Who's Been SIlenced, Again?

We hear a lot in the media now about "underrepresented" populations. "Marginalized" groups. "Own" voices. 

And publishing is doing its level (woke-fueled) best to cater to groups it sees as (or has been told are) underrepresented.  Inadvertently--or, if you believe the propaganda, advertently--silenced. If not outright censored, then at least ignored. Passed over, in favor of "white-bread" work that publishers wanted to sell to their target "white-bread" audience.

Unfortunately, this attempt to make perceived "wrongs" right isn't being done well.

Oh, it's being done with all the good will in the world...but, like any other quota system, it's a self-defeating phenomenon. It will, eventually, embarrass itself, and collapse like the flimsy house of cards it is.

But that's not the reason behind this post.

What's inspired this is an "own voice" that has been silenced for generations.

It's been disparaged. Discounted. Ridiculed. Called "toxic." And...worse.

It's the voice of men.

It's no secret I love men. I always have. I always will.

In junior high and high school, this got me points with my girl friends, who couldn't figure out the secret of "how to talk to boys." I, who had boys hanging around my house all the time, had deduced that secret ages ago:  that boys were, in the end, just people. Like girls were people.

Lest we have any misunderstandings here...I didn't have boys hanging around my house to be with me. They were there for my brother, and the garage bands he was perennially forming, reforming, and playing in.

But they were still boys. Members of the male sex. 

And I loved 'em all.

However, for a long, long time, our culture has not loved men.

I can remember, as a kid, hearing people complain about how TV shows and commercials--even then--typically portrayed men as bumbling fools. 

If something got solved on a commercial, it was a woman who did it.

While the man stood by making dumb remarks and scratching his head.

I suppose it was inevitable that, from that root, came the next phase: where the kids solved all the problems, while the parents stood around making dumb remarks and scratching their heads.

But even then, the dumbest of the dumb was still Dad.

The husband hardly ever won in any of these things. Be it a commercial, a sitcom, or even a drama...the butt of the jokes and insults (or the person who made all the foolish and/or thoughtless mistakes) was usually the man of the house.

And I agreed with people when they said, "Wait. This is wrong."

Fast-forward to my adulthood, in which for a brief time I was on the evangelical Christian side of the Tiber. Baptist, to be exact.

Now, these were good Christian women. Subservient to their men. Honoring the men's authority, their position as head of the household, et al. Right?

Hardly. 

The running joke in these households was a backhanded compliment to the wife: "We husbands are in charge, for all the world to see...but we know who really runs the house." 

That might've been cute, in its own tongue-in-cheek way.

But the women's running joke wasn't cute. 

It went along the lines of, "Well, we make him look good...but we all know men are just overgrown little boys. And you have to treat them that way."

(Don't look so shocked. I'm sure you heard it dozens of times growing up.)

Once again, I found myself thinking, "Wait. This is wrong."

Fast-forward again, to my writing conference days, when I heard a keynote address by none other than Susan Elizabeth Phillips in which she talked about why the "alpha hero" was such a popular trope in the genre. 

You know the alpha hero. He's the swaggering man's man; he's rough, he's tough, he's a shade uncouth at times, he might be a bit crude, maybe even vulgar--until he meets the heroine, who sees the gentle soul inside and "tames" him. 

Roughly paraphrased, she laid the steps out: the heroine teaches him to feel, to express his emotions, to control his barbaric urges and passions, to have manners....

"...in other words," she finished, "she turns him into a woman."

And the place roared laughing.

Only even as I laughed, I thought, "She's right." And, close on its heels, once again thought, "Wait. This is wrong."

And it is. 

Ridiculing men, calling their masculinity "toxic," decrying "patriarchy" as if it's some kind of evil (news flash: it's not)...it's all quite the thing to do lately. 

But there's an even more insidious wrong being done to men now, behind all the rhetoric and hostility.

And that wrong is the worst of all.

It's that men have, over time, been oh-so-subtly...silenced.

The most striking example I heard of this recently was a perfectly "innocent" commercial on the radio. For Xfinity, as it turns out. 

I have Xfinity. I like it. A lot.

I wish I could say the same for their commercials, most of which are embarrassingly not funny, or even mildly witty. (One has to wonder how low the bar is set at ad agencies now.) 

But this particular commercial brings out, in stark relief, what I'm talking about.

The setup is a kid--clearly, a young boy who sounds about twelve--pretending to be a "salesman" for Xfinity's new 10G network.  He begins, "Mom--Dad--Sis--"

What follows is gently funny--Mom asks why he's "in a suit," and Sis identifies his "card" as "just a gum wrapper with your name on it," and the like.

But the interaction, for the entire commercial, is only between the boy, his mother, and his sister.

