Back in July, just after I'd had a close call with an internal bleeding problem, I vowed to get at least one book in print by September. I made it . . . but barely, and I worked my butt off getting it done. October and November were also busy months, and I ended up getting another six books published. Then I hit the wall, stopped working on books, and it isn't because I wanted to. Although there's no rush at this stage of the game, I'm disappointed.
Getting books in print offers some rewards and some disappointments. I should be excited, but I'm not, and that means the disappointments outnumber the rewards. I'm satisfied with most of the books now in print, but they're not my best work. A number of unused manuscripts had piled up around here, and since I hate to see time and effort wasted, the decision was made to go with them first. Some of those books had been written nearly 30 years ago, and reworking them, getting them in decent shape for publication, was difficult for several reasons. I've changed over the years, and what I thought was a good story then didn't measure up to my expectations as of late . . . and making changes can be dangerous business for a writer. In some ways, I was a better writer back then because I was excited about the work. My muse was singing to me, urging me to be creative. She still comes around from time to time, but not like when I was younger and full of ideas . . . and energy.
Zeus supposedly had nine daughers the Greeks called Muses. Creative people owe their inspiration to whatever muse attends them, and I'm sure one of them found me. I still do good work from time to time when it comes to composing stories, but the hard work of refining that work, making it fit for publications, needs more than inspiration; it needs determination and attention to detail. Is there a muse for that? If so, mine took a hike, went on vacation. And without the muse, you're just wasting time trying to write.
I feel some stirrings, however - just a faint and distant voice urging me to go back to work. I'm 90 percent finished with what is perhaps my best work as an author, a trilogy called Madrone. All three books are written, have been submitted for printing but lack proofing and final approval from me. And I can't pull the trigger. These are new stories, recent creations, and they are a departure from the writings I've produced in the past. Maybe that's what troubles me, makes me less confident about them. But I know they're good work, and I don't want to mess them up with poor proofing and last minute changes. I need my muse. Sing, baby, sing!
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
SUNDAY IS DUMBDAY
For millions of American Sunday is a church day, and for others, it's a day of rest and recreation. People who have jobs that require concentration and a critical thought process may look at Sunday as dumbday, a day that requires nothing mentally taxing. That's the way I've always seen Sundays, as dumbday. And today is my day to do little or no thinking. Maybe that's why they play professional footabll on Sundays.
I used to be a big time football fan, but those days are long gone. Watching a football game from start to finish is something I haven't done in a long time. Professional football is too systematic, too refined and machine like . . . and boring. It's good background sound to sleep to. But there are other things that require even less thought process than watching football. Thank God soccer isn't all that popular here in the U.S. The only thing exciting about a soccer match is the announcer. I could watch golf, but that's sort of like watching paint dry. I used to play golf, but I hate watching it. That puts it in the same category with masturbation - fun to do, no fun to watch.
And because today is dumbday, it's a perfect day for a dumb blog, which this one surely is.
I used to be a big time football fan, but those days are long gone. Watching a football game from start to finish is something I haven't done in a long time. Professional football is too systematic, too refined and machine like . . . and boring. It's good background sound to sleep to. But there are other things that require even less thought process than watching football. Thank God soccer isn't all that popular here in the U.S. The only thing exciting about a soccer match is the announcer. I could watch golf, but that's sort of like watching paint dry. I used to play golf, but I hate watching it. That puts it in the same category with masturbation - fun to do, no fun to watch.
And because today is dumbday, it's a perfect day for a dumb blog, which this one surely is.
Rousseau Got It RIght . . . Almost
I majored in political science in undergraduate school (double major with history), then went to graduate school at three different universities. I picked out areas of emphasis that would get me jobs as a professor - public administration, American government, comparative governments, foreign relations, etc. And because they made me, I took quite a few courses in political theory, and that's what touched off a love for philosophy. That was a sideline thing, something I never specialized in or taught during my years as a professor . . . but I love it. One of my farorite political theorists is Rousseau, and I particularly like what he had to say about how government originated.
