rus vanwestervelt

The Single Moment Holds Infinite Possibilities

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November 11th, 2012 by rusvw

Sail Away, Part Four: Desperation Sally

The following draft (and a very rough one at that) is the fourth segment of my NaNoWriMo novel, Sail Away. NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is held each November, where writers are offered the challenge to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. In the spirit of this global event, I am sharing my novel-in-progress here throughout the month, posting my raw writing in “real time.” I encourage my readers to comment, offer ideas and suggestions, and help me shape the outcome of this story. Thanks for reading, and I hope you join along in the fun! If you need to catch up or want to review previous sections of Sail Away, you can always click on the convenient links on the left sidebar of my site. ~rus

Sail Away, Part Four: Desperation Sally

A novel-in-progress by Rus VanWestervelt
Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.


We sip our tea in silence. I have so many questions that I want to ask Kristin that, at this moment, seem insensitive. I have my own agenda: Who sent me the package? Why me and not her? She was the one who was tied to the journal and the bottle; what do I have to do with either?

Her agenda is quite different, and I get that. She sips her tea while stuck in the loop of car crashes and that defining moment when the thread of innocence is snapped forever.

“Honey, I have some terrible, terrible news to share with you…”

The sound of her grandmother’s voice, strength and love suffusing each word, but still failing to stop the blow of what comes next.

“There’s been an accident. And your mommy and daddy—They are–, they have been —“

Another sip of tea to wash it all away, but the words swirl in her, now a part of her once more.

“They are no longer here with us.”

I look at her from across the table, artifacts strewn between us, and try to balance what we are both feeling.

“More tea?”

She offers a simple smile and shakes her head. I get up to heat the water. Just in case.

“I was going to head back to Sally’s, but I am going to stick around here,” I say. “I figure we have to get started on that casserole or it’s going to go bad, right?”

She smiles a little more genuinely now, looks up at me, and then the tears come.

I leave the stove and walk toward her, and she leans into me as I reach her side. I take her in my arms and say nothing.

Because, really, what is there to say?

“I never got the chance to say goodbye to them. They went on one of their stupid trips and never came back. Do you know what does to a kid?”

I hold her and give her room to continue.

“And right before my birthday. Some present that was.”

As I listen to her, I realize that, in all these years, we have never celebrated her birthday. I know that it is close to now, sometime in November. But the exact date escapes me.

I hesitate to say anything, but I can’t help it. I feel like she needs to get this out now.

“Sally, isn’t your birthday coming up soon?”

“Five days. This Friday,” she says. “They died the day before.”

I mutter something stupid, trying to be supportive. She leans into me a little harder and I hold her a little tighter.

And that’s how we remain until the water boils on the stove, and I have to let her go and get up to silence the scream of the tea kettle whistle.

** **

As I pour new cups of tea for both of us, Kristin heats up two portions of the casserole. We realize that we haven’t eaten much all day, and it might be a good idea to get focused on some things that we can control, or at the very least, make an attempt to control.

The casserole is better than anything Kristin has ever made. Fresh fettuccini noodles in a creamy cheese and garlic sauce, covered with hand-picked crab meat and then broiled to perfection. It is Chesapeake comfort food that is perfect for mid-November afternoons, especially ones like these that are filled with mystery and somber reflection.

“It’s an old family recipe,” she offers. “I figured that, with everything you’ve been going through, it might make you feel a little better. I know it worked for me when Grams used to make it after Mom and Dad died.”

I nod. “Kristin, this would cure any man’s blues.”

“Too bad Sally doesn’t like seafood. Your Mom might like some though, right? You can take a few portions to her when you head back to Towson later today.”

“Sally! Yikes!”

I had completely forgotten about getting together with Sally for the Ravens game. I pat down my pockets looking for my phone, but they are filled with only a few coins and Kristin’s note that she had tacked to my door.

“How about a second helping?” I ask, heading back into the kitchen to find my phone.

“Usually I would say no,” she says. “I mean, I made the food for you.” Kristin taps the edge of her finger against her lips after pointing at me. “But I have to admit, it’s pretty close to what Grams used to make. And it is making me feel a little better about things. . . .”

“Then seconds it is.”

I take our dishes into the kitchen and find my phone on the counter. I throw it in my pocket and bring out another round of Kristin’s now-famous “Chessarole” as I have dubbed it. Kristin digs in as I dig out my phone to call Sally.

When I slide my finger across the screen to unlock it, I see a barrage of messages and notifications. All from Sally.

“Uh oh.”

Five missed calls, three messages, and 17 text messages.

Kristin looks up with renewed concern as if to say, “What now?”

I tell her about the missed messages as I begin to read Sally’s texts out loud.

I need to talk to you. . . .There is something going on in the basement with the pool table that is freaking me out. . . .Polaroids. . . . You have to meet me back at Mom’s. . . .Call me the minute you get this. . . .

And then the last one: Do you believe in ghosts?

Kristin puts her fork down and looks again at the journal and bottle between us.

“I’m guessing she got something in the mail too?”

“Not sure,” I reply. “Maybe her voice mail messages are a little more coherent.”

I look at the three messages left in voice mail, each about a minute long. I play the first one back and put it on speaker so that Kristin can hear as well.