Even though he begins the commercial saying, "Mom--Dad--Sis," Dad doesn't have a single line in the entire ad.

It's not like it's an ad dominated by a voiceover, either. There's quite a lively exchange between Mom, the kid, and his sister.

So where's Dad?

Is he asleep during this "presentation"?

Did he leave to get a cup of coffee?

His kid addresses him...so where is he?

And if his kid is "selling" the family on a major outlay for something like Internet service...shouldn't he be involved in the conversation somewhere?

He's not.

Which is odd enough.

But what's odder? And SADDER?

That this commercial went into production and no one corrected that.

It's a glaring example of what has happened to men, slowly but inexorably, in the media landscape. 

First, their voices have been decried as too loud, too boisterous, too uncouth, too unkempt...you name it.

Then, their authority and intelligence have been ignored--or, worse yet, deliberately undermined.

And now...they've finally done what the culture clearly wants them to do.

They've gone away.

They've become invisible.

And no one seems to realize they're gone.

You know what?

That's wrong.

You want to champion an "underrepresented" voice?

Champion a man.

Let men speak again. In their own natural, wholesome, masculine strength.

Let men be men again. 

Without insulting them, accusing them, ridiculing them, or refusing to listen to their wisdom. Because they do have some, you know.

At least as much as a woman does.

Ladies, we're not the ones whose voices haven't been heard.

We've been shouting down the other half of the population at such a volume, and with such stridency, we don't even realize we've completely taken its voice away.

We all need to stop doing this (not so) "subtle" silencing.

Now.

Thoughts?

Janny

Enough.

The writing world is, in many ways, reminiscent of the Wild West lately.

It's got its share of outlaws lurking, too, seemingly more than there ever have been before.  And they have one target in their sights, constantly:

Traditional publishing.

And it's starting to get really, really irritating.

If you haven't heard the popular manifesto, it goes something like this:

"The traditional publishing industry is a dinosaur that deserves to die and, if there's any justice, it will. It's a closed system in which you have to know somebody, you have to have a celebrity name, you have to have 'pull,' and even then it's impossible to get an agent and even get your manuscript in the doorway. But say lightning strikes, and you do get in the doorway?  They'll then dumb-down your work, tell you what you can and cannot write, and ignore both your cover and your title ideas. By the time they're done with your story, you won't recognize it anymore. But, hey, at least they'll then take two years to get the book out, pay you a pittance, give you no marketing support whatsoever, and blame you when it doesn't sell. No one with a brain should subject themselves to that!"

Well, yeah. If all of that was accurate, no one would.

Only it's not.

But then, it brings about incidents like I witnessed recently in a writers' group on Facebook.

A writer posted that a publisher had contacted her with a four-book deal, and she was turning it down. Why? 

Because the publisher was going to make her take down two of her indie-published titles from Amazon when they took them over, and she didn't see that there would be a financial benefit to doing that. And she then proceeded to elaborate further on why self-publishing was the way to go because no publisher would ever make it worth your while to give up that precious independence!

But many, many of us raised questions.

Such as...why in the world would a publisher pitch an author?

(Note: unless for vanity presses, it doesn't happen that way. No. Not ever.)

This was by far the biggest question most of us had. About which some of us, myself included, expressed doubts that this "offer" was legit. 

Did the author thank us for caring enough that she not get scammed?

Hell, no. 

She lashed out at many of us--yours truly included--accusing us of calling her a liar.

She even had her friends chime in and lambaste us as well.

And in the mix, of course, were dozens of "me-too" echoes from people who repeated the same tired script about how horrible traditional publishing was...ad infinitum.

Only...

It should surprise absolutely no one to find out that in her initial post, this author hadn't quite told the whole truth.

A publisher hadn't approached her out of the blue to publish four new books; a publisher who had already published one of hers had expressed the offer to take on more. The offer wasn't a "pitch" to lure an indie author into the evil of Traditional Publisher Servitude.

This woman has published 40 books on her own, some of which look fairly competent. If that sounds like damning with faint praise, there's a reason.  I would have tried to explore more of them, but I couldn't; there were no "look inside" features for any of her stuff. The most I could glean was a blurb for one of her fiction titles--something so atrociously written that it was clearly done by someone with no clue what a "blurb" was.

(Something going the "traditional" route, by the way, can help you learn to do.)

If any of the people lambasting us took the time to read even that far on her author site, they might have smelled a rat.

I suspect very few did.

I did respond to the accusations of calling her a liar, by merely stating that in her initial posting, the publisher sounded like the liar...not her. And that some of us were sincerely trying to keep her from making a mistake. But that she also hadn't played fair with us, and I didn't need to stick around for more of that.

I left the Facebook group. And I ain't going back.

But let this stand as my manifesto of sorts, if you will. 

I'm fed up. 

Fed up with this slanted, error-ridden narrative. 

Fed up with how it paints an entire industry with half-truths, casts them in cement, and encourages newbies of all stripes to swallow them whole. 

And I'm fed up with spending social media "networking" time with other writers having to debunk, and debunk, and debunk...over and over and over again.

If you're out there independently published? God bless you.

Just stop lying about what the rest of us are choosing if we take the other route.

Enough...is enough.

Thoughts?

Janny

Are You Trigger Happy?

No, this isn't a post either for, or against, some Second Amendment aspect. So all of you on either side of the fence...just take a deep breath, relax, and move along if you need to.

There. Now, for the REST of us...

Recently, in some FB writing groups--and in the Twitterverse from time to time--the question has arisen about putting "trigger warnings" on our writing.  So people who have "issues" won't stumble into something that makes their lives miserable, even for a moment.  And the general consensus seems to be incredibly generous and benevolent: "Oh, of course we should do that. People should feel safe reading our writing."

Too bad it's hogwash.

Feel free to call me names, if you like. Everyone who's come out on the "other side" of this question has been labeled, defamed, and otherwise insulted, by people who don't know anything more about them than that they dared to say, "But, wait a minute."  (A rather interesting reaction from those claiming to espouse a point of view that emphasizes "compassion." LOL)

The fact is, it is hogwash. For many reasons--but two main ones are the strongest:

1) It is impossible to anticipate every potential trigger in a reader. 

Or, to put it more colloquially..."Everybody's bothered by something."

If there's one thing I've learned by being in a heavy-duty grief process--and supporting others in same--over the last six years, it's that everyone processes life differently. My grief is not your grief. Therefore, my triggers are not your triggers.

My triggers can even change from day to day, week to week, and mood to mood. 

Sometimes, I can't bear to hear songs from the 80s, because they bring back too many memories of my husband; sometimes, I embrace them, because they make me laugh, smile, or dance.

Sometimes, I find comfort in rereading love letters. Sometimes, they tear me apart.

Sometimes, I enjoy seeing young families out having fun together. Sometimes, they only reiterate to me what I will never have again.

I know people who've dissolved while shopping for groceries, because their spouse was a "foodie." Or smelling a favorite flower, because it was an unforgettable first bouquet he gave them. Or trying to navigate past a greeting-card or gift aisle when it's full of valentines or other "special occasion" reminders...that, frankly, only bring pain. 

But we don't tell stores they can't play oldies over their Muzak.

We don't put up caution signs at the end of greeting-card or flower aisles.

And we don't limit families to one end of the picnic area, and singles to the other.

Just. In. Case.

Neither can we anticipate what may trigger someone in our writing.

So, the only option we have available is to issue...what?

Blanket "caution" signs?

Some writers claim that the only "trigger warnings" necessary apply to scenes that involve violence--especially sexual--or abuse--again, especially sexual. But what that's saying is that certain kinds of trauma are worse, or more "worthy" of being warned about, than others.

And that's hogwash, too.  Because trauma is trauma. Pain is pain. And espousing that kind of narrow, discriminatory "compassion" is just plain ignoring the facts.

Which leads us right into the second reason "trigger warnings" are hogwash:

2) It's not an author's job to police your eyes...or mind.

If you read back cover copy of a book and it uses terms like "gritty" or "seamy," or comes right out and talks about sex and weapons and crime and danger...don't you kind of know what you're going to get on the inside?

And if that reflects something of your past, something you're still healing from...

Don't read the book.

Kind of obvious, isn't it?

And no, I don't mean to be callous here. But it's come to a point in today's culture where no one is responsible for anything they, themselves, do anymore.  It's always someone else's job to "protect" them and give them a "safe place"...

...while at the same time, these people rail against censorship of any kind.

Or, to put this more colloquially, "You can't have it both ways."

If I read something that's advertised as a "hot" book, and I then complain because it's sexy, who's at fault here? The author, for not warning me that some scenes may be offensive or objectionable to me? Or me, the reader, for deliberately wading into the swamp without mosquito spray and then blaming the swamp because I got bitten?

The bottom line is, we cannot hope to cover, protect, and shield everyone from everything that's ever going to trigger them. And if we can't do it for everyone, it's both shallow and pointless to do it only for certain people and certain traumas.  

Occasionally, yes, we can get ambushed by something. We in grief know all about that, too.  And that might mean that, temporarily, we've got to absent ourselves from the site, the page, or the author's work that did that. We might be able to return, again, at a future date...when we're stronger. Triggers aren't always forever, either. 

But, again...that's our stuff. Not a culture's. Not a grocery store's. Not a florist's. 

And it shouldn't have to be an author's, either.

Thoughts?

Janny

No, It's Not Bohemian Rhapsody...

