Monday, October 31, 2011

When I Rule the World

My mind being what it is, I was sitting here minding my own business when I heard, somewhere in the space between my ears, Tony Bennett singing If I Ruled the World ("If I ruled the world, every day would be the first day of spring; every heart would have a new song to sing....")

I often think of how much better off the world would be if, in fact, God were to decide to take an extended vacation and turn the world over to me--or at least make me Emperor.

Here are a few of the changes I'd immediately initiate:

1) Every child will be wanted, loved unconditionally, nurtured, and allowed the freedom to be a child. If a parent deliberately denies their child any of these necessities, the child will be removed and given to someone who would provide them.

2) The objective education of its citizens will be a top priority for every government on earth. Any human being capable of learning how to read will be taught how to read. Courses in civility, basic manners, and respect for the rights of others will be mandatory for every elementary, high school, and college student.

3) What is good for humanity will take precedence over what is good for commerce and bureaucracy. Each human being will be treated as an individual worthy of attention and care. Those who subsequently try to take advantage of this fact for their own gain will be denied all rights afforded in this provision.

4) Individuals who deliberately lie or knowingly mislead others for their own gain will be disenfranchised and fined an amount equal to 100 times what they have gained by their actions. Those who use the internet for fraud will be forbidden to get with 100 feet of a computer for a period of five years. A second offense will involve banishment for life to a desert island without electricity.

5) Those who deny the rights of others will have their own rights denied.

6) The biblical concept of "an eye for an eye" will be reinstated. Anyone who deliberately causes physical harm to another will have the same injury inflicted on themselves, and to the same degree.

7) The death penalty will be abolished. Life in prison without parole will provide ample time to reflect on the stupidity of the act that put them there.

8) Handguns will be abolished and strict sentences imposed upon those who deliberately use any weapon against a fellow human being.

9) All prisons will institute mandatory education programs for those who cannot function on a less-than-twelfth-grade level.

10) Mental care facilities will be provided to those unable to function in everyday society.

11) Food and shelter will be provided to those who, through no fault of their own, are unable to provide it for themselves.

12) Two-year military service will be mandatory for everyone at some point between their 18th and 20th birthdays, no exceptions, no exclusions.

13) The lobbying of politicians will be forbidden, with strict penalties for both lobbyists and politicians, who will receive no benefits not afforded every other citizen.

14) Religious proselytizing will be banned outside of churches, synagogs, and mosques.

15) ...well, you get the idea. I'd appreciate your mentioning these proposals to God the next time you speak with Him.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Friday, October 28, 2011

Tased

Why do I go through life feeling as though I'd just been shot with a taser gun? Why do I react so strongly every single time I'm confronted by anything I perceive to be utterly stupid and/or egregiously devoid of logic? Why can't I, like everyone else I know, simply accept things for what they are?

One of the infinite number of things I find totally impossible to comprehend is how any human not afflicted with scientifically recognized mental problems manages to survive from day to day without reacting as I do; how they can blithely sail through raging storms of mind-boggling contradictions and astounding balderdash seemingly unaware...or, if aware, able to ignore them. I can't. I never could. I doubt I ever will.

How can anyone...anyone...not be driven to distraction by the hate-filled, irrational rhetoric spewed out by human sewage plants posing as self-anointed pundits, politicians, and Speakers-for-God? That so many so blithely do stuns me to the soul. How can so many people, refusing to think for themselves, sit there like newborn birds in a nest, eyes unopened, beaks agape waiting to receive regurgitated nonsense, which they eagerly swallow?

I have a friend who is an intelligent, well educated professional, and yet for absolutely no reason I can even begin to understand is rabidly, utterly irrationally anti-Muslim. He believes to the depth of his being that there are no good Muslims. None. Not one. Nowhere on earth. Women, children, newborn babies, they are all terrorists in cahoots with Barack Obama--a Muslim--to destroy our great nation. Tased does not begin to describe how I feel when he sends me yet another stupefyingly irrational email forwarding.

There is a man in my building whom I will cross the street to avoid. Like my friend, when speaking of things other than politics he can be pleasant and rational enough. But he speaks of nothing but politics to the point where I fear for his sanity. I have told him time and time again that I while I respect his right to his opinions, I do not agree with then and do not wish to be exposed to them. Does that stop him? Silly question. Why do people do that? Perhaps I should use a taser on him.

Why am I incapable of glancing at the flood of messages pouring into my Spam folder without going into a rage which sometimes borders on the uncontrollable?

The answer is simple...at least for me: I expect my fellow humans to be good, and kind, and considerate of others, and at least reasonably logical, and no matter how often I am confronted with the fact that so many are not, I am truly shocked. I certainly should have gotten used to it by now, but I haven't.

I know the old saying that a cynic is a frustrated romantic, and I fear, while I do try to fight becoming cynical, I can feel it creeping up on me when I'm not paying attention. I fully realize that all my negativity is counterproductive; that I'm not going to change anything, and that the time I spend raging against perceived wrongs could far better be spent in constructive ways.

I admit, as a self-proclaimed romantic, that I see humanity in probably too rosy a light at times, I have to keep reminding myself that humans are, after all, biologically animals. We are predators; why can't I simply accept this elemental and incontrovertible fact? Spammers and far-too-many pundits and politicians and Speakers-for-God are, at their core, nothing more latter-day Tyrannosaurs eager to pounce upon and destroy the weak. They have no conscience, no morals, no concept of dignity or compassion or the common good.

So a good case could be made that if I'm constantly being tased, it's my own fault. I should just shut up and go along with the crowd, and accept the world as it is. I should, but I won't.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released
Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Beauty Redux

I’m listening to Wagner’s overture to Tannheuser as I write, and as always, the section where the shimmering violins cascade over the granite of the brass clutches my chest so tightly my eyes mist over from the sheer power and beauty of it.

I am often overcome by visual and aural beauty…if seldom to the point of tears, very often to the point of a physical pressure in my chest. That I’ve always been an incurable romantic and spend so much of my time in fantasy probably doesn’t help. Beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder, and I tend to behold it from several different angles at once. Beauty is anything I admire, or envy, or aspire to having or being, and is most often accompanied by the truly physical ache of realization that no matter how badly I might want it, I can never have it.

Beauty exists in lost things: in perspectives of the past only time can bring. Past experiences, relationships, never fully appreciated as they are being experienced, show their true beauty only in reflection. And for me there is sadness in the realization that they are indeed gone and will never return except in memory. That I can treasure them there gives me comfort rather like watching the video of a yule log on TV…it’s beautiful, but the warmth of immediacy is missing.

Being male, I don’t think it is the least bit surprising that one of the cornerstones of my being gay is my longing for the physical beauty and attributes I see in other men. I think this is a situation unique to gay men...I can't imagine it existing as a factor in heterosexual men's attraction to women.

I've mentioned before, in this regard, that before I was aged out of active participation in the "courtship"--a euphemism for which you can provide the appropriate word--aspect of the community, to meet and go home with someone to whom I was attracted was an exhilarating form of validation: that someone I considered beautiful might actually think I was attractive, too!

That our society is fixated on exterior physical beauty--and youth, which is its pre-requisite--to the point where we are bombarded by it and its inescapable message that if you yourself are not young and beautiful, you are inferior to those who are. People considered physically unattractive go through life bearing terrible burdens, not only emotional in knowing and constantly being reminded from without and within that they are lesser beings, but practically: "unattractive" people are less likely to be hired or selected in any process involving choosing one person over another. It is terribly sad and infinitely unfair, but it is a fact.

Beauty is absorbed into the human soul much like a sponge absorbs water, and comes in several forms, primary among which are sight and sound. The deaf are deprived of the beauty of the human voice and the wide variety of instruments mankind has created to produce various pleasing sound, probably best encompassed in symphony orchestras. So while the deaf cannot hear, they are subject to the same preconceptions of physical beauty as the rest of the population. But it is the blind, because they are not distracted by physical appearance, who can often far more clearly recognize and relate to the beauty of the soul rather than of the body.

True beauty exists not only in the eye of the beholder, but the mind, and just about everything is considered beautiful to someone. Because we are surrounded by so much beauty, we often do not see it, and it is often the subtle beauty, which must be given time to contemplate, which is the most rewarding. An autumn leaf upon the wet pebbles on a beach can be every bit as beautiful as any painting in a museum. All we have to do is focus our vision to be able to fully appreciate it.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Monday, October 24, 2011

And Hast Thou Slain the Jabberwock?

We live in a world filled with Jabberwocks--social, political, and economic--wherein Lewis Caroll's poem makes more sense than much of what goes on around us. And although we may have relatively little protection from the Jabberwocks which roam the exterior world, we can at least join together to form armies to battle them. But there is also a potentially more dangerous Jabberwock within each of us which wanders the tulgey wood of our individual souls. Our personal Jabberwock takes many forms --insecurities and fears, regrets, unresolved issues, physical problems--which we must each battle in our own way.

Jabberwocks, like the human minds they inhabit, are complex beings, made all the more challenging and frightening because we ourselves create them to our own specifics. Each is a composite of everything that troubles us. Most dwell in the dark, uncharted areas on the far periphery of our minds, and though we may be aware of their existence, we can learn to largely ignore them.

But for some, the Jabberwock lives far closer to the everyday conscious, leaving the dark forest of the subconscious to break through the fences we have built to keep them out. I am one of those people. I find I spend so much time racing off to drive my Jabberwock back into the forest that it drains valuable time away from more constructive activities. And, more often than not, when I do drive him back, he merely hides behind the larger trees near the edge of the clearing, waiting to come out again at the first opportunity.

My personal Jabberwock is comprised mainly of the eternal conflicts between who I think and hope I am and who I think and fear I am. He is partly my ego turned on itself--the firm belief that I can do/be anything I choose to do/be clashing with the undeniable fact that no, I cannot. I refuse to accept reality while being forced to live in its world, at least physically. And the strongest weapon my Jabberwock has to use against me is the mirror.

He taunts me with all the mistakes I have made which cannot be undone; of all the people I have hurt or angered without meaning to; of all the countless things I would give anything to go back in time and do or undo. And he always, always, whispers to me of time, and the fact that no matter how much of it may be left to me, there is more of it behind me than ahead.

