Don't you love new technology? Maybe too much?

Are we too much in love with technology?  There seems to be not only unintended consequences affecting human life with our beloved technological advances, but an inane futility in our never ending pursuit of the next great invention.

The impetus of this post was my recent trip to the newly renovated Wendy’s in town.  There I encountered Coca Cola’s Freestyle,

The Fountain of the Future, soft drink dispenser.  The monstrosity is controlled by a giant smartphone-like touchscreen that enables the indoctrinated user to navigate through the not-so-user-friendly menus that feature every flavor variation in Coke’s repertoire.  

The incredible unsanitary premise of a machine that has every patron in the busy restaurant smearing their fingers across a communal surface-capacitance control device without regard to when or if anyone has washed their hands, prompted enough concern that I wrote Coca Cola, Wendy’s, the machine’s manufacturer, our local TV news and posted on multiple social media sites.  These dispensers have the very real potential to be ground zero in the next pandemic of infectious disease. 

My concern was met with everything from, “Leave your food and go wash your hands before eating” (yeah, right!), to a suggestion that I carry disinfectant clothes to wipe the screen first, to “I love those things, they are great!” to “Ask the cashier to get your soda from the drive-thru.”  There was a unanimous tacit agreement that eating a hamburger and fries with your bare hands after swapping sweat with the general unwashed public is not a good idea, but no one was ready to admit that the cool new technology might not be a good idea.

The unintended consequences of adaptive technology are changing the face of civilization.  How often do you see (perhaps even at home) a family dinner

eaten in silence as people stare into the screens of their smartphones?  This week there was a medical report released emphasizing the sedentary effects on health and antisocial behavior by the users of computers, tablets, phones and video games.  All of these essential gadgets are celebrated technological achievements, but unfortunately they are proving, in part, detrimental to their users.

Google Glasses and the Apple Watch are leading the way in wearable technology, perhaps usurping the potential worthiness of pierced eyeglasses and the subdural watch (I mean really,

who wouldn't want their glasses screwed permanently to their nose or their watch surgically implanted in their arm?)

Kraft foods and Intel have

collaborated in a kiosk technology that uses facial recognition and an interactive video interface to tell passers-by what they should be eating for dinner.  I doubt it will ever get as popular as the vending

machine that dispenses Korean Kimchi.  Of course after a meal of fermented and

highly spiced cabbage, you might also need the patented Gas Grabber to avoid the potential of social olfactory offenses.

Sometimes the next great thing is

not necessarily great.  Sure you can eat dinner in the sky, but before you get hoisted, you had better use the restroom.  There is no plumbing up there. 

You can download the latest iPhone app that will cross reference Facebook “check-ins” and Yelp posts to point you in the

direction of the nearest female (I must be really old fashioned; I use my eyes), but be careful if Elbo Room points you towards the men’s lavatory, there’s new

technology now that allows women to pee standing up.  (What do they do with the funnel when they're done?  I hope they already got their soda.)

Yes, technology is fun, but beware of the eventuality of its benefits.  Have you ever had your computer crash, television quit or your automobile break down?  Technology is not exactly reliable.  It makes me laugh when I hear friends and relatives speak of their paranoia of flying in an aircraft (and in the shadow of recent events, riding in a train) because they feel like they are not in control.  As an example, last night I was watching a movie with a lady-friend; there was the requisite car chase wherein the good guy had a partner riding with him as he crashed through the streets of Moscow. 

My friend remarked, “Oh my God, I could never ride shotgun during something like that.”  So what is technology’s answer: Google’s driverless cars?  Yup, I see nothing wrong with that, I mean the circuitry would never fail leaving the passengers helpless and without control.

All in all, I love technology as much as the next person; I just view it with enough skepticism that I am not blind to its pitfalls.  I would be the one looking behind the curtain when I had an audience with the Great and Powerful Oz,

and I am also the one who looks at the hands of the kid in front of me dispensing his cup of Cherry Coke, and wonder what he’s been doing since the last time his hands saw soap and water.

The Lonely Man

    It was not his intention to go adventuring there.  He had confidants and advisors beckoning him to get out and socialize.  The solitude of his circumstances could only be cured by the company of people not yet met.  So reluctantly, he went.

    The familiar streets were crowded with unfamiliar faces, all looking past him as if he were invisible.  The passersby attentions all trained on their companions; there was no room for the lowly stranger in their midst.  

    The town was alive with revelry; noise came from all directions.  The din was both unbearably loud and totally indecipherable.  Laughter, shrieks, distant calls combined with the music of a dozen venues and a thousand muttered conversations to become a mélange of nerve challenging dissonance.

    His deliberate smiles and tacit hellos met empty eyes and averted glances; he ruminated that had he had ventured out completely nude, he was certain that his presence would have gone just as unnoticed.  He found no friends. 

    Transecting the calamity of tourists and locals, the need for a strong drink entered his mind.  Loitering with the unwitting expectation that a rescue squad of forgotten and neglected acquaintances from his previous life might somehow salvage the night, the possibility of an empty discourse with a professional conversationalist drove him to the nearest watering hole.  The unseeing crowd gave no yield to his incursion, and when by a series of widening detours, the lone man gained proximity to the bar, there were no voids for which he could fill.  Standing three back from his intended goal and gesturing in direct line-of-sight, his discomfort grew as the mute bartender proved as blind as the pedestrians on the street to his presence. 

    Backtracking through the inattentive throngs, he found the sidewalk equally as stifling as the dram shop.  Evasively wandering amid the swirling currents of street musicians, young lovers, generational families and cliques of back-slapping comrades enrapt in their secret mottled words and gestures, the lone man opened every unlocked door only to find over and over again, the same disconcerting crowd, each time wearing different faces.

     

     Nary a single smile could he garner, and the scant few moments of eye contact were colored with undertones of pity and misunderstanding.  He was alone not by choice, but yes, he was alone.

     At last the Heavens granted him some respite; the skies opened above the quaint town and dowsed it with a cleansing rain.  He now had unquestionable reason to slink back to the comfort of his lonely hovel, justified with his earnest attempt to appease the admonitions of those who bade him to go.   

A Toast to Tomorrow

            The weight of the morning sat heavy on his chest.  He had carried the bags of a dozen months of cohabitation down to her car, and then watched as she drove off.  It is not often that one gets to watch their memories leave in such a physical manner.  There were so many memories; much more history than the past year might suggest.  The two had been co-workers, friends, co-conspirators, mutual consolers during each one’s breakup, but more than anything, they were the anchor that held the other from drifting into turbulent waters.

            There had been plenty of good times, a few not-so-good, but nothing really bad, at least not that he could think of, but then good, bad and indifferent are always a matter of personal perspective.  Whatever they had had in the past was moot; she took her things under the guise that their two lives could no longer be blended, and that both of them carried too much destructive baggage.

            The house felt abandoned while a satellite radio station spewed a steady stream of music from the 70s; he had hoped that old memories might quell the pain of the newer ones, but Hall and Oates, Jimmy Buffett and Rod Steward kept lamenting about broken hearts and lost loves.  The music didn’t do justice to the ebbing weekend.  The past few days had been spent smiling and laughing, drinking libations alfresco with quiet conversations and intimate dinners.  There had been no unreasonable expectations; they both knew the visit was to retrieve the balance of her belongings and to close the doors left ajar when she suddenly disappeared so many months ago.  It was intended as a happy ending, and in spite of the weight, it had been.

            The weekend’s evenings, mottled by wine and the fatigue of unpracticed activities, ended in bed together as always, and as always, without the intimacy they both needed and were both too afraid to let happen. 

            Their time together was over; she was gone and he set about straightening the house to fill the void.  It was an easy decision to leave the sheets until tomorrow; another night with her scent to stir his dreams would be good.  But he closed the bathroom door in a vain effort to ignore the barren vanity bereft of its collection of creams and lotions.

            Washing her favorite coffee cup and placing it back in the cupboard, the mental echo of her parting promise to visit again brought a smile to the corner of his lips.  It was, as he knew, an empty promise; one meant to assuage the sadness of their goodbye and not something to dwell on with anticipation.  Yes, there would be phone calls, texts and emails, but like the oil and vinegar that tastes so good together on tossed greens, in stillness, they can’t remain together.  Their days were over, and like the waning light of a sunset, their conversations would soon fade into the stillness of night.  She had been right; he could no more live her life than she could his.

            Rikki, don’t lose that number, sang in the background as he pulled a pizza from the freezer.  Life again would return to wordless nights of sophomoric television, meals eaten over the sink and a lonely, cold bed.  If blame needs to be laid, the target was not obvious.  Pouring a first glass of wine, he stepped onto the deck to watch the sun creep toward the horizon of experiences not yet lived; he wondered where she was, and if in her heart, she felt deflated or relieved.  With the revelation that she was no longer his worry, some of the heaviness lifted.  He raised a glass to the distant vista, “To the good times past, and to lives not yet lived.”

Rikki, don't lose that number,
You don't wanna call nobody else;
Send it off in a letter to yourself.
Rikki, don't lose that number,
It's the only one you own.
You might use it if you feel better
When you get home.

Star Wars Day, Cinco de Mayo and canine organized sports

Happy Cinco de Mayo!  Yeah, I know, sort of anticlimactic after yesterday’s Star Wars festivities (May the Fourth be with you!)

But I celebrated a little differently.  Have you ever stood on a cliff face and wondered what it would be like to step over the edge?  Okay, I know that sounds a little too morbid, especially coming from somebody who is chronically depressed, but in a way, that's what I did yesterday.

I was on the way to town; I had to drop off a bank deposit and pick up a couple of essentials from the grocery store.  It was a beautiful warm day; I had both dogs with me and I thought why not (eerie music plays: bum bum bummmm), let's stop at the dog park.

OMG!  Trying to get two leashed dogs from the appropriately named parking lot into the park was like trying to unbraid a Rastafarian's hair.  The tethers were going in every direction at once, and of course, every blade of grass, tuft of shrubbery, tree trunk and fence post had to be individually sniffed and then peed on.

When I at last got them both going in the same direction and we crossed the bridge that separates the skateboard park from the dog park, I was pleasantly surprised that there were only two dogs in the huge enclosure.  This was Cory’s first outing, and I had some mental reservations about how he would socialize with other dogs.  I had little to worry about; after the requisite butt checks, the four little guys set about frolicking. 

I was conversing with two mommies about breeds, adoption and personalities when another mommy came with her two dogs.  Then another arrived, and then two more, and two more, and then three parents simultaneously, each with two of their own.  Soon there were in excess 30 canines running about the park.

The dogs eventually broke out in four or five packs, each with a self-elected alpha quarterbacking the activities.  There were the occasional skirmishes within the squads; sometimes a parent would have to intervene as a referee, but most of the time it was settled by a negotiated trade with one of the other teams.

The fun came as each new arrival would enter through the double gated sally port.  All the teams would rush the new recruit and vie to draft him or her onto their team.  This frequently ended in loud arguments between multiple alphas, and often involved a parent or two venturing into the swirling tempest of snarling muzzles in order to separate the running backs from the defensive linemen.

One of the more entertaining sights was when my Sebastian would be taunting a big dog (he loves to play with dogs at least four times as large as he), and he would get in the big guy’s face (literally, he stands on his back feet and puts his front paws on the other dog’s face), sometimes the bigger dog would react with an end around blitz that would knock poor Sebastian to the ground.  It would not deter my little guy; he is confident that his 20 pounds of spry, cunning offense is no match for any 100 pound defensive linebacker.  But every time Sebastian was knocked over, Cory would sprint from whatever third string practice squad he was assigned to, and pounce on the big dog to defend his brother.  I would have to jump in and tell Cory it was okay, that Sebastian and his friend were only playing and that he’d better get back to his own team or he would get cut (again) and have to sit on the bench during the games.

Eventually the length of their tongues dangling from their mouths told me it was time to get the leashes reattached and head back to truck where I had a cold bottle of water waiting to quench their well-earned thirst.

It was good for all of us to get out, and I think I enjoyed it almost as much as they did.  There is little doubt that we will be visiting the park again soon.

Jedidiah the Mountain Man, part two

The footpath up the mountain was well worn, but appeared to end abruptly at the high rock outcropping from which Jedidiah first emerged.  What was unseen from my vantage below was the narrow space between the limestone boulders.  This shadowy crevice wove back through the rock face with a serpentine series of switchbacks, rising in crests and dropping into troughs.  The canyon path was deprived of direct sunlight by the towering walls of stone.  The hike, climbing up and down through blind twists and turns, soon bewildered both my sense of direction and perception of elevation.  At the crest of a steep climb, the path appeared to split in two directions.  Jed turned with a sly smirk and said, “You’en dun neber go dat way; not lest you gots a parachute.”  A glance to my left revealed wide open space and a bright sunlit trail.  Curiosity got the better of me and I ventured a few steps in the direction of his warning.  The trail ran alongside a cliff, it was graveled, but looked entirely navigable.  As I scanned the terrain in search of the forewarned peril, a rock, several inches in diameter, flew past my head landing 15 or 20 feet ahead of me on the path.  Its concussion started a sizable avalanche of gravel cascading down the mountain and over the cliff.  Jed’s voice filled with laughter, “Dats why.”  

The old mountain man led me back into the dark maze of crevices emerging eventually onto a forested slope that led down to a primitive hand-hewn log cabin.  The ancient shelter appeared no larger than 20 foot long and its greyed timbers were chinked in red clay so that from a distance it took on the resemblance of a weathered flag.  There were two small out buildings, one chinked and one open, as well as what looked to my unindoctrinated eyes to be a bricked barbeque pit emitting a wisp of bluish smoke from a short chimney.  I could hear but not see a stream running nearby, but the sound blended with the view of his shaded homestead giving the entire scene the air of a nineteenth century John Muir narrative.

I was winded from the trek and had trouble keeping pace with my strange and aged guide.  My legs and buttocks burned with fatigue and I was looking forward to a much needed respite.  Making our way into the campsite, I dropped the weight of the stowage I carried from the 4-wheeler and began to notice the pioneering craftsmanship of the homestead.  The bricks on the chimney were kiln dried clay and straw; there were numerous seats and tables made of poplar wood shaped by a skilled hand and adze; there were cords upon cords of ax-split firewood; a rocking chair of tied bent birch sat on the covered porch; and the barbeque revealed itself, even to my novice eyes, as a mash pot cooling after last evening’s run.

Jedidiah lives his life in near seclusion with no neighbors, no electricity, no running water (except for his icy stream), no sanitary sewer, cell phone or Internet.  The prospect of living wholly connected to the Earth and isolated from everything else seemed frightening to me to say the least, but then as Jed began to teach me his ways, I came to understand that it is our on-the-grid society that is lacking.  The gadgetry and innovation of connectivity has left our civilization exiled from the true essence and spirit of life.  We have gorged ourselves on the fruits of the tree of knowledge for so long that we now suffer from a collective forgetfulness.

Jedidiah the Mountain Man, part one

     Meeting Jed

     I considered turning back more than once; the torrent of well-meaning ridicule never weakened my resolve until I was miles from any known trail, deep in the virgin forest and growing wary of the less docile denizens of these steep mountains.  The planning process was full of chest-puffed bravado and childishly imagined death-defying adventures, now I had to face my unexpected trepidation at being alone and isolated from any modicum of aid and assistance.  To protect the privacy of this Holy Grail of folktale writing, I had not disclosed to anyone my exact destination or the timing of my sojourn; I was totally alone without any hope of rescue should it be needed, and that thought began to bother me. 

     I idled my four-wheeler for a sip of not-so-cool water and yet another check of my sidearm; I said a secular prayer that my pawnshop purchase would indeed fire if called upon.  I had foolishly never test fired the old Smith and Wesson.  My friends and family were unanimous in their declaration that my quest was pure folly, but Butch, who supplied me with my annual plastic jug of Mountain Water, swore he knew the old man.  A chance to meet and interview a genuine “wild man” was too…  Ha, I don’t have a good word for it, but everything I have and everything I am made it worth the chance.  And that’s what I did; I bet everything on an undiscovered artifact of old Appalachia.

     All I left the house with was a light-weight tent, a sleeping bag, two changes of clothing, a couple cans of stew (and yes, I did remember a can opener), some store-bought jerky, two gallons of water, a five-gallon can of gas, my used ATV, and a gun.  I did carry my cell phone and two of those “emergency” charge packs, but honestly, I knew they wouldn’t be worth a shit for communication; I needed the phone strictly for its GPS function.  My biggest realized dilemma was that the coordinates that Butch gave me put the old man’s cabin in a deep swale surrounded on all sides by craggy ridges, and I had no idea from which direction to attempt the approach.

      There were no trails to follow; I never even identified what some more “woodsy” kind of person might call a game trail.  I had little doubt that the contraband liquor that I have come to love had its genesis in these remote hills; it would take one bold son-of-a-bitch lawman to hunt a still site this deep in the woods.  After five hours of working around deadfall, fording spring-fed streams, blazing new switchbacks in order to climb the steep grades, all the while constantly shifting my weight to prevent what would likely be a fatal rollover, I had come to hate the staccato popping of the Honda engine between my legs.  If I were a younger man (and maybe in a whole lot better shape), I think I would have been tempted to leave the bike and work my way in on foot.  The sound from the muffler was the only unnatural sound under the arboreal canopy; it was an affront to thousands upon thousands of years of nature.  I felt like an unforgivable sinner despoiling Paradise.  And then he appeared.

      The initial movement I more sensed as an uneasy feeling rather than something in a direct line of sight.  I knew I was not alone in the forest, my incursion had scattered a myriad of game and in all but two fortuitous happenstances, the animals’ retreats were heard rather than observed.  I had spotted two whitetail does’ flags arc over an ancient fallen hemlock with a coincidental glance, and I had also seen something large and dark between the pillars of flora that I had hoped against hope was not aggressive enough to challenge my marksmanship or the stopping power of a short-barreled .380.  But this was different; high above me there had been movement and it seemed to be shadowing my progress along the hillside.  I eased the slide back on the pistol and felt for the safety cursing myself for accepting the assurances of the tattooed pawnbroker.  In the comfort of retrospection, the investment was unnecessary and to this day, the pistol remains untested, locked in a box in my closet.  The first glimpse of Jedidiah was not what I expected; he stepped from an outcrop of boulders and waved at me.  What appeared before me was a broad grin on a grizzled face of indeterminable age, atop a slim, muscled body clad from his leggings to his head cover in varying hues of rough stitched animal pelts.  I had assumed he’d be a cautious recluse who would need much cajoling to permit a visit and an interview by some no-name starving writer; I was wrong.

     Jedidiah climbed effortlessly down the grade and greeted me with a hearty laugh and an accent of long-drawn vowels and shorted consonant sounds.  His first words were, “Cay mi Jed; whad dey cay yuz.”  After being congratulated on a fine ole timey Bible name, he told me to leave the four-wheeler (daggum noisy ‘trapson) and proceeded to help me offload and tote my provisions (grubz an tuff) up over the top of the ridge.  He said, “Yuz want be needin’ ‘em, bot id keps da baaars frum ‘aving a goo ole time. Dems rascals when id cooms to fooodz.”

     The next three days would change my life in more ways than I have words to explain.  He endowed me with unimagined riches when all I wanted was a story…

There will be no Super Bowl XLIX

     I am sure there will be a game played, but it won’t be watched by me and it won’t be a “Super Bowl.”  The Deflate-gate of the New England Patriots has sullied the glamour of this year’s big game, and it is an insult to every football fan in the country. 

     What should be the punishment for a team cheating to win their way into the Super Bowl?  Well, it should be disqualification, but we can expect that from a league that turns a blind eye to head coaches paying bounties to players who purposefully injure opposing players, or players who engage in domestic violence, or fight their pet dogs to death, or defensive linemen who (after seven previous dirty hits) intentionally step on the injured calf of a downed quarterback; no, to this league, the game (translation: money) is far more important than fair sportsmanship, on or off the field.

     I know I am generating hate mail as I write this, but ask yourselves, in the words of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, does this, “Teach Your Children Well”?  Think about the money that changed hands last Sunday in both legal and illicit gambling.  Think about the Fantasy Football games won and lost on fictitious statistics.  And for those who say, “You can’t take the W off the board,” or “What’s the difference,” or “At Least the Pats are in,” I say if you condone this, then you forfeit your right to cry, “No Fair!” next time some misfortune befalls your life.

     I hear the whisperings of those who say, “You can’t fault the whole team for what some equipment handler did” (I am sure the Patriots are at this moment lining up a patsy to take the blame), but the whole issue was brought to life when D’Qwell Jackson intercepted Tom Brady’s pass and instantly knew the ball was under inflated.  Now he handled the ball one time, so you think the center, Ryan Wendell, the quarterback Tom Brady, all of the running backs and all of the receivers didn’t know?  And what about the one ball kept at full pressure so the kickers had a hard ball to kick?  This is a team conspiracy, plain and simple.

     There is hardly a sportswriter that does not tout the greatness of Tom Brady and the stellar career he has had leading the Patriots, but I say this tarnishes his greatness forever.  In an era where Pete Rose is banned from his much deserved place in Baseball’s Hall of Fame, where Barry Bond’s records now have to be discounted due to his illegal doping, where Lance Armstrong had to cede his Tour de France championships, what do we do with Belichick and Brady?  This Win-no-matter-what-the-cost ideology that permeates the American culture needs to be stopped.  If Commissioner Goodell allows the Patriots to play (and you know he will), what does that say about us as a society, and as a civilization?

      No, there will be no Super Bowl XLIX on February 1st, at best, the game played will become the first Asterisk Bowl.  I feel sorry to the ancillary people hurt by this, the concessionaires, the innkeepers, the advertisers, the sportswriters and broadcasters, and all of the other people who depend on the money transacted as part of the biggest sports event in the United States, but the New England Patriots organization is at fault and need to be punished.  No, I won’t watch, and I extend my apology to the restaurateur and bar-keeper where I had intended to go, and the waitress who won’t get my tip. 

This is an affront to every one of us who watch and enjoy football.  Something needs to be done.        

     There is no “good” solution or punishment.  Maybe the league should access an Unsportsman-like Penalty against every rostered player on the Patriots: 15 yards times 46 dressed players = the Patriots have to gain 690 yards before they can score their first touchdown.  And as an extra layer of punishment, suspend Bill Belichick and Tom Brady for the game and all of next season. 

     This ruined this year’s Super Bowl for me, and it should (if you were honest) ruin it for you too.  I ask, no I dare you to pass this along to every football fan you know and ask them to pass it along to everyone they know.  Maybe if we, the fans, stood together and made enough noise, the Patriots and teams everywhere will know we have seen enough cheating and want to see honest sports for a change.

     And to Commissioner Roger Goodell, think very carefully about what you need to do, the right to call the NFL “a professional sports entity” as well as your legacy as commissioner, hangs in the balance.

Season's Greetings

Ah, winter has arrived!  Tis the season of parties, parties, and parties!  The winter solstice has arrived and whether that event is a reminder to get your garlic planted so that it matures in time to pair with next summer’s tomatoes, or is your time for a Feast of Juul in tribute to Thor (didn’t he just star in a movie?) and the return of the sun’s cycle of life, light and warmth; it is a time of anticipation, sharing, fellowship and celebration. 

Yes, we honor the shortest day/longest night of the year in many different traditions.  The Inuits have their Quviasukvik or winter feast where everyone brings some meat and drink, and all is shared by everyone simultaneously while contemplating their favored deity (Bless this food, Father), later exchanging gifts in quiet family gatherings (sounds like my house). 

Western Europeans burn a Yule log and scatter the ashes on their farm fields as fertilizer each day until the Twelfth Day (On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… Ashes).

Our Wiccan friends celebrate twelve days of the Lesser Sabbat known as Alban Arthan (12 days again?), or the rebirth of the sun god (Son of God). 

The Romans had their feast of Saturnalia, where all grudges and arguments were temporarily forgotten, warring armies issued a cease-fire (peace on Earth, goodwill toward men), slaves became the masters, and all businesses, schools and government offices were closed.  This eventually degenerated (as only the Romans could do) into an annual period of debauchery, gluttony and greed (hmm?  Kind of sounds like mall shopping). 

The Mayans came to celebrate the solstice with polo voladore (or Flying Pole Dance).  They climb a fifty foot pole while playing a drum or flute, then tie a rope around one ankle and jump off.  To land on one’s feet was considered a sign of good luck -- well, duh!  (I have no idea what that has to do with modern traditions, but it sounds like fun, doesn’t it?)  It’s no wonder why their calendar stops right before the solstice of 2012 -- it wasn’t predicting the end of the world, they were just tired of bungee jumping. 

I don’t mean to shortchange the celebrants of Hanukkah, Brumalia, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, Makar Sankranti, Pongal, Jól, Chaomos, Gody, Kwanza, Festivist or the Norse Boar’s Head Feast (nothing to do with the lunchmeat), but there are only so many parties I can get to.

You can see how this all ties in.  It wasn’t until 354 AD that the Church fathers realized that the birth of the Christ Child was an important event to be remembered in worship and praise.  With little historic or Biblical guidance, they set December 25th as the date of the Nativity of the Savior.  It did, and I’m sure not by accident, coincide with the winter solstice and the myriad of long-held traditions that existed worldwide across so many cultures and allowed for an easy conversion and transition for those of us who came to believe.

This snidbit of anthropological history is not meant to debase any ancient or modern tradition or belief, but the next time you hear, “Tis the season,” whether you share my religious beliefs or not, I hope you’ll understand that it IS, and always HAS BEEN, the season; the coming of the Son and the coming of the sun. 

However you celebrate, may Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, or the Holy Spirit of God grant you and yours, a Very Merry Christmas.

A Surprising View from on High

     I hear continual comments of envy over the spectacular views I enjoy from my perch high on this mountain.  The ever changing pastels of the sunrises and sunsets, the glittering vista of the valley below, the majestic crests of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park on the horizon, and the breath taking array of the flora and fauna of the forest canopy keep my interest and curiosity piqued.  It is, and always will be, my quiet respite from the computer screens and intellect deprived television programming.  The views are never the same, even from minute to minute.  I can’t count the number of times that I stepped outside and saw something so unique that I scrambled for a camera only to miss the lighting by mere seconds.  So it has become habit to carry my phone, if not my camera, each and every trip to the second floor deck that adorns my mountain abode.

     Several nights ago, having spent the last reserves of my ocular energy on a tedious trial transcript, feeling pretty low and rather lonely, I poured a glass of wine and stepped outside to enjoy my world as the sun set on the Tennessee side of the ridges and the valley lights began to mark the arrivals of the worker ants returning from their daily labors.  The December weather has been comfortably temperate (especially after the frigid and snowy November we endured), so I stood sweaterless as I looked out across the lowlands.

     My dogs had followed me out to keep me company, and although I love their companionship, I must confess that their conversational talents are far from entertaining.  I asked them, as I frequently do, what was going on in the world this beautiful night.  They responded with a curious and non-understanding stare, so I teased them with a, “I wonder if Angel is coming?”  That kept their attention for some minutes as they watched through the darkness for the nomadic dog that comes almost daily for a visit and play date.

     Turning my attention back to the darkened valley, I notice a plumb of smoke rising from a small knoll about three miles from my house.  As the night sky grew deep, I could see multiple glows from a circumference of fire and thought it was an odd time, much too dry, and a wee bit windy for someone to be burning brush outdoors.

     I stepped in and grabbed my always-at-the-ready binoculars to be sure there was a vigilant attendant, but there was no one in sight. I widened my scan looking for emergency lights, and found them equally absent.  Admittedly, there was some hesitation in me about calling the authorities knowing that there were so many houses on that hillside that someone either had noticed the fire, or it was a controlled burn with the human factor simply hidden from view in the darkness.

     I finally succumbed to that inner voice whispering, “But what if….?”  I dialed 911 with an apologetic, “I’m sure someone has already reported this,” and explained my distant vantage point and the approximate location of the fire.  911 stated there had been no report and even asked that should it be necessary, could the fire department come up to my house to help them spot the location.  I assured the dispatcher that the fire would be clearly visible from the road.

     My view from on high became a different experience that night.  In the far distance I can see the fire station on Carolina Boulevard, I watched as the volunteers arrived and launched the tanker.  I could hear the shrill sirens as they wound their way back along Thompson Cove Road and made the turn onto Hideaway Creek.  The fire continued to spread to the point where trees ignited and the flames cast an eerie orange glow in the forest below.  The brave firefighters arrived in the nick of time.  It did not take them long to extinguish the flames, but I am sure it felt like an eternity to the people who dwell on that hillside. 

      In the days since, I have looked, both through the binoculars from my deck, and from the roadside on the way to town, I cannot see the scars of the errant flames.  All is better now; as I finish these words, the sun is painting glorious colors in the west, my dogs are playfully wrestling, and the home lights are beginning to dot the landscape.  There are no mysterious plumbs rising from the forest floor, and that’s just the way I like it.  The only illuminations I care to see in the trees are Christmas lights. 

Fall has fallen

     It appears as though fall has fallen.  We were basking in the autumnal spectrum of color when an unwelcomed and extraordinarily rare snowstorm swept through the Smoky Mountains on Halloween night.  By Saturday night when the snow and high winds abated, my little corner of Paradise was blanketed in a frosty six inches of white.  The storm dropped anywhere from 4” as far south as Columbia, South Carolina, up to 22” in the tallest North Carolina mountains near the Tennessee border.  The freakish weather managed to strip the glorious array from almost all of the trees.  Fall didn’t last long enough, I hope that this is not a presage of a difficult winter.

      The snow came less than two weeks from when my oldest and dearest friend was supposed to arrive for a rare visit.  News of the weather kept her snug in her second home in New Jersey (her first home is in Kauai in Hawaii).  I am hoping for a makeup day sometime in the more temperate days of spring.

      In other news, after a hard week of storm prep and incessant expedited jobs, I found myself in a stupor of physical exhaustion.  Fighting a desperate need to sleep, I realized I had to go down the mountain for no other reason than to retrieve the mail and pick up some dog food.  I invited my two four-legged sons to ride with me (by inviting, I mean I picked up my keys).  Cory, the new addition and suspected caffeine addict, never does anything that isn’t at full speed.  He stands on his hind legs and does a happy dance at the slightest provocation, and never goes from one room to another at anything less than an all-out dash.  Between his leaping axels and excited wind-sprints, getting Cory on or off a leash is always a challenge.  After successfully completing our errands down in the village, I guided us back up the mountain looking forward to getting the boys fed, finishing a few pages I needed to get done for Kelly, and then crawling into a much needed bed. 

      By the time I got the dogs re-leashed, Cory was spinning to get out of the truck and pee.  He thinks you are supposed to pee getting into and out of a vehicle, without regard to how long the ride may have taken.  After his short respite, Cory bolted up the stairs to the front deck, pulling Sebastian and me behind him.  By the time I got the gate open and their leashes off, he was again doing pirouettes at the front door (I have no idea why, everything is so exciting to him).  I unlocked the door, got them inside and fed, and decided to go back out to view the sunset before returning to the computer.  Did I mention I was exhausted?  I had not latched the gate all the way; both dogs seized the opportunity and took off like Greyhounds chasing the mechanical rabbit at a racetrack.

     Sebastian has escaped enough times that I was not too worried (at first) that he would eventually come back, Cory, on the other hand, was new and does not know my mountain at all.  There was no way I had the energy to attempt a chase, so all I could do was watch from my perch high above the mountain roads below.  I watched as they ran down the driveway and disappeared into the forest.  After about ten minutes I caught a glimpse of both of them coming at full speed down Daly Drive (the road that services the crest of the mountain).  Cory turned onto Norman Road and into my driveway.  Without slowing he ran the 800 feet of my driveway, came straight up the steps and into the house.  I quickly shut the door with him inside and went to watch for his brother to join him.   

     Sebastian had better ideas, he hadn’t been to all the houses, explored the woods, or visited the other dogs on the mountain.  Three hours later, in the pitch black dark of night, he climbed the stairs to the deck.  All over, right?  Nope, if I asked him to come in the house, he’d turn and bolt down the steps and back into the ebony shadows of the forest.

      He did finally get tired and come back, but only after I was so spent that I couldn’t even scold him for his bad-boy behavior.  He knew he was in trouble, and knows how bad that was, but I guarantee you if I went and opened the gate tonight, he’d be gone again.

     I never got back to the computer which spurred Kelly to email her Royal Highness, the PITA of Denmark, Adrianna Joleigh, to check on my wellbeing.  I, of course, had no idea I was missed and being worried over until the veil of a comatose sleep lifted from my eyes the next morning.  I guess I owe a debt of thanks to my two friends for caring about my hapless disappearance.

     Speaking of Adrianna, please remember to wish her a happy birthday on Tuesday, November 11^th and congratulate her on her newest commission for her art work.  Before too long, she will be too rich and famous to deal with us mere commoners.  You can see some of her paintings at http://adriannajoleigh.com/  Be sure to scroll over the thumbnails for a preview of her masterful use of colors and click an image for details of the paintings. 

Samhain, souling, guising and Shakespeare: A brief history of Halloween

The leaves are turning, the temperature is dropping, most of the summer crops have gone to seed and the days are growing shorter, that can only mean one thing: It is almost time for Samhain (pronounced "sah-win").  What?  You don’t celebrate Samhain?  But it is the end of the harvest season, and time to check your stores for the coming winter, and then on the 31^st dress in scary masks and make a large bonfire to attract insects which lure in the bats all to appease the spirits rising from the dead so they don’t bring sickness and ruin next year’s crops.  Well, what do you call that?

Yes, that’s pretty much where it all started.  It was a Gaelic pagan tradition that evolved with the spread of Christianity into All Hallows’ Eve that has its roots in the practice of “souling.”  Indigent villagers would go house-to-house on Hallowmas (November 1) and in return for some form of confectionary, would pray for the family’s deceased members on All Soul’s Day (November 2^nd).  The practice of souling or begging, started in medieval Ireland, but spread through Britain and as far eastward as Italy.  It infected Western Culture even to the point of a 1593 Shakespeare reference in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, when Speed accuses his master of "puling (whimpering) like a beggar at Hallowmas."

The tradition that would eventually become “Trick-or-Treating” immigrated to North America with the Irish influx during the great Potato Famine in the mid-19^th Century.  But it would take generations before it would take the form we all have come to know.  The first “American” celebrations, dating to the turn of the 20^th Century, were small parades of children dressed in costumes giving performances in the early evening.  This was known as guising, and quickly became the genesis of receiving treats from merchants and onlookers as a reward for their songs and dances.  The trick part came much later, with the first known print reference to the term “trick or treat” in 1930.  Soon the practice of costumed children receiving sweets grew (well, except during the sugar shortages of WWII) and spread from North America back across the ocean into its ancestral Europe.   

Adults, not wanting to be left out of the fun, started “costuming” on Halloween at their favorite bars and pubs.  Soon rewards for the “Best,” “Scariest,” and “Most Original” costumes eroded the practice of donning funny makeup and tattered clothes and grew into an American-sized industry of professionally created costumes that range from gruesome, to political lampoon, to the aesthetically sublime, to the raciest of vice and perversion.  And with the combination of intoxicants and the free-spirited absence of inhibitions from the anonymous disguises, Halloween has spawned a Mardi Gras-like atmosphere of debauchery in many of the most popular watering holes.

The Americanized Halloween (or Beggars’ Night as it is referred to in parts of Ohio, Iowa and Massachusetts) is looked on with suspicion by many European countries, and the expressed threat of “tricks” have spurred some police forces in the United Kingdom to threaten to prosecute parents who allow their children to carry out the "trick" element.  In other parts of Europe, the commerce-driven importation of Halloween is seen with even more skepticism, and in light of numerous destructive or illegal "tricks," suspicions about this trick-or-treat game and Halloween in general have been further raised.

It is sometimes fun to pull back the curtains of innocence and peek at the naked roots of our ever evolving culture.  A simple children’s holiday that rose from the superstitions of zombie-like mischief-makers, to medieval pay-for-prayer begging, to guising on parade, and finally the debaucheries of over-imbibed adults, our commercialized version of Halloween now dominates the month of October and marks the onset of the holiday season.

Happy Samhain, everyone! 

Everything changes and change is everything

     Wow, is it really October already?  Seems like this year has flown by.  The leaves are starting to turn,

people are picking out costumes for Halloween, turkeys are being sacrificed in the Pilgrim tradition, stores are displaying Christmas decorations, the days are way too short already, and I have had the heat on more than once.  Everything changes and change is everything.

      Yes, it is time for your invoice (please, pretty please confirm your receipt -- I had two people not get theirs last month ), and this is usually the time I plead with you to visit my blog, The Muse and Views of a Mountain Writer.  Unfortunately, although there is plenty there to read, I haven't posted anything new since the last invoice period.  (You can still peruse the old posts, share a laugh or marvel at my warped insights, leave me a facetious comment, and of course, click on one of the ads so that my advertisers continue to support my hard work.)

      In addition to business, which has been quite good lately, thank you all, my spare time has been spent on certain other of life's distractions.  As most of you know, almost a year ago my wife and I split up.  In the divorce, she took one of our dogs, Betsy, and I kept Sebastian

 with me.  The transition from married life to single life, from two people sharing household responsibilities to me flying solo, and the drastic change in the available budget expenditures kept me occupied for most of this past year.  As things began to stabilize and reach a livable stasis, I started noticing that the other occupant of my house was having issues, too.

      I spent most of this past month searching the local animal shelters for a playmate and companion for my dog Sebastian.  There were several that I thought were good prospects, but Bubba has particular tastes and rejected each one for a variety of reasons.  A little over a week ago I started getting heads-ups from the staff at Sarge's Animal Foundation that Cory, a Feist-mix was soon going to available.

    Sebastian and I met him last Tuesday morning as he was released from the vet who neutered him.  His size, temperament and personality made him a perfect match.  And after some time in a run together, Sebastian grudgingly agreed and Cory found a new home.  

     We didn't bring him home that day, his stitches were bothering him, and I didn't want the added issues of his "licking" to complicate his necessary training and getting him accustomed to his new house and family.  I waited until this past Saturday morning to bring him home.  

     I thought I was prepared for everything, even arranging for my friend Sandra to be here to help keep an eye on things.  Cory climbed the steps to the front deck, met Sebastian (canine style), checked out Sandra, and then surprised us all;  He is completely trained.  It took only one time to show him the door to the run and he understood his responsibilities, he gratefully bowed to Sebastian

 allowing his brother to retain his Alpha Dog status, and immediately let the bipedal humans know he was all about giving and getting love.

     I had to laugh today when I picked up a hat in preparation for the drive down the mountain to check the mail, Cory has already figured out that "hat" means "ride."  In the few short days he's been here, he has become so comfortable that none of us even think of him being a new guy.  Yes, everything changes, and change is everything.  Happy Autumn, everyone, and thanks for everything.

Without Change, We Would Have No Memories

A Cacophony of Change

Summer is coming to a close.  This is the last weekend of the solar season, and soon the deciduous leaves will begin to show their colors, the tourists will clog our mountain roads, and the last of the (local) warm-weather veggies will disappear from the farm stands.  But this change is a harbinger of far more than our planetary wobbly orbit; it seems everywhere I look, things are in flux, and that’s a good thing.

My four-legged shadow has recently become overly clingy.  Since my wife and I separated (and she took the other dog, Betsy), Sebastian has decided that he NEEDS to be with/next/touching me 24/7, and his obsession is manifesting itself in uncomfortable scenarios.  I find it exceedingly difficult to go anywhere without him, and I guess the crux of my new decision was the other day when I ran into Ingle’s (grocery store) to buy some wine.  I was gone from the truck for less than five minutes, but by the time I picked up a bottle of Merlot and headed towards the checkout, there was a Public Address announcement of a dog in apparent distress in the parking lot.  Now, the only distress that Sebastian was experiencing was his desire to be with me inside the store.  But that embarrassing episode led to my consideration of a situational solution.  After seeking the counsel of several friends, including Bubba’s groomer, I have decided that this weekend we are going to look for another four-legged

companion to occupy at least some of his attention.  It will, of course, mean taking on the added expense of both time and money, but an energetic and accommodating Playmate is something this household needs, but alas, I will have to settle for a new doggy.

This was the first summer that Sebastian and I were essentially alone.  Yes, we each have our own set of visitors who come regularly to play and keep us company, but since last fall we have been on our own.  I did receive an email the other day from my ex giving me the heads-up about a process server who would be visiting.  It seems she has decided we are going to formally and legally end our marriage; the actual cessation happened a long time ago.  I wish I could feel something other than complete ambivalence about the end of a long marriage, but I harbor no anger, no sadness, no celebratory joy, no anything actually; it is nothing more than a change in the season.

In the midst of this, I reached a pinnacle of frustration over my pseudo-smart phone’s reluctance to sync my email.  The anniversary of my contract allowed for the more than needed upgrade that would permit me to be away from my computer, yet still be reachable.  Since I do almost all of my shopping online, I logged on to the Verizon website to shop and compare.  As I made my selection, I realized that there was a minor complication.  Ten years ago when “we” established our North Carolina cellphone account, somehow the “account owner” was designated as my wife.  In spite of the fact that I pay the bills (and have agreed to that into the future), and all correspondence comes to me via email, Verizon wanted to ship my new phone to the registered Florida address where Shirle lives.  I attempted to resolve the situation with an online chat, but the CSR was completely ignorant of the problem insisting that I could buy the phone and then call to have a Customer Service Representative change the address.  “Hello, you are a customer service representative, why can’t you just change it now?”  My fuse was a tad shorter than usual, so I abruptly disconnected and drove the 10 miles to the local Verizon store where an intelligent representative not only understood, but was able to complete the transaction, even helping me find a phone that was more situated to my needs than the one I had picked out online.

An interesting aside:  As the Verizon salesperson and I were concluding the sale and transfer of my data and contacts to my new DROID MAXX, she laughed and said, “Look at that, you just bought the exact same phone, color and all, as your wife did last month.”  Sheesh!

Change is upon us, the days are growing shorter, the temperatures are moderating, the first of the stinkbugs have begun to appear (which means the Ladybugs are not far behind), and the forest orchestra has begun its percussive beat dropping a variety of acorns, walnuts, chestnuts and hickory nuts in nature’s syncopated rhythm.  The squirrels and chipmunks are busy gathering the energy rich treats to stow for the coming winter, while the crisp mountain air reverberates with the sound of chainsaws harvesting deadfall for its comforting warmth in the colder months.  I have replaced my summer wardrobe of hats with the more durable leather and wools, and my short-sleeved shirts have already begun their hibernation.  The inevitability of change is unstoppable.

If you suspect there is melancholy in my words, fear not; I came to these mountains because of the seasonal alterations.  I lived a quarter century in Florida where nothing changes to a noticeable extent.  I enjoy living where the nature that surrounds me, morphs in regulated intervals and continually surprises me with its ever-changing kaleidoscopic views of color and beauty.  Yes, change is in the air in many ways, and time does indeed march on.  What was once, is no longer; what is now, cannot be changed; and what will be, is the surprise of the future.  In spite of its requisite disappointments and unavoidable sadness, life is anything but boring if you take the time to wonder at, rejoice and exploit those changes.  Your mind will revel in gratitude, for without change, we would have no memories.

Outline my writing? Are you serious?

     After much contemplation, I have decided to address a topic that garners a significant amount of negative response and argument, mostly due to a complete misunderstanding of the facts.  Yes, I am going to explain the importance of outlining a work of fiction before you start writing.  Don’t hate me yet, let me explain.

     I am not talking about that dreaded academic style of:

1.

2.

3.

            A.

            B.

            C.

                        i

                        ii

                        iii

     No, that form of outlining is reserved for academic theses wherein you were supposed to hypothesize a conclusion, present five to seven arguments backed by multiple scholarly citations, explain your assumptions and deduced postulates, and finally prove your initial hypothesis.  Ugh, remember those nights staring at the glow of a computer wondering what you did with that essential citation you wrote longhand at the library and now has disappeared into your stack of research?

     That is not an outline for creative writing.

     First, a story/novel outline does not necessarily need to be written, as long as you have a mind capable of capturing and ordering a multitude of important facts.  Mine are mostly mental, but I do tend to put little notes to myself, either at the end of the manuscript file, or in an orphaned side-file, and delete the notes as I employ the necessary events, anchors and elemental plot situations.

     Second, an outline does NOT include every scene or nuance of the story.  Most of that will unfold as your creative juices start flowing and you begin to write.  It is not unusual for a character to animate and change direction in your plot, nor is it rare that unthought-of nuances arise from the depths of your mind that add flavor and texture to the story.  Don’t fret, the secret to outlining is you know where you are heading, anything that happens along the way is incidental.

     The simplest way to understand outlining is to understand the essential structure of storytelling.  There is a hard and fast formula; you need a setting, primary characters, a final crux or crisis, a multitude of conflicts or situations that lead to that crisis, and a dénouement, which if well-constructed will tell, or better yet, hint at the lessons or moral to be learned from the actions in the story.  The secret is tying all of those components together in a comprehensive and coherent style that adheres to a formulated continuity.  Yes, there are all those other little gems like circular plot lines, foreshadowing, stories within stories, literary allusions, word coloration, and of course, character evolution, but none of those matter until you have a story.

     In what order these elements germinate in your imagination is not germane to the writing exercise.  As often as not, I will start with the main crisis and then create the characters to get me there.  Sometimes I will dream up a character, and in the process of developing their personality, background and idiom, they will lead me to their own crisis.  I have, on occasion, created the dénouement first and planned everything backwards, all the way to the beginning.  

     The important thing is that in every case, I have a plan.  I know my characters inside and out, I know what they are eventually going to be involved in, I know where it is going to happen and why, and I know what they did, right or wrong, that spurred the story into action and readability.

     Without disclosing the entire context of a novel not yet written, I want to use my latest blog post, Gabriella, to demonstrate the power of planning.  It might help if you did a split-screen or open a new browser window/tab and have both this and Gabriella open to follow along.

     The idea for this story was hatched as a betrayal of love and the ruination of a man of wealth.  Knowing that, I had to contrive a female character capable to drive the plot.  I realized that she needed to be fairly well-educated, exotically beautiful, alien to the setting, and isolated in a certain degree of secrecy.  As I extrapolated that, I realized that she needed to be South American, but raised in the U.S.; I settled on New Mexico with her heritage being Columbian.  The reason for this will become apparent later in the novel, but for now, you will be able to use that information to understand the reason that I outline.

     The male character had to be a Gatsby-esque man of social and financial wealth, but vulnerable to the wiles of the femme fatale.  Herm is sophisticated, cultured, very formal, and confident to the point of arrogance in his decisions.  To avoid the obvious comparisons to Fitzgerald’s life in the “Eggs,” I set the story in my adopted hometown of Waynesville, North Carolina.  This gave me an instrument of introduction, as Waynesville is the headquarters of the annual international folk dance festival known as Folkmoot. 

     The final crisis will be a manipulation through trust that results in an unlawful “act” that robs Herm of his wealth, stature and freedom, but not his love for his angel, Gabriella.

That is the basis of my outline.  Now, without boring you with my entire plotline, I do also have multiple scenes and conflicts mapped out, as well as the details of the final crisis.  Additionally, I have my denouement planned, but let’s keep the horse in front of the cart.

     To see the power, and in my opinion necessity, of employing an outline, I would like to address the first installment of Gabriella.  Hopefully you will see that the power of planning allows the writer to build complexity into a story without the need to retrace steps in order to bring the end back to the beginning or get the beginning to reach the end.  I will warn you that as is a usual technique of mine, I like to start with a “post-apocalyptic” introduction that foreshadows the events that will unfold.

     I begin the story with a compound sentence: “The storm rolled in from the southwest; I watched it with studied disinterest, numbed by the day’s events.”  The storm is an allusion to Gabriella who hails from the Southwest; “studied disinterest” is an indication of his attitude towards his angel after his downfall; and “numbed by the day’s events” is foreshadowing of a post-crisis event at the end of the book.  The final sentence of the first paragraph, “It would be another long night of hopeless pondering and aimless planning,” begins the development of the ruined man still obsessed with a fruitless and destructive love.

     The second paragraph begins with, “The once gentle roll of the thunder now became punctuated with infrequent snaps like angry cannon fire,” depicting in simile fashion, a once distant disturbance that has come near.  This is a further reference to “the day’s events” that will occur later.

The next paragraph is the emergence of the post-crisis man, so that we may know that his life and home, “in spite of its staging and décor, no longer contained the warmth of invitation and friendship,” that it once had.  We have now, a glimpse of what the man would become, “the town’s people feared my hermitage and the grizzled man and dog that resided there.”  

     But for the story to work we must know who he was first.  The last four sentences of that paragraph give us clues:  “The once flirtatious cashier at the grocer now turned her head when I shopped for provisions.  The jovial crowds at the cafes and taverns disavowed our former friendships, and I graciously left them to their dishonesty by eating at home and buying my whiskey from the package store.  They would argue that it was I who changed, but if I were ever so disposed to engage in such a polemic dispute, I could remind them of what once was, and how that affected everyone, not me alone.  What once was is no longer, and that is only a part of the story, but all of the truth.”

     Moving on to the introduction of Gabriella, she was “a member of a South American dance troupe,” set within Folkmoot.  The importance of her education and heritage will become apparent later in the story, but the references are well documented in the outline of my story.  “She appeared to be somewhat older and certainly less graceful than her troupe mates.”  This is a hint at the unlikely inclusion of her as a troupe member and foreshadows the influence she will yield and the true purpose of her trip to Waynesville.  Gabriella traveled with an entourage, her protection and isolation, who were “later introduced as brothers and cousins,” a purposeful ambiguity hinting that their relationship may be a ruse.

     With my female character revealed, I move on to building the caricature of the Herm of old.  Sitting in a public place, sipping whiskey with “the members of our Arts Council,” discussing community involvement including his “expected financial support”; this is not the grizzled man we just saw in his hermitage on the mountain.

      His self-assured arrogance betrays the illogic of an enchantress who “attracted the eyes of every patron in the eatery” singling him out of the crowd to raise “her glass to acknowledge” him.  He is mesmerized to the point of distraction, ignoring his purpose, his friends, and the obvious absurdity Gabriella’s approach (without her guards) and her detailed knowledge of him so soon after her arrival in town.

      The remainder of the piece, including his formal conversation style and his generosity are developmental to the character that I outlined.  The note at the end is the premise upon which their second meeting will be based.

      So in less than 1500 words, I have introduced the skeletal characters on which to build the requisite personalities that will drive the story to its ending crisis, I have given you a sketch of the post-crisis results, foreshadowed the dénouement, and set the stage for my ending “day’s events.”  None of these details would be possible without a plan for the story and an outline of who, what, where and why the story is being told.

      To have written the entire novel and then attempt to come back and insert this kind of detail would require so much rewriting that the story would inevitably end as an uncomplicated and quite average piece of fiction.  When I write, I want my work to be above-average, I want to engage my readers, and I want to be the best author I can be.  There is an old saying, “If you don’t know where you are going, how will you know when you get there.”  I like to have a map.  Sometimes I take days, weeks, even months to construct that map, but I would rather have a well-thought out route before I start my engine.  I outline.