Before she begins to speak, there is about 10 seconds of background noise – kids playing in the distance, and Sally’s husband calling for her, asking if she is okay. Sally’s response is muffled; when she speaks to me a few seconds later, the words are hushed as they are rushed, but they are also clear.

Jacob. I have to talk with you about the pool table. Or about Dad. I’m not sure which one yet. Or maybe both and they’re all related somehow and I don’t know. When you left Mom’s house this morning, I started looking through the other bottles that were around the basement, and I realized that one of dad’s favorite “treasures,” as he used to call his finds, was missing. I don’t know what happened to it, but while I was tearing apart the rest of the basement looking for it – he used to call it the Burger Bottle, I think – I remembered that I had a box of his things stored away in my attic. After I got home, I dug them out, and – Jacob. I HAVE to talk with you now about this. I can’t wait until you get here – You BETTER still be coming, Jacob! Do you hear me? Call me as soon as you get this.

Kristin and I both stare at the bottle in front of us on the table.

“You don’t think –“ she says.

“An hour ago, Kristin, I would have said ‘Impossible.’ Now, after everything you have told me about your grandfather and your parents, I’m not so sure.”

Kristin points to the phone. “The pool table — what is she talking about? I know you’ve talked about it before, and how you used to play games with your dad when you were younger. Why is she freaking out about it now?”

I give Kristin the not-so-short story about what we discovered earlier this morning. She is intrigued and hangs on to every word I say.

“So you got this pool table that’s been converted into a storage shelf simply by gluing a piece of plywood on top. Don’t get me wrong – I know I must be missing something here because I don’t really see the big deal about this.”

“It’s more about the fact that we stopped playing so abruptly when we were younger, and that Dad basically cemented that wood to the table. Why not just lay the board across and be done with it?”

“So you think something is in there? Like it’s serving as some kind of lock box?”

“Maybe. But what in the world would my father want to seal up for all these years?”

Kristin points to the phone again. “Play the other messages. This is just getting too weird.”

The second message is a butt-call; little more than mumbled words sifting through a denim pocket, signifying nothing.

“This is the last one she left,” I say, moving to the third message and pressing play.

Jacob, Sally begins in a barely audible whisper. Jacob, I’m really frightened. I’m heading back to Mom’s. Please call me immediately when you get this. I’ll explain everything when you get here. Not that you will believe anything I have to tell you. At least not yet anyway. . . . I guess you are just going to have to trust me on this one.

The rest of the message is muffled like the first one. I end the call and reach for the plain brown wrapping paper that the bottle and journal were wrapped in.

I read the return address out loud:

 

On Your Shore.
Not that you could believe me.
Not just yet anyway.

 

“Call her now,” Kristin says. “This is just too coincidental, and she doesn’t sound good at all.”

I tap “reply” on the screen of my phone, and wait for Sally to pick up.

Instead, I get her voice mail and leave a short message. When I hang up, I shoot her a quick text to let her know I called.

Kristin takes a sip of her tea, and I notice her hand shakes as she brings the cup back to the table. “Do you think she is okay?”

“Sally is one of the strongest people I know. I’m sure she’s fine.”

I put the phone down and take another bite of Kristin’s Chessarole, trying to keep everything calm and in perspective.

“Anyway,” I say, “I’m sure she’ll call me soon enough. No use letting great food go to waste.”

Kristin pushes the pasta with her fork, but doesn’t eat. “Call your mom. Maybe Sally is back in the basement and the signal is too weak. And if she is down there, I think we need to be there with her if she’s trying to lift that wood off of the pool table. I don’t know what she is going to find, but I don’t think she should be alone when she opens it.”

I like the sound of Kristin using we. I pick up the phone to call Mom, but it’s already vibrating. She beat me to it.

“Speak of the devil! I was just going to call you. Is Sally over –“

Before I can finish my sentence, Mom cuts me off.

“Yes she’s over here and she’s locked herself in that damned basement like your father used to do. Can you please come back home, Jacob, and get her out of there? She’s not answering me anymore and I don’t like any of this. I don’t like any of this at all.”

I pick up the bottle in front of me and ponder the initials “CB” etched on the bottom.

“Mom,” I say, before I hang up. “Let Sally know that I am coming over, and tell her to call me. Tell her that I know where the Burger bottle is.”

“What in the world is a Burger bottle?”

“Just tell her, Mom. Can you do that for me?”

After a long pause, she says that she will.

“I hope you have your key, Jacob. I need to take another Ambien, and by the time you get here, I won’t be good for nothin’.”

*** *** ***

When Kristin and I arrive at Mom’s house, we see Sally’s green Beetle parked out front. The purple ladybug dots that she added years ago when she first bought the car are now faded, peeling at the edges.

“I keep telling her it’s time to grow up and get a real car.”

Kristin holds on to the journal while I cradle the bottle, now back in its tube. We walk up the steps to the front door, which is locked, as I expected. I use my old house key (complete with the worn purple and yellow lanyard that shouts, “Loch Raven Raiders ROCK ‘83”) to let us in.

I hear Mom’s snoring coming from the back bedroom, a king-sized space for a single, fragile widow.

There is no sign of Sally.

