became important as time progressed is image disparity between a computer image and the actual print copy of the cover of a book.
After working with my cover designer from the self-publishing house I contracted with through many revisions and adjustments, I sat back on my couch and grinned tremendously. I was looking at the finished product of my book cover, the finished image on my computer. It was perfect... all the colors, the saturation, the contrast, the brightness, the color balance, the hue. It was exactly what I was hoping and looking for.
Imagine my surprise when I received the print copy to review and the cover wasn't the same. The colors were much more intense, saturated, too vibrant... it was not at all what was displayed on my computer screen. Obviously, adjustments had to be made.
And they were but, in today's modern, long distance, email world it took time to get everything right. And I can't help but wonder sometimes that if I had been knowledgeable enough to begin with, been aware of image disparity and attempted to compensate for it initially, then some time and hassle could have been avoided.
So, for anyone out there who might be embarking upon the wondrous but often confusing world of self-publishing and who is not aware of this little but important issue, keep it in mind. You might save yourself a little headache along the way.
Goodnight world.
November 2, 2015
Learning to Listen to a Dream
When I was ten years old I asked my mother if I could borrow her old manual typewriter. I had an idea. I had inspiration.
I wanted to write a story.
I don't know where the inspiration came from, I just felt it. Something inside me, that I can't really articulate to this day, was churning. I felt that I was swimming in my imagination and acting on impulse, an impulse that came from my heart. My heart was talking to my head and my head was telling me to write.
So, I lugged the typewriter up to my bedroom, no easy task for my small, skinny, awkward frame at the time and plopped it onto the small wooden desk I had, sat down, put a couple of pencils and typewriter erasers next to it and began clacking away.
For hours, the click clack of the typewriter echoed through my bedroom. I had to be called to dinner three times, each time my mother's voice becoming increasingly impatient and irritable eventually giving up in exasperation. But I was on a roll, I couldn't stop, the words were flowing from me, the images of what I wanted to write scrolling before me as if I was watching a movie. I was lost in the vision of it.
And I couldn't even type back then. I was laboriously pecking away, my fingers tired and complaining, my brain feverishly searching for every right word, my eyes burning from staring at the paper but, I didn't care. I guess you might say it was... well slightly obsessive.
Much to my dismay, when I was finished, after reading through what I had written, I found many errors and the typewriter eraser also got a good workout that evening. I was also dismayed to find that my story was very short, a few pages. My mind couldn't comprehend that after all that labor, after all the visions I had had, that the end product was so... meager.
But the dismay was small, nothing compared to the pride I felt at writing my very first story, albeit a simple story resembling a Friday the 13th/Jason/killer goes on the rampage knockoff. I even added a detective to the mix, hot on the trail of our devious, insidious stalker of small children.
When I was satisfied with it, I ran downstairs, papers clutched in my hands, my dinner near absolute zero at that point and showed it to my parents. With strained patience (dinner was still on their minds) they read through it and complimented me... then promptly made me eat.
But it was then that I was hooked. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew it without a shadow of doubt that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote many more stories as time went on, an old cardboard box housing them, its cover soon split from jamming as much as I could into it.
In high school, I was terrible at every single math class I was forced to endure. I excelled in my English classes and loved all the books on their reading list: Wuthering Heights, The Good Earth, The Grapes of Wrath, Catcher in the Rye, A Tale of Two Cities, and many more.
In college, I took every writing class the university had to offer and was disappointed when there were no more to be had.
But it was also in college that I was diverted, convinced by outside forces that I would never make any money, never have a successful career, never be able to "get anywhere" if I continued with my desire, that my direction was folly and that it would be better to pursue a major and career path that would allow me a job prospect upon graduation.
Sadly I listened to them, to the forces acting upon me from people who had my best in mind but, couldn't share my heart.
So, for years following graduation from college I struggled to be what they thought I should be, to be what they wanted me to be... and I was never happy. I was never satisfied, fulfilled, always restless, looking for something more.
It was only after I fought in Iraq, upon coming home from war with a uniquely fresh insight into life and how short, how fleeting, how precarious it is balanced with death and upon death how many dreams have yet to be realized by those who die, that things changed. It was the war, and facing the prospect of my own death on a daily basis, that reminded me to live, to truly live each day and to chase down my dreams because if not now, when? And life will be over before I realize it.
And so, today I write. I write because it is what I've always loved and always wanted to do deep in my heart. Writing may never "get me anywhere" in terms of material wealth or monetary gain but, when my time ultimately comes, I know that I will be able to say to myself not that I should have but, that I did.
I can live with that.
Goodnight world.
I wanted to write a story.
I don't know where the inspiration came from, I just felt it. Something inside me, that I can't really articulate to this day, was churning. I felt that I was swimming in my imagination and acting on impulse, an impulse that came from my heart. My heart was talking to my head and my head was telling me to write.
So, I lugged the typewriter up to my bedroom, no easy task for my small, skinny, awkward frame at the time and plopped it onto the small wooden desk I had, sat down, put a couple of pencils and typewriter erasers next to it and began clacking away.
For hours, the click clack of the typewriter echoed through my bedroom. I had to be called to dinner three times, each time my mother's voice becoming increasingly impatient and irritable eventually giving up in exasperation. But I was on a roll, I couldn't stop, the words were flowing from me, the images of what I wanted to write scrolling before me as if I was watching a movie. I was lost in the vision of it.
And I couldn't even type back then. I was laboriously pecking away, my fingers tired and complaining, my brain feverishly searching for every right word, my eyes burning from staring at the paper but, I didn't care. I guess you might say it was... well slightly obsessive.
Much to my dismay, when I was finished, after reading through what I had written, I found many errors and the typewriter eraser also got a good workout that evening. I was also dismayed to find that my story was very short, a few pages. My mind couldn't comprehend that after all that labor, after all the visions I had had, that the end product was so... meager.
But the dismay was small, nothing compared to the pride I felt at writing my very first story, albeit a simple story resembling a Friday the 13th/Jason/killer goes on the rampage knockoff. I even added a detective to the mix, hot on the trail of our devious, insidious stalker of small children.
When I was satisfied with it, I ran downstairs, papers clutched in my hands, my dinner near absolute zero at that point and showed it to my parents. With strained patience (dinner was still on their minds) they read through it and complimented me... then promptly made me eat.
But it was then that I was hooked. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew it without a shadow of doubt that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote many more stories as time went on, an old cardboard box housing them, its cover soon split from jamming as much as I could into it.
In high school, I was terrible at every single math class I was forced to endure. I excelled in my English classes and loved all the books on their reading list: Wuthering Heights, The Good Earth, The Grapes of Wrath, Catcher in the Rye, A Tale of Two Cities, and many more.
In college, I took every writing class the university had to offer and was disappointed when there were no more to be had.
But it was also in college that I was diverted, convinced by outside forces that I would never make any money, never have a successful career, never be able to "get anywhere" if I continued with my desire, that my direction was folly and that it would be better to pursue a major and career path that would allow me a job prospect upon graduation.
Sadly I listened to them, to the forces acting upon me from people who had my best in mind but, couldn't share my heart.
So, for years following graduation from college I struggled to be what they thought I should be, to be what they wanted me to be... and I was never happy. I was never satisfied, fulfilled, always restless, looking for something more.
It was only after I fought in Iraq, upon coming home from war with a uniquely fresh insight into life and how short, how fleeting, how precarious it is balanced with death and upon death how many dreams have yet to be realized by those who die, that things changed. It was the war, and facing the prospect of my own death on a daily basis, that reminded me to live, to truly live each day and to chase down my dreams because if not now, when? And life will be over before I realize it.
And so, today I write. I write because it is what I've always loved and always wanted to do deep in my heart. Writing may never "get me anywhere" in terms of material wealth or monetary gain but, when my time ultimately comes, I know that I will be able to say to myself not that I should have but, that I did.
I can live with that.
Goodnight world.
October 28, 2015
Copyrights, Privacy, and other seemingly little issues... not quite
Well, hello world. I'm back again. I feel so badly about being absent for so long but, my father's continuing health problems have caused some backlog in my life. Not that I'm complaining. I've realized in this life that everything comes full circle and since he took care of me when I was young, now I have to take care of him. I owe him that... and in some ways I have to admit, what we've gone through lately has allowed us to become closer than we have been in years. It's been very rewarding.
But... here I am again. I feel like I haven't written in so long that I hardly know what to say but, I did have some thoughts over the past few days that I'd like to share.
When I first began writing Lines, I originally wanted to include emails from my ex-wife. I felt that it would enhance what I was going through, give a reader a better understanding of what was happening, perhaps deepen the drama, the intensity of the experience. I also wanted to include anecdotes from people I had known while overseas, little tales I felt were amusing because that might provide a temporary pause in the drama of the main story, a little diversion for the reader.
Looking back on it, I feel slightly amused at myself. I feel that I should've known better and I'm astonished at how naïve I was.
What I've found out is that I can't. I know, I know, I should've known. But I honestly didn't think about it all that much. I think I was just having fun writing and creating.
I couldn't because after doing some research, as a good writer should do, I discovered much to my dismay that anything "written in a tangible medium" is subject to copyright laws and in today's world that includes emails. Further, I found out that by including not only the emails but, the anecdotes that they could be considered an invasion of privacy and could be the subject of a lawsuit.
I guess, me being who I am, these details of our very complicated world don't occur to me. My mind doesn't work in that way and it was a valuable lesson to me.
I learned that as a writer, you should always be checking yourself, making sure you are well versed in the laws and what you can and can't do. It also made me more sensitive to others privacy. I can't say with any certainty that I wouldn't be angry if someone published material about me that might be sensitive.
I think this is important for all writer's to be aware of. And it was yet another important lesson for me as a budding writer, another class in the crash course that I went through as I was beginning to evolve into a professional.
Well, goodnight world... and as the Terminator once said, "I'll be back."
But... here I am again. I feel like I haven't written in so long that I hardly know what to say but, I did have some thoughts over the past few days that I'd like to share.
When I first began writing Lines, I originally wanted to include emails from my ex-wife. I felt that it would enhance what I was going through, give a reader a better understanding of what was happening, perhaps deepen the drama, the intensity of the experience. I also wanted to include anecdotes from people I had known while overseas, little tales I felt were amusing because that might provide a temporary pause in the drama of the main story, a little diversion for the reader.
Looking back on it, I feel slightly amused at myself. I feel that I should've known better and I'm astonished at how naïve I was.
What I've found out is that I can't. I know, I know, I should've known. But I honestly didn't think about it all that much. I think I was just having fun writing and creating.
I couldn't because after doing some research, as a good writer should do, I discovered much to my dismay that anything "written in a tangible medium" is subject to copyright laws and in today's world that includes emails. Further, I found out that by including not only the emails but, the anecdotes that they could be considered an invasion of privacy and could be the subject of a lawsuit.
I guess, me being who I am, these details of our very complicated world don't occur to me. My mind doesn't work in that way and it was a valuable lesson to me.
I learned that as a writer, you should always be checking yourself, making sure you are well versed in the laws and what you can and can't do. It also made me more sensitive to others privacy. I can't say with any certainty that I wouldn't be angry if someone published material about me that might be sensitive.
I think this is important for all writer's to be aware of. And it was yet another important lesson for me as a budding writer, another class in the crash course that I went through as I was beginning to evolve into a professional.
Well, goodnight world... and as the Terminator once said, "I'll be back."
