A Balcony Scene

The banquet room was set more formally than in past years, with tablecloths and napkins. The staff at Polly’s Restaurant was always gracious to us, maybe sensing our stressful concerns. What should we choose for next year’s insurance? I liked the new arrangement, tables set in a square so everyone would be able to see everyone else. Perhaps this more genteel ambiance would calm our nerves. We always had a thousand questions at the meetings, and hearing other folks’ concerns generated conversations worth listening to.

Each year I had to determine which part D option for my mom’s Medicare plan was the best choice before committing in December for the supplementary insurance I’d sign for her. The yearly formulary was a thick enough tome to boost the youngest child to the Thanksgiving table. None of us had time nor skill to read or figure it out. Think new annual tax codes. The presenters explained the new plans’ pros and cons in understandable bites and comparative columns. I’d make a decision based on determining which health care plan would provide the lowest cost for mom’s medications, wheel chair rental, and ambulance service.

If we could not be persuaded to attend these meetings by dint of their importance to our (mom’s) health care for the next year, Polly’s sent each of us home with a fresh pie of our choice. How can you not show up for pie? Some of us came for information, some came for pie.

I was early but three gentlemen were already seated. It didn’t surprise me that they were fifteen or twenty years older than me. I was often the youngest at these meetings since I came on my mother’s behalf, not my own. By paunch and jowl and sartorial casualness, they were certainly the right demographic for the meeting.

They, however, sat gape mouthed at my entrance, too stunned even to speak. I smiled and said hello. They asked what I was doing there, my youth obviously confounding them.

“I’m here for the meeting,” I said, smug in my certainty of purpose. Only in my early sixties, I didn’t yet qualify for Medicare. They were envious of my tender years, astonished by my presence among their venerable company. I’m way too old (and married) to flirt, but their expressions demanded response. I smiled and tossed my curls. A little feminine confirmation of their masculinity couldn’t hurt.

“But we’re the Romeos,” one said.

Adorable. How can you not fall in love with a grandpa who knows Shakespeare?

“Well then I’m Juliet,” I said and rearranged the place setting so I’d have room for my notebook.

“No, we’re the Romeos,” he said, as if an explanation of their right to vote.

I looked at the three men. What could they be so worried about? I wasn’t the only person to attend these meetings on behalf of someone too frail to attend for themselves.

“Romeos,” he repeated, emphasis on the last word. “Retired Old Men Eating Out.”

The tablecloths and silverware. The square table arrangement. The recognition of circumstances. This Juliet was standing on the wrong balcony, seeking the wrong man.

How many names can we ascribe to red? Magenta, burgundy, cerise, cherry, scarlet, crimson. I didn’t have to see my face to know it blushed every shade in and out of the rainbow.

I’d come on the wrong day. My meeting was the next week.

Thank you, Romeos, for a charming ten minute date. Like many affairs it didn’t last long but I’ll always remember you. Seems I’d been looking for love in all the wrong places.

 

Painting: Romeo and Juliet Farewell by Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale, courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

Dear Mr. or Ms. Agent

Dear Mr. or Ms. Agent Hdroski; (I’m pretty sure I spelled your name right but don’t know if you’re are male or female.)

I’m sending you my entire book Going for Cold as an attachment to this email, so you don’t have to bother asking me for it. Its a Gothic historical fiction steampunk romance adventure novel, and you’re gonna love it as much as my mom does. If you don’t count the chapter titles its 175,000 words long, give or take a few. I love to write as you can tell.

I had been reading a whole lot about how to write a really good kwery letter, and I want you to know I pay attention to advice. (WOW!!!! You cannot believe how many blogs out there give advice about how to write a kuwery but I think I’m following the best one!) So I read someplace that you were born in Outer Slobovia. Since I made my story happen in Outer Slobovia, I knew you’d think this is really intresting as well as unique. Of course, I haven’t been able to visit Outer Slobovia, as I can’t afford the plain ticket much less the hotels and renting a car there and everything, so I wouldn’t mind at all if you made a few corrections in my story, but only if neccesary.

My book is about this really beautiful girl in this little village in Outer Slobovia who is looking for her long lost lover who sailed away to find his fortune in some other country and never came back. Well not right away anyway. She was pregnant at the time he left even though, they weren’t married (I know that’s kind of a no-no, but that’s what makes books exciting isn’t it?) so she gave their baby away to Gypsies who were traveling around on the most beautiful Gypsy wagon, you can imagine. (You don’t actually have to imagine it because I describe it at great lenghth in my book but I wanted to keep this qwuery letter short so I’m not putting it in here.) So the baby, a really adorable little boy who looks just like his father except his father doesn’t know he exists, goes all over Outer Slobovia with the Gypsies………

The Gypsies are really nice people except they steel and cheat a lot, but only from people who are not Gypsies, and the whole group of them end up in a really cold part of Outer Slobovia. (I’m hoping you can tell me what part of the country is colder than the rest because I couldn’t find that out on Google. I figured you would’nt mind since you’ll want my story to be as ackurate as possible as its really about your country.) So anyway, the little boy’s mother ends up getting sick and dying but mostly she really dies from heartbreak because she had to give her baby away after her boyfriend whom she really really loved didn’t come back in time for them to get married!!! Its so sad, isn’t it?

So meanwhile the boyfriend, whose name is Igor Igor (isn’t this a clever idea to give him two first names that are the same? I just loved it when I thought of it and almost named the girl Alma Alma but I thought that might be too much so she’s only Alma, just one name. And Alma had named the baby boy Igor Two but the Gypsies changed it to Timbo. I looked it up and it really is a Gpysy name) comes back to the little village where he and Alma fell in love when they were teenagers. He’s very sorry that she had died a long time ago but its really for the best because he happened to get married to someone else along the way to getting rich and now he has a wife and six children. (Six more children! – yikes this guy is a busy bee, right?) And he did find his fortune in a gold mine.

So now someone in the village (I’m not sure if this person should be the village priest or the village gossip, you might want to make a suggestion) tells Igor Igor about his first son being given away to the Gypsies. So of course Igor Igor decides to leave his wife and six other children in the village while he goes in search of his oldest son, whom he thinks is still named Igor Two. All he knows is that they went to the coldest part of Outer Slobovia, and so he has to go to this very cold place to find his boy. But he’s made his fortune in a gold mine, so he has lots of money and other stuff at hand.

So now you get the title, right? Going for Cold instead of Going for Gold like most people would ordinarily say. I have to admit that the title at first was Going for Gold but then I thought of this really GENUIS idea for the new title Going for Cold!!! Everyone is going to want to read the book just to figure out if the title is a typo, right? And of course, all the symbolism about what’s the real gold or the real cold in the sory but I’ll leave all that to other people to figure out.

So back to my story. The rest of the book is about all the adventures Igor Igor has trying to find his baby son who is already a young man by now and very good at steeling and cheating people who are not Gypsies. You can see where this is going, right? Igor Two, who only ever went by the name Timbo, runs into his father but doesn’t know its his father, but he figures out this guy made his fortune in a gold mine, and so he plans to cheat him out of his fortune. It takes a lot of exciting scenes and unexpected things to happen before Igor Igor finaly figures out whom Timbo is, and although I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, its when he’s dying that he finds out. So its one of these really sad but really deep stories about all the truth of everything getting found out but only at the end of the story when its too late for anyone to end up happy.

You might think I told you the whole story here so how could it be 175,000 words long, more or less? Well, you’ll just have to read the whole story to find out. That’s why I attached it to this email. When you decide to call me, try not to call until after 8:00 AM (remember I live in California so you have to allow, for the time difference) as I like to sleep in a bit. But anytime after that is fine. I am excitedly looking forward excitedly to hearing from you so we can talk about how much money you expect this book to make and who would be a good director for the movie version. This will be so fun!!!

Your friend,
Tawny Lionheart; Author  

(It’s my nome de plume. I made it up since my real name is Myrtle Margaret Agnes May Brown and thats just too awful for anyone.)

