tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50274098829185573652024-03-13T18:16:30.411-04:00Living on Ink: Notes on a Writing LifeOne writer's blog about fiction, life, and lesser evils.jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-12847950249501258232023-11-25T07:46:00.002-05:002023-11-25T07:46:32.802-05:00From A to B<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Do you remember how you learned how to read? Actual details, like how old you were, where you were, what you read and who you were with? I can't. By all accounts, I should have never ended up calling "writing" my profession because reading and me had a difficult start. We weren't pals.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Hampton or Mrs. Washington, my memory fails, was a strict graying woman outta the '50s who wore stern-looking muted dresses to our classroom and had seating charts. This would have been around 1973. If my memory serves, I wasn't one of her favorites. I do recall a sweet little girl who sat by me, named Jackie, who was a pixie and wore the most enviable shiny white knee-high boots with heels. I was more interested in those boots than the alphabet. She wore them in our class photo.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One afternoon, the teacher pulled me into the hallway (this wouldn't be the last time) and sat me down with flashcards of the alphabet. Maybe terrified, I did my best to give her the answers she wanted though my responses had to have missed the mark a few times. I knew the basics, A, B, C, those early letters were a breeze, but the farther down in the alphabet, my familiarity dropped off like a sugar cube in black coffee. Plop. The U, W, Y, all looked the same to me. Can't you see a resemblance?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Not too long after our hallway visit, my mom started quizzing me in the car about billboards. <i>What can you read there, honey?</i> while pointing out the window. And I'd do my best to answer. Again, I have no idea what I said or if my interpretation of the Sinclair gasoline or the tires at Sears ads were right. If my mom had a heart-to-heart with me about my shortcomings, I can't recall that either. I just wasn't really interested in reading or writing. I was interested in my friend Jackie, her boots and playing at recess.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlcg-EX7zQv9ViT6hhVu766NrDPLt62sjoEVnpOJkv4ZfReFNUViuR4cxP_3Pv8g3c_yhTyIP0aFah3DK2YkYXQpPv06Wj73rDiLCSvXyFYXBYPj2TAwMN_owS5zZFaUO79I5-2xjTth8rWU4wAWhCUPuCQeK2BBTQs9ip-XyyA6lEJCX-YgPRegRvNNa/s640/legs-791702_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img alt="Feet on hopscotch box" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlcg-EX7zQv9ViT6hhVu766NrDPLt62sjoEVnpOJkv4ZfReFNUViuR4cxP_3Pv8g3c_yhTyIP0aFah3DK2YkYXQpPv06Wj73rDiLCSvXyFYXBYPj2TAwMN_owS5zZFaUO79I5-2xjTth8rWU4wAWhCUPuCQeK2BBTQs9ip-XyyA6lEJCX-YgPRegRvNNa/w134-h200/legs-791702_640.jpg" title="Feet on hopscotch box" width="134" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mrs. Hampton/Washington kept me back from recess once. It was an ordinary day and didn't have anything to do with reading lessons or the alphabet. We were assigned an in-class exercise, and instead of following directions, I recruited another friend, Monica, to play a game. It could have been Candyland or Operation. We had just gotten out the game, and pulled our seats together, when the teacher stormed over and leered down at me, calling us out for failing to follow instructions. I got a paddling in the hall. I hope Monica did not but I was so humiliated, that part of the story is lost. It was extremely painful, and I still have a bad word or two for my kindergarten teacher floating in my head today about her choice of discipline. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My efforts at reading probably, most likely, almost certainly didn't improve after that point. I caught up somewhere along the way. Though to this day, I couldn't tell you the title of the first book I ever read. It would have been along the lines of <i>Flat Stanley</i> or Judy Blume or somesuch. Reading never gave me the joy my teacher promised. It wasn't Mrs. Hampton/Washington's fault. I just got behind, and it took me decades to catch up. I'm still catching up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The fact that this didn't hold me back from learning how to write is a miracle. How is it possible that a half-hearted kindergartener with little interest in letters and books became a writer later? Other teachers, a poem or two, some speeches I wrote, helped. At one point, the letters started to click together easily. It all comes so easily now. It is a gift not taken for granted. </span></p><p><br /></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-2961605091257401632023-06-28T11:30:00.002-04:002023-06-28T11:56:50.195-04:00Doing the Work<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2xkjYCaI6wU5iG98zSvmrO57g-h7umEKiBya1gOR7akRXAn6Rncx96W9qDfCBuzETzs00VexafeHEr-JEZ9pc3owO2PjBG5XnsOsYRwpnuQ7f3lVLU7fIxLhJLz4hTtKkbpiefUsD773k7gwfp4lNzyGWpAAVjC5-F0yYAJFxI3zKocbhsFbo4F0KpWT/s1366/20230625_sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Montana sunset by JFulford June 2023" border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="1366" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2xkjYCaI6wU5iG98zSvmrO57g-h7umEKiBya1gOR7akRXAn6Rncx96W9qDfCBuzETzs00VexafeHEr-JEZ9pc3owO2PjBG5XnsOsYRwpnuQ7f3lVLU7fIxLhJLz4hTtKkbpiefUsD773k7gwfp4lNzyGWpAAVjC5-F0yYAJFxI3zKocbhsFbo4F0KpWT/w538-h242/20230625_sunset.jpg" title="Montana sunset by JFulford June 2023" width="538" /></a></div><p>If you wanna be a fiction writer, you gotta do the work. It doesn't really matter where you work, like from a gorgeous spot out in the Montana wilderness, but you gotta dedicate the time and the headspace. You'll need uninterrupted stretches to: </p><p></p><blockquote><p>--Think about your story, AKA plotting</p><p>--Write, write, write</p><p>--Re-read and check your inner critic. Revisions come after the draft. (Are you editing while you're drafting? Ahhh, I see, you're <i>one of those.</i>)</p><p>--Capture thoughts about changes (I do this in a spiral notebook.)</p><p>--Think some more, AKA plotting</p><p>--Wonder what the hell you're doing</p><p>--Keep writing</p><p>--Resist, resist, resist major editing (Unless you're <i>one of those.</i>)</p><p>--Finish a draft</p></blockquote><p></p><p>A draft is the newborn phase of your story's life. You don't have anything without a draft <span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;">– a </span>complete draft with a beginning, middle, and end.</p><p>All the other stuff, pacing, voice, character development, world building, proper spelling/grammar, dreams of fame, those can be tackled in the editing phase. Don't get me wrong, <b>editing is essential</b>. But getting the draft down comes first. Everything else can be fixed.</p><p>Whatcha waiting for?</p><p></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-88215336819695819932023-03-05T10:17:00.002-05:002023-03-05T10:24:01.828-05:00Wait, What? AI and Writing<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since my last post in 2022, lots of life has happened. I traveled to Iceland, Canada, Spain and several U.S. locations; I've moved (same city); I've switched jobs then decided to basically take a sabbatical from full-time work. Here we go, sliding into 2023 with a little determination to relax.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">How was all that activity on my literary output? A big fat rotten goose egg. But doesn't the saying go, <i>If you can't write something worth reading, then do something worth writing about</i>? I've been thinking about finishing the draft of my new novella, but the old butt-in-seat-hands-on-keyboard method has failed me of late. Part of it has to do with the relaxing part. My job had me spending so much time in front of a computer, the last thing I wanted (or want) to do was (is) spend even more time in front of a screen, even if it was (is) doing something I enjoyed. It's okay. In fact, it might be good timing now that technology has sped up. My next novel includes artificial intelligence (AI) in the storyline, and so much has happened on that front lately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://chat.openai.com" target="_blank">ChatGPT</a> has become a thing. If you haven't given it a spin, stop reading this and try it. It is an online web portal to pose questions to a computer that is trained to answer like a human. Ask it anything, and it'll give you an intelligible answer. It can <a href="https://www.reuters.com/technology/chatgpt-launches-boom-ai-written-e-books-amazon-2023-02-21/" target="_blank">even write a book</a>. People are using AI to write just about everything now, including <a href="https://www.jasper.ai" target="_blank">marketing copy.</a> I'm waffling between thinking this is incredibly cool and also thinking of my career as dust. (Ha! Even the notion that I have a career is a little comical.)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's the answer ChatGPT gives when I ask it: <b>What kind of voice do you use when asked to write a novel?</b></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">As an AI language model, I don't have a personal voice, but rather can adopt to different styles and tones...</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And for another five paragraphs, it gives an explanation of how that can happen. Weird? Yes, and a little wonderful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Will it replace you and me, the writers of the world? No, I don't think a computer will ever fully capture the human experience. Google's tried to crack the code of our behavior for years (to sell us stuff), and the one underlying bump is that humans are just too fickle. We change our minds a lot, we do things uncharacteristically, veer from our habits. That and the fact that we actually LIVE isn't something that a computer can duplicate. It won't know what it feels like to sit on a beach, watch the sunrise, drink coffee with a friend, be cramped in a stale airplane, witness war, fall in love. Or at least, not yet.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4k9Hd7ZMCoJnDbt5ha6Gur_GEsiLr0hyKdNx1wIoAnAf9Thf7Rcg1C7dOwJ6uRrP7Irvxmttb8lNW2TYx8uwz8kyi0xKKi_PEzC16aewrIxwKVSAQ_4XRYp50A5NfuipjNoMmyDq-C9Fy4VbfgKXb-EsuSJDQg1gqd_tCgtqHo0x9ZA29kELFzT7ng/s4624/20230228_113708.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Two cups of hot drinks in white coffee cups" border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="2084" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4k9Hd7ZMCoJnDbt5ha6Gur_GEsiLr0hyKdNx1wIoAnAf9Thf7Rcg1C7dOwJ6uRrP7Irvxmttb8lNW2TYx8uwz8kyi0xKKi_PEzC16aewrIxwKVSAQ_4XRYp50A5NfuipjNoMmyDq-C9Fy4VbfgKXb-EsuSJDQg1gqd_tCgtqHo0x9ZA29kELFzT7ng/w144-h320/20230228_113708.jpg" width="144" /></a></span></div><p></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-76603684112017019232022-06-25T21:50:00.002-04:002022-06-25T21:50:47.958-04:00In This Lifetime: You Can, So Do<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievLpKpv0vEgW_CnbtccUDsJB70pwc91pSFptFcbp7h-DOlBvoOnXfWkdpr2Tb0jl7weg7tgjlxmqZUwt8rZbYU5se539JdzuIgc7gbK4qxO26pO8gJDk_0OLqpK4icrkhDxRPmYhu7ucV5Y6uuyTOueu27qj8xmh15lZgT0fKIT6eXpB7JY3UPJbpXw/s630/You-Can-So-Can.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Bicycle with text "You can, so do."" border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievLpKpv0vEgW_CnbtccUDsJB70pwc91pSFptFcbp7h-DOlBvoOnXfWkdpr2Tb0jl7weg7tgjlxmqZUwt8rZbYU5se539JdzuIgc7gbK4qxO26pO8gJDk_0OLqpK4icrkhDxRPmYhu7ucV5Y6uuyTOueu27qj8xmh15lZgT0fKIT6eXpB7JY3UPJbpXw/w320-h320/You-Can-So-Can.png" width="320" /></a></div>If you can make a donation, send it out.<p></p><p>If you can canvas a neighborhood, bring a friend.<br /></p><p>If you can talk with conviction, speak your mind.</p><p>If you can find your voice, write a letter to a politician.</p><p>If you can march in the streets, go forth with conviction.</p><p>If you can make a statement on social media, don't be afraid.</p><p>If you can assist a person in need, give them a hand.</p><p>If you can run for office, be yourself and tell it like it is.</p><p>If you can debunk a myth, correct the record.</p><p>If you can read and educate yourself, seek enlightenment.</p><p>If you can offer a shoulder for someone hurting, offer your kindness.</p><p>If you can write a treatise and publish it, get busy.</p><p>If you can listen, find your compassion.</p><p>If you can open your mind and heart, understand the perspective of someone other than yourself.</p><p>If you can be receptive, learn something you didn't know. </p><p>If you have a patch of land, put a sign on it.</p><p>If you can sing, give it your all.</p><p>If you can shed your fear and hardness, fall in love with all the possibilities of this life.</p><p>There's always hope and a way to instigate change.</p><p>If you seize your potential, others will be inspired, too.</p><p>Hopelessness shelters in inaction. You can make a difference, so do. I believe in you.</p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-42427513874655801822022-05-21T08:31:00.000-04:002022-05-21T08:31:43.445-04:00The Walking Man<p>Posting this story for a couple of friends. No real residual grief going on. I don't even have a garage anymore. </p><span id="docs-internal-guid-41456dcb-7fff-d874-b218-56fe257a71a9">***<br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This pair of shoes has a story. The Walking Man wore these shoes for several years, when he first started walking, before he became known as The Walking Man. I guess, if you want to get technical, the story of the shoes started in a doctor’s office.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaFxkF0TlrSeWsMIyuZT7kd5CVJDa5LQ4dB9wt6SASx6RuSJZnFGy-ARA8fC6GWdIjc9dndVZXKTzKVYAxrvrtH4Qm43WaTOvSODt5LekbsbN02Ziuh7fB-ItDnzXdodMGmAMPF4k2MnXHUIA-7LIOTjsiI_nXpphJ8k-G0XRhNrUmM5tN_VcwxSL3g/s3636/20220521_082425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Pair of worn tennis shoes at the threshold of an open door with a shadow cast behind them" border="0" data-original-height="3636" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaFxkF0TlrSeWsMIyuZT7kd5CVJDa5LQ4dB9wt6SASx6RuSJZnFGy-ARA8fC6GWdIjc9dndVZXKTzKVYAxrvrtH4Qm43WaTOvSODt5LekbsbN02Ziuh7fB-ItDnzXdodMGmAMPF4k2MnXHUIA-7LIOTjsiI_nXpphJ8k-G0XRhNrUmM5tN_VcwxSL3g/w305-h320/20220521_082425.jpg" title="His fav pair" width="305" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You have metabolic syndrome,” the slim doctor told the middle-aged man.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man looked hard at his round belly.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That,” the doc pointed, “is the problem.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man loved to eat. Going out to lunch was a must during his work day. At home, he loved cooking and entertaining everyone. And that’s how the roundness made a home on his belly. Invariably, he would get tired after dinner and nap to feel better.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re tired,” said the doctor, “because your metabolism is low.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man, not yet 50, didn’t want to take blood pressure medication for the frequent headaches that had taken him to the doctor. He wanted to show the doctor that he could do something besides be like all the others who just resigned themselves to illness. So, he began to walk.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From then on, he walked every day to work. It was 45 minutes there, 45 minutes back. He walked to the grocery. He walked to the video store. He walked to restaurants. Within two weeks, he’d lost 8 pounds.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re like the poster child for high blood pressure,” his doctor actually said. So the man kept walking. That’s when he bought the shoes.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, his friends started recognizing him on the street as they passed him in their cars, and he became known as The Walking Man. Acquaintances would stop and ask if he needed a ride. He almost always refused because walking was the point. Time seemed to be on his side. Walking bought him more time.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He took his shoes to a new city and a new job. His whole family went. But he didn’t stop walking. In fact, he sold their second car. He walked everywhere. To the grocery. To the video store. To the sushi bar. To the donut shop, because he still loved to eat. In his new place, no one even questioned his walking. He walked so much that his shoes started to wear out. So, he bought a second pair, not quite as comfortable as the first. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One day, he went to the gym, and he ran out of breath after walking on the treadmill and lifting weights. It scared him. He couldn’t catch his wind. His wife came to pick him up, and he told her things weren’t right. On the nervous ride home, she called the ambulance. Sirens blew in their neighborhood, and he sat in the car waiting, feeling small and tenuous. “I’m scared,” he told her, his eyes told her. But the paramedics couldn’t find anything wrong, but they took him to the hospital for more tests.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There, they told him his heart had a small heart attack. It was so small, it hadn’t done any damage. What news! His good shape had helped him survive a close call. Everyone felt cautiously optimistic that The Walking Man had kept himself alive by </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">walking.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He went home but not without a bunch of drugs. This made him sad, but he kept walking. For more than a year, he walked after the heart attack. He occasionally wore his first pair of shoes because they just felt good, even though they were in sorry sorry shape. They gave him comfort.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He wasn’t wearing them the next time his heart acted up. He may have had on his hiking shoes, that, plus a pair of biking shorts, an old t-shirt. He’d gone on a mountain bike ride. A friend took him on a hilly trail. The friend didn’t know about the doctors, or the walking, or the little bottle of nitroglycerin pills he kept on him at all times. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Near the top of the trail, The Walking Man stopped his friend.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can we slow down?” he asked the friend. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to turn around and start back. The downhill would do him good. But it didn’t. He needed air in his lungs, and it wasn’t coming. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can we stop?” was his next question. So, a mile or so away from the trailhead, they got off their bikes.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They both sat on the side of the trail. It was a nice spot, wooded, quiet, with a strong tree to shade them. There, he told the friend about his heart. He took a few nitro pills. He handed his phone to the friend after dialing his wife. Then he fell over.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few months later, the walking shoes went into a bag. The bag went on a moving truck. The truck went back to where The Walking Man had started walking. His family doesn’t know what happened to the hiking shoes or clothes he wore on his last day in the woods; they didn’t want to ask the officials or go see The Walking Man after he’d stopped breathing. They may have been burned with his body. Or they might have been given to a second-hand store. Or they could have been put in a dumpster. They thought maybe those details didn’t matter so much because the man was gone.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The shoes he liked the most, this pair, haven’t walked again. His wife put them in a bag and hung them in the garage, with a few of his old tools, and camping equipment, and a few unopened boxes of his kitchen utensils. She occasionally looks in the bag to remember the walking. To the grocery, to the movie store, to the restaurants. The shoes show her time. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-34608543662478433112022-02-27T15:21:00.004-05:002022-02-27T15:25:56.568-05:00The Hieroglyphics of Notebooks<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My first serious writings go back to childhood when I kept diaries and wrote letters by hand. I loyally (well, as much as a pre-teen can) wrote to various pen pals, like my grandmother, and then sporadically used small diaries, secured by tiny locks and keys. I was a better letter writer than a diarist. My early attempts at journaling in the diaries show my self-consciousness. It still feels self-indulgent to write about myself. But, welcome to my blog (ironic wink here😉).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What I appreciate about those early writings is the demarcation of time. My age, the date, my thoughts show where my head was at. You can image at 12: "No one will <b>ever</b> love me for X, Y, Z reason!" Ouch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I stopped journaling in high school and college. It wasn't until about ten years ago that I took up writing to myself in random notebooks, but those were mainly to start the novel I couldn't get out of my head. I'd take the kids' abandoned Pokeman spiral notebooks from school and re-love them. Then friends, my husband, other writers, started giving me tiny journals. I have a nice collection. I didn't become suddenly prolific though. Maybe I became more diligent at jotting the occasional gem of an idea down. There was also an index card phase (which I've recently revived), and I was not above using a crayon.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirqXN7KxJPP-qbll3oPipCz3L7u2KSpAx2tJdaFvdIrpvTKPY7VZ3-MUKM-ByAHmFkKxu4CSYP2Ce_sqjCPllj6NLWTghvztYdHStC-lAYI5H3PWBhkN0HT36OwogIbqaD4mUwN8Iz-2NayI95qJut9awy0RbJIW-a5cKaDwp2DGFGxSTDrsPfSycEEA=s4624" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="Path of hike in North Carolina" border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirqXN7KxJPP-qbll3oPipCz3L7u2KSpAx2tJdaFvdIrpvTKPY7VZ3-MUKM-ByAHmFkKxu4CSYP2Ce_sqjCPllj6NLWTghvztYdHStC-lAYI5H3PWBhkN0HT36OwogIbqaD4mUwN8Iz-2NayI95qJut9awy0RbJIW-a5cKaDwp2DGFGxSTDrsPfSycEEA=w240-h320" title="Path of a recent hike" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">By no means do I have an astounding collection of handwritten work. What I do have are snapshots of the past. They tell me who I was at a time when I was wondering who I was. Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, my writing didn't go much beyond "no one will <b>ever</b> love me" (no winking here).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently, I flipped through a notebook in my drawer and picked a nearly blank one to find a poem I couldn't remember writing and the title of a book, which I've since read. Both notes to myself were several years old, both a remembrance of what was going on then, the life stuff, the good and the bad. Ironically, I just mentioned the name of the book to someone and went on to describe the gist of the story, which was darkly dystopian.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My point is: notebooks are like hieroglyphics, and mine are a mirror. Sometimes it's nice to see your old self; sometimes I wish I looked different.</span></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-29908968321928241592021-12-30T15:22:00.002-05:002021-12-30T15:25:36.380-05:00Sending 2021 Out with a Swift Kick<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay. I'll admit it. I was on Tinder this year. What an awful place. Whew, I survived and probably won't be going back. But if YOU are in the market and are an eligible bachelor who finds yourself on that (or any) humbling online dating site, here are a few words of gentle but sound advice. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">T<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">hese missteps will likely reduce your sex appeal:</span></span></p><ol style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">No photo</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">No introduction statement</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Your age is ≧ 0 </span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Pictures include girlfriend OR unidentified female clinging to your neck</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Majority of your pictures include your dog. Just your dog.</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Head cut off in photo</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Selfie in bathroom mirror (Does everyone think this is sexy?)</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Toss-up, selfie in car (They sure think this is sexy!)</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">No clothes (Seriously, I saw more than I'd like.)</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Frown or no smiling pics</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Another toss-up, selfie with earbuds</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">All pictures include exercising</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">A third toss-up, posting pictures of feet, in socks, shoes, or bare</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Wearing a clown costume with a blue wig. In every photo.</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Misspelling the word “too”</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">You’re already married</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Chastising anyone not searching for a hookup</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Begging for a response: “C’mon ladies, swipe, please!”</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There are more ellipses … than words … in your personal … statement.</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Declaring: “I like to do it!”</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Posting phone number because “If you don’t call, someone else will!”</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Toss-up #4: Using acronyms/phrases/words requiring the use of the Urban Dictionary: ITB, sapiophile, AMA</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Overusing emoticons ☹☹☹☹</span></span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Statements that life is short, so “Sister, you better take a chance on me!”</span></span></p></li></ol><div><span style="font-size: medium; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-d0181605-7fff-57fe-76cb-20636f4c4d2a"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Well, I didn’t take a chance on many. I did laugh a lot. See ya, 2021. We had some fun.</span></span></span></div>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-77028243840376225172021-11-20T12:10:00.003-05:002021-11-20T12:12:40.475-05:00Normalizing Your Writing Practice<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Using trendy language and tropes generally isn't a great idea in writing. But I'll use the word "normalizing" in this post because it goes straight to the subject. If you're a writer, if you are trying to cultivate a practice while wondering what the hell you're doing, or whether what you're doing helps/hurts/accomplishes your goals, then one sure thing will support you: a writing cohort.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0eYrSnEd4h0/YZkrIcghm7I/AAAAAAAAJtg/syHRKtTsW6Y8eGarDPDwuxwS43coCNl5wCPcBGAsYHg/s4000/20211119_162619.