The Anecdotal Life Part 111.

Spring weather ain't what it used to be. Just getting through the tornado and flood threats with home, hearth and self intact seems to be a simple matter of the roll of the dice. As soon as it all looks like we've got that licked, we get hit in the face with forthcoming reports of a prodigious hurricane season, then find ourselves in the midst of a heat wave that threatens to flatten us to the sidewalk like so many fried pancakes. The roll of the dice seemed to favor one man living in what we may call tornado central from now on. Couldn't believe that I found myself smiling when viewing ABC'S agonizing videos of the wreckage of Joplin, Missouri in which one man spoke of ambling up to what was left of his house, edged his way into a crowd of people searching frantically, only to learn it was he they were searching for. Or, the last minute survival techniques of a little family of three who heaved themselves in a pile into the bathroom tub. The young boy took one precious second to grab his bike helmet which saved him being brained three seconds later with the toilet as the tornado ripped it out of the floor smacking that self-same child up the side of the head.

I wondered, as we all probably did , if there is a place on earth free of earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, mudslides, and tsunamis. (and I forgot to add warfare)

What a relief it is to go (on breaks in the weather disasters) to my old boat , find it still intact, and just sit there, albeit somewhat stupefied and certainly grateful for a serenity of sorts with the water looking like a glass top table in the few, cool morning hours.

A number of friends have climbed aboard for art talks, lunch and the delicious sense of having gotten away from it all. But I haven't titled this Blog the Anecdotal Life for nothing. This week especially where I was a part of a panel of authors at our local library, had to get art work to the Easton Museum, zip North to the boat to prep for a mechanic , keep my house ( and God help me) a pair of cats in order.
The library meeting room really had filled up with wannabes and those already there, publishing wise...The biggy of course, was the panel, most of those included having quite a bit of properly published writing"out there". Yikes... Moreover, they were all fairly fluent. I was lucky I could find my tongue. Later I wondered what I said or if any of it made sense. Winston Churchill said, "Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." I'll say.
They discussed what it takes to be a writer and how they went at it. It was clear from the get go I was absolutely the least organized and also the biggest whiner when it came to rejections. They didn't jump up and down of any of their lethal letters. Nor did they wish to burn them in a ceremonial ashtray. Don Saker, an author of an ungodly number of books and professional endeavors, carefully and kindly, explained in detail why these rejections had probably nothing to do with me. Or, in other words, "it's not all about you, Hon!"Then in a few perfect sentences he had us moving out into the future and space. "take us out Scotty" came to mind. I loved it when he owned up to ritualistic activities before writing. Such as cleaning his entire stove.
Henry the poet described how he got up at four o'clock to begin writing and continued until breakfast at eight. ( I get up a four a lot too, but for more fundamental reasons.) He, not only didn't give a whack about money, his publications or marketing, but he had no difficulty disregarding rejections, and felt acceptance was just as meaningless. (that was a beaut.) The only thing that mattered was the act of confronting and dealing with the piece of paper in front of him. He never held his work as some religious artifact not to be fooled with later on. He often went back and reworked things. He called it "exquisite fiddling." It was then I knew I was in with the big kids.
Mary Ellen Hughes was so clearly a disciplined and prolific writer of mysteries. She was really unnerving. She wrote in a "Miss Marple" style and she even had a fairly orderly, dedicated writer's group. She felt as I did, however, how important being able to trust the members of her group was.
Next to her at the far end of the round table was a guy named Al, who had tackled an historic novel by researching the library for a story of a boat. He found his "inspiration" in one that had sailed in the 1740's. His subsequent research was formidable and his choice of a book cover scrumptious. He, like I, was self published.
When our panel leader, Deb, (namely the blessed librarian that organized it all, who had also chosen and rounded up those other truly experienced participants ), now skillfully led us in spite of a few audience forays threatening to derail the proceedings, and then finally suggested we close, we were confronted with a phalanx of questioners and questions. Some of which I couldn't answer, but some I could.
One very sincere young writer wanted to know where to start, but when she said later that she was a social worker and her title would be " Memoirs of the Misunderstood" I was fairly certain she had all the good start she needed.
It was tough saying goodbye to a great event. Henry helped by letting me know he thought that my title ,"The Anecdotal Life" was a good one and not to change it. Then I wandered out the front door, drove home in a bliss-filled fog. It was late when I got in the door. The cats sat puzzled. I couldn't begin to sit still even though it was two hours past my bedtime. So I cleaned house. I clearly knew where my next blog was coming from with profound thanks to a superb group of authors and one fine librarian.