As a writer, I’ve benefitted directly from this easy access. As a reader, I find in cyberworld frequent cause for literary despair.

I really miss editors.

Almost every day, I find glaring examples of absent editors. One writer …[MORE]]]> The good news: The rise of the Interwebs means that anyone can publish anything at any time, with virtually no bar at all. The bad news: Ditto.

As a writer, I’ve benefitted directly from this easy access. As a reader, I find in cyberworld frequent cause for literary despair.

I really miss editors.

Almost every day, I find glaring examples of absent editors. One writer says ‘passed’ when he means ‘past’; one uses ‘reign’ when it should be ‘rein’. One mixes metaphors. One buries the lead. All seem to think that any objective review of their composition is quaintly archaic.

They come off looking careless, if not downright ignorant. The impression this sloppy presentation makes on the reader: “I don’t know; and I don’t really care that I don’t know.” Somehow, I don’t think that’s the message they hope to convey.

I once read a blog post intended to reach small business owners. Its purpose was to stress the importance of good business communications. It was poorly written and completely unedited. Whatever market they were attempting to reach should have run screaming from the building after the first paragraph.

Before you ask, no, this blog is not edited. I’ve made every kind of mistake and no doubt will again. But any error that is pointed out will be corrected without the least offense. Please point it out. Such mistakes usually arise from the haste of first draft, but occasionally there’s something I need to learn.

You can be sure, though, that when I write something of import, it is always carefully proofed and edited by me, at the very least. I know how often I omit entire words, mix metaphors, misspell certain words or conflate my thoughts incoherently. If the writing really matters, my own revision is never enough. The material gets passed on to someone else for review and comment before sending. Shop rule: No one proofs their own typesetting. And no good writer serves as their own editor.

You may disagree with what I say, but I hope it’s not the way I say it that leaves you shaking your head. I know the difference between good writing and bad. More importantly, I really care. I hope it shows.

Several months ago, I treated myself to a second-hand copy of The Essential Ellison, the 35-year retrospective of one of the most prolific authors ever to put pen to paper. He’s a life-long favorite of mine and I wanted this volume quite badly. It’s a 1012-page tome that was out of print, and buying used …[MORE]]]> I found a hidden treasure this morning.

Several months ago, I treated myself to a second-hand copy of The Essential Ellison, the 35-year retrospective of one of the most prolific authors ever to put pen to paper. He’s a life-long favorite of mine and I wanted this volume quite badly. It’s a 1012-page tome that was out of print, and buying used books online is something of a crap shoot. This time I got lucky. The copy I received was in excellent condition and everything I hoped it would be. Pleased with my purchase, I briefly daydreamed about getting the opportunity to meet Harlan Ellison someday and present it for signing. What I actually did was put it on a shelf. Life went on.

Today, I chose this book for my morning reading hour. In the end, I read very little and almost nothing of Harlan’s. First, I got distracted by the very beauty of the book itself. Its production was of the finest quality—heavy, acid-free paper, sewn signatures, full trim, the works. Even the dust jacket was a thing of artistry. As a lover of books AND a professional graphic artist, I’ve rarely seen such a nice edition.

I read the book jacket blurbs, front and back. I even learned a couple of things about Ellison I didn’t know.

The copyright page had an issue date of 1987. Then I discovered a surprise. FIRST EDITION. Nice. Didn’t expect that.

The gobsmacker waited on the cover page, though. There, right under the printed title, was a brief inscription, “Good wishes, John, from” and just above the imprint, a large, sprawling signature: Harlan Ellison. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it says.

Wow. A top drawer, signed, inscribed first edition for the price of a quality used book. I’m feelin’ lucky.

The editor provided a brief Foreword, so I read that. I spent some time perusing the table of contents, and thumbed through the entire book, just getting a feel for its organization and structure. About then I discovered that I’d spent a good deal of time admiring the book and didn’t have much time left to actually read it. I decided to reserve that pleasure for tomorrow.

But before I put the book aside for the day, I flipped to the end. After 1012 pages of magnum opus, Ellison himself provided an Afterword. This fiercely succinct wonder offered up just one sentence:

“For a brief time I was here; and for a brief time I mattered.”

You did, sir. You did.

Oh, I’m still eating and drinking and such. But for today, to whatever extent I am able, I plan to abstain from any and all touch of politics. I won’t obsess over news clips …[MORE]]]> Early this morning, I decided to declare today a personal day of prayer and fasting. The idea of the fast came first, and it’s going to be tough, I won’t deny.

Oh, I’m still eating and drinking and such. But for today, to whatever extent I am able, I plan to abstain from any and all touch of politics. I won’t obsess over news clips and editorials. I won’t listen to election predictions or dire speculations. I won’t expose myself to Facebook skirmishes. I am unplugged.

I am so exhausted from hearing that name on every pair of lips. I fondly remember—oh, several ages ago it seems—going days, sometimes weeks, with no mention of the president from either newscasters or neighbors. I really miss those days.

I’ll be quick to admit that I’m as guilty as all the rest. Way back during the run-up to the election, I became aware of my own contribution to what I saw as a national aberration. I tried to stop clicking those headlines, but I just couldn’t help myself. The swaying cobra held me in thrall. I knew then, and I know now, that I am the one feeding the monster. Still, I click.

What I really want is peace of mind. And I know that that has always been mine to command. The world didn’t take it from me; I ceded it. Now I reclaim it, at least for one day.

It may not be easy. Already I feel an itch to check the headlines. I’ve made a plan to support my resolve and I’ve lashed myself to its mast, but that doesn’t silence the siren call. Its torment permeates the very air I breathe.

The fasting element of my plan may be difficult, but the prayer part is simple. I pray we all survive this with our spirits, our friendships and our nation intact. I pray that most of my fellow Americans share my bright dream of an abundant land that will embrace us all. I pray that voters turn out in numbers that will merit historical astonishment, and begin the business of putting this dark dream behind us.

Just for today, I resolve to resist thinking about the worst and fill my heart with thoughts of the best. It won’t change a thing, but it can’t hurt. And I need a break.

I may be quite different from you in many ways, but you have nothing to fear from me. If I question you about the distinctions between us, it is due to my curiosity and interest in others. I want to know about you, and the more I know, the more I see that we are more alike than different.

You …[MORE]]]> I am not your enemy.

I may be quite different from you in many ways, but you have nothing to fear from me. If I question you about the distinctions between us, it is due to my curiosity and interest in others. I want to know about you, and the more I know, the more I see that we are more alike than different.

You may come from another nation. You may worship in a way I do not understand. Your native tongue is probably different from mine, so I hope you forgive my lack of comprehension and limited education. But I will keep trying to communicate, because I really want to know more about you.

You do not frighten me. I see the love in your eyes when you speak of your child. Your hunger is something I understand and can remedy. Your laughter sounds just like mine. When we speak of our dreams, we become children of the same family. We need no more common tongue than that.

I am so happy you came into my life. You brought me a richer understanding of our world. You showed me that what really matters in this life is the same for everyone. We both rejoice in the triumph of justice, and we grieve alike when the weight of the world’s sorrows would crush us.

But we survive, because we are stronger together.

You are not my enemy. And nothing will convince me otherwise.

I have a neighbor who regularly works the polls at election times. While I think that’s an honorable thing to do, I’ve never been tempted to join her. Simply put, it’s just more …[MORE]]]> I am both eager and tense when I contemplate the upcoming midterm elections. I can’t remember ever being more anxious to cast my vote, and to see how it all comes out.

I have a neighbor who regularly works the polls at election times. While I think that’s an honorable thing to do, I’ve never been tempted to join her. Simply put, it’s just more commitment than I want to make. One day I may feel differently; for now I’m just not ready.

Last week a call went out for local poll watchers on election day. This is voluntary duty, and only for the one day. That, I decided, wasn’t too much to ask. I signed up for the training.

This is something I’ve never done. My only involvement with the election process so far has been to cast my ballot. I’m curious about what the training will entail, and what the long, long day will be like. I have a few misgivings, but over all I’m excited about the new experience.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll turn into one of the ancients who preside over the voter rolls one day. All I’m sure of is that my personal vote will be cast early and with great zeal. On election day, I’ll just be watching.

I’ve never been more excited about an election before, but I know there’s a future election coming that will get me even more motivated than this one. I’ll bet you can guess what year that will be.

There are accounts of all kinds …[MORE]]]> The current brouhaha in Washington, to my way of thinking, is something of a distraction from a deeper, more profound drama that is playing out across the nation. These hearings have served as a kind of seed crystal around which a writhing spirit is rapidly coalescing into physical being. And it ain’t pretty.

There are accounts of all kinds of organizations being overwhelmed with phone calls from women telling tales of abuse and harassment. Torrents of them. Women are calling their representatives, their TV stations and newspaper reporters, hotlines and help lines all over the country. They are talking, crying, marching, and registering to vote. Turn off the sound for a minute and look at the faces, the throngs, the outpourings of emotion.

I see a sort of female beast, comprising all of us scarred sisters and mutilated mothers, arising from the masses and howling in pain. She thrusts out her arms, cries out in agony, spills her tales of woe. She is wounded, and her deepest gashes never heal but follow her through all her days. She cries out for validation. She cries out for justice. She cries out to be heard.

If the embodied national male beast does as he has always done—that is to say if he dismisses her pleas outright or pretends to listen and nod, then pats her on the head and tells her to never mind and let us get on with business—then a true crisis may erupt. This society might well rip right in two, but not along partisan lines. And it will have nothing to do with a judge, but a lack of justice.

Too many women are crying out that we are not being heard. And too many men are still not listening. What will it take? And where will it end?

I became enamored with horror, science fiction and monsters in early childhood. I watched all the scary movies, from Frankenstein and Wolfman to the Things that came from outer space, beyond Mars and beneath the sea. …[MORE]]]> Recently I’ve been spending time with some ancient horrors which lurk in isolation. No, I haven’t been visiting relatives in Amarillo. I’ve been reading H.P. Lovecraft.

I became enamored with horror, science fiction and monsters in early childhood. I watched all the scary movies, from Frankenstein and Wolfman to the Things that came from outer space, beyond Mars and beneath the sea. Almost nothing really frightened me or gave me nightmares. Fright was my element.

I didn’t start reading a lot of science fiction, though, until college, and I completely missed out on the Tales from the Crypt offerings of horror and gore. I read Stephen King and Dean Koontz, but somehow Lovecraft completely escaped my radar. Many of my college friends knew Lovecraft and I have hazy recollections of some discussions of his works, but still I never read anything.

Years later, when doing some reading on literary analysis and writing techniques, I came across other references to Lovecraft. Finally, my curiosity sat up and looked around. I bought a few of his works and read them with great joy. Later, I bought a few more. My last foray into Kaboom! Used Books (“Houston’s least eponymous book store”) turned up three more volumes to explore. I’m in heaven.

So when I might be blogging each morning, instead I’m mentally tramping through the darkened hollows of rural Massachusetts, seeking the source of the nightly rustlings that disturb my sleep and visit strange dreams upon me. Instead of crafting words, I’m floating on their surface, diving below, peering deep into the murk, sensing the strange vibrations that resound even more deeply still.

I don’t have time for composition. I think there are rats in the walls.

I do not share their affection for rain. In fact, I consider rain an inconvenience at best and, if you …[MORE]]]> Houston is not exactly Seattle, but it is one rainy-ass place. Recently we’ve had a couple of weeks that were more wet than dry. These conditions have caused a few of my pluviophilic friends to revel in the incessant rainfall.

I do not share their affection for rain. In fact, I consider rain an inconvenience at best and, if you have to get on a Houston freeway, a deadly menace at worst. My most common use of the weather forecast is to plan my errands and appointments so as to avoid going out in the rain altogether, if possible.

I do have a strange trait, though, that is sometimes brought out by rainy days. There’s probably a word for this state, too, but I don’t know what it is. I experience a deep-seated comfort and satisfaction during any sort of inclement weather as long as I can remain safely indoors, warm and dry. It’s not the weather itself that produces this Zen state in me, it’s an animal-level appreciation of the basic comfort of shelter. It is the warm electric light juxtaposed against the dark and stormy sky outside the window. It’s the snugness of a good roof in a downpour. It’s a warm oven and a cup of cocoa during an ice storm, or a simmering pot of homemade soup on a raw, windy day.

Whenever a spell of bad weather is forecast, I do my best to be prepared for some quality indoor time. I pick up a few groceries for some comfort cooking. I make sure I have some movies on hand and a new book to explore. I prepare for nesting. The rougher the weather, the sweeter the shelter.

There ought to be a word for that, but I can’t find it.