Rousseau would have liked government with limited powers, but he lived in a time when just the reverse was true. One of his comments that caught my attention was a lament. He said the first person who erected a fence or dug a ditch around a spot of land and then had the audacity to call it his own was the originator of civil government. We would've been better off had that man been told to fill in the ditch, tear down the fence, because he was the cause of lots of suffering . . . and that's because he forced upon all of us the necessity for government.
In this day and age Rousseau's words still carry weight. He was right, but only to a degree. Government has become mankind's best friend, and our worst enemy. Big Brother is bipolar, and that wears hard on all of us. He gives us liberty, then takes it away. He plows the ground for us to plant seed, and then he burdens us with tax and regulation on what grows from our labors. He can hold us like a babe in arms at times, but he also slaps us around when we don't behave according to his mandates. Big Brother is sometimes a saint, sometimes the devil . . . and sometimes the mean-spirited side of him blinds us to the good he does. I don't like Big Brother. I'd like to send him off to treatment, subject him to a complete overhaul, make him into something we could look up to and be proud of all the time. But is that possible? Probably not, but that doesn't mean we have to like him the way he is.
The first of every year brings about a new tax season. By April, income tax is due, and even before that (at least here in Texas), there's property tax to pay. Some taxes, like sales tax, aren't seasonal, but they're still a bother. I don't mind income tax because it's proportional, based on the ability to pay. I detest sales tax and property tax. If you build it, they will come . . . and tax the crap out of it. And that's not Big Brother doing it because he's not into the property tax business like the state and local governments are. Little Brother is now a bigger problem than Big Brother when it comes to taxation, and most people fail to see that. And even if they do see it, they like it better because it's tax money that home folks take from you for schools, etc. I pay a lot more tax dollars to state and local government than to the federal government . . . a lot more, like at least twice as much. I wouldn't even mind that so much if it weren't so inequitable, but that's another story, and I'm about done with this little rant.
In fact, I am done.
Rousseau would have liked government with limited powers, but he lived in a time when just the reverse was true. One of his comments that caught my attention was a lament. He said the first person who erected a fence or dug a ditch around a spot of land and then had the audacity to call it his own was the originator of civil government. We would've been better off had that man been told to fill in the ditch, tear down the fence, because he was the cause of lots of suffering . . . and that's because he forced upon all of us the necessity for government.
In this day and age Rousseau's words still carry weight. He was right, but only to a degree. Government has become mankind's best friend, and our worst enemy. Big Brother is bipolar, and that wears hard on all of us. He gives us liberty, then takes it away. He plows the ground for us to plant seed, and then he burdens us with tax and regulation on what grows from our labors. He can hold us like a babe in arms at times, but he also slaps us around when we don't behave according to his mandates. Big Brother is sometimes a saint, sometimes the devil . . . and sometimes the mean-spirited side of him blinds us to the good he does. I don't like Big Brother. I'd like to send him off to treatment, subject him to a complete overhaul, make him into something we could look up to and be proud of all the time. But is that possible? Probably not, but that doesn't mean we have to like him the way he is.
The first of every year brings about a new tax season. By April, income tax is due, and even before that (at least here in Texas), there's property tax to pay. Some taxes, like sales tax, aren't seasonal, but they're still a bother. I don't mind income tax because it's proportional, based on the ability to pay. I detest sales tax and property tax. If you build it, they will come . . . and tax the crap out of it. And that's not Big Brother doing it because he's not into the property tax business like the state and local governments are. Little Brother is now a bigger problem than Big Brother when it comes to taxation, and most people fail to see that. And even if they do see it, they like it better because it's tax money that home folks take from you for schools, etc. I pay a lot more tax dollars to state and local government than to the federal government . . . a lot more, like at least twice as much. I wouldn't even mind that so much if it weren't so inequitable, but that's another story, and I'm about done with this little rant.
In fact, I am done.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
GETTING READY FOR 2014
I'm not much of a planner, and there's no way I'm going to strap myself with resolutions for the new year . . . but, we all need to have some purpose in life. Instead of resolving to do something (or avoid doing something), and without making definite plans to do anything in particular (or avoid doing anything), I'll work toward some goals. Here's my list.
1) Work harder, and I'm talking physical labor here. That means yardwork, repairs on the house, fix-ups at the shop, etc.
2) Work on books, but in a more relaxed way than I went about it the last half of 2013. I usually make less mistakes when I slow down.
3) Get new computer equipment. This is a must do thing, since the ones I have now are old and grumpy . . . like me.
4) Spent more time with my friends, something I haven't done the past few years.
5) Take a vacation, haven't done that in a long time.
6) Save money (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha).
7) Be nicer to my wife (this is mostly her idea). Also a must do.
8) Build at least a half dozen guitars.
9) Watch less television, play with my toys more (cameras, vintage stereo equipment, guitars, fiddles, mandolins, accordions)
10) Get back to songwriting and poetry.
11) Get my teeth fixed.
12) Make more money. I'll have to do this to get the teeth fixed.
OK, I'm getting depressed now, so I'll quit.
1) Work harder, and I'm talking physical labor here. That means yardwork, repairs on the house, fix-ups at the shop, etc.
2) Work on books, but in a more relaxed way than I went about it the last half of 2013. I usually make less mistakes when I slow down.
3) Get new computer equipment. This is a must do thing, since the ones I have now are old and grumpy . . . like me.
4) Spent more time with my friends, something I haven't done the past few years.
5) Take a vacation, haven't done that in a long time.
6) Save money (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha).
7) Be nicer to my wife (this is mostly her idea). Also a must do.
8) Build at least a half dozen guitars.
9) Watch less television, play with my toys more (cameras, vintage stereo equipment, guitars, fiddles, mandolins, accordions)
10) Get back to songwriting and poetry.
11) Get my teeth fixed.
12) Make more money. I'll have to do this to get the teeth fixed.
OK, I'm getting depressed now, so I'll quit.
Friday, December 27, 2013
BLOGS: HOW ARE WE DOING?
I started using this site to blog about 3 months ago, and I knew going in that it takes a while to acquire an audience. I'm not new at this, got big into blogs years ago, then got bored with it and quit. Until recently, I haven't done much blogging, and that now includes sites here at Blogger and at Wordpress . . . and several less used sites at Weebly. This one gets the most views, about 1,700 since I started back in early October, and some 940 this past month. Nearly half the views come from Malaysia, and that surprises me. A few are coming from Europe. On the other sites I maintain, almost all the views are from the U.S. Overall, my blogs have had about 1,500 views this month (all sites), and that's only about fifty a day . . . not many. Still, Blogger is my best site, the one I like using the best. My attention span is short, meaning I get bored easily, but we'll stick with it a while and see what happens.
I'm not disappointed because I don't write blogs intended for mainstream readers, like those catchy things about politics or social issues, etc. I'll do one now and then, but mine are usually little lighthearted things, nothing of great importance. I write about books I've written or those I'm working on. I write about rural life, small town living, cats, and hobbies or crafts I pursue. And I write about life as an old guy, something a lot of folks don't even want to think about. Yeah, I'm old, and I can't do anything about that . . . other than write about it.
Over at Weebly, I maintain sites called Clowder Country (about cats), Hiram's Cove (about old people in a retirement village, based on a book I'm writing), and Philip Martin Cawlfield's Blogs, which is mostly about Texas (with pictures). Here at Blogger, I'm D. Paz Dalton, same as my site at Wordpress. Just thought I'd mention that, in case you'd like to check 'em out. If not, you know where to find me here. And, thanks for looking in.
I'm not disappointed because I don't write blogs intended for mainstream readers, like those catchy things about politics or social issues, etc. I'll do one now and then, but mine are usually little lighthearted things, nothing of great importance. I write about books I've written or those I'm working on. I write about rural life, small town living, cats, and hobbies or crafts I pursue. And I write about life as an old guy, something a lot of folks don't even want to think about. Yeah, I'm old, and I can't do anything about that . . . other than write about it.
Over at Weebly, I maintain sites called Clowder Country (about cats), Hiram's Cove (about old people in a retirement village, based on a book I'm writing), and Philip Martin Cawlfield's Blogs, which is mostly about Texas (with pictures). Here at Blogger, I'm D. Paz Dalton, same as my site at Wordpress. Just thought I'd mention that, in case you'd like to check 'em out. If not, you know where to find me here. And, thanks for looking in.
