Happy Belated Groundhog Day

GROUNDHOG

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Consider groundhog, woodchuck, marmot

Not most people's favorite varmit

Yet famed throughout the Keystone State

For weather change prognosticate

The groundhog's dressed in frosted fur

It's hard to tell if he's a her

Like rodents, please do not forget

With aggressive manner not a pet

Some call the critter whistle pig

As ground squirrels go he's sort of big

An herbivore, he dines on grubs

Grasses, snails, and sometimes bugs

The groundhog smiles a toothy grin

As he digs a den and burrows in

Like bears, this marmot hibernates

When shadow's seen and Spring comes late.

TTFN my little Bloggers!

The Old Grey Mare She Ain't What She Used To Be, But So What?

A few minutes ago I had one of those epiphany moments. I stopped in the parking lot of my local Publix market and marvelled that something so simple had never occurred to me before. Here's my tale of the day, boys and girls:

Lately, well for several years now actually, I've been feeling intermittently sort of sorry for myself for my ever increasing age and outward sags and wrinkles. Realizing that my future decades are numbered now in a probable finite several is admittedly sobering. I've been seeing the sand in the proverbial hour glass emptying out way too fast. That's the back story and maybe the subject of another blog.

Today, being (finally) mostly recovered from an unexpected and nasty twelve day cold, I ventured out in my little red Volvo to rejoin the rest of humanity. While the weather in the rest of the country seems to be viciously cold and icy and snowy, here in Florida it is in the mid seventies and cloudy with a chance of meatballs. I offer no complaints when I don't have to wear a jacket in February. Who would! So, needing some food, off I went to the grocery.

I loaded up my cart till it was overflowing with stuff and sedately moseyed over to the nearest check out line, after spending an inordinate time selecting just the right ice cream and breakfast foods. As the cashier was ringing up my purchases a frowning woman maybe two or even three decades my junior zoomed up behind me with three pieces of fruit. She moved her now empty cart at me like a bulldozer aiming at a sand hill. I had nowhere to move to so I stood fast. The cart stopped. Now, this big imposing sort of woman I will call Pauline, stepped in front of her cart and pushed her body as far over as she could towards the card scanner without actually physically shoving me out of her way as the bag lady loaded up my six cloth bags with various goodies. As I waited for the bagger to fill the last two bags, I moved as far into the aisle as I could get without actually abandoning my things. Still frowning, Pauline leaned closer to me me and twisted her big body into pretzel shape to scan her debit card. This broad was determined to get the hell out of the store asap!

Alas, for the impatient panting woman: It was crowded in the store and poor Pushy Pauline ended up trapped behind me rolling her cart (for three pieces of fruit?) out of the door. I could feel waves of hostility behind my back boiling from her. I could feel the heat of her glare. She was in a hurry, no time to loiter, no time to stroll, no time to smile. She was late, late for a very important...something. Since she was so aggressive, I mulishly refused to move faster or jump out of her way while pretending not to notice her. (I admit to feeling just a moment of irritation at her rudeness.) The microsecond she could get around me she raced to her car, jumped in, left the cart in the lot, and roared away, still frowning.

I shrugged. It was too nice a day to dwell on rudeness.Then, while loading my things in the back of my car, something else struck me. I was in a good mood again because I had no reason to hurry. Pauline did, or at any rate she thought so. Frowning the whole time she was in the store and while driving to her next task, no doubt buzzing like a hornet about to sting something unwary, she was blitzing through life without noticing much outside herself. and her own anxieties.

What was so important to this harried woman I wondered? A job? Two jobs? Cranky kids to pick up at daycare before racing home to mountains of dirty laundry and to make...fruit...for dinner? Maybe she was in grad school with an impossible assignment to complete. Maybe a mean boss or harried spouse just yelled at her. Maybe she was out of work? In any case, this woman in a tearing hurry was obviously not happy. Not speaking to the clerk or the bagger or me or anyone else, she was in a FRENZY. Yes, whatever the cause, this much younger woman was definitely not happy.

