Greetings from Paul Anderson!
I’m thrilled to announce that my novel, Lucas, Age 31, is now live and available for purchase on Amazon! This novel was almost eight years in the making, so it’s pretty humbling to see it in print. Thank you so much to the folks at Wordpool Press for their hard work, knowledge, and encouragement. I’m so glad they saw this book’s potential and are willing to publish it and share it with the world. Lucas, Age 31 I poured a lot into this novel, and after six heavy revisions, it’s finally here. You have no clue how excited I am for people to read this story! I’m including the blurb below, but before I do that, I want to tell you a bit about how this book came to be. Back in late 2014, I took a novel-writing course as part of my MFA program at the University of Arkansas-Monticello. My professor was Mark Spencer, and the assignment was to put together the first 50 pages of a novel. While all this was going on, I was polishing up some short stories that I wrote on the heels of losing my mom—stories which took a lot out of me emotionally, and which would eventually be published in various journals and in my first book, Model Citizens. I was in a dark place, grieving my mom, and those stories were my outlet. When I finished them, I felt like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and so when I set out to begin a novel, I fully intended it to be a romantic comedy rife with slapstick moments and uncomfortable situations—something far different from what I put together for Model Citizens. While the seven-plus year journey took this novel in unexpected (and much deeper, more meaningful) directions, I’m proud that it hasn’t lost its humor. There are dark moments, and plenty of drama, but the overall vibe is much easier on my soul than Model Citizens was. In short, this book was fun—frustrating at times, and at other times even rage-inducing—but always, always a blast. One of my favorite things about being an author is seeing where the story takes my characters, and how they’ll change. I love the characters in this book, and I’m proud of the choices they make, and the people they become—or at least TRY to become, in some cases. Professor Spencer enjoyed the first 50 pages, and his encouragement was the first step in bringing this novel to fruition nearly a decade later. For that, I thank him, and while those 50 pages are vastly different today, I feel they’re better—and I think he (and you) would agree. So…here we are. People are about to read this book. Finally. What a moment. It means the world to me. I hope Lucas and his peers humor you, frustrate you, delight you, and most of all, surprise you. I hope you find the book’s overall message fascinating and effective. I hope, above all, you enjoy my book. Thank you. A million times, thank you. Please visit the link to my book at: Lucas, Age 31
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Mindful Writing: Becoming Aware of By Alicia Williams About two years ago, I learned to seek comfort in silence and writing when things around me became too big to grasp. Writing about characters and places in my head was my way of coping. As I developed a personal writing style, I wrote down my characters and they became my counterparts while grappling with harder times. Writing became my way of processing emotional difficulties. This helped me to learn two things: that emotional pain was okay to feel and that sitting through it, getting to know it, as opposed to running away from it, was healing. Writing down how I felt helped me to understand emotions that were not easy for me to express, letting me become mindful of my emotions. Mindful writing is a way to bring together our reality and our fictional worlds. This kind of writing came as an intuitive response to the challenges I faced in life, and it has not only been healing but it has helped me remain calm in moments of emotional challenges.
Mindful writing stimulates ongoing awareness that helped me discover the nature of language and how non-judgmental I can be with my personal writing, making my creativity flow. Our language is not like any other, and it helps to communicate experiences we may have, small or large. Experiences can be shared with ourselves and with others, allowing interaction and creativity from experiences to be written. Gaining experiences is extremely important because it adds individuality to writing, and it also helps it become more personal. Mindful writing is also a way that I get in touch with reality because when you embrace your experiences, regardless of the type of experience they are (good or bad), they help you acquire personal skills that can be applied to your writing. To start mindful writing, you should find a prompt or topic you enjoy writing about. As an example, my favorite topic is nature. I would write down all the things I could think of that remind me of nature or things that I may have seen outside that had a huge impact on me. I would take notes and freewrite, letting me release my ideas. This method is also used when I am writing short stories because it helps me add details that will help with my imagery. I have added the three lines from a poem that I wrote that I used the method of mindful writing: Like trees, I want to individualize self through roots and branches. Spread my individuality like leaves that fall to the ground, Influence growth like a seed. Like many people, I struggled with finding ways to add more descriptive words but being able to jot them down on a paper and thinking of ways to add my experience through my writing really helped me develop as a writer. Maybe you should give mindful writing a try to help with a writing project or maybe just to relieve stress. Alicia Williams is an English & Media Communications graduate of Calumet College of St. Joseph. She is president of the college’s English & Creative Writing Club and editor for their literary magazine, Against the Grain. She also majors in Biomedical, pursuing a veterinary medicine degree, with hopes to work at a zoo or an aquarium. Her hobbies are writing poetry and movie reviews. She also finds herself volunteering for local humane societies when she is not working on a new literary project. by Sherry McCaulley Palmer Author, Life With Charley: A Memoir of Down Syndrome Adoption I’m from Kentucky, the land of the most famous two minutes in sports. And though I have limited history with staying in the saddle and riding into the wind, I love our horses like most bluegrass born and bred. It’s the Kentucky connection, after all. I love how they run to you when they think you have apples and stomp their feet when they discover you empty-handed, snorting as if to warn the other horses. I love the way their manes flow in the air and how they love their sugar. Don’t we all love sugar? Just give me something sweet. I love how you can see your reflection in their eyes because they see your soul. The pony spots a phony. Most of all, I love the way our Kentucky horses remind me of my Kentucky connection. A girl who loves horses, minus the whip. Not that I don’t take my place in front of the television every first Saturday in May, to see if my horse wins. I hate the whip. It’s cruel, and it stings. And yet, I confess my excitement and hold my breath until every horse and jockey is safely at the finish line. Hoping my horse will place, whip or no whip. How lame is that? Run, horse. Go. Giddyap. Get the prize. Your worth is your win. How many times do we whip ourselves, chasing our place, whatever the cost? How many times do we let someone else hold the crop? What's the connection between horses and writing? Very little, you might assume. Ah, but there is a connection. The horse hits the dirt with thundering hooves, exploding like a bullet. It doesn’t look back; it knows where it’s going. The writer longs to be like that horse, heading towards the finish. In racing, there are no do-overs and no revisions. In writing, there are revisions, and then revisions of the revisions. The question is, do we ever finish? And where is the horse without the whip? I’ll tell you where; it's running across a field, prancing in the water, running for the sake of running. Where are we as writers, then? Holding our whips - clutching the pen as it crashes down onto the blank page, tapping our keyboards that click or not, sometimes with flying fingers, sometimes hesitating, unable to go, yet unable to let go. Hang onto the reins for dear life, go this way, no, go that way. Slow down, speed up. Don’t just sit there, you fool, write something. Anything. Get a grip. Giddyap words. Steady now, the words will come – it’s abandon we crave. The horse wants its sugar. We writers want our words. And what is it we fear? Blank page purgatory? "Without words, there is no win. And without win, there is no worth," the horse whispers in our ear. No wonder we don’t enjoy writing anymore. It’s all about publishing. The roses around our necks, the trophy. The recognition. Do you remember when you started writing? I do. I was in the second grade the first time my number 2 pencil ran across the page. While the other girls were fixing their hair and playing with dolls, I was playing with words. It may not have been publish-worthy, but for me, it was a win because I wrote for the sheer joy, just as a horse runs into the wind, with or without the sugar. But then, the whip came calling. Someone judged my words. I sent in my work, prayed for publication because that would make me “somebody.” Someone deemed my work worthy or not, and with every “No,” I forgot my win. My joy. Someone else decided my worth. I’d been scratched. And like the horse with every “No,” the whip slapped my backside, the spurs cut my flesh. But my pen wouldn’t go. I no longer played with words, and there was nothing. My page was blank. And before I knew it, I was blank. Wanting to be filled but unable to run. I pushed my pen like it was running in sludge. And then, like every good Kentucky girl, I returned to my roots. And that whisper in my ear, “So what if you fell off the horse, who doesn’t?” Saddle up. Lift yourself. Get back on the track. Let your wobbly legs hold you. Find your balance. Run-walk if you have to, this isn’t a race. Write with abandon. Write with connection. Get off your own back. Get out of your own way. Remember your win. Your sugar. Drop the whip. Let the wild horse run. You know the way. Photo credits: Filip Eliasson (@filipeliasson) | Unsplash Photo Community “Getting out of your Element – A Math Whiz is Inspired to Write after a Walk Through a Cemetery”8/27/2021 Sometimes when you’re stuck in writing you need to get out of your own way and flex a different writing muscle. By temporarily abandoning what you’re working on that’s got you stuck, you can find a way back to the page. This can be done through several ways. Switching genres is one way. If you can’t get it down right in an essay, try distilling it into a poem. Pulling up a writing prompt is another idea. Even one as simple as making a list about something – anything, can get the pen moving. I used to ask my kids to give me a word and I’d sit down and write something about the word for 3-5 minutes. Often this grew to 5-7 minutes or more. Another idea is to revise something different than the project you’re working on. And yet sometimes we don’t just need to get out of our own way, we literally need to get out for our inspiration to come knocking. Here’s an example my husband wrote after he and I, along with our oldest son went geocaching: I was following my wife Colleen and 23-year-old son Al through Covenanter Cemetery recently half-heartedly participating in some form of digital scavenger hunt, thinking my grandchildren would really love this experience. Carefully using my respectful graveyard walking skills, a row of aged tombstones caught my eye. Sadly, Rosana Huston Cubit, wife of William Cubit had died at the age of 47. Worse, her four children also had passed away in the same year, 1854: Rosana E (13), Mary (11), James (9) and Thomas (7). Since the months were on the tombstones, the younger two children had died in August, before their mother, the older two after in September. I couldn’t find William’s grave but learned later through research that he lived another 40 years and is buried in Iowa. As a parent of five myself I could not fathom the pain of losing a child, any child, but these circumstances clearly shouted extreme event. I initially thought car wreck, then realized this was about 50 years before cars were even accessible. Turning to train tragedies, I knew of the Boilermaker tragedy in Indianapolis, but as most Purdue alumni know that was in early 1900. Seventeen people were killed, fourteen members of the Purdue squad. The subplot usually overlooked was although the Old Oaken Bucket was yet to be invented since Purdue had outscored Indiana 227-6 winning six of the ten initial games Indiana officials had pushed for the game to be played at a neutral site in Indianapolis. Also very sad, but that fate was not related to Rosana and her kids. Standing there, hearing my wife say, “let’s go home’” I knew it had to be a pandemic. The 3rd Cholera Pandemic killed the Cubits. “The Blue Death.” Along with about one million others globally, about 0.08% of the population at the time.1 Not yet very understood in the 1850’s, Cholera was an infectious, bacterial intestine infection that could cause a painful death in a matter of hours. The cure came in the form of a vaccine developed in 1885 by Spanish Medical Doctor, Jaime Ferran.2 It is still in existence today in a few spots in Africa and Asia and even in the United States. There are sixteen worse historical pandemics than this one, ranked by number of deaths. The “Black Death,” or Bubonic Plague killed 70-200 million, 30-60% of Europe in the 1300s, the range is due to lack of historical evidence. According to the WHO, Covid-19 comes in at ninth place at 3.5 million deaths. With the global population now at 7.6 billion, we all can do the math. 3.5m/7600m = 0.00046%. The poor Cubit family in Bloomington, Indiana didn’t know or care that 1,700, or 5.5% of Chicago’s 30,000 residents died from the disease that killed them. They didn’t even know what it was. Covid-19 claimed the lives of about 11,000 or 0.004% of Chicago’s 2.71M residents in 2020. My grandchildren hopefully will live as adults in an era of more inquisitive, neutral media to truly understand pandemics and disease to improve their lives and reflect on what the past really means to their futures in our great civilization. God bless all the Cubits. --Rick Wells
Next time you’re stuck, go out for an adventure – a hike in the woods, a trip to a flea market, or do something you’ve never tried before like geocaching was with us. You just might find inspiration in the oddest places. Best of luck for a writing adventure! Colleen Wells By Sherry McCaulley Palmer Author, Life With Charley: A Memoir of Down Syndrome Adoption I recently knitted something special for a friend for her birthday. I knew she’d love it, so I ordered the pattern and the yarn. So I knitted, but it wasn’t right. The pattern I was using called for knitting the piece whole, then folding it over and knitting the two sides together. I’d never tried this technique before, but it sounded fun. When I held it up I could clearly see that my stitches were off, and the piece was crooked. I frogged it. In knitting lingo, that means to rip it out. It was an intricate piece, and I didn’t want to, but the knit-editor in me won out, and in frustration, I threw it at the wall then sat across the room, and stared at it for a while. Finally, I picked it back up and started over. This time I nailed it. I held it up to my FaceTime screen for my sister to see, and she said, “She’ll love it.” As with all knitted projects, if you want the piece to look polished you have to block it, which calls for soaking it (I use cold water and scented soak) and pinning it out on a blocking mat to dry. In this case, it took 2 days. As hard as it was to wait, it’s part of the process. I checked it often, scolded the cat when he got too close, and when it was completely dry, I sat back and smiled at my work. Next, I put on the finishing touches, wrapped it, and left it on her porch as a surprise. I waited with anticipation, just sure I’d hear something. I didn’t. I waited some more. No phone call of excitement. No message. Not. One. Word. I’d like to tell you it didn’t matter, but it did. I wanted to scream, “Hey You, I put my heart and soul into that. When I gifted this to you, I gifted a piece of myself.” I crawled under my covers and hid. Literally hid from the world. Who was I to show my face, when I’d gifted a part of myself only to have it rejected? Not that every rejection isn’t painful, but this was different. I took it personally. In the end, it just wasn’t acknowledged. Instead, it was silenced. I felt silenced. There are a lot of similarities between knitting and writing. They look like this:
As writers, this is our reality. We want the accolades. We may or may not get them. We all know the thrill of acceptance and the sting of rejection, don’t we? Let’s talk about rejection in writing. It’s the worst. We send our work out for publication, and then we have to wait to see if what we’ve written is good enough, or meets their “needs at this time.” Sometimes we get a note of acknowledgment, and sometimes we don’t. Oftentimes what we get is silence. Either way, rejection can destroy us. If we are not careful, it can make us want to quit. We have to decide early on in this game called writing to love the skin we are in. Comfortable enough to allow ourselves to be vulnerable. It’s one of the road bumps in our craft. There will always be someone who didn’t like our words, our style, our voice. There will always be someone who gets published because they did it better. And yes, there will always be someone who rejects us. Should we quit? Not hardly. We are writers. It’s the road we are on. There’s another term that every knitter knows. It’s called “knit worthy.” it means that we’ve spent our time making something personal, and followed by taking the time to block it so it will end up being the best possible version of our efforts. A person who receives a handknitted gift and does not acknowledge it is deemed “not knit worthy” by the knitter. It is doubtful that a not-knit-worthy person will ever receive another knitted gift from the knitter. Does that mean we quit? Not hardly. We are knitters. It’s what we do. We simply find someone else to knit for, and as writers, we find somewhere else to submit our writing. Just like knitters, as writers, we can’t control whether someone likes our work or not. We open ourselves to being frogged with every word we write, every word we knit, every word we gift. Writing is not for wimps--It takes grit to leave our guts on the page. It is our superpower. We are word warriors. Word survivors. Word gifters We are word knitters. By Janine Harrison, author of Weight of Silence When I returned from my first trip to Haiti and came close to literally kissing the dining room floor of my humble abode in gratitude for its stable beams and functional roof, its indoor plumbing with hot water, and its 24/7 electricity, I thought that the country’s condition couldn’t worsen. That was before Hurricane Matthew devastated Grand’Anse, the region where I’d taught English. That was before political upheaval led to a period of complete national paralysis – personal, academic, economic – and the killings: Haitians set ablaze, Haitians macheted into parts. Although the country has regained some momentum, the political situation hasn’t restabilized, kidnappings and murders woven into the tapestry of every day. Between natural disasters and a political system like a keeled top-heavy ship unable to right, negatively impacting what was already a meager economy, unemployment rates in the capital city sometimes reaching as high as 77 percent, the lives of most Haitians have gone from hungry to hungrier. And no vaccine is going to fix this problem. I left my initial visit to Haiti with more questions than answers about how the country became not only economically disenfranchised but also, in many ways, isolated from modernity. Whereas travel videos of Cuba often seem shot in the 1950’s, in some ways, Haiti, at least to me, was representative of something much older, feudal even. In Weight of Silence, I endeavor to answer these questions, in the areas of history, women’s issues, current sociopolitics, and natural disasters. While, through Haitian friends, a second trip, research, and reflection, I made considerable headway, even now, I have questions about this complicated culture – with a people I’ve grown to respect and love (and I bet you will, too, if you read the collection). Not all serious, I recount tales of bringing not only my husband, Mike, but also seven-year-old daughter, Jianna, with me that first visit, so that we could teach English as a Foreign Language as a family. I still look back fondly at having to tell my kiddo, “Don’t give the puppies hammock rides!” And did I mention that Hurricane Sandy joined us on our stay? I know that it is difficult during the pandemic, but please remember Haiti this holiday season. Some of us are privileged enough to be able to stay safe-ish and face mainly a temporary inconvenience with our COVID-19 situation because in our birthplaces we’ve won the geographic lottery, whether it seems that way or not sometimes. Others, in contrast, endure lifelong struggles, pandemic or no pandemic. One hundred percent of poet and Wordpool Press proceeds will be donated to the not-for-profit organization, Haitian Connection, to help mainly women and children with shelter, physical and mental health, education, entrepreneurship, and much more. Thank you in advance for any purchases, and much joy to you and yours! --Janine Editor's note: George Kalamaras, former Poet Laureate of Indiana (2014-2016), says this about Weight of Silence: “[W]hether in / Port-au-Prince / or rural Jérémie / one constant was / the silent community,” writes Janine Harrison in her stunning debut, Weight of Silence. Chronicling her time in Haiti during Hurricane Sandy, Harrison moves beyond merely documenting the devastation, delving into history and cultural grief. The “weight of silence” permeates all aspects of island life, even manifesting in the bodies of animals: “Dogs in Haiti have / rusted corrugated metal ribcages, / uneven stairstep backbones, / [and] decaying palm frond ears.” Countering oppressive silence, Harrison courageously bears witness to contemporary Haiti and the roots of its challenges through both a series of dramatic monologues and her intimate first-person portrayals. This important book should be read and shared so that the “silence” oppressing Haiti can be witnessed, better understood, and transformed into a generative engagement that can only come by articulating that which continues to bind the colonized. Janine Harrison has written a powerful, poignant account of her journey and that of the Haitian people.” Waiting for the election results to be finalized and a clear winner declared was super stressful on a micro and macro level. I am empathic so I felt not only my own feelings about it but was tapped into our nation’s vibe as well. The same goes for the pandemic; there’s so much uncertainty; the quantity of cases and deaths are escalating, and it’s not even winter yet.
When things are uncertain, I try to act “as if” and use the “magic and.” Currently my husband and I are wanting to downsize but the where and when is unknown. Do we move locally or to another city? How do we show our home when we have so many pets? Should we move when it is such a competitive sellers’ market, and we might not find the right house at the right price? But we’re selling too, so there’s that advantage. It can go in circles like this ad nauseam. So, I’m acting “as if” we are already set in our plans by cleaning out, letting go of lots of stuff and soon I’ll be touching up some areas in our home that need painting. It makes me feel better just to write that. The “magic and,” which I learned from my awesome friend Christine, acknowledges that it’s fine to feel uncertain or stuck or stressed as we can during elections, pandemics or moving, but also counter it with an “and” that’s also true. I’m uncomfortable with how divided our country is, and I’m getting more exercise to deal with the stress. Or, I’m afraid of catching Covid and I know I’m doing everything I can not to; I’m also looking for silver linings. These strategies also apply to writing. Many writers write because they’re wired to, and they don’t feel great after an absence of writing due to life events, writer’s block, whatever gets in the way. Even writers who earn their living from their craft may write continually but not have enough time for new creative projects meant just for themselves. Whatever the case, the “as if” and the “magic and” can both work wonders: I’m overwhelmed by the many projects in the queue, and I don’t know what I’ll turn to next. So I’m acting as if I know by pulling one of them up on my screen to be ready for when I get off work at 6:30. Or, I’ve been inconsistent with my writing throughout the pandemic, and I’m writing this blog now. I challenge you to try it. What writing are you putting off, and how can you try making a shift by using the “as if” or “magic and” technique. Let us know how it goes in a comment to this blog post. Colleen Wells Editor in Chief Wordpool Press The following is an excerpt from Jim Poyser's upcoming book, The Last Actor and Other Stories.
Farnsworth was the final straw. When I saw the runt step sheepishly on to the studio set, thinning hair, milky lips, voice cracking like a 12-year-old, scrolled up script in his sweaty, quivering hands, I knew I could take no more. I strode straight to the producer’s office despite pleas from the director, the techies, and all those miserable ersatz actors. "Hello, Mark," Culligan spoke without looking up. He sat at his desk, surrounded by various plants and flowers. Culligan had been in broadcasting in numerous capacities for seemingly a century. No one could remember a time before his existence. Beside him, pruning shears, trowel and watering can at the ready, sat Phil, Culligan's youthful secretary and horticultural assistant. "Culligan, it's an abomination!" I said, trying for something both hackneyed and heartfelt. "Shears," Culligan said, holding out his hand. Shrugging at me, Phil handed Culligan the requested tool. "He's all wrong!" I continued, fully accustomed by now to this gardening nonsense. "The role of Frazier Tremaine calls for a man of great girth and brawn, an individual resolute with intensity and integrity, an oil baron, diamond smuggler, womanizer, estatesman. Farnsworth is nothing but a ninny!" Culligan slowly raised his head to stare at a monitor on his desk. "A ninny?" "A fool, or, simpleton," Phil said. "My God, Culligan, have you seen the moppet? A stiff breeze could slice him in half." I wasn't exaggerating. "He's liable to be scorched by the lights and mistaken for a French fry." "Food," he said, laconic, palm outstretched. I spied the photo above his head, of Culligan with President Clinton, who’d bestowed a Presidential Medal of the Arts upon him earlier this year. I myself had received the same honor last year: Dinner with Bill, Hillary and their son Chester was the highlight of the experience. Phil placed a bottle of liquid plant food into Culligan's paw and said: "Our pool of actors is dwindling, Mr. Moses." "Dwindling?" I tried to keep my temper contained. "You have scraped the bottom of the proverbial barrel for this castaway. I can't be expected to work with this caliber of—" "Little shovel," Culligan said. "Trowel," Phil cautiously corrected him. "Trowel," Culligan said. Phil handed him the implement, but Culligan spasmed, and dropped it to the floor. I froze, watching Culligan's eyes swell, his face turn red. Quickly, I donned my respirator, as did Phil, just as Culligan began his coughing in earnest. He doubled up in his chair. The coughs and gasps spewed from his mouth, lungs rattling with fishnets of phlegm. Phil laid a supportive hand on Culligan's shoulders as the hacks wracked his body. At last, the cataclysm subsided. "I want him gone," I said. "Have you heard him read?" Culligan asked, barely audible. I informed him I didn't need to. "The next one could be worse," Phil said. "Provided there is even someone available." With the global infection rate of The Cold topping 75 percent, it was likely there would be nothing but an ever-degenerating procession of replacements. I shivered at the thought and exited without a word. They were rehearsing when I returned, the hapless Farnsworth center stage. Betty, a former data processor from Yonkers, was in his arms, trying her best to look convincing and convinced. "I'll never let anyone or anything hurt you," Farnsworth was saying. "Oh, Frazier," Betty cooed. The director, Melissa Myles, spotted me and frowned. It was hopeless. All across America, non coughing, healthy, everyday dopes were plucked from their workaday mundanities and rocketed to Hollywood to play the roles vacated by sick and dying artists. Experience was no criteria for employment, only the ability to avoid the catarrhal symptoms: the cough and the snot, the sneeze and the rot of The Cold. Someone was gently squeezing my arm. I turned to see Carmen, the only other original cast member of our soap, As the Saga Continues. Some fifteen years ago we'd auditioned in this studio, more or less at the same time, in search of fame and fortune. "Where do they find these stiffs, Markie." Carmen spoke in a smoky, throaty growl, perfect for the cookie empire heiress she portrayed. She brought her ever-present tumbler of scotch to her lips. "Up ol' Crusty Culligan's arse," I replied, repeating our inside joke. Carmen smiled, betraying the state of her artificial dentata. Her fingers found my left buttocks and pinched. We shook our heads in unison, watching Farnsworth approach, and managed to slip away, heading for the lights. In deference to my loquacious lifestyle, the scenes featuring my character, Mark Mason, were normally taped first, allowing me to exit to one of my innumerable speaking engagements, benefits, award ceremonies, graduations and bar and bat mitzvahs. Lately, though, I’d found myself appearing in some capacity in every Saga scene. Curses to the invisible writers whose efforts placed me in such ubiquity. I was, to be blunt, tiring of the daily gruel of soap-making, but my contract was ironclad and currency-rich, and replete with bonuses. The taping went smoothly. Fortunately, I had no scenes in direct contact with the paramecium Farnsworth. Even the flashback within the flashback within the flashback scene went well, despite and perhaps because of its convoluted exposition. Somehow we managed to introduce characters that had never and might never exist. The public didn’t seem to mind what amounted to narracide. Hungry for excellence, they tuned in simply to see me — and Carmen too, of course. After the taping, the caterers displayed a marvelous selection of white pine needles, seaweed, and carbonated ambrosia. I could not resist grazing at the table, and it wasn't long before Betty, ex-data processor now daytime/primetime soap star, joined me. She asked for the four hundredth time how I stayed so healthy. "Betty, darling," I said, "as I have told you, I employ a variety of measures..." She stared at me, utterly engaged, as I explained my daily regimen of foods: vitamins, elixirs, garlic cloves, exercise, yoga, as well as up-to-date prophylactic technologies. I didn't mention my wealth of medical and metamedical procedures, but I did give her a quick sketch of my formidable DNA. "There is also," I added enigmatically, "the element of luck." She continued gazing, devoid of responses, breathing deeply the spores of my pores. I moved away — right onto the waiting foot of Farnsworth. He dropped his gaze. "Excuse me, Mr. Mason — I mean Mr. Moses," he began, barely audible. I waited and watched. What a nit. He looked up at me, gathering courage in the face of his unraveling existence. "Look, I know, I know that, that you can't stand, all these non-actor types around you, and that, I," Farnsworth fumbled, clearly drawing deeply from his paucity of personal resources. "I just want you to know I understand that it's, you know, hard." What an insightful hominid. I gifted him a slight if somewhat crooked smile of appreciation. "I've been," he said, somehow continuing to function, "a fan of yours forever. I've been especially interested because I'm in the business myself, you know." I stared at him until he pressed on. "Show business, I mean. You know, all this. I'm an audio technician. I do dubs, soundtracks, sound stuff." A stalactite of spittle hung from his upper lip. "Sound stuff. How nice. And now, now you've switched roles, now you're in front of the camera." Farnsworth grinned. He obviously thought our badinage was warming up. "There's a big project I've been working on," he said. "Maybe we could talk about it sometime—" "Best of luck," I said, putting it on ice, and walked away. Jim Poyser Author Pandemic writing. Or not. That is the issue. It's no secret. We are all losing it, inching our way closer to the insanity of uncontrollable chaos as we write nothing. But how could we, when we are too busy wanting to curse back at the cursor, because the cursor is cursing at us, like The Flasher has come calling. It's only natural you're drowning in the deep end of bottomless interruptions. I'm sorry, but when you've taken time to set the computer on the table, and have assumed the position, the last thing you need is a pair of blue eyes peering at you, asking, ”Mom, can we talk a minute?” It's not your fault you live in a house with limited space, a family in your face, a tooth that needs pulling, a porch with wasps and mosquitoes, a computer that gives you the spinning wheel of death which means it’s stalled again, and a laundry pile that makes you want to sing Climb Every Mountain. At the moment, my phone is ringing. It’s my son, calling from his bedroom. My soon-to-be 30-year-old special needs son with Down syndrome. I am his main caregiver, which makes me the one he comes to when he spills barbecue sauce on his DVD or needs assistance in the potty department. Not that my husband doesn't do his share, but right now he's in his office on a Zoom conference call. What are you supposed to do when your child is home, and is now your new best friend, yelling to you from the den with the latest Batman caper because school isn't the child care giver it once was? How do you handle it when it’s 95 degrees and your son takes it upon himself to put on his swim trunks, gather his flippers, and proudly stand in front of you? “Can you take me swimming Mom?” No, you can’t. There is no swimming. The pool is closed. And there’s nowhere to go, so you put your t-shirt in the freezer and hope it will keep you from boiling over. You don’t have to tell me what quarantined looks like. You also don’t have to tell me what you want, because I already know. What you want is a block of time devoted only to you, and a pen that slaloms across the paper, leaning ever so slightly, gliding effortlessly across the word pool, leaving in its wake the wisdom of TobyMac. What you get is ketchup. And why not? The dining room table has morphed into your desk. It's where you practice your craft. But it’s not your space. It’s everybody’s space, with equal rights. Each family member has joint custody. Never mind that you are working while everyone else is crunching pizza and Fritos, and for the hundred-thousandth time you've threatened death by screaming to anyone who dares break your mojo. Trust me, I'm happy for you if you have a she-shed, a backyard hideaway, complete with coffee pot and soundproof walls. And if you find it torched or spray-painted one day, it wasn't me. Although, I have been known to take up self-pity as a second language. What are you waiting for? Do something. Write something. Anything. And you call yourself a writer. Listen, I know this is rough. We are all, grieving for what was. People are dying. Suffering. Unemployment is skyrocketing. We’ve all lost a piece of ourselves to this unforgiving virus. This predator that's knocked the rhythm out of our keyboard Riverdance. We’ve all lost some form of connection. And every one of us is faced with barriers. But so what? Barriers are the one thing that keep writers connected. We all understand life gets in the way. You can release yourself from the jealousy of those who get to stay at home and write, because we all get to stay at home. I don't know if it helps you, but it helps me to know that for once we are all on equal footing. I get it, sometimes it's all too much though. Or, at least that’s what we tell ourselves in this time of Covid. This time of being stuck, grounded, not being able to focus. But we can’t not write, every time we don’t feel like it. Your editor texts and saves you from yourself. “Will you write a blog for me?” she asks. And you sit there looking at the phone knowing she’s waiting for a response. You want to write in big bold letters, “NO. NO. Don’t you understand I'm having a meltdown?” But you recognize she’s tossing you a lifeline, so you say the only thing you can think of. “Sure. I’ll be happy to.” And there it is. The familiar ground that pulls you back from the edge, the thing that keeps you from sinking into yourself to that place where we all go when we don't know where to go. It's okay, we all lose our way sometimes. We forget why we wanted to write in the first place. That’s in part because we fell in love with our own words. In an effort to be the best, to find the right words, to be recognized among our esteemed colleagues, we forget to enjoy the process. Make no mistake, we writers are pens with egos. We all dream of the next big opportunity. Well guess what; it's here. It's all around us, blinking at us like that cursor. It’s our neighbor who can't hold the hand of a dying loved one. It's a friend who visits a spouse through the window of a nursing home. It's the person behind us in line who refuses to wear a mask. It's the empty shelf in the grocery store, and the drive-by birthday parties, the graduation that happens without you and your classmates, and the dwindling bank account. It's the television shows watched over and over because production has been postponed and who knows when these entertainers will entertain again. (Editor’s Note: Wordpool’s next book, The Last Actor and Other Stories, features a novella about how the entertainment industry adjusts to a global pandemic.) And, it's the Kentucky Derby without the thrill of thundering hooves, or the crowd on their feet, or the mint juleps, or the ladies in their hats. It’s the loneliness, the isolation, but also it’s the creativity of those who use their talents to bellow out a song, perhaps playing a keyboard on the veranda. Writers are always observing, always writing even when they drop the pen for awhile. Writing opportunities are everywhere we tune in. It’s what we did before we told ourselves we couldn’t do it. Perhaps the Pandemic hasn't gotten in our way at all. Perhaps we've gotten in our own way. Seeing only the obstacles, refusing to see what’s right in front of us. There was a time when I carried around a yellow pad and Bic pen. I took notes everywhere I went, wrote down everything I saw. I wrote it all down, no exceptions. Sometimes I wrote quietly, and other times I wrote loudly. If you offended me, I wrote about you. If you hurt my feelings, the ink became my teardrops. If you told me I couldn't do it, I socially distanced myself from you. Eventually, I graduated to the keyboard. I liked the immediate gratification of being able to write and edit at the same time. But recently my computer died and I’m back to the yellow pad again. Back to where I started. I’ve had to adjust to the differentness of not having what I’d become used to. I've had to learn to do with less. Kind of like the pandemic. . . . I don’t know about you, but I won’t be the same after this pandemic is over. The world will look a bit different to me. And yet, I wonder. Will the things that once seemed so important still hold a place in my priorities? Will I complain that it's not the right time, or that I don't have the perfect place to write? I hope not. I hope that when this is all over I will make it a point to take a sip of gratitude with my morning tea. Perhaps instead of lamenting about what we can’t do, maybe we should consider what we can do. Perhaps it's time to pick up our pens. This could just be our big chance to share what it was like in the time of Covid. If we are lucky enough to be among those who didn’t get sick, have an ill family member, friend or church member, or worse yet, lose a loved one from this dreaded plague, then maybe we’ve been chosen. Perhaps without knowing it, we’ve been given the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of future generations by helping them prepare for, and deal with a full-blown, unspeakable life-altering polarization of a pandemic crisis. Someday there will be kids who are no longer kids. They will leave their bubble wands on the lawn in pursuit of filling their brains with knowledge. They will walk into a history class, or look through newspaper clippings, hungry for answers. Who knows, we may just hear them ask, “How did you ever get through this?” I know exactly how. I did the one thing I was able to do. I will say, “I wrote softly and carried a Bic stick.” Sherry McCaulley Palmer Guest writer Introducing "Limbeciles," a short story from Wordpool's next book, the "Last Actor and Other Stories" by Jim Poyser.
Stan sat in the waiting room, nervously fingering his eye patch. Hopping over to the mirror next to the receptionist's window, he lifted the patch and placed a small award pin through it. Harry the receptionist smiled at him. "That's real nice, Stan. What is it?" "This here's a Most Improved Math Student recognition," Stan said proudly. “His senior year award.” "Good for Billy," Harry said, turning to his computer screen. "How is he, anyway? I haven't seen him in many moons." "And you won't, either. I keep him far away from this hellhole." Harry put his hands to heart. "Stan, you cut me to the quick. Is Billy going to college?" "Working on it. So expensive these days." "Of course, but scholarships are available—" "For who?" Stan boomed, suddenly angry. "For the poor and the rich. The middle class gets shit on, every damn time." Harry smiled, exhibiting sympathy. He had heard Stan's song and dance before. Part of his job description was diffusing tension in the waiting room, a talent for which he felt he was not appreciated nearly enough. Stan suddenly grimaced, looking down at his missing left foot. Harry continued typing, glancing at Stan's face. "My theory," Harry said, "is it's a kind of echo of your old limb." "Echo, my ass," Stan said. "My theory is my damn doctor's got my foot somewhere — alive — sitting in a bottle of chemicals, and he's sticking pins in it." "Stan, all the 'tates we get — the limbs and organs — are taken to the bank. Every single day. Dr. Pound doesn't keep any, for goodness sake. He's far too busy in surgery to be dabbling in voodoo." "Shit," Stan said aimlessly. He hopped back