Writer, Inc.

Last Monday, Station Shorts was put back up on Lulu. We resolved our problems. One writer left not only the project, but the entire message board. She took her marbles and left in a huff. The person she was 'defending' in this maneuver, remained and is still included in the book.

With her departure and the tentative loss of another writer's work, we included two new writers and three more of my stories. I ended up with a dozen pieces in the book. Out of 70 or so stories. We lost only one writer and the new version is actually a longer book than the first.

I placed my order soon after awakening on Monday morning, before something else untoward happened. Lulu has myriad printing and shipping options. They ranged to nearly eight times the actual price of the book to dirt cheap. I chose 'dirt cheap' as I had already waited for over a month to get it. I could wait a few days longer without getting all upset.

I got a notice that my book shipped on Wednesday and it arrived in Saturday's mail. I'm not sure how much faster any other shipping method would have worked. I had my printed and bound book in hand in under a week. I was and remain absolutely thrilled with that. Ecstatic, even.

I know that I am writer because I write. I write a blog. I write a serial fiction piece. I write historical essays. I write. I'm a writer. But to date, everything I've written has been available on a screen or off my very own printer. I've never seen my words printed elsewhere and bound together and for sale. I don't see any profit from this – all proceeds go to Amnesty International. But apparently my work is good enough to think that maybe someone somewhere would pay to see it. Thrilling.

A few months ago I joined a reading group. It is interesting enough that I joined a second one as well. Last night I went to my first writers group. I had this scheduled for a few weeks now. This was not predicated on receiving my book in the mail. I opted to act more like an author than simply a writer. And I was pointed in the direction of this group and was told that I would be welcome should I opt to attend.

They, too, have a compilation book on sale. A Gathering of Flowers is at Amazon and is advertised as poetry, short stories, and essays.

I met the editor of the local newspaper (and two more small local papers), a woman whose 18th book had hit the stands that day, local names I recognized, and other people dedicated to the proposition that words are important. I had a lovely evening and actually felt included.

With each new tentative step I take, I feel that I'm coming closer and closer to being the storyteller that my mother used to speak about – her own Daddy. Francis Francis was born in Ireland, had the instinctive gift of gab that is often bestowed by Kissing the Blarney Stone, and was said to be a delightful story teller. I've kissed the Blarney Stone, walking up and then down the 100 steps to reach it and return to ground. I believe it was symbolic because my 'gift of gab' remains in the same high gear it has always been in. What has changed is the number of times I've written the stories down.

I started first with my voluminous account of my trip to Ireland. The Emerald Island is captivating, our stories were personal but timeless. The beauty of castle ruins, the joys of traveling with a group, and the bonding experience between sisters and mother was unique.

I wrote an entire travel book about our adventures in Alaska and found that to be as fun, but for different reasons, as my first travelogue.

And now, I'm a published author who is part of an authors group. The only thing I really miss right now is being able to tell Mom. "Hey, Mom. Can you hear me now? Isn't this grand?"

My New Hero

Roy Baumeister, PhD and Professor of Psychology at Florida State University analyzed about 15,000 studies that averred that increasing self-esteem would help everybody. First, he found that only 200 studies actually held to rigid scientific standards. And those studies proved exactly the opposite of the general mantra. Telling people they are wonderful doesn't make them wonderful. Wow!

Dr. Baumeister said, "There's no question you get the best results with highly contingent praise and criticism. That means praising exactly what you did right and criticizing exactly what you did wrong. Just praising kids regardless of how they do contains very little useful information; if anything, it has a negative effect on learning. I've had to revise my opinions about self-esteem several times; I'm kind of done with it. I don't think it can deliver much of what we want. Self-control, self-regulation – these give a whole lot more bang for the buck, deliver a lot more in practical results. I think self-esteem is relegated, if not to Siberia, at least to the Urals."

I wonder how long it will take to make everyone realize that the self-esteem bandwagon was far more band and it wasn't going anywhere. We have raised a generation of kids who are horrible at fact finding. Even if you can't find the Pacific Ocean on the globe is no reason to feel bad about anything and you are still good at geography. Just because you can't spell or write a complete sentence is no reason to doubt your ability to become the next best-selling author.