 ...but this week's Musical Monday selection does offer us a visit from Scaramouche!

Enjoy...

Janny

In Praise of a Truly "Small" World

Many years ago, when I had a short-lived (and doomed!) job as an administrative assistant for a PR firm, a coworker had a radio on all day playing pop music. Why do I remember that so well? Because of one song in particular: the infamous Disney theme from EPCOT, "It's A Small World, After All."

For some reason, 70s pop music stations thought they should bombard us with that song at least once a day. If not more often. Don't ask ME why; I could barely tolerate it. But my coworker had a different, and much more dramatic, reaction to the thing. Every time it'd come on the radio, she'd call someone--I have no idea whom--and tell them their song was on.

Every. Single. Time.

I couldn't help but wonder whom she was calling (I never asked) or why. Clearly, that song meant something to someone in her world, and so every time she heard it, she'd share it. And since this station played it regularly, that gave her an excuse to make a personal phone call every single morning. In between lighting cigarettes and chain-smoking. Which she did, in the office. Because those were the days when you still could do such things in an office!

This song came to mind (briefly only, thank heaven) when I read a FB entry by a fellow author about getting to know an online consultant in Ukraine, and sharing a few thoughts with that man. And our author friend concluded with the obvious: that, in the end, a lot of the social and political issues we're obsessing about in this country really aren't all that important, and we should remember the suffering fellow human beings closer to us than we might think--hence, the "small world."

All of which is true.  And worth understanding.

But, in my perspective, is an attitude that can also be hazardous as a steady diet.

In our everyday existences, our own worlds are very small, indeed. We deal with minutiae: kids and parents and neighbors and carpools and appliances breaking down and Internet access and work issues and laundry and dinner and mowing the lawn and what our pets are getting into...

It can all seem so insignificant and selfish, compared to the "problems of the world."

But the little-known (and even less-believed) secret?

It's not.

Contrary to what media and culture seem bent on "guilting" us with--this small, limited, "unimportant" life most of us live is not only whole, and real, and legitimate...but a healthy, sane means by which we effect long-term betterment for an entire world.

Something that, by contrast, is not accomplished--and can never be--by constantly looking outward instead, and agonizing about all the things beyond our scope to fix.

This concept may be horrifying to some of you, in that it comes across as self-absorbed to the max. It concentrates on who, and what, is right in front of you, what your day brings in terms of challenges and opportunities. And leaves the rest to fate. Or God. Or whatever higher power you recognize (and we all recognize one, whether we admit it or not).  

What does a life look like that's lived this way?

Rather peaceful, truth be told.

And I can say that because it's a life I've lived for years.

My life is, quite deliberately, not hemmed by news reporting, argument, or gossip.

It is a life not governed by worry, stress, frustration, or rage.

It is a life in which I can go for days without knowing that a natural disaster occurred thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world...and, consequently, without feeling awful about it.

It is a life in which I am "behind the curve" in terms of contemporary mores, tragedies, or social idiocies...and consequently, don't expend energy or emotional investment on them.

It is a life in which, as much as possible, I try to stay focused on things I can do.

Things I can control.

Lives I can impact.

Direct actions I can take to influence policy, personalities, or public opinion.

The rest, I ignore.

Yes. You heard that right.

I can hear the indignant reactions now.

"What do you mean, you ignore what's happening all over the world? You have to be informed! You need to know what's going on!"

To which I always respond, "Why?"

And, to this day, I haven't gotten a good answer to that question.

In fact, the people I know who make it their business to be "informed," and who do always "know what's going on"? By and large? Are psychological messes.

They're so balled up in anxiety, in anger, in fear, in worry, and in suspicion and/or cynicism that, ironically enough, their lives are  "smaller" than mine is. They don't "dare" do things I'll do in a heartbeat, because it's "not safe" to do those things. Even when, as I do them, I'm perfectly safe the entire time...and enjoy myself in the bargain. And speaking of enjoyment? Some of these "informed" people can barely laugh, really laugh, at anything anymore. Or make a joke, even a perfectly innocent one, without looking over their shoulders.

Surely, that's not the way human beings are supposed to live.

Because, during His time on earth, even God laughed.

Yes, He did. 

And yes, He cried, too.

But He lived in balance. And when the world was too much with Him, or His disciples, He urged them to get away. To separate themselves from the melee, take some time for peace and quiet, and recollect.

Reconnect.

Renew.

Refresh.

Some of us take "retreats" in which we do these things. But I firmly believe we need to go way beyond intermittent "escape"...and start practicing some judicious, everyday ignorance. 

Because a life lived with one's finger endlessly on the pulse of the world at large, endlessly vigilant, and endlessly concerned about things that, most of the time, we have no control over...

Has no room for refreshment, recollection, reconnection, or renewal.