And I suddenly realized how lucky I was not to be in a hurry anymore. Not to have to rush anywhere...ever again. Not to have to be accountable to anyone else but me unless I chose to be. I looked around the lot as I took my cart to the cart corral at several older people loading groceries into their cars. They weren't in a hurry either. They looked over and smiled. I remembered what it was to be young and how I was almost always too busy and concerned about responsibility to remember to have much fun. Always looking ahead to the next task or the next problem and the next 'have to'. I probably didn't smile much, either. I don't remember.

"Well," I said aloud as soon as I was in my car and backing out, "I'd like to have my young face back and be able to jump up from a kneeling position as fast as I could at twenty, but there are compensations to age after all." I smiled at my wrinkles in the car's mirror. I winked and if the crows feet stayed in place. I thought, " So what."

Then, I went home and did whatever the hell I pleased, which happened to be having a mid afternoon snack of an English muffin with high sugar English marmalade and blogging. Next I am going to read a little more of the novel I am reading on Kindle and then maybe work a little bit on a new poem before thinking about supper. Or maybe not. There's no deadline after all remember? (Danny doesn't care what I make for supper as long as there is supper and if it should be late it wouldn't bother him much. He'd just take a nap.) This not being young thing is getting better and better.

Yes, I am one lucky person, wrinkles and all.

Here's the rest of my message. Stop, relax those facial muscles, all you 'Paulines' out there. Practice saying, "I am not in your hurry." Laundry can wait. Most other things can, too, for a few minutes, an hour, or a day. A crowded schedule can be simplified. So be good to yourself. Remake that appointment that's stressing you. Tell your boss you'll get it done and do it, but take a break and listen to your favorite music or do some yoga. Hug your cat, your dog, your spouse, your kid. Take a twenty minute walk, listen to the birdsong, feel the sun or the sea breeze on your face. Slow the speed on the treadmill of your life enough to look around. Have some fun along with the work and the 'have to' realities. And buy something more interesting than fruit for Chrissakes. Life is shorter than you think.

Oh, and growing older isn't so bad after all. Trust me, I know.

Happy Groundhog Day.

A Brief Excerpt from The Adventures of Mungo Tim...

"It's a dragon! A real dragon. There are dragons left in the world!" the rider exclaimed.

A gust of wind knocked the hood of the dark wool cloak back from the rider's head and coppery hair cascaded to slender shoulders. Emerald green eyes met cinnabar red ones above.

"Why, its just a human girl," boomed Tim in a kettle drum voice. "On a horse too scrawny to eat."

"How amazing," said Miranda. "It talks."

"Of course it talks," agreed Tim, coasting to a graceful landing on the road. "It flies and breathes fire and does many more amazing things than just talk."

"It certainly boasts," Miranda declared, steadying her mount as it tried to dance backwards.

"With reason," countered Tim.

The girl laughed. "It is beautiful."

"As is the girl," Tim replied. "With hair like firelight and eyes like spring."

"It is perhaps not a dragon at all but a silver-tongued prince under an enchantment?" asked Miranda, hopefully.

The ground rumbled as the dragon laughed. "No, just a dragon. Aren't you afraid of me, little human girl?"

Miranda shook her head. "No. I admit I was at first but I'm not afraid anymore. Although I probably should be. But you see, encountering a talking beast is...well, the wonder of it seems to have drained the fear out of me. And, in any case, if you are going to kill me there is nothing much I can do about it now. So, I might as well have an interesting conversation first."

Tim nodded. "Indeed. I like your reasoning. And, just between you and me, I have never killed a girl who reasons."

"Have you killed any that don't?"

"I have not. In fact, although I am loath to admit it since it doesn't seem very dragony, I haven't as yet killed any humans. Not on purpose anyway. Furthermore, you are the first human girl I've had a conversation with at all. The others just screamed and ran away."

Miranda giggled. "Well, I can understand that. You are a dragon, after all....."

Musing on memoirs

I had an interesting discussion with some other writers on, believe it or not, Facebook today. I started a tempest in commenting on aspiring writers who write only in the memoir genre and who join writing workshops, groups, and classes not to learn the craft of writing but to "express their feelings" (generally painful ones involving the negative) . It has been my observation in numerous workshops that these folks seem to be under several illusions: 1. That their individual misery is extremely interesting to other people 2. That their words are pure perfection requiring no editing or learning of story crafting whatsoever.