I do my best to battle my Jabberwock with whatever meager weapons I have at my disposal, or can improvise. For all my feuding with reality, I don the coat of awareness that most of what I want I realistically cannot have...not because it is me or my ego who wants them, but simply because there are too many things to want, and no human being can do everything. And I scored a sizable victory when I left my insular little world recently to go off to Europe for a month! Most of it alone. And I will do it again next year. I have determined to take far more advantage of whatever opportunities I have. When I was younger, I did not do so many things because I had the cocky assurance of youth that there was plenty of time to do them...later. Now I realize that if I have the chance to do something, I cannot afford the luxury of putting it off.

I sincerely hope that your own Jabberwock is not nearly so disruptive to your life as is mine, and that yours lives so deeply in your mind's tulgey wood that your awareness of him is limited to the occasional, unconscious shiver produced by a distant roar from the dark fringes of your conscious, and that he never threatens to come out of the woods.

And once again, I sincerely hope that, through all this talk of my Jabberwock and my battles, you may find something in it which applies to you and your Jabberwock, and know that you are not the only one who has one.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Friday, October 21, 2011

Why? How?

Because my mind is a runaway train racing through a world I do not understand, I am eternally coming up with what to me are very logical questions for which there are apparently either no answers, or at least none that I can understand.

Here are just a very few. I would very much appreciate any answers you may be able to provide.

Why, if those "Not Sold In Stores" geegaw TV commercials are anywhere near as good as they say, do they have to double or quadruple the offer to get you to buy them?

Why have I never heard about all those things commercials assure me "everyone is talking about..."?

Why do nurses and doctors continue to smoke?

What the hell is a "well-qualified buyer"?

Why do those who demand you listen to them never want to listen to you?

How do they put a lid on those KFC buckets when the ads always show pieces piled up way beyond the rim? For that matter, why do the food photos shown in fast food restaurants bear absolutely no resemblance to what they serve you?

Why does the phrase "trust me" all but guarantee you shouldn't?

Why do the side effects of drugs often sound worse than what you're taking the drug for?

Why can we not sneeze without closing our eyes? (Just try not closing them once.)

Why do we applaud to show approval? (I at least have a theory on that one. I suspect it somehow relates to a child's wanting to grab ahold of something that pleases it. When we applaud, we're trying to hold onto what we're applauding for...plus it makes a pleasant noise.)

Why can we never remember the exact process of passing from being awake to being asleep?

Why is it so easy to give solid advice, and so difficult to take it?

Why do some birds "walk" while others hop?

Why do pigeons bob their heads when they walk?

Why do squirrels and rabbits hop?

What is the purpose of the slit at the base of a cat's ears?

Why are the irises of some animals (and all humans) round, while others are slitted? And why are some slitted irises vertical (reptiles and cats) while others are horizontal (i.e. sheep and goats)?

Why do all newborn babies have blue eyes?

Why isn't there a phonetic dictionary to help people look up words they don't know how to spell?

Why are there always more questions than there are answers?

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Unforgiving

There are a few blogs I've written which for some reason I cannot forget, and which I feel bear reposting for the message I hope it conveys. This is one.

My friend Gary and I went to a local coffee shop/bakery this morning. Standing in line by the glassed-in pastry counter, I was aware that the little old man behind me…unshaven, knit stocking cap pulled low on his head; long, shapeless brown overcoat…was making circular motions with one hand in front of the glass pastry case, saying “strawberry shortcake!” “Cinnamon buns!” I assumed he was talking to someone, but then saw he was alone.

“Soup,” he said. “Soup, soup, soup. I’ll have soup.”

I didn’t fully turn to look at him, but couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t talking to me. I didn’t want to say anything unless I was sure. When I got to the cashier, whom I know, I commented that he was lucky to be working inside, because it was cold outside.

“Yes, cold,” the little man said. I still didn’t know if he was talking to me, and felt like perhaps I should have said something to acknowledge him. But I didn’t.

When we sat down, the little man took a table near us, with his bowl of soup and the crust of French bread that comes with it. Head down, he ate quietly and quickly, not removing his coat. A few minutes later he got up to leave and, as he passed our table, he paused. Neither Gary nor I said anything or even looked up at him. He moved on, and Gary, who was facing the front of the shop, said he paused at each table as he passed it.

I at first assumed that the man was one of the far-too-many sadly dysfunctional people who flow along the city’s streets like twigs and leaves and Styrofoam cups float along a swollen creek; the invisible people no one sees, or pretend they don’t see. He may well have been. But it suddenly struck me that perhaps he was simply hoping someone might say hello to him, or somehow acknowledge his existence, and I was literally overcome with sadness and guilt that I, too, had totally ignored him.

When I told Gary how I felt, he said, logically, that to engage people whose looks and/or behavior strike a jarring note in the orchestra of our daily life was to risk…something: awkwardness? An unpleasant confrontation? The fact is that we simply do not know how to react to people who stand out as being uncomfortably different from ourselves and those we are used to having around us.

So rather than risk discomforting and embarrassing ourselves, we pretend they don’t exist. We tell ourselves, often with complete justification, that the panhandlers we see on the street could get a job if they wanted one, or that if we give them any money, they’ll just spend it on booze or cigarettes or drugs, and probably nine times out of ten, we are right. But what of the tenth person; the one who really does need our help. How can we tell the difference?

I have nothing but contempt for those who impose on others out of laziness or a desire to get something for nothing, or who deliberately try to take advantage of people’s goodness, or will do nothing to help themselves. They should be ashamed of themselves, but of course are not. And they deprive those who really need a little kindness or assistance of either.

I don’t know anything about the little old man in the coffee shop, or what his story might be, or if he was talking to himself or perhaps to me in hopes that I might say something to him and make him feel as though he were visible. But I am nevertheless truly and deeply ashamed of myself.

Why does this sort of thing bother me so? And why am I so relentlessly unforgiving of myself for not being who I think I should be? And the next time I encounter a similar situation, will I react any differently? I would like to think so, but, sadly, I doubt it.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Monday, October 17, 2011

The Name Game

Our names brand us throughout our lives, though we had no say in choosing them. In the year I was born, 1933--and yes, there was a 1933, long, long ago--the top five boys' names were a solid, no-nonsense, feet-on-the-ground Robert, James, John, William, and Richard. (My own name, Roger, was #48 of the top 100 names. Roger means "Renowned Spearman," though modesty prevents me from assuming its meaning had any bearing on my being gay.) Girls, too, were given solid, practical names, the top five being Mary, Betty, Barbara, Dorothy, and Joan.

In an attempt to be unique, parents often give their children names that are trendy at the time. Like so many other things, names rise and fall in popularity, and the astute can often fairly well guess when someone was born simply by the name they were given, though the fashion in girls names come and go faster than with boys. In 1990, the most popular boy's names were Michael, Christopher, Matthew, Joshua, and Daniel. For girls, the most popular were the more fashionable Jessica, Ashley, Brittany, Amanda, and Samantha.

Based on Social Security Administration statistics, the most popular names for boys in the United States in 2011 are Jacob, Ethan, Michael, Jayden, and William. I don't think I'd ever heard the name Jayden, though I like it. For girls the top names are Isabella, Sophia, Emma, Olivia, and Ava.

Some names, for some reason, carry a subtle stigma: dated, elitist, racist. Percival, Reuben, Jebediah (though I like it), Hymie, Rastus. It is unfortunate but true that names too strongly reflecting national or racial minority heritage can put the child at a certain disadvantage in the real world. There seems to be a trend among African American parents to give their children lyrical names...Keneesha, Latasha, Leeshandra..but which may tend, however unfairly, to be a detriment when the child becomes an adult and enters the business world.

When I worked for an insurance company, many years ago, I made a collection of names which stood out; three I still distinctly remember: Peachy Poff, Mitzpah Frau, and Quo Vadis Cone. I can't imagine that a child with such unusual names can escape being teased and tormented by other children. There are enough battles each child must fight; being targeted for their name should not be one of them.

Oh, and a word of advice for all prospective parents: never give a child a first name he/she is not going to use. My full birth name is "Franklyn Roger Margason." I was given my dad's first name, Franklin (with an "i") and the middle name of my cousin, Cork, whose birth name was Donald Roger Fearn. To avoid confusion with my dad, I have always gone by the name Roger, which has created endless frustration. To every bureaucracy, to every imaginable place where I am not personally known and which requires a full name, I am "Franklyn." I wait in line at the DMV, or visit a new doctor, or...

"Franklin Margason," they inevitably call when my turn come.

"My name is Roger," I respond.

They look from me to the paper with my name. "This says your name is Franklyn."

"It is, officially, but I never use Franklyn. Ever. Never. I'm Roger."

"All right, Franklyn. If you'll come this way...."

Since I've begun writing professionally, I've used the name Dorien Grey. Google tells me there are 252 people with the first name Dorien in the United States. I've just spent half an hour going through literally a dozen sites giving the origin and meaning of names trying to find the meaning of the name "Dorien." Finally went to a site called "Behind the Name: the etymology and history of first names." There are 26 variations given on the name "Dorian." "Dorien" is not one of them.

Why does that delight me?

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Friday, October 14, 2011

Hoarder

I enjoy the tv show...actually, I think there are a couple of them...dealing with the subject of hoarders--people who collect and save and gather and can never part with anything, with the result that their lives become virtually unlivable if not for the hoarders then for those close to them. Shows like this provide us with the chance to "tsk-tsk" at the shocking conditions in which the hoarders live while allowing us to feel reassuringly if guiltily superior to them.

I am a hoarder. Not so much of tangible things as of thoughts and memories and ideas and information and songs and stories and poems and all kinds of trivia. I keep them not in my apartment, but in my mind.

Like a hoarder's house, my mind has rooms filled floor-to-ceiling with...well, thoughts. All sizes, all shapes, all topics--some whole, most in chunks or bits and pieces. Like the hoarders featured on the program, I always intend to get things in order one of these days. But like them, I do not, and just keep adding to the mounds and stacks and piles: a fascinating (to me) bit of trivia here, an interesting article there, a really thoughtful forwarding received from a friend over there--each of them great material for a blog.