“Let’s check downstairs,” I whisper to Kristin. We walk to the door that leads to the basement. This door is locked as well, and I am out of old keys on nostalgic key rings.

I rap my knuckles on the hollow door and call Sally’s name as loud as I think I can without waking Mom.

We wait for a response, but there is none. Just more silence.

“What now?” Kristin asks. We can’t just break the door down, can we?”

“No. There’s a window out back, though. It is probably covered with boxes of bottles, but it’s worth a shot.”

We head back outside and Kristin follows me as I walk around the south side of the house. At first, I don’t see the little window at all. Maybe Dad had it sealed up, I think, and I never got around to noticing it.  Wouldn’t surprise me in the least bit.

When we reach the back of the house, we make our way back to the front yard, staying close to the stone wall.

I am studying the foundation of the house, in search of some kind of patch-me-up job with concrete and brick, when I trip over some wild vines that creep along the ground and up the side of the house.

The tube with the glass bottle goes flying in the air, and Kristin catches it just before it hits the ground.

“Jacob! That was close! Are you okay?”

But I do not answer her. The same vines that made me trip cover the basement window, and when I pull them away and rub the dirt from the small pane of glass, I am left speechless by what I see.

The plywood remains on top of the pool table but askew, its seal broken.

And on top lies Sally face down, motionless, her left arm disappearing into the small, open crack where the wood has been moved.

“Sally!” I scream, getting to my feet and heading back to the front of the house.

Kristin is with me every step of the way, and we are both thinking the same thing:

Suddenly, breaking down the basement door now seems like a very real option, if not the only one, to us both.

*** *** ***

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Posted in 2011/365, Nano, Sail Away 2012 | No Comments »

November 3rd, 2012 by rusvw

NaNoWriMo: Making The Decision To Write Another Book in 30 Days

I had been on the fence about participating in NaNoWriMo again this year. I have written 4 novels in the last 8 years. Cold Rock was one of them, and it was published last November.

“Doing Nano” this year was not an issue of desire or how full the creative well might be (that’s never an issue in October and November, my two most productive writing months each year); it was all about time. I sketched out a very detailed work of fiction for Little Patuxent Review‘s DOUBT-themed issue. The deadline was November 1, and I never even completed a first draft of the story.

If I didn’t have time to write a short story, how in the world would I find the time to write a novel?

The big difference is what comes after the draft is written. Writing it down is not the hard part; what you do with it afterward is.

When I was planning out the DOUBT story for LPR, I was thinking “publication” the entire time. This put me in a different mind-set, and as a result, I never finished the story.

Like I said, drafting is never the issue; it’s the 5-7 revisions that follow that take the most amount of time. As the deadline closed in around me, I realized that rushing that process would produce a sub-par story that would end in a rejection, wasting both my time and the readers over at LPR.

That’s what happened when I submitted to their Social Justice issue. Rush and Rejection. Waste of time all-around.

Working on the Nano novel is completely different. Here’s why.

The goal is to complete a draft in 30 days. Although the goal is to produce a rather sound story that exceeds 50,000 words, there’s no judge weighing in on the Shit-ometer scale. It’s a draft, and it’s okay if it sucks.

I know that, after I finish, I will set a reasonable deadline schedule for my revisions. But that’s an entirely different scenario than what I was facing with the LPR deadline. If it takes me a year, then so be it. Maybe just six months? All the better. I get to wrap it up on my time, though, no matter how I look at it. I know I will be aggressive with the deadlines, but at least I won’t feel that deadline pressure before the first draft is even written. That pressure fits in an entirely different category, and I’m okay with that.

Finally, there are really no expectations with this story. I’ve sketched out a basic plot, but I have the time to give the characters some free reign over where this story might go. I couldn’t really do that with the LPR piece. Not enough time, and too much pressure.

I’ve decided to publish the Nano novel as I write it (here, on my blog) to allow my readers a chance to see a story develop in real time. I’m also allowing my readers to shout out some input, suggestions, and general thoughts about the characters, the plot, and what they think should happen next. You, Reader, have the chance to make a difference in this story just by following along and telling me what you think. If it’s a plausible suggestion, and it fits with the general idea of the story, I will likely include it.

Voila! Suddenly it becomes a community story, where each of us has shared a little to make this story come alive. That, to me, is a very cool thing indeed.

So don’t hesitate. Read the first section posted here (if you haven’t already done so), and follow along for the rest of the month. Share your thoughts and ideas and become an integral part of this story.

I can’t wait to collaborate with you!

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Posted in 2011/365, Nano, Sail Away 2012 | 3 Comments »

October 29th, 2012 by rusvw

Experiencing Sandy’s Imminent Landfall: 10/29/12 @1822

It’s just before 6 p.m., and the lights just won’t stop flickering. About 30 minutes ago, one of the generators in my neighborhood exploded, and our lights went with it — for just a second. They came back on, but I don’t have any confidence that they will stay on for too much longer. In fact, I doubt I will finish this post and publish it before we are in the dark.

We are surrounded by constant sirens — those we can hear above the sounds of the storm: the winds that filter through the trees with the roar of a freight train, the rains that pelt our windows in a sideways drive that makes me feel as if I am under some kind of rapid fire. We don’t know where they are going, as we can’t leave the house. They sound as if they are circling our neighborhood, though, a pulse of imminence reminding us that it isn’t a matter of if, but a matter of when, we lose power.

