THANKSGIVING for 2024

It is that time of the year again - it seems to appear every year at about this time, strangely enough. Every year! And, with twelve months to forget it, we seem to repeat the same ol' everything. This year, blog-wise, I offer something a little different.

If you prefer to read a more traditional Thanksgiving blog post, I offer this post from 2017 - which includes a top-notch dressing recipe, for those who indulge.

This year, it seems things are a lot different from other years. Many are happy. Many are sad. Some are angry. Some are hungry. Nothing can be fixed by a few words hastily read on an obscure blog. Thus, I shall attempt an entertainment.

On the Twitter regurgitation known as X (no relation to The X Files), I maintain an account. I have for years now dabbled in mindless pursuits - or mindful, as the case may be - mostly to fill a few minutes between more relevant activities. Lately, I've made more use of the platform as I go through my days. One thing that has been a constant are the so-called poetry accounts. These are entities that offer a prompt of one kind or another with the challenge to create a poem or other suitable expression using that prompt. It has been a fun exercise for me, often a way to poke my brain into thinking again during the dull hours of the day.

One of my favorites is the #vss365 community. The moniker stands for "very short story" 365 days of the year. The prompt is different each day and a new host provides prompts every week or two. I think the original idea came from Hemingway's famous six word story:

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"

Some attribute it to earlier sources but Ernie has gotten the most hits for it. Nevertheless, with the Twitter limit of 240 characters (not words but characters, like individual letters, punctuation, and spaces) it becomes a bit challenging to say something meaningful in such a brief format. For this Thanksgiving, I decided to see what I've written and posted to the #vss365 channel over the years. (In recent times, there have also sprung forth other #vss channels such as #vsspoem, #vssdaily, #vsshorror, and so on. Something for everyone.)

With out further adieu, here are my Thanksgiving related #vss posts. The prompt word is marked with a hashtag.

With the right glue and some duct tape, Dr. Frank N. Stein was able to put the #parts together again after an amusing yet ultimately inappropriate Thanksgiving dinner with relatives.

#vss365

Protagonist can't handle cheery Thanksgiving dinner he's been invited to, goes outside for some air, sees first snowflakes falling, thinks of his daughter(who died)'s first snowfall....

#WritingCommunity 

[not actually #vss but was in my files; it relates to the plot of my novel EXCHANGE*] 

Thanksgiving #strike. Drove to neighborhood grocery for bread and deli turkey, jar of mayo, and bottle of pumpkin spice latte. Made a sandwich and checked that holiday off my list.

#vss365

Every year I give thanks the Thanksgiving Day #parade doesn't involve me.

#vss365

This year's Thanksgiving is like a #mosaic of every lucky turn we've managed to get.

#vss365

Just that old #pigeon on the window sill, making noise. But we have each other this Thanksgiving.

#vss365

Yes, he was full to bursting with Thanksgiving turkey and trimmings but #starved for attention sitting in the lounger in the corner. Someday that chair would be unoccupied.

#vss365

The tryptophan worked, slept 12 hours, missed family drama.

-my #journal entry, Thanksgiving 2021

#vss365

It's looking like I won't have any turkey for Thanksgiving. Should I #worry? Or just make a lot of side dishes? 

#vss365

I detect a theme. A lot of these Thanksgivings I was away from home and making do with what I had. I was living in a foreign country that did not do anything on that day, or I was away at university, as student or professor, and couldn't get home (often too close to the winter break to be worth making the round-trip). Not to worry. I got turkey whenever I really wanted it but it's not my favorite bird.

In my 19 novels (to date; one in progress), I found I'd included the Thanksgiving holiday in only two of them: A Beautiful Chill (2014) and Exchange (2020).

In the campus anti-romance, A BEAUTIFUL CHILL (set in 1999), professor Eric drives down to Texas for the holiday break to visit his elderly parents. It doesn't go well. He mopes about his grad student girlfriend (not his own student) and starts writing a Viking novel based on her.

In the crime thriller *EXCHANGE, the Thanksgiving scene is extensive and draws upon all the usual tropes of family and thankfulness - for a man who has lost his wife and daughter to a mass shooting. Then the expected exchange student arrives from China (Wendy) not knowing what has happened. Later in the story, she is invited to Thanksgiving dinner with her school friend whose mother also invites the man (Bill) who is her host. 

Here is an excerpt. Bill, a high school English teacher, gets through the dinner but has to get up and go outside for a break from all the cheeriness. His widowed colleague, Jennifer, who was also invited, comes outdoors after him.

A hand weighed on his shoulder. He turned, found Jennifer beside him, holding his coat. He accepted it, pulled it on. She wore her coat but crossed her arms in front of herself. She noticed it was snowing and gazed up, smiling.

“It’s beautiful,” she spoke. “My favorite season.”

“Mine, too.” He counted snowflakes. “Hey, I’m sorry if I came off as rude. You understand, I’m sure, how it can be...being surrounded by so many people who have not experienced trauma.”

“Yes, I completely understand.” She gave him a grin. “And forgive me if I seemed too…I don’t know, too cheery? They invited me a month ago. I didn’t know you were coming. But it’s good you did. Get you out of the house. No moping around on a social occasion.”

“Yeah, social occasion. That’s it, all right.”

She asked how he had been occupying himself during the semester and he retorted that he was talking with Griffin’s wife, the psychologist, and giving a lot of free assistance to the local police. She chuckled at his phraseology.

“I brought Wendy over here just for a few days,” he said with more determination, “because our house is…. There’s some punks trying to make it their playground. I didn’t want her to be involved. I spent the past few days sitting inside, waiting for them to try to break in again—”

“Again? Oh my!”

“Or out in the backyard, in the dark, waiting for them to arrive. Then I’d…” He raised his hand like he held a pistol, then dropped his arm. “I would call the police, like any rational citizen.”

“Oh, that’s scary.”

“I’m getting used to it. Always something to hassle with.”

“I’m sorry, Bill. At least I never had that with Larry’s accident.”

“Well, the police—detectives—they have everything under control, they say. They’re on top of things. But, you know, if it takes twenty-five minutes to arrive at my house after I call in a home invasion, then they are not quite on top of things. More like on the side.”

Again she laughed, touching his arm. He noticed her gesture and she saw that he noticed. But she left her hand on his arm.

“I’m thinking of moving to an apartment. Something small and cheap. That nobody would think to break into because nothing of value would be there. I’ll sell the house. Give everything away. Start a new life.” He had to stop. “Like nothing ever hap—”

“Happened. I know what you mean. All the what-ifs….” She took his arm in hers, leaned against him like she was cold. “It’s easy to want to try and pretend it never happened. But there are still memories we want. So we don’t really want life to be as though nothing happened.”

Bill gazed at her, saw a kind face staring back. “You’re right.”

“Those memories…. They continue to exist in you. You’ll always have Becky doing her thing, and Barbara doing what she does. Don’t give that up just to be without the pain.”

“You’re right,” he mumbled, turning on the front stoop, ready to head inside. “I guess I’ll go back in.”

“And your guest. Wendy is so lovely. Smart, talented, pretty. It would be easy to become enamored by her.”

Bill grabbed the door handle, opened the glass door, reached for the door knob of the wooden door, leaving Jennifer outside.

“Sorry,” he called, pushing the glass door back open for her.

“Let’s see what the others are doing.”

The scene continues a little more. But the idea should be clear: memories. That's what Thanksgiving is really about. Making memories. Then remembering them. Comparing them without judging them. And those memories are like handcuffs that link people together. It isn't so much what may or may not have happened long ago or what those people back then ate or who they invited to the feast. It is about family, whatever that may constitute for each of us. 

I wish each of you a day of glad tidings and an easy return to the mundane matters of the Monday that follows. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

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(C) Copyright 2010-2024 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

April is the Cruelest Month

As most of you know, April is National Poetry Month. As most of you did not know, I always have high hopes for tremendous poetic output during the month yet usually fail a few days in. Life gets in the way, of course. That's my excuse, but it's true. What is also true is that Life is the fodder for poetry much of the time. Write about what is happening now, like a snapshot of the moment.