The fact that my mind is such a jumble is related, I'm sure, to my lifelong habit of just putting something down somewhere, knowing full well when I put it down exactly where I put it. And then two minutes later, I can't remember what I did with it. I do that with blogs a lot. I'll get an idea, start to write it, then wander off after a paragraph or two. Oh, but I do save it, sure that I'll go back and finish it one day. And maybe I will--"Maybe" being the operative word. I carefully title each one ("Perspectives," "Tasered," "MacArthur Park," etc.) preface it with a "U" for "Unfinished", and "Save" it into my blog file. Lately, to help myself remember how long a particular unfinished blog has been sitting there, I've been prefacing them with a "UB" for "Unfinished, Begun" and the date. I can't say whether it has helped much, since I seldom go back through them...only add more. Just a few minutes ago, curious as to exactly how many of them I have in my "Blogs" file, I counted them. Seventy. Enough, were I simply to finish them, to last for over eight months!

Most hoarders tend to deny they are hoarders. They see themselves as collectors. However, over time, their habit/compulsion increasingly isolates them from those around and they become, by necessity or by choice, more and more reclusive. They have fewer and fewer visitors, either due to the visitor's discomfort with the conditions under which the hoarder lives, or by the hoarder's own embarrassment over those same conditions.

Unlike most hoarders, I welcome visitor to come into my cluttered brain and look around. One of the major differences between hoarding tangible things and hoarding thoughts is that a thing, once taken from the house, is gone, whereas should someone find something of interest in my mind they might want to carry off with them, I'm flattered...and I'll still have it. Thoughts are the only thing I know of that can be taken, yet still remain with the person from whom they were taken.

I think we are all hoarders of one sort or another, though it does not often become totally life-disrupting. Too many hoard grudges, or griefs, or perceived slights and injustices. Some few, the very wise, hoard happy memories, or dreams.

So here I am, today, with a blog due tomorrow and, as too often happens, I don't know what I should write about. So where did I put that idea I had awhile ago for a blog on hoarders?

Ah...here it is!

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Rose Peddler

I swear I don't know where these things come from! Really, I don't. But I was thinking this morning about my constant running around trying to find new readers for my books--which I always have found somewhat embarrassing--"unseemly," as they say used to say in gentler times. It's very similar to those people who come up to your table in a nice restaurant with a basket of roses, asking if you'd like to buy one. The roses themselves are beautiful, and you know the seller is just trying to make a living. But still you can't escape the feeling of being approached as an unwanted/unnecessary intrusion on your privacy at best, and somewhat intimidating at worst--if you're on a date and you don't buy a rose, you're cheap. It evokes a "Hey, if I wanted to buy a rose from you, I'd have approached you" reaction.

Every author is, in effect, a rose peddler. Big-name authors, at the very top of the writers food chain, do not have to come up to you and ask if you want to buy their book: they have agents and powerful publishing houses to do most of the work for them. An occasional book-signing tour or a speaking engagement here and there...usually paid for by the publisher...with pre-programmed buyers forming lines around the block, and they can get back to writing their next book. But for 99 out of every 100 writers, there are no agents, there are no long lines.

Writing books is a wonderful experience. However, for the average writer, trying to get people to buy them is like chewing tinfoil.

The hard, cold fact is that out of the 150,000 novels published each year, 100,000 will sell less than 100 copies. It’s been estimated that, if the writer were to receive $1.00 for every book sold, he’d have to sell between 25,000 and 50,000 books per year in order to make a living at writing. (And yes, yes, yes, I know there are women writers. But this politically correct and excruciatingly cumbersome “he/she,” "him/her" political correctness drives me to absolute distraction! No offense, ladies.)

The internet is full of "writers-and-readers" groups, which consist almost totally of second, third, and lower tier writers commiserating with one another over how hard it is to find readers. And the relatively few readers who belong to such groups usually sit in the background or, when pressed for their opinion on a topic, invariably say "Oh, I'm just a reader," having no idea that without them...without readers...the writer is nothing. Readers apparently never stop to realize that it is they who hold the fate of writers in their hands. They can "make" a writer by reading him, or break him by ignoring or simply being unaware of him. It's up to the writer to make readers aware that he exists, and to convince them to take a chance and read the book.

There are far more excellent writers and wonderful books out there than there are large publishers to produce or promote them. A writer's chance for success is, unfortunately, too often in direct ratio to the size and clout of his publisher. And the sad fact is that a vast number of books published by smaller houses, once published, just sit there because the writer is more concerned with being able to say, "Oh, yes, I'm a published author" than to do anything to get out there and find people to read the book. I've seen countless posts on writer sites where one of the members will proudly state that he took copies of his book to the church picnic and sold three copies! That's wonderful, but hardly makes a dent in the expense the publisher went through to put the book out in the first place.

So I, and many, many other writers like me, must constantly be doing our little buck-and-wing dances while waving our self-promotional flags and doing whatever we can to call attention to ourselves
and our books. Necessity ain't always pretty, kid.


