Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "goodreads"
Honestly
Happy (bleeping) birthday, America! You know I love ya, but please forgive me if I'm not in a very festive mood.
It's hot. It's humid. And while everyone else in the country is out soaking up the sun, enjoying cookouts and getting ready for tonight's firework displays, I am stuck inside working on my laptop. Again. And for the record, we don't even have central air conditioning.
But as usual I do have a lot on my mind. And as usual I feel compelled to blog about it -- even if no one else cares.
You see, the members of various writers groups here on goodreads and elsewhere are currently engaged in a never-ending debate about book reviews. Some are wondering about the merits of paying for reviews. Others are wondering what constitutes an honest review. I've chimed in on those threads and for brevity's sake I won't repeat myself here.
But the bottom line is, there are no easy answers. There are just facts -- and the facts are that most authors aren't backed by big-time publishers with unlimited marketing budgets. The facts are that no matter how much we try to convince ourselves and everyone else that we're not in this for the money, we all want to sell our books. The facts are that without the backing of large publishing houses, we are all responsible for finding new and innovative ways to do that.
The facts are that the Internet provides a wealth of opportunities for book promotion including various ways of getting paid and unpaid reviews. The facts are that for every legitimate opportunity, there are likely tons of unscrupulous people looking to take advantage of new or unsuspecting authors.
Of course that isn't right, but it is what it is. After all, this is the land of the free, the home of the brave, and a bastion of capitalism -- for better and for worse.
Personally, I wouldn't have it any other way. So, God Bless America!
And until next time, "That's life..."
It's hot. It's humid. And while everyone else in the country is out soaking up the sun, enjoying cookouts and getting ready for tonight's firework displays, I am stuck inside working on my laptop. Again. And for the record, we don't even have central air conditioning.
But as usual I do have a lot on my mind. And as usual I feel compelled to blog about it -- even if no one else cares.
You see, the members of various writers groups here on goodreads and elsewhere are currently engaged in a never-ending debate about book reviews. Some are wondering about the merits of paying for reviews. Others are wondering what constitutes an honest review. I've chimed in on those threads and for brevity's sake I won't repeat myself here.
But the bottom line is, there are no easy answers. There are just facts -- and the facts are that most authors aren't backed by big-time publishers with unlimited marketing budgets. The facts are that no matter how much we try to convince ourselves and everyone else that we're not in this for the money, we all want to sell our books. The facts are that without the backing of large publishing houses, we are all responsible for finding new and innovative ways to do that.
The facts are that the Internet provides a wealth of opportunities for book promotion including various ways of getting paid and unpaid reviews. The facts are that for every legitimate opportunity, there are likely tons of unscrupulous people looking to take advantage of new or unsuspecting authors.
Of course that isn't right, but it is what it is. After all, this is the land of the free, the home of the brave, and a bastion of capitalism -- for better and for worse.
Personally, I wouldn't have it any other way. So, God Bless America!
And until next time, "That's life..."
The more things change...
So here's a question for you. When was the last time you went to elementary school? No, no, no. I am not asking about the school your children attend. When was the last time you set foot in the school where you spent your early childhood?
I went back last week.
After paying a surprisingly reasonable admission fee at a high-end art show here in Greenwich, I decided to check out an indoor tag sale and flea market at Julian Curtiss Elementary School. If nothing else, the free admission was enticing.
When I arrived, I parked next to the field where as a little girl I played soccer, baseball and ran the 600-yard dash with my classmates during annual physical fitness assessments. Funny but it seems so much smaller now...
I walked across the access road I once knew as "the bus loop" and remembered the pride, sense of independence and maturity I felt the first time I was allowed to take the bus home instead of going to the after-school program at Diamond Hill.
Through open doors, I spotted the gymnasium that I hadn't set foot in since I "graduated" back in 1981. Blocking out the clamor and looking past the tables topped with tag sale items, I saw the climbing ropes that frightened and enthralled me as a kid. I remember how determined I was to get to the top -- and how I came close but never quite succeeded.
Motivational quotes now line the walls in the gym where I learned how to play basketball, do forward and backwards rolls and traverse a balance beam. Looking to the left, I saw the stage where I had the starring roll as the Tin Man in the fifth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz.
Though open, the doors leading to the rest of the school were blocked with "Do Not Enter" signs. If that hadn't been the case, I would cheerfully have ventured into the hallways I ran -- or walked in straight lines with my classmates -- so long ago. And had I done so, even more childhood memories would have come to light.
Perhaps, if I'd had the time and opportunity, I would have found the classroom where I wrote my very first story. Based on a popular role-playing game, the tale pitted good against evil; but in my story evil triumphed.
And perhaps, if I'd had the chance to wander further, I would have reached the playground where I vanquished a grade school bully as my teachers watched and silently cheered me on.
Then again, it's probably better that I didn't have too much time to dwell on the past. For better or worse, it can't be changed... and truth be told, it's best left in the rear-view mirror.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I went back last week.
After paying a surprisingly reasonable admission fee at a high-end art show here in Greenwich, I decided to check out an indoor tag sale and flea market at Julian Curtiss Elementary School. If nothing else, the free admission was enticing.
When I arrived, I parked next to the field where as a little girl I played soccer, baseball and ran the 600-yard dash with my classmates during annual physical fitness assessments. Funny but it seems so much smaller now...
I walked across the access road I once knew as "the bus loop" and remembered the pride, sense of independence and maturity I felt the first time I was allowed to take the bus home instead of going to the after-school program at Diamond Hill.
Through open doors, I spotted the gymnasium that I hadn't set foot in since I "graduated" back in 1981. Blocking out the clamor and looking past the tables topped with tag sale items, I saw the climbing ropes that frightened and enthralled me as a kid. I remember how determined I was to get to the top -- and how I came close but never quite succeeded.
Motivational quotes now line the walls in the gym where I learned how to play basketball, do forward and backwards rolls and traverse a balance beam. Looking to the left, I saw the stage where I had the starring roll as the Tin Man in the fifth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz.
Though open, the doors leading to the rest of the school were blocked with "Do Not Enter" signs. If that hadn't been the case, I would cheerfully have ventured into the hallways I ran -- or walked in straight lines with my classmates -- so long ago. And had I done so, even more childhood memories would have come to light.
Perhaps, if I'd had the time and opportunity, I would have found the classroom where I wrote my very first story. Based on a popular role-playing game, the tale pitted good against evil; but in my story evil triumphed.
And perhaps, if I'd had the chance to wander further, I would have reached the playground where I vanquished a grade school bully as my teachers watched and silently cheered me on.
Then again, it's probably better that I didn't have too much time to dwell on the past. For better or worse, it can't be changed... and truth be told, it's best left in the rear-view mirror.
Until next time, "That's life..."
Taps
I guess Mother Nature is off her meds so her bipolar disorder is raging unchecked. Here in the New York City suburbs, the temperature has gone from an unseasonably warm 85 to an unseasonably chilly 60-something in just a few days.
Nevertheless, a glance at the calendar confirms it's almost June. And a second look (taken just to be sure) provides some measure of reassurance that summer is -- albeit unofficially -- here.
Yes, another Memorial Day weekend is in the books. The first, widely-anticipated, beach and backyard barbecues are over. So are the parades and solemn graveside services. Annual promises to remember and honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country have been uttered and forgotten. The last, mournful notes of Taps that sounded around the country have echoed and faded into the distance. My tears have dried... for now.
It never fails. I cry when I hear that haunting call. I cry for those who heeded the call to duty without question and for those who heeded it in spite of personal misgivings. I cry for those who paid the steepest price for their service and for their families.
I cry for those who are physically and emotionally battle-scarred. I cry for those with shiny medals, but no jobs. I cry for those who seek solace in a liquor or pill bottle, and for those whose deepest wounds are misunderstood and go untreated.