We’ve taken all of the precautions. Our food supply is good for at least 72 hours, and we even cooked all of our meals ahead of time so that we can eat them chilled if necessary. We have been bagging the ice from our icemaker in our refrigerator, so no worries about losing any perishable food (we have also depleted our frozen-food supply in the last few days so that we won’t have any wasted, thawed food to throw away).

But there’s something distinctly different between “getting ready” for the hit and actually experiencing it. With every rush of wind that pushes past us, we brace ourselves for a hit. There are trees that worry us more than others. In previous storms, they have dropped 15-foot branches in our yard, snapped from the trunk like a kid ripping a good marshmallow stick for the campfire.

These are the trees that make us hold our collective breath and wait for a crack, some sparks from the wires that will certainly follow instantaneously, and then the silence of the hum of electricity as our world goes black.

We pray that it doesn’t hit our house. We station ourselves strategically inside the house to miss the crash, should it fall our way. Our kids stay downstairs most of the time, clear of any impact. They don’t know this, of course. If we tell them of the precautions we take, they will be unnecessarily terrified. A Harry Potter film and their favorite blankies, and all is right with the world. It’s the little things that buy us a good 2 hours of happiness, bliss, and forget of the destruction that swirls all around us.

Another generator pops, the lights flicker, and my wife runs to the kitchen. She has been yearning to make a Sam Adams milkshake, and battery-powered blenders just don’t pack the punch you need to make these delicacies just exactly right.

I guess age does not discriminate when it comes to finding the things that buy us a little happiness and bliss.

The whir of the blender is in tune and in rhythm with the whirl of the winds outside. Synchronicity is a welcome friend right now, and I’ll take it, even in the dark.

 

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Posted in 2011/365, Romancing The Storm | No Comments »

October 4th, 2012 by rusvw

I’m An Artist, So Pay Me, Maybe?

Adam Byatt recently posted a piece about artists getting paid (or not), in response to a piece written by an artist named Amanda, who was responding to a letter that was sent to her by an artist named Amy.

Adam, Amanda, Amy… All artists. I’m thinking of changing my name to Arus (and it shall be pronounced A-roos, with a roll on the “r” if you can manage it) — at least for the purposes of writing this post.

I’ve been chatting off and on for several years about this topic with another artist, Cara. We both believe that giving abundantly provides abundant returns.

The question is: Where should artists stand when it comes to being paid for their work?

Before I even begin to answer that question, let me throw out a few particularly random, but relevant, thoughts.

The boom of the internet and the technology explosion have collectively oversaturated the market with good works at little to no cost. Nearly everybody with a smartphone can take a better-than-decent photo. Pretty it up on Instagram, Hipstamatic, or even iPhoto, and you can put together a great virtual album of photos worthy of their share of oohs and aahs, all of which will happen in a matter of seconds before friends and followers flip through their newsfeeds and move on to the next batch of artistic creations.

Never before have we been able to read so much, so immediately, and so efficiently. There’s a lot of good writing out there in the blogosphere, and virtually all of it is for free.

We are getting our “fix” of great art stuff — both making it and receiving it — and we don’t have to pay a dime for it. In fact, even when we want to purchase local artists’ works, we often have too many choices, and we simply cannot buy everybody’s books and photos that we would like to.

So where does that leave the artists who are trying to make a living through their creations?

We are being forced to rethink how we market our work (if at all), and to whom.

We cannot stop creating our photos, our sketches, our stories. It is a part of who we are; it is what we do, what we know, and what defines us.

We can choose other professions that sustain an income while we “dabble” with our art, but that’s not who we are. Our work suffers, and our contributions are never as significant as they should be. And, when we do invest a great deal of energy into a specific project, the returns are negligible, at best.

I have likened it in the past to CPR compressions. It’s getting harder and harder to create a product that isn’t on constant marketing life support. The minute we stop pumping energy into that product, it expires within a few days.

Very sad.

On Adam’s post, one commenter wrote that she has found a way around the “friends network” problem; she bypasses her local audience completely and sells her work in markets that are looking to buy high quality art.

This makes sense, and I think it’s worth a try to make that work if you are serious about making a living from your work. But it also saddens me to think that we need to go outside of our general community to have our work taken seriously. (For the record, I am ever grateful for the tight-knit group of supporters who has always purchased my stories and my photos.)

For me, I’m returning to some traditional means of publishing — sharing a little less online and through self-publishing, and submitting more work to reputable pubs and journals for consideration. It doesn’t mean that I won’t be blogging or posting through my social networks, but I will work harder on finding traditional markets to “accept” my work and build my credentials and clips.

Like Adam says, artists need to find their own path and walk it genuinely. For some, that’s the full-blown, make-a-living path. For others, it means giving, sharing, and submitting a little more generously while making some money in other ways.

I’m refining my own path, and it’s working for me. But I am, and always will be, an artist.

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Posted in 2011/365, business of writing, Philosophy of Writing, Photography, The Nature of Things, The Politics of Writing | 1 Comment »

September 20th, 2011 by rusvw

We Are Writing More Than Ever, Or Are We?