 

 

Johannes Vermeer painting A Lady Writing, circa 1665

Lion cartoon courtesy Pixaby

 

It’s the Best, the Absolute Best

Laughter – still the best medicine. The biddies from the Old Wives Club had it right all along. It protects my heart because it makes my blood get up and flow throughout my system, and blood pumping into and out of those bellowing chambers is better than the gridlock some folks suffer. It releases my endorphins, the giddy little proteins inside our bods that suppress pain and make us feel good, or at least better. And who doesn’t want to feel better? It gives a wake-up call to my hormones by nudging my immune system into overdrive, producing anti-bodies that fight the good fight – against the bad grunge like illness and disease and sour temper.

Who can laugh without relaxing? Isn’t that why some of us (not me of course, and certainly not you, but other unnamed folks) pee their pants when laughing raucously? Losing all control is not a bad thing, even if you must change your whitie-dities, because when you’re having that much fun – who cares about all the rest? Oh, and it’s contagious! In a good way, not like the flu, but like having enough cup cakes for everyone in the world. So now I not only feel good inside my own world weary bod – I feel good because everyone around me also feels good. Motto for today: Spread cheer – laugh out loud.

My physical health improves. My bod doesn’t ache any more. Not as much anyway. Laughing that hard must have worked the kinks out of the system, kind of like untwisting the hose and letting the water spray all over the yard. Or sitting in a giggle spa while warm bubbles tumble all over achy joints until the pain realizes it isn’t welcome.

It’s the perfect size for my emotional health, a one-size-fits-all remedy. I can do what I must, even all the miserable tasks I dislike, and I’ll be fine. I’ll just make a list like the Lord High Executioner in The Mikado and mark off each accomplished task until I can’t do any more until tomorrow. Laugh! Now I feel good about myself. What was I afraid of in the first place?

My social life gets a boost, and heaven knows I’ve been a bit lacking in that deportment.  The stranger next to me is grinning big time, now she’s leaning over, telling me how much fun it was to watch me laugh, and now she’s laughing, spreading the good news that something out there is fun-nee! We’re not strangers any more – we’re two goofettes laughing about something so funny we can’t even remember what it was – but it made us laugh.

Laughter – find it in your grocery store in the chocolate aisle where you can decide on extra dark or milk, or be like me and take both. Then a third because it’s buy two, get one free. Dessert for the whole week. Yippee!

Or in the ripe veggie bin where the bananas have been pinched by every shopper with opposable thumbs and have brown marks looking just like thumbprints. Gonna be someone’s banana bread by tonight. (Yeah, that was me too.) Gonna be someone’s banana bread by tonight.

Or by the checkout line next to the guy with a full cart unloading on the stand clearly lit up with the “15 items or less” sign.  OK, so he can’t read but he sure does like his beer and his microwavable dinners. Whoopee – the guy doesn’t have to cook tonight. Whoop-de-do.

Or at the magazine stand whose well thumbed pages of multiple brand new issues assure you are not buying a new magazine should you indulge but a well loved one, even if previous lovers left bent pages and wrinkled covers. Grandkid’s getting a present sent by mail and cushioned in old magazines. Hooray!

If you can’t find anything to laugh about, search for comics and jokes online or replay the opening monologues from the late night TV shows. A bit of computer navigation, and voila: a guffaw explosion. Cat, dog, and baby videos are good for a giggle. Speaking of, pet your pet, and if you don’t have one, find a neighbor’s pet. Give Rover or Tuna Breath some finger play behind the ear, a hand smoothie down the back. Homes for the old folks are letting in animal residents free of charge because the Cottage of Furries relieves stress in the Kingdom of Worries.

You can be a grump all day and go to bed wrestling with every demon, identified and improvised, known to the human body. Or you can laugh all day and go to sleep relaxed, content, ready to take on the night with sweet dreams and the morrow with delight.

Better yet – go write a book. That’s what I did. I wrote three, a fourth well on its way, and three earlier children’s books. All of them have moments of funny. Just a spoonful or maybe a whole gallon – good medicine just as the doctor prescribed it. And the biddies from the Old Wives Club.

 

A thank you to my dear friend Judith Westerfield, whose wisdom, guidance, and friendship inspired this post.

 

Baby laughing courtesy Google images public domain: commons.wikimedia.org

 

 

Short Story

A challenge:

Eee – no time!

I struggle,

O, for immutable vowels…

U-turn; re-write.

 

 

 

Pen and ink image, public domain, clipartsign.com

Shari Pratt’s 10 Anti Resolutions for 2014

Here find my response to the December 31, 2013 prompt posted on Today’s Author Write Now! to compose an Anti Resolution List for 2014. I invite you to improve on my list by composing your own!

Being of simple wit and unsound resolve, meaning that I have yet to write any resolutions that I have ever adhered to for more than the time taken to write them, and some even less than that, by breaking them even as they were being written, I hereby submit for public viewing and community humiliation my 10 Anti Resolutions for 2014, in no particular order because that would require organization, and organization is one of the issues my resolutions should address, but obviously will not: ( I can’t count so maybe there are 11…15…)

H is for Hats Off for Helping Hands

Image

Mom taught you to be gracious. She reminded you to say thank you and to write notes after birthday parties. Should you be so lucky, getting your book published is not the time to forget all the good habits she pounded into your head. Because let’s face it: your book did not get published without the generous attention of about a dozen or a hundred or a thousand other folks who dedicated their precious time to assisting you with your special project. Perhaps you slaved away in an ivory tower, unaware of the party outside your arched window as you struggled to tame and taunt your writing muse. Other folks traipsed up and down the narrow staircase, checking up on your progress, offering advice, reviewing your work until it was ready to be seen by the rest of the world. You got your book published because you created a masterpiece, but someone else out there in Writerland helped, and you know it.

F is for Finding My Voice

Don’t know about you, but I’ve had a voice ever since I was born. A piercing sound box that I used to alert the armed forces that I was hungry or of other uncomfortable physical situations. I continued with that wail until I learned to speak, first with a decidedly New Jersey slur, not too dissimilar from the Southern drawl I later adopted the year I lived in Alabama and attended kindergarten. Even later I picked up a bit of pidgin from Hawaii when my family lived there for a few years. Finally I settled on California’s western twang after moving here on my 13^th birthday and making it my permanent home except for three crazy years early in our marriage when we lived in Detroit. (Don’t ask, just don’t.)

My writer’s voice came in about as slowly and with as many distractions along the way as my baby and childish ones. I learned to speak and anticipate because I learned first to listen and observe. I even fidgeted when writing my first book with present tense versus simple past tense. Though this is not exactly the same thing, it does affect the writers’ voice. Fortunately I recognized that present tense is an awkward attempt to sound edgy and urgent while simple past covers content and character more comfortably. My developed writer’s voice sounds like my alter ego, notable for the realization that this is a desirable state and I should be so lucky to maintain my voice throughout my novels. Every writer reveals her voice in her work though the subject may be unique, book to book. It’s the way she observes landscape, the style of her sentence structure, and the grasp of dialogue.

Not a very specific strategy for defining the single most personality driven quality of our writing, is it? Confused? Shouldn’t be, because voice is as recognizable and distinct as other identifiable traits. After all, I’d know Beyoncé’s music from Taylor Swift’s even if they’re belting songs I’ve never heard. I can tell the difference between Beethoven’s rousing classical symphonies and the contemporary vernacular of Aaron Copeland’s ballets. I can distinguish impromptu jazz from free style rap no matter which I prefer (not telling you here.) I can look at a landscape painting of bold, thick oil strokes and declare it’s a Van Gogh, or at a delicate watercolor painting of an animal and know it’s by Albrecht Durer. Writing voice is not much different, though the characteristics of voice description are a bit more nebulous.  Maybe a bit harder to pinpoint, to fit into rigid templates, but still unique.

More important than being fluent at describing writing voice to comprehend the distinctions is being honest about presenting my voice in my writing. I learned early that I had to drop the pretense of mimicking Shakespeare, whose luminous and melodic voice I can’t assume on the best of my days, or Barbara Kingsolver, whose deft mind creates stories that stick with me years after I’ve read her books but whose masterful style eludes me. Still, I have begun to write with my own voice, a skill confirmed by readers in my critique group. It comes most vividly when I allow it to come most naturally, letting the material dictate my story and the way I present characters and plot.

Aspects of my writing style come to me from my crazy quilt background, not just the way I heard and adopted dialect when I was a kid, but the way I noted how people lived in different parts of the country, how they interacted with each other and conducted their lives. It came from the sights that lured me to explore the outdoors, from the smells that tempted me in the kitchen, from the various cultures across the country, and from my joy or distress over those experiences. I discovered that reading my WIP aloud gave me a sense of what was powerful: short sentences, driving hammer-like against steel nails. Or what was poetic: comparisons between unlikely subjects, forcing them to dance duets. Or what was insightful: drawing conclusions from mystery.

My voice is subjective, wet clay of my thoughts molded by my imagination. I hope my readers will love my voice. I’ll settle for them liking it, but I have to remain true to who I am or my story falls apart like broken pottery. My rhythm and syntax must engage my reader because let’s face it: as original as I try to be, as all writers try to be, there are only so many themes and plots out there. It’s the writer’s voice that seduces the reader. I mewled as an infant. Now I howl, I whisper, I recite, I shout, and I chant. Come read my work, come listen to the sound of my stories. Hear my voice.

The Kid in the Second Row

There’s always a kid in the second row who reacts to the ordinary events in class by laughing hysterically. She engages the other kids in companion giggles and breaks up the rhythm the teacher has so carefully plotted. A lesson on carrying numbers from one column to the next, and the kid in the second row is laughing because the lines of numbers on the board wobble like a falling tower. A lesson on the construction of a sentence into parts that move, parts that enhance, and parts that command, and the kid in the second row is laughing because the teacher finds more life in those parts than in the kids listening to her.

C is for Critique Etiquette

You wrote an amazing book, absolutely the next great American novel that will be on every one of the Ivies’ freshman reading lists, and a blockbuster to boot. Everyone is gonna stand in line at Amazon check out to get their hands on the E version and download it onto their Kindle quick as Jack jumped over that candlestick and singed his tush. Every other writer is gonna burn red with envy and wonder why they didn’t write as magnificent a tome. It’s gonna set the world on fire, they’re gonna award you the Pulitzer in fiction, offer you a million bucks for the movie rights, and that’s just for starters. How do you know it’s so great? Because Mama done told you. Thanks, Mom. Always there for you.

Now get off that plastic star she hung in the backyard so you could always swing from something sparkly, and get that book of yours to a critique group. Let a bunch of raisin faced strangers have at your WIP and tell you what they really think of it. Because if you do submit to a crit group, they will tell you what’s what. And that’s a good thing, because your Mama, the sweet Georgia peach, needs glasses in more ways than one.

This isn’t an article about how a crit group might establish its bounds or how to start one or how sections are assigned to review. It’s to identify the etiquette of being in such a group of writing mentors, to take a minute to consider the rules of the crit playground. It’s to show you how to get the most out of joining in terms of participating and improving your writing. A group’s governing purpose is to bash the heck out of your efforts to point out the strengths and weaknesses of your work so you can improve it before you send it out to editor-land. It might keep your work out of the slush pile and get it slapped up on an agent’s desk. Yahoo!

Remember the other thing Mama always said: make good choices. Join for the right reasons. Crit groups aren’t for the overly sensitive; that kid will walk out sobbing, a drooling puddle of self righteousness, defending his mediocre work all the way to the rejection list. Groups aren’t counseling sessions; if you need to evaluate your life and justify bad decisions, sign up with a mental health group. If you write and want useful, honest feedback about your work, and are willing to provide the same for other members, that’s the reason for joining.

It’s a two way street at these meetings. You need to show up as a reviewer as well as a writer, putting as much effort into each activity. It’s your unwritten contract. You don’t get to be the star at every meeting. Most of the time you’ll be the laborer, putting in a lot of time pruning someone else’s work. Reading another person’s work lets you see the understructure of a WIP. The hidden benefit of this is that it will ultimately help you improve your own writing as you struggle to evaluate and then express your ideas. Listening to other reviewers discuss other stories is another opportunity to determine what people find commendable and what reads as clumsy. You’ll identify the errors you also make, giving you a chance to correct it before you ever present it to new readers. At the end of a session, you’ll have learned much even if your work wasn’t evaluated.

If your crit group submits work a week or a month in advance so everyone has time before the meeting to read it and prepare a crit, spend a reasonable amount of time doing just that. If work is presented at the meeting, two to five pages read aloud by the writer, listen attentively and take notes so you can offer valid advice. If you’ve joined an on-line group, you’ll have plenty of time to read and prep a review. These are three standard options and you’ll develop a preference for one or the other based on how much worthy information you’re able to glean.

As you make your evaluation of someone else’s work, consider the quality and determine how well the author achieved his goal. Think about everything you know about how to write and everything you enjoy when reading. You might write out your review, but don’t try to rewrite the work. It’s still the brain child of that other writer. Remember that his Mama also thought his work was genius so be polite and supportive. Couch your comments with a balance of what you found effective, creative, impressive, and what you THINK could be improved. It’s OK to point out grammar and spelling flaws, but know that these may be indications of some kind of dyslexia and are not a lack of intelligence. Modulate your voice and understand that the world won’t rotate on your evaluation. Be humble, truthful, compassionate, contributive, and honest. And this last is perhaps the most important: Mama didn’t come with you to the meeting, but her advice should have. If you don’t have anything nice to say – well, you know the rest. Be 100% absolutely sure that you say something nice, something positive and appreciative about the work you are critiquing. That’s a human being at the other end of your review, and that person has feelings as sensitive as yours.

Stay on the topic of reviewing the story at hand and refrain from wandering to other topics related only by the fact that something the writer wrote triggered a personal memory for you. Very nice, we’re all happy for you, but keep it to yourself. If you dislike the kind of meandering review that has little time to address the concerns of your story, know that other writers are just as frustrated under similar circumstances. If it isn’t your time to talk, remember another of Mom’s rules: be quiet.

When you’re on the hot seat and it’s your turn to present work for review, submit only your very best work, neatly presented, as perfect as possible, but note that readers are going to find flaws. As the group gives their crits of your work, listen politely and save the rolling eyes, the looks of disdain, the angry outbursts, the sputtering, and the tears for when you’re back in Mom’s kitchen. At the meeting, listen attentively and take notes. Don’t interrupt. These nice people spent two or three hours alone in a dark room with your WIP, trying to get it to stand up straight. That’s a big commitment for a kid that isn’t theirs. Being in a crit group is a reminder that it takes a village to raise a child – and to write a book.

There is certainly a social element to being part of a crit group. We writers spend long hours in front of our computers, composing our stories, creating our plots, imagining our worlds. It’s solitary work at the back of a dark closet. Having a chance to get together with a group of like-minded folk and talk about the subject that empowers and impassions you is like being prom queen – or class clown, take your pick. Whether an on-line group or an in-person one (my preference,) it’s a wonderful chance to chat with people who don’t think you’re crazy when they spot you tooling down the highway, practicing your presentation out loud. It gets you out of the house on a regular basis and gives your computer a chance to catch up on its email.

There’s a third part of the contract, the one you instigate when you get home. First, do what Mama says and wipe those stupid tears off your face. Then sit down and do your homework. The WIP wasn’t perfect – that’s the reason you went to the crit group, remember? Because Mama is always there to pat your back, but the crit group has your back in a different way. Review the entire experience, reading the notes you took at the meeting and the hard copies the “critters” gave you. Make the changes necessary to improve your book. This is a crucial part of the critique group process because if you disdainfully skip this, you just wasted not only the hours spent at the meeting, you also wasted all those hours the other members graciously worked on your behalf. It’s like the time you threw Mama’s hard work at raising you in her face by walking out the door looking and smelling like you lived in a rat’s nest at the end of the alley. Trust me, Mom didn’t forget that one.

You give, you get, and if there isn’t a relatively commensurate relationship in the group, look for another one. This post grew out of my participation in my writer’s critique group. I am still learning how to be a better critter and a better hot-seater, but the more than 10 years’ advice I’ve gleaned from that generous and tough group has exponentially helped me improve three WIP. I am deeply grateful for their sage advice and hope you are as fortunate in joining such an outstanding group. One last little bit of wisdom: when you finally get that WIP polished and ready for publication, remember the people in your crit group and acknowledge all the hours they spent with your unruly baby. Give them a shout out on the acknowledgement page and mention every single person by their full name, right after Mom’s.

In the end you’ll still be following Mama’s sage advice: Keep your mouth shut, have an open mind, and make the best of everything.

B is for Blog Newbie

I have the reputation of a coward. Among my family and friends who know me well, it’s understood that I don’t have the courage of a mouse on Meth. I’m not just afraid of the dark – I’m afraid of the tunnel with light glowing at its end. Some of my worst fears have to do with mechanical, technical, and digital tasks. Assign me one of those and I’m ready to sign any and all confessions, just don’t make me tackle that job. I fear the knobs and buttons that if wrongly pushed will drop me in the sinkhole below China, especially if the knobs and buttons are icons on a computer screen. Those things terrorize me the most. I might be forever drifting on an unsaved page or trapped in the netherworld of lost passwords.

I am what’s known as a Digital Immigrant, Ha Ha Ha. Ha Ha Ha is part of the title, like LLP might dangle after the business name, Simon and Green, Accountants, LLP. (For efficiency’s sake, I’ll refer to Digital Immigrant as DI.) After all, I was born in the last century. Don’t snort at my bad joke. You may have been born in the last century as well, but just think: everyone born since 2000 is a Digital Native, or DN. Thirteen-year-olds are likely more proficient with a computer than I will ever be. So you can imagine the loud guffaws from my wise family when I announced that I was going to create a writer’s blog.

DI uses the computer for the obvious purpose – it’s the virtual graphite on the end of the Dixon Ticonderoga HTTP, and she is a writer. DI launches her own blog (dreamer.) I wonder what happens if I click on that? Oh crap! DI crashes the computer. DI is on the prowl for computer help. I beg of you, please stop laughing and help me out here. The DN finds me an endless source of computer humor because I know little more than how to open a new document. Any teenagers in the house?

I’ve discovered that trying to manage my own blog site when I have the technical intuition of a newt is like sifting seaweed out of the ocean with a sieve. Barely doable, mostly a failure. WordPress is the management system for my blog. I function at its pleasure like a pop-eyed fan hoping for a sweaty shirt thrown from the stage during a concert.  Throw me a clue, WordPress, show me how to navigate your site. While other bloggers know what to click and what to double click, I’m a fumbler at every feature on the way to posting articles, comments, and images. Any successful post you read on my site – either my son or my good friend J uploaded them. I watched but the process is still not clear to me. I need lots of practice, like a novice heart surgeon needs a patient patient. Neither of us is likely to get a lot of volunteers.

So please be patient with me as I grow Ink Flare. My writing skills and insights are decent (so my mom says) but my computer technology is a work in process. You will see mistakes as I learn to post, edit, insert images, reply, attach, acknowledge contributors. Don’t hesitate to point out the errors. If you want to offer a solution, I’m all ears, eyes, and thumbs, eager to try harder. I won’t give up. My dreams are big and I’m positive light will shine at the end of the tunnel.

I’ve got a colander and I’m off to collect moonlight to light up my tunnel.