They have never heard the maxim "show, don't tell". They can't write dialogue and generally say they hate to read dialogue. Their character (s) are usually extremely one dimensional and rarely does anything actually happen in their memoirs before several hundred pages of narrative pass SLOWLY by. In real life, people don't take five pages to walk across the room to answer the phone, folks. Hear me snore, here.

I made the comment that these folks don't seem to want to develop a writer's toolbox and might better be served by getting some counseling than wasting other peoples time in a writing workshop. Yeah, strong stuff. I admit that. I insulted, without intending to, a nationally successful writer who has written and taught memoir writing. Now of course, this writer can write very well and her books don't resemble anything listed above. But, even if she chose not to say so, I'll bet she has had plenty of those not really serious about writing 'memorists' in her classes over the years.

I personally don't care to read memoirs. I don't read non fiction much either, for the most part. I like fantasy, science fiction, mysteries, etc and for me, the story is the thing. Good story can trump bad writing. Words without something happening cause me to close the book. I don't like whiny characters either. I like to read about protagonists with gumption. Since that's what I like to read, that's also what I like to write. So, I am admittedly biased.

I probably couldn't write a memoir myself. Not if I had to stick strictly to the facts. Maybe I could write creative nonfiction like Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil. Many times I have written fictional stories based on fact with imagined dialogue and additional plot twists. I think all writers of fiction do this. I can't speak for memoir writers, but since the mind has a way of playing with time I suspect there is some fact stretching even in memoirs now and again.

In any genre, the write what you know maxim does hold true. If you write about universal human emotions and experiences it will work whether Luke Skywalker is a farm boy on Tatooine wanting to join the Rebel alliance or a Kentucky farm boy during the Civil War or a twenty first century Iowa kid on his way to Iraq. But, remember something has to happen to Luke for the reader to care. And, Luke has to do something about it.

A good writer is a good writer, whatever genre he or she chooses to work in. Writing is a craft, though, as well as a passion. As well as an art. Like any craft, it has to be learned. And must be practiced. That means doing something over and over until you get it write. To paraphrase Mark Twain, the difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Good writers must read a lot, too. Talent counts sure, but hard work is essential. That goes for memoir writers as much as anyone else.

I know a man who works only in the memoir genre whose writing is enthralling even if he is just describing his character walking through a bazaar. His well crafted words make you imagine yourself in his shoes and evoke all the senses. His story reeks of the truth of the human experience in a good way. He is a born storyteller who happens to want to tell his own story. And his story is one that I do want to hear since he's an interesting person. So, really, I don't hate memoirs or hold those who write them in contempt. Even though the writer whose post I commented on probably won't believe it.

At the risk of sounding mean again, I think some aspiring writers just get stuck somewhere between a negative emotion and a bad experience and they just can't stop milking it to boredom. They don't have anything to really show us because they haven't made sense of their experience and taken a longer view. They haven't learned and grown and they just want our sympathy for the therapy they think they will get from writing a memoir. Everybody probably does have a story maybe, but maybe not everybody can (or should) tell it. Memoirs are stories after all (or should be) even if of a different sort. Remember the story arc? Beginning, middle, end? How about who wants what? How are they going to get it? Who wants to stop them?

If your true life experience isn't very interesting to anybody but you maybe you should just journal instead. I am ducking and covering here. But, please, aspiring writer, don't take ten pages to describe yourself as "Sally" taking five minutes to look through her pantry and sip tepid tea and look out the window at the snowdrifts in the yard and ignore the ringing phone in her inertia. I don't care how pretty your words are. That scenerio is boring. I don't care if it really happened that way and you/Sally were sad because your boyfriend or husband beat you every winter a decade ago and forbade you to drink tea and you get mopey every time it snows. Give me instead a neighbor desperately trying to warn Sally that a psychotic serial killer has broken out of prison and disappeared into the blizzard the night before, headed right for Sally's farm. Let me know he's just broken into the cellar. Give me a reason to read on. Make one up if nothing more exciting really happened than electricity going off for two hours from ice snapping the power lines. Most people's daily life just isn't interesting enough to record it. Not for a couple hundred years after they've died, maybe. Then after everything has changed mundane life in the past is interesting. Ouch, maybe, but there you have it. My thoughts, take them or leave them.