On April 1st, I composed:

I don't always compose poetry,

But it's April, the poetry month!

So here goes nothing, as I see

Hope you like my first attempt

...That doesn't quite rhyme

Or make any sense

But is a tweet

On Twitter

Yeah

These days, poetry writing comes when I have time on my hands. When I have to wait for a while, for example, I'll whip out my phone and go to Twitter and find a poetry prompt and, rather like a brainteaser, I'll knock out a quick few lines of verse - sometimes prose, depending on the prompt. Lots of poetry or "very short story" prompt accounts on Twitter. Given the tweet format, short poems work best: limericks, couplets, quatrains, haiku, etc. When Twitter expanded tweets to 280 characters, the poetry world really exploded.

Sometimes I have to wait

Even if I fear being late

So out comes the phone

Like a dog's well-chewed bone

Tapping here and there

Entertaining myself ...somewhere

Usually it's tweets I do

Some for me, some for you--

Until I hear my name

And the world stops being the same

The only problem I encounter on that platform is the evil of predictive text which often ruins a perfectly fine poem in the nano-second I click tweet.

One of my favorite prompt places is @vss365 which means "very short story". With a daily prompt, I test my creativity. Eschewing the usual definitions and usage of the given word, I'll try to go for the bizarre or a pun. For example:

On April 22nd, I composed this one, playing on the prompt word "vague":

This tweet probably gonna be a little #vague because coffee out and sky being fuchsia with tens over twenties when Koolio was on the ramparts with Z.

#vss365

This example may remind some blog readers of my love of purple prose. Twitter poetry is perfect as an outlet.

Her #ephemerality left him only a wisp of hope teetering on the edge of her grave, a sense of a scent of a scene long evaporated.

#vss365

Because there is such a thing as a "prose poem" in the many genres of poetry, I consider these "vss" to be a form of poetry even though they tend to tell a story, which is the point. However, I still compose more traditional poetic forms - such as these "haiku":

Customer service

Teachers serving students

Super-sizing grades

Rather be writing

A vampire novel than this

Required lecture.

Accusative voice

Customer service lecture

I'll play on Twitter

I was stuck in a mandatory lecture/chastisement session and took the opportunity to complain about having to be there. While I know these are not haiku in an authentic sense, they fit the 5-7-5 syllable pattern which most people would call haiku. 

However, to be authentic the haiku must have some reference to the season or to natural beauty while presenting a question and answer form. Anything about modern life or thoughts of love or (in my case here) disdain would more properly be called a senryu. 

On April 7th I composed a more traditional poem, using rhymed couplets:

I blogged today

That's enough, I say

But others disagree

They don't really know me

I write when it's right

I sleep when it's night

That's how I roll

I'm not a troll

This is my Sunday verse

Not quite a weekend curse

Ready to log off now

Ready to take my bow

Again, I had time to kill so I just sat back I thought of how I felt, what I thought of my feeling, and how I felt about that. The rest was just finger tapping. Sometimes I'll incorporate into a poem what is actually happening, such as when I was pressed to give a lecture about writing and publishing on the excuse of my third vampire novel coming out, this time as a limerick:

Today is the big reading session

Reading from my new book is my mission

The words will be spoke

As long as people stay woke

Until I'm the last one to be leavin'

Not every day in April was a good day for poetry. But I even managed to use the non-poetic aspects of life to my advantage. The point is that anything can be fodder for a poem. And even a bad poem is better than no poem. For example, I composed the following on a bad Monday morning (April 15):

Monday is probably the worst day to write poetry

It's worse than Tuesday or ummm Wednesday

And not as good as, ya know, Thursday

Friday is good

Saturday maybe

Sunday

Sometimes a thought comes to me which is too profound for some kind of frivolous rhyme scheme and out it comes (using the prompt word "veneer"):

Not every artist has a thick skin.

Most have had layers shaved off

Sharp tongue lash by sharp tongue lash,

Until only the thinnest #veneer remains

To protect the soul from the final straw.

#vss365

Sometimes I'll try my luck at other short prompt ideas, such as @hangtenstories, where the goal is to write a story based on the prompt but only using 10 words. It is often a challenge and I have committed a few faux pas by composing wonderful stories which - whoops! - have a lot more than 10 words. Here is one I scaled back to ten words, using the prompt "fathom":

Ishmael only dared to go 20,000 #fathoms under the sea.

#hangtenstories

I like to go for irony in these short stories on Twitter. It's in my nature, anyway. Looking for the unusual, the side view, the unthought thought, the hidden seam, the mangled lexicon - such as this doozy for "maelstrom":

He used to storm through a room, like any other male. But when he was drunk, when he couldn't type  correctly, he would write #maelstrom and slur the words together. Even so, they all knew what he meant.

#vss365

And... well, because Life is full of life events, I composed a poem sharing my feelings about something real in my life (but not actually about vests; the prompt was "vestige"):

I'm impressed

You adore the rest

So I always wear a vest

Mostly when I'm out West

But that's no reason

To say it's not in season

Or rag on my quirk

Wearing vests to work:

A mere #vestige of my art

A desire that we'll never part

Yet your posts online

Tell me it's time

#vss365

If you are into haiku, I recommend @haikuchallenge, which also gives a word you must use in the haiku. Here's one I composed on April 20 (prompt was "apart"):

#Apart from haiku

He writes long epic novels

And nothing between

There it is: truth with a lowercase T. Give it a try. If you try to avoid Twitter, just jot down your verse in a notebook, if not for the world then at least for yourself. Read them later. Share with the next generation. Not every line of words is a thing of beauty (to misquote John Keats) but they can last forever. Go for it!



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(C) Copyright 2010-2019 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Are You Addicted to Killing Time?

Strange sensation, the pull of words! The push of perusers! The tickle of the morning light full of the scent of java, and how it calls the fingers to the keyboard even before the mind has formed any thoughts, translated them into language, and sent them along the neural pathways down to the fingertips. And yet...I'm doing it. Like I have for countless millennia. So it seems. It is less than an addiction,yet more than OCD.

These days, it seems, especially now that my so-called day job has exploded into a full-time monstrosity, a certain portion of each day must be spent on connecting to one's myriad electronic venues. I speak of the ill-named social media. Perhaps Socialist media would be more apt, but I jest. The analogy cannot hold. Almost every day I can survey my classroom and find most students engaged with their little pocket pets. Go into a coffee shop and many are similarly engaged with the electronic genie. Everyone seeking engagement, stimulation, and yet they dare not raise their eyes to the next person. 

There has always been email to check (usually worth a moment's amusement), and the more accounts one has - each for its own nefarious purpose, I have no doubt - but now there is also Facebook and its multiple personas to monitor and manage, and the same perhaps for MySpace, Tumblr, and other similar "social networking" sites. (I wish I had coined that term; could be making billions of rubles off the rights by now!) Plus the noisy bird-filled tree branches Twitter - again with multiple accounts for slightly different agendas. And Pinterest, Instagram, Snapchat, and the newer WeChat and Whatsapp! I find myself unable to not be a part of them. Even LinkedIn has captured my attention.

And the Google+ which I'm still not sure how to operate or for what unique intention it was created. And for writers and readers, there are plenty of sites online such as Goodreads, of which I have become a member in order to introduce my books to an unreading world. I have also joined a site for those interested in steampunk, a genre or sub-genre (no fights, please) of science-fiction or utopian/dystopian fiction. And don't get me started on all the blogs my friends and a few strangers have created, maintain, and add to often enough to occasionally intrigue or amuse or infuriate me.

I find myself getting up earlier now than I really need to just to get myself ready for a day's normal effort simply to be able to check everything. I need to be sure the world is safe for social networking. I need to be certain that my previous comment(s) have been commented on - or rejected - or, worse, ignored. I shun arguments on walls and feeds - unless I'm right and everyone knows it. I must check that things are happening, that political views are in balance, that social issues are being taken care of by someone, someone other than me. And, for good measure, I usually check them all again, in order or perhaps only the most critical ones, before eventually logging off and leaving for the day's Grand Illusion.

On good days, that could occupy two full hours. On bad days, only an hour. Weekends, I tend to languish over anything that might engage me, that could possibly stimulate the pleasure centers of my brain. In other words, I could remain plugged in the better part of a Saturday. I feel refreshed, confident, and ultimately relaxed, knowing that I have checked in, that my field of audiences have been informed that I still exist. Some may be surprised, but that is another blog post. 

Perhaps the fact of my existence itself is enough to compel some to socially dismiss the network in favor of the other, older networks: what used to be the visual arena of ideas and entertainment, expanded a thousandfold. Yes, I speak of television, that splintered soul now languishing in the wastelands of electronica, hanging on for dear life with dancers and singers and the scandalous Hollywood mavens of malevolence, or whatever else can be stood in front of a camera and later mocked. It's endless, of course.

And so there remains, for an escape, the ancient art of linguistic scribbles pressed into wood shavings. I refer to the ubiquitous book. Such pleasures I have known with a good book between my hands! Such adventures I have had once I've fled the world to enrapture myself in! And still, that paradise, that comfy bed of brain bliss, even that venue is changing! Yes, the sacred objet-d'art is joining the electronic universe! With a few tweaks and more than a few reconsiderations ("Do I really want to say that? Will anyone actually read this?"), any book written today may be sent through the vast airwaves to a handheld mechanical device, a mere tablet with screen projecting...wait for it...a page of text upon which one's eyes may focus for pleasure, perversion, or perhaps a person's private pontification. The possibilities are perfectly pointless.

However, this is not the place for a discussion of the nature of the newest Age of Books. It may seem to be, given this post, and being one of those electronic utopias about which I am ranting, yet it is not. As I have stated, it is necessary to engage, to feel connected, to matter to someone somewhere - even a Twitter poet in a city on the opposite side of the world whose 140 characters touch something you thought long hidden, long lost deep inside your head. And so you type back a complimentary remark to connect albeit only electronically. Can you feel the sizzle of satisfaction?

Ah! The good ol' days of pen to paper, the envelope, the postage, the weeks getting there and the weeks of return, to read a response to something you had forgotten you'd sent. Those good ol' days. I'll bet you've forgotten them.

I must now click the "post" button and make my words part of the universe - praying that someday, some far-away intellectual on a far-away world, in some random, slavish moment of silence comes to encounter these words, translate them into ideas, and thereby know that I existed, once upon a very long time ago, a time which was less fairy tale than instructional manual, and closes its eye(s) in delightful calm after a good night's fine contemplation. Soon the aliens will arrive and ponder over all of our magnetic ink.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2018 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Week That Was...Or Shouldn't've Been

What a week! First the solar eclipse then the terrifying hurricane. Plus the day job. I need a break so here is some poetry from my Twitter (@StephenSwartz1). It's not great, obviously, but trying to fit a poem into a tweet is worth the challenge.

SOLAR ECLIPSE 2017*

The eclipse is here
So be a dear
Bring me some glasses
As fast as
You can
Cuz I never plan

When the moon
Comes too soon
To the late afternoon
You must swoon
Like a loon
& sing a tune

Darken me now
O big moon cow!
Make the sun go away
Come again another day
It's a two minute wow!

The thrill has come
The thrill is done
Were we dumb?
Was it fun?
Just being a bum
Under the silly sun.

*The trick of poetry on Twitter is the 140 character limit.

HURRICANE HARVEY

It's Friday & Harvey comes to town
Make your way quick or you'll drown!
Stay high & dry
Or question why
Clime change follows you around!

(The following were not written on Twitter:)

The port of last resort:
Full mugs, laughs, a snort 
Before the winds blow hard
And the tide crashes in
"Thoughts and prayers," the bard
Cries loud, "We shall win!
Yet our revelry we must abort!"

Picking up the pieces, such a chore
Wish we were burdened with a bore
Scattered near and far
Missing our favorite bar
When we need a drink the most--
We survived! And that's our boast!

Awkward summers abroad and ill-thought doggerel composed between classes is how I fight off dementia, so be kind in your comments, as my parents might read them. Until next time, adieu! Stay high & dry & love thy neighbor.



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(C) Copyright 2010-2017 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

My Ruined Summer Vacation, Part 2

Sometimes when you are a stranger in a strange land, you seek out any vestige of home as a way to recapture some sense of normalcy. For me, however, that theory does not often work out the way I expect. Especially during my month in Beijing to teach a course at a university. Like last summer, I had my weekly rituals.

Leaving the Yinghua Hotel for my stroll to lunch.

After my Wednesday class I could start the long weekend. I had plans to go to my favorite shopping street, Wangfujing Avenue, where the two bookstores are, but I didn't make it there. I awoke Thursday and Friday mornings and did some writing. By the time I ran out of steam it was noon so then it was too hot and humid to go out. On Friday I had a bit of Mao's revenge (like Montezuma's revenge but for China) so I stayed "home" in my hotel. It is possible to have too much Chinese food. I still went out for dinner but only after 5 pm. It was 95* with high humidity. On Saturday I made it to the KFC about a mile away but the menu was stupid and nothing like in USA, except for having chicken. 

Just a hole in the wall. Only the chicken was familiar.

On Sunday, I went further, down to the McDonald's, which required me to cross a busy superhighway without getting killed. Once on the other side, I entered with great relief. I decided to order the special, thinking it would be easy to point to the sign and the counter person would understand what I wanted. Besides, it had a Hello Kitty theme so I knew I couldn't go wrong with that.

A girl at the McDonald's was loudly calling attention to the automatic ordering machines. I jokingly asked, in sarcastic tone, if it had English and she surprisingly replied in English that it did. So she talked me through it, step by step. I felt special. She pushed the on-screen buttons for me as I selected what I wanted. Basic cheeseburger and fries combo was good enough. Several steps to confirm my order, then . . . to pay for it through the machine. 

Outside McD's. The little window on the right is for walk-up orders. It requires speaking Chinese.

This marvel of technology only allowed payment using a phone app such as iPay or WeChat. I didn't have any of them. I thought I should have been able to slide a bill in and get change like at a grocery store, but NOOOOO! 

Inside McD's. The ordering machines are on the right. Bring your phone app to pay!

So I got back in the regular line to order, now two people longer. When I got up to the counter, the young man gave me a special menu for tourists; it did not have any more English on it than the menus overhead did but at least I could point more accurately than up at the menu above. I can really zero in with my index finger! Anyway, I went back to choosing the Hello Kitty special.

And I finally got my food, the special of the day: some kind of teriyaki sandwich (burger? not sure) with the usual fries, and a "bubble tea" - milk tea with tapioca balls in it. I thought it was iced coffee. I grabbed an ordinary straw for the drink but the "bubbles" clogged up the straw. The girl who tried to help me with the ordering machine rushed over with a big straw, saying emphatically "No, no, no!"  She switched the straws for me, stabbing a fat straw into my cup's lid before I could say "xie xie" ('thank you'). 

Before the straw switch, I had to walk around the crowded restaurant with my tray of food to find a place to sit. So many young people just sitting and chatting or using their electronic devices, already finished eating or not eating at all, or maybe with only a drink to buy them table time. It was a Sunday afternoon, of course. Finally I found a booth right up at the front by the ordering machines. It had leftover trays/food on it. I shoved them to the side and sat down, started to eat my meal. Two older women (i.e., my age) came over and asked in Chinese if they could share the booth. I waved them in and one of them got a McDonald's employee to clean off the table for us. We did not talk to each other but we did share a moment of humor when I gestured and made a face that the sandwich wasn't so good.

