IF ONLY

For Posterity  My blog just went viral. My assignment? Write the post I’d like new readers to see and by which I’d like them to remember me. Write that post right now.


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Talk about a tall order. Golly gee whiz. You mean … like … right now, here, no prep, no thought. Write the post of posts, the one by which the blogging (and maybe literary) world will remember me. I’m not trying to be argumentative, but that’s like telling me to sit down and produce a best-selling book. Now, this minute.

Writing doesn’t work that way … and even if it did, I don’t work that way. Writing is a process. Idea or concept, followed by roughing out a draft. Wait a while, then come back, have another go at the draft. Maybe get someone else to read it.

Click publish. Will it be a hit? It’s a crap shoot. You may love it and think it’s the best piece I’ve ever written, but maybe no one else will like it. Or maybe I’ll think it’s mediocre, but you think it’s fantastic. Maybe I’ll read it tomorrow and the whole thing will give me a monumental headache. I’ll realize it’s a total piece of shit and delete it, too embarrassed to even keep it on file.

Art to order. Brilliance on demand.

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If only.

If only I could decide to write that best-seller, just sit down and do it. After which a publisher would agree, then promote, market, and publicize it. But of course, I’m still stuck on the “writing it” piece of the equation. Like today, now, this minute, I’m supposed to write the one post I’d like new readers to see and by which posterity will remember me. Just like that.

Does anyone know what, if anything, posterity will choose to remember? Because I sure don’t know. I’m not sure anyone will remember me at all, for any reason.

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What I know is each post I write is the best I can write on that day, in that moment. Maybe it will be a great little post. Maybe it will be popular and viewed by many people. Maybe no one will notice it at all and it will disappear. Probably, I won’t remember it either.

I’ll continue to do my best. And that will have to suffice.

SOME OF MY STUFF – CEE’S ODD BALL PHOTO CHALLENGE

Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge: 2015 Week #1

Definitely at the odder end of my odd ball photos are these completely unrelated pictures of various stuff.

The first picture shows two carved fetishes from my collection. The medicine bear was my very first fetish and the ram is Garry’s symbol and one of my favorites.

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Teddy is the official anniversary bear, a reproduction of the original bear from 100 years ago. The hat, however, is just something I added. It fit. So Teddy has a hat with a feather.

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Ganeesh is the Hindu patron of writers, among other things. He is my favorite among the Hindu pantheon and is the only member of his group to live on my mantelpiece in the living room.

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Last, but not least, we have this antique cast iron Scottie doorstop, one of a dozen or so old doorstops I kept after closing my collectible and antique business.

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WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG WITH THAT?

When I lived in Israel, there was a story in the news about a family who sold their house and used the proceeds to buy lottery tickets. They figured they had to win. Win big. After which they would buy a new house. It didn’t work out as planned. They ended up with a giant pile of worthless lottery tickets and no house. A perfect example of “what could possibly go wrong?”

Watching television gives one many opportunities to ponder “what could possibly go wrong?” Last night, on CSI, a show whose time has come and probably also gone, what’s-his-name played by Ted Danson is using his lovely daughter as bait for a serial killer. Really.

What could possibly go wrong with that?

It took all the creativity of a team of writers to come up with an unbelievable happy ending. Unbelievable in the sense that I didn’t believe it. Garry didn’t believe it. I bet even the guys who wrote it didn’t believe it.

I try not to take this sort of thing personally. It can’t be that the people who write scripts for television shows think we are that stupid, do they? When I worked at Doubleday, many long years go, we wrote about books because, you know, Doubleday is a publisher. There were very few rules about how we were to write. We were allowed a great deal of creative freedom, one of the many pluses of the job.

The one warning we got was to never, ever, write down to our readers. Because you never know who is reading that book. As the editor in charge of the Doubleday Romance Library, I got to read the surveys on who actually reads romance novels, an oft-maligned genre of literature.

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These light, fluffy stories — all pretty much the same plot — always sold extremely well. It seemed that fans of the genre could not get enough of them. Yet survey after survey showed that the readers of romance novels were, of all of our reader groups, the best educated.

How could that be? Well, it turns out that many people in high-pressure professions don’t want to read serious books. They want to be gently entertained. They like books with no ugly deaths, no tortured souls. They appreciate knowing there will be a happy ending and if they forget to finish the book, it doesn’t matter.

Whoever is in charge of the story lines and scripts for many current television series, seem to have forgotten about not talking down to us. They obviously think we are stupid. The result? I stop watching their shows. When the stories get ridiculous, when the “what could possibly go wrong with that?” factor outweighs its entertainment value, we move on.

For me to accept a story, to suspend my disbelief, you need to give me a hook. Something that lets me accept whatever is happening as “possible.” Like, there you are on planet Alphabetazoid in the far away galaxy of ZYX900042 and everyone speaks colloquial 21st century American English. You want me to believe it? Tell me they are using their “Universal Translator.” Or have babel fish in their ears. I want to believe, but you need to offer me a little help.

Of course, that’s useless when confronted by the vast sea of true-life human stupidity. People who really do sell their homes to buy lottery tickets and other “What could possibly go wrong with that” scenarios. I will need to continue to deal with the depth and breadth of human stupidity as best I can.

At least on television and in the movies, though, give me a break. Help me believe. Because I am not stupid. Really. I’m not. I just like stupid television shows.