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="Jennifer Fulford and Micki Selvitella, writer friends" border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0eYrSnEd4h0/YZkrIcghm7I/AAAAAAAAJtg/syHRKtTsW6Y8eGarDPDwuxwS43coCNl5wCPcBGAsYHg/w240-h320/20211119_162619.jpg" title="Jennifer Fulford and Micki Selvitella, writer friends" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sorry to use such a $2 word: <b>cohort</b>. It sounds academic when it's just shorthand. I'm not talking about a critique group. Those can be helpful, too, in other ways: to keep your word count up, to keep your stories honest. But a writing <b>cohort</b> is something more loose; it's the people you know who take their writing somewhat seriously, have produced work that actually goes out into the world for other people to consume, and who are actively working on future work to publish. These are the folks who'll normalize your experience by reflecting on their own. They're the people you'll discuss: <i>"Here's where I'm going. How about you?"</i> You need this conversation once in a while to "normalize" your habits/practice and not feel alone. It reminds you why you are doing what you are doing and that you aren't astray. <br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This blog is subtitled: <i>Notes on a Writing Life</i>. I can't tell you how to live a "writing life." No one really can. It's as individual as your DNA. How many words you write in a day/month/year has nothing to do with your worth as a writer. "Making it" by getting an agent and a book deal may be your goal. That's all fine and good. But there are many iterations of "making it" that have nothing to do with commercial success. Success comes in many forms and by many paths. Understanding the individuality of your experience by checking in with your peers helps you to discern what's best for you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have some good writers in my life. Novelists. Poets. Journalists. They are incredibly interesting, dedicated, outlandish, unconventional, wonderful, decent people. I hope they get from me what I get from them. My habits, foibles, successes, and trials aren't unique. My goals are to keep writing and not stop, to write something people can enjoy and possibly learn from. <i>Here's where I'm going. How about you?</i></span></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-35471037875362505022021-08-08T11:08:00.002-04:002021-08-08T11:48:55.257-04:00At A Crossroads<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My next book is coming out, and the opportunity to move in a new direction is imminent.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vzKv6eBlZ2k/YQ_o2JIpgjI/AAAAAAAAIcc/D73-Dye5lrg-wZSel5eJ3AWYVf6NOURVACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/ebook-1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="The Book of Ulie by Jennifer M. Fulford" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vzKv6eBlZ2k/YQ_o2JIpgjI/AAAAAAAAIcc/D73-Dye5lrg-wZSel5eJ3AWYVf6NOURVACLcBGAsYHQ/w266-h400/ebook-1.jpg" title="The Book of Ulie by Jennifer M. Fulford" width="266" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The conclusion of a book, in this case by publishing it, brings a sense of fulfillment, excitement, and letdown. Why letdown? Because the birth "process" is over. All the labor and worry about the way the story will unfold comes to an end. The process for <a href="https://youtu.be/AwWb0hpxil4" target="_blank">The Book of Ulie</a> took me more than seven years. Obviously, I wasn't working on the manuscript for a solid seven years. I started it and wrote it in about two, then put it aside for about four, then resurrected it to get it out of my system. Don't get me wrong. I have liked this book from the beginning <b>A LOT</b>. It's a good story. Catchy, infectious. (Even my mom liked it, and she's a hard reader to please.) The break from it was just life happening.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Readers may wonder: Is Ulie you? No and yes. No, she's not how I am as a person. Yes, she comes from parts of my experiences and thoughts. But, she's not the true me. I'd like to be more like her in some ways but not in others.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She's a writer, working on a book, and that's how I am now and always. My crossroads is: What should I do next? How should I change to broaden my audience? Should I write more for personal or commercial success? Ulie asks the metaphysical: Who am I? I guess I'm doing the same. </span></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-82511763472604548052021-05-02T16:07:00.007-04:002021-05-03T20:51:49.709-04:00Make Room for Headspace<p><span style="font-size: medium;">For years, I've been whispering into my own ear: <i>"Go on a retreat."</i> Several of my more intuitive and spiritual friends plan them routinely, sometimes more than a few times a year, to get out of their heads. Frankly, for me, making time to make time is a little like digging in sand. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I bump into myself regularly trying to commit to stretches of only writing. When brilliant flashes of freedom tempt me, it doesn't take long until I'm cleaving to door jambs, afraid to leave the chores undone and the cats to their own devices. But streaks of creativity don't just spontaneously happen. You plan them; or, you practice them. Otherwise, you just aren't productive. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The added bonus of going away from home is finding inspiration. I went away for a few days recently and, even though my wordcount was low, the rejuvenation factor was high. The trip reminded me of the importance of making room for headspace, because writing is a head thing. Even if <a href="https://www.livingonink.com/2020/01/retro-writing-why-my-hands-win-out.html" target="_blank">speech-to-text</a> becomes more universal, thinking is an essential ingredient to crafting a story. Thinking without a cluttered mind and surroundings (bills, dust bunnies, laundry) can be priceless. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me show you where I went. And, I'll be upfront that the hosts of the <a href="https://www.innonmillcreek.com/" target="_blank">Inn on Mill Creek</a> in Old Fort, NC, generously gifted this trip. I'm sincerely grateful for their hospitality. It's fitting that the materials promoting the Inn include quotes from writers</span><span face=""Source Sans Pro", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 19px;">—</span><span style="font-size: medium;">Jane Austen, John Muir, Robert Frost</span><span face=""Source Sans Pro", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 19px;">—</span><span style="font-size: medium;">because this place is suited for solitude and contemplation. The number of places on the property where peace and quiet are available is much longer than my favorites list.</span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Best Spots at Inn on Mill Creek for Writers</span></h2><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>#1 The desk in the shared TV room of the Deck House.</b> I was lucky enough not to have to share the TV room with anyone because of renovations. But, you can see why this hovel screams <i>WRITE! </i>Apparently, I'm not the first writer to think this spot is the bee's knees. It overlooks a water feature.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sbqT-btQyLE/YI74D08HJvI/AAAAAAAAHaA/sUFSPYNihx8No1acb_5axbQba7N2trl9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Old-Fort-NC-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-writers-desk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Writer's Desk at Inn on Mill Creek in Old Fort, NC" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sbqT-btQyLE/YI74D08HJvI/AAAAAAAAHaA/sUFSPYNihx8No1acb_5axbQba7N2trl9QCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Old-Fort-NC-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-writers-desk.jpg" title="The view from the desk is a pond." width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>#2 The deck off of my bedroom.</b> Brigette Walters, who's an innskeeper, told us that the adjacent lake and wetlands sound like a meditation app. No kidding.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtsQ4LClYKw/YI8DN5XIlRI/AAAAAAAAHa0/Ied162b1glQnWU58XXjnc1Jpfb1mt7ZjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Mountain-Laurel-guest-room-and-deck-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtsQ4LClYKw/YI8DN5XIlRI/AAAAAAAAHa0/Ied162b1glQnWU58XXjnc1Jpfb1mt7ZjQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h320/Mountain-Laurel-guest-room-and-deck-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>#3 The boardwalk.</b> <span style="text-align: left;">This marvelous area emerged recently from the handiwork of Brigette's husband and co-innskeeper, Dave. Dave's a retired engineer who decided in late 2019 to build a floating boardwalk over a wetland area on their seven private acres. He finished it in about five months, constructing 10 feet at a time. It's an amazing addition to the grounds, and I didn't spend nearly enough time on it. I'm going back when he adds the bell, hand-crafted from an old fuel tank. BTW, the seats in the magnolia tree are placed in the exact spot where Dave got the inspiration to build the boardwalk in the first place. Dave, you're cool!</span></span></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qh2N1kGSZ_M/YI7-DBJl1eI/AAAAAAAAHag/KoeB4h3jhpowAZMay31K5hk5H5Vg9_CfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Collage-of-boardwalk-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="1200" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qh2N1kGSZ_M/YI7-DBJl1eI/AAAAAAAAHag/KoeB4h3jhpowAZMay31K5hk5H5Vg9_CfQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h256/Collage-of-boardwalk-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>#4 Brigette's gardens.</b> Brigette loves plants and birds and people. She even recognizes a few of the squirrels, who she admonishes when they visit the birdfeeders in the garden near the breakfast solarium. It's okay, Brigette. We'll wait for the hummingbirds. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cn77OAFECA/YI8AkYjYLAI/AAAAAAAAHas/qIo7MQotmQoQk4b6e8IMWXr-RnMAJnvGACLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Gardens-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cn77OAFECA/YI8AkYjYLAI/AAAAAAAAHas/qIo7MQotmQoQk4b6e8IMWXr-RnMAJnvGACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h320/Gardens-at-Inn-on-Mill-Creek-in-Old-Fort-NC.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This place makes a writer wanna go Thoreau: just slip into the woods and not come back. Maybe next time, I won't.</span></div>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-84612748202626925912020-12-13T10:43:00.005-05:002020-12-16T12:50:35.662-05:00Advice for Becoming a Writer<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://photolib.noaa.gov/Collections/National-Weather-Service/Other/emodule/627/eitem/20446" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Photo of Northern Lights by NOAA" border="0" data-original-height="985" data-original-width="2044" height="308" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3y5S1-yEcgY/X9Y1cD1KHZI/AAAAAAAAEaM/rIZpVxLan4sbh1ZNmP9Q7iiMYkmEZEmcQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h308/Northern-Lights-2013_NOAA.png" title="Photo of Northern Lights" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Looking back in the 10-year rearview mirror, here are some lessons learned about writing fiction. If you're new to "creative writing" and want to make a name for yourself or switch careers, let me clue you in:</span><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;">If you're not reading, you won't make it. Not only must you read in your genre and good books in general, you should be reading ABOUT your genre and WHY books are good. Not only must you keep learning how to write better, you should be practicing what you learn. Not only must you market, you should be dedicating time to marketing, because in a larger sense, that's the only way anyone will ever see your work. <br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Don't bank on making a living by writing fiction exclusively. Despite that statement's negativity, it's realistic. If you put that kind of pressure on your creative life ("I must be a bestseller by XYZ or write the Great American Novel before I'm 30"), you will find all kinds of stresses will invade your psyche and take the joy out of creativity. </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Keep earning a steady source of income, even if it isn't writing and even it if cuts into your writing/creative time. Having resources for food, water, shelter gives you the headspace (and physical space) to write. If you love writing enough, you will continue to write regardless of having a day job, and your writing will reward you in ways other than financial. Can you make it "Big," whatever "Big" means to you? There's always a chance.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Break the rules, but know what they are first. This goes back to the advice: Keep learning.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Just because you write it, doesn't mean they will come. Readers and sales don't flop in your lap.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Your work isn't for everyone. That's okay. In fact, if it was liked by everyone that would be an anomaly the likes of an asteroid hitting Earth. Carve out a niche for yourself. If you want to be market-savvy, then hyper-focus on trends and popular tropes in your genre. Or, if you're like me, experiment. There's richnesses in following your own muse.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Your creative life is yours and yours alone. You don't have to live it any way but your own. If you find success with one piece and like the success enough to repeat it, then follow that path. If you never want to write another story like it again, then don't. You're the master of your spirit. Follow your spirit.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Have some FUN in your creative life! Do something that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/jenniferfulford" target="_blank">puts you out in the world</a> (virtually, these days, of course). Make people smile, and the act will reciprocate. <br /></span></li></ul><br /><p><br /></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-70479825950502788192020-11-05T19:19:00.007-05:002020-12-16T12:48:03.573-05:00A Boxy Blog of (Dis)Comfort<p></p><p style="text-align: left;">When events beyond my control drag me down, many feelings can take hold. One, the feeling to retreat. My little voice, what could it say to make any difference for myself and my country? I have no grand designs on making things better. (Maybe I should run for office?) People want to feel safe, and art/artists can sometimes give this gift. A beautiful painting. A stunning creation. Music that lights a dark place, a song that conveys hope or makes a statement. Here, in this boxy blog, would anyone find a little comfort, like I do in the writing? I'm able to funnel the racing heart and anxiety of what ifs. What if I have to buy a gun? What if I lose my job? What if someone decides to ram a car through a march, and my body is in the way? That is fear speaking. We are a country full of fears. We fear violence, whether perceived or real. And, we should fear the real violence, too much this year. Peace seems unachievable. We fear lack of resources, that someone will get something that should be ours, or scarcity will rule the household. As millions file jobless claims, those are tangible fears. We fear death. The virus. Being alone in sickness. These are not easy thoughts to bend. Afraid can become a constant state of being. I'm reading the memoirs of black writers, and fear of brutality is woven into their very being. Those memoirists found ways to express the struggle in meaningful words with eloquence and new perspectives. They gave the searing steam an outlet. We might all need one. We need to learn to cope with the afraid and the realities of what produced it: somehow find a practice or method to examine it. We need ways to overcome, talk it out, be the light, let it go, and raise up something more positive for ourselves and each other. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wDXif-9Brs4/X6SUlr2BMcI/AAAAAAAAEYA/4wGX1Ud0IKU1BQyvVGb14ZlfifzJ6SvzACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Pic-of-black-cat-in-black-box.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="2048" height="418" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wDXif-9Brs4/X6SUlr2BMcI/AAAAAAAAEYA/4wGX1Ud0IKU1BQyvVGb14ZlfifzJ6SvzACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h418/Pic-of-black-cat-in-black-box.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-85692993984485462682020-09-26T11:53:00.004-04:002020-12-16T12:30:27.697-05:00I Am Not a Scientist<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not a scientist. But I work among them. I see my job as interpreting. My words give a voice to the science that could be affecting you right now. And, it is. The world is changing, and I don’t mean politically. It’s about our atmosphere and the ocean and the carbon we’re putting and have put into both. This isn’t my attempt at a lecture. This is an essay about what I see in my everyday work. </span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I initially laughed a few years ago when a colleague of mine asked: “What’s a different way of saying ‘It’s the hottest ______________ (yr, month, quarter, day) ever?’” That description has been needed so much of late, it has become a cliché. You may have noticed it, too, where you live. Maybe not more heat. Maybe something is different than what it used to be: it’s drier, wetter, colder. Yes, colder. If snows are happening where they didn’t used to, it counts as odd to those who live there. The changes may simply dawn on you one day: This weather isn’t normal; it’s not what I remember. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gr_57Tscb7I/X29jaH_RESI/AAAAAAAAETs/NbfeDoN_4d4eGes4YmyCwSGkKO_mNIcVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/ISS-photo-over-Phillipines.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="International Space Station photo over Philippines" border="0" data-original-height="1150" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gr_57Tscb7I/X29jaH_RESI/AAAAAAAAETs/NbfeDoN_4d4eGes4YmyCwSGkKO_mNIcVQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/ISS-photo-over-Phillipines.jpg" title="International Space Station photo over Philippines" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Many of the people I work with study these changes. They monitor temperature and precipitation trends, soil moisture, or jet streams. They tally extreme weather events. Some focus on very specific questions and fields of study. They use language and calculations that ordinary people, me included, don’t really have a working knowledge of. What I do comprehend is that we’re in uncharted territory. In a nutshell, the planet is warming. We know because observations of the world have been recorded since before your grandparents were born, even before there was an America (<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl py34i1dx gpro0wi8" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fbit.ly%2F3b7Z5ro%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR2s4km3JaPVyuMNEh8SAjKEC8LPul3kFurRasV11sfgrEoFauIpRNkkPww&h=AT0Pju9ygCjVGsOLYRCLkc_p74Iq3wm4s0-rsMdGUNOkWGFCZwhhegtan1noEYuGMBTQWg2DV6mby-6ckHa8sYNZ6cP7KY4PtnsY3FPPa7m-LXMpJDOVdXZgPUnvBt72rFEGv3xnn6fcv7FlUw&__tn__=-UK-R&c[0]=AT1HaMIzF_lZZaiqDfyhWeg3GjIi1bnsPSHoUkYQroJxV-D0oZfXWzcdBqfkokMqRIzTDLKnYziN0LZEn2Lj_L06wEoJDe0Oo5lHZkKZH_KJUQh26uEd6L8y6zRTJ1u-DqZXGbfVXrmEt5S7q8MRuw" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://bit.ly/3b7Z5ro</a></span>). This information has been handed down and then documented, on paper documents and in computers. Now, we can look at the records and determine where we stand. Where we stand today is a hotter place—global temperatures in some locations are consistently above normal. Carbon levels are higher than they have ever been on record. Independent large scientific organizations across the world agree with these assessment. We are still learning what this means in the long run, for our future in a different climate.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">But, what is normal? Well, think of normal as a span of certainty, when conditions fell within a range and didn’t veer too far off center. Except now we’re veering off center, and in same cases dramatically. One place in particular, Alaska, which I think of as the canary in the coal mine, is significantly hotter. It just recorded its hottest year in 95 years, the length of the state’s official records. Alaska’s statewide average temperature last year was 6°F above average; Anchorage recorded its first 90°F day in 2019. Think of this in terms of your own temperature. On average, the average human temperature hovers around 98.6°F (though science says this is also changing). If you were to add a degree, over a short period of time, you’d feel it. Your systems wouldn’t work like they should. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Another cold place that’s bearing the brunt: the Arctic. A scientist I know told a national news reporter this summer he/she wanted to get to the Arctic as soon as the pandemic ended but before the ice melted. He/she had just published a paper that indicates the Arctic could be mostly ice-free in the summer within 15 years.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">People in my professional life aren’t full of doom and gloom; they are heads-down engaged in the serious study of changes going on across the globe and in our backyards. In many cases, it is their life’s work. They have been working in their specialties since the beginning of their careers and will keep on, mostly out of the limelight, until they retire. Some of the scientists study things you and I will never actually see: carbon levels in the ocean, drought in South America; or incidence we don’t want to see: unprecedented flooding along our coasts, coral bleaching. They would probably never write an essay like this, not because they couldn’t, but because they are concerned with the science and the exactness of it. My take on things would not be scientific enough. No one from my work endorsed this post; nor did anyone review it. I have to state that because of the nature of my job.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">What they aren’t doing is debating among themselves about whether any of these major changes are actually taking place. I could send you to reports that have been a year or more in the making, or monthly charts, or data tables of temperatures and precipitation and ocean conditions, but would those numbers and figures and science-making make a difference to your understanding? I’m not sure they would. That’s why I wrote this essay. To tell you, unequivocally, change is happening. How good are you with change?</div></div>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-60608150805935020932020-08-04T20:48:00.001-04:002020-08-04T20:48:38.091-04:00Hey, there. What next?Maybe we should think of this time as the Great Falling Away. All the stuff that didn't matter, just doesn't matter. And maybe, some of the stuff that we thought mattered, well, just doesn't matter either.<div><br /></div><div>In other words, what aren't you doing or have anymore and do you miss it? Did it add to your life in the first place? Like running around trying to do too much. Or taking care of things for other people or doing stuff so other people thought better of you. Maybe this is just me. Some of those old "must dos" have come to a screeching halt. <br /><div><br /></div><div>I go out less. I buy fewer things. I ask less of myself, give myself a gentler critique. I don't miss much. I miss people, but not any expectations of how we're supposed to be. I have thought about what could be the answer for our predicament: Love everyone without condition. Could this help? Tall order. I try not to hate, but loving everyone? </div><div><br /></div><div>If you have lost your job, or your health, or a loved one, how does loving everyone without condition help? It may not. But maybe someone who cares will be more likely to help.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you are hurting right now, I care 💙. I hope the cause goes away and the stuff you are enduring is not lasting. If it is, let's dispense with the trite sayings: Things will get better. You'll overcome. What doesn't kill you will make you stronger. All trite and pointless. Pain sometimes sticks around. It is a measure of being human.</div><div><br /></div></div>jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-73950465689819742072020-05-20T21:55:00.001-04:002020-12-16T12:33:22.830-05:00Lost: A Verse in COVIDI am/am not okay in superimposed solitude,<br />
my mental seesaw tilts between stability and warp.<br />
One minute I stir sugar in my good coffee,<br />
the next, infinity is not large enough to hold the heaviness.<br />
<br />
What is lost? The ordinariness of showers at 7a,<br />
leftovers packed into a foil square, an overstuffed backpack,<br />
a tough choice of 'Which shoes?', a slamming door in a rush,<br />
a hurried drive to a parking space before it's gone.<br />
People pass me on the street to Point B, a few feet apart,<br />
close enough to see a man's whiskers,<br />
to smell a woman's perfume.<br />
<br />
My clothes in solitude smell of my body in them for days in a row,<br />
ripe but stagnant, and covered in cat fur. My pants crease from<br />
sitting too long in one place, no need to do anything.<br />
<br />
No need -- besides take a deep breath.<br />
<br />
Needs were a thing we took for granted<br />
while we passed each other on the street,<br />
aloof to our closeness, unafraid of the proximity.<br />
Why now that tragedy of disconnection seems a luxury.<br />
<br />
I always walked overly conscious of myself in the public realm,<br />
comparing my size to the street and the people on it.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CFc9By7M6jw/XsXex4q7ZNI/AAAAAAAAENs/rNDpGIlrVSsCnGH0ZUdjRtpLNnlLfOR6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jennifer-and-slayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Black cat on black shirt." border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1381" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CFc9By7M6jw/XsXex4q7ZNI/AAAAAAAAENs/rNDpGIlrVSsCnGH0ZUdjRtpLNnlLfOR6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/jennifer-and-slayer.jpg" title="Black cat on black shirt." width="172" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black cat on black shirt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My steps -- straight ahead or to the side -- would be determined<br />
by the others on the path. And now there are none.<br />
<br />
What is lost? The maybe-thoughts of not fitting in.<br />
The maybe-thoughts of inferiority.<br />
The maybe-thoughts of aloneness.<br />
What is more alone?<br />
<br />
My stay-at-home community is my couch and my cats.<br />
My old black cat sits on my chest right now, interested in the scribbling.<br />
When I reach the end of the sentence and sweep back to the fold,<br />
this cat spreads open its paw a little, somewhat on cue,<br />
as if to settle me down.<br />
<br />
Be still. We are in this together.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-47743451120422041732020-04-26T11:29:00.001-04:002020-04-26T11:29:37.419-04:00The Upside of the DownsideMake no mistake. We haven't hit bottom. If anything, these days feel like the calm before the real storm. When, similar to the autumn of 2008, the experts proclaimed the economy would meltdown, but we really weren't sure what that prediction meant. So, call this post the <i>rose-colored-glasses</i> or <i>looking-at-the-bright-side</i> version of a pandemic. First, let me clarify, the economic downturn is a tab in the file cabinet labeled: <b>FATALITIES</b>. For all <a href="https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/us-map" target="_blank">the thousands</a> (just in the U.S.A.) who have and will die, for the survivors, for the pain and suffering and the inability to succor and mourn properly, I commiserate in grief.<br />
<br />
Here is where I find comfort: each day, the leaves have grown. The trees in my yard started six weeks ago without a leaf on them, and now they are full. I've watched the process every day, which I couldn't have witnessed had I been at my desk job. The leaves do not know the chaos undermining humanity.<br />
<br />
And, my grass is mowed. Well, you might ask, isn't mowing something you always do? And, I will admit, not necessarily. I wanted to bring some structure to the chaos, and my yard guy was happy to take the job. He mowed the same day I called. In some ways, I felt a sense of duty to still use him. Give him an immediate focus and a check. He didn't say so, but the look on his face told me what went unsaid.<br />
<br />
The sheets are clean on my bed. Again, you'll wonder again, is that any different than before? Yes, it is, because it was done out of a conscious need to nest. Nesting is the new overachieving. Clean sheets make the world seem better, even if it isn't. And, I've hung sheets and towels and clothes to dry on the clothesline. This seems appropriate. Because life has slowed down. I don't feel rushed. Haste is not on my calendar. The whir and thunk of the dryer may become a relic of the frenzied life of going-and-doing, and right now, those opportunities and obligations are far fewer.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FLLwa9elOyA/XqWnXU1niQI/AAAAAAAAEMA/83tg_PryZacyN4J7AIZe4aK2wDHXq4O8wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200404_164301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo of black cat napping in a laundry basket." border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FLLwa9elOyA/XqWnXU1niQI/AAAAAAAAEMA/83tg_PryZacyN4J7AIZe4aK2wDHXq4O8wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20200404_164301.jpg" title="Photo of black cat napping in a laundry basket." width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat nap in a basket.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I receive a postcard now about once a week from a friend in Portland, Ore. We have begun a jovial correspondence. A distraction but a connection. The cards don't really say much but signal we are alive and haven't lost our marbles. You could easily lose them, you know. (Of course, you do.) Postcards are amazing at mental uplift. Would you like one? I'll send a few. Soon, you'll be waltzing to the mailbox in great anticipation.<br />
<br />
And, of course, I have my three cats, Ollie (right), Fish, and Slayer. I won't wax on about my fondness for them. Anyone who has more than one in the house automatically qualifies as cat infatuated. And, who among us has not had a COVID nightmare? Well, this week, my dream was not a nightmare but a strange product of my feline domesticity. One of my cats spoke its first word: "Yes." Then I realized it had been speaking to me for quite some time. In full sentences, naturally. And in these unnatural times, odd has an entirely different meaning.jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-43125029236450579572020-03-22T09:57:00.004-04:002021-07-18T20:15:40.092-04:00Surviving Coronavirus AKA Chasing My TailIt's only been a week. We're a week into an usual shift to pull inward. Keep to ourselves. Flatten the curve. Be socially responsible by not being social. Well, I've had a bit of my own "come to Jesus" moments in that last 7-10 days, and they haven't been pretty.<br />
<br />
<b>Things about this pandemic that have been a challenge:</b><br />
<i><b>Staying off the news feeds.</b></i> They could be the death of my psyche. With so much information available on an hourly basis (if you toggle, like I'm doing, between the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/" target="_blank">NYT</a>, <a href="http://www.npr.org/" target="_blank">NPR</a>, and the <a href="https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/map.html" target="_blank">Johns Hopkins virus tracker map</a>), I'm chasing my tail. I never get enough (peace?) or the thing I'm truly looking for, which is: <i>When will this be over? </i>And<i>, Can I guarantee no one I love will get sick or die?</i> Answers to both are impossible.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Going outside.</b></i> Logically, I know it's okay to go outside. It's fine. Fresh air is good, but for some reason, it's not as comforting as it should be. Not that I reasonably think anything bad could happen to me out in the open air. It just feels different. Solution? Go outside more.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Being creative to combat the stress.</i></b> Artistic types are <a href="https://www.seattletimes.com/entertainment/music/amid-coronavirus-shutdown-seattles-livestreaming-surge-brings-live-music-to-your-living-room/" target="_blank">finding creative ways</a> to do their art. So, what's up when you can't muster the enthusiasm to do your art? This is the first words I've written since the national emergency. I thought of a poem the other day but lost it in the dread to go into a grocery store. For the record, I have not stocked up on toilet paper.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Caring what others are doing to stay safe.</i></b> This one is a biggy, because the directives of the <a href="https://templatearchive.com/coronavirus-guidance/" target="_blank">White House</a>, my city, and state, aren't universally being followed. Everyone has a different opinion about their freedom of movement. I can't control the behavior of anyone despite my decision to follow the recommendations. In fact, I can't control anything about these circumstances except my own response. I suppose I could put up a sign in my yard that says: <b>Hey, follow the rules!</b> But that wouldn't do any good either. My heart goes out to essential workers and people who can't afford to miss work. You need support, too.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8-y5eT19WbQ/XndusQ7X3BI/AAAAAAAAEKg/tkuTWYbxhCEebvPR0y9ZBs3HxMCKJg-dgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/My-cat-Fish.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8-y5eT19WbQ/XndusQ7X3BI/AAAAAAAAEKg/tkuTWYbxhCEebvPR0y9ZBs3HxMCKJg-dgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/My-cat-Fish.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My writing pal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Upsides? There are a few:</b><br />
<i><b>Old friends are in touch.</b></i> It has been nice to reconnect with many people this week. Hey, even though we're mostly on social media doesn't mean we're anymore likely to stay in touch. We see snippets of each others' lives from our posts but not the meaty stuff. This week, I'm having conversations that are more meaningful.<br />
<br />
<i><b>I appreciate my home more.</b></i> So Much More! Frankly, because of my day job, I'm just not home that much. Yes, on weekends (in-between errands). But now I'm more thankful to have a nice place to live and a yard to walk around. I have a fridge and a washer/dryer and a garage that needs cleaning out. Rather than a burden, my overstuffed garage might actually get a makeover.<br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>My pets love the company.</b></i> My three cats have discovered ear-scratches are available anytime. Spoiled kitties.<br />
<br />
<b><i>My kid made cookies.</i></b> For the first time in forever. Thank you, Ronnie. You're good to be cooped up with.<br />
<br />
Let me know how you are doing.<br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-2365615214554542452020-01-05T10:00:00.000-05:002020-01-05T10:00:32.608-05:00Retro Writing: Why My Hands Win OutSometimes, a writer's job only involves contemplating the story. That's not the same as writing. It can happen between sentences, or it might take the form of long stretches when wistfulness clouds the eyes. Generally, my hearing stops working while my story is swirling around in my head.<br />
<br />
This could change with technology, when computers gain the ability to read our thoughts. I've read that <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/27/technology/thought-control-virtual-reality.html" target="_blank">a form of this type of virtual reality technology is being developed</a>. In my Luddite-lite worldview, my warning sirens go into Category 5 hurricane mode (BTW, 5 is the <a href="https://www.nhc.noaa.gov/aboutsshws.php" target="_blank">most severe hurricane</a>). If <i>thinking a story</i> becomes a way to <i>write a story</i>, would a computer capture every thought and plot line that my brain thinks? How would I revise such a conglomeration? My thoughts go in hundreds of directions before I write them, so much so that <b>the physical act of actually writing a coherent string of words is the thing that makes them coherent.</b><br />
<br />
Writers have been using dictation to write stories for a while. I tried this once several years ago using speech-to-text software, but it wasn't sophisticated enough to understand all my words and the flow of my speech pattern, so I forgot about it. However, a case can be made that speech-to-text could be a <a href="https://www.thecreativepenn.com/how-to-dictate-your-book/" target="_blank">productive option for many and make a writer's wordcount soar</a>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EihagZMjXso/XhH3e93Ws9I/AAAAAAAAEHY/XHaTssiE7bsEzXFC4ZfsOOmVWYOmFKBlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200104_132608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Photo of a book cover entitled "A Real Book"" border="0" data-original-height="1373" data-original-width="1600" height="274" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EihagZMjXso/XhH3e93Ws9I/AAAAAAAAEHY/XHaTssiE7bsEzXFC4ZfsOOmVWYOmFKBlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20200104_132608.jpg" title="Book Cover of "A Real Book"" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
There may come a time when the way we write doesn't involve "writing" anymore. Consumer pressure for more words and stories, faster and faster, to make a living and satisfy audiences could send the keyboard into obsolescence. Then we may find ourselves waxing nostalgically about the days when we used a laptop. Our Chromebooks and MacBooks would fall in with the dinosaurs and the rotatory telephone. (Somewhat ironically, the <a href="https://becomeawritertoday.com/speech-to-text/" target="_blank">speech-to-text software marketed to writers is called Dragon</a>.) Or, it could be that this development will peter out like other changes in technology. <a href="https://www.cnbc.com/2019/09/19/physical-books-still-outsell-e-books-and-heres-why.html" target="_blank">Hardcopy vs. ebook</a>, anyone? I also know writers who still use pen and paper.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, if you have a rotatory phone because it's cool, rock on! And if your <a href="https://www.discogs.com/" target="_blank">vinyl collection</a> is lovingly intact, you are my hero! Maybe I'll just stay retro and write the old fashioned way, one keystroke at a time. <br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-58370284201474857012019-12-28T11:02:00.000-05:002020-01-01T10:35:21.664-05:00Where My Reading Took Me in 2019Writers need to read, so it's good to look back at the year's consumption. I'm a notoriously slow reader, but ho! I did pretty well in 2019.<br />
<br />
<b> Finished Cover-to-Cover</b><br />
<br />
These were a mix of old, new, famous and not-so-famous. Dan DeWeese and Leni Zumas are from the Portland, Ore., scene. The surprise was Elizabeth Hand. Need to read more of her. <i>Venus</i> was a major disappointment.<br />
<br />
<i>How to Love</i> by Thich Nhat Hanh<br />
<i>Snow Falling on Cedars</i> by David Guterson<br />
<i>Fire. Plus...</i> by Elizabeth Hand<br />
<i>A Visit From the Goon Squad</i> by Jennifer Egan<br />
<i>Gielgud</i> by Dan DeWeese<br />
<i>I, Lucifer</i> by Glen Duncan<br />
<i>On the Move: A Life </i>by Oliver Sacks<br />
<i>Venus in Furs</i> by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch<br />
<i>The Testaments</i> by Margaret Atwood<br />
<i>Ten Poems about Love</i> selected and introduced by Lorraine Mariner<br />
<i>Red Clocks</i> by Leni Zumas<br />
<br />
<b>Still Want to Finish</b><br />
<br />
Whitney Otto also comes out of the Portland writing community. Keya is my dear friend in western North Carolina who is incredibly smart and translated the work from Sanskrit. Yeah, it's okay to feel small now.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Life</i> by Alice Munro<br />
<i>How to Make An American Quilt</i> by Whitney Otto<br />
<i>Philosophy of the Bhagavad Gita</i> by Keya Maitra<br />
<i>Game of Thrones</i>, Book One, by George R.R. Martin<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
<b>Started But Lost Interest In</b><br />
<br />
Gosh, I wanted to like all of these, but my attention span can't absorb multiple characters, too many plot lines (oops, I wrote a book like that!), or over-indulgent, self-centered figures (Henry and Hunter).<br />
<br />
<i> Love in the Time of Cholera</i> by Gabriel García Márquez<br />
<i>Bel Canto</i> by Ann Patchett<br />
<i>Tropic of Cancer</i> by Henry Miller<br />
<i>The Master & Margarita </i>by Mikhail Bulgakov<br />
<i>The Cat's Fancy</i> by Julie Kenner<br />
<i>Girl, Wash Your Face</i> by Rachel Hollis<br />
<i>Hunter, The Strange and Savage Life of Hunter S Thompson</i> by E. Jean Carroll<br />
<br />
<b>Went Back to Again and Again</b><br />