THIS IS FICTION. SHOULD I HAVE TO SAY THAT?
Someone recently read one of my books, then called me on the telephone wanting to know if the central character in the book was OK. The book didn't have an unhappy ending, but the reader was still concerned about what happened to him. Is he still alive? Did he go home and marry the woman he met in the story I'd written? What about the little boy? At first, I thought he didn't understand the story, but after a few moments it dawned on me that he thought the story was about a real life event. "It's fiction," I said. "I just made it up."
He was disappointed, and perhaps it shouldn't have, but that pleased me. He bought into my characters to the point they became real to him. The story was so real to him that he thought it really happened, and that left me wondering if I should point out right up front that the story is pure fiction. Would that spoil the story for the reader, make it less interesting for them? I just assumed that the reader would automatically know that, but what this particular reader said started me thinking about some things relating to fiction literature. My books are fiction, yes, but they are usually not highly fantastic. I write them with reality in mind. It's like I'm saying, "This didn't happen, but it sure could have."
The story in question here is called The Christmas Cowboy, and it's about an ageing saddle bronc rider making his last trip to the National Finals Rodeo. He's been a world champion in the past, but his best days are behind him and he comes to the finals nursing a bad leg. And then he meets a small child at a burn center, a remarkable little boy, and that changes him. It's not a novel story. In fact, I crafted the story back in the mid 1980s from a real life situation about a baseball player who connected with a youngster battling cancer. I saw him on television talking about how working with the kid changed him, made him realize that what he did as a baseball player was insignificant compared to what the child was up against. We've all been inspired by things like that . . . not that profound, perhaps, but at some level.
The man who called to ask about this book character, thinking he was real, is one of those inspirational characters himself. He's in a wheelchair due to a sniper's bullet back during the Vietnam war, and I've been witness to his struggle with that for the past ten years. He's a good craftsman, makes hunting knives, but he doesn't read much. His wife bought my book as a Christmas present for him, thinking he'd read it simply because I wrote it. He's listened to some of my rodeo stories before because we've had long conversations in the past. I'm delighted that he's reading the book, and I've got some presents for him myself. I don't know why I didn't think about him earlier, but in a week or two I'll drop by to see him with an armload of books. And we'll talk about fiction literature some, and I'll point out to him that even if the story is fiction, it's still real. It becomes real when you read something you connect with, and people connect with stories for different reasons. My friend knows what it's like to overcome difficult circumstances, and I've written a number of stories about situations like that. Maybe the characters in my stories are fictitious, but the situations there are most definitely real things in the lives of many people.
He was disappointed, and perhaps it shouldn't have, but that pleased me. He bought into my characters to the point they became real to him. The story was so real to him that he thought it really happened, and that left me wondering if I should point out right up front that the story is pure fiction. Would that spoil the story for the reader, make it less interesting for them? I just assumed that the reader would automatically know that, but what this particular reader said started me thinking about some things relating to fiction literature. My books are fiction, yes, but they are usually not highly fantastic. I write them with reality in mind. It's like I'm saying, "This didn't happen, but it sure could have."
The story in question here is called The Christmas Cowboy, and it's about an ageing saddle bronc rider making his last trip to the National Finals Rodeo. He's been a world champion in the past, but his best days are behind him and he comes to the finals nursing a bad leg. And then he meets a small child at a burn center, a remarkable little boy, and that changes him. It's not a novel story. In fact, I crafted the story back in the mid 1980s from a real life situation about a baseball player who connected with a youngster battling cancer. I saw him on television talking about how working with the kid changed him, made him realize that what he did as a baseball player was insignificant compared to what the child was up against. We've all been inspired by things like that . . . not that profound, perhaps, but at some level.