I'm off now to take the dog for a massage. There's actually a story there, but I am not going to tell it. So you can breath easy. Live long and prosper.

preview of some characters from my book in living color

Pictures: Professor Timothy McDuff, Hulda Mitten, Miranda and Will, Tim the dragon

Hey there bloggers,

Here's your first look at some of the characters from the upcoming book, The Adventures Of Mungo Tim by yours truly (that's me). I am waiting for several others to be finished and then Danny is going to format the cover and the text and we're ready to fly away. Soon, I will be turning the story into a Podio book. This project as been going on for so long and I am very excited to be nearing completion.

For those who don't know, the novel is geared towards the YA market as well as adults and is also suitable for the 'Harry Potter' age group. It is a fantasy featuring a dragon, Salamagundus Tim Tim ( aka Tim) who would rather be human and definitely does not want to be a hero, a runaway girl (Miranda O'Mara) who does NOT want to be a princess, a direction challenged deposed prince (Will Von Leonhardt) who has to earn his keep by winning tournaments, an ogre (Hulda Mitten) with an incredible singing voice and a talent for making cupcakes as well as royal policy, and a tricky Pooka (Sean McGarrity) who can shape shift from horse to man. Other characters include a nefarious pair of dragon hunters/robbers, a loathsome Troll warrior with a propensity for stewed cats and destroying kingdoms, a warrior dwarf, a were bear, wizards, spies, elves and fairies, gypsies, pirates, and a mostly misunderstood misanthropic King. Lots of humor, action, battles, time and temporal travel and yes, some romance.

This is how my mind works, folks. I met someone at an art reception not long ago and she asked me if I was and artist. I said, "No, I am a writer." She asked what sort of things I write. When I answered, "Mostly science fiction, ghost tales, and fantasy," there was a pregnant pause. The woman gulped and said, "Oh, and you look so normal, too, my dear."

Ha, fooled her. This is the person, boys and girls, who talked to door knobs as a kid and always kept hoping to meet fairies in the woods. I once lived in a haunted house, too. Really.

At present I am working on a short story about a robot toy in a post apocalyptic world but my next novel will concern a girl and her dog in a 1950s West Virginia coal town.

To answer your unasked question, do I write hoping for fame and fortune? Not really. Reality is a part of my mind set. I know what the odds are. After all, I've already written a short story collection and a poetry collection and remain obscure. I write because I can't not. So there. In upcoming weeks I'll post some excerpts and you can decide if you like my stories and will want to read about Tim. I'm betting you will.

Live long and prosper.

Apologia for my prolonged absence, sort of

Photo: The undead writer on her RV not working.

Sorry bloggers. I know I've been gone a long time. Any reports of my death are, at least as far as today at four o'clock, premature. I've just been busy editing my book, formatting my book, doing the holidays, traveling, and just frittering away my time. That's all. It is now twelve days into the New year and funnily enough my resolutions are the same as last year's: to clean out my storage room, de clutter my house, exercise more, and get my novel into print. So, far, nada. But friends, the year and the decade are still young. Today for example, I walked the dogs, blogged, accidentally stabbed my hand while chopping vegetables, and made homemade chicken soup after getting the blood stopped. I may get the bed made...or not. Its frakkin' cold here in Florida, but having said that the weather is better (here) than practically anywhere else so I'm not really complaining. And, we've got sunshine.

My biggest rant lately has been over some misguided (at best) or idiot (in probable actuality) professor type deciding to edit the "N" word out of Mark Twain's great masterpiece, Huckleberry Finn. Of all the crack brained and misguided attempts at political correctness I've heard of in this mixed up world we live in, this is one of the dumbest. And condescending. And shortsighted.

Some fool who thinks, just cause he probably graduated college, that he is qualified to judge a genius's work dares to have the arrogance and audacity to tamper with literary perfection. Insert loud raspberry noise here. Whoever this Joe is, I'll bet a catfish to a catamaran that he can't write a lick compared to our Sam. I'll be he isn't nearly as smart or as interesting to talk to, either. After all, like Oscar Wilde, there's almost nothing that Mark Twain ever said that wasn't a quotable statement. I dunno if the man who dares to tamper with Huck is black or white and frankly my dears, I don't give a ...dang.

He claims that black children will be so put off by the use of the "N" word that they will not read the book, so the word must be deleted. Never mind that the offending word was routinely in use during the time of history that the book was written and that part of Twain's point was to show the wrongness of Jim being enslaved at all never mind considered as and treated as 'lesser than' white people by the other characters. If Twain was alive, the tamperer with his work would be sued and Twain would win. The professor would lose his job and credibility. Twain would issue a brilliant quotable quote that would turn the hapless hacker into the humbug I suspect he might be. But, its easy to pick on a dead man. So the professor pushes the delete button on the "N" word and substitutes whatever he likes.

It probably doesn't occur to him either that he is insulting the intelligence and capability of all children, black white or otherwise, by assuming that they can't understand and appreciate Twain's writing after seeing one potentially offensive term. Too many adults underestimate children and that offends ME.

Its too easy to rewrite history. Literary or otherwise. (Dangerous in so many ways to rewrite history, but that's another story) I can just hear Professor Humbug now: "Let's forget, why don't we, that anyone was ever treated badly or called names that offend. It will make it all so much more comfortably readable."

What's next, Prof? Outlaw the word 'Nazi' in literature? Just say why don't you that Hitler and his goons were rude people? Maybe forget the Holocaust ever happened? There are some offensive words in the Bible, no doubt. In Shakespeare too, mayhap. Why don't we just remove any words that anybody anywhere doesn't feel comfortable with? Make it a real pretty world? Like a fairy tale. Without witches, of course.

But wait, somebody tell Professor Humbug that rap artists routinely use the "N" word in their music. That seems to be okay with the professor. He's seemingly not worried about children being put off by that. Is it okay because that is black people insulting other black people? Or is it 'cause the rap artists aren't dead and will sue his, uh butt?

Whatever. See me shrug. I'm just going to give the word changing professor my 'Pampas Ass of the week' award. And speaking as a writer who's not dead yet: don't presume to know my intentions or correct my words. If you don't like them, don't read my books. Now or in future. Like Twain, I don't suffer fools. Edit that: foolishness in the name of fun, yes. But self important serious fools, no.

What's all that stuff about tomorrow anyway, Annie?

"The sun will came out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow they'll be sun. Just thinking about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow 'till there's none..." Oh really, Annie?

It's Tuesday morning and Washington official speak according to the news media is that the national recession is almost over. But perusing the local paper I note that unemployment in Florida continues to hover at around 12%, the real estate market is continuing to struggle with close to seven out of ten sales being either short sales or bank owned homes. The median price has dropped from about $250,000 when the recession began to just under $100,000. Construction starts are few and far between, as you might suppose. People are leaving the state not moving in since the job market is so poor. Technology jobs are practically non existent and the government is all but killing NASA. As far as I know, we have not seen any of the federal stimulus money here. Oh, the banks are fine; they're just not lending. So, maybe you should just stuff it, little redheaded chick.

Here, tourism took a hit from the BP oil spill. It seems that all we've got going for us now is our alluring weather. But, wait a minute, its still in the nineties in late September. Scratch that thought. At least we still have Harry Potter at Universal. Without Harry, the hotels would be hurting cause Shamu and Tinker Belle can't cut it alone these days. Especially at Disney's prices.

Looking beyond the local, things aren't so rosy either. People who have been around a long time, like former President Carter (84 years young), say that they don't remember a time when our country was so bitterly divided. Nobody in DC can agree to work together on anything. Global warming is upon us whether we like the weather or not. Can't even buy an egg without risking death. We're morally compromised, fiscally piled high an deep, and still spending big bucks losing the mideast to Al Quaida and the mullahs. And Iran, who is itching to roll over Iraq says we did 9-11 to ourselves. Some folks probably actually believe that too, more's the pity. Best to put the paper down and avoid Fox and CNN, too. I can only feel worse.

So, I'll just go back to working on my dragon book, walking the dogs, and doing yoga as much as I can. Hit the beach as many times in the RV as possible. Live today for tomorrow may be worse. Or with luck, it may get better. There's nothing I can do about it anyway. Meanwhile, I'll just stick earplugs in when the kid is belting out her show stopping number and wait it out.

Like Scarlett, I'll think about tomorrow tomorrow. Today, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.