It seems that some of the authorities are finally noticing that simple praise, especially unearned praise, is counter-productive. Why should anyone strive to improve if they are perfect just they way they are? This is the crux of the self-esteem problem. Not everything we do is perfect. Most things are far from hitting anywhere close to the mark. When we are given constructive help in finding the errors, we have a chance of correcting them. When we tell Little Snowflake that everything is the best ever, Little Snowflake never sees where to place extra effort in order to improve.

Education has taken the stance that telling students that they are doing well is somehow supposed to make everybody brilliant. Some schools have stopped honor rolls because Snowflake might get his or her little feelings hurt because the attained GPA doesn't meet the standards. So the kids who worked their tails off to actually earn good grades aren't permitted to do any of that "showing off" stuff so that the less smart (or less driven) students don't feel bad.

They go to college and spend an entire year taking non-credit remedial classes so that they might be able to do college level work. Why hasn't anyone noticed that high schools are turning out many of their students unable to continue on with education at a higher level? And these are colleges that are offering watered down curricula.

I'm not sure who started this whole tell-them-they-are-perfect crap. It should have been obvious long ago that it isn't working. Instead, the loony tunes who sing this song just keep saying that we aren't instilling enough self-esteem in the children.

It is called self-esteem because it is something you see for yourself. You feel good about yourself when you actually achieve something. We aren't born knowing everything. We must learn it. When we finally master something, a sense of accomplishment leads to an increased sense of self worth and mastery. Even the dumb kids can see when their papers aren't like the smart kids' papers. And yes, even at a very young age, we know who is smart and who isn't. The smart kids always know the right answers. They always can answer. But even they – the smart kids – don't know everything. And they can improve. If someone would simply point out the exact place where improvement is possible.

Poor Thing

I went to Wal-Mart and it was an adventure. I found cool things for the grandchildren for Valentine's Day. No rush since I can't see them today anyway. And pistachios were on sale so I got some. The lettuce was wilted, so I will wait and get some at Publix tomorrow. I had seven items in my cart, including a gallon of milk which was why I even bothered with a cart at all.

I went to the 20 OR LESS checkout since – as I said – I had only seven items. A woman in front of me was just mean and nasty. She might have been five foot tall, but maybe not. She was 81-years-old as she screamed several times. The gentleman right behind her saw her unloading her entire cart and moved to a different line.

I merely stood there. I really wasn't in any hurry and so it was no big deal – until she started with the screaming. "I can barely walk. I'm 81-years-old. I need to be here."

I was startled as I hadn't even given her my "mean mother look" and yet she was flailing her skinny little arms around and saying horrible things about South Carolina and loading more and more items onto the small counter and the cooler behind it. The woman who was already paying for her goods said, "But it's the express lane. For 20 items or less." This simply set off more screaming.

My Wal-Mart is a Super Center so it is rather large. In the southwest corner is the pet department. Mean Old Bat (MOB) had lots of individual packets of dog food and dog treats. In the northeast corner of the store is the produce department. MOB had some kale. And MOB had managed to walk all over the entire store to gather together all the myriad items that she was purchasing. I did not point this out. I stayed quiet and watched her shout at people coming into the store.

The cashier could reach the items that MOB placed on the counter, but the items on the cooler were out of her reach. MOB just watched her try to reach the stuff. The cashier was not much taller than MOB. So I stepped up and moved all the things from the cooler on to the counter so the cashier could reach them. The cashier thanked me. MOB said, "I don't thank anyone. I don't even thank God."

Apparently.

I made no comment to that either but by this time there was a line behind me. I turned to the woman behind, with two items in her cart, and said, "She seems angry." That woman said, "Well, you did a nice thing anyway." And again I didn't say what I wanted, which was that I did it for the cashier, not for MOB.

So the witch bought $118 and some change worth of groceries in the speed checkout lane. And she wanted to charge it. But she didn't know how to work the credit card slider thing because the picture was just too difficult for someone who is 81-years-old. The cashier helped her with that and then she signed. Nothing happened. We all waited, so I told MOB that she had to hit OK on the board. "Well, I can't remember everything, I'm 81-years-old."

Well, yes. My mother-in-law is 85 and has had a total knee replacement. She doesn't abuse the fast checkout lanes. My mother was 84 when she died and I never, ever saw her behave in such an egregious manner. When her leg bothered her, she walked slower. We couldn't even get her to park close to the doors because she had a new car and someone might ding the doors.