I cry because I love my country -- and because I fear the disappearance of all that once made her great.
On paper, America is still a Super Power. But in reality she is a shadow of her former self. Battered by geopolitical forces and the Great Recession, her economic and military dominance is in jeopardy; her leadership is weak.
I cry because so many people refuse to acknowledge this is the case and because so few seem to care. Perhaps arrogance allows them to take our way of life for granted. Perhaps it is just complacency.
But if history has taught us anything, it is that complacency is sheer folly and that our freedom is not guaranteed.
In the past people believed freedom is worth fighting for. I can only hope that doesn't change.
And until next time, "That's life..."
Nevertheless, a glance at the calendar confirms it's almost June. And a second look (taken just to be sure) provides some measure of reassurance that summer is -- albeit unofficially -- here.
Yes, another Memorial Day weekend is in the books. The first, widely-anticipated, beach and backyard barbecues are over. So are the parades and solemn graveside services. Annual promises to remember and honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country have been uttered and forgotten. The last, mournful notes of Taps that sounded around the country have echoed and faded into the distance. My tears have dried... for now.
It never fails. I cry when I hear that haunting call. I cry for those who heeded the call to duty without question and for those who heeded it in spite of personal misgivings. I cry for those who paid the steepest price for their service and for their families.
I cry for those who are physically and emotionally battle-scarred. I cry for those with shiny medals, but no jobs. I cry for those who seek solace in a liquor or pill bottle, and for those whose deepest wounds are misunderstood and go untreated.
I cry because I love my country -- and because I fear the disappearance of all that once made her great.
On paper, America is still a Super Power. But in reality she is a shadow of her former self. Battered by geopolitical forces and the Great Recession, her economic and military dominance is in jeopardy; her leadership is weak.
I cry because so many people refuse to acknowledge this is the case and because so few seem to care. Perhaps arrogance allows them to take our way of life for granted. Perhaps it is just complacency.
But if history has taught us anything, it is that complacency is sheer folly and that our freedom is not guaranteed.
In the past people believed freedom is worth fighting for. I can only hope that doesn't change.
And until next time, "That's life..."
Yes we can!
It's official. I'm annoyed.
I'm somewhat annoyed because I'd spent more than an hour writing this post when it mysteriously vanished. Not that it was a great loss -- I didn't like how it was turning out anyway.
I'm mildly annoyed that I've sent out two dozen resumes in the past couple of days and I haven't gotten a single response.
But if you want to know the truth, I'm really annoyed about everything that transpired on this week's episode of Deadliest Catch.
It turns out that Captain Sig Hansen's 18-year-old daughter, Mandy, wants to follow in her father's footsteps. The only trouble is that he's a crab fisherman on the Bering Sea.
Now, those of you who have been living under a rock for the past decade may not know this, but crab fishing on the Bering Sea in the middle of winter ranks as one of the most dangerous jobs on the face of the earth. So plenty of people have plenty to say about whether young Mandy should chase her dreams.
I say, let her try. She should have the same opportunity to follow her passion that I did to follow mine.
You see, I spent my whole entire professional life working in male-dominated jobs -- so I know what they said to my face -- and what they said behind my back. My presence in male locker rooms made people uncomfortable. My presence at crime scenes threw some people for a loop. My penchant for risk-taking to get a story raised a few eyebrows.
I didn't care. I never listened to the people who said it was "too dangerous" or that I "didn't belong" or that I should have been doing something else.
If I'd listened to them, I never would have become a successful journalist. If I'd listened to the people who told me "you can't," or "you shouldn't" or "you're no good," or "you're not important," I never would have had the courage to write my memoir.
It's not about being a strong woman or being a feminist. It's not about "leaning in" or being all things to all people. It's about being true to yourself.
So if you have a dream, chase it. If you want a great life, live it. If you have a story, tell it. If you have fears, confront them. If you have demons, vanquish them. If you have adversity, embrace it. If you have triumphs, share them.
And if all else fails... Never give up. Never look down. Never look back. No matter what.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I'm somewhat annoyed because I'd spent more than an hour writing this post when it mysteriously vanished. Not that it was a great loss -- I didn't like how it was turning out anyway.
I'm mildly annoyed that I've sent out two dozen resumes in the past couple of days and I haven't gotten a single response.
But if you want to know the truth, I'm really annoyed about everything that transpired on this week's episode of Deadliest Catch.
It turns out that Captain Sig Hansen's 18-year-old daughter, Mandy, wants to follow in her father's footsteps. The only trouble is that he's a crab fisherman on the Bering Sea.
Now, those of you who have been living under a rock for the past decade may not know this, but crab fishing on the Bering Sea in the middle of winter ranks as one of the most dangerous jobs on the face of the earth. So plenty of people have plenty to say about whether young Mandy should chase her dreams.
I say, let her try. She should have the same opportunity to follow her passion that I did to follow mine.
You see, I spent my whole entire professional life working in male-dominated jobs -- so I know what they said to my face -- and what they said behind my back. My presence in male locker rooms made people uncomfortable. My presence at crime scenes threw some people for a loop. My penchant for risk-taking to get a story raised a few eyebrows.
I didn't care. I never listened to the people who said it was "too dangerous" or that I "didn't belong" or that I should have been doing something else.
If I'd listened to them, I never would have become a successful journalist. If I'd listened to the people who told me "you can't," or "you shouldn't" or "you're no good," or "you're not important," I never would have had the courage to write my memoir.
It's not about being a strong woman or being a feminist. It's not about "leaning in" or being all things to all people. It's about being true to yourself.
So if you have a dream, chase it. If you want a great life, live it. If you have a story, tell it. If you have fears, confront them. If you have demons, vanquish them. If you have adversity, embrace it. If you have triumphs, share them.
And if all else fails... Never give up. Never look down. Never look back. No matter what.
Until next time, "That's life..."
It was a beautiful thing
Yes, Virginia. I am a soccer fan.
I learned the nuances of the game as a defensive player on my grade school team and eventually became a goalie in pickup games with French friends and Australian relatives.
As much as I loved it, my athletic prowess was limited so my"career" was short-lived. In high school, I documented the triumphs of our championship team as a student reporter with the Greenwich Time.
Today I can name Europe's top teams and easily recognize the world's best players. I am watching lots of World Cup matches.
I am not alone.
Earlier this week, thousands of Americans gathered in bars and at public viewing parties. We watched a U.S. team take on its nemesis, Ghana. We cheered when our boys took an early lead, agonized when Ghana tied the score, and celebrated when a late goal secured the victory.
For a few brief hours, nothing else mattered. Not world events. Not politics. Not religion.
We stood as one.
It was a beautiful thing.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I learned the nuances of the game as a defensive player on my grade school team and eventually became a goalie in pickup games with French friends and Australian relatives.
As much as I loved it, my athletic prowess was limited so my"career" was short-lived. In high school, I documented the triumphs of our championship team as a student reporter with the Greenwich Time.
Today I can name Europe's top teams and easily recognize the world's best players. I am watching lots of World Cup matches.
I am not alone.
Earlier this week, thousands of Americans gathered in bars and at public viewing parties. We watched a U.S. team take on its nemesis, Ghana. We cheered when our boys took an early lead, agonized when Ghana tied the score, and celebrated when a late goal secured the victory.
For a few brief hours, nothing else mattered. Not world events. Not politics. Not religion.
We stood as one.
It was a beautiful thing.
Until next time, "That's life..."
Why I'll never be PC
In case you've missed it, there's a debate swirling across America. The Washington Redskins football team is once again being pressured to change its name.
Some people find it offensive because of its racial connotations. Others aren't bothered at all.