On the surface, I should be really excited about this ever-evolving global explosion with writing. In fact, the statistics are nothing short of staggering.

In February 2011, The Nielsen Company documented over 156 million public blogs in existence. In 2009, 1.5 trillion text messages were sent or were received (dhtech.com). According to Facebook’s statistics page (accessed at the time of this posting), there are more than 750 million active users, people spend over 700 billion minutes per month on Facebook, and they share more than 30 billion pieces of content (web links, news stories, blog posts, notes, photo albums, etc.) each month.Twitter, by its own claim, boasts that members are now posting in excess of 200 million tweets a month.

People are using writing and social networking to communicate more than ever before.

Consider the following passage from Jeremy Norman:

If we go back to the end of World War II in 1945, the year in which telegraphic use peaked in the United States, Americans sent 236 billion telegraph messages that year, seeming a huge number relative to U. S. population at the time. With respect to the amount of information transferred, numbers may be deceptive since telegraph messages were charged for by the word, and tended to be exceptionally brief, while the amount of text, audio and video information that can be transferred or exchanged in one minute on the Internet is incomparably greater than the amount of text that could be exchanged in the same time by telegraph. Because of the availability of increasingly rich and diverse information over wireless networks, the nature of telecommunication has changed. As of May 2010, cell phones, used by about 90% of American households, were used more for data, such as text messages, streaming video and music, than speech, and during 2008 to 2010 the average number of voice minutes per user in the United States fell. In his book, The Information. A Theory. A History. A Flood (2011, p. 395), James Gleick quotes Jaron Lanier dramatically describing the scale of the ever-accelerating flood of electronic information we are experiencing: “It’s as if you kneel to plant the seed of a tree and it grows so fast that it swallows your whole town before you can even rise to your feet.” (“From Cave Paintings to the Internet” http://www.historyofinformation.com/narrative/index.php)

Finally! People are writing more than they are speaking to communicate! After all these years, the written word has become king of the communication hill!

Or has it?

It seems to me that quantity has nothing to do with quality here, and in fact — all this “writing” is actually working against the production of any meaningful and significant written correspondence or communication that will survive a cache-clearing data dump of trivial information. We’re so caught up in instant communication in under 160 characters that we’re skimming the waves of our life experience. We are losing our ability to kill the motor, sink in the waters of who we are and what we feel, and share that with others in a meaningful way.

One staff writer for the Independent , who wrote an article on the state of love letters in the 21st century, posted this question last February:

Do people send each other love letters any more? Or is the exchange of amorous declarations between partners now forever delegated to the insulting greetings card, the fluffy-bunny message in newspaper classifieds, the wholly unpassionate email, the economical salutation of the text message?

The documentation of our lives, as only we can accurately record it through our own experiences, is becoming nothing more than an eWhisper, a vanishing trademark of communication that leaves us with nothing but the news, so immediately reported that we have little time to think or react to an event before the next breaking story pushes the previous one from our memories.

I am not totally discouraged. I was reduced to tears this summer when a fellow writer/teacher taught us all the art of digital storytelling, and how we can empower our students to do the same in the classroom. The integration of writing and images can be a powerful thing, and such historical documentation in a simple, digital format was not possible just a few years ago.

But I think this is the exception and not the rule. Even before programs like iMovie came along, there wasn’t a whole lot of non-digital storytelling going on either, which leads me to believe that the technology explosion is not necessarily killing all aspects of writing; it is simply revealing the ugliness of our society’s negligence in writing authentically.

We can change that. We can help each other turn off our motors and sink into the genuineness of our being.

The first step is to recognize the absolute importance of our existence, as well as the documentation of our understanding of the world around us.

Hard? I guess so. As Tom Hanks says in A League of Their Own, “It’s supposed to be hard; the hard is what makes it great.”

So who’s with me? Let’s accept that challenge, turn off the tweets and the updates, and sink a little. Then write.

I wonder what we’ll begin to discover . . . .

 

 

Posted in 2011/365, Philosophy of Writing, rus uncut, The Nature of Things, The Politics of Writing | No Comments »

June 25th, 2011 by rusvw

Proclamation: There Will Be No More Proclamations!

There’s a particular scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix where Dolores Umbridge takes over as High Inquisitor at Hogwarts. In a flurry of images depicting rules and restrictions being created and enforced, Argus Filch stands atop an old, rickety ladder and pounds proclamation statements into the school’s storied walls. Most noted in this montage are Educational Decrees 24 (“No music is to be played during study hall”), 30 (“All Weasley products will be banned immediately”), and 45 (“Proper dress and decorum to be maintained at all times”). The climax in this relatively short scene is when Umbridge is dismissing Professor Trelawney from Hogwarts, and Dumbledore challenges her on the dismissal.

Prof. Trelawney: For sixteen years I’ve lived and taught here. Hogwarts is my home. You can’t do this.

Umbridge: Actually, I can.

(Professor McGonagall enters to comfort Prof. Trelawney, and after a brief exchange with Umbridge, they are all joined by Dumbledore.)

Dumbledore: Professor McGonagall, might I ask you to escort Sybil back inside?

Umbridge: Dumbledore, may I remind you that under the terms of Educational Decree no. 23, as enacted by the Minister–

Dumbledore: You have the right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to banish them from the grounds. That power remains with the Headmaster.

Umbridge (after a long pause): For now.

As much as this scene in the movie represents the ridiculous power that Umbridge has been given (and misuses) at Hogwarts, Umbridge herself is a strong  representation of the equally ridiculous misuse of power right in our own communities.

Don’t see it? It’s everywhere, and once you begin to notice it happening in one part of your life, you suddenly recognize it in nearly every other aspect, too.

Not that this is anything new. It’s not. These demonstrations of the misuse of power accompanied by subtle-to-blatant intimidation (fought aggressively in our schools today and labeled as bullying) can be traced back (even just in the United States) to the days of colonization. Even 150 years ago, Native Americans were bullied into acculturation as we stripped them of their customs, rights, and freedoms. We forbade them to speak their native language, and families were separated as children were put in “civilization” schools. We created rules, regulations, and proclamations to steer them in a specific direction, solely for the purposes of our own benefits and desires.

It makes me wonder if this is in our blood, in our nature, in our internal drive to dominate, manipulate, and control any situation that we possibly can. It’s as if all common sense, all sensitivity toward other human beings, is shelved until a more selfish pursuit is fulfilled.

Why is this such an issue today? The dangerous mixture of this desire for power and a post-9/11 society hell-bent on creating controlled, positive experiences is threatening the mental wellness of every child in our society.

A Rule Is A Rule

Long before terrorists crashed airplanes into buildings and changed our lives forever, my terminally ill father-in-law was given 30 days to move out of the house he had been renting for over a decade. My wife and I were moving bags of trash to the curb for pick-up, and a woman in her mid-twenties, well into her third trimester of pregnancy, stopped her car and approached us. As we had put out a few lamps, I thought she was interested in taking them. When I greeted her and explained what had happened, she pulled out a camera and started taking pictures.

“I’m not interested in that. I’m the president of the Community Association, and I am documenting this direct violation of the Association’s contract with your father-in-law regarding trash disposal before 6 p.m.”

Any assistance offered, at least in the kindness of others because of her pregnancy? Any question about why the landlord would do this? Any effort to understand? None. In many small organizations like Community Associations, where people act more like dictatorial mayors than helpful and supportive neighbors, the entire purpose of the organization is lost in battles that border the ridiculous. Tell me, why does it really matter if the color I want to paint my front door is two shades lighter than your Association-approved chartreuse? Can’t we just say the paint faded years ago and move on to other, bigger issues? You know, like how many swings to place in the community playground? (Oh wait– I forgot. The Association deemed them too harmful in all ways to include in the playground blueprints.)

I remember thinking how detached from reality the whole experience seemed. I was glad that I was not part of that Association, and I vowed on that day to steer clear of such groups. I did not want my life dictated by such power-hungry individuals who had lost sight of what it meant to be human, to be bigger than a bunch of black-white rules that blocked all conventions of common sense.

I Don’t Like Your Tone

I failed in my attempts to steer clear. It becomes inevitable, I guess, when you have kids. Most recently, I have found myself in the middle of an organization that is more Umbridge-like than any other I have experienced. Within this organization, I am supposed to sign a contract that notes, among other things, zero tolerance toward personal expression. In the section titled, “Contract Termination,” I must agree to a statement (written in first person, oddly enough) that I have paraphrased here:

We understand that if there is ever a time that we cannot be a positive force to this organization, we will forfeit our place in this group immediately.

This clause was exercised earlier this year when one community family expressed concern about the organization’s direction. Because they did not exude a “positive force” in the community, they were blackballed in unprecedented fashion from all end-of-the-year festivities.

In other words, if you express anything but positivity about the organization, you will be punished severely. And that’s a proclamation you can bet on, ladies and gentlemen.

Is the Pursuit of Positivity Pushing Us Over the Edge?

In the July/August ’11 issue of The Atlantic, Lori Gottlieb explores the dangers of enveloping our younger generations with purely positive and supportive comments and opportunities (the front-cover headline, “How the Cult of Self-Esteem Is Ruining Our Kids,” is just as attractive as the article’s title, “How To Land Your Kid In Therapy”). She interviews a Swarthmore College professor of social theory, Barry Schwartz, who takes a big risk in proclaiming that creating an insulated, 24/7 Happy World for our children can lead to a very unhappy adult life. “Happiness as a byproduct of living your life is a great thing. But happiness as a goal is a recipe for disaster.” Gottlieb then poses the ultimate question: “Could it be that by protecting our kids from unhappiness as children, we’re depriving them of happiness as adults?”

The Point

I’ve said this for years now. The Post-9/11 mentality of most parents is, understandably so, one grounded in protection and security. We can no longer push our kids out the front door and tell them dinner will be ready when the porch light goes on (You better be back in this house 5 minutes later with hands washed and at the dinner table, mister!). We’ve felt guilty about this, as our childhoods were filled with adventures in exploration, experience, success, and failure. We took risks that our parents never even knew about (nor would they ever, we swore up and down). Our kids don’t have that necessarily, and we fill this need to fill that time with controlled experiences. We choose events and activities where our children will succeed, where they will experience happiness (or so we believe), and we will sacrifice nearly anything and everything to provide them with such opportunities.