But just as there is pleasure in smelling a rose, there is pleasure in reading a book, no matter who convinces you to read it.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Case Against Acorns

This past March I took a month-long trip to England, France, and Italy. Next year I'll be taking a 15-day riverboat tour from Budapest to Amsterdam, then stopping over in New York for several days before returning to Chicago. Bragging? No...utter disbelief. That I have done and will be doing these things--things that so many other people can only dream about, as I could only dream about were it not for Norm's generosity--leaves me lightheaded in contemplation. And all these wonderful adventures were possible only through the death of my dear friend and one-time partner, Norm, who did not spend his hard-earned money on himself when he could and should have.

I am deeply indebted to him in death as I was in life. So do I feel guilty for spending money he worked so hard for? No. I am doing with his money what I wish he would have done for himself. I think he would have appreciated the irony in that.

And therein lies the theme and message of this blog: you truly can't take it with you. I could have...and many might say should have...invested the money Norm was kind enough to leave me. But to what end? I have no family to support, and even if I did have a family, I'm well beyond the age of having to support them. I have finally learned to live within my income and therefore didn't really need the money, though I am of course delighted to have it.

I fully realize that everyone's needs are different. We all have financial obligations, which vary greatly from person to person. And I am certainly not advocating just blowing every penny we have on our own personal pleasures. We tend to work hard all our lives, putting money aside for...what, exactly? Like squirrels collecting acorns, we keep stashing it away. But once we have accumulated enough to assure ourselves a reasonable and sustainable level of comfort, we keep going. "For the kids," is perhaps the most common reason given if asked. A noble thought, but once "the kids" are no longer kids, the obligation to support them largely vanishes--they need to stand on their own two feet and make their own way. Leaving them something when you die is fine. But too often "something" is, realistically, too much. Pampering children is one thing; pampering adults is something quite different, not to mention largely unnecessary.

I think a major problem in the acorn-gathering/money-stashing philosophy is that we are seldom aware of how much is enough. It would be safe to say that the vast majority of people are unaware of their true financial condition. They do not budget, they do not plan, they have no real idea of where their money goes. They just keep gathering those acorns.

I'm not addressing this to those whose circumstances prevent much acorn-gathering. But there are still a very great number who can, but who are so concerned for saving for the future comfort of others they neglect their own comfort now.

Norm, for example, left a sizable amount of money to his brother, who has done quite well for himself throughout life and does not need it, and to two nephews whom he never saw and who, from all accounts, were also doing quite well for themselves. I do hope they will use that money as I am using it, to fulfill dreams. I'm sure Norm, too, had dreams, but he was too busy storing acorns to act on them.

I am, as I'm sure you've noticed if you've followed these blogs, excruciatingly aware of the passage of time, and that time is not limitless for any of us. If we don't take the opportunities presented to us, they may well be lost forever. One of my strongest memories of my recent trip is of sitting in the Piazza San Marco in Venice on a beautiful, sunny day, having a drink while listening to a small orchestra playing not 50 feet from me. I made a mental toast to Norm, wishing he was there with me, and knowing that he should have been there instead of me.

So don't spend all your time running around gathering acorns. Take some time to sit in the sun and enjoy them.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Friday, October 07, 2011

"Scatter Ye Breadcrumbs..."

For some, life is a vast green pasture, for some a forest, and for some a jungle. But regardless of the terrain through which we pass, many feel the need to leave a trail to mark their passage, either so they can trace the path back to where they began or so that others may know the path they have taken.

Memories are the breadcrumbs of choice for most of those looking to retrace their steps along the way, but memories really don't hold up too well in the light of reality. They are much too easily warped by the passage of time. But since we tend to avoid staring into the light of reality just as we avoid staring directly into the sun, we seldom realize that what we're sure we remember clearly may not in actually be exactly what happened. Time wears away memory's sharp corners and fades the colors. As strongly as we believe something happened at a certain time in a certain place in the company of certain people or under certain circumstances, almost assuredly we are not 100 percent accurate.

Because I have never understood the world, and am so easily lost or led astray, I have been an inveterate breadcrumb-dropper all my life. But instead of relying totally on memories to mark my journey, I reinforce them with as many tangible bits and pieces of my past as possible, mostly in the form of my writings. Since words can last forever, I use them as my breadcrumbs. As a result, my trail through life is much easier to follow than most. I have an entire two-year period of my life, in fact--by way of letters written to my parents when I was in the Navy--documenting an almost day-by-day, as-it-happened accounting of events. After not having looked at the letters for many years, I was shocked to discover that several things I distinctly remember either did not happen, or did not happen when or in the order that I could swear they happened.

Memories are ephemeral, words are solid.

I always strongly encourage anyone with a desire to be remembered to drop tangible breadcrumbs as they travel through life. Even if they have no need to retrace their steps, it allows those they care about, and those who care about them, to see the exact path they took.

Photographs make fairly reliable breadcrumbs, but unless they are dated, even they can be misleading. When you take a photo, you know full well who is in them, their relationship to you, when and where it was taken, and under what circumstances. But unless you take a moment to caption them, 20 years down the line who else will know?

While few people think to do it, keeping a journal of what may seem uninteresting or even trivial to you. Taking brief notes on vacations and trips, saying what you did and, more importantly, your thoughts and feelings can, when you look them over in future years, sharpen memory and rekindle emotions--especially good ones.