<b><br /></b><i>The Book of Joy, Lasting Happiness in a Changing World</i> by Dalai Lama, Desmund Tutu, and Douglas Carlton Abrams<br />
<i>A Return to Love</i> by Marianne Williamson<br />
<i>Be Here Now</i> by Baba Ram Dass<br />
<i>The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke</i> by Anchor Books<br />
<br />
<b>Still to Read</b><br />
<br />
It's good to have goals!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.livingonink.com/2012/04/phooey-on-moby-dick.html"><i>Moby Dick</i> by Melville</a><br />
<i>Infinite Jest</i> by David Foster Wallace<br />
<i>The Art of Memoir</i> by Mary Karr<br />
<br />
Suggestions?</div>
</div>
jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-15347269770113335712019-12-22T10:16:00.001-05:002019-12-25T08:39:43.899-05:00How to Be Connected but DisconnectedMy tracking device, that is my smartphone, got a good talking to today. I told it, <i>Hey, listen, I'm putting some limits on this knowing-what-I'm-up-to-every-sec-of-the-day routine.</i> I suppose the steps I took to undo my location finder (at least) will help a fraction from my info <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/12/21/opinion/location-data-democracy-protests.html" target="_blank">being bought and sold</a> in an unseen exchange within a dark transaction void used by the multi-national corporations.<br />
<br />
This romantic notion that I can somehow spare myself and my children from become marketable data or monitored targets may be a little futile. I frequently wonder what it would be like to go "off-the-grid" entirely. The grid just sounds like a torture machine. There's a certain allure to living so independently from everyone and everything "connected." People <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Zoros-Field-Life-Appalachian-Woods/dp/0820328626" target="_blank">write books</a> about disconnecting. I have several friends who have tried it or are nearly disconnected. But in truth their lives seem more connected or tuned to other things, mainly nature and art. They're doing the modern version of Walden Pond.<br />
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It's an American ideal to do everything yourself, on your own, those proverbial bootstraps. I'm not talking necessarily about living without running water or electricity. My friend who tried that on the Kansas prairie ended up retrofitting his house when he got remarried. Let's face it, we want to be comfortable.<br />
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But do these crazy smartphones of ours, that have more computing power in them than was available on the Apollo 13 mission, give us the comfort we really desire? I'd argue no. Yet I spend far too much time on my phone, and if I can't look at the notifications or check the temperature or use my calendar, I get a little agitated. The computer engineers designed them that way! <i>Miss me when I'm gone.</i> It's a strange feeling now to walk around without one. Maybe I need to spend a few days away from it. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe forever? Maybe I'd write more. I'm pretty sure I'd still be living and breathing and enjoying the world without it.jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-37941624166358945162019-09-16T21:51:00.000-04:002019-09-16T21:51:49.940-04:00Birthdays Last ForeverThis post is six in one. I'm one of those rare people who, as she ages, appreciates her birthdays more and more. They are a happy, motivating force. So, I've been writing short essays for my Birthday Week on Facebook the last few years. Here's the 2019 set. Enjoy!<br />
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<b>Not Sucking</b><br /><br />The day she removed the note from her refrigerator door reminding her not to suck—a note that met her each morning as she pulled the creamer carton from the clear plastic shelf knowing she would feed the cats first—she decided that “not sucking” was far too low a bar to set. The opportunities for an employed American woman with a low mortgage interest rate and a high credit score afforded her options much sweeter and exotic than surviving the day without feeling like she owed someone something or had screwed up that one important Thing-I-Will-Do.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />No. She was not sucking. Not anymore. She was ! so ! not sucking that the conceit of the idea suggested a need for pity. Sure, she’d had her challenges: a dead husband, a steep learning curve into single parenthood, a stuttering career that had placed her in late middle age skating along the edge of under-employment. And her lovelife. Yes, the men. <i>Sigh.</i> How could she truly discern which of them didn’t suck, the few who had brought a minor twinkle to her eye. Hell, all she wanted was to be held and told “It’s not all going to suck.”<br /><br />She was going to have to give the not-sucking pep talk to herself. No one else would do it less-sucky. It needed to come before her coffee. Before the cats. Before the shower for work. Before she dealt with the kids. Before she kissed the next man. Before she wrote yet another essay in third person. Before she opened the chapter to another year of not sucking. “No, my dear, you’re not sucking. Everything that could possibly suck, has. Now, get on with it. You’re fabulous.”<br />
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<br /><b>Dear Hands</b><div>
<b><br /></b>Dear Hands: <br />Where have you been all my life? In front of me, that’s where, like a guiding, driving force. Can you remember holding anything for the first time? My mother’s finger in your tiny baby palm? And what about a Cheerio or your first ice cream cone? Mouth loved those so much.<br /><br />Did you think holding Dad’s hand was special when you needed to get up and walk for the first time? Feet were always one step behind you. They would never hold a Crayon or shuffle a deck of cards.<br /><br />And, then, one day, you wrote! It was you and Brain from then on—attached at the hip (haha). You were Brain’s tool. He told you what to write and when and how, and in your wish to comply, you wrote all those long handwritten letters to your great-great long lost aunt whom you never met and to your Gramma Mimi and to your cousin, whose letters you stuffed into small white envelopes and sent with God knows what inside.<br /><br />You learned to write a lot of big words and to erase a few, too. No one was really looking at you or the rest of us either. It didn’t matter much whether we got any attention, and it didn’t make any sense to complain. It was easier to go to the cupboard for a cookie.<br /><br />But, then, the typewriter!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Who was our first typing teacher? Maybe Mrs. Lane, a large Nordic-looking woman who gave us spiral-bound practice books to complete mindless exercises. Ff, Jj, Kk, Ss, and did you know there were so many other sentences that used the entire alphabet other than “The quick brown fox …”? Me neither.<br /><br />You really were a showoff, Hands. You knew how to fly across those typewriter keys and kick the hell outta QWERTY. The IBM Selectric was a goddess of a machine. Maybe after her we just didn’t care for pencils anymore.<br /><br />And then you got really snotty in college as the typesetter for the student newspaper. But Brain wouldn’t have it. He wanted YOU to write, not just decode everyone else’s writing for the weekly rag. Did typesetting feel like second-class citizenry? Never mind, because you turned into a journalist. Yet, come to find out, you weren’t quite fast enough at note-taking. The tape recorder took over your scribbling job. You spent years afterward as a glorified transcriptionist. Don't worry, we appreciated the effort.<br /><br />Your dexterity came in handy later. When the smartphone showed up. Lord, what would we do without Thumb?! The master of all texting. A savior. A god.<br /><br />Let me say, all that transcribing and gophering for Brain hasn’t quite been the pinnacle of your life. In fact, those things you wrote were third-string compared to the important stuff.<br /><br />You held my babies and never failed.<br />Cuddled their precious new skin.<br />Nestled hunger against my breast.<br />Stroked tufts of hair freshly washed with Johnson & Johnson. <br />Delivered electric love with a fingertip on a teary cheek.<br /><br />And wasn’t THAT something?<br />Something worth writing about.</div>
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(Thank you, <a href="https://www.writingfromthetopofyourhead.com/" target="_blank">Nina Hart</a>, for inspiring Dear Hands!)<br /><br /><b>This Lil Monster Love</b><div>
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(Last year, after posting some of my Birthday Week essays, several friends commented that the pieces seemed kinda sad. That wasn’t my intention when I wrote any of them, and I assure you I’m not sad writing any this year. So, please don’t worry. I’m okay. I am. If anything, I’m 100% human. Always agitating for more. 😎)<b><br /></b><br />The word—get—is not my favorite. It’s guttural and sounds like it’s picking a fight: Get XYZ. I need to get XYZ. If I don’t get XYZ, I’m coming to get you.<br /><br />But, we don’t always get what we want, thanks Rolling Stones. Beyond food, clothing, shelter, the necessities, getting what we want all the time, all the way, just doesn’t happen. Let’s call those our Lil Monster Needs.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil Monster Needs will keep you up at night.</td></tr>
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These Lil Monster Needs could fill a garbage bag a week. If you believe in religion, you might advise us, the keepers of the Lil Monsters, to go in peace. Peace be with you .. and your bagful of Lil Monsters. Drop them off along the street corners, maybe, in black Hefty garbage bags where they can slump next to the other bags o’ Lil Monsters in the neighborhood, forming rows of holes to be filled. Then, the garbageman might come along on his Monday route and find that he can’t fit all the Lil Monsters in the back of his dumpster. Where will they all go, still calling out to their owners, who can hear them quite crystally clear from their dining room tables next to the picture windows with the blinds closed?<br /><br />One need in my bag calls out particularly strong from its pre-final-resting-place at the bottom of my driveway when I place it there each week. Its voice could travel a hundred-thousand miles or from a dirty ditch three counties over and be flattened by bulldozers five times a day and covered by a layer of dirt, but still I’d hear.<br /><br />‘Feed me love,’ it says. And not just any kind of love, but an expansive, immortal love for which there may be no source. It is a hungry, greedy need—this Lil Monster Love—whose teeth have some mighty sharp ends. It knows how to get me. And maybe you, too.<br /><br />Bury it where you’d like. It’ll find you anywhere you go.</div>
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<br /><b>Ghost Riders</b><br /><br />Two years ago this week, I decided to reaquaint myself with bicycling. I’d been off my bike for about 15 years. Bicycling had become something I’d do at the beach or on a special outing. When I lived in Portland, the biking capital of the U.S.A., even then, I hadn’t been a serious rider. But I wanted to make a lifestyle change and contribute to Asheville’s shift toward becoming more bicycle-friendly.<br /><br />It took a leap of faith to overcome my fears of biking in a hilly town where there aren’t a lot of bike lanes. Asheville’s population is about 91K and is surrounded by the Smoky Mountains, so it still has a lazy feel to it compared to Portland or Austin, Texas, cities that are often considered its contemporaries. Biking has been slowly taking hold here, and I’ve started riding at a time when a small but growing band of others are, too. In many respects, I see this as my effort to “be the change you want to see in the world.”<br /><br />What I didn’t anticipate when this adventure started was how biking is both a solo venture and a ride-along. Not that I’m commuting with a bunch of folks or organizing group rides to promote the culture here. My companion riders aren’t really real. They’re all people—living and dead—and memories, just a few ghosts that tag-along in my head.<br /><br />I’ll admit, the number of streets I’ve been on continues to expand and so do my ghost riders. Here’s one: my 12-year-old self, who used to ride from Franklin Street in Clinton all the way to Artesian Park for swim team practice. My old high school friend (now a ghost rider), Maria, and I made those trips together, and once I ran into the back of her bike and flattened her back tire. Her dad called me Crash Fulford after that. Thank goodness I haven’t lived up to that name. But pre-teen me is frequently on my rides.<br /><br />One of my first ghost riders, obviously, was Daryl. He’s most vividly with me when I’m on a trail. There’s a short urban trail about a mile from my house, and almost every time I’m on it, I think of his last ride. He was mountain biking near Portland when he passed away. He became short of breath and stopped to rest. He sat down at a wooded spot and lost consciousness from heart failure. A friend, Ethan, was with him. He rides with me, too. For Daryl’s funeral, friends marked the spot on the trail by nailing a bracelet that Daryl had made to the tree he was near. It’s simply engraved “LIVE.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />A man I never knew, Ray, rides with me because I inherited his bike. He was a friend of a friend and a rider in Asheville, way before me, and he died not too long ago. I’d been searching for a commuter bike when I was told his family wanted to re-home his. I met his grown daughters shortly after his death. They had that look about them that I had when Daryl passed, stunned resignation. I was thankful for the affordable option their dad’s Diamondback gave me, and it’s been a solid bike on the street and gravel. Thank you, Ray. I appreciate the loaner.<br /><br />Another tag-along, my daredevil side, also rides along. Darn it if I can’t shake the desire to speed. I always do my best to stay safe, but the thrill-seeker in me can get a little itchy. I ALWAYS wear a helmet and almost always a safety vest and carry lights in case the sun goes down. So, there’s that.<br /><br />My teenage kids ride with me, too, in spirit, as do many friends, co-workers, and acquaintances who often want to know about my riding adventures. Riding a bike is an adventure for people who don’t. I always see something I wouldn’t if I were in my car. Just a few days ago, I saw a public mural I’d never noticed on a building in the middle of town. How could I miss it? Because driving just does.<br /><br />I’ve been on hills and trails and sidewalks and bike lanes and neighborhoods and parks. When I’m in my car for other commutes, almost always I’ll drive down roads that I’ve now cycled on. My cycling has criss-crossed the city and its bumps.<br /><br />One street in north Asheville passes by the location where Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, spent time in a home for mental health patients. It’s a scenic and hilly spot and not a place that anyone would necessarily say, “Let’s ride there.” It’s off the beaten path. And I always think: Wow, she lived here. She slept and ate and maybe wrote here. Though her husband earned the notoriety, she was also a tremendous writer and, from what I’ve seen of her work, had an incredible knack for words and story. Unfortunately, she also died in the institution during an accidental fire in 1948. I can’t help but wonder if maybe her ghost is sweeping across the grounds when I ride by. Out of deference, I nod my head occasionally. One free-thinking woman writer to another.<div>