The man who called to ask about this book character, thinking he was real, is one of those inspirational characters himself. He's in a wheelchair due to a sniper's bullet back during the Vietnam war, and I've been witness to his struggle with that for the past ten years. He's a good craftsman, makes hunting knives, but he doesn't read much. His wife bought my book as a Christmas present for him, thinking he'd read it simply because I wrote it. He's listened to some of my rodeo stories before because we've had long conversations in the past. I'm delighted that he's reading the book, and I've got some presents for him myself. I don't know why I didn't think about him earlier, but in a week or two I'll drop by to see him with an armload of books. And we'll talk about fiction literature some, and I'll point out to him that even if the story is fiction, it's still real. It becomes real when you read something you connect with, and people connect with stories for different reasons. My friend knows what it's like to overcome difficult circumstances, and I've written a number of stories about situations like that. Maybe the characters in my stories are fictitious, but the situations there are most definitely real things in the lives of many people.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
SOME SECRETS SHOULDN'T BE KEPT
"So, how long have you been writing books? Why didn't I know about this?" she asked, holding one of my recently published books in her hand. "Oh, about 30 years," I said. She was surprised, even more surprised to learn that I have seven books in print. She's known me since Kindergarten when she became my daughter's best friend, and they're still close, like sisters. This woman spent so much time around my house that I've always thought of her as family, an adopted daugther. She's known me in that way, and also as a teacher, coach, and supporter. Now a high school teacher, she's raising two adopted daughters . . . little girls her younger sister gave up due to drug addiction. She grew up on a small ranch, has been pretty much a cowgirl her entire life . . . and now she's finding out that I write stories about contemporary cowboys. Some of my stories are about cowgirls too, and she took one of the books home with her last night.
I've never talked much about my work as a writer. I had other fish to fry back when I started trying to be an author, kept my little secret about the stories until just recently. And then I suddenly realized that I'm old, time is short, and if I ever wanted to see my stories in print, now's the time. The good thing about my long kept secret is that I built up a supply of manuscripts. The books I put in print first were stories I'd written some time back. Getting them in shape for publication took some rewrites, corrections, editing, and proof reading, a slow process. But now they're out there, and I'm starting to get some feedback. That encourages me to do more, and I'm looking forward to a busy 2014.
I'm learning something about being a published author that I didn't expect. What you put in print brings you back together with people you haven't seen in a while, and it brings you closer to people you spend a lot of time with. I got a call yesterday from a friend who lives on a farm some fifteen miles from here. He's a disabled Vietnam vet, and he seldom reads. His wife bought one of my books as a Christmas present for him, and he called to say how much he's been enjoying it. "I have a hard time reading 'cause I don't understand a lot of what I read, have to go over it several times, and don't like doing that. But I understand what you write." I didn't explain to him that I know why that is. He knows me. We've had lots of conversations, so he knows how I talk. And since he knows me, he's interested in reading what I write. Reading comprehension often hinges on the interest you have in what you read . . . and he's learning that. And I'm pleased. Maybe in our previous conversations I should've mentioned that I'm a writer.
. . . And maybe some secrets shouldn't be kept. A cat is always happier once it's out of the bag.
I've never talked much about my work as a writer. I had other fish to fry back when I started trying to be an author, kept my little secret about the stories until just recently. And then I suddenly realized that I'm old, time is short, and if I ever wanted to see my stories in print, now's the time. The good thing about my long kept secret is that I built up a supply of manuscripts. The books I put in print first were stories I'd written some time back. Getting them in shape for publication took some rewrites, corrections, editing, and proof reading, a slow process. But now they're out there, and I'm starting to get some feedback. That encourages me to do more, and I'm looking forward to a busy 2014.
I'm learning something about being a published author that I didn't expect. What you put in print brings you back together with people you haven't seen in a while, and it brings you closer to people you spend a lot of time with. I got a call yesterday from a friend who lives on a farm some fifteen miles from here. He's a disabled Vietnam vet, and he seldom reads. His wife bought one of my books as a Christmas present for him, and he called to say how much he's been enjoying it. "I have a hard time reading 'cause I don't understand a lot of what I read, have to go over it several times, and don't like doing that. But I understand what you write." I didn't explain to him that I know why that is. He knows me. We've had lots of conversations, so he knows how I talk. And since he knows me, he's interested in reading what I write. Reading comprehension often hinges on the interest you have in what you read . . . and he's learning that. And I'm pleased. Maybe in our previous conversations I should've mentioned that I'm a writer.
. . . And maybe some secrets shouldn't be kept. A cat is always happier once it's out of the bag.
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