And eventually, then, it has no room for humor. 

Or whimsy. 

Or creativity. 

Or spontaneity. 

Or optimism.

Or...faith. Or hope. Or real charity.

I have all of these elements still at my disposal. And I use them, when I can, and when I need to, to make things better. I don't have to go looking for opportunities, either. What needs me to tend to it, as I've often said, shows up--without fail--at the doorstep. 

Which is plenty soon enough to deal with it.

Remember, Jesus worked miracles one person at a time. He was divine--but He still understood, and respected, sane human limits.

No amount of "information" will give you superhuman powers to go beyond that.

So stop expecting it to--or expecting yourself to be superhuman as a result. 

I do my best with the small world I've been given to live and move in.

And in the end, I believe, that will turn out to be more than enough.

Thoughts?

Janny

"I'll Be Bach."

Happy Musical Monday!

Well, okay, technically I won't be...but HE will.
Enjoy!

Janny

"They're Playin' Bas-ket-baaallll..."

...and it came to pass, in the gray days of March, that the Lord looked down on his American people and said:

"Hey, word up, there's nothin' happenin' down there. This is neither spring, nor winter, neither hot nor cold. It is not good to have man living in these doldrums of halfway between.

"So let us shaketh things up a bit. Let us make of March a special time, that shall be henceforth known as 'Madness.'* At this time, men shall procure a roundball, made of leather, filled with the breath of the wind, and shall bring it to a 94-foot hardwood court. There, they shall string cotton beneath a wide orange cylinder of metal, one at each end of the court, at a height of 10 feet from the floor. And groups of men shall band together, and shall make it a mission to launch the roundball through the cylinder, so that it makes a special music through the cotton cords. And yea, verily, when the roundball passeth through the cotton net, there shall be rejoicing and great jubilation in many lands.

"They shall do this in the city; they shall do this in the country. They shall do this in the small town, in the places time forgot. They shall do this in the Ivy League and in the Midwest Athletic Conference, on the Atlantic coast and in the heartlands; in the Mountain West and the Pacific lowlands; and the people shall behold it and marvel.

"And let us make this an annual feast, a time when small men can dream big dreams. Let us celebrate and rejoice, and make merry, when the Big Dancing begins. And let March be forever blessed with this glorious festival of team colors and cheerleaders, slammin' and jammin', 'diaper dandies' and buzzer-beaters...to bring joy and craziness to all my people."

And God saw it...and it was very good.

Let there be Roundball!!!!!!!

Janny
(*Yes, we are aware that the IHSA claims that Illinois High School Basketball was the original "March Madness," and we have no doubt whatsoever that this is true, as we can remember this term from way before it was used for the NCAA Tournament. We have merely exercised a little poetic license here, and trust that the reader will be accommodating.)

***(Reprinted from March, 2009)***

What's On Your Liszt For This Week?

This is on mine...

Happy Musical Monday!

Janny

Mindful Coffee

...no, I never heard of it, either. But...! 

I love my morning coffee. Or afternoon coffee. Or, on some occasions, even evening coffee. Which is why, IMHO, the Keurig is among the best things ever invented. All that coffee, one cup at a time, whatever flavor you fancy...and quick to make.

BUT...lately, I've had the *other* kind of coffee, too. No, not perked on the stove (although that's still among the better ways to make a pot)...but perked from grounds in my Keurig. As in, hand-scooping the grounds into one of those reusable cups you insert into the coffeemaker. Also for one cup at a time.

But a whole lot messier. Which means that every time you make one of THOSE cups, you have to really think about it. In terms of the cleanup work involved. Because coffee grounds, I'm here to tell you, migrate worse than spaghetti sauce toward a white blouse. No matter how careful you are in measuring out those grounds into that teeny little cup, inevitably some will...leak out.

Not to mention the cleanup of the used grounds afterward.

So, then, I got to wondering...

If you need to take care, and extra time, to make an individual cup of coffee...

...does that make it MINDFUL?

As opposed to just tossing another premade pod into the machine and brewing a second or third cup?

And do I get extra credit, then, on the "mindfulness" scale...for making the coffee more from scratch? Not to mention extra points for wiping up every spare speck of coffee grounds?

It's an interesting question, I think.

😇

I mean, hey--sometimes you need to take your meditation points where you get 'em.

But I also gotta say: sometimes, folks, I just like my coffee mindless. Snatch a pod, stick it in, push the button, and go.

Does that make me shallow?

Am I missing a chance for extra-deep thoughts while I scrub out a reusable cup?

Or...?

Yeah. 

I doubt that'll keep ME up nights, either. 😛

Thoughts?

Janny

[[Photo by Ante Samarzija on Unsplash]]

"All You Need Is Love..." And A Second Bathroom!