<br /><b>A Master</b><div>
<br />It's late and dark out, and I owe myself an essay. Not you, me. I want to write Birthday Week Essay #5 because it compounds the doing. Here’s where a self-reminder helps. The product of this week is not in the numbers—the word count or the days in a row that I can dash off something worth reading. I tend to become wrapped up in the product, the outcome. What do I have at the end? Something I can sell? Something I can point to of publishable quality in the competitive world of literary works? Something that drives my friends, family (you!) to buy one of my books? I’m not writing any of these essays for those reasons. I’m writing because of the love of the doing. I celebrate my life by doing this thing I love.<br /><br />I’ve taken enough writing classes and practiced to a degree that I understand doing is good in and of itself. This is not the same as mastery. At one class years ago, with a best-selling memoirist (I may have the details wrong), the message she drove home was: the only way to become a master writer was to write for 10,000 hours. Where she got that figure, I don’t know. That comes out to be about 20 years of 40-hour work weeks. At that rate, I’ll never be a master writer. I’ll always be a doer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />In retrospect, what do we ever master when the bar is so high? For me? Naturally, there are a few things. Some good, some unfortunate:<br />Worrying, that evil energy-suck.<br />Breathing, thank God.<br />Eating, the great necessary indulgence.<br />Sleeping, though losing the skill to age.<br />Failing, this essay, perhaps.<br />Wanting, always always.<br />Caring, about my family, friends, the planet.<br />Hoping, never caving to the dark.<br />Learning, by the doing.<br /><br />I’ll keep doing this, if you promise to keep doing the thing you love. What do you love? Go do it.</div>
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<b>WWJFD</b><br /><br />Remember that craze in the 1990s that had millions wearing rubbery bracelets marked with WWJD? The What Would Jesus Do? message essentially was: do good works and act morally as a demonstration of Jesus. I never quite caught the fever. But in the last few years, as I’ve navigated solo-mom duties and faced a lot of consequential decisions alone, I’ve come up with my own coping mantra: What Would Jack Fulford Do? Or, for short, WWJFD.<br /><br />Jack Fulford, my father, happens to be salt-of-the-Earth stock whose moral and intellectual compass closely matches mine. I guess that shouldn’t be any surprise. All bias aside, I’ve come to understand that practicality and common courtesies are a little scarce these days. The world isn’t such a nice place on the other side of my front door. Now, you’re probably thinking: ‘She’s paying tribute to her father because that’s what a grateful daughter would do in some fashion once they meet a certain age.’ True, to some degree, and as I celebrate another birthday, my age does instill a smidgen of perspective.<br /><br />Yes, I love my father. He’s a decent man with decent morals and a sense of wonder and a little bit of compassion that hasn’t been killed off by cynicism. But, he is human. He’s got his faults, too. He’s sometimes slow to motivate, more of a plodder than a sprinter on decisions and actions. He deliberates occasionally with the speed of Chicago rush-hour traffic. You just gotta wait it out. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t have his share of bright ideas that, when executed, tend to look a little impetuous to an outsider.</div>
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For instance, on a recent flight of mine into KC International Airport, he showed up in an old Honda Acura, having just bought it for the visit. It was an impulse buy, by most standards, out of convenience. Rather than haul me and his grandchild around Missouri in the cramped cab of his Chevy pickup with our baggage thrown in the truckbed, he’d opted for second-hand luxury. Family required a trunk and a backseat, so we piled in (albeit, after we stood for a good five minutes in the parking garage trying to figure out how to turn off the car alarm).<br /><br />A year ago in July, Dad and I went on a two-day, two-night excursion on an Amtrak train across the West. We’d cooked up the idea after my first train trip earlier in the year. We both reserved sleeping berths that included meal service in the dining car. And from Denver to San Francisco, we basically spent the entire time talking. It was an unbelievably precious 48 hours. In those two days, we commiserated about the past, about politics, about books, about people, and the funny and tragic circumstances that glued our family together. We watched incredible scenery roll by and passed through historic locations (site of the Donner Party) and natural wonders (the Salt Flats). Pauses in our conversation, when we had any, were always a segue to a new subject. We smiled and laughed a lot and wondered with grave concern what the future would bring, for us, for our families, for our country. We met some interesting characters on the train, people we would have never encountered elsewhere (a young man who sang in the San Fran Opera and his artist girlfriend), and left each other with new stories to tell. Storytelling is a good skill to hand down. It centers you to your people.<br /><br />Obviously, my gratitude for that trip is immense. For those of you who’ve lost your father, I am so incredibly sorry. This includes my own children, who will not have the opportunity to spend time with their dad in adulthood. For those of you who do not have a relationship with your father or parents, my well of sympathy runs deep. I am fortunate. Looking ahead, there are still plenty of blindspots. There’ll be more days of decisions that are tough and that I’ll feel ill-equipped to handle. But, I’ve got my backup. WWJFD.<br /><br />~end~thanks~for~reading~<br /><br /><br /></div>
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jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-33273766808840888262019-06-18T19:49:00.000-04:002019-06-18T19:53:48.456-04:00A Brutal Assessment of A Writer's RealityYes, I've written a book.<br />
Yes, I wrote another.<br />
Yes, there's a third.<br />
Of course, two-ish untested manuscripts attract dust in a bin.<br />
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So what?<br />
That doesn't make me an authority.<br />
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That doesn't make me popular.<br />
That doesn't make me write any more.<br />
That doesn't make me happy.<br />
That doesn't make me think I could do any of it again.<br />
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They were just something I wrote.<br />
I will probably write again.<br />
I may write quite a bit.<br />
I may just think about writing quite a bit.<br />
I may just think about nothing.<br />
<br />
Then there's <a href="https://www.tor.com/2016/01/29/octavia-butler-note-of-encouragement/" target="_blank">Octavia</a>.<br />
She did what we all do.<br />
Even though she was famous.<br />
Even though she had it going on.<br />
She still needed to remind herself.<br />
Write down why and how she should write.<br />
Reframe the self-doubt, the weakness of spirit.<br />
Push herself to keep writing.<br />
<br />
Because, fuck, this is lonely business, and sometimes it gets you nowhere except inside your own head.<br />
<br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-28275998019970117492019-04-20T20:17:00.001-04:002019-04-20T20:17:24.569-04:00Consuming Art, Making DoWhen my energy is low for writing, my secret is to consume art. Any kind will do. A gallery or a museum. A movie, old or new. A performance. Live music. Those make me want to write because experiencing other works by other artists, struggling or otherwise, gives me hope and inspiration.<br />
<br />
Television, the cable version, doesn't. I don't even have cable (to my family's chagrin).<br />
<br />
This is my first post of 2019 because I took the month of January to finish the draft of my last Musketeer book. Then, it took about two months to prepare it for publication. It had been hanging over me for more than a year. I'd drafted most of it in 2017 during National Novel Writing Month, then didn't pick it up again until late last year. I kept telling myself: "It will only take a few weeks to get 'er done." The ending foiled me. Nothing seemed to click, and I finally decided it just had to be over. Someone had to die, and it couldn't be the main character (because, well, Dumas kept writing about Athos after the time period in which I placed him). I found this book to be the most difficult to write because the ending just never naturally showed up like the <a href="http://www.themusketeerseries.com/" target="_blank">previous two books</a>. The options were many and my decisiveness, missing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mVkAWq6j5m8/XLu0zcXv-sI/AAAAAAAADpA/ydAcoX7X-hkCmUedV7BFeSCmi1zZPamTgCLcBGAs/s1600/LastDuel_front_cover_social_media.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="403" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mVkAWq6j5m8/XLu0zcXv-sI/AAAAAAAADpA/ydAcoX7X-hkCmUedV7BFeSCmi1zZPamTgCLcBGAs/s320/LastDuel_front_cover_social_media.JPG" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.TheMusketeerSeries.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm not necessarily unhappy with the story. The last book wraps up the loose ends to my satisfaction. However, there's no sex in it, probably a big downer to readers of the first two novels. Brace yourself. It's just about a big, redemptive sword fight (no puns).<br />
<br />
Another issue bothers me: the first book in the series isn't widely available. On Amazon, the prices of Book One (Blood, Love and Steel) are astronomical. That's because the book is not available unless purchased as a used copy, and the secondary vendors have jacked the price. However, my shelves are flush if you want a copy. Not much I can do for the random shopper.<br />
<br />
All this is to say, I'm making do. I'm relieved the last book is finished. The story stands on it own. It's a nice tribute to the original Dumas novel. There were a lot of days when I went looking for art to get me off my duff to finish the series and keep my head full of hope. All the other artists who piece it together gave me reasons to go on. Making art is a joy and sometimes a burden. It will fulfill you and make you frustrated. Do it anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-22632846251853247792018-12-31T19:37:00.000-05:002018-12-31T19:37:16.678-05:00The Year of Living LargeThis isn't a New Year's resolution post.<br />
<br />
One summer, on a trip to Chicago with my small children, I optimistically wore a hot pink graphic tee that read in silver glitter letters: <i>The Joy is in the Journey</i>.<br />
<br />
What a mistake. The flight was a complete disaster, my kids misbehaved in ways I've conveniently forgotten, and it ended in me all but containing a seething yell across the airplane aisle: "Just you wait until we get off the plane!" My naughty children smirked, snickered even.<br />
<br />
So, I don't set myself up for such epic failure. I don't emblazon inspirational sayings across my chest because life just isn't a party cruise. It smacks you down. Oddly, <a href="https://youtu.be/kN0iD0pI3o0" target="_blank">Ariana Grande's <i>breathin</i></a> is playing in the background right now.<br />
<br />
But, I'm optimistic about 2019. Maybe because I feel good. Good, as in, life is an open book to me right now. I'm feeling energized and happy. Like I could accomplish just about anything I want to this year. Can one be happy? A counselor once told me that true happiness is impossible. Contentment was more like it. But, no, I'm happy.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qf9Evy3MQis/XCq0uibWtOI/AAAAAAAADjg/0ZmcE18vmsg9uemEuZtKe4gatyry-8KSgCLcBGAs/s1600/20181231_190803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qf9Evy3MQis/XCq0uibWtOI/AAAAAAAADjg/0ZmcE18vmsg9uemEuZtKe4gatyry-8KSgCLcBGAs/s320/20181231_190803.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Even though there are so many reasons not to be:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>the glaciers are melting at incredible rates</li>
