I have been writing two novels on Twitter.FitToLove_novel, is a novel I started months ago and it seems like there’s no end in sight. That's why I began XmasIsNear.There could be a logical end to it.
In Twitter, your postings can only be 140 characters long.Including spaces.This has its obvious limitations, but it also provides unique opportunities.Each post has two purposes.One is to further the ongoing story.And, two, is to be entertaining, in its own right.It can communicate more than just what the words say.Like a haiku.
Some people post many times a day.To let you know they’re eating breakfast.To let you know they want to go to Target.To let you know the broccoli at dinner was awful.It’s kind of crazy.
But it’s fun.It can keep a writer sharp.Or, it can seriously warp his mind and, perhaps, cramp his style.
The story is too long to put into one posting here, so this and the next one will bring you up to date with XmasIsNear.The first three are in Twitter format.
Nearer than you think. Only 54 days. Now, the first step to Xmas success and my present resolution: I will be good on Halloween. 9:53 AM Oct 31st from Seesmic
I didn’t trash. I didn’t smash. I only took one piece of candy at each stop and I didn’t eat everything at one time. Dang, I’m good. 9:59 AM Nov 1st from Seesmic
I am goal-oriented. I want on be on the good list. I want, what some might consider, a mountain of presents. Oh yeah, world peace, too. 9:14 AM Nov 2nd from Seesmic
Xmas is more than a state of mind. More than a commercial holiday that our nation depends on. More than just presents. Sure.
I’m serious. As never before. I have a feeling that this Xmas is going to change everything. I mean it. See, it’s already working. Isn’t it?
Santa has his list, but I’m making a plan. Be worthy. Think of others first. Help out. Visualize that mountain of presents. Stay calm.
Two days ago, 20 inches of snow. The scene was set. Today, 65° and it’s gone. I’m trying to hold onto my dreams, but they’re slippery.
To stay in the mood, I’m reading, The Night Before Xmas. Yeah, it’s a little early, but to Santa, the elves, and the reindeer it’s imminent.
When visualizing, the clearer, the more specific you can be, the better. Okay. A stocking worthy of Bigfoot.
I can see it now, my every Xmas wish answered. To get it to work, I’ll have to write it all down. No wish too small or too big. Here goes.
First, I need… I mean, I’d like a giant TV, big enough to walk into. Braces that light up at night. A box of Oreo’s from Costco. Some milk.
A pillow that's just right. One of those robot vacuum cleaners, but one I don't have to be afraid of. A drawer full of socks the same color.
Curtains that don't let the light in. Pants that fit. And, while we're at it, some of that self-slimming underwear. Clothes make the man.
I am so domestic! How about a shower head that will knock my socks off. Veggies that won't turn brown. Some earmuffs. A case of Hamm's.
An iPhone with an app that apologizes for being annoying. A hard drive I'll never have to replace or worry about. One cord to rule them all.
A watch I can read. An endless cup of coffee. Sufficient half and half. A river of agave. Bananas every morning. Wait, breakfast is ready.
Another box of Oreos from Costco. A mood ring I can control. The infinite Amazon gift card. More socks. Three wishes. Jeeves. A barn.
Okay. I now know what Black Friday is. You can't get away from it. Everyone, who has something to sell, is waving their black flags and keeping their fingers crossed.
Of course, not only stubbornness on my part, but also a studied and self-delusional defensiveness permitted me that blissful ignorance for so long.
I keep hearing about this.Is it plague?An economic crash or its aftershocks?A Mayan Day of Reckoning?It seems to be scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving, so, perhaps it signals nationwide indigestion.
I’m not sure, but I think it’s some kind of shopping extravaganza.This seems so unlike that world.So against the principles (principles?) and public relations of our consumer economy.Shouldn’t it be something like, The First Day of Christmas?Or, Viernes Gigante!?Or, The First Day of the Rest of Your Shopping Life?
Have I grown up?Have I grown old?Have I lost my wallet?
I have purposefully averted my eyes and ears, when the topic is raised.Ignorance of some things can be more than bliss; it may actually be a legitimate defense.
I’ll continue to speculate on the possible meaning of Black Friday.That sounds like a lot more fun than going shopping at the same time as a majority of the population.
For me, Black Friday can be a peaceful day at home.It can be the absence of all shopping.It may sound scary, but it is right in line with that long-held belief – TGIF!
I was at the gym, where I get in most of my TV watching.Screens, on either side of me, hung from the ceiling.One showed a fantasy workout in Hawaii, with unnatural women lifting weights.On the other side, was SportsCenter. The one directly in front of me was reporting serious entertainment.It was the kind of show we once imagined was the news.
An attractive reporter made it hard to completely focus on exactly what she was saying. Also, I was reading subtitles.She was at a mall in Michigan.There was an endless line of people behind her.They were in line to buy Sarah Palin’s book, GoingRogue, and to have her sign their copies.
The line snaked off into the distance, through the deserted boulevards of the mall.It was nine in the morning.She wasn’t to appear until six o’clock tonight.They had been in line a long time already.
The reporter was amazed at the number of people and praised their determination.She spoke of their diversity, although I didn’t see anyone of color behind her.She said Sarah Palin was giving a voice to the people in line and to a great number of citizens around the country.
Sarah Palin is someone we have watched now for more than a year.In detail.Through many situations.I don’t know why, but giving her voice, one that is simplistic, narrow-minded, and shortsighted, manipulative and self-serving, to all these people shocked me.Could this really be the voice of these patient, peaceful people in line?
It was reported that she is a force that the Republican Party would have to take into account in the next election.The pundits, back at the station, said Sarah Palin is a skilled and influential politician.You can’t ever count her out.They, for one, or two, would never underestimate her.Plus, they said, she is on the cover of this week’s Newsweek, in running shorts!
Everyone took a deep breath.Then, they broke for a commercial.
Today, I read a headline (that’s where I get all my news) that warned against Dog Flu!It’s one thing to get the flu from a pig or even a bird, but now I have to worry about Man’s Best Friend?
Why, Buster?Why?We walk.There are regular treats and snacks.I even let you lie on the couch during the ballgames.All that and, now, this?
Flu, all by itself, is bad enough.There’s fever and the attendant aches that not only make you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck, but the flu fogs your mind so you can’t think straight.Did I turn off the burner after making that tea?Should I be worried about work?And, to the woman with the ring on her finger, who is taking care of you, Do I know you?
And, often, there is the part of the flu that I do not want to mention.Having had both the plain, old, achy flu and the eruptive flu, I can assure you that the latter does not expel the germs or bring about the end of the illness any faster.Once you’ve got it, you’ve got it.
There is no benefit to continuing on as usual.You can’t fool the flu, no matter where you got it.And, you might as well give up that fantasy that your mind protects you from this stuff.Go to bed.Drink plenty of liquids.Take aspirin.Sleep.
There’s no way around it.You are not imagining this.You feel awful.Take a load off.
As we enter this season, I recommend you avoid farms, forget bird watching, and do not kiss or shake hands with your dog or with anyone else’s.
And, dogs, wash those paws often, turn your head when you bark, refrain from going out (unless you absolutely have to), and have some compassion for your best friend.He’s not weird.He’s sick.
Meet George Jetson.Jane, his wife.Everyone is smiling.We’re levitating.Or, our food is.Robots are everywhere and they’re smiling.I can’t wait to get there.
Back in the Twentieth Century, we adolescent boomers had not only the world before us, but the future, too. There were no limits to what would be accomplished and everyday would be better than the one before.
The future would hold no end of surprises and improvements.The future would open out limitlessly and, at the end of it, somewhere, was a rainbow or the largest ice cream cone in the universe or something way beyond what we could even begin to imagine.No matter what, it was going to be good.It was exciting.
I’m not so sure, anymore.Have I just gotten older or did something else happen that changed that view?
At my core, I still feel that way – there are no limits to what can be accomplished and there are people, just like me, who are discovering, developing, and creating a future that is exciting and good for everyone.
But something feels different.I used the phrase – in the future - in a letter yesterday and could feel that change.The words are the same, but my idea of the future has been tempered by gray hair, traffic, and weather.
Time passes and, though relative, it’s also, for each of us, finite.As the possibility, the probability, and finally, the inevitability of an end becomes a reality, my idea of the future undergoes radical change.
But, there’s more to it than just my mortality.The population has increased and all those initial realizations and forecasts that had recently begun to surface, when I was young, have become fact.Statistics, though open to interpretation, signal overload.Resources, employment, and psychological stability are under tremendous pressure.
Systems of all sorts and the biggest one of them all – the ecological system – are failing and not moving toward that brighter future.War, political conflict, the decline of natural resources, an outdated educational process, and attacks on reason cast a pall over many things.
This is not the exciting future I was expecting.Where are all the smiling robots?I am able to see now that the older model of the future I had was a passive one.Inaccurate.Unrealistic.I thought the future would stop at the corner and pick me up, as it went by.It may be the passing of time or because of all the information that’s available, but I know now that things don’t work that way.
The future is, and always has been, a function of choice.A function of our individual efforts and imagination.We actually get to choose what that future will be.What each of us does with our time here matters.Our actions determine that future.We can learn from the past and imagine what we want to happen next. We can put our energy behind that.We can see it in whatever way we want.
We can feel what makes us uncomfortable and what makes us hopeful.That’s a choice that shouldn’t be that complicated.Stop or go?Give up or try?Despair or hope?What feels good or what feels bad?Forget about what is possible or not.We won’t know until we try.
The future I want to participate in, exist in, walk into, move into, claim as my own, is one that sparkles.The one that starts again each day.The one I/we get to make.Not the one I’m afraid is going to happen, but the one I want to happen.
In the future, everything will still be a surprise and beyond my imagination, but it will be one that I have a hand in creating.That’s my choice.How this future comes together will always be a mystery, a conundrum, a paradox.It’s the micro and the macro.Individual and inclusive.Here today and here tomorrow.I can’t worry about that.
I’m letting go of that old future.I’ve got a choice and I’m making it.I’m making the future right now.Come on over and we can create it together.
Concerning Twitter, brevity is the soul of everything. Each Tweet (cyber message) is limited to 140 characters. Each character is a letter, a mark of punctuation, or a space. That’s not a lot of leeway to introduce a protagonist. Or, to create an atmosphere. Or, even, to provide meals of any length.
Twitter encourages the author to cut to the chase. I’m not sure I ever really understood that phrase until now. Hmm… It also encourages good memory on the part of the reader.
What follows (so to speak) are some of the lessons I am learning about this new (and great) artform:
The Twitter structure is not a limitation. For most writers (and readers) it is a blessing. By the way (BTW), parentheses count as two characters.
Each Tweet must not only be 140 characters or less, but also be entertaining, moving, and engaging, by itself, AND move the story forward. (That’s 140 characters.)
Hitting the target of 140 characters or less is a talent one develops, like eating or sleeping and, after a while, you barely have to think about it. (149)
Keeping to 140 characters or less, is a developed talent, like eating or sleeping. After a while, you barely think about it. (127)
If the Tweet exceeds the limit, the author is forced to find another, shorter, and, often, better way to phrase things. (121) Invention awakes. (139)
As author, you begin to appreciate the true value of every word. (Enough!)
You are saved, in spite of yourself, from your heretofore well-developed inclination to continue on and on, in love with your vocabulary and the exquisite quality of your observational skills, not to mention the signature flair with which you make use of the language. (268. I couldn’t stop it.)
Yes, and those skills, certainly bestowed upon you by the Gods, that you have developed and nurtured through years of heartache, experience, and an accumulating wisdom that won’t stop growing, no matter what form your writing takes, are challenged at their very root. (?)
As I said, brevity and power become your greatest attributes.
There is no need to outline the chapters and plot of your novel. In this format, you are able to turn on a dime. It is the length and content of each installment that is of ultimate importance and significance.
After hurting myself with the math, I find that, at my current rate of up to three tweets per day, to finish my novel will require 2.8 years of the reader’s time. With attention spans what they are, this is unacceptable.
My novel, Fit To Love, has been moving forward for a month and my character has barely made it through the first scene. I must revise my plan. And, speaking of revision, this kind of novel cannot be revised at a future date. It is published with each installment. This kind of writing favors the gut, the gusto, not to say, the glib.
In summary, be brief, be real, be yourself. Just not too much.
Have you ever had one of those moments where the curtains draw back, the light is blinding, and you are filled with a revelation that you’ve had before, but it’s amazing all the same?
I’m not talking about waking up this morning. I mean a moment of epiphany when, all of a sudden, you are struck dumb by the immensity of it all. The whole thing. The doughnut and the hole. Kind of like your twenty-first birthday, but even bigger. Even bigger than fifty.
It can happen at any time. One moment, you’re going about your day and the next, you look at something and it’s as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building. Like a satellite moving across the sky. Like a cannonball from the high dive.
I’m talking about the moment you find yourself looking at your hand or arm or something and you are completely floored, because it is actually holding a glass. That it works. That it obeys your will. You raise the glass to your lips, just to be sure. That taste! Those tastebuds! The blood in your veins. The connections in your mind. It all works! Cells reproducing, communicating, your stomach digesting. These very thoughts! What a miracle!
You don’t know what to think. You look away and gaze into the backyard. You see flowers, bushes, the grass. How do they do it?! And, then, even more profound, Why?!
It is truly a moment of revelation and wonderment. You’re suddenly on philosophical overload and everything begins to take on a kind of glow. You lift your eyes to the heavens and begin to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. How is this possible? Who figured all this stuff out? Why are we here?
You turn to your wife. A wonderful innocence shines out of you, as you say, “Have you ever wondered why we’re here?” And, she says, ‘Honey, what about lunch?”
In that moment, you drop back to everyday reality like a stone. These thoughts are so huge; you can’t entertain them for long. Not only that, but, put into words, they sound either naïve and pretentious or like it’s time you took your medication. It seems only people with special training can deal with these questions – monks, astronauts, and fifth grade teachers.
And, yet, it is a miracle. And, an ongoing one. In every moment of forever, this has been happening.
• Dinosaurs? Yes. • The Renaissance? Yes. • 1987, when the Twins won the series? Yes.
It has never stopped. Don’t even start wondering about the beginning and why, in the first place, all this stuff happened.
Seeing the world in a grain of sand or the miracle of life in the most mundane of occurrences is the kind of thinking that slows you down and warms you, but like the sun, you don’t want to look directly at it, for more than a moment.
Special training is really not required, but it’s better to start out with this as a passing thought, that you can contemplate, whenever you like, just not for too long. One that will warm your heart, make you think, and keep things growing.
I’m outside, watering the newly planted lilac, when I hear a slight buzzing sound that immediately turns into a giant, threatening, buzzing sound. I look up and, before me, is a dark cloud of bees, like some kind of dark static in my vision. There are thousands of them rocketing, somewhere, covering the sky, blocking out the sun, scaring the stuffing out of me, with their bee-ing.
For an instant, I realize the vulnerability of this moment. One bee, no problem. Thousands, I’m toast. Fortunately, they buzz past, their destination a rival hive, a new home, or someone else, like me, enjoying the beautiful morning.
That’s Nature for you. One moment, a soft, idyllic pasture. The next, your last moment on Earth. You would think that me, the lilac, and the fresh air would be enough Nature for anyone. Was I taking it for granted? Is that why it’s so dramatic out there? No! I wasn’t.
We’ve been having a lot of rain, lately. Big, fast storms with lightning, thunder, and rain, in really large drops, as if someone up there is wringing every last bit out of the oversized cloud above us. This dry climate has been transformed into something more like Ireland, than Colorado.
We are not taking it for granted; we can’t stop talking about it. If we could eat it up, we would. We sing its praises, plant even more stuff, and during each stretch of sunshine, we are toasting and admiring it.
The more time we have to spend inside, supposedly working, the more we need to be outside. Monitors, keyboards, and wires may be drawing us ever closer to one another, but our need for dirt, wind, and rain is something more elemental than staying in touch with each other and all that essential information.
I’ve been in hailstorms, tornadoes, blizzards, and places so hot my shoes were melting, but I’d wish I hadn’t. I don’t need extreme situations – killer bees or hurricanes – to get my attention or respect, to remind me of the natural world I’m walking around on. I like it here!
I’d rather stroll through gardens or hike in the hills or float around on the waves than be threatened by something so incorrectly labeled as, Mother Nature. That just seems wrong. Mommie Dearest. That’s not how I want to see it.
This is like so many things. I’ll deal with it, when it goes crazy, but I’d rather think of it as beautiful, nurturing, and peaceful. An illusion, perhaps, but those flowers are so sweet, those hills so green, and those bees so lazy, as they drone between the blossoms, going about their business.
I’m concerned about the Right Wing in this country. Many say that they’ve had their day. Reagan, Breakfast in America or whatever it was, Newt, Cheney, and, The King of Pain, W. However, Cheney has been on all the shows, Newt has been mentioned as the leader of the Republicans, and they even have an entire TV network – Fox – which has risen to new heights of drama, flights of fancy, and inspired improvisation, not to mention sheer entertainment value.
They lost the election. Their membership has been decimated by exposure, death, irrelevance, and well-delivered humor. And, their positions have been seen to have a tenuous connection to reality. All this conforms to what seems reasonable, natural, and about time.
That’s all well and good. A relief. It inspires a belief that change for the better is possible and that all the bumper sticker damage from the recent election was worth it. We can now actually get closer to those tantalizing hopes and goals of our founding fathers.
But what worries me is Amazon.com – the world’s largest bookstore. They cater to everyone and they do it online. By extension, they serve the technologically savvy.
The Amazon bestseller list, today, features Glenn Beck’s book, Common Sense, at the top of, not only the regular bestseller list, but also the Kindle bestseller list.
Yes, that’s the same Glenn Beck who said, ‘I hope Obama fails.’ “We’re not on LSD anymore, we need to make sense.” “If you’re an ugly woman, you’re probably a progressive.” And, recently, “The most used phrase in my administration if I were to be President would be, ‘What the Hell you mean we’re out of missiles?’”
Stephen Colbert has shown us that Glenn Beck is not only an idiot, on the order of Rush Limbaugh, but also that he is channeling messages from the planet, Zorkon. That’s good enough for me.
I knew that America’s educational system was in trouble. I had heard the whispering about the decline of our prominence in world affairs. I had seen the news about the state of our national literacy and readership. But, even taking Harry Potter into account, this really scares me.
Right now, I am on page 203 of a (terrific) book, written for young adults, like myself, called, The Mysterious Benedict Society, and have the latest copy of Mad Magazine by the side of the bed, but these, at least, deal with important issues in a way that, invites serious discussion, ethical participation, and hope for the future.
I admire Mr. Beck’s sales figures, but it is more than disheartening to imagine what this may represent. As much as I like science fiction, I don’t want to go there.
I just had a shower and it felt good. I know some guys don’t like it. And, really, they never have. As kids, they would run around all day and their moms might suggest a shower before dinner and Dad might sniff the air and make a comment, but to them it just didn’t make sense. They weren’t that dirty and, besides, they were just going to get dirty again. They weren’t sure that that smell didn’t smell good. That it didn’t mean something. Something important.
The sheets on their beds might be a bit dingy, but wasn’t that a statement, of some kind, about their existence? Their jeans hadn’t been washed in weeks and they had been hid beneath the bed, just so Mom couldn’t grab them and throw them in the wash. This kind of personal grooming was what their sisters were so concerned with; it had nothing to do with them. They weren’t girls and they were determined not to be.
All this assumes that they even thought about it. It is more likely that this aspect of boyness is genetic. Inherent. Dad was probably the same way, before he was domesticated.
The young male mind is a primitive instrument. Guys are some of Nature’s own creatures, running around in the weeds or in the swamp or sorting through garbage, if they are urban males. Or, racing around on bikes and hitting each other, if they are of suburban origin.
They have a mission. One preordained by ancestors. This mission is to move evolution forward, through exploration and incessant experimentation. They are developing physically. They are perfecting their aim. They are testing limits. They are not big on communication. Or, hygiene. They know, instinctively, that it is going to take more than a little dirt to hurt them. It is going to take something like a T Rex or an attack by aliens to begin to thwart their progress.
Education? Their priorities differ from those of their parents and teachers. The concept of behavior is antithetical to their inner sense of independence and creativity. Sitting inside, in rows, no less, would be laughable, if the consequences for not attending were not so overwhelming. Ire, anger, disappointment, guilt and shame are powerful lessons and, even with their fierce forward momentum, society has somehow decided to impose its own habitual and arbitrary boundaries on them, rather than allow young boys, men, males, to discover them on their own and develop and use their innate powers of judgment.
No cars. No guns. No mind-altering experiences. Not even a minimum of tribal wildness. It makes no sense, but, sadly, they learn that they have no power. This lesson, this discovery, of the effects and limits, and the often violent acquisition of power, turns out to be very important, and, ultimately, tragic. The exercise of parental and societal power insures that each succeeding generation of guys are changed from playful cubs, setting small fires and incessantly jumping and shouting, to calculating, grasping, and, sometimes, devious adolescents and fraternity brothers, who worry about their status and about just how they are going to control the world and its inhabitants, so that they, alone, will be King of the Hill.
It’s frightening.
Time marches on, while evolution moves slowly. The Age of Aquarius has dawned. The age of Oprah is underway. 2012 is on the horizon, and a cosmic consciousness is beginning to pervade the population. Change is inevitable, as is the end of childhood. Soap will always be available and, with age, comes wisdom. Not only that, but a guy’s senses develop and understanding begins to sink in.
To wit: those sheets, actually, are dirty and may be the cause of several unpleasant side effects. Those jeans just won’t crumple to the floor. They stand there in the corner and are, for some reason, a little disturbing. And, without a shower, it’s not just Mom, who is keeping her distance, it’s that girl with the red hair.
Boys will be boys, but what about those girls? I mean, what about them?
Lately… whatever that means. It could mean, for the past several months, or for the last week or so, or for the last couple of days. If one factors in the Information Revolution, aging, and the possible onset of that disease whose name I can never remember, it could be this morning or just a minute ago.
However it may be, lately…, I’ve been experiencing myself in a new way. I mean ‘experiencing myself’ not in the biblical sense, but that my actions, thoughts, and feelings are all in alignment and working together. There is an identifiable sense of self.
This sense of self may strike you as something that should be obvious, or something to be worked out in the second year of college, or something completely incomprehensible. To me, it is something willfully created, struggled for, hoped for, but which can only come about in its own time. I have been looking for the switch, with determination, through the years and have never found it.
I always tried to be whoever they wanted me to be – good son, well-behaved student, businessman, employee, but I could never really get the hang of it. I spoke inappropriately, my biorhythms were out of sync, I worked too much or not enough. I knew I was not fulfilling my potential. I was not buckling down to the job at hand. I was not taking the whole thing seriously.
I tried but, inevitably, each time, I would fail. I was like an incurable alcoholic. I had, with shame, hidden some facet of myself in the bottom desk drawer. I had a couple of those small airplane bottles of longing, stuffed behind my socks. I kept saying I would quit, but never could. The voices in my head were too insistent, too distracting.
I had to face the truth: I was an imposter. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. An Emperor with no clothes. A guy who hadn’t done the laundry. Metaphors popped up unbidden. Bad puns disturbed perfectly reasonable sentences. My visions were not remotely similar to the Strategic Marketing Plan.I was a cause of disappointment to my parents. An object of worry to my sisters. A failure in the eyes of my friends. And, I was unemployable.
This left me with few options. There would be no title – Captain of Industry – for me. I would not figure in the Alumni News column. I could never become a CPA. Somewhere, back there, I had my Occupational Aptitude tested and, though it was exciting to contemplate, I knew, even then, that I would never become a television repairman or an astronaut. I’m afraid of heights.
Now what?! This is a question I have repeatedly asked myself. And, that was exactly the problem. Me and myself were on different sides of the fence. I could not figure it out and, myself, try, as it might, couldn’t make me hear the answer.Time, in general, age, in particular, the state of the world, and the economy, in many ways, wore me down. I gave up all of my ambiguous ambitions. It seemed, as if every possibility had been exhausted or wasn’t interested. To continue the metaphor from before, I gave up and said, dejectedly, “Make it a double. And keep ‘em coming.”
But metaphors are only that. They break down, at some point, and it’s hard to keep things straight. Are we talking about philosophy, psychology, or psychosis? Does drink represent desire or de-opposite?
What has happened is one of those ironies, upon which many major religions have been founded: Surrender to what is and peace will follow. Stop looking and you will find it. Wherever you go, there you are.
The only thing to do has been to take the advice of the masters – Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream. Go with the flow. Turn, turn, turn. Keep on truckin’. It seems those guys in the 60s were onto something.
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