Yeah. The little-known second line to that lyric? (LOL)

This thought came upon me as I've been ruminating over the possibility of someday in here, "being with" somebody new. As in, having a romantic relationship that could turn into marriage and cohabitation.

And I started considering that, in light of the house I presently call home.

Now, this is a great little house. From the outside, it looks like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs live here: It's a little blue cottage with a stone chimney in front. It is two bedrooms, a large dining room, a tiny kitchen, a cozy living room, and a bathroom. No basement, no second level, utility room is literally right off the living room (when they say laundry is "mere steps" away, they're not kidding!).  It's on a slant, as are most houses in this area that were built in the 1940s and "settled." You can put a marble on the floor and check the slant for yourself, any time. Or you can take it from my Mini Taktell metronome, which cannot find level purchase upon which to keep time!

It is funky. It is charming.

But it is SMALL.

And it has only one bathroom. 

A basic bathroom, at that. No double vanity, no separate W/C, none of that wonderful stuff. It DOES have a bathtub--which nowadays, for reasons known only to builders, is NOT always a given--as well as a shower, and it's in pretty good shape, although dated. If a designer came in here, the first thing he or she would do is groan, then start tearing out all the old woodwork and cabinetry and replacing them with sleek gray & white.

Which wouldn't be all bad. And if I could afford it, I'd likely do some of that myself.

But, again...it is SMALL.

As in, it has no linen closet. I use part of the master bedroom closet to stash linens and other storage. And, once again, as in it has only ONE bathroom.

And I know, for a fact, that if I moved in with someone else again...that wouldn't be enough.

The older we get, the more we need bathrooms to be handy, accessible, and OPEN.

For many obvious reasons, none of which will I bore or gross you out with now.

We had one bathroom in the condo in Wauconda, and there was more than one instance in which I spent some looong minutes waiting for it, when it was occupied at a time when my biology wanted me to be occupying it instead!

So, in addition to the considerations attached to forming another emotional connection, dealing with all the baggage that could ensue from that exercise, and doing the usual adjustments one has to do when one is too used to living on one's own...

...I'd have to find a bigger house with another bathroom in it!

No, it wouldn't have to be lavish. And, truth be told, even a half-bath would do.

Just for Important Functions When They Need To Be Tended To.

So, the sentiment will never make its way onto a Valentine card.

But it's a very practical way to make sure everybody feels loved...going forward!

And to me, it's a basic necessity I don't want to live without.

Whadya think?

Janny

It's Musical Monday again!

Some warm music for a cold Monday! A few  piano meanderings by a composer who hasn't gotten nearly enough attention yet...(but we're working on it!)

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Birthday Robert Burns!

In honor of the occasion...a quintessential love song, sung by one of the greatest of all time. Have tissues handy.

And...you're welcome.

A Red, Red Rose

Janny

For Musical Monday...A Surprise!

 Yes, it was for ME, too.

Check it out!

Janny

A Miracle Musical Monday!

I think this is probably one of the best ways you could start any week. But, then, again, I think it's pretty much impossible to listen to Haydn and not smile...

So enjoy the rest of your week with this as accompaniment!

Janny

The Story So Far...

I admit, I stole the title for this entry from a Battlefield Band album. But it's an apt way to describe how we're all doing, don't you think?

And I had an interesting perspective on how I'm "doing," almost five and a half years after Patrick's death, during a message I wrote to a man with whom I'm chatting on Catholic Chemistry.  Yes, I've done some dating services. No, you don't want to know how many...or that I was 7-for-7 on scammers with at least one of them...or what some of the men out there seem to be focused on when they talk about a new relationship. (It's a three-letter word. Use your imagination.) But this particular entry was an answer to his musings about whether he may have been too picky all his life, looking for a woman to settle down with--he'd never married--and the makings of "chemistry." He asked me if I believed in it, and if it was something that happened fast, or something that "grew" on you...what I thought.  And I looked at that, and just laughed.

How I answered him, I think, shows a great deal about how far I've come, where I've come to, and what I'm looking at in this new reality of mine. See what you think:

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Brace yourself, because you asked the wrong girl about "chemistry." LOL! Yes, I believe in it...boy, do I! It could be said that I kind of NEED to, as a romance writer...but I'm lucky/fortunate/blessed enough to have also had terrific chemistry on my "second time around," and I miss him every single day.

I say "second time around" because technically, I had a first marriage--but I was never married in the eyes of the Church, and I've come to refer to that relationship as my "fake first husband." Oh, we were legal and all--but we married at age 20, and we frankly didn't have a clue what we were doing. The young man was a charmer who proposed to me on the second date. (!) Coming from a father who was verbally abusive, emotionally crippled, and not the kind of "daddy" any little girl should have, I ate up the affection, laughter, and compliments of this guy, and I thought that was all it'd take. I did my best to be a good little Baptist wife, kowtowed to his preacher father, and all the rest. Seven years later, when I discovered my husband was a chronic liar, couldn't hold a job, and had a disturbing affinity to violent and/or pornographic literature...I bailed. I got a legal separation, moved out into my own apartment, and pursued full-time music study...

...and then, I encountered the love of my life.

I don't say I "met" him because, in fact, I had already MET Patrick. He was in the same music classes I was, we performed in several ensembles together (as well as performing in separate ensembles at the same concerts!), and I knew OF him. But he was a very quiet, reserved, and shy drummer, and so I never knew him, per se...until one night, (purely "by chance") I sat next to him at a choir pizza party, we started talking--and the bond was immediate. We "clicked" so well that, that night going home in the car, my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew SOMETHING had happened to me--what, I wasn't sure yet!

From there, we became fast friends, then best friends....and eventually, he decided he wanted to date me. Truth to tell, I was head-over-heels for him probably about from "hello," and he claimed he'd had a "sign" early on that I was the one. But he was a very, very cautious soul, and he wanted to take his time pursuing a relationship with a divorced woman, especially since she was 7 years older. (Yeah. Just call me "cougar"! LOL)

But the chemistry? Happened like lightning. Everyone who knew both of us told me repeatedly that we had "something special." And we did. It was more than just our shared faith, our shared music, our shared weird sense of humor, or--let's face it--a whole lot of just plain physical attraction. Fundamentally, we looked at the world the same way, which is kind of my informal definition of "compatibility." And yes, we went through all kinds of trials...but we laughed almost every single day, never lacked for conversation, and came through some very rough times even more in love than we started.

Does that mean he was perfect? Heck, no. Neither am I. And there are a lot of things about the relationship, and his personality and habits, that I DON'T miss. But in balance? I believe we were absolutely meant for each other, and had been from before either of us was born. That kind of "soulmate" truly IS rare, and I know a lot of people who settle for less; I feel sorry for them. But if you may have been a bit picky about what you were looking for in terms of a wife, imagine how picky I am NOW! (LOL) Yes, I know the bar is set incredibly high, and I may never find another partner that good. As Tom Hanks' character says in SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE, "It doesn't happen twice." It does, of course, in that romantic movie. It may not for me, but if it doesn't, I have to say....I'm okay anyway. Yes, it's lonely. But it's lonely for a particular brand of person, a particular brand of relationship...not just for "having someone" in my life. And that difference is important.

That's why I also believe that the best thing someone who's looking for a "partner" can do is to learn how to be happy alone. I did that as a single girl in college, and I'm doing it now. Put your imprint on your space. Surround yourself with things you love. Do things, as a single person, that treat YOU well. So many times in my grief-support group, people will talk about not wanting to cook a nice meal "just for one person," because it seems like it's "not worth it." To which I want to say, "Of course, it's worth it. That one person is YOU, and you deserve good food." The same applies to the rest of one's life--you deserve a place you can snuggle up and "nest" in, something far more than just a place to eat, sleep, or wash up. You want a haven for yourself, and you want to treat yourself well. Because Jesus says. "Love your neighbor as yourself..." but all too often, people forget the "as yourself" part. It has to be part of the mix, or you won't know how to love someone else well!

So, yeah. This very long answer to your long post boils down to a couple of answers. I most definitely DO believe in "chemistry," and I believe you don't know if it's there or not until you're face to face with the person. You can think it's there through such things as these messages, or even over the phone...but there's another component to it that only happens when you're physically present with the other person. That's when you know for sure. It can happen very fast, or it can build nice and slow...but for me, it has to be there, or I have to say, "Thanks, but no, thanks," to pursuing anything further.

Hope this gives you some insights!

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Thoughts?

Janny

Some Fun and Frolic for Musical Monday!

 This.  Just way too much fun, IMHO. Although it could also be said there IS no such thing as too much fun...

(as the old country tune said so well!)

Enjoy!

Janny

"Russian" Into Musical Monday!

Yeah, I know. I couldn't resist.

But this is worth the trip.

As I say in my Facebook post, I'm "T-H-I-S close" to getting this under control. And when I do, the chills that will run through my system could air-condition this house for the rest of summer.

Good chills. Trust me.

In the meantime, enjoy this version. I certainly do!

Janny

What's the Good Word?

Probably many of you are too young to remember what the question above was a common greeting...but that's neither here nor there. 😉

I've had to stop reading two books this week.

One promised to be a neat, paranormal suspense book, with ghosts and hauntings and danger and all. I was really looking forward to it.

Until I got into the book, and discovered that everybody in it had potty mouths.

Yes. Including the seven-year-old son.

But what wore on me even more was the casual gutter speech from the parents.

Specifically, Mom.

Now, it's a British book. So, I had to tell myself over and over again, "Brits are cruder in their everyday speech than you're used to."

So when she teases her husband by calling him a "cheeky bastard," I could laugh along. He was being one, as a matter of fact. 

But when she greeted her kids, first thing in the morning, by saying, "You're up early. Did you shit the bed or something?"

I stopped.

And, while I did read a little further into the book, at that point, I lost interest.

The book had many "tripping points" for those of us used to an opening that moves fast, anyhow; it delved into great and meticulous detail about the layout of this fantastic estate where that the woman was going to be live-in manager. Describing in fine specifics the lengths, and breadths, and numbers of doors, and the whole shot. Even that, I could adapt to...in a book where, clearly, the setting is as much a character as the people. I get that. I've even done it. Although not, it must be said, in such exhaustive geographic detail.

But not a mother thinking it's in any way remotely affectionate to tease her children about being up early by asking if someone's defecated in a bed.

I wonder, to this moment, what she would have responded if they'd said, "Yes."

Part of me, I confess, wanted them to. Just to see her jaw drop.

But they took that in good spirit, as if that was the kind of thing their mother said to them all the time. And the notion of that turned my stomach.

When the language of the kids didn't improve any over the next few pages...I stopped. I just had had enough of their smart-ass mouths. 

I no longer cared if the ghost got any of them. In fact, I was rooting for it.

The same has happened with a second book I started, and was quite absorbed in, because a lot out of it is funny. It's another paranormal thriller, with a black-humor bent in it that I appreciate. 

I even was heartened when, in the first several pages, the language was actually cleaner than I expected.

Unfortunately, that didn't last.

But the kicker for me? One particular scene, upon which a major incident in the story gets built. A scene in which our "hero"'s wife is being, shall we say, sexually indulged by one of her fellow workers. 

Mind you, they're only separated, she and the hero. Not divorced yet. And he doesn't really want to divorce her.

Until that moment, when he doesn't catch them directly in the act...but right afterward.

And he spares us no description of what that looks like. Body parts, reactions, smells, the whole thing.

This is piled on top of an increasingly foul text anyway, in which our hero is dealing with mobsters and semi-mobsters and people who once did business with the mob, and petty crooks, and the whole shot...and none of them, apparently, know any creative words and terms beyond "a**hole," *d***head," and, of course, the ever-popular "f**k" (and all its forms).  

A little of that, I put up with. 

When we then start to wallow, deeper and deeper, into language--be it conversation or description--that makes me want to take a shower when I'm done reading it?

I'm outta there.

Which brings up my ever-present question.

There are over 600,000 words in the English language.

Why can't people learn to use some more of them?

And why don't publishers demand better?

One time, someone posted on Twitter that he couldn't understand why people had a problem with the word "f**k." 

I said, because it's vulgar, obscene, and repetitive.

To which another respondent agreed with the first poster and said, "Oh, but there are situations in which it's the perfect word."

To which I responded, "Only if you're too lazy to find any others."

I stand by that.

I stand by that as pertains to "a**hole," as pertains to *d***head," and a host of other terms that are so peppered throughout most contemporary prose that, were they actual pepper, you couldn't consume the dish they were used on.

Which, when you think about it, is a very good metaphor.

People will say, over and over, "But this is the way people talk."

To which I can only answer, "It's not the way I talk. And it's not the way people with a grain of decency talk. Or write. Or narrate things."

Above all, it's not the way people who actually want to convey real English talk...or write. 

And before you scream protests? It can be done.

It has been. Countless times. 

You can write about the seamiest, grittiest, most down-and-dirty plot points in the world in your prose without a single one of these lazy words.

And, no, it won't sound like a Sunday school teacher wrote it.

Because there are some really wonderful words in the lexicon that can be used as substitutes for these words. And they're not just substitutes, in that you're doing some knee-jerk "cleaning up" of your writing--they're actually better words.

More descriptive.

More vivid.

One or two, or half a dozen of these other "gems," in speech? If you want to have your characters portrayed as lazy speakers, go ahead.

But peppering them throughout narrative, throughout thoughts, throughout conversation as if they're anything but the nauseating insensitivities they are?

You do that, I'm going to get tired of digging through the excrement to get to the pony. But worse than that, for your author's reputation...is that I'm going to doubt that there even is a pony in there to begin with.

And I will set your book aside.

And I will delete it from my Kindle.

And I promise, I will never recommend it to anybody. 

Do you really want that reaction from a reader? Any reader?

You all can do better. I know you can.

Give it a try.

Go ahead.

I dare you.

Thoughts?

Janny

Musical Monday for my Birthday Week!

Hey, all...time for some sweet dance music!

Enjoy...

Janny