Then I got up to leave. But as I was stepping through the crowded restaurant, heading to the exit, I saw the McCafe section. So I got a large iced latte (large in China = small back home) and sat on a high stool at a tall table. As I sipped my kinda cold drink, I took in the ambiance of young ladies chatting with each other and playing with their phones. So, I played with my phone, as well, while I drank my coffee. In my Chinese-style hotel room, paid for by my employer, the wifi had various sites blocked: Facebook, Google and Gmail, Twitter, Instagram, etc. But I could still access Twitter and Gmail on my phone, via my phone service, so I checked what's going on. Unfortunately, there was not enough exciting action reported on those venues to entertainment for the length of my drinking and I left the McDonald's feeling sad.

Along the way to & from the McDonald's.

On the walk back to my hotel, I stopped by the 7-Eleven, as usual, and got some drinks to take to my room. I think there must be a law in Beijing that a 7-Eleven must appear once every two blocks. But for us foreigners, that is truly a godsend. I was a great customer during my month in Beijing: bottled coffee, breakfast pastries, lunch and dinner point-&-order Chinese dishes plus a box of rice, or pre-packed sushi, and fresh fruit, and all the packages of snacks and candy you could wish for. Plus cheap bottled water since you can't drink water from the tap. It provided a weird taste of home.

Then I fired up the laptop and went back to work on my epic fantasy novel. I had just finished the main story line involving the dragonslayer. Early on, I had started the second story line with a chapter then put it aside to concentrate on the first story line. Now I had to go back and finish the second story line, even though the dragonslayer's story was so long already. The two story lines would come together at the end. The second story line is all about the little princess - perfect for typing in a hotel room in Beijing when you've seen all the sights already.


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(C) Copyright 2010-2016 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Art of Observation

I'm a writer. That's not just a fanciful moniker of wannabe-ness. I write. I'm not an "aspiring" writer. I've got the manuscripts to prove it. I do, however, take a humble stand now and then by saying I fancy myself a writer. But I do qualify: I'm closing in on 800,000 words (novels, novellas, and short stories). Or I could call myself an "author"; that just takes having what you write published. Today, anybody can do that, of course. Even so, they must be written before they can be published. Quality, value, worth are other blog posts, however.

A large part of what I do with writing is not writing. It's observation, consideration, reflection, and analysis. Why do people do what they do? So I do not mind waiting in waiting rooms. I can occupy my time and my mind by inventing scenarios for the people I see. Malls are also great for this sordid activity. I'm not saying that's where I get my story ideas, just that it's a good place to develop this useful skill. And I've been developing it over the course of my life. To some, that makes me creepy. To others, I'm a harmless dreamer. I prefer 'Observer of Life.' I was recently promoted to First-Class, by the way.

So suppose there's this guy who is a little bit like me. That is, he is older, lives alone, has a decent job but is not really satisfied, likes to indulge himself with writing stories, and is starting to calculate that there may not be too much time left to start his life over again--as he has done before. Then he meets somebody quite by accident, someone who is so completely wrong for him--or more accurately, perhaps, he is so completely wrong for her. Nevertheless there is a click, a connection. It's all online so far, so there are only the words passing back and forth.

At first, it's quite innocent. Lots of humor. Facebook. Twitter. Emails. Texting jokes. Kidding around. It's fun; something to break the monotony of the week. The next step is to meet--in a public place because you know what the odds are that this is going to involve a creepy person. Coffee in a bookstore. You know, the latte experience. Laughter ensues. It's even more fun in person. No risk, no pressure, it's just for laughs. It's good to crack that weekend open.

Let's say the two of them feel that looks do not matter, that age difference isn't an issue, that no future needs to concern them. It's just for now. If it's good, why ruin it by pushing for more? However, little by little, it happens. There are dates. Dinners, movies, walks, talks. He makes dinner for her. She makes her specialty dishes for him. The evenings run late, slip into sleepovers. Nothing inappropriate. Just friends hanging out, getting sleeping, and the couch is right there. And then a mysterious thing happens: affection.

The sense of humor is now accompanied by a hand on the shoulder, in the small of the back. A one-armed hug. A friendship hug of full arms. The peck of a cheek. Peck of a cheek and a full hug. A quick lips on lips kiss. Longer kisses. There's a sudden realization that it's no longer just having fun for now. Enjoyment for now becomes a desire to continue the enjoyment. What's the harm in making plans? thinking of a future together? If they like all of it, why panic and fear it will go away? Tie it down, make it fixed.

