James Elliott

Medley of Fairy Tales, Volume II

2018-10-01T20:05:00.003-06:00

A few years ago, I met a remarkable person named Jenni James. Jenni is a bestselling author of something like 40 books (HERE's a link to her Amazon Author page and you can count them). I can't remember under what circumstances we met, but I know it involved exchanging home-baked goods at our doorsteps, and being invited into each other's houses, etc...Jenni is an awesome cook.

I don't remember how the subject came up, but Jenni asked me if I wanted to be in a writer's group. Another writer, Allison Brown, was interested in starting a group in our area. That invitation has changed my life. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. I owe Jenni and Allison a great debt of gratitude for their kindness and their advice over the past three years or so. Three years! Time is so weird.

Last year we decided to put together a book of fairy tales. I wrote a Snow White adaptation, "Blancanieves," for that book. This year we've got another compilation and I wrote a Peter Pan story for it.

I invite anyone who is interested to click the photo and grab yourselves a copy.

How I Fell Into Fantasy And Fairy Tale Projects

2018-09-28T21:40:00.001-06:00

My mini-novella Blanca is
now on Kindle.

"We voted, and we decided we're going to write fairy tales."

I arrived late to the meeting, and I missed the discussion and the vote about the anthology our writing group planned to write. The famous author in our group had written a dozen--or maybe two dozen--fairy tale adaptations, and they decided we would all contribute a fairy tale to an anthology. They were smart.

I tried not to seem terrified at the prospect of writing a fairy tale adaptation.

"What do you think, James?"

"Awesome!"

"Are you sure?"

"Uh huh."

I'm not sure how I chose to adapt Snow White. I chose Spain because it seems like a Spanish tale. I chose insanity as opposed to an actual magic mirror. The evil queen is Snow White's biological mother, and she has motives other than physical beauty and which are arguably noble.

I threw together this cover
to share the story on Wattpad.

At the group meetings that followed, I sat and listened, and I cracked dumb jokes. Mostly I cracked dumb jokes. I also learned a lot. At home I worked on my fairy tale and other projects. I ended up with a mini-novella, that I was pretty happy with. It went through edits and I fixed things and made it better.

I now love the fantasy/fairy tale genre. My tale Blancanieves (the Spanish name for Snow White), was published in 2017. This year I have another tale in the 2018 volume. Peter And The Lost Boy is a short version of the novel I am working on, and it will be out in October in A Medley of Fairy Tales Volume II.

Anyone who has read my selection of stories, Dead On The Corridor, should know that my tales are not for the faint of heart. In Blancanieves, for example, there is a throat-slitting scene, and at least two other violent deaths. I don't do Disney cartoons.

My novel, The Shadow of Neverland, is intended for audiences ages 12 and up. I should be finished with it sometime in early 2019, heaven help me.

Autumn Calling

2018-09-09T14:19:00.000-06:00

Sunlight in September is different than mid-summer in Utah. It's the light that comes through clouds after a rain, but there has been no rain. It seems as if Utah isn't the desperately dry place it really is, and maybe some of those clouds in the partly cloudy sky will expand and fall on us and give us the drenching that church-going Utahns have been praying and fasting for. The light is subdued, as if some of the red from the oaks and maples on the mountains has filtered into it.

The nights are chilly, but not quite freezing, and the days are still almost mid-summer hot. The grass on the lawns grows faster for some reason and it's as long after one week as it ever was in July when I could get away with mowing every two weeks. We haven't had rain, but I don't have to water as much.

Skunks are out every night, and by the smell of them, they're coming closer to our homes. I came face to face with a very young skunk in my hen-house this week. He wasn't afraid of me, and he wasn't alarmed. He just kept eating the egg he had just broken. I waited until he left, and then I boarded up the small hole he had come through, a one-and-a-half-inch gap that I didn't believe a skunk or raccoon could squeeze through. I never thought of their babies.

It's hunting season, and I am surrounded by hunting land. Throughout the day I hear gunfire all around us. My son comments each time. He's a pretty good aim with a rifle, and I think he wants to go hunting.

I planted one zuccini this year. That's about the right number for anyone. I've got two zuccini squash sitting on the kitchen counter right now, which I plan to cook for dinner tonight. We dehydrated some yellow summer squash that I'll throw into soups and stews this winter.

I planted three tomatoes this year. That's about the right number for my family, too. I've got some Peruvian selections of potatoes growing out there---little strange-looking things that don't look like the ones from the supermarket. That strange look is why I planted them. The common russet, red and yellow potatoes are so cheap in stores that they're almost not worth growing in a backyard. Pumpkins, butternut squash and acorn squash are just about ready to pick. My peppers have gone crazy this year. In my spring garden, where I grow peas and greens that I harvested back in June, I let the sunflowers grow through the summer, and they've been in full bloom for two months. Thousands of birds come and eat the seeds, and I throw the rest of the flowers to the hens.

Autumn is coming to kill most of the green around here, but not before turning it into something beautiful. I'll be forty-two this week. Forty-two! There is so much I want to do in the next forty-two, and I have only just begun. I believe that I have a good while to go before my own autumn. I hope that Nature does something worthwhile with me before winter.

The Handmaid's Tale

2018-04-04T20:18:00.002-06:00

I finished reading The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, a few months ago. Since reading it, I have begun a dozen times to write about it, but I'm just not sure how. It seems like something I shouldn't touch. But I'm going to do it anyway and share some thoughts that it brought to mind as I read.

Last year a few dozen women dressed in the red robes and white headpieces, like the ones in the Hulu series, and they stood in silent protest at the Utah State capitol. This was a stark picture against the gray and white backdrop of the State capitol buildings. Seeing it in the news made me shiver, because I could sense the justice behind their cause. As a white male I am identical to the oppressor in the novel, in the television series, and in Utah. So, I will try to be sensitive here as I talk about the book.

I first want to talk about the writer's style: Stark, beautiful, poetic. Many passages touched me the same way good poetry does, and I stopped to re-read them several times just to experience them again and again. There aren't many books have that effect on me. I love Atwood's style.

The least beautiful prose (done purposely, I believe, for effect) occurs at the end of the book. I can imagine it's not everyone's favorite ending. This may be a bit of a spoiler: At the book's end, we are presented to a cold and scholarly view of the people we have just been reading about. We see the protagonist, a woman named Offred, through impersonal eyes. She scholars are having a casual conversation, even making jokes, about this character we care about. They are many generations removed from Offred, and they view her dispassionately, as nothing more than a historical specimen.

One scholar expresses disappointment that Offred didn't talk more about the form of government and other things scholars often care about. From where they stood, far away in time from Offred, the scholars are unable to empathize with her. It was here that the book's impact settled into my mind. I felt the guilt and shame of having analyzed other human beings in exactly this way, for speaking about the sufferings and experiences of other humans as if I were a food critic commenting on the relative sweetness of a cake.

This book is not perfect. There are a few aspects of the story that require the skills of a Star Wars apologist so it all works perfectly. I forgive the novel for those things, like I forgive Charles Dickens for sometimes putting way too many handy coincidences in his novels, and Mark Twain for making the world so small that Tom Sawyer could find Huck Finn in the American South. I forgive well written books for their little idiosyncracies.

The Handmaid's Tale has stuck with me, in my psyche, since I finished it. I don't believe America will fall backward and become that world; however, I can understand the problems in my culture, the anger of women after thousands of years being bullied, harrassed, assaulted, undermined, dehumanized, delegitimized, etc...I can understand that "we've come a long way since 1955" is not a good excuse for still having problems today.

I loved Margaret Atwood's writing. I want to read more! On a social level, I want to do what I can to never again settle for just being a "nice guy." I feel compelled to learn, to get rid of the aspects of my character that may contribute to human suffering, and to become good.

I know this is kind of a rambling string of thoughts. I've got a lot on my mind lately, and I guess my disparate thoughts reflect that. There's a lot going on in my world aside from reading and writing. But thank goodness for great books.

My Process For Final Drafts

2017-12-17T09:52:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty obsessive about producing a clean manuscript. I revise, revise and revise some more. Then some more...and some more...and on until I eventually have to close my eyes and be done with it. Usually the first draft and the hundredth draft vary so much that they're hardly related at all (admittedly I'm a "big picture" kind of person, and I depend on copy editors for help with dumb things like typos).

As a youth I was a musician--a percussionist and vocalist. In my classical voice training I studied music theory, and learned things such as when it's appropriate to add a hint of VII to your V, or how to change time signatures to add variety without confusing everyone. It was much more mathematical than I ever wanted it to be, but I passed!

Now, when I read good books, one of my critical filters is my musical training. I intuitively look for rhythm and whether the "music" of the text is erratic and disconnected from its different parts, and whether it flows at a speed I can follow. This is difficult to explain. All good fiction has a certain cadence, a consistency of rhythm. Fans read good fiction because it awakes their creative faculties and makes them feel something, while still giving them plenty of intellectual stimulation.

The fiction writer must, in all circumstances, realize he or she is partnering with the reader to create the story. If I don't write fiction so that a reader can create my stories right alongside me, then I'm not really a writer but just a guy who writes things nobody likes. If so, the reason nobody likes it is because I talked past them, over them, or under them. I didn't write in a way that invited them to create with me.

