Veteran’s Day is always a bittersweet kind of day for me. Veterans of our armed forces have a very very special place in my heart. I’m not really an emotional person but shaking a veteran’s hand can reduce me to tears in an instant, before I can even blurt out an awkward, “Thank you.”

They do what I know I cannot do. They have given up their very lives – not just those whose bodies are left overseas – but even those who return – for me and my countrymen and -women.  There’s so much about what they do and endure that I know I am entirely too much of a wimp for. Start with the physical training. Ugh! Yes, I’m old and decrepit these days, but even when more youthful – I know I would not have been able to endure the 20 mile pack marches or the hundreds of pushups. Most of all, I know I would not do well with someone screaming orders at me. I could not obey without talking back or without question. A good soldier I would not make.

I am grateful that my work and my outside of work interests often bring me in contact with veterans. I have learned and continue to learn so much from them. They make so many of our noble pie-in-the-sky American ideals real. Loyalty, honor and camaraderie are something special, manifest in very real ways in these men and women’s lives. I am always humbled when I get to work with them. I very often feel that “I’m not worthy” to even keep company with them – they are superhuman, in my book.

But I also know from my experiences in working with them that there are those who struggle. Some in obvious ways, others in more subtle ways. I often hear about how skills that served them well overseas in a combat zone (like hypervigilance and quick reactions, for example) make life really difficult for them when they come home. I see it and hear it many times.

Today, I think of the men and women who served our country with honor and distinction, who got good educations through the military by becoming electricians, mechanics, radio operators, or learning many other skilled trades.  But who this evening are spending a cold winter night on the street, under a bypass, on a grate, or on a doorstep or in an alleyway. Some people say homeless – especially homeless veterans – are to blame for their condition. But I say – look what they did for our country – and that means, what they did for me, personally, by volunteering to serve. So what have we done – as a country, or me, personally, for them? Have I helped them in any way by saying Thank you, by giving them a cup of coffee, by referring them to places that can help them by providing food or shelter – maybe even a job? Everyone’s having difficulty finding work these days – why blame the victim?

Why do so many of our returning veterans find life so difficult once they return home that they believe suicide to be their only solution? What can we – as individuals, but perhaps more importantly, as a nation – do to help them? Why must they wait months to receive appropriate counseling and aid at VA hospitals – the very institution that is supposed to help them?

Thankfully, there are organizations out there to help. And not just aid to those veterans who find themselves homeless, but all veterans who need assistance – especially in areas no warrior wants to admit to needing help in – mental health. I saw a sign once that said, “It takes the strength/courage  of a warrior to know when to admit that you need help.”

Here’s some places that I know are helping others:

Ed Tick, author of  War and the Soul, leads healing journeys and seminars. Much of his work has focused on Vietnam veterans, but has now been expanded for the current generation of veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan.

Numerous cities have programs called Stand Downs, where homeless or near-homeless veterans can receive aid and comfort in a warm friendly place with their fellow veterans. It is a tragedy that nearly 200,000 veterans are on the street – and that there are so many out there that there is an organization called the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans. It’s great that such an organization exists to provide aid and support – but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it no longer had to exist?

Finally, there is an online project called NotAlone.com which is designed to be a website for veterans and family members who are struggling to cope with the upheaval and adjustment of coming back to the United States after having been overseas. Some of the areas of tension might be unnoticeable at first – like the spouse who has remained at home and who has taken on the responsibilities normally shared by both parents of the children, and has difficulty adjusting back to having the soldier-spouse back in the household. Other areas might be more obvious – quick violent rages or quietness merging into deep depression. NotAlone is designed to help both the soldier and the family member who remained at home. They do this by providing an online forum where people can listen to interviews with others who have gone through the same experiences. It is a way for people to understand that they are NotAlone in their suffering, in their bewilderment, in their uncertainty – and even their pain. It helps people understand that there is hope and healing out there, and lets visitors to their website learn more about how others coped with and got through, and got help, in similar situations.

To all of our veterans, THANK YOU with deep gratitude for all that you do, have done, and will do. There is no way we can ever repay your sacrifice. Our nation and we as individuals owe you so very very much.

© writingreading, 2009

Just this week, I’ve heard two stories about two young women – both age 12 – who are truly inspiring.

The first is Dorothy Dark, who creates original headbands and sells them at a boutique in Nashville, Tenn. They’re going for $8-$12, folks. She’s 12. What a talent, and what an entrepreneur.

The second is a young woman who may be about 14 by now, but the story I learned about her concerns her life when she was 12 and 13. She was making a movie, and not just any move, but a feature-length film – about zombies. Emily Hagins’ story is told in the documentary Zombie Girl – and it follows her through two years of filmaking. She was 12 when she did this, folks. Twelve. As in – in middle school. And this is no ordinary feature-length pre-teen zombie movie. It’s the Real Deal. Makup. Slates (“action”), film-editing, sound boom. The works.  (With lots of help from Mom and Dad and her schoolmates. And the local IGA, until the zombies left a trail of blood behind after the filming – but we won’t talk about that.) What’s more, she won a $1000 Texas Filmmaker’s Production Grant that helped her family recoup some of the funds they had put into the film. It took her two years to create the film before Pathogen premiered to a sold-out crowd in her hometown of Austin, Tex.

I really loved the documentary about the making of her film, because it showed her passion for filmmaking, her professionalism at such a young age, and her desire to do good work, and see her project through to completion. I mean, really – how many 12 year olds can keep their enthusiasm and momentum going on one subject for more than a few weeks – let alone two entire years? It was impressive and inspiring.

It was neat to see, too, how she and her mother got along during the entire zombie-journey. It was amazing to see how supportive both of her parents were of her endeavor, but especially her mother who provided transportation, and served as caterer, sound crew, makeup artist, props department, and special effects technician. Sometimes Mom tried to have too much influence in production, which led to some artistic differences and tension between mother and daughter, but her story, too, as mother of a child-film-producer was also interesting to watch.

I’m interested to see where these young ladies are in another 2 to 10 years. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if one is a major fashion designer and the other is getting her first Academy Award or Sundance Film Festival honor at age 18.

Young women like these inspire me. If we as adults, particularly us women, believed in our dreams and followed our passions with the heart and drive as these young girls – what might our world look like? Well, it might be full of zombies wearing hip, cool headbands – but I’d venture a guess that we’d all be happier, and those around us would be happier, too, because by following our passions, we would bring joy and laugher and pleasure to others. What’s more – we could inspire others – just like these young women are inspiring me – and I hope, you too!

© writingreading, 2009

I’m entirely too old for this – and any younger readers will be asking me what took me so long – but I am suddenly a big fan of the rock star, P!nk !

I guess it’s because her song, “Please Don’t Leave Me” has been getting so much airplay. It’s catchy, one of those stays-in-your-head kind of songs. But wow – have you ever really listened to the lyrics? It’s all about the love/hate and the intensity of both in an abusive relationship.

I went to her website PinksPage (be sure to go here – and don’t try to guess her website name, as I did – because you will be in for a very rude and inappropriate surprise) – and got to learn all things P!nk.  The more I explored there, the more I recognized some more of her songs as being familiar. And then found out that her current album, Funhouse – has been out for almost a year, and a lot of songs from this particular album will be familiar as well. “So what” – the nah-na-nah-na-nah-na “I’m a rock star” , arrogant,  in your face, tune is just one example. (Ok. So that’s one I dont’ care for).

Of course, this will be very very old news to anyone under 30, but I’m not, so it’s all new to me. But I gotta say, I like her and her music. My generation’s female rock icon was Madonna – it seems P!nk fills the same role for today.

Her musical style is very versitile – from an acoustic guitar ballad to straight on rock to a few that although rock , have a very bluesy feel to them because of the tone of her voice.

I don’t know if the Grammy cycle has already come and gone or if Funhouse is still eligible – but it definitely could take Best Album, as well as earning P!nk a Best Female Vocalist award. There’s a lot here – both musically, and lyrically.

I think what I like best about much of this album is the lyrics that she crafts. They all tell a story. Often, like “Please Don’t Leave Me” – the story is a double edged sword – love/hate, violence with an upbeat “da da da” background bubblegum vocal. I like the contrasts and the irony.

Much of the album seems to be autobiographical, at least, according to some of her public statements, like the synopsis she gives on her website. That makes it even more intriguing.  If that’s the case – or even if it is just the public persona she is crafting – she becomes the epitome of strength and vulnerability, tragic flaw plus extraordinary talent.

I’m not sure if she is solely responsible for most of her lyrics, but they are well-written and burst with irony and tension. One line from “Crystal Ball,” for example: “Sometimes you think everything  / Is wrapped inside a diamond ring.” Or this one, from “Mean” – “It’s like a train wreck, trying to hit the right track.” Clever, clever stuff.

I like rockers who are smart, aren’t afraid to speak their (real) mind – who aren’t just posing and out to make millions.  A strong woman who shows the boys that they’re not the only ones who can rock n roll. And even more surprising – an openness and recognition of flaws, and a willingness to work that into the lyrics of her songs.  All of that makes P!nk’s Funhouse pack a powerful punch!  I might be late to P!nk in general and to Funhouse in particular, but she’s definitely got a place in my music collection, now.

© writingreading, 2009

It seems like many of us struggle with the idea of calling ourselves “writers.” I know that’s true for me, and I know many of my writing friends feel that way too. In a writing group I belong to, one of the great sayings is: “A writer is one who writes.”

I love that phrase. It is simple and inspiring. And unarguably matter-of-fact. Even so, sometimes I still doubt.

One method that I have started using which has helped me immensely in any number of ways is to keep a writing log. No, not a journal. It is not a place to write. Rather, it is a way for me to keep track of my writing.

A typical run of entries might look something like this:

9/30/09 Wrote 2 pages.

9/28/09 Edited 7 pages.

9/18/09 Wrote 2 pages.

9/15/09 Read 10 pages, edited 3.

9/12/09 Cut 4 pages.

And so forth. This technique has helped me so much. First, it keeps me accountable, if only to myself. If I choose to share it with friends (as I have elsewhere), it makes me even more accountable. If they are paying attention, they can tell me “hey – I see you haven’t written anything in the past few weeks – everything OK? Need a jump start?  Keep going, you can do it.”  Or, they might notice that I’ve had a good run, and might cheer me on. Even if they don’t respond in any fashion, it still helps me to be accountable to myself, and to a community of writers.

Second, it’s useful for me to see where my time is going. Have I been mostly writing, or mostly editing?  After a few weeks or months of keeping a log like this, I may be able to notice patterns. I might find that I’m more productive at the end of the month. Or that when I am editing, I move much faster than when I am writing. Or that when progress seems slow, that’s OK, because it will be followed by a strong outburst of activity.

Keeping a log like this also helps keep me in a routine. I know that every night I write, I have to “check in” and make a note of my progress. It’s kind of like the ol’ marks on the wall to mark a child’s growth. These are my marks. Sometimes the growth is tiny and incremental; other times it comes in great bursts.

Finally, what I like best about keeping a log like this is when I tally things up at the end of the month. I come up with some amazing and surprising numbers.  For instance, all along, maybe my progress has been “write 2 pages” or “edit 4 pages” for many days.  Well, at the end of the month, it’s not unusual for me to total everything up and be astonished to discover that I’ve written 60 pages – or edited 80!  Yes, folks, those are real numbers. And I am not a full time writer.

It helps me realize that even just a page a day can add up to a whopping 30 pages by the end of the month. That even the smallest work, if done consistently, can add up, and can get me where I want to go. I can now say, with confidence – I am a writer!

© writingreading, 2009

If you know about the Little Rock Nine and the events of 1957, then you already may know this famous woman. But I imagine that most Americans would not recognize the name of Melba Pattillo Beals.

In 1957,  Melba Pattillo was just fifteen, and she was one of nine young African-American students to integrate Little Rock High in Arkansas. Her story is told in her memoir, Warriors Don’t Cry.

At the end of the school year before, she raised her hand when her teacher at her all-black school asked if any students were interested in attending all-white Central High. Melba did not tell her mother, so it came as a shock when she was selected to attend Central High the next year.

The courage and cruelty that Melba writes about in her memoir is moving and personal. She was threatened with hanging, rape and violence, and people hurled words at her that no child – no person – should have to endure. Such hatred. People threw rocks through her windows at home, and her grandmother sat watch more than once with a shotgun poised for defense.

The Arkansas National Guard closed the doors of Central to the Nine, keeping them out, until Pres. Eisenhower ordered in federal troops of the 101st Airborne Division to enforce the desegragation orders. The situation was so tense and violent that each black student had their own soldier who guarded them against extreme violence, but who could not interfere when the students were called vile names and otherwise tormented. Thumbtacks were placed in seats, people walked on the back of Melba’s heels until they bled, she was tripped, and every day, every hour, was a battle.

Her story would be impressive and inspiring, regardless, but to realize how terribly young all of the Nine were – and to know that they changed the world – is awe-inspiring. Ms. Beals’s story is one that could give any teenager inspiration, strength and comfort, and one that can educate any adult about the price paid by those brave young students all throughout the country who desegragated schools in the 1950s.

All of us are in her debt, and those of the rest of the Little Rock Nine: Thelma Mothershed, Minnijean Brown, Jefferson Thomas, Terrence Roberts, Carlotta Walls, Gloria Ray, Ernest Green, and  Elizabeth Eckford.

© writingreading, 2009

I’m no physicist, and even less of a mathematician, so my ability to fully understand the data at the  Pressure Under High Heels page  is limited, but the important point is this:  a woman in high heels exerts significantly greater pressure and force than…yes, an elephant!

One scientist (or whoever these folks are who study these “weighty” concepts) puts it this way – would you rather have your hand run over by 10 women in high heels or a herd of elephants?  Opt for the elephants, my friends!

No wonder my mother’s feet are literally crippled from years of wearing heels. No wonder – and perhaps now, I’m grateful – that I literally cannot wear them (doctor’s orders).

And one of these folks even compares the pressure exerted by a woman’s typical shoe heel versus a man’s typical shoe heel. The guy, he’s cruising easy. The woman – well, let’s just say there’s a reason they are called “stiletto” heels. Sure, they can be used in self-defense – but they are also suicidal. Kinda gives the term “sensible shoes” a whole new meaning.

Check out the findings at: Pressure Under High Heels and see the proof for yourself!

© writingreading, 2009

It is the end of the Labor Day weekend here in America, and many people (including myself) had the day off today. Unfortunately, like many 3-day weekend holidays – the origin and significance of the holiday itself has been lost. These days, it’s all about football, hot dogs, and getting away. That’s fine, all well and good. But I believe it is important to remember what price was paid so that we could have this holiday.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the Haymarket Riot.  May, 1886, Chicago. Workers marched in protest, advocating for an eight-hour workday. In the events that followed over the next few days, 2 workers were killed, seven policeman died, and seven labor leaders were sentenced to death, though only four were executed.

Haymarket is a complex story, and one that I am still struggling to grasp and understand, myself. But what is important to me to remember this Labor Day weekend is that people died so that I could have the things I take for granted today. I count all of the people who died in the Haymarket events to have paid the price for benefits that I enjoy today – so many of which I take for granted. Like the eight-hour workday. And a holiday off.

The battle for the eight-hour day did not end at Haymarket, and in fact, was entirely derailed because of the violence and controversy surrounding those events. It wouldn’t be until after World War II that the eight-hour day became law.

Resources:

The Dramas of Haymarket from Chicago Historical Society – lengthy and detailed essays about the history and significance and lasting impact of Haymarket, and links to digitized materials.

Super short summary and links from Kent State.

Episode on the PBS program, History Detectives about Haymarket.

History of Labor Day from U.S. Dept. of Labor

© writingreading 2009

I’ve been working on a non-fiction book for a very very long time. So long that I’m tired of it. I just want it to be over, now. I’m not discouraged – just ready for it to be done, is all.

Well, today, I’m feeling like it might just be possible. I may be – possibly – beginning to close in on it.  I read two of my chapters yesterday, and a third today – and although they still definitely need some work, they for the most part “flow” – just need some sanding of the rough edges.

What really got me excited was that each chapter only took me about an hour to read. That’s about as long as a “regular” chapter in an already published book takes me to read. That tells me I’m on target!

We’ll see if the rest of the chapters come out so well.  I rather doubt they will only  because I had marked these first three as “more finished” than the others. But it still gives me motivation. I really am beginning to think this may be possible!

© writingreading, 2009