Think on these things...

My mind can’t seem to let go of the issues raised by my last post. Why do authors feel the need to write, and readers the urge to read, stories of graphic violence, inhumanity, torture and humiliation? What is there in the dark recesses of the human mind that gravitates to such topics to the point that such stories make it to print, apparently to avidly-waiting audiences?

For many years I have pointedly avoided most ‘based-on-a-true story,’ made for television movies because of their single-minded focus on personal violation or pain of one sort or another. To me, that is not entertainment by any stretch of the imagination. I read, I go to movies, I watch television (albeit rarely for the last two) to escape, to be entertained or informed, to forget the horrors of real life that are paraded on 24/7 news channels. I don’t need authors or movie makers to tell me that mankind continues to inflict unspeakable horrors on other human beings, or on animals for that matter. I know that; I share the pain of that reality every day. Why does our society seem so intent on wallowing in such grotesqueness?

I love to read mystery novels, but pointing out there is a dead body in the next room is a far cry from the graphic close-ups of CSI and its many off-spring, each pushing to outdo the other with ever more violent and bloody means of dispatch. As I mentioned last week, I was half-way through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, geek that I am rather enjoying his incorporation of computer sleuthing in the intricate mystery he was weaving, when I was confronted with multiple graphic rape scenes, horrific serial killings, and torture. I set the book aside in disgust for several days before forcing myself to try again to find a kernel of redemption in the story that would justify the accolades his writing has received. I found the same issue with Reggie Nadelson’s Artie Cohen mysteries – they are awash in graphic death, including dismemberment of children. Much of what comes out of Hollywood is no better. My husband and I tried to watch the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire and were horrified by the vicious torture scenes. We stopped trying to understand when they turