With a song in my heart, and a word on my pen...

Remember A Chorus Line? The song, “I Hope I Get It”? The broadway musical profiled the lives and stories of those dancers who made it into the chorus line, the ensemble performers for a grand stage production. All longed, ultimately, for stardom; but for that short time in front of the footlights, they all had a story to tell, of how they had found the the theatre; of why the stage was the life for them. And while their goal was the same, each performer had a story that was unique. Writers are the same. Whether novelists, screenwriters, playwrights, poets, we each have a tale (or several) that forges the path we choose. Some stumble to the right door, straight out of college. Others wander through the dark forest for what seems like a century searching for a happy ending. Regardless of the road we take, we all work and dream for the same happy ending. We want to be published. Each time we send a story to an editor, an agent, a contest, a blog site, we want our work to be validated. We want our stories to be read, to be appreciated. We want readers to well with emotion when they read our work. Some stories will elicit righteous support and inspire action. Others will make our hearts break with compassion for the characters’ pain. A few might incite raucous laughter. We long for that connection to our readers. Writers look at the world and see plot, character, dialogue, and a dozen different endings to everyday occurrences. A trip to the grocery store could end with a walk down the aisle. A line at the post office could end with a line-up at the police station. A discarded note on the sidewalk could be a clue to a crime, or a hidden treasure. In a world where so often, words are used to hurt, to offend, to render speechless, it is comforting to know that there are people who wish only to create mesmerizing, transcending tales that will take us, even briefly, into that world where everyone has a story? On any given day, all a writer ever needs to hear, or think is, “I Wish--” [Into the Woods] ~and soon a story begins...

If a picture's worth a thousand words...

A picture is worth a thousand words, but words can be the essence of our lives, our experience, and our emotions. Words can change history, or record it; they can start wars, or end them. Recently, I heard Joseph Stroud read aloud some of his works. Mr. Stroud is a prolific American poet. His words linger in the air, settling on the listeners shoulders after the words have left his lips, or have leapt from the page. Poetry in our modern society seems an arcane~a mysterious genre that seems to have faded from the fast pace of our busy lives. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Poetry, like so much about our cyber lives, economizes words to their utmost efficacy. A few words, carefully woven, convey an entire scene with only a few characters. Consider Stroud’s Night in Day: “The night never wants to end, to give itself over 
to light. So it traps itself in things: obsidian, crows. 
 Even on summer solstice, the day of light's great 
triumph, where fields of sunflowers guzzle in the sun— 
we break open the watermelon and spit out 
black seeds, bits of night glistening on the grass.” Fifty five words create a myriad of images and emotions and evoke a dozen questions in the reader’s mind. Similarly, Emily Dickenson, used words efficiently to tell tales, and make a point. Faith offers a simple argument: “Faith is a fine invention 
When Gentlemen can see— 
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.” Songs offer the pop-culture version of poetry to the masses. With a background of drums, sythesized syncopation, guitar, or orchestral background, lyricists string words together to tell stories of love, of woe, of misunderstanding, or revolution. Instead of texting about fashion, or rumors, or traffic, perhaps we should encourage people to text poetry. Imagine what a beautiful world me might create. I smiled as I listened to the poet on the radio. Reading is a magnificent escape, but to hear the bard speak those precious few words--those metaphors and similes--to paint pictures transported me, momentarily. Like a time traveler, I sifted to the poet’s world, and was mesmerized by its magic.

Into the unknown...

2014 plowed past me and left me standing at the platform of 2015 feeling a bit flustered and perhaps a bit excited by the possibilities before me. It is fitting, then that in the moments of the waning year, I picked up Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere(1999) only to be whisked away to both the familiar and tantalizingly unfamiliar London underground. I slipped into a wonderfully haunting (and terrifying) world of the faces people to live below in the underground world. What happens when people fall through the cracks? They fade away and become part of the unseen society which exists...neverwhere. Protagonist Richard Mayhew does something nice, and (since no good deed goes unpunished in literature), he finds himself abandoned in a world where people exist between the normal world that most of us know, and a disturbingly distopian subterranean world of subway stations, abandoned tunnels, sewers, and fog. All those things that go bump in the night live in this world, and rear their ugly heads frequently to threaten Richard and company as he tries to save a young woman from the evil that pursues her. And of course there is a secret society (isn’t there always?) I’ve been to London a few times. I’ve ridden on the “tube” and am aware of some of the history of the subway system. Gaiman’s mix of historical elements, fantastical characters, suspense, and that wonderful bit of humanity had me hooked from the first pub scene when Richard says goodbye to his hometown to the end of the story (no spoilers here, folks). The romp thrilled me and filled me with a desire to investigate the London underground stations with my new awareness of Gaiman’s mythological underground. I’m sure there must be a such a tour offering such a rousing romp somewhere in Londinium. Conventional time and space, and relative dimension, are all challenged by Neverwhere; I kept wondering just how this might play into an episode of Dr Who (Neil has also penned a few episodes for that sci-fi phenomenon). Describe it in twenty five words or less? Alice-in-Wonderland meets Dr. Who, sprinkled with a touch of Twilight Zone, and Life on Mars, all with a film noir feel. Quite a wild ride and well worth the price of a ticket.

A fond farewell

The Belle of the Ball... She was the stuff of stories, made not merely of timber and nails, but of magic, too. And like so many magical things, she has faded, forgotten, into nothingness. Known as the White queen of the gulf, for her exterior design, the Belleview Biltmore, near Clearwater, is to be torn down. Her frame adorned with more than a dozen gables, and nearly twice as many corridors, has withered beyond repair and will soon be put out of her misery. And yet, our memories of her will live on. The hotel was not merely a resort, it was grand adventure, like something out of a movie. Similar to the Grand Hotel at Mackinac, the Belleview stretched for what seemed like a mile from one end to the other. Built by railroad magnate Henry B. Plant the resort accommodated wealthy travelers who spent long holidays escaping from the harsh northern winters. Long hallways, offered glimpses of pristine lawns primed for lawn bowling or badminton. At the far edge of the grounds were tennis courts; a golf course paralleled the opposite edge. Two swimming pools offered guests a choice of lounging in the sun, or swimming laps in a glass ceilinged pool-house adorned with french doors that opened to admit a balmy breeze on warm days. Late at night, wandering the long quiet corridors, one could even envision the spirits of former residents sashaying through the building, dancing and drinking champagne, and being completely scandalous. Originally, the train tracks would deliver people directly to the hotel’s front door, and guests could step from locomotive car to lobby into the hotel’s lavish world of fine woolen carpets, and chandeliers, and grand pianos. Verandas decorated the property for a bit of fresh air in winter, and a respite from the heat during summer (pre-air conditioning). I stayed at the hotel many times. The most magnificent room was a suite that had not only a decadent king-sized bed with a sitting area, and a lavish bathroom, but also a dressing room. Imagine a room dedicated just to changing clothes and preparing one’s appearance, from an era when people lived for weeks or months at the hotel and so, entertained guests in the sitting room. I spent hours gliding back and forth in the indoor heated pool (prominent in the movie Cocoon), and strolling the grounds. There was an oak tree that was so large, one could sit on the lowest bowed branch, as it nearly kissed the porch. Six piano decorated the halls; no one ever complained if someone decided to plunk out a tune. Stairways zigged and zagged, and seemingly led to nowhere, and delighted children of all ages who had an indoor maze to meander. Did I mention the best coffee I ever had anywhere, was in that dining room? Grand ballrooms, elegant dining halls, afternoon tea, and cocktails in the piano bar were the offerings when I visited the Belleview. Small salons in the main hallway offered books, souvenirs, ice cream, and jewelry. Holidays brought families from all around the bay area to magnificent brunches that stretched through three of those ballrooms, accommodating hundreds of diners. Like the Plant Museum, the Belleview entertained the wealthy and famous once upon a time. In more recent times she entertained families and golfing enthusiasts. The hotel was the site for weddings, anniversaries, reunions, proms, and getaways. It never advertised because it never had to...until the time came when flash and deals won out over the old world wonder. However, it’s hard to keep up a building that suffers sun and wind and rain damage, and nearly a century of age. Several corporations and preservation committees attempted to save, protect, resurrect her, unsuccessfully. Sometimes money just is not enough. The Belleview will be put to rest. With her, goes a grand bit of Florida history and an age of golden revelry. Goodbye to Cocoon, to verandas,to vintage New Year’s Eve soirees, and to the best cup of coffee, ever.

Apathy abounds!

It is time for a rant. Apathy is an infection that has swept the continent; it’s victims range from adults who can’t be bothered to drive their kids to a track meet, to nine year olds who can’t be bothered to participate in class “because”. Just because. My father long held that I didn’t have to agree with his perspectives on life, religion, or politics as long as I had an opinion and could support my opinion. “ Just ‘cause...” was never an answer for anything. My father was right. Every single day I encounter people who have no opinion on anything other than the latest sale at the mall. Even that isn’t so much opinion as excitement over the stimuli of color and bright yellow and red on sale signs (sort of the cartoon network for adults). The worst thing is that parents and adults allowing children to be mindless sheep baa-ing their way through life sets the kids up for failure. But then again, so many of these same adults will eventually blame a teacher for their kids’ apathy. Trust me, I have yet to meet a teacher who is apathetic or who promotes apathy in the classroom. Apathy is learned at home, and in the community. The “I don’t care” attitude might begin as a defensive device against disappointment, turning quickly to a “whatever” approach (a word I do not allow in my house, stage, or classroom, by the way). That’s how the infection begins, and then the plague erupts when an entire room of kids (or adults) shrug over everything from the importance of of writing a thank you note, to the ebola crisis, or civic responsibility of voting and jury duty. I sat in jury duty last month and listened to people whine for eight hours about sitting in an air conditioned room with a television and with access to all their electronic devices. They whined about how unfair it was that they had to sit there, and that they were being expected to wait to be questioned as potential jurors for our county. These are the same people who threaten to sue over scuffed tennis shoes and a delay at the doctor’s office. Heaven forbid they should step up and do something to make a difference in their community. That might be seen as being proactive. And of course, these people all have someone in their lives who emulates their behavior-- a niece, a nephew, or children of their own. Once upon a time (stop me if you’ve heard this one), there was a man who wanted to be a leader. As he bullied his way through the countryside, the villagers decided better him than them, and so they let him do whatever he wanted. Their apathy allowed the Third Reich to emerge. Yeah, it’s a bit melodramatic, but at least you have an opinion about it, now. Don’t you?

Playing Faire...

I adore medieval faires and renaissance festivals. Within the gates of these quirky, raucous gatherings we find the most extraordinary and eclectic collection of talent and brains outside of Comicon. And yet, the faire folk are often misunderstood. It all starts with a love of art and of language. I have been a fan of these festivals since college. I have dated fencers and stage fighters, have worked as a tavern wench, and have dressed as everything from a royal, to a wench, to a Whovian time lord (remember Ramana?). Here are some observations that need to be noted. Renfolk are smart and talented. Some of the performers are locals who have day jobs as lawyers and real estate agents; their work on the weekends is an artistic escape whether they are acting, or are working as vendors in a craft booth. Other performers are professional actors who travel from faire to faire throughout the year on a schedule; they work diligently on their stage routines and at developing the “characters” that will entertain audiences. In both cases, the majority of these people have college degrees and are making a living doing what they love. I knew a man who worked 20 years selling medical equipment for a large corporation. When he retired from sales, he bought an old school bus, threw on a tunic and started selling custom-made boots at the faire. The work allowed him to travel the country, make a living, and have some fun. He met people from all around the world, and didn’t have to worry about dry cleaning or about shaving. What a life. Some of the smartest people I have met work at the faire. A few weeks ago, I toured a faire which was new to me. The level of writing for the scripts was astounding. Even more impressive were the conversations I overheard as I passed through the crowds. Philosophy, History, Physics, Language...everything was a topic for discussion. Even politics and world events. From pirates! And perhaps the greatest gift these people offer us is a reverence for Language and communication. Through comedy, song, music, dance, and art, these wonderful enthusiasts and professionals are preserving something that continues to fade as we become a tech-dependent society, heads bowed over our phones. Thumbs meet eye-contact. For eight hours a day (sometimes much longer), these performers are not texting, they are talking, making a connection with the crowd. They are communicating with words, rather than initials and emoticons. Of course this does not surprise me. I have long known that the ren-fest circuit is a home for creativity and for intelligence that just does not fit into a suit or cubicle. However, so many suit and cubicle people spy the colorful time travelers as the characters they portray. Books and covers, people...take a look and find the story beneath the colorful brocade and tights. Within the renaissance faire, there is a renaissance of thought and talent. A round of applause for all the wonderful, brilliant performers and artisans to have the courage to take center stage and take a chance.

The Seed of an Idea

My husband mentioned a project being undertaken in Scandinavia. Apparently, trees and authors are coming together in an unusual way. Authors are being enlisted to dedicate an unpublished work to the planting of a tree. The manuscript will be held in an archive for the next 100 years, with its publication being dedicated to the particular tree being planted in its name. On the tree’s 100th anniversary, it will be felled, and used to produce the paper for the publication of the book. I find this intriguing and disturbing at the same time. There is something nearly “Distopian” about the ceremonial archiving of a book while the tree grows toward its own death to promote the author’s publication. And yet the idea of drawing attention to the written word, and to the destruction of trees (versus recycled materials) is equally mesmerizing. I keep thinking of Well’s Time machine and Bradbury’s Farenheit 451. I don’t know why this story brings those two tales to mind other than each exemplifies a society lost to reading, while this new project seems to be promoting the preservation of the printed word. Perhaps the true intent here, is just that--to heighten awareness that the cyber-words we read on our electronic devices are real. Once upon a time, writers touched quill to vellum to create books. Printers set rollers to metal type on parchment. Typewriters pounded ink onto paper. And now, we click keys and send the words into the ether. Plucked from the air, our ideas soar through the internet in a virtual world. The very success of virtual books begs the question, in one hundred years, will we really want to cut down a tree for the decadence of printing a paper book? More importantly, in one hundred years, will we still read? Or will reading be merely a legend?