My personal feelings about the issue are irrelevant. Even if I cared to share them -- which I don't -- this blog would hardly be the proper forum in which to do so.
Speaking in general, I will say this. People today are way too easily offended. And there is way too much pressure to be politically correct.
As an author and as someone who values freedom above all else, I believe that can be a very dangerous thing.
On meriam-webster.com, the term politically correct is defined as "conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated."
I agree that we should all be held accountable for what we say. Hate speech, in particular is intolerable. The consequences of making hateful comments -- maliciously or out of ignorance -- are justifiably harsh.
But when has societal pressure to be politically correct gone too far? When our fear of offending someone effectively stifles our freedom of speech? When it precludes open and honest debate? When it prevents us, as authors, from sharing our stories?
While I tried to share my own story as honestly and responsibly as possible, I knew many people -- including some in the transgender community -- would find my memoir offensive. I weighed the pros and cons of publishing it at all. But in the end, I didn't let fear of what people might think dissuade me from speaking my truth.
In print and in person, I will always speak my truth -- but I will never, ever be "PC."
Until next time, "That's life..."
Some people find it offensive because of its racial connotations. Others aren't bothered at all.
My personal feelings about the issue are irrelevant. Even if I cared to share them -- which I don't -- this blog would hardly be the proper forum in which to do so.
Speaking in general, I will say this. People today are way too easily offended. And there is way too much pressure to be politically correct.
As an author and as someone who values freedom above all else, I believe that can be a very dangerous thing.
On meriam-webster.com, the term politically correct is defined as "conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated."
I agree that we should all be held accountable for what we say. Hate speech, in particular is intolerable. The consequences of making hateful comments -- maliciously or out of ignorance -- are justifiably harsh.
But when has societal pressure to be politically correct gone too far? When our fear of offending someone effectively stifles our freedom of speech? When it precludes open and honest debate? When it prevents us, as authors, from sharing our stories?
While I tried to share my own story as honestly and responsibly as possible, I knew many people -- including some in the transgender community -- would find my memoir offensive. I weighed the pros and cons of publishing it at all. But in the end, I didn't let fear of what people might think dissuade me from speaking my truth.
In print and in person, I will always speak my truth -- but I will never, ever be "PC."
Until next time, "That's life..."
Real Americans
Conventional wisdom holds that authors shouldn't blog about politics... or religion... or anything remotely controversial... unless the subject matter is directly related to our work.
I suppose we're supposed to play it safe in order to preserve our marketability and guarantee our books keep selling.
But those of you who know me personally or read this blog know I'm not the type to play it safe.
Take last week's posting, for instance. I boldly stated my belief that people are way too easily offended and vowed that I will never be politically correct.
This week I'm tackling something even more controversial. Specifically, I've decided to respond to some extremely offensive comments made by none other than Ann Coulter. Yes, I'm referring to her comments about soccer.
Among other things, the conservative columnist purportedly said that no one whose great-grandfather was born here is watching soccer. Of course she didn't have the guts to come out and say what she really meant. The insinuation was perfectly clear: Real Americans don't watch soccer .
Well, as we prepare to celebrate our country's indpendence, let me tell you a few things about real Americans, Ms. Coulter.
Real Americans don't always agree.
Real Americans know how to voice their opinions in a civilized manner.
Real Americans have no tolerance for those who spew hate.
Real Americans stand united in the face of adversity.
Real Americans celebrate our diversity.
Real Americans cherish our freedom.
Real Americans are patriotic.
Real Americans are proud.
Real Americans aren't defined by whether or not they like soccer.
Real Americans aren't defined by how long their families have been here.
Born here, I am a first-generation American of multicultural descent. And whether you like it or not, that makes me a real American.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I suppose we're supposed to play it safe in order to preserve our marketability and guarantee our books keep selling.
But those of you who know me personally or read this blog know I'm not the type to play it safe.