The weekend trip, simply a sightseeing adventure, becomes an open door. A shared room becomes a shared bed, and a relationship is born. Not the exchanging of texts. Not the occasional invitation to attend church together, grab a lunch, or hang out with a couple of DVDs. Now something is serious. Soon a routine develops, brief loving moments mixed between job duties and other obligations. Why worry about the future? Because someone wants to be sure everything will continue as it is. They might as well make it official, as much time as they spend together, as much contact as they engage in, as much affection as they share. It's all good.

That's always the next step, isn't it? First, simply like a message: I like what he says, writes. Second, like the person: I get along with him. Third, let that person into your life: We get along just fine. Four, time together increases: I really like being with him. Five, affection increases: We've started kissing and other things. Six, something more than like but less than love ties them together: I like having him always there for me. Then come obligations--meetings, connections, each other's friends, the families, the jobs, the keys to each other's places although more and more time is spent together at one or the other residence. Then the big, special weekend: a preview of life together. Intimacy. The serious talks--no longer jokes via text message--but the push for more, and the making permanent of the more.

And a stroll through the mall pauses at the jewelry shop and just having fun for now becomes are you serious? Playing along, pretending, wishful thinking, dreaming. You know the type. There's reality for the realist. There's a virtual reality for those who play around the edges of reality. And then there is pure fantasy: things that will not ever happen yet we like to imagine what if they did? Is it a game or is it a dream? So they play the game, believing in the dream. There is, indeed, one ring to rule them all. And that is magic in the first degree. Nothing can take back that moment, that feeling, when the future coalesces from the mist and becomes concrete.

But concrete is hard and inflexible and it's scary. Too many thoughts of falling and cracking a head open against the stone. Fear unfolds. Doubt forms. Everything adds up, overwhelms, disturbs day and night, and finally erupts in the classic medium of text: "Sorry. I just can't do it. Goodbye." And winter arrives early, blows cold, freezes reality into some kind of hoarfrost statue of Defeat personified. It's not just fun for now any more. It's now, but without the fun.

What to do with a ring that's been officially sized for one particular finger in the universe? Save it for a rainy day? Go Prince Charming-like in search of another finger to fit the ring, another Cinderella fairy tale? Or get on that phone and beg, beg, beg? No, that's not actually, umm, dignified, so don't. Wait. Could do that. Life goes up and down, everyone knows. This is down. Next comes up. The Earth still spins, the sun shines, the night comes and goes. But it's not fun at all, even just for now.

"If you wanna meet at church I can buy you lunch after" reads the text message early one Sunday morning after a sleepless night full of ogres and goblins speaking in iambic pentameter. Lightning is not so quick, comets too slow, sunshine a mere flicker as the future suddenly explodes. There is nothing quite like sitting on a hard pew next to the lady bearing the naked ring finger, listening to the words of instruction from one who has been there, chiding one to keep it fun, that life is not meant to be a drudge, not intended to be hard, though drudgery and hardship do come, will always come, to those who fear having fun for now.

She's in a flowery dress as fresh as springtime; he's in a suit, serious for once, as they walk around the lake. Warm sun, cool breeze, and somewhere along the shore, where the trees offer shade, there is a pause for explanation. If not now, when? If not just for fun, then what else? If not you and me, him and her, them, if not us then who? who else? who else is there for you and me, him and her, them? Hand in hand, an examination of fingers, perfect for bearing symbols of significance--symbols that mean more than what anyone can say, and less. There is no symbol required to just have fun for now, they seem to understand. Let "for now" go on forever. Let "having fun" be whatever touches them, ties them together, ensures their continued enjoyment. Or, as sometimes is done, let the enjoyment be simply joy.

Usually at this point, I'll get up and go on my way. We all have errands to do, places to be. A writer is no different. We always wonder how things got to be that way, who these people are, and what happens next. You can answer that yourself. Grab some paper, power up your word processor, or flick on a digital voice recorder, and let everything go....



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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.