In essence, we’re doing the very thing that I absolutely loathe about the above-mentioned Associations and Organizations. We are constructing guilt-freeing Truman Shows for our kids, controlling the outcome of every “risk” they might take.

I can’t do this. I can’t hold my tongue in fear of popping this happiness bubble that we’ve created with sharp words that might offend in this fragile time. Thoreau wrote many years ago, “Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails.” We need to return to this toughness. We need to stop worrying about our kids’ happiness being derailed by anything that’s missing a soaring rainbow or happy heart.

Those of you who know me might see this as a deviation from my positive approach to living life. Please don’t misunderstand me. I believe in living your life fully and authentically. Thoreau also said that we must corner life and experience it fully–it’s greatness as much as its meanness. We, as parents, cannot remove that truth from a life lived authentically. As Schwartz said in The Atlantic article, happiness should be a byproduct of living genuinely, and not the ultimate goal.

 

 

 

 

 

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April 9th, 2011 by rusvw

Uhhh…Guess what I didn’t do yesterday…

Did ya miss me?

In case you didn’t realize, my blogging pen spilled no ink yesterday (don’t feel bad–I didn’t even realize that I had not written until long after midnight…). I thought that I would be completely devastated by forgetting to write.

Instead, I chuckled to myself and fell fast asleep.

Writing every day is a way of life for me, I guess. Whether I do that on my blog, in my daybook, or on a specific story or essay I am working on, it really makes no difference at all to me. What’s most important is that I write every day.

Nearly all of my thoughts this week have been on the alternate ending for my novel, Cold Rock. Since I first wrote the original ending 5 years ago (and then revised it once nearly 2 years later), I have never been at peace with how the ending played out. I always felt (even with the revision 3 years ago) that the ending settled the story of the protragonist, but really did nothing at all for the reader.

That has always bothered me on several levels. There’s a relationship between story and reader that I cannot ignore, and I want to leave my readers with something to take from my words that transcends a superficial commentary about the characters or the plot line. I want them to take something more relevant, more personal, that they carry with them long after they finish reading.

I think that this alternate ending does this.

It may be rough around the edges (it’s all new writing that I’ve spliced into a story that hasn’t changed dramatically since I wrote it), and I may have to go through several revisions to smooth it out so that its addition to the manuscript is seamless to the reader. But to me, as a writer, I like it much, much better.

So–back to this blog and my daily writing. Now that the streak has been broken, I’m not going to make as big a deal about writing every day here, but I also can’t ignore that it might very well happen anyway.

I’m way behind on my Write Anything posts, too. I need to get back to them pronto.

Thanks to all of you who have read so far, and thanks for continuing to stick around. I can’t wait to see what discoveries writing will bring me in the days to come!

 

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April 7th, 2011 by rusvw

2011/365/097: Suicide at 14

SUICIDE HOTLINE: 800-273-8255

Earlier this week, a 14-year-old boy, active in his Christian middle school in my community (he was reportedly the student government president), took his own life. I do not know any of the details of this horrible tragedy. What I do know is that middle school children (and, tragically, even those younger in elementary school) are not immune to depression, anxiety, and even suicide.

Folks, there is no textbook case. Take any group of teens, and you will not be able to identify those who are suffering from depression or anxiety. While some individuals are very open with their struggles in managing their mental illness, just as many are masters at masking the indicators — sometimes, right up to the moment they decide to take their own life.

No child is immune. No threat should be ignored. No assumptions should be made that a child has “got it together” or can handle the pressures. In fact, most teens think that, to make it into their college of choice, they have to go above and beyond any and every expectation to receive that coveted acceptance letter. They’ll do anything to be the best — drugs (including prescription meds for ADHD), alcohol, or cheating.

Granted, many colleges are now beginning to tone down the unrealistic expectations, but the word is slow trickling down to the high schools (and now necessarily the middle schools). The new battle teens face is having their application rise above the sea of applicants, especially now that most seniors are applying to 6, 10, and even 15 schools.

I went to the website of this Christian school (and it is very well respected in our community), and I was glad to see that they had posted information on their middle school page about coping with death and the loss of a friend or fellow student (including good questions and answers that will help many families). For this situation, the members of this community will rely on such information. But we cannot hide the dangers. We cannot pretend that this doesn’t happen at our school or our church.

It does. Every single day.

We need to be aware. We need to educate ourselves, our children, our schools, and our communities about how common these anxieties are and how common depression is among our teens — yes, common for 14, 15, and 16 year-old teens.

I share these common statistics with you from Save.org.  Educate others. Make them aware that we need to listen to our children, we need to be attentive to their anxieties and triggers, and we need to work with our schools, our churches, and our families and neighbors to help see our kids through these challenging times. If you are in need, or if you know somebody in need, do not hesitate to call the help line (above). Remember: You Are Never Alone. You Are Loved.