<li>plastic and micro-plastic are clogging our beaches and ocean</li>
<li>my word count is still pretty sucky</li>
<li>financial security is a myth</li>
<li>hell, security of any sort is elusive and easily lost</li>
<li>my dance card is empty (again. i'm open to dates, if you're available.)</li>
</ul>
<br />
But but but but. My unfinished books, they're calling. My travel plans, forming. My dreams (mostly about motorcycles) still keep me up at night. Let's see what 2019 will bring. C'mon, 2019, let's get sweaty.<br />
<br />
<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5027409882918557365.post-51588827680191480342018-09-16T17:03:00.000-04:002018-09-16T17:09:43.918-04:00Askance at a CelebrationOnly a writer would make writing prompts a fun birthday activity. But they were for me last month when I decided to write brief essays leading up to my day. Funny, though, a few friends on Facebook, most of whom know me, gave me some surprising feedback. I didn't necessarily feel like these were a downer when I wrote them, but several readers took them that way. Wasn't my intention. These are reflections on good stuff with reality woven in. Five in total.<br />
<br />
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<b>#1, The Bike of Second Chances</b></div>
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Woman walks into a bike shop. Tiny place. Two rooms. Shiny bikes. Fresh gear. Two men behind the counter. A mechanic and a counter guy.</div>
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Her bike is 30 years old. She’s sure it needs a tune-up. Probably worse. She almost trips rolling it in. She braces for the up-sell.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnM7PympD3k/W57ABVqTMyI/AAAAAAAADdY/SajjNPCrlJcptq6VwuzHobhZNd0KhzkQACLcBGAs/s1600/2018-08-26%2B21.06.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnM7PympD3k/W57ABVqTMyI/AAAAAAAADdY/SajjNPCrlJcptq6VwuzHobhZNd0KhzkQACLcBGAs/s320/2018-08-26%2B21.06.31.jpg" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My antique.</td></tr>
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“Look<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> at that,” the mechanic tells the counter guy, maybe even elbows him. ”You got one just like it.”</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />“A Cannondale?” she says, not sure to which guy. “It’s kinda old.”</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />“Jesus, and roller-cam breaks.”</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />Should she blush? Are they admiring it? Or amazed it’s still in one piece?</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />“I wanna start riding it more,” she says. “I just need to make sure it’s ready.”</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />The counter guy wheels it behind a glass case full of sparkling objects that would probably make her ride faster, go farther, look far more hip than she does on her one and only mountain bike. Her first real boyfriend helped her buy it before she knew what mountain biking was, before she had a mortgage and teenagers to raise by herself. Parenting pushed the bike to the recesses of the garage, and then life pushed everything else into the recesses. She wanted to come out of the recesses.</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />The mechanic lifts it up on the bike bench right away. She sucks a little air, like she’s watching her cat at the vet poised for an examination.</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />Thinking it might be better to look away, she wanders into the store, hoping the mechanic will be gentle when he delivers the bad news. Oh, he’d say, your axle is shot. Geez, he’d point out, these gears are stripped. No way, he’d admonish, should you ride this old thing on the street.</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />“Hey,” he calls back, within maybe three, five minutes tops. She hustles over, stiffens her neck. “Nothing really wrong with it,” he says. “I’d say, ride it ‘til the wheels fall off.”</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />A year later, the bike’s on the street, and she’s on the bike, rolling out every wrinkle.</span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>#2, The Mysteries of Family Ephemera</b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KtsBS-IzUgQ/W57Bedemm7I/AAAAAAAADdo/AIidxyh-JowPcjkj7zQcGwBFUzTiR4xpwCLcBGAs/s1600/20180827_215830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KtsBS-IzUgQ/W57Bedemm7I/AAAAAAAADdo/AIidxyh-JowPcjkj7zQcGwBFUzTiR4xpwCLcBGAs/s200/20180827_215830.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pearly whites.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Mom's always had a killer smile. Must of smitten Dad pretty good, so much so he worked hard to beat out his best friend, Freeman, who was dating Mom first. Dad took lots of pictures and slides back when he wore sideburns and horn-rimmed glasses. I've got a picture or two of him, packed away, looking all James Dean. Not sure who took the pictures of him. He took this picture of Mom, I think when they were still dating. Sh<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">e just turned around someplace outside on a Missouri afternoon, where they were together one day, and he caught her full-on happy. The precursor of a selfie. She still smiles like that, on occasion.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H2U-A0mhO3c/W57BsIUbRhI/AAAAAAAADds/fcGOPs6maBwihCb8qlC7HzM3Df0aG_RDQCLcBGAs/s1600/20180827_215808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H2U-A0mhO3c/W57BsIUbRhI/AAAAAAAADds/fcGOPs6maBwihCb8qlC7HzM3Df0aG_RDQCLcBGAs/s320/20180827_215808.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Elmores.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
My other family photo shows Dad's side of the family. On the front row, seated far left, is Pearl. She was still alive when I was a kid visiting Lebanon, Mo. Aunt Pearl was how I knew her, but my memories were just from an 8-yr-old point of view, and everyone then seemed dignified. Right above Pearl, my Dad has told me, stands Mabel. The story goes that Mabel was a bit of a playgirl and fancied herself a few boyfriends. She never married. I'm feeling <span style="line-height: 19.32px;">(channeling?) ya, Mabel. But I'm getting a late start.</span></div>
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If you look hard enough, you can see my reflection in the glass of the group picture. Wonder if someone will be writing about me to hundreds of acquaintances in a few decades?</div>
</div>
<br />
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<b>#3, Life on a Train</b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUl5NLOfx5Y/W57CVmbawII/AAAAAAAADd4/cMhNDag9boYx8I4T0se9yY8HdJtlrUHNACLcBGAs/s1600/20180705_122214%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUl5NLOfx5Y/W57CVmbawII/AAAAAAAADd4/cMhNDag9boYx8I4T0se9yY8HdJtlrUHNACLcBGAs/s320/20180705_122214%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere in Colorado.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Life on a Train</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">...slows waaaay down</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">...shreds your cell service</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; line-height: 19.32px;"><br />...causes you to revive that spectacular-crazy idea you've put on hold for too long.<br />Outside the Train<br />...the landscape is grass, snow, mountains, the horizon<br />...scenery you never thought existed<br />...and an ongoing rumble<br />Life on a Train<br />...goes on hiatus for a while<br />...places you at the mercy of the American railway system, and despite its potential, A-types will mutiny, screaming for a rental ride rather than a cheap bottle of wine in the bar car<br />...opt for the bar car.<br />The Train Stops<br />...whenever it feels like it, or so it will seem<br />...in the middle of nowhere at anytime of day, where you'll see the signs of someone with a good sense of humor who also had time on his hands</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; line-height: 19.32px;">...and during the night, it goes so dark, you can only see your reflection in the train window, and you'll feel yourself looking inward, wondering why it took so long to get there.</span></div>
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<b>#4, The Hat</b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Sometimes, an object carries a story. This hat, for instance, tells a story of wanting</span><span style="line-height: 19.32px;"> </span>to be cool and its consequences. See, those young things on those spring break shows in their scant bikinis, well, all the cool ones wore hats like this. Imagine feeling that damn good about yourself by wearing a hat.</div>
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A friend of mine had to move her family out of her house, and that's where I saw this one. Cool was within reach. I helped the last day of<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> the move, at the 11th hour. I actually felt like a bad friend for showing up late to the "party." But the timing proved fortuitous, for other reasons than the hat.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqE2XAp0LMQ/W57Ctxi17yI/AAAAAAAADeA/a1npjmcLEKg2JcQ_xB-SVrlCTkZ67PsHwCLcBGAs/s1600/20180830_013207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqE2XAp0LMQ/W57Ctxi17yI/AAAAAAAADeA/a1npjmcLEKg2JcQ_xB-SVrlCTkZ67PsHwCLcBGAs/s320/20180830_013207.jpg" width="180" /></a>The nitty gritty of all the million decisions made during a move had come to a head. No more processing could be done--what to keep, what to throw out. It all seemed a little senseless after weeks of decluttering and downsizing and packing. The house, still full of unpacked possessions, was down to the arcane items that come into our lives. A Ouija board, mismatched cups and saucers, old cookbooks, overloved stuffed animals. After days of last-minute sorting, nothing else seemed worth taking. I felt more like a counselor than a friend pitching in. I'd been there before, painfully rerouting my direction.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
You see, her move wasn't by choice. Gentrification and the soaring prices of Asheville real estate uprooted her and her small close-knit family. If you live in a home for a decade and a half and are unapologetically asked to uproot, all the stuff seems suddenly more precious and a weight around your neck.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I bought the hat and few other items--and then felt like I had trespassed on my friends' misery. To counterbalance, I decided to become the caretaker of the hat and not the owner. I've worn it, but it looks like someone else's.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I've told my friend that the hat is still hers. It reminds me not to covet and to understand my own possessions are fleeting and full of an energy not my own.</div>
</div>
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<b>#5, Artifact of Love</b></div>
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He started all his designs by sketching. It could have been on a napkin from a favorite haunt, or across the back of a used envelope, or in one of his dozens of sketch books. He said he was studying the problem. And when the problem is making something beautiful—making something timeless—you better study it. Occasionally, his sketches took on whimsical elements, and for no reas<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">on, he’d draw a hot air balloon in the corner, or a strange curve would be added to a bracket or a clockface. Maybe he called on the ghost of Charles Rennie Mackintosh to pull off an uncharacteristic design. Like the Scottish architect, he understood the human appeal of surprise. How could he not experiment? Especially if he were the builder presented with his own challenge.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ntD1--r_VhY/W57C8hyNCLI/AAAAAAAADeE/kOq-6WTmXaU5VrEiu5wlPEBZEio6fP8CQCLcBGAs/s1600/20180830_221101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ntD1--r_VhY/W57C8hyNCLI/AAAAAAAADeE/kOq-6WTmXaU5VrEiu5wlPEBZEio6fP8CQCLcBGAs/s320/20180830_221101.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love note, not pictured.<br />
(DSR 1961-2014)</td></tr>
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He started the jewel box late in December. Always late, just days before Christmas morning. Before time ran out, he threw himself into chiseling and sanding and varnishing the piece, the one he determined was the most beautiful design of the season. For his wife, he took greater pains to pull off challenging inlays and mortis-and-tenon connections that would drive a master craftsman into fits of despair. His focus on creating the work gave the design life. He often marveled over the transformation from 2D to 3D, when the real magic happened.</div>
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While putting the final touches on the jewel box—a small tabletop tower for special trinkets—she accidentally walked into his studio one late night. He was sanding the finish. “Oohh,” she murmured and pulled back from the doorway and the ill-timed glimpse. The downturn in her voice told him she regretted spoiling his surprise. He shrugged and told her to stay.</div>
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He didn’t say anything profound. He still had work to do to make it perfect. He just smiled, knowing he’d place it under the tree anyway. Like a surprise. Like it should be. With a love note inside for her.</div>
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<br />jfulfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06920520929216126172noreply@blogger.com0