to his seat. "And use your crutches," Harry scolded, not looking up. A woman entered the room and waved at Harry. "Oh hello, Lois," Harry said. "Figures the day you're on time is the day the doctor's behind." "Figures," she said and sat down, smiling at Stan. He smiled back. She was, he estimated, in her mid-forties, and wearing blue jeans and a white blouse. As she reached for a magazine, Stan noticed her left arm was missing. She flipped through the magazine with her right hand. Again the pain passed through his missing foot. Unconsciously, he bent down to rub it, finding nothing to rub. He turned away from the woman, embarrassed. "Phantom, huh?" she said. "My arm'll feel like it's on fire sometimes." "How long's your arm been spent?" Stan asked. She thought for a moment. "Must be four years, now. Seems like yesterday. What're you in for today?" "Uh," he hesitated, searching her face. "Nothing major — I, uh, my boy Billy," he gestured toward the eyepatch, "he just graduated from high school. Most Improved Math Student. I thought I might get a belated start on his college fund. How about yourself?" She hesitated, then spoke. "Just a consultation today. Considering giving up a kidney. My husband's been gone now for some time. And my youngest needs all this dental work and ... But you know how it goes." Stan remained silent, searching for something supportive to say. His thoughts, though, were interrupted by the exit of a man from one of the treatment rooms. He was in his early twenties, tall, thin, dark-haired, a bandage wrapped around his head. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. "Say, pal," Stan said. "You better have a seat." "Uh, yeah, thanks," the young man said, dazed. "First time?" Lois asked him. "How'd you know?" he said, sitting down. "Ear?" Lois asked the obvious. The young man nodded. "Hope you spent it wisely," Stan said. "You bet," the young man said, growing excited. "A dirt bike: Yamaha 125!" "You just spent your ear on a motorcycle?" Stan said, aghast. "Well, yeah, you got a problem with that?" he replied, a quiver in his voice. "I sure as hell do," he cried. "I don't guess it's any of your business, old fart," he said, walking to Harry's window. "A dirt bike," Stan said, incredulous. "I'm trying to feed my family, and you're buying a goddamn toy." "Stan," Lois said, placing her remaining hand on Stan's arm. The young man took his receipt from a frowning Harry, and quickly left the room. Harry leaned out the receptionist's window, clenching his teeth. "Stan, I would appreciate it if you'd quit hollering at the customers." "Customers," Stan repeated. "We used to be patients." "Oh Jesus, Stan, what's the difference," Harry said. "Just calm down. Dr. Pound will be ready for you in a moment." Lois watched Stan with concern. "You okay?" "That's how it is now," Stan said. "It's not anything specific you spend a limb or an organ on — not like the old days when a deal was clean: You bought a car with a hand, you bought a house with an arm and a leg. Now you gotta lop off a finger just for the damn bills — give up a kidney or lung just to make ends meet. You got nothing to show for it but your loss." Lois started to say something, but suddenly a towering man walked into the waiting room. He stood, bewildered. "Is — is this the grafting clinic?" he asked. The man had a total of five arms: two extra in front and one that was attached to his coccyx to simulate a tail. He stood steadily on a tripod of three thick legs. An extra thumb sprouted on each hand next to the original. He turned to look at Stan and Lois, an extra eye in the middle of his forehead. Leaving his crutches behind, Stan hopped over to the man. "Is that my eye?" He pointed to the man’s third eye. "I beg your pardon?" the man said. "I recognize my eye." "You don't know that's your eye," Lois said, fearful. "Oh come on, Stan," Harry said, "leave the man be." Stan faced the giant. "Tell you what, Frankenstein, why don't you wait right here? Huh? So you can get your parts fresh off the line, eh Frankie? There's an ear in there, fresh as a daisy. And hang around,” he gestured to his eyeball, “you'll have another eye to stick in your fat face." Harry picked up his phone. "Stan, I'm calling security." "My God, Stan,” Lois said, “is that what you're—" "That's right. My boy's going to college," Stan said, his voice trembling. "He is going to college and then get a decent job. He's going through his life with his limbs intact — so sons of bitches like this can't steal them." "It's not my fault," the man said, recoiling Stan leaned into the man's face. "Let's perform the operation right now. Why don't you just reach in and grab it — save time." The man started to move to the door, but Stan was upon him. The giant yelled out and swung numerous arms, sending Stan flying into one of the chairs. "Stop!" Lois cried, rushing over to Stan. A police whistle sounded nearby. "Stupid limbecile," the man muttered, walking out. Stan heard approaching footsteps in the hall and grabbed his crutches. He headed for the examining area, and ducked into the first room, moving to the window. In the distance he heard Harry and Lois calling for him. He spied a metal container on the table. Stan knew it was for carrying smaller 'tates — digits and minor organs, maybe that kid’s ear. Years before, his own eye had occupied such a box. He opened it: numerous packages were inside, a goldmine of body parts. Hurriedly, he opened the window and climbed out, the box under one arm, a crutch under the other. Stan stumbled down the sun-drenched sidewalk. Onlookers watched in wonder. He heard someone yell stop, and he turned to see fully limbed security police racing toward him. The box fell from his hands, its contents spilling on the sidewalk. Stan slipped and fell, sprawling among the eyes and the ears, the fingers and the tongues, a crowd gathering around him. Jim Poyser Author |
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