Suicide Facts

  • Suicide takes the lives of nearly 30,000 Americans every year.
    Many who attempt suicide never seek professional care.
    There are twice as many deaths due to suicide than HIV/AIDS.
    Between 1952 and 1995, suicide in young adults nearly tripled.
    Over half of all suicides occur in adult men, ages 25-65.
    In the month prior to their suicide, 75% of elderly persons had visited a physician.
    Suicide rates in the United States are highest in the spring.
    Over half of all suicides are completed with a firearm.
    For young people 15-24 years old, suicide is the third leading cause of death.
    Suicide rates among the elderly are highest for those who are divorced or widowed.
    80% of people that seek treatment for depression are treated successfully.
    15% of those who are clinically depressed die by suicide.
    There are an estimated 8 to 25 attempted suicides to 1 completion.
    The highest suicide rate is among men over 85 years old: 65 per 100,000 persons.
    1 in 65,000 children ages 10 to 14 commit suicide each year.
    Substance abuse is a risk factor for suicide.
    The strongest risk factor for suicide is depression.
    By 2010, depression will be the #1 disability in the world. (World Health Organization)
    In 2004, 32,439 people died by suicide. (CDC)
    Suicide is the 11th leading cause of death in the U.S. (homicide is 15th). (CDC)
    Suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death for 15- to 24-year-old Americans. (CDC)
    It is estimated that there are at least 4.5 million survivors in this country. (AAS)
    An average of one person dies by suicide every 16.2 minutes. (CDC, AAS)
    There are four male suicides for every female suicide. (CDC, AAS)
    Research has shown medications and therapy to be effective suicide prevention.
    Suicide can be prevented through education and public awareness.
    Last year SAVE educated 10,618 youth & parents on depression and suicide prevention.
    Last year SAVE received 810 requests for information from 72 countries.
    In 2004 it is estimated there were 811,000 suicide attempts in the US. (AAS)
    There are three female suicide attempts for each male attempt. (CDC, AAS)
    According to the Violent Death Reporting System, in 2004 73% of suicides also tested positive for at least one substance (alcohol, cocaine, heroin or marijuana).

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April 6th, 2011 by rusvw

2011/365/096: Listening to Dillard

Many highlights to this day (there always is when I’m teaching at Towson), but the surprise highlight has to be listening to Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim At Tinker Creek, as read by Tavia Gilbert. I’ve had this book on my iPod for some time now, but today was the first day that I really listened to it.

I read it years ago when my mother got me a copy for my birthday (ah, those wonderful days in Grad School at Goucher…LOVED the literature I was reading then…). And although I really appreciated the way Dillard worked the words to flow as natural as some of the streams she was writing about, I could not appreciate the way they sounded–until today.

Tavia Gilbert does a wonderful job bringing Dillard’s essays to life.

I know you cannot hear this, but even reading this excerpt gives you a sampling of Dillard’s gift for poetic nonfiction:

The creek is the mediator, benevolent, impartial, subsuming my shabbiest evils and dissolving them, transforming them into live moles, and shiners, and sycamore leaves. It is a place even my faithlessness hasn’t offended; it still flashes for me, now and tomorrow, that intricate, innocent face. It waters an unserving world, saturating cells with lodes of light.

The rhythm, flowing with a lovely dose of alliteration, blend perfectly to mesmerize the most stubborn reader.

I am always thrilled by what I can learn by reading and listening, how the lessons help me become a better writer and communicator with my target audience, without sacrificing my own voice in my writing. Stephen King has said on numerous occasions that you can’t be a writer if you don’t read. The two are inseparable.

I think making the time to read more (stop that laughing) is a critical need for us to stave off the ills of technology, to thwart the dumbing down of the depths of our thinking. Reading forces us to slow down, practice patience, and contemplate our own connections and revelations as we turn each page.

I would love to know what you are reading right now. What does your latest book make you remember?

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April 5th, 2011 by rusvw

2011/365/095: Three Quick Thoughts

Three quick thoughts for the night:

1. Today, the Baltimore Sun reported that Maryland Casinos took in a revenue of over $13 million in the month of March. In 2008, Governor O’Malley stated that the Casinos would primarily cover the needs of our schools (i.e., the money would go toward education).

Hey–Didn’t the state report last month that they needed $12 million to cover the needs in our classrooms, thus justifying the budget cuts, larger class sizes, and surplussed teachers? Phew! Glad that’s taken care of, with $1 million to spare.

Uh, right?

2. I spent over a year putting off the final revision of Cold Rock. When I made the decision on Friday to just sit down and face it head on, I not only completed the revision, but I created an alternate ending that may (may may may) make the ending better. That would have never been possible had I not taken the risk to jump in and just write. You would think that I would take my own advice every now and then. The truth is, though, that I write all the time about how hard writing is, simply because it is hard.

So what, though….right? Everything is hard. We need to push on anyway to see what awaits on the other side. Almost every time, I’m pleasantly surprised and grateful that I did so.

3. Killing our TV last month has been the best thing for our kids and for our family. We spend hours together every night now, and I don’t remember when we’ve had more laughter in the house. Our kids are reading again (and to each other, which is an even greater bonus), and we’re reopening doors to talk about the deeper things that aren’t necessarily accessible when they’re dipping in and out of the TV Dumb Zone. We’re saving over $100 a month by doing this, but really–the benefits are so much bigger (and priceless) when it comes to how our family is bonding.

Our kids are not lost just yet. We just need to make the opportunities for face-to-face time. When we’re competing with iPods, cell phones, and the media, it’s an ongoing war to keep our kids in touch with what’s most important.

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