Take last week's posting, for instance. I boldly stated my belief that people are way too easily offended and vowed that I will never be politically correct.
This week I'm tackling something even more controversial. Specifically, I've decided to respond to some extremely offensive comments made by none other than Ann Coulter. Yes, I'm referring to her comments about soccer.
Among other things, the conservative columnist purportedly said that no one whose great-grandfather was born here is watching soccer. Of course she didn't have the guts to come out and say what she really meant. The insinuation was perfectly clear: Real Americans don't watch soccer .
Well, as we prepare to celebrate our country's indpendence, let me tell you a few things about real Americans, Ms. Coulter.
Real Americans don't always agree.
Real Americans know how to voice their opinions in a civilized manner.
Real Americans have no tolerance for those who spew hate.
Real Americans stand united in the face of adversity.
Real Americans celebrate our diversity.
Real Americans cherish our freedom.
Real Americans are patriotic.
Real Americans are proud.
Real Americans aren't defined by whether or not they like soccer.
Real Americans aren't defined by how long their families have been here.
Born here, I am a first-generation American of multicultural descent. And whether you like it or not, that makes me a real American.
Until next time, "That's life..."
Wish me luck...
Let's be honest. We creative types don't exactly have it easy. Everyone's a competitor. Everyone's a critic.
Personally I wouldn't have it any other way. It drives me to work harder. It drives me to do better. It drives me to reach goals I once thought unimaginable. It also drives me crazy.
Given that, I can't stop thinking about Tuesday. This coming Tuesday -- July 15, 2014 -- to be precise. It promises to be a banner day. I'll find out more about a paralegal certificate program I'm interested in taking to jump start the next phase of my career. Perhaps just as importantly (if not more so) I'll learn whether I'm a finalist in a national literary contest, and how I fared in a national short story contest.
There's money at stake in one case, and major street-cred up for grabs in the other. My pride's at stake in both.
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm competitive. But I'm also realistic. The judging in creative contests is a largely subjective exercise. So my "banner day" may end in disappointment. If it does, it won't be the first time.
And it won't be the last.
Until next time, "That's life..."
Personally I wouldn't have it any other way. It drives me to work harder. It drives me to do better. It drives me to reach goals I once thought unimaginable. It also drives me crazy.
Given that, I can't stop thinking about Tuesday. This coming Tuesday -- July 15, 2014 -- to be precise. It promises to be a banner day. I'll find out more about a paralegal certificate program I'm interested in taking to jump start the next phase of my career. Perhaps just as importantly (if not more so) I'll learn whether I'm a finalist in a national literary contest, and how I fared in a national short story contest.
There's money at stake in one case, and major street-cred up for grabs in the other. My pride's at stake in both.
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm competitive. But I'm also realistic. The judging in creative contests is a largely subjective exercise. So my "banner day" may end in disappointment. If it does, it won't be the first time.
And it won't be the last.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I hereby submit my resignation... from adulthood
Tuesday's come and gone, and nothing's changed. There are no new awards to add to my resume. My "banner day" ended in disappointment.
It wasn't the first time and it certainly won't be the last. And in any case, it's hardly the end of the world.
I'm already preparing for even bigger and better things. But as I do, I long for the days when life was a little less stressful and a whole lot less complicated.
Judging from a hard copy of an old email sent by a friend, I am not alone. Penned by an unknown author, the message read:
Adult Resignation
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult.
I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think it's a four-star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make ripples with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.
Run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer's day.
I want to return to a time life was simple. When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables and nursery rhymes, but that didn't bother you because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care.
All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all of the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple (sic) again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind and making angels in the snow.
So... here's my checkbook and my car keys, my credit card bills and my 401K statements.
I am officially resigning from adulthood.
And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first,
'cause, "Tag! you're it."
Until next time, "That's life..."
It wasn't the first time and it certainly won't be the last. And in any case, it's hardly the end of the world.
