EASTER THOUGHTS and has FORGIVENESS Become an ironic ORPHAN AMONG BELIEVERS?

 Easter. How many celebrate its true spirit today? 

o

 

 It's an odd truth:

reality is a slippery thing.

 

We often expect one thing and get quite another.

We awaken to a dark moment, expecting death and get life instead.

That's one of the lessons of Easter:

Three grieving women once walked to a tomb, wondering how they were ever going to roll the stone away.

Only to discover that it had already been done.

Don't sigh.

You haven't stumbled upon a finite man pompously spouting delusions about the infinite.

I am but a man looking up at the campfires of the night we call stars and seeking truth in their endless depths.

“Do not abandon yourselves to despair.

 

We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.” 
― John Paul II

   

 

Sinners

People are going to see

this movie

on today of all days.

 

 

“If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”

― Adolf Hitler, born on this day in 1889.

On the other end of Easter's spectrum:

 

  There are no adequate words for the monster Hitler was and his impact on the world -- 

 

Shortly after his thirty-fifth birthday, while imprisoned for his part in the Munich Beer Hall Putsch, Hitler began to dictate Mein Kampf

 

(“My Struggle,” shortened by Hitler's publisher from his suggested title, “Four and a Half Years of Struggle against Lies, Stupidity and Cowardice.”)

 

 

The book romanticizes Hitler’s formative years, and reflects his attempt to remake himself as a Schopenhaurian hero of will and idea.

 

 

The passage below is from Chapter Two, Hitler now an orphaned teenager in Vienna:

 

"The Goddess of Fate clutched me in her hands and often threatened to smash me; but the will grew stronger as the obstacles increased, and finally the will triumphed.

 

I am thankful for that period of my life, because it hardened me and enabled me to be as tough as I now am." 

On this day in 1912 Bram Stoker died. The author of some twenty books, Stoker is known almost exclusively for Dracula, published in 1897.

The novel brought little fame or fortune in Stoker's lifetime —

 so little that he had to ask for charity at the end of his career. More surprisingly, Dracula raised few eyebrows, though modern critics find it a "veritable sexual lexicon of Victorian taboos."

On this day in 1822 Lord Byron's five-year-old daughter, Allegra, died in Italy.

She was the offspring of a brief relationship with Claire Claremont, stepsister to Mary Shelley.


The below quotation comes from an April 23rd letter to Shelley, in which Byron expresses his hope that time will heal his grief: 

"I suppose that Time will do his usual work. 

Death has done his."   
 

 

 

     In another letter, Byron expressed his desire that Allegra be buried at St. Mary's Church, Harrow — Byron had often wandered in the churchyard when a student at Harrow School:

 

with a commemorative tablet inscribed, "I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me" (2d Samuel, xii. 23).
 

 

Byron's reputation and Allegra's parentage caused church authorities to deny the tablet, though an unmarked grave was allowed.

To which I think of another Bible quote:
"Jesus wept."

 

 

When Byron died (almost to the day, four years later: April 19, 1826), he requested burial at St. Mary's, but this was denied.

 

 

In 1980, a memorial plaque for Allegra was finally put up in St. Mary's, inscribed with the sentence from Byron's letter to Shelley.



“And now brothers, I will ask you a terrible question, and God knows I ask it also of myself.

Is the truth beyond all truths, beyond the stars,
just this:

that to live without him is the real death, that to die with him the only life?”
― Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat

THE WISDOM OF T-SHIRTS_ IWSG POST

 

My health has taken a sharp decline, so this will be a short IWSG post.

Life has a way of giving you unexpected detours. At least Midnight went before me so he is waiting for me at the other end of the Rainbow Bridge.

I just wanted to say "Thanks" to all my friends here for being my friends and buying my books and audio books.

One bad chapter doesn't mean my story is over ... at least I hope not! :-)

Say a prayer for me as I will say one for all of you. Hopefully, I will see you next month.

WHAT INSPIRES YOU TO WRITE?

 

Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange, and Langston Hughes, were all inspired by spirituals, jazz, and blues. 

These writers understood that music opens up pathways to creative thinking, that can help us weave together thoughts and ideas. 

We already know that music inspires creativity––especially creative writing

 

This is a bit odd but I find Christmas music to be very inspiring for my writing, 

especially old Christmas songs from the 40s and 50s.

 I think we tend to think of the holidays, especially Christmas, as a time of joy and happiness.

 But, the reality is the holidays can be a very lonely and sad time for many people.

Of course, soundtracks

also play a big part 

in my writing.

John Steinbeck in 1909 

at the Salinas Fairgrounds.

with his sister Mary, 

sitting on the red pony, Jill,

 whom he made famous in his novel. 

A wild ride through the Swiss Alps long ago

inspired me to write a section in my troublesome, writer-blocked novel, NO RESHOOTS FOR DEATH.

An actual fiasco, Exercise Tiger, a rehearsal for D-Day in which 1000 soldiers were killed --

many by friendly fire, mismanagement,

as well as by Nazi E-Boats --

inspired me to write a chapter in my latest 

SAME AS IT NEVER WAS

Sometimes the worst enemies

in war are those who command 

without regard for the troops

under them

and

Cover-Up  

masks unmarked graves

(like the many from

Exercise Tiger.) 

What has inspired you to write lately?

Is love involved?

Tell me.

I'd like to know.

St. Patrick's NIGHT at MEILORI'S

 

It was St. Patrick's Night at Meilori's.

Hibbs, the cub with no clue, was hiding there from Ratatoskr, the Asgardian Squirrel.

As if hiding from that rascally rodent was possible.

Hibbs got smacked in the back of the head with a snowball so hard that for a moment he became TWO cubs!

Ratastoskr found that so funny he forgave the cub for trying to hide from him.

The squirrel scampered up beside the fuming Hibbs as the cub rubbed the back of his wet head.

"Why do people wear shamrocks on St. Patrick's Day, fur-face?"

Hibbs tried to think of a way to tweak the nose of this snowball ambusher and smiled, "Because real rocks are too heavy."

Ratatoskr pouted, "No fair!  You're not supposed to know the answer."

Hibbs smiled wider.  "I have one for you now.  Knock.  Knock."

The squirrel scowled, "Who's there?'

"Irish."

"Irish who?"

"Irish you a happy St. Patrick's Day,"  

And so tickled was Hibbs at the look in Ratatoskr's eyes, he fell giggling on his back.

The squirrel popped to the table to his right and snapped back his own question. 

 "How did the Irish Jig get started?"

The Asgardian Squirrel had not noticed the small man in green with murderous eyes sitting at the table who rumbled,

"Faith now, but the answer is clear: too much to drink and too few restrooms. 

And ye scrawny rodent, ye made me spill me drink. Now, I'll be spilling yer guts!"

Despite their long history of bickering, Hibbs thought of Ratatoskr as a friend so he waddled up to the table.  

"You get my pal over my dead body!"

Hibbs realized he might have possibly phrased that a bit better as the leprechaun rose evilly to his feet.

"Sure now, but that can be arranged."


A shimmer of snowflakes and stardust slowly formed into the regal Turquoise Woman, 

who held the First Hawk of Creation next to her icy heart.

Her voice was winter given life.  "Do you know why I love to eat leprechaun?"

First Hawk, later to be called Little Brother by Hibbs, cawed, "Short ribs!"

And off ran the yelping leprechaun with First Hawk flying happily after him.

Ratatoskr turned to Hibbs.  "What do you get when you cross a short-legged leprechaun with a hunting hawk?"

Hibbs shook his head mystified.

The squirrel laughed, "Not Fast Enough Food!"

HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WRITING A HOLIDAY NOVEL? IWSG Post

 

It is Mardi Gras Tuesday as I write this. For once I do not have to worry about parades blocking me delivering blood to requesting hospitals.

A good friend believes it was the cost of insurance that did me in:

1) My age made the company car insurance cost more.

2) My company pays for medical expenses out of its own pocket --

hence the older I got, the more likely I would incur medical bills.

In fact, I had my heart attack while working for them.

Enough of that.

Each of us wears a quilt woven from the tattered remains of our own personal tragedies.

Yours impacts you the most since you have lived through them ... or are continuing to do so.

Hopefully, like the quilt above, you are moving forward.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N75DRKC

It is raining and windy as if a hurricane is visiting for the holiday. It may kill the parades but ironically save lives.

I thought to write a novel incorporating Valentine's and Mardi Gras.

The great thing about a holiday ... it comes like clockwork year after year and may birth a tradition of watching or reading.

Of course, you have to touch the heart to make your novel a traditional read.

But remember, IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE failed at the box office ...

Which I included in my Christmas fantasy, BEWARE THE JADE CHRISTMAS.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KQ8XMJR/

Every Christmas, I get additional book and audio sales from this fantasy.

Ghosts and murder on Christmas Eve, who knew it would be a great combination?

www.amazon.com/Death-House-Life-Roland-Yeomans/dp/151877668X/

Black History Month just left us ... and yes, I wrote a novel about it.

Or at least the first chapter about it.

I was asked by some of my readers how my long-lived hero, Sam McCord, felt about slavery during the time when it was legal.

I decided to use a trick from the movie, THE SHOOTIST, to answer that question and lend the semblance of authenticity to his legend.

In UNDER A VOODOO MOON, I brought a modern street orphan to 1834 New Orleans to detail the culture shock of modern sensibilities to slavery.

https://www.amazon.com/Under-Voodoo-Moon-Legend-Standish/dp/151419399X/

I liked the experiment so much, I added snippets to several of my fantasies as Lagniappe 

(a Creole tradition of giving a little extra to a buyer)

to add depth to my characters in THE NOT SO INNOCENTS ABROAD and AT LARGE, DEATH IN THE HOUSE OF LIFE and THE STARS BLEED AT MIDNIGHT (title taken from the old Gary Cooper movie, The General Died at Dawn.)

My writing mentor, Roger Zelazny, at end of his life (like me, he had a bad heart,) experimented with his writing style --

to grow as an author and to see if he could keep the interest of his readers with novels such as DOORWAYS IN THE SAND and ROADMARKS.

He did ... at least with me

and he signed this copy for me.

https://www.amazon.com/Roadmarks-Roger-Zelazny/dp/0345285301/

Do you experiment with your writing? Do you attempt to grow in each additional book?

Do you answer questions from your readers in your next books?

If you knew you were dying soon, would it change how you write your next book?

Why WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS? IWSG Post

  https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com

Why the title

WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS?

All writers I believe write in the crosshairs.

If you have beta readers and have submitted to agents/editors,

you know the feeling of being in the crosshairs of their evaluations.

Ouch. But no pain, no gain.

But I am thinking of the imagery of the hunter.

He fixes his aim at his target, looking through his scope.

The image is hardly crisp at the beginning. He must adjust the lens to achieve crisp clarity and the best chance of hitting his target.


Writers are like that hunter.
 

At first the image of our tale is blurry.

We tighten the focus with revealing dialogue, vibrant characters, engaging crises, and creative descriptions.

Pacing and plot tighten the image even more. Sometimes we get it with dead-on clarity. Most times we don't.

No one but Shakespeare is perfect. If you don't believe me, ask Harold Bloom or any university English professor.


It is a tricky endeavor writing in the crosshairs.


How do we focus quicksilver humans into concrete mental images?


Take flames. They look like objects but are really processes.

Humans are like that as well. No human actually is complete. He or she is in the process of becoming.


But becoming what? We answer that question with our choices.

But there is more to my title than that.


We all write the movie of our lives in the crosshairs.


That endeavor is more tricky. We don't get the luxury of time to reflect, muse, or ponder at leisure.

Life is a harsh mistress. As we struggle, she flashes us that "beauty-queen" smile:

all sharp teeth and no heart. And in her games of chance, the House ultimately wins.


Like Indiana Jones we must make it up as we go along.
 

We plan and prepare.

Life gleefully throws her monkey wrench into our preparations.

We must write our lives in the crosshairs of illness, accidents, dysfunctional humans, and our own inner demons.

We are all in Life's crosshairs, and none of us know when she will pull the trigger. We just know that she will.


This is what my blog is all about:


How to maintain a measure of grace and peace in the crosshairs of Life.

I haven't figured it out yet.

Let me know what helps with you.

I am currently listening to "Follow Me" from the anime Innocence.

The romance of my haunted, undead Texas Ranger, Samuel McCord, and his immortal love, Meilori Shinseen, seem to linger among those lyrics like the ghost traces of a moonbeam.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530302722

Here is a music video I think you may like:

EACH TIME HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF, THE PRICE GOES UP

 

On this day in 1885, General George Gordon was killed on the palace steps in Khartoum, Sudan ...

which led to needless more deaths and further European expansion into Africa. 

On this date in 1945, Soviet troops liberated Auschwitz, Poland, revealing the depths of the horrors perpetrated there.

Here is a bit of Mozart to eulogize that tragedy:

The greatest loss, however is what dies inside a man while he yet lives.

the death of genuine feeling that makes it possible to feel the pain or glory of other men than yourself.