I feel strongly about the need to leave breadcrumb showing our individual paths through life. If not for ourselves, then for those who come along a bit later and may want to know more about us and who we were. The more solid the breadcrumbs, the sharper the image we leave of yourself. Personal letters to friends or family, for example, are not only a part of who we are, they serve as a sort of time capsule for anyone who might come across them in the future.

What we take for granted, what is totally normal and may seem mundane or even boring--what is now--to us, will be viewed quite differently when seen from the perspective of the future.

You can't go back in time and leave breadcrumbs retrospectively. But it's never too late to start.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please take a moment to check out his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and the recently-released Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 ).

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Words Spoken, Words Written

I wish I spoke well...and I'm not referring to the residual effects of tongue cancer on my ability to speak clearly enough so that other people can always understand me. I mean I wish I were able to put my thoughts together quickly enough to enable me to instantly say what I wanted to say, rather than saying something lame or saying nothing at all, or coming up with what I wanted to say sometime later.

There's that old saying which, like most old sayings has a good deal of truth to it: "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and prove it." I, unfortunately, tend to do both.

How many times have I, having been snubbed or snapped at or insulted or neglected by a clerk or asked a totally unexpected question, felt angry or like a fool for not responding the way I should have responded at the very moment?

It's not that I am incapable of coming up with a blistering, sage, or witty (whichever is appropriate) retort to something said. I can...just not in time for it to do any good. Twenty seconds, five minutes, half an hour later I invariably come up with something absolutely brilliant I wished I'd said. It is no wonder I do not play tennis. Thought-mouth coordination is just as important to communication as hand-eye coordination is to sports.

Not only do I deal poorly with my own personal thought-mouth coordination, I frequently think of what I wish other people had said. To this day it truly bothers me that, upon landing on the moon, Neil Armstrong said, "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind." What he should have said and I am sure meant to say, was, "That's one small step for a man; one giant leap for mankind." Amazing how much difference one tiny word can make.

And the insertion of the words "under God" into our pledge of allegiance--words which were not in the original version, which were never intended to be there, and which flagrantly violate the fundamental principle of separation of church and state and were inserted only to satisfy fundamentalist Christians (in my opinion, the worst kind)--sincerely drives me into a frenzy.

I would have loved to be a candidate on the platform at the Republican debate when the audience booed the gay soldier in Afghanistan. Not one of those gutless-blob candidates had the guts to say what may well have guaranteed them the Republican nomination. Had, the minute the booing occurred, any one of them had the guts to say: "All right...all of you who booed stand up! Here is someone wearing the uniform of the United States of America, someone who volunteered to put his life on the line every day to protect your sorry asses and you have the utter, unmitigated gall to boo him? You're a disgrace and, should I be the Republican candidate for president, I do not want your vote."

I have often said that one of the main reasons I became a writer was that writing gives me time to think after I speak, and to go back and change things so that they come out the way I wanted them to. Spoken words are immutable: once they leave the month, they can't be changed or taken back, no matter how hard one tries. It's like trying to unring a bell. But written words are infinitely malleable: they can be rephrased, rearranged, amended, softened, hardened.

It is the spontaneity of the spoken word which holds both its power and its inherent danger. Hearing a moving speech, for example, often has more impact than reading about it, thanks largely to the ability of inflection to convey shadings of meaning. Many deaf who have learned to speak have a certain flatness to their voice because there is no way for them to really be aware of the importance of inflection.

Spoken words can and too often do confuse, or cause pain which cannot be uncaused. Both spoken and written words can induce thought, but unless the spoken word is recorded, it cannot be reheard; written words are always there and can be gone over again and again, allowing time for introspection. The spoken word is now; the written word is forever.

If it sounds as though I'm making a case for the written word over the spoken...well, considering the source, I guess you're right.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back. And please take a moment to check out http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 for information on Dorien's Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs.

Words Spoken, Words Written

I wish I spoke well...and I'm not referring to the residual effects of tongue cancer on my ability to speak clearly enough so that other people can always understand me. I mean I wish I were able to put my thoughts together quickly enough to enable me to instantly say what I wanted to say, rather than saying something lame or saying nothing at all, or coming up with what I wanted to say sometime later.

There's that old saying which, like most old sayings has a good deal of truth to it: "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and prove it." I, unfortunately, tend to do both.

How many times have I, having been snubbed or snapped at or insulted or neglected by a clerk or asked a totally unexpected question, felt angry or like a fool for not responding the way I should have responded at the very moment?

It's not that I am incapable of coming up with a blistering, sage, or witty (whichever is appropriate) retort to something said. I can...just not in time for it to do any good. Twenty seconds, five minutes, half an hour later I invariably come up with something absolutely brilliant I wished I'd said. It is no wonder I do not play tennis. Thought-mouth coordination is just as important to communication as hand-eye coordination is to sports.

Not only do I deal poorly with my own personal thought-mouth coordination, I frequently think of what I wish other people had said. To this day it truly bothers me that, upon landing on the moon, Neil Armstrong said, "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind." What he should have said and I am sure meant to say, was, "That's one small step for a man; one giant leap for mankind." Amazing how much difference one tiny word can make.

And the insertion of the words "under God" into our pledge of allegiance--words which were not in the original version, which were never intended to be there, and which flagrantly violate the fundamental principle of separation of church and state and were inserted only to satisfy fundamentalist Christians (in my opinion, the worst kind)--sincerely drives me into a frenzy.