When it was my turn to get my seven items paid for I quietly said to the cashier, "I never said anything to her." And the cashier said, "She always acts like that when she comes in here."

And this MOB left the store, stupid and crippled and unable to function and got her parcels into her car, (apparently being 81-years-old was in no way affecting her driving) and drove home to her dogs who are the only nice things in South Carolina, according to MOB.

My grandchildren are in South Carolina, you old bat, and they are very nice. And may the force be with you. And if you ever get back on speaking terms with your God, your life might improve. And dear sweet Mother of God, stop being so crabby. Oh, and have a Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.

Irony, Thy Name is Human

So, I've been a full time housewife now for a few weeks and the whole togetherness all the time, every day, was wearing a little thin. I really like to behave oddly without an audience. I sing – poorly – with the radio or stereo. I dance around rooms. I don't like an audience for this. The kids used to sneak up on me and it drove me nuts. But they all moved out years ago.

I listen to books on CD and you really need to follow along with those. And then someone walks through the house, making noise or even – shudder – speaking to me and I have to go back and stop the CD and reverse and then I more often than not have to start at the track's beginning.

Or he stands and watches me cook – my time to listen to the book on CD – and I'm not sure of the purpose of this. I was turning off the CD for a while, but that seemed pointless. We barely have enough to share through the quick process of eating dinner. "What did you do today, dear?" is a rather pointless question when you have spent the entire day together.

I'm used to more alone time. And I miss it. But … now for the irony … he's away golfing for a week and the silence and solitude is grating on my nerves. Great, now I'm not comfortable with him here OR with him gone.

I think that we are still in flux and unsure of the future and that the uncertainty is unsettling. I'm still not certain that I can remain a housewife. I may have to go out and get a meaningless job of some sort or another. That is going to cut into my playtime. Perhaps if I were really busy, I would stop recording 3 hours of stupid, meaningless programming each day, even though I can watch them in 2.25 hours.

Maybe if I had something real to do with my 24 hours, I wouldn't spend so many of them playing computer games. I would still write and I would still read, but my already 10,000+ solitaire games would probably increase at a slower rate. Not to mention the other games I waste so much time with.

But the silence isn't quite so golden. I really miss interacting with people. Real people. I post to message boards and send and receive emails. I have blogs and a website. I'm connected via a land line and cell phone. And I've not yet had a need to speak today except to ask the dog if she wanted to go outside.

I wonder how upset I will be with myself in the coming decades when I look back on this time and see myself just wallowing in nothingness here. I'm told that intelligent people can't be bored. Pshaw. I absolutely know that I'm intelligent. And I absolutely know that I'm bored.

Blogging Has Issues

I've tried. Lord knows, I've tried. I tried Yahoo's blog and it was simply not working for me. I have to go back and edit far too often and Yahoo doesn't like that. I can understand. I would like perfection on the first run, too. I don't often get there, but I would like it.

So I created another blog for my Station Shorts here at blogspot. However, not wanting to inundate my readers with messages on a daily basis telling them that I have in fact written another portion of the story, I only send out a reminder about how busy I've been every three days.

So on Wednesday and Saturday I send out a little mailing that has the latest three tales with a brief (very brief) summary of what the story is about. I put them in chronological order in the email reminder. And send a link.

But blogs build up from the base. The newest is always on top, which is great for a normal blog because usually what I wrote about before has no bearing whatsoever on what I'm writing about now.

With fiction, at least the fiction that I'm working with, each story is predicated on the day before. They really make far more sense when read in the order written, which is backwards on a blog.

This was driving me nuts and made it difficult for some people to follow my stories. Something had to be done. I didn't think that blogging was going to change for me and if it did, then this blog would be messed up. I needed another solution.

There was only one that I could come up with. Design my own website and link my stories together one after the other. No backwards stuff. Everything one day after the other. Turn the page, read the next one. Hit next, get the latest one.

And then, I realized that I'm not 'just' a writer of fiction. I'm also a writer of non-fiction. I have a whole book of non-fiction written. Essays written for all 366 days of the year. They are all ready and only need to be formatted into a website.

"This should be easy," I said to myself. Now all I needed to do is get a domain name, create a website, upload the thing, and have everything in order. Easy as pie. It's taken me several days to do this one easy thing.

But I have my own website. And you can go visit it. All you need to do is click on this link.