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My Rant: Bullying in 2014

8/21/2014

Sometimes I see or hear something I’d rather not. It serves me right for being nosy. At the post office one day, I heard one of the “wish I hadn’t” conversations between two old guys.

One commented to the other, “I don’t get today’s kids.” My antennae shot up.

“They’s all spoilt,” his buddy claimed.

“They whine and complain about being bullied. When we was kids, you took it like a man and got even.”

I took issue with that. I was a kid more or less when they were and I recall both boys and girls running home crying to mamma. Those men weren’t talking to me, so I sifted through my mail and tried to stay quiet.

“Boys are all sissies nowadays,” one of them thought.

The other man grunted in agreement.

Here’s what I couldn’t say then. Get real. Bullying is a different creature now than it was when those old men and I were children. It has, over the years, become a vicious thing I know I could never endure. I cringe at the thought of any child or adult having to withstand such hateful treatment.

Even twenty years ago when my daughter was in elementary school, bullying had already morphed from what my mom would’ve called “teasing.” My little girl didn’t like dresses and she liked to wear her hair short. Her independent ways were not acceptable to one of her mean-spirited classmates. She shoved my daughter around, hit her, and called her ugly slurs that ten- year-olds shouldn’t know.

When I complained to the school superintendent, my complaints fell on deaf ears. “She needs to stand up for herself,” was her sad opinion. No. When you’re ten, and you’re being hit and pushed by a bully, you need an adult to stand up for you. Children need adults to be examples of good behavior.

I told my daughter she should shove that abusive child’s face into the wall, but my kindhearted kid just stared at me with a blank look. So I’ve not always been the best example of a fine human being. I admit it, but I learned valuable lessons from a little girl with love and patience in her heart. Looking back though, I still believe someone in authority should’ve had a talk with the bully. There should have been consequences to acting hateful and to physical assault. If the adults in charge won’t correct a child’s bad behavior, how will he or she learn anything?

Now we have children killing themselves to escape the cruelty in their lives. With the popularity of social media and cell phones, bullying has reached new intensity. A child can be bullied in front of the whole world and there is no safe place. In other words, it’s not just at school anymore.

Shame on adults. We’ve taught our children this behavior by attacking people different from us and by not standing up when we see others being attacked. If you need proof of the intolerance of grown-ups, post a controversial statement on Facebook. Instead of rational discourse, you’re more likely to get name-calling and hateful rhetoric. I’ve taken down my posts when the fighting between respondents got too ugly to bear. I have friends with differing opinions and from all walks of life, all education levels, and all nationalities. I have dear friends who will never read what I write because they can’t. But they’re brilliant human beings with their own ideas on everything. Just like you and me. Would you scream “stupid” at them? If you would, then you and I couldn’t be friends in real life.

Robin Williams recently took his own life as a result of depression. This tragedy rocked me to my core. Who doesn’t know who he is? He shared his amazing talents with us for forty years. He hadn’t been dead two hours when the bullying started. He’s been called a coward and other offensive things. Why are people so quick to judge? Do those harsh tongue-waggers know anything about clinical depression? All I could think was “shut up!” The man brought joy to us for forty years. Unless you were living in his head, then just shut up.

What has happened to us? We used to have respect for each other and we listened to each other’s ideas. As I grew up, listening to adults discuss issues helped me to form my own opinions about subjects of importance. Now we don’t want to listen to what others think and we respond in hurtful ways. Our kids are doing it and we wonder why. Way to go, Adults of America.

By the way, Old Post Office Men, boys are not sissies. Girls are not sissies. They’re human beings and they have feelings. We all do.

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Why I'm Not Going to Quit

8/14/2014

11 Comments

For this entire week, I worked on one scene from a novel I'm writing (read sweating, bleeding, screaming). I tinkered with the dialog until I thought it was perfect. I exchanged the verbs I used for different verbs that are more action-packed or descriptive. Where possible I used better nouns so I could delete adjectives. I slashed adverbs and even killed the little side tangents I’m so fond of taking. I added this and took out that until I felt it was exactly the way I wanted it. I was riding high when I went to bed last night.

I got up early this morning and read what I have so far. Something was off. Was the premise bad? Was it a flaw in the characters? Was this novel a terrible idea to begin with? After the third read-through, the cold truth smacked me in the face. That scene, as brilliantly written as it is, isn't going to work. I mean not at all. Not in this story. That’s what the problem has been the whole time. So something I spent a week on is useless and I still don’t have an Avalanche column.

Sometimes I want to quit. I worked hard all my life and I’m retired, so why am I working so hard now? This morning at 4:30 I was asking myself that question. Do you know how dark and alone it is at 4:30? A writer can get into a lot of trouble at 4:30 in the morning.

Of course I can quit whenever I want to; I know that. I’m not being held captive somewhere with only a laptop for diversion. The problem is I can’t quit. Writing is hard and it makes me crazy. I was going to say “a little crazy,” but why not tell it like it is? The point is that I’m driven. I’ve tried to quit and I can’t. I love to write about make-believe things or true things or almost anything.

Over the last nine years I have read everything I could buy, borrow, or check out on the subject I love. Not only do I crave doing it, I want to be good at it. There are thousands of books about the craft. Among other things, the authors of these volumes say to read everything you can get your hands on from the classics to popular fiction, to poetry—everything—and to keep writing. I can do that. But some advice is confusing.

One famous writer, Stephen King says, “The road to hell is paved with adverbs. When editing, strike every one of them.” Really? He uses them. Mark Twain is quoted as saying something similar to King, but he also uses them. What kind of advice is that? It smacks of “do as I say, not as I do.” Not fair.

Another writer advises to delete adjectives and use stronger nouns. I get that, but how would you say “the blond boy with brown eyes” or the “green house” without using adjectives? “The boy with eyes” and “The house” won’t get it. No wonder I’m crazy.

Hemingway says, “Write drunk. Edit sober.” How not helpful is that? It must have worked for him, but if I got drunk I’d blow off writing and anything else that seemed like work.

The best advice I’ve received by reading what the gurus say about writing is this: Write. Don’t give up. Keep trying. Here are two examples: “My top three pieces of writing advice? Stop whining and write. Stop (fooling) around and write. Stop making excuses and write.” ~Nora Roberts

Dr. Seuss said, “You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room.”

Thank you, but I figured that out for myself.

John Steinbeck was a fantastic writer, so I looked up what he had to say about writing. Typical Steinbeck, he nails it: “If there is magic in story writing, and I’m convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another.”

I do not feel better.

11 Comments

My Swing to the South

8/7/2014

18 Comments

Sometimes I’m at a loss for words. Yes; it surprises me too. I rarely have trouble drawing from the well of words in my…mind? heart? soul? Where do the words come from? I don’t know, so when I go to the well and bring up nothing but an empty bucket, I feel panicked. What if I never write again? What if it’s over for me?

“What if?” Those powerful little words drive the imagination of writers, researchers, scientists, explorers, deep thinkers. What if we could put a man on the moon? What if I could paint that? What if polio could be eradicated by a vaccine? What if nobody had wondered these things?

A couple of weeks ago I escaped to the southern end of Brewster County to answer a question burning my brain: what if a trip to where my writing life started would refill the well? In an earlier column, I spoke of swinging as a metaphor for being carefree, doing nothing, enjoying life. I set out to do that.

If you’ve ever driven down the main road of Terlingua Ranch, you know that when you begin, the Chisos Mountains are on the right side. You see them as you come down Highway 118. The Christmas Mountains stand in front of them but don’t block the view until you get close. By the time you turn left into the ranch, the Christmas Mountains dominate the skyline. But you know the Chisos are still there, right? They are, but…

The road winds and twists so subtly that by the time you near the Ranch Headquarters it’s a surprise to see the Chisos standing on the left-hand side of the view. The mountainous terrain opens up for seconds and—ta-da! We now present the Chisos! On the wrong side of the road. How can that be? Oh, it’s been explained to me a thousand times, but it’s a phenomenon that never fails to delight. I’m like a little kid who knows who Santa Claus is but still gets swept up by the enchantment of Christmas morning.

I know the surprise is coming but as I draw closer, I can hardly wait for it. A powerful feeling of awe comes over me because, you see, they are not just on the wrong side of the road, they are close. Because of the ever-changing position of the sun, the clouds, atmospheric conditions, and their own magic, they are always different. Every. Single. Time.

To test my theory, I turned my truck around to go back a few miles and drive by them again. I got distracted by an empty spot of land where there is a superb view of the Corazones. I parked and studied the ultra-rugged nature of them for five full minutes, challenging myself to describe those two natural wonders without using the words awe-inspiring, towering, rough, wild, rugged, jagged, twisted, rocky, tortured...you get the drift. I failed. All of those words fit and yet no words do them justice.

My friend was expecting me so I soldiered on, back to my Chisos Mountains experiment. Do I need to say that by the second time, ten minutes later, everything had changed? Clouds had come in from the south and were sagging over the Basin. Croton Peak had crept closer to the ranch. It was spotlighted for seconds and then the light moved on to a smaller mountain whose name I don’t know. I think of it as Beautiful Little Mountain. The entire Big Bend area of southwest Texas is full of them.

My friend and her wildly excited dogs welcomed me warmly. Her cats remained aloof and greeted me in their own time on their terms, except for the aptly-named Love Kitty. She had announcements to make about my arrival but she seemed positive overall. Maybe that was because I’d brought Emmylou, the singing kitty, back home.

I breathed in the peace that dominates my friend’s world and soaked up the scenery that always stirs my soul. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Every morning, from a comfortable bed, I watched dawn come to Big Bend National Park. Sometimes it would sneak in on quiet feet; other times it blasted in, showing off and splashing colors around. Every time it was beautiful.

I spent a full week mountain-gawking, thunderstorm-watching, laughing and talking, being quiet, porch-sitting, writing, and sleeping well. Like the little kitty Emmylou, I had come home.

18 Comments

My Rant: Bullying in 2014

Why I'm Not Going to Quit

My Swing to the South

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