I'm working on finishing up several short stories right now, and I'm somewhere near the end of my drafting. This is the most tedious part, and the hardest to explain. Here, I read each paragraph and observe what my mind creates. If my rhythm is too fast or too slow, if I use distracting grammar, or anything else that I feel might pull the reader out of the process of creating my story, I tweak it, then re-read and tweak again.

I've read thousands of pages by authors and editors about how to remove distracting language from my writing, and I've taken notes on scraps of paper and stuffed them into a little notebook. After several years I've created quite an unruly mess of "things to remember." I'm now compiling this information and putting it in one easy-to-navigate place. And that place can be found in the tabs along the top of this blog.

Right now I've only got about a dozen topics--my main points of weakness--and a short blurb for each one. But I'll be adding to these over time. Feel free to add any comments, so I can learn from you.

I hope you all have a beautiful day.

The Moon Is Down, by John Steinbeck

2017-11-16T12:25:00.002-07:00

A Short Novel About Occupying Foreign Nations

I'm taking a tour of Steinbeck's work these days. Several months ago I finished Grapes of Wrath and In Dubious Battle, and I'm currently reading Cannery Row. Earlier this week I finished his short novel The Moon Is Down.

The former three are books about poor people in America in the early 20th Century. The Moon Is Down, published in 1942, takes place on a fictional English island. It begins with an invasion of the island by the military of an unnamed English-speaking nation.

Steinbeck's writing style, his ability to use every-man's English to draw the reader into his stories, his uncomplicated but perfectly drawn images, and almost everything else that made his writing last beyond his lifetime, it's all found in this book. However, because it is short, the character development is not quite as profound as in his longer novels. If you like Steinbeck's writing style, but you don't want to read socialist-leaning fiction, this is a good one.

This book explores what happens when a powerful nation invades a weaker nation in order to exploit that nation's natural resources. At the beginning of the story, the invaders enter the island and take it after subduing the island's inadequate military. Aside from a few deaths in the skirmish the invaders plan on keeping the peace and even assume they'll have friendly relationships with the islanders, and they even allow the government of the island to keep working...although they make it clear if the island's leaders don't do their bidding, they'll quickly remove them from power.

The military allows schools and shops to remain open. They increase the coal mining--coal being the natural resource they wanted--and try to allow things to operate as usual. But there's a slow decline in their sense of control, a decline in economic growth, and after many months, the islanders want to be free from their occupiers. The occupiers see themselves as the enforcers of law and order, but the islanders see them as the invaders they are. The story ends just as things start to get really ugly. At the end, the island's mayor and the local medical doctor have an amazing interaction that I won't recount here, but which is poignant similar in spirit to the way the Grapes of Wrath is poignant, with profound lessons taught in words and in actions.

What I found most interesting was the insight. World War II was raging in Europe, and America was entering the fray. But this story was written prior to the infamous wars fought only to defeat economic ideologies and to exploit natural resources. This was before we overthrew Guatemala's democratically elected government, just to name an example, to protect our consumption of tropical fruit (our actions led to the mass murders of hundreds of thousands of Guatemalan natives and poor people). It was before we went around occupying nations and murdering citizens because they weren't capitalists (we were protecting "American interests abroad"). It was before we really got down and dirty in the Middle East.

What happens at the end of the book is this: The natives of the island begin conducting terrorist activities. They are out-weaponed, so they find sneaky ways to blow up military resources, railroad lines, etc...In today's lingo, they become terrorists. In the peoples' minds, some of their friends have been executed, their children are hungry, they're being exploited by foreigners. They're angry as hell and they're not going to take it any more. Furthermore, the English mainland is sneaking dynamite over to them to help them fight this powerful military regime (in today's terms, England is a State sponsor of terror). The island's Mayor knows what is happening, although he avoids having any direct knowledge about who, why, how, and when. That way, he can plausibly deny knowing anything. The military invaders become increasingly angry with the Mayor, though they know he knows little or nothing about the terrorist activities.

I was struck by the fact that this was written before America sent our military around the world, militarily attacking sovereign nations for ideological reasons and producing millions of desperate angry citizens in the process, who become terrorists.

In the book, the people blowing up the occupying military are heroes--the terrorists are heroes. No matter what their freedoms were before this army showed up, the people saw their occupiers, I think rightly, for what they were.

Perhaps that's why this book is one of Steinbeck's lesser known novels these days. It rings too true to American activities over the past several hundred years, and we're not very good at self-reflection.

Sample From Dead On The Corridor

2017-11-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

This is the preface and first several pages of my book,

Dead On The Corridor

The ebook is only $2.99 here
Read it free on Kindle Unlimited

Preface

__________

I am surrounded by mountains in every direction. The little valley where I live in the geographical center of Utah was originally inhabited by several Native American tribes, but they were displaced by Mormon Pioneers who fled the United States in the Nineteenth Century for what was then a territory of Mexico. Later, they were joined by thousands of Scandinavian immigrants. Those were my ancestors.

The region was thought to be Zion, and God was thought to be the grand architect.

Here in the most drought-stricken parts of North America, my ancestors clashed with and displaced the tribes; fought wars; experimented with theocracy, polygamy, and communism; built temples, churches, schools. They instilled in their children an apocalyptic mythology; a faith in unique symbols, doctrines, and rituals; a sense of responsibility toward the living and the dead; traditions, food, dialect; and so many other things that still flavor the culture today.

My ancestors established an iron-clad patriarchal system, in which men alone are believed to have the divine authority and power to rule in God’s Kingdom, and they embraced a social doctrine that made obedience to their authority the first law of heaven.

But they also established the legendary Mormon work ethic, a social doctrine of charitable service, and the teaching that humanity is a family and all human beings are children of God. The curses and blessings that rise from these traditions are evident today like a city on a hill.

Interstate Fifteen now cuts right through the earliest Mormon settlements, extending from Southern Nevada, through the middle of Utah, and into Idaho.

I am a part of this culture. For better and for worse we are peculiar. The founders of my culture with all their justices, injustices, fears, loves, hatreds, and joys are my parents. And I am their child.

Consecration

__________

he voices of nearly two hundred people rose into the chapel’s vaulted ceiling, echoed from its neutral cream walls, and dissipated. The organ crooned along.

A family of latecomers could hear the organ from the parking lot. Mother and father wiped the sweat from their foreheads as they walked across the sunbaked asphalt and stepped onto the sidewalk. Their children ran behind them like a brood of ducklings. They entered through the church’s double doors just as the congregation sang the last line of a hymn taken from Job’s declaration, “I know that my redeemer lives!”

The hymnals were closed and returned to the wooden slots built into the backs of the pews. Then an old woman offered a rambling invocation.

“Our dear, kind, gracious Heavenly Father. We thank thee for this beautiful day. We thank thee for our good bishop, Bishop Argyle…” She prayed for the bishop’s counselors, and for the men who oversaw the bishop, then for everyone on up through the hierarchy of church leadership. She prayed for the nation’s leaders, the worlds leaders, and for rain needed to water the parched high desert in which many congregants grew their crops. She prayed for everyone who was suffering, for struggling families, for the homeless. Nearly every soul in the world, living or dead, might have considered itself blessed when she finally said “Amen.”

The bishop rose from his seat behind the pulpit. He was in his mid-thirties but seemed a decade younger than he was.

The congregation loved him, and smiled up at him as he made the announcements. Outside their meetings they all spoke proudly of him, as if he were their own son, often describing him as Christlike. In appearance he did not look like the Jesus depicted in paintings. He was short, built like a bulldog, and his black hair was cut nearly to the scalp. He wore an ill-fitting blue suit and a Dr. Who themed tie.

His young wife and three small children sat among the crowd, but the toddler had wandered away from his family, toward the front of the chapel, where a teenaged girl had taken him under her wing.

Before he moved on with the meeting, the bishop had to settle the day’s administrative business. When he announced three new Sunday School positions, the congregation raised their hands in unanimous approval.

Down in the benches, young parents distracted their fussing, fidgeting toddlers with snacks, games, coloring books, toys. Babies whined. Women, young and old, paid attention, or wrestled their over-active children into their seats, read their volumes of scripture, or stared at the screens on their phones. Older couples sat close to one another, holding hands. Widows and widowers sat together in cliques, sometimes whispering to each other. All the pleasant scents of colognes, perfumes, deodorants, blended with the chapel’s sweet clean scent, creating a smell familiar and comforting to everyone present. Some men and teenaged boys leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, resting their foreheads on the back of the pews in front of them, napping.

A handful of twelve-year-old boys and older teens, the deacons and priests, charged with blessing and offering the sacrament of the Last Supper to the congregation, sat in the front, at attention, with tired eyes.

Most congregants had not taken food or water since dinnertime the night before. This was the first Sunday of the month, when Mormons around the world fasted.

When the bishop finished the administrative matters, there was one last piece of important business to address. This was the reason several families had come from out of town.

“Before we partake of the Sacrament,” the bishop said, “we have a very special baby blessing. I’d like to invite Brother Kendall Sanderson to come up with his beautiful baby girl. Also, anyone who has been invited to participate, please come up.”

The young father, no older than his early twenties, made his way out of a long bench, shuffling past several pairs of knees. He cradled his infant daughter, whose little white dress flowed far past her tiny feet and hung from her father’s arms. She had been sleeping, but in all the jostling she stirred.

A half-dozen other men, grandfathers and uncles, came out from the congregation to the front, just below the pulpit. The bishop, too, stepped down and joined them as they formed a tight circle. Each man had to turn sideways to make room for everyone. The baby’s father held her out into the center, and the other men placed their right hands beneath the father’s hands. Then each placed his left hand on the right shoulder of the man in front of him.

The baby, who had been fussing, looked at the dark suits and at the mens faces, and began to cry.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” began the young father. “By the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, we hold this baby in our hands to give her a name and a blessing. The name by which she shall be known upon the records of the church is Diedra Anne Sanderson…” In the prayer that followed he went on to express hopes for his daughter’s future, that she would always be surrounded by loved ones, that she would stay true to the faith, that she would grow healthy, strong, intelligent, and that she would make proper life choices. Tender emotions overcame him during the blessing. His voice shook, and he continued through his tears.

In the circle’s midst, on the altar made of men’s hands, the baby screamed, red-faced, mouth open wide, lips curled. Her arms flailed and her legs kicked frantically beneath the flowing white gown.

Only one minute passed. The blessing was over, and the congregation unanimously responded “Amen.” The circle of men parted and went back to their seats. The proud father turned to the crowd and lifted the wailing baby to the view of every eye. People smiled and made various subtle sounds of approval.

By this time, several other babies in the crowd were crying and the chapel’s high ceiling dispensed the sound equally into everyone’s ears.

The bishop stood again at the pulpit and spoke through the noise. “We’ll now prepare for the Sacrament by singing ‘God Loved Us So He Sent His Son,’ after which the bread and water will be blessed and passed by the young men.” He nodded to his left, smiling at the deacons and priests. The boys smiled back.

Then the organ commenced with a prelude.

Writing So The Reader Can Experience Your Story

2017-11-04T22:29:00.001-06:00

How To Write A Compelling Transition Scene

Recently, a young writer told me he had written a novel, and he had only written twelve-thousand words. It was a complete novel, with a complicated plot and vast journeys and lots of characters.

Well, okay. I have my doubts. Story-telling is not just about saying that so-and-so did this, said that, did that, said this, went here, went there, etc...That's basically the kind of story a tax auditor tells when he looks over your 1040. Story-telling is not the same as an auditor's report!

As authors, we know that our readers are co-creators in our work. We also must be aware that the version of the universe we've drummed up takes time for a reader to re-create in his or her own mind. This is true not only in fantasy literature, where there actually may be a whole new universe to imagine, but also of a single scene. A key scene is a universe unto itself. This means we can't just report on actions. We have to paint a scene using words, so that the reader can take the details we give them, and add a thousand other details on their own, to create something compelling.

I've had the flu for the last four or five days, so I'm probably not writing at 100% of capacity. So bear with me. I will try to illustrate what I am talking about by writing a simple little transition scene, one that may fit between two more meaningful scenes. Then I'll see if I can turn it into something more compelling. And I do this to show my young writer friends that sometimes, at certain moments, more is better. Pretend this little scene is one of those moments.

She jumped off the horse, and looked around, and then went into the palace.

Okay, I just got a girl or a woman from a horse to the inside of a palace. Mission accomplished. This may not be so bad. In fact, this may be exactly what I need, and nothing more. But let's say, for whatever reason, I want my reader to see this unfold. I still want it to be a transition between major events, but I want to establish a tone that will follow this character into the next scene. I want to give the reader a sense of where this scene came from, the present thoughts and perceptions of the character, and then I want to transition the tone of this scene into next one. I will need much more than the short description above.

Where The Scene Came From

Above, we start with the clause, she jumped off the horse. This clause should most often connect us to the most recent scene that involves this character (note: all rules are made to be broken). Also, most people don't jump from horses.

I'll take a gander at giving this clause a more real-time feel:

Without any reins or stirrups she was unable to direct the spooked and frantic horse, or to make it stop. When the horse passed the palace steps, she slid her left leg over its back, dangled briefly from its neck, then tumbled onto the street.

I just came up with that, so it's definitely not perfect. But it's much better than she jumped off the horse. Hopefully, now, the reader can infer that something strange is afoot. We have a girl riding a scared horse, and the horse is clearly not equipped for riding.

We have a more vivid scene now. Whatever is going on, it's probably something strange, or scary, or sad, etc...

The Present Moment

She looked around. That's all she did? In a sense, yes, that's all she did. And depending on what you want from the scene, maybe that's all she needs to do. But for my purposes I want to draw readers into this girl's present moment. If they can become her for a moment, the next scene inside the palace will be much more impactful. Now, what to do with the clause, she looked around...

When she opened her eyes, her head throbbed, and a trickle of blood dripped down her brow past her ear and onto the street. She gazed up at the gray sky, then over at the gray buildings. The sound of the horse's hooves faded down the street and around a corner.

She turned over to push herself off the street, but a sudden shock of pain shot from her left leg into her whole body. She gasped, and gripped her mouth hard with both hands to keep from screaming. When the shock faded into a terrible throbbing, she stood up, supporting herself with her good leg.

A few steps away was a wall that followed the stairs upward, and she limped toward it. Soon, she gazed up the steps at the large black door. All was quiet in the streets. The shutters and doors of the palace and all the houses, were closed

She could imagine few things more eerie than an empty city.

Where Is This Going?

Did I really need all of this buildup? For my purposes, yes! Now I just need her to go inside the palace:

She took the steps as fast as she could, leaning hard on the wall for support. From her head wound, the blood trickled down her face and dripped onto her dress, but she paid no mind to it. She focused on the great door that seemed to grow larger as she approached. Finally she gazed up at it, dark and forbidding, studded with iron pins around the edges. The handle was cold in her hand, and as she pulled at it, the hinges screeched and the whole contraption groaned.

Soon, she limped through the doorway and disappeared into the darkness.

To My Young Writer Friends

Do you see why you're not going to write a fully complex story with a complicated plot and many characters and settings in twelve-thousand words?

Read the best works of your genre, and see what makes them great, and you're going to see that I'm not too far off the mark. There are a thousand things that make a great novel, and I wish to heck I knew them all. But like all writers, we have to learn these things as we go, and hopefully before our days are done, we'll learn enough of them to write a laudable work of fiction that stands the test of time.

I'm going to go now, and take some extra strength Nyquil, and curl up in my bed. Happy writing to you all.

La Limonada, Guatemala City, February 1997

2017-11-01T07:32:00.001-06:00

Cinder-block on cinder-block,
Corrugated tin on top,
On a groundwork of garbage.
Fountain of filth from Guatemala City
Flows through the living landfill.
A hundred thousand bodies breathe
In narrow alleyways.
Rotting fruit and flesh,
Gunfire and groans of pain.

Young men stare at nothing, hopeless,
Inhale fumes of rubber cement --
Plastic bags over mouths and noses.
They bow their heads in shame.
Try to stand without a wobble,
Try to speak without a slur,
When talking with the passers by.
They will not beg, but wait till night,
To steal -- The lesser of sins.

Women and offspring sit on cement,
Unraveling old t-shirts to threads.
The multi-colored messy pile,
"Some company buys it -- Americans.
They say it makes good scrub for cars,
In Los Estados Unidos you pay,
And they wash your car!
We work all week for rice and beans."
T-shirt after t-shirt, thread by thread.
.

Children play on cement paths,
Little boys, half-naked -- soccer.
Thin girls jump rope,
And chase in games of tag.
A child sits by a steel door,
Eyes big, skin on bone,
Belly bloated, hair thin.
She watches. Wants to play.
Tries to stand. Gives up.

Special Forces arrive at dusk.
The peace accords are signed,
But not in every mind. Not here.
Some hearts must be forced.
Families hide behind brick walls,
Behind the metal doors,
Quietly on cement floors.
Gunfire lights the streets all night.
Patches of blood on walls and paths
When the sun rises.

The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair

2017-10-30T10:18:00.003-06:00

The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair, is one of America's controversial novels. I finished reading it at around midnight last night, and I want to record my thoughts about it here.

First published in 1906, it's a fictional account of a family's hardships while trapped in the industrial meat-packing district of Chicago. Sinclair worked for a couple of months under-cover in that district before he wrote the book.

The story begins with the wedding of a young couple, immigrants from Lituania newly settled in Chicago. We later learn about the hardships this family has endured and is still enduring. Having come to the United States for a better life, they have quickly found that life is much more complicated than they anticipated, and more, they have found themselves trapped in poverty like many thousands, or perhaps millions, of other immigrants, blacks, and women.

Throughout the novel we see the main character, Jurgis, a large, strong man, as he is slowly broken down and left destitute. We see others die from lack of healthcare. We see a strong and optimistic woman reduced to drug addiction and prostitution. We see all kinds of suffering that is common in poverty-stricken nations even today. Anyone who has spent much time in poverty, or who has at least keenly observed poverty, will recognize the characters in this book.

The last several pages of The Jungle are dedicated to a long socialist credo, which reminded me, at least in form, of the John Galt sermon at the end of Atlas Shrugged. Frankly, after walking with the protagonist through his horrendous (if sometimes self-imposed) circumstances, I don't want to be preached to.

Scenes that take place in the meat-packing plants are gruesome and sickening. According to the articles I read about The Jungle, there was a public outcry after the book was released, not on behalf of the poor, but for food safety. Sinclair's socialist narrative did not have the effect he was looking for.

Sinclair's prose is beautiful, even at his young age (he was still in his 20s when he wrote it). However, his protagonist's relationship with his wife, Ona, seemed unconvincing and wooden most of the time. It is difficult to write about something one has not experienced. It takes great care to get it right, and I don't think he took great enough care.

Furthermore, Jurgis isn't a very likeable character. I'm not the kind of reader who wants a perfect protagonist -- not at all -- but I want to find at least one aspect of his or her character perfectly likeable. Even in morally questionable fictional characters, like Dexter on the series Dexter, they are given enough likeable qualities to make fans want more episodes and seasons of the show -- and Dexter is a murderous sociopath. Jurgis is not a murderous sociopath, but it seems the only character trait he has going for him is a strong work ethic. That just doesn't keep people wanting more.

The portraits Sinclair writes for us, of the dingy district, the gruesome work of mass animal slaughter, the political corruption, the street life of the average resident in those areas, and the suffering they endure...those are excellent. He uses his protagonist to walk us through all these scenarios. Sinclair, a journalist by nature, found a genius way to write an engaging and very long opinion editorial: a novel! In fact, the novel was published as a serial in a socialist newspaper before it was compiled into a novel.

My great disappointment with The Jungle was the socialist scrawl at the end. I have already noted my comparison with the end of Atlas Shrugged. However, when I read Atlas Shrugged, with the long infomercial at the end, I wasn't too surprised, because Atlas Shrugged is not something I consider high-level literature. With The Jungle, due to the quality of the writing, I expected better from Sinclair. I was expecting, I suppose, something that would settle the book's narrative into my emotional core...I'll explain what I mean...

...Sell me a symbol of the ideology, instead of the ideology itself. I've come to expect that from literary classics. Grapes of Wrath is filled with a kind of socialist propaganda, but when I got to the end of that book, I placed it on my lap and stared at the wall in awe for a long time. Nobody had lectured me at the end. The narrative was the lecture, and the symbols were a hundred-fold more effective than a sermon. Books like Moby Dick and Middlemarch were monsters to slog through, often leaving me wondering why -- why! -- are these considered literary classics? Then, near the end, came the catharsis, that whole staring at the wall thing I do, whether in awe, or horror, or whatever emotion the book has left me with. But The Jungle left me without that, and I feel a bit cheated.

2017-10-28T02:11:00.004-06:00

I wrote this poem last year. I had taken a walk on an old farm road...and I had been reading Beowulf and probably the Canterbury Tales as well. The old blog post from last year got corrupted somehow, so I'm posting it again for my own record-keeping, and just to share. It's not a masterpiece. It was one of those five minute streams of consciousness that usually needs substantial editing...but nah. :-)

That day was a beautiful overcast day in Nephi, Utah. This feral wheat field has been left without a harvest for who-knows-how-many years. And every year the wheat grows, drops it's seeds, then grows again the next year. I loved seeing that old dead tree with remnants of a makeshift tree house in it. I also thought the old factory in the background was an interesting contrast to everything else in the scene. But I need to be clear that I did not have a vision of a toddler, etc...

A Toddler's Tale

While walking past a fallow field,

Along a lonely farming road,

I felt a west wind touch my face,

Which turned my eye toward a tree

Long dead amid the feral wheat.

Stalk and stem were ashen gray.

A scaffold — simple millers lath —

Was placed across the lofty limbs by children

Long before the layered asphalt

Lay upon the clay farm-road.

Farmers’ homes athwart the road,

Were wrecked and borne away in olden days.

A factory covers the foundations,

Where once was wheat, now well-trimmed turf.

Strange shrubs shake their red September leaves.

On this wise I viewed a vision,

Lived a life in time long past:

A footprint, figure, molded mark,

Made of memory, imagery, fancy.

The vision — weird — gave me a ghost.

Before I saw the phantoms of the field

I was unnerved by whispers

Tempting, coaxing, summoning,

Commanding me to come and climb

Contorted lifeless timbers of the tree.

Then, from that far-off time,

I heard the happy howls of farmers’ offspring,

Saw the bounding children as they danced,

Sported, played and squabbled swung

And scaled within the sunless shade.

I found myself among them. Young.

Younger. Now an infant, toddling,

Older kin — brothers, sisters — chased and tagged.

I laughed, ran, fell, stood, laughed and ran,

Again, again, again, again,

Till mother called her cherished children in.

Yet I waited in the wake behind,

For I fancied the scaffolding — craved the climb —

To stand where bigger brothers stood

Like lords looking upon their lands.

I gripped a rope in hand, worked upward

Along the knotted wood-road, upward

To boughs that roofed the rough-milled timber floor.

Once throned I watched the wider world,

The wheat-fields, houses, township, water-ways.

Mother called again — my name.

I faltered, slipped, tumbled, fell,

Raven-black, crack, obsidian-sharp. I lay,

Sight through sieve, sound through stream,

Far and faded, static, staring, wailing without a whisper.

Mother, groaned, rushed across the road,

Gathered her ragdoll baby in her arms.

Farmers of neighbor fields with father,

Encircled me, invoked The Father.

Physician found the broken bones, back, brain.

I blinked — was all that I could do —

The blood-roads in my brain were broken,

Wordless mouth forbore what pain,

What dulling pain, now duller, duller in my head

Was come to take me home.

Mother wept upon my chest, and prayed

The Father come and save her baby,

Pay the man-price, ransom me from death,

To no avail. Her pleadings came to rest

With gods whose works were not to life.

I saw death come, caress my hand, kiss my cheek,

Pull me peaceful from my pain-bed.

Risen, saved, and salvaged, I sailed

With her in the seas of night, to stars

Beyond the forms of thought, into the light.

When I awoke from vision’s sight

I was the man I think I am,
Walking past a fallow field.

A west wind touched my weathered face

Which turned my eye toward the tree long dead.

Dead On The Corridor Is On Amazon!

2017-10-27T16:47:00.000-06:00

If anyone is curious what this book is about, please click here, and you can read excerpts and some Q&A, or keep reading below.

I hope you find the stories cathartic, or perhaps disturbing, or maybe both ;-)

The eBook is $2.99 and the paperback is $10.95

Question: Is this book about real people?

Answer: The stories are all inspired by a thousand people and a thousand events -- a little from here and a little from there. I have known people and seen things throughout my life that I cobbled together for a loose framework. But if, for example, there's an LDS (Mormon) Bishop in Fillmore, Utah, who has had the experience I wrote about in Dead On The Corridor, I'll be a monkey's uncle (writing tip: avoid cliches). Some stories are based on personal experiences, or on the experiences and beliefs of my (deceased) ancestors. But as to which parts of the book are autobiographical, I'll leave that to your imagination.

Question: What the heck is this book?

Answer: It's a collection of fiction containing vignette's and short stories about people and places along Interstate 15 between Las Vegas, through Utah, and into Idaho.

Question: What kind of stories are they?

Answer: All the stories are about death, whether it's the physical death or a kind of emotional, psychological, or spiritual death.

Question: Is it a murder mystery?

Answer: No.

Question: What genre is it then?

Answer: Dead On The Corridor is something like American Gothic in its literary style. Think of Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, or the Southern Gothic writings of William Faulkner. This book is a kind of Mormon version of that...Mormon Gothic (?)

Question: Why would anyone want to read about Mormons?

Answer: Because the Mormon culture, which dominates a very large region of the American West, is interesting. Nobody wants to think of themselves as "interesting," like zoo animals. But the culture of Utah and the surrounding region is unique and fascinating. Although this book is not a treatise on Mormon doctrine, Mormonism is definitely an element throughout the book, and like the culture, it too is unique and fascinating.

Question: Is it pro-Mormon or is it anti-Mormon?

Answer: Neither. I love my characters. Most of them are good people who do the best they can do under strange or terrible circumstances. I've had faithful Latter-day Saints, ex-Mormons, and never-Mormons read this book, or portions of it, and give me their thoughts. One glowing review came from a faithful LDS reader. Another highly favorable review came from an ex-Mormon. Yet another came from a retired English professor from India who practices his Hindu religion.

I know there are faithful Mormons who will be offended that my characters don't glow in the darkness, and anti-Mormons who will be offended that I didn't write about some grievance. If you're such a person, I don't recommend you read this book. It's not pro-Mormon or anti-Mormon any more than A Tree Grows In Brooklyn is neither pro nor anti Brooklyn.

Question: Is there profanity, erotica, gore, violence, etc...in this book?

Answer: The words "ass" and "damn" make an appearance one time each, and that is all the profanity there is. Any mention of "God" is in the context of prayer or pleading to God. There is no erotica. The single scene that involves sex is not explicit, and it certainly is not erotic. There is some violence, but no excessive gore (depending on your definition of excessive). However, on the cultural fringes are many things considered "adult" in nature, and these topics are found in my book. Murder, domestic violence, drug references, and mental illness all make their appearances.

This is not a book you should give your 12 year old.

On The Outskirts of Beryl

2017-10-24T15:16:00.003-06:00

Beryl Utah
The streets are carved into the desert,
but most of the blocks remain empty.

NOTE: I have changed the specific location and some of the details out of concern for the privacy of the other individual.

A few years ago I was tasked with visiting some of the most remote places in Utah. I used to live in Cedar City, and I felt fortunate whenever my job kept me close to home. So when I saw Beryl, Utah on my travel list, I was happy about it.

Beryl, a sparsely populated community of about a thousand people -- two people per square mile -- was just over an hour away, to the west. To get there, I drove along a winding little two lane highway that leads over and between all the juniper covered hills that separate Cedar City from the vast west desert, then I entered into the flat desert valley. To look at Beryl from above one can see how desolate it is. It is brown and gray. Even the sagebrush has taken on the color so that everywhere you look, there's no escaping the desert except perhaps for some blue mountains far in the distance, or a stark circular splash of green where a farmer ekes out a living growing alfalfa.

Going to that part of Utah gave me a feeling of desolation that day. I had been out there to fish at a few reservoirs and enjoyed the solitude. But that day I felt a sensation different from solitude. It wasn't loneliness. It was a kind of despair, but a despair that had no clear reason for existing. As I drove north on that highway and looked eastward where I would soon have to turn onto a dirt road, I was invaded by this feeling.

The road I needed to find was not marked. But it was called 3200 North. And since the streets in rural Utah are placed about one-tenth of a mile apart in a grid, and numbered accordingly, I turned right onto a dirt road when I reached about 3.2 miles from the main street. The road was made of packed dirt but it soon became a soft sand path that stretched as far as I could see. There was not much else. There were no houses that I could find. In a few minutes I arrived at an intersection and stopped the car. I was lost. Although I was prepared for some backtracking and retracing of steps, I had not prepared to find myself in the middle of a desert without any homes in sight. I hoped my phone could help me, but there was no service.

I stepped out of the car and walked across the intersection, and I looked east toward the highway. A lone pickup truck was driving north, and soon the sound of its engine faded, and I was all alone except for the quiet hum of an airplane somewhere in the sky, far away.

I turned east, where there was only more brown and gray valley, and beyond that, colorless hills. There was no sign that anyone was living in that lonely wilderness. But it was my job to drive out there and find out for sure. Soon, I was driving through the sand again, looking for signs of life.

After a minute I saw a lump of gray far away, where some barren trees poked above the sagebrush. I drove toward it, turning down whatever path I hoped would get me there, until I came upon an ancient, broken shack.

The shack was the same color as everything else, and was probably abandoned by some failed farmer a hundred years ago. It looked like an old farm house, but over the decades, the rotted siding was replaced with plywood, and now the plywood was a decade or more old, gray, warped, with its layers splitting apart, held together with rusted nails. The roof seemed to be original, the ancient pine shingles were broken and falling apart, and sheets of plastic covered parts of the roof, glued down with tar. Old pallets pinned the plastic down to keep it from tattering in the wind.

Someone lived there, according to my reports. A middle-aged woman. All alone.

The wooden gate had been ripped from its hinges a long time ago, perhaps by the wild wind that often blows through the area. The wood had rotted in the dirt for a long time. There was a breeze that day, and an old wind-chime hung from the eave of the tiny porch with only two little pipes that rang softly at irregular intervals. There were stacks of tires, and pallets, and rusty old appliances everywhere. A pile of live-catch traps lay on one side of the yard. One trap contained the skeleton of a cat, still wearing its fur.

The door opened as I aproached. A short, emaciated woman invited me in. I sat on a decrepit little sofa. She sat on a small bench, and didn't bother to move all the newspapers and magazines before she sat down. She had dark hair and was missing half her teeth. Although she was still in her forties, she had deep crevices in her skin, and looked much older than she was. The smell...it was something I couldn't identify.

We discussed what I was there to discuss. It only took a few minutes. She was nervous and jittery, but she answered all my questions. Then I was ready to leave, but she asked me to stay a few more minutes.

"Do you know much about drugs?" she asked.

What a strange question. "No," I said.

"Ever heard of meth?"

"Yes."

She looked at the floor, blank-faced, then she gazed at me as if she were starved. "My teeth are falling out," she said. She gripped one of her lonely front teeth with a dirty finger and thumb, and jerked it back and forth. "See? It's going to fall out any minute now. Any minute."

Thoughts flashed in my head. The smell, the appearance of the woman, everything about the place...it was almost certainly a meth hub of some kind. I had been trained to watch for these signs, and I had been told to stay away if I ever saw them. But I was new at this. I was naive.

I stood up to leave, and the woman gripped my wrist with the wet fingers she had just pulled out of her mouth. "Is this the last time you'll be here? Will you come again? Maybe you could come again."

"No, I've got to run. But thank you."

I'm not sure if my attempt to remain calm actually looked calm, but regardless, she maintained her grip on my wrist. As gently as possible, I pried her fingers off, and made for the door. The woman did not follow me, but begged for me to stay, or to come back another day. I shut the door behind me, and walked back over the trail between the piles of junk in the yard.

While driving on the sandy roads back to the highway I saw an old van, bright orange, coming my direction, toward the woman's house. I pulled over into the sagebrush to let it pass. Instead of passing, it stopped beside my car, and sat there with the windows up, but the windows were so darkly tinted that I couldn't see inside.

I drove forward, crunching over an old sagebrush, listening to it's gnarled limbs scratch the bottom of the car. Then I watched in my rearview mirror. The van did not move. Its brake lights shone red for as long as I watched.

In a few minutes I was back on the highway and drove for a few hundred yards, then I pulled over and looked toward the van. It was now an orange dot in all the gray, and was still sitting where it had stopped. I waited for a few minutes, until I saw it move again. I watched it turn down a few of the roads I had taken, toward the lonely old house. Soon, it disappeared into the desert.

A Visit To Short Creek

2017-10-22T01:05:00.002-06:00

Several years ago I had a job traveling throughout the State of Utah visiting the homes of the poor, the elderly, and the disabled. This job frequently took me to Hildale, Utah, the hub of Warren Jeff's Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (FLDS) Church. During those years, I had many experiences that eventually taught me how gentle and sincere the members of that community are. Once they are convinced that you are not hostile, they might just talk your ear off.

On a perfect Spring day in 2009, I sat in my car watching the goings on in the Hildale park, while I waited for a morning meeting to start at their town hall. I was marveling at the fun all those children were having. Their park was a wonderland.

Most city parks are built with concern for potential injury lawsuits, or for the safety of children, with pathetic plastic slides and with swing sets that hang too low to the ground, so if a child falls he won't fall too far.

That is not the kind of park Hildale had.

The Hildale park was a marvelous complex of dangerous fun. The slide was the longest I had ever seen outside of a carnival or theme park. The children climbed an artificial mountain complete with crags and cliffs, hopped on the slide, and flew down, with their hair flapping in the wind. Boys in their jeans and long-sleeved shirts, and girls in their iconic pastel-colored dresses, went up and down, and ran from the playground where the slide was, off to the swings, then back again. In the distance a tree swing made of a giant tire that hung from thick rope or chain, was tied to a high branch of an oversized tree. It swung in a slow arc from the sky, then nearly to the ground, then back up to the sky. A teenaged girl gave the tire a strong push at each pass and kept the fun going for much longer than seemed prudent.

Four women sat in a minivan nearby watching all the children play.

I had just opened a giant bag of Skittles and popped a few into my mouth. I hadn't chewed on the candy for more than a few seconds when there was a knock on the car door. There were two little boys staring at me. I don't know where they came from, but their little begging eyes were gazing into mine. They were six or seven years old.

"Can we have some candy?" one little boy asked.

"Um..." I looked over at the women in the minivan, and their large eyes told me they were concerned about the situation. I told the boys, "If your mother says it's okay, I'll give you some."

The boys walked to the minivan, and after a moment I saw the woman in the driver's seat shake her head. Then the boys walked back to my open window and the little spokesman told me, "My mother said I can have some candy."

I started to laugh, but stopped myself. I was tickled to see the little gentlemen lie so blatantly. "I saw your mother say 'no'," I said. "Sorry." I really wanted to give them some candy. But in Hildale, like in most places, we teach our children not to take candy from strangers.

I turned my attention back to the amazing playground.

The boys did not go away. They stood at the car door with their big eyes staring at the bag of candy that lay on the passenger's seat. I tried to ignore them for a while. I picked up a book and tried to read, but after a minute I closed the book and turned back to the boys. They were standing quietly with their hands at their sides and with their eyes hopeful.

I turned to their mothers, who were still watching me. Now they were smiling. I shrugged and tried to express with my face, can't I just share? They understood, and the mother in the driver's seat gave me a cautious nod. So I poured a few skittles into their little hands and they ate them.

"Can my brothers and sisters have some?" the boy asked.

"Sure." I said.

The boys ran off to the playground.

What I had momentarily forgotten was the size of families in Hildale. When I offered to share my candy with the boy's siblings, I actually offered to share my candy with his own mother's children, but also his half-siblings, the children of the other three mothers in the minivan.

It didn't take me long to realize that every child at the park--I counted two dozen--was a sibling. The children that filled this park with so much movement came from a single polygamist family.

In a minute my car was surrounded. The tiny hands of little ones, their fingers twisting and opening and closing, reached into the car, and I tried my best to pour an equal number of Skittles into each one. After the little children, the older children and teen-aged children reached out their hands and got some candy. Then the little ones were back again, followed again by the older ones. Soon my family-sized bag of candy was gone.They had saved me from the sugar-binge I certainly planned to have that day.

The children soon began walking, running, and bouncing back to the playground. I was laughing to myself. The mothers in the minivan were laughing too.

Soon I found the two little boys back at my window. I was sure they knew the candy was gone. But now they had their eyes on my other snack, a bag of pumpkin seeds that also lay on the passenger's seat.

"Can we have some seeds?" the boy asked.

"Sure," I said. I poured seeds into their hands and again they ran off to tell their siblings, and again my car was surrounded.

This time I was a friend. I was the giver of wonderful things. They sat on the bumpers and bounced, then ran in circles around the car. They shouted "thank you" over and over. Their mothers must have thought it was a hilarious spectacle, because they were throwing their heads back with laughter. Only one of them, a young woman, perhaps the youngest of the wives, looked at me with a kind of mocking pity, and shrugged, then burst into laughter along with the other sister-wives.

When the bag of seeds was empty, the children went away again. The two little boys, now at the passenger's window, peered in, but seeing no more treats they waved at me and ran back to the playground.

This was certainly a unique experience compared to the usual friendly and talkative but subdued personalities I usually encountered in Hildale. This was my first time seeing unhinged joy and loud laughter there.

In the news and in pop culture FLDS members are thought to be mindless cult members led by a handful of psychopaths. I can't completely disagree with that assessment. But after my years getting to know them, when I think of the FLDS people, I see human brothers and sisters who want to love and be loved, and who want to connect with the outsiders they have been taught to fear.

I'm grateful for that experience, and for so many other opportunities I was given to get to know the people in Hildale, Utah.

A Little Golden Nugget of Wisdom

2017-10-17T07:21:00.001-06:00

I've nearly finished reading this amazing book. I have to admit, the title doesn't make it sound like the most entertaining book in the world. It's not a narrative. It's literally a book about how the words we use to describe and to classify things, leads humanity into every kind of false judgement and ultimately into all the horrors we humans seem fond of. I have never read a book quite like this. It is not a book about spirituality. In fact, it really is about human language. But there is a strain of "spirituality" throughout it, in the sense that I am filled with love for my fellow beings, and humbled by all the times I've fallen into language traps that have molded my interactions with other people in negative ways.

This is a little golden nugget of wisdom, wrapped in an inexpensive cover, disguised as a regular, if not deeply boring, textbook.

It's only $12 on Amazon right now. If you're looking for something strange and interesting, check it out. Click on the picture of the book, and you'll be re-directed to the book on Amazon.

If our ideas and beliefs are held with an awareness of abstracting, they can be changed if found to be inadequate or erroneous. But if they are held without an awareness of abstracting-if our mental maps are believed to be the territory-they are prejudices. As teachers or parents, we cannot help passing on to the young a certain amount of misinformation and error, however hard we may try not to. But if we teach them to be habitually conscious of the process of abstraction, we give them the means by which to free themselves from whatever erroneous notions we may have inadvertently taught them.

― S.I. Hayakawa, Language in Thought and Action

Citizens of a modern society need [...] more than that ordinary "common sense" which was defined by Stuart Chase as that which tells you that the world is flat.

― S.I. Hayakawa, Language in Thought and Action

The Mouse's Tale

2017-10-13T09:17:00.001-06:00

This poem is recited by the sleepy mouse in Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. When I first read it, I glossed over it and I thought it was just another crazy thing Carroll put in his book. However, when I read it again last night, then again, and again, I realize it's pretty profound. In the story, the mouse is reciting this poem while Alice is staring at his unusually long tail.

"Fury said to

a mouse, That

he met

in the

house,

'Let us

both go

to law:

I will

prosecute

you.—

Come, I'll

take no

denial;

We must

have a

trial:

For

really

this

morning

I've

nothing

to do.'

Said the

mouse to

the cur,

'Such a

trial,

dear sir,

With no

jury or

judge,

would be

wasting

our breath.'

'I'll be

judge,

I'll be

jury,'

Said

cunning

old Fury;

'I'll try

the whole

cause,

and

condemn

you

death.' "

Answer To A Question About My Upcoming Book

2017-10-11T17:27:00.003-06:00

Question: "Are these stories based on real people?"

Answer: No. However, they are all inspired by a thousand people and a thousand events -- a little from here and a little from there. I have known people and seen things throughout my life that I cobbled together for a loose framework. But if, for example, there's an LDS (Mormon) Bishop in Fillmore, Utah, who has had the experience I wrote about in Dead On The Corridor, I'll be a monkey's uncle (writing tip: avoid cliches).

Some things happen so often, like babies screaming during baby blessings (a kind of christening), that even if your baby daughter screamed her lungs out during her baby blessing...(click here to read the whole post).

Little Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)

2017-10-10T18:38:00.001-06:00

I often hear it said that "The original version is so different!" when it comes to fairy tales. Here's "Sleeping Beauty" as told by the Brothers Grimm. I took an 1884 translation and changed some of the language to make it slightly more modern. Disney's version didn't have a magic fish, did it?

Once upon a time, a king and queen reigned in a far-away country, where there were fairies. The king and queen had plenty of money, and plenty of fine clothes to wear, and plenty of good things to eat and drink, and a coach to ride every day. But though they had been married many years they had no children, and this grieved them very much indeed.

One day as the queen was walking by the side of the river. At the border of the garden, she saw a poor little fish that had thrown itself out of the water, and lay gasping and nearly dead on the bank. The queen took pity on the little fish, and threw it back again into the river. Before it swam away it lifted its head out of the water and said, “I know what your wish is, and it shall be fulfilled, in return for your kindness to me–you will soon have a daughter.”

What the little fish had foretold soon came to pass, and the queen had a little girl who was so very beautiful that the king could only gaze. He announced a great feast to celebrate her birth, and to show the child to all the land.

So he invited his kinsmen, and nobles, and friends, and neighbours. But the queen said, “I will invite the fairies also, that they might be kind and good to our little daughter.”

Now there were thirteen fairies in the kingdom, but because the king and queen only had twelve golden dishes for them to eat out of, one of the fairies was not invited. So twelve fairies came, each with a high red cap on her head, and red shoes with high heels on her feet, and a long white wand in her hand. After the feast was over they gathered round in a ring and gave all their best gifts to the little princess. One gave her goodness, another beauty, another riches, and so on till she had all that was good in the world.

Just as eleven of them had done blessing her, a great noise was heard in the courtyard, and word was brought that the thirteenth fairy was come, with a black cap on her head, and black shoes on her feet, and a broomstick in her hand. Presently she came into the dining- hall. Because she had not been asked to the feast she was very angry, and scolded the king and queen, then set to work to take her revenge. She cried out, “The king’s daughter shall, in her fifteenth year, be wounded by a spindle, and fall down dead.”

Then the twelfth of the friendly fairies, who had not yet given her gift, came forward and said that the evil wish must be fulfilled, but that she could soften its harm. Her gift was that the king’s daughter, when the spindle wounded her, should not really die, but should only fall asleep for a hundred years.

However, the king hoped still to save his dear child altogether from the curse, and he ordered that all the spindles in the kingdom should be bought up and burnt.

All the gifts of the first eleven fairies were fulfilled. The princess was so beautiful, and well behaved, and good, and wise, that everyone who knew her loved her.

It happened that, on the very day she was fifteen years old, the king and queen were not at home, and she was left alone in the palace. So she roved about by herself, and looked at all the rooms and chambers, till at last she came to an old tower, in which there was a narrow staircase ending at a little door.

In the door there was a golden key, and when she turned it the door sprang open and there sat an old lady spinning away very busily. “Why, my goodness, dear woman,” said the princess, “what are you doing here?”

“Spinning,” said the old lady, and she nodded her head, humming a tune, while the wheel buzzed.

“How prettily that little thing turns round,” said the princess.

She took the spindle and began to try and spin. But scarcely had she touched it before the fairy’s prophecy was fulfilled. The spindle wounded her, and she fell down lifeless on the ground.

She was not dead, but had only fallen into a deep sleep. The king and the queen, who had just come home, and all their court, fell asleep too, and the horses slept in the stables, and the dogs in the court, the pigeons on the house-top, and the very flies slept upon the walls. Even the fire on the hearth left off blazing, and went to sleep. The jack stopped, and the spit that was turning about with a goose upon it for the king’s dinner stood still. The cook, who was at that moment pulling the kitchen-boy by the hair to give him a box on the ear for something he had done wrong, let him go, and both fell asleep. The butler, who was sneaking a drink of beer fell asleep with the jug at his lips. Everything stood still, and slept soundly.

A large hedge of thorns soon grew round the palace, and every year it became higher and thicker, till at last the old palace was surrounded and hidden, so that not even the roof or the chimneys could be seen.

But there went a report through all the land of the beautiful sleeping Briar Rose (for so the king’s daughter was called). From time to time, several kings’ sons came, and tried to break through the thicket into the palace. None of them could ever do it, for the thorns and bushes laid hold of them, as it were with hands. There they stuck fast, and died wretchedly.

After many, many years there came a king’s son into that land, and an old man told him the story of the thicket of thorns, and how a beautiful palace stood behind it, and how a wonderful princess, called Briar Rose, lay in it asleep, with all her court. He told how he had heard from his grandfather that many, many princes had come, and had tried to break through the thicket, but that they had all stuck fast in it, and died.

“I am not afraid,” said the prince. “I will go and see this Briar Rose.”

The old man tried to hinder him, but he was bent upon going.

Now that very day the hundred years ended, and as the prince came to the thicket he saw nothing but beautiful flowering shrubs, through which he went with ease, and they shut in after him as thick as ever.

He came at last to the palace, and there in the court lay the dogs asleep, and the horses were standing in the stables, and on the roof sat the pigeons fast asleep, with their heads under their wings. And when he came into the palace, the flies were sleeping on the walls, the spit was standing still, the butler had the jug of ale at his lips, the maid sat with a fowl in her lap ready to be plucked, and the cook in the kitchen was still holding up her hand as if she was going to beat the boy.

Then he went on still farther, and all was so still that he could hear every breath he drew. At last he came to the old tower, and opened the door of the little room in which Briar Rose was. There she lay, fast asleep on a couch by the window. She looked so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her, so he stooped down and gave her a kiss.

The moment he kissed her she awoke and smiled upon him. They went out together.

Soon the king and queen also awoke, and all the court, and gazed on each other with great wonder. And the horses shook themselves, and the dogs jumped up and barked. The pigeons took their heads from under their wing and flew into the fields, the flies on the walls buzzed again, the fire in the kitchen blazed up, round went the jack, and round went the spit, with the goose for the king’s dinner upon it. The butler finished his drink of beer, the maid went on plucking the fowl, and the cook smacked the boy.

And then the prince and Briar Rose were married, and the wedding feast was given. And they lived happily together all their lives long.

A Poem For Children (?)

2017-10-03T18:56:00.003-06:00

The tradition of using nightmarish literature to scare children into submission is probably as old as literature. Here's one from the beginning of the 20th Century. Some people say, however, that the intent of this poem is satyrical.

Matilda

Hilaire Belloc

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,

It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;

Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,

Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,

Attempted to Believe Matilda:

The effort very nearly killed her,

And would have done so, had not She

Discovered this Infirmity.

For once, towards the Close of Day,

Matilda, growing tired of play,

And finding she was left alone,

Went tiptoe to the Telephone

And summoned the Immediate Aid

Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.

Within an hour the Gallant Band

Were pouring in on every hand,

From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.

With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,

They galloped, roaring through the Town,

'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'

Inspired by British Cheers and Loud

Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,

They ran their ladders through a score

Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;

And took Peculiar Pains to Souse

The Pictures up and down the House,

Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded

In showing them they were not needed;

And even then she had to pay

To get the Men to go away!

It happened that a few Weeks later

Her Aunt was off to the Theatre

To see that Interesting Play

The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.

She had refused to take her Niece

To hear this Entertaining Piece:

A Deprivation Just and Wise

To Punish her for Telling Lies.

That Night a Fire did break out--

You should have heard Matilda Shout!

You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,

And throw the window up and call

To People passing in the Street--

(The rapidly increasing Heat

Encouraging her to obtain

Their confidence) -- but all in vain!

For every time she shouted 'Fire!'

They only answered 'Little Liar!'

And therefore when her Aunt returned,

Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

Now On Amazon!!!

2017-09-18T22:57:00.003-06:00

I was honored to write a fairy tale for this book.

Other authors in this book include Jenni James, whose many YA novels are written without sex, graphic violence, or vulgarity, and are found here. Allison Brown's debut YA novel, the first of a series, is here. A. Shepherd, Marla Workman and Jenna Madsen add their unique voices to the book as well. I believe that whatever "flavor" of fairy tale a person is hoping to find, they'll find it in one of these six stories.

My contribution to this book, "Blancanieves," is a retelling of the Snow White story. The setting is a tiny fictitious kingdom in sixteenth century Northern Spain. Spoiler: The evil queen has a lot more on her mind than beauty. The survival of her little kingdom, she believes, requires the death of her daughter.

Click one of the buttons above to purchase the book.

Book Scheduled For October Release

2017-09-14T23:21:00.002-06:00

My second book, Dead On The Corridor, will be released in October 2017. I am eager to get this book out the door, in no small part because writing a book is a huge undertaking. And as I come near the end of the writing stage, I actually look forward to the marketing stage, which a year ago would have been unthinkable.

As I Lay Dying, By William Faulkner (some thoughts)

2017-04-20T11:03:00.002-06:00

Last night I finished this little novel. It is my first time reading Faulkner, though I have heard his name mentioned many times. He was awarded the Nobel prize for literature in 1949, and As I Lay Dying is often recognized as one of his greatest works.

It is a strange book, and the events that brought it about are equally strange. Faulkner worked the night shift at a power plant when he wrote it, claiming to have written it at work every night between the hours of midnight and 4:00 a.m. He also claimed to have written it in a single draft and that it was published exactly as he first penned it. I am skeptical of that last claim, but who knows?

The novel follows a family -- a weakling, cowardly father; three adult sons; a teen-aged daughter; and the youngest child, a little boy -- as they travel in a wagon to bury their mother. The mother spends most of the story in her coffin, and by the end of their journey the smell of death follows the family wherever they go. The narrative is provided by fifteen characters in the book, and the title of each chapter bears the name of the character narrating it. The reader not only reads about the events and who says what, but also becomes intimately acquainted with the internal dialogue and the sometimes confusing and conflicting thoughts of each person, as well as their perceptions of other people.

What makes the style fascinating is that we learn about a character from his or her inner dialogue, then we learn how that person is perceived. For example, the son named Darl inwardly speaks in a beautiful poetic prose and his thoughts are profound. Yet the way he speaks to others and the things that he does contradict what we have observed from his inner dialogue. Darl is a strange young man in the eyes of the other characters, but as readers we are presented with the book's most poetic and tragic personality. His incongruency makes him compelling.

The downside to the book is -- for better or worse -- the stream-of-consciousness style isn't something we generally recognize as good reading in today's world. I have seen 21st Century books written like this and they have terrible reviews on Amazon, in which the style itself is panned. I never knew that a Nobel prize winner wrote like this. Frankly, it took me awhile to get used to it and to orient myself with how it even works. Then I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'll have to give these kinds of works another look when I see them in the future.

As with every literary masterpiece, this story is running around in my head right now, doing its work. The therapy of literature is that it does its work without much effort on my part except for enjoying a story. This novel is causing me to examine myself and to find whether my thoughts, actions and words are congruent. I'm wondering what beauty exists in the minds of the people we depreciate and condemn in our culture. I feel my perspective shifting.

Anyone interested in reading As I Lay Dying can find it here for free.

What Happened Thursday Morning

2017-04-14T17:00:00.001-06:00

All the deer's legs were broken above the knee joints. She was a healthy doe with clear eyes and black nose, and her brown belly was wide with pregnancy. Her legs had been swept by a pickup truck, and the bones were broken and they jutted out above the knee joints, bloody and white, with the ligaments and muscles hanging out loosely. She struggled across the road, her body jerking and writhing, pushing herself along with the four stubs from which her dead legs dragged. Another deer, last year's fawn, still smaller than her mother, watched from the opposite side of the road. The mother was trying to return to her baby.

The green pickup that struck the deer had pulled off the road fifty feet ahead. The owner, a blonde man wearing a red University of Utah cap, a camouflage hunting jacket, blue jeans and work boots, was examining his bumper and the broken headlight. He picked little shards of glass out of the empty light socket and threw them angrily into the dirt along the roadside, cursing the deer all the while.

A minivan driving east on the little two-lane highway stopped on the road, and a mother and two children watched with wide eyes as the deer struggled in front of the vehicle. The mother reached for her phone. A white Ford truck with fresh mud caked on the tires, pulled off to the right.

Soon, the doe had crossed painfully into the dirt and rocks, and she lay on her stomach with her head raised high and her ears alert. The yearling sniffed her mother's face, and she sniffed between her mother's ears, and then they touched their moist black noses together.

The man inside the white pickup stepped out of the truck and bent down to retrieve something from under the seat. His jeans were blue and fresh, and his brown round-toed leather work boots had specks of dried mud and manure on them. When he stood upright and pushed the truck's door shut, he held a holstered pistol in his hand. The pistol had a wood grip the color of dark honey, and the black metal was nestled in a leather holster, brown and worn, embossed with the name John Christensen. The man wore no hat, and his gray hair was cut short and was parted to one side.
"You okay?" he shouted to the man with the damaged truck.
The blonde man, aware he was being observed by a respected member of the community, stopped cursing the deer. He removed the red cap with one hand, ran his fingers through his hair with the other hand, then put the cap back on. "Hey, John," he said. "Yeah, I think I'm okay. Just another expensive repair is all -- Second deer I hit this spring."
"Sorry to hear that," said John. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Yeah, well --." The younger man didn't finish his thought. He popped the truck's hood and inspected the engine, whispering his curses.

The woman in the minivan pulled her car off the road and onto the dirt. She turned to her children and said, "Stay in the car, okay?" She left the door open, and walked to where the gray-haired man stood watching the doe.

"John!" she said, "I called the Highway Patrol. They should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Hi, Emma," said John.
"You know what to do, right?" Emma said.
A small car passed slowly by, its driver gawking at the broken animal, and then it sped away.
"She's in bad shape," said John.

Emma stood so close that John, who stood a few heads taller than Emma, had to bow his head to talk to her. His eyes were the blue gray of a storm-tossed sea, and the wrinkles of his crow's feet were deep. He winced with his eyes, but he held the pleasant half-smile that Emma had known since childhood. His arms hung at his side, and in his left hand, the pistol.

"What can we do to help her?" asked Emma.

John put a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of her."

Emma looked at the pistol, then grimaced. "Don't you know how to help her? You've had cows with broken legs, haven't you?" she asked.
"I know how to help stop her pain," John said. "That's about all we can do."
"But," Emma paused, then she said slowly, "she's pregnant."
"I know," said John.

Emma let out a short groan. "Shouldn't we wait for the police? Isn't it illegal to kill an injured deer like that?"

"It's gonna be okay," said John. "It'll be quick." Then he added, "You probably don't want your kids to see."
"But, John," Emma said. And she looked across the street where the doe still lay with her head and ears alert. The yearling was still standing beside her. Without another word Emma returned to her vehicle, and soon the minivan rounded the bend and was out of sight.
The man who hit the deer got back into his truck, slammed the door shut, pumped the gas to make the engine sound angry, then returned to the road behind the minivan, and soon disappeared behind the hills.

John waited for a westbound car to pass before he crossed the road. His boots clomped on the asphalt, across the white line, across the yellow double line, and across a final white line, and back into the dirt on the other side of the road. As he walked he gripped the holster in his left hand and he pulled the pistol's handle with his right hand. The yearling ran up the hill, and out of sight as John approached.

The doe held her head high with her eyes open, breathing rapidly. Blood trickled out of her nose and gurgled as the air passed in and out of her lungs. Her body tensed when John approached and her ears twitched.
John knelt beside her. With his left hand he touched the doe's ear and stroked her nose and head, and he ran his palm down the doe's neck to her belly, resting his hand lightly on the brown fur. He looked into the doe's large dark eye with it's dilated pupil. "It'll be all right, sweetie," he said. "I'm sorry it ended this way for you." Meanwhile, he pulled back the pistol's hammer with his right thumb.

He stood up and took a few steps back, raised the pistol and fired a single shot. The deer's head landed with a dull thump, and the tensed body became limp. John looked down at the eye that stared up at him, the open mouth, the tongue, the motionless belly that seconds before had risen and fallen with each breath.

Bowing his head he exhaled a deep sigh. Looking down at the pistol he rubbed his thumb across the Smith and Wesson symbol, then he slid the pistol back into the holster. He scanned the hillside for the fawn, but saw no sign of her.

John walked back across the road, got into his truck, tucked the pistol back under the seat, and drove away.

***Although based on a number of personal experiences and observations, this story is fiction.

The Conquerors of Saween

2017-04-08T22:31:00.000-06:00

Outside the walls, near Badon’s Mount,

Where Uther Pendragon’s son — brave Arthur,

Mighty in battle, beloved of his men —

Thwarted the thanes of Hengest and Horsa,

A pit was bored by brave Celtish thanes

Deep into the earth’s black bosom.

The dead and captured sons of Freya

Were cast into its raven darkness.

Bones, bodies, filled the hideous hollow.

The children of Woden wept for their warriors,

Set sail a ship on their behalf,

In full array from stem to stern.

Days of mourning passed, the battle-folk

Favored flocks and fields, forgot the fallen

Slumbering in the bosom of the earth.

Then harvest saw its gilded pay,

Hoary frosts cloaked the morning heather,

Red leaves covered footpaths —

The ninth war-month approached.
Celts readied to see the veil ripped,

Meet their dead, with ale and feasting,

Fires and faery-tales, skull masks,

Whited flaxen sheets, sacrifices, singing.

The Saxons scoffed, they mocked, laughed,

For weaker gods merit no worship —

Celtish ancestors were shamed —

“Let them worship with us in Yule-Tide,

Watch the hunt of greater gods

In chase across the sky.”

They drank their mead, mocked the mongrels,

Feasted to fill on fish and fowl,

And slumbered the mocker’s sleep.

But, waking all, there was a pounding,

Rapping, great wind blasting, at the walls

And voices weeping, shouting, cursing

Lords and thanes within the hall.

All trembled to attend the storm,

Which grew by heartbeat on the timbers

Thrusted thatch from rope and rafters

Fearful Lord Godulf arose and pled,

“We wish naught but well, our friends!”

When he so said, the savage gusts were silent.

Then from the night a horde of whispers,

Clear as cold, and deep as darkness,

Fell on freezing frightened ears,

“We are your fallen battle-friends,

Forgotten in your proud boast-feast,

While Celtish foes feast with their fathers.”

Lord Godulf fell to his face,

“What, my friends, would you have us do?”

Whisperers howled their response,

“Run to the roads, make sacrifices, dance,

Feast with the Celts, be merry ‘round their fires.

Find fellowship, be brothers all.

Bury your bows before their faces

Bring them all into the long-house.

Let their sons become your brothers,

Daughters, make them sisters all.”

The good lord stood and straightway

Flung the great doors wide and cried

Into the night, “Children of Gaul, come,

For shall we now become your kinsmen!”

Then out the children of Woden went

Without their war-arms toward the peace-fires,

Bearing mead and meat and bread,

Peace-gifts, offerings to the Celtish gods.

Saween thus became a holy day

In villages of Wessex and Hwicce

Musings On The Grapes of Wrath

2017-03-31T08:29:00.002-06:00

At 3:44 this morning I finished reading Grapes of Wrath, a novel by John Steinbeck, first published in 1939. I know the exact minute I finished reading it, because I looked over at the clock when I closed the book, and I thought, "I'm going to be so tired today."
I should have read that book when I was supposed to read it -- probably sometime between 1998 and 2001 when I studied English literature in college. I could have picked it up a long time ago, sometime, somewhere. It just never happened. Then a few months ago I saw a tattered paperback copy for free. "Oh, good," I thought, "I've been wanting to read that." I'm pretty cheap sometimes.

Grapes of Wrath stuck with me, and compelled me to binge-read. It's an apocalyptic story. And with each step the Joad family took on their journey, I had the ominous sense that something bad was about to happen. And when something good happened it was almost always bittersweet because I knew something worse was close at hand.
It seems The Walking Dead writing staff has been inspired by Grapes of Wrath from time to time. Main characters disappeared and were never seen again, or were seen again, but only at death. Peaceful little pockets of humans are found, but are they really peaceful? In The Walking Dead, zombies replace police and angry mobs, but the mood is the same. Steinbeck's descriptions of the Joad family were made more stark by the dark vignettes that make up about one-third or a quarter of the book.
While reading, my mind sometimes wandered to my country, and our perennial hatred of economic and political refugees, or migrants. Whether they come from another country or from some part of our own country -- as in The Grapes of Wrath -- we treat them with contempt. When they are desperate and do things desperate people do, we label them as inherently criminal. Eastern-Europeans, Western Europeans, Irish, Chinese, Japanese, Mexicans, Greeks, Italians, Jews, and others have been objects of hatred at different times in our history. We made the Native Americans desperate, and labeled them. And God knows our sins regarding Africans. God knows, and so does everyone else.

In the margins of my old paperback copy, a student had taken notes for her class back in 2007. Her name and the year are written in the front cover.
The student seems to have been preparing a paper comparing the experiences of the Joad family to the New Testament story of Jesus's ministry and crucifixion. Her notes made comparisons that only seemed to work on a very basic level. I feel she had the idea for the paper before she read the book, then spent the whole time pushing and shoving her comparisons, trying to make them fit into the molds. "Tom = Peter," she wrote in one margin early on. Then every comment about Tom was an attempt to make Tom into Peter. "Casy = Jesus," she wrote, and tried to make that work.
Steinbeck isn't one who would have written a thinly veiled New Testament. He was a master. He created parallels to Jesus and Peter. But I also saw elements drawn from such a vast trove of sources, that as I sit here thinking about it, I am awed. And his greatest source was his own mind. And again, I am awed. What a beautiful work of art The Grapes of Wrath is, from the first word, to the last. I believe the book's final message, summarized in its last paragraph, is prophetic.

If I had my druthers, The Grapes of Wrath would be required reading in American high schools. If you live in an English-speaking country across the pond, I still highly recommend it. It can be read for its literary value alone, but I can't guarantee you won't find yourself shaking your head and wondering why America doesn't learn lessons from its own history.