blog cacophonyI attended a portion of the Black Economic Council's conference in Oakland today. Specifically, the keynote luncheon and awards presentation. My boss won the "mensch" award (because he's a really great guy), and a coworker was given the "transformation" award (because he's a cousin of Optimus Prime). Anyway, one of the other award winners gave an awesome acceptance speech that, in the great tradition of awesome acceptance speeches, went on WAY too long.
But something he said hit home with me as a writer, especially given the recent flap over the idiot who's releasing a version of Huck Finn with a certain word changed.
The background: this award winner met a man whose mother was the granddaughter of a slave. It's striking to think how little removed we are from that culture, though it seems like ancient history. This man held the hand of a woman who held the hand of a slave. That's how he put it. Just one touch away. Not so distant after all.
As part of this story, the man was corrected by a wiser man nearby. "Don't say she was a slave," this wise man said. "Say instead that she was enslaved."
The difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between the lighting and the lightning bug.
To say someone "is a slave" is to blame them for their condition. It's what they are, that phrase says. No big deal. She's a slave. She's five feet tall. She's brown-eyed. That's who she is. That's who she'll always be. You can't change her eye color. You can't change her being a slave.
To say someone "is enslaved" is to illuminate that they are a victim of someone else's inhumanity. This is a big deal. She's enslaved (by someone else). She's repressed (by someone else). She's beaten (by someone else). Being enslaved is a condition that can be changed... by changing that someone else.
Think on that a while. And pay attention to the way simple phrases and images appear in the media, and in casual conversation. Notice those places where a bias has crept in without looking like any bias at all. Understand how words affect us on deeper levels. I'm no fan of political correctness--that overt, childish mockery of language that creates whole new doublespeak and which inhibits the free exchange of ideas. But we all need to be aware of how the words we use affect others. And ourselves.
June 23, 2011
the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug
June 21, 2011
I'm sorry for ruining the economy
My 14 year old daughter passed up a trip to the mall to stay home and read your book.
June 18, 2011
The Voice Thingy... IT'S ON! BRING IT!
Thanks to Robin many ages ago, the blog readaloud was born. Then, Paca kept the tradition alive with the Voice Thingy. And Voice Thingy happens once more this weekend. I'll post the players below; if you join in, comment here and I'll update the posting. There are many free services for posting, from youtube to podbean. Join in. Don't be afraid!
Here are the current players:
June 16, 2011
Hear the Author - WRITING MONSTER!
On Tuesday night I posted my story called "The Wind Cries Mary" for B. Nagel's writing prompt, Wake Up, Writing Monster. Here, I read it aloud. Even better, I fired up GarageBand and played around, so you get cheesy sound effects to go with the melodramatic reading!
Enjoy.
Reposted below is the text of the story, in case you'd like to read along.
The Wind Cries Mary
I never imagined the thwump of a desk clerk’s dispassionate stamp could be so electric.
Six years. Six years I’ve wormed my way through courtrooms, slimed through the seedy lives of distant relatives, and sifted through the midnight dirt of forgotten, overgrown plots. All to win the legal right to force my distant relations to give me the finger.
The middle finger. Of my third cousin, six times removed: Mary Shelley.
The parts are assembled. The solar panels are on line and capacitors at full charge; I can tell because my iPod fills the lab with the raw guitar riffs of Hendrix. I wonder what my Artist will think of Purple Haze when I drop the switch.
The bones are true, but I’ve taken creative license with the flesh. I had planned to use whatever fresh meat came my way, but advances in cloning not yet legal back in the States are proving ... fruitful. It was a simple matter once I thought it through--wait tables at a few writers’ conferences, swab the used cutlery. Voila! Instant Genius! Just add agar.
Such excursions have brought me the biceps of Stephen King, the hair of Dave Barry, the heart of Garrison Keillor, and the jowls of Evil Editor. Or, more accurately, have given my Artist those physical attributes.
The rest, stuffed between the bones and leathery skin of the legends, is flesh taken from med school cadavers at ten dollars a body. I don’t know who the poor souls were, but they all died in delightfully violent ways after desperately hard lives. Thus the restraints you see on the body.
I hobble on my crutch across the room, humming with silent electricity. The acute bite of my missing toe, attached to the Artist only minutes ago, gives me sweet elation. My creation, the greatest author ever, soon will rise from my operating table.
The cameras roll, and my sweaty hand grips the switch. Tight chest, quivering breath, weak knees. I pull with the weight of my entire life, yanking the handle from its cradle and smashing it to the circuit. Lights flicker, sparks fly from the transformers, and electricity arcs across terminals for effect only. It’s all very dramatic, to be sold for a lot of money to The History Channel. I’ve already sent in my proposal for the screenplay. I will insist that I be played by Matt Damon. Or Colin Firth. Either is fine.
I relinquish the switch, drop my crutch, and thump-drag myself to the side of the table. I fight the urge to touch his skin and feel the warmth and life filling him. There are also three million volts filling him. Soon--ten point six seconds exactly--the buzzing and lightning subside, and the lights warm to a smooth fluorescence.
I pant in the way I probably would if I had just made love to a beautiful woman. My forehead is slick with sweat, and my jaw trembles. I’ve never been so nervous.
There!
A flutter of Chaucer’s eyelid! And a tremor in the left forefinger of Cervantes! I run my fingers along the rugged thigh of Melville, Hawthorne’s knee, Beatrix Potter’s shapely shinbone. All the way to my toe. I imagine wiggling it on the end of my own foot, and it quivers where it now lives, then curls along with the toes that walked that road less traveled through that yellow wood.
O! My heart thumps, my blood boils within me.
It’s alive!
I revel only a moment and shake myself back to my duties. I loose the restraints and shuffle to the desk. Quill, pen, paper, typewriter all sit ready to receive the combined genius of my Artist.
It convulses. The blood has begun pumping, oxygen is flowing. Oh, it’s glorious! His head lolls left, right. His mouth opens. A groan rises into the lab, harmonizing with psychedelic guitar riffs.
It sits up.
It swings its legs around, off the table, thumps to the floor. Wobbly, it swoons around until its blank gaze lands on me with lightless eyes. It considers me for a full minute. Can it see me? Does it recognize its creator?
I put my hands out, then sweep them to the desk with its beckoning tools. “For you,” I declare. “All for you!”
The creature surveys the implements. A perplexed frown darkens its brow. “Aaarrrghah,” it growls, and stumbles to the desk. With one deafening swipe, it crashes the assembly to the floor.
In despair, I cry, “But you must write! Do you not want to write?” Assembled before me are the greatest writers that ever graced the planet. I do not understand.
“ARREEGHH,” it spits at me. “Asshole.” The creature looks clumsily for an exit, then pushes past me to stumble to the door. “I need a drink.”
Barging through the door, it pauses long enough to glare at me one final time. The finger of my third cousin six times removed, rises slowly, backed by Hemingway’s toothy grin.
The Writing Monster, now awoken, shuffles away to Cap’n Salty’s corner bar.
Stunned, all I can do is retrieve the fallen implements and set them back on the desk. My missing toe throbs in agony as I stare at the blank page, mocking me from the platen of the ancient manual typewriter.
Almost against my will, I right the fallen chair and sit. My fingers hover over the keys. One click, then another. Soon my fingers fly as fast as the machine can handle.
I have swept up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life, but those lives that lived are dead.
The wind gusts through my open window, billows the curtains, and whispers all their names in my ear. As the breeze passes on into the night, it whispers one final name.
Mine.
June 15, 2011
haiku wednesday - the writing monster edition
tight grip on loose thread
they prefer control to peace
arms talks unravel
those who prefer love
reach out with hope in darkness
grip the unseen thread
lose your grip, cowboy
taunt life's wild rodeo bull
clowns prefer red thread
June 14, 2011
Waking the Writing Monster
A thousand words on the theme Waking the Writing Monster. That's all B. Nagel asked for. Surely, if I can do it (and I did, below), you can, too. Post yours to your blog (or in my comments if you don't have a blog, but seriously, why don't you have a blog if you're going to be writing a thousand words in response to a blog-based writing prompt), then comment here and on B. Nagel's site with the link. I can't wait to read yours.
If you read this story, leave a comment. Even if it's just to say, "I read it." You don't have to be witty or pithy or sublimely erudite or whatever. Just let me know you came.
Then come back this weekend, when you'll get to listen to me do a truly over-the-top melodramatic reading of this story. It's gonna be fun.
UPDATE: B. Nagel has the roster of those who played. Play along! Even though the deadline has passed, let us know if you write & post something.
The Wind Cries Mary
I never imagined the thwump of a desk clerk’s dispassionate stamp could be so electric.
Six years. Six years I’ve wormed my way through courtrooms, slimed through the seedy lives of distant relatives, and sifted through the midnight dirt of forgotten, overgrown plots. All to win the legal right to force my distant relations to give me the finger.
The middle finger. Of my third cousin, six times removed: Mary Shelley.
The parts are assembled. The solar panels are on line and capacitors at full charge; I can tell because my iPod fills the lab with the raw guitar riffs of Hendrix. I wonder what my Artist will think of Purple Haze when I drop the switch.
The bones are true, but I’ve taken creative license with the flesh. I had planned to use whatever fresh meat came my way, but advances in cloning not yet legal back in the States are proving ... fruitful. It was a simple matter once I thought it through--wait tables at a few writers’ conferences, swab the used cutlery. Voila! Instant Genius! Just add agar.
Such excursions have brought me the biceps of Stephen King, the hair of Dave Barry, the heart of Garrison Keillor, and the jowls of Evil Editor. Or, more accurately, have given my Artist those physical attributes.
The rest, stuffed between the bones and leathery skin of the legends, is flesh taken from med school cadavers at ten dollars a body. I don’t know who the poor souls were, but they all died in delightfully violent ways after desperately hard lives. Thus the restraints you see on the body.
I hobble on my crutch across the room, humming with silent electricity. The acute bite of my missing toe, attached to the Artist only minutes ago, gives me sweet elation. My creation, the greatest author ever, soon will rise from my operating table.
The cameras roll, and my sweaty hand grips the switch. Tight chest, quivering breath, weak knees. I pull with the weight of my entire life, yanking the handle from its cradle and smashing it to the circuit. Lights flicker, sparks fly from the transformers, and electricity arcs across terminals for effect only. It’s all very dramatic, to be sold for a lot of money to The History Channel. I’ve already sent in my proposal for the screenplay. I will insist that I be played by Matt Damon. Or Colin Firth. Either is fine.
I relinquish the switch, drop my crutch, and thump-drag myself to the side of the table. I fight the urge to touch his skin and feel the warmth and life filling him. There are also three million volts filling him. Soon--ten point six seconds exactly--the buzzing and lightning subside, and the lights warm to a smooth fluorescence.
I pant in the way I probably would if I had just made love to a beautiful woman. My forehead is slick with sweat, and my jaw trembles. I’ve never been so nervous.
There!
A flutter of Chaucer’s eyelid! And a tremor in the left forefinger of Cervantes! I run my fingers along the rugged thigh of Melville, Hawthorne’s knee, Beatrix Potter’s shapely shinbone. All the way to my toe. I imagine wiggling it on the end of my own foot, and it quivers where it now lives, then curls along with the toes that walked that road less traveled through that yellow wood.
O! My heart thumps, my blood boils within me.
It’s alive!
I revel only a moment and shake myself back to my duties. I loose the restraints and shuffle to the desk. Quill, pen, paper, typewriter all sit ready to receive the combined genius of my Artist.
It convulses. The blood has begun pumping, oxygen is flowing. Oh, it’s glorious! His head lolls left, right. His mouth opens. A groan rises into the lab, harmonizing with psychedelic guitar riffs.
It sits up.
It swings its legs around, off the table, thumps to the floor. Wobbly, it swoons around until its blank gaze lands on me with lightless eyes. It considers me for a full minute. Can it see me? Does it recognize its creator?
I put my hands out, then sweep them to the desk with its beckoning tools. “For you,” I declare. “All for you!”
The creature surveys the implements. A perplexed frown darkens its brow. “Aaarrrghah,” it growls, and stumbles to the desk. With one deafening swipe, it crashes the assembly to the floor.
In despair, I cry, “But you must write! Do you not want to write?” Assembled before me are the greatest writers that ever graced the planet. I do not understand.
“ARREEGHH,” it spits at me. “Asshole.” The creature looks clumsily for an exit, then pushes past me to stumble to the door. “I need a drink.”
Barging through the door, it pauses long enough to glare at me one final time. The finger of my third cousin six times removed, rises slowly, backed by Hemingway’s toothy grin.
The Writing Monster, now awoken, shuffles away to Cap’n Salty’s corner bar.
Stunned, all I can do is retrieve the fallen implements and set them back on the desk. My missing toe throbs in agony as I stare at the blank page, mocking me from the platen of the ancient manual typewriter.
Almost against my will, I right the fallen chair and sit. My fingers hover over the keys. One click, then another. Soon my fingers fly as fast as the machine can handle.
I have swept up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life, but those lives that lived are dead.
The wind gusts through my open window, billows the curtains, and whispers all their names in my ear. As the breeze passes on into the night, it whispers one final name.
Mine.
June 9, 2011
#1 again at $55 million!
Many of you know that my Day Job is managing a workplace charitable giving campaign at one of the world's biggest companies. I'm happy to say that yesterday the news became official with this United Way press release: for the second year in a row, Wells Fargo ranked as the top employee giving/United Way campaign in the country. It's good to be #1. And even better to repeat.
Good timing on the announcement because in two hours I'm speaking on a panel about workplace giving campaigns.
June 8, 2011
haiku wednesday - the hotel room edition
tranquil full-moon's light
can deeply alter one's mood
you're fond of werewolves?
fond of scented soaps
she longs for tranquil moments
to alter time's rush
fond of foolishness
alter your attitude, child
be tranquil, wild wind
June 1, 2011
Ringing praise for Jacob Wonderbar
Like many of my friends, I've been lurking around Nathan Bransford's blog since he started it, way back when tweeting was something only birds did. A couple of weeks ago, he launched his novel, Jacob Wonderbar and the Cosmic Space Kapow, and I was fortunate enough to attend the launch party and get a signed copy of the book.
(For the record, Nathan, those stickers I won for getting the closest wrong answer on that space question? I gave them to the little kid that was hanging around the children's reading area.)
I asked Nathan to inscribe it to my son, Sam, whose 12th birthday was only two days later. Sam seemed to think it kinda cool to get a book signed by the author (had he not gotten a pile of cash from grandmas, too, he might not have thought it such a hot birthday present). Anyway, yesterday he started reading the book.
Today he finished it.
I asked him what he thought, and he said he liked it. A lot. Sam just turned 12 and is very, very well read for a 5th grader. He "reads up" frequently but also loves the typical 5th grade stuff like Wimpy Kid. So a quirky middle grade space adventure was right up his alley.
I asked if he'd write a short note to Nathan sharing his thoughts. You know, a sentence or two. This is what he came up with:
If you can't read his handwriting (I told him I'd type it up, so he never expected anyone to see the scrawl), here's what it says:
Dear Nathan,
I loved your book Jacob Wonderbar and the Cosmic Space Kapow. I like the goofy planets and the silly people on them. I especially liked the Numonia planet. If the people knew about Earth, why would they be so impressed by a dwarf tree with 2 yellowing leaves on it? Anyway, I loved your book and can't wait for your next book to come out. Thank you.
From, SamNow, stop bothering me so I can go read this book. I only got to chapter 2 before Sam snagged it.
haiku wednesday - the it's june? wtf? edition
erratic flight paths
luminous buzzing, loud zaps
bad omen for bugs
the luminous minds
ponder erratic omens
see different futures
we ignored omens
erratic economies
our luminous dreams
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