I'm already preparing for even bigger and better things. But as I do, I long for the days when life was a little less stressful and a whole lot less complicated.
Judging from a hard copy of an old email sent by a friend, I am not alone. Penned by an unknown author, the message read:
Adult Resignation
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult.
I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think it's a four-star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make ripples with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.
Run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer's day.
I want to return to a time life was simple. When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables and nursery rhymes, but that didn't bother you because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care.
All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all of the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple (sic) again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind and making angels in the snow.
So... here's my checkbook and my car keys, my credit card bills and my 401K statements.
I am officially resigning from adulthood.
And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first,
'cause, "Tag! you're it."
Until next time, "That's life..."
Just listen!
When it comes to writing, everyone's got an opinion. And in my humble opinion, J.K. Rowling is a genius. So, for that matter, is her "alter-ego" Robert Galbraith.
While I realize that her (their?) genius is a matter of considerable debate in literary circles and the among general public, that is not the topic of this post. However, it is tangential to the point I'm about to make.
Bear with me just a little while longer, and you'll see why.
In the opening pages of The Silkworm, our hero, Cormoran Strike, meets with a journalist. During the course of their conversation, the journalist, Culpepper, asks Strike how he got someone "to talk."
"I listened," Strike says.
And that simple bit of dialogue -- that little snippet --is what brings me (albeit it a bit belatedly) to my point.
He listened.
Just stop and think about that for a second. Let it sink in.
Now ask yourself this: in the day-to-day craziness of 21st century life, when was the last time I listened to someone?
In this instant information age, when was the last time I had a personal conversation without being distracted or interrupted by an incoming text or phone call?
Am I really "plugged in" to the world? Or am I out of touch with life?
Which matters more?
In this age of rampant narcissism and instant gratification, when was the last time I listened to someone without interrupting to share my opinion?
At a time when making and spreading harsh judgments about others based on limited or inaccurate information is celebrated, when was the last time I listened without judging?
At a time when I'm faced with so many demands I can hardly hear myself think, when was the last time I stopped long enough to listen to a child's laughter? Or waves lapping on the shore? Or gentle rainfall on the roof? Or birds chirping in the morning? Or leaves rustling in the breeze?
Then take a deep breath. Exhale. Find a quiet place to listen to your inner voice... and follow it where ever it may lead.
Until next time, "That's life..."
While I realize that her (their?) genius is a matter of considerable debate in literary circles and the among general public, that is not the topic of this post. However, it is tangential to the point I'm about to make.
Bear with me just a little while longer, and you'll see why.
In the opening pages of The Silkworm, our hero, Cormoran Strike, meets with a journalist. During the course of their conversation, the journalist, Culpepper, asks Strike how he got someone "to talk."
"I listened," Strike says.
And that simple bit of dialogue -- that little snippet --is what brings me (albeit it a bit belatedly) to my point.
He listened.
Just stop and think about that for a second. Let it sink in.
Now ask yourself this: in the day-to-day craziness of 21st century life, when was the last time I listened to someone?
In this instant information age, when was the last time I had a personal conversation without being distracted or interrupted by an incoming text or phone call?
Am I really "plugged in" to the world? Or am I out of touch with life?
Which matters more?
In this age of rampant narcissism and instant gratification, when was the last time I listened to someone without interrupting to share my opinion?
At a time when making and spreading harsh judgments about others based on limited or inaccurate information is celebrated, when was the last time I listened without judging?
At a time when I'm faced with so many demands I can hardly hear myself think, when was the last time I stopped long enough to listen to a child's laughter? Or waves lapping on the shore? Or gentle rainfall on the roof? Or birds chirping in the morning? Or leaves rustling in the breeze?
Then take a deep breath. Exhale. Find a quiet place to listen to your inner voice... and follow it where ever it may lead.
Until next time, "That's life..."
That's life...
All you may -- or may not -- want to know about my adventures as an author and other stuff.
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