I would have loved to be a candidate on the platform at the Republican debate when the audience booed the gay soldier in Afghanistan. Not one of those gutless-blob candidates had the guts to say what may well have guaranteed them the Republican nomination. Had, the minute the booing occurred, any one of them had the guts to say: "All right...all of you who booed stand up! Here is someone wearing the uniform of the United States of America, someone who volunteered to put his life on the line every day to protect your sorry asses and you have the utter, unmitigated gall to boo him? You're a disgrace and, should I be the Republican candidate for president, I do not want your vote."

I have often said that one of the main reasons I became a writer was that writing gives me time to think after I speak, and to go back and change things so that they come out the way I wanted them to. Spoken words are immutable: once they leave the month, they can't be changed or taken back, no matter how hard one tries. It's like trying to unring a bell. But written words are infinitely malleable: they can be rephrased, rearranged, amended, softened, hardened.

It is the spontaneity of the spoken word which holds both its power and its inherent danger. Hearing a moving speech, for example, often has more impact than reading about it, thanks largely to the ability of inflection to convey shadings of meaning. Many deaf who have learned to speak have a certain flatness to their voice because there is no way for them to really be aware of the importance of inflection.

Spoken words can and too often do confuse, or cause pain which cannot be uncaused. Both spoken and written words can induce thought, but unless the spoken word is recorded, it cannot be reheard; written words are always there and can be gone over again and again, allowing time for introspection. The spoken word is now; the written word is forever.

If it sounds as though I'm making a case for the written word over the spoken...well, considering the source, I guess you're right.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back. And please take a moment to check out http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 for information on Dorien's Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs.

Monday, October 03, 2011

Be Prepared

It isn't that I don't like the idea of planning. I do. I admire, albeit oddly grudgingly, people who take the time to think out and methodically plan their every action. It's just, basically, planning takes time and I have precious little enough of that as it is, so I generally don't do it. If I'm at a point where I want to begin a project and I have the choice between just getting to it or spending the time to plan out every possible detail and contingency, the choice is clear: the time involved in planning something takes time away from actually doing it. It also, I think, takes some of the fun out of it, at least for me. I've mentioned several times that I never plan out my books (or, as you may rightly suspect, my blogs) before I start them. I get an idea and I go with it. It may not be the way most people do things, and sometimes I'm sure it shows, but it works for me.

I have literally dozens of begun-but-never-finished blogs in my "Blogs" folder. I get an idea, start writing, and run out of steam or thoughts a few paragraphs into it, and abandon it. I don't just delete it, though, in case I might want to go back and finish it someday. This is quite different than writing a book. I admit that with a book, the initial idea usually includes the theme, the method of murder, the motive, and tentatively whodunnit, though the actual killer frequently turns out to be someone other than I first intended, depending on how the story progresses.

When it comes to planning and its consequences, writing has overwhelming advantages over real life, the primary one being the ability to go back and rewrite what has been written. Probably that is also one of the reasons I so dislike reality. Life does not allow rewrites. Once a moment in real life has passed, it cannot be changed or altered. Say something you should not have said, do something you should not have--or wish you had not--done, and you're stuck with it forever. For all the planning you may have done in real life, changing the outcome is not possible.

One of the many joys in writing, for me, is in being able to, in effect, just read the story as it unfolds on the screen in front of me. This pleasure would be lost were I to have carefully plotted out exactly what was going to happen exactly where in the story. My mind simply could not allow such confinement, and I honestly cannot comprehend how those who do meticulously plot in advance can do it.

Of course I am not totally uninvolved in the progression of my stories; just as one has to make changes and adjustments and decisions and process new information in the course of everyday life, so it is, for me, with the process of writing--though with far more flexibility than real life affords. If, in the course of working on a book, I have to figure out how Dick or Elliott might come by a some piece of information, I can go back into the story and plant a clue or a introduce a character from whom the information might logically be obtained. With luck, the reader will never be aware that it was done, which is exactly the way it should be. Deus ex machina--just having something appear out of nowhere, with absolutely no advanced preparation for the reader is, for me, the ultimate cop-out and the kiss of death for a book, story, tv show, or movie.

For most people and in most instances, "Preparation" more frequently involves the mental process than any physical things that must be done before the event, and too easily "preparation" becomes a euphemism for "pointless fretting." Preparation implies that some specific actions can be taken prior to the event to positively affect what is being prepared for. Too much of what people consider "preparation" is in effect, busy work prompted by worry. I generally consider the degree of preparation required to be largely dependent upon the importance of what is being prepared for. I am really trying to prepare for my anticipated trip to Europe next year, for example, but I'm limiting it to laying the groundwork, without micromanaging every detail in advance.

Of course, as I read over what I've just written (since—surprise!—I didn't prepare what I was going to say in advance), I realize that it could, with some justification, be considered my attempt to rationalize the simple fact that I am just plain lazy, and not preparing for things is my way of taking the path of least resistance. I do hope I'm not taken to court over the issue, for I fear I would lose.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back. And please take a moment to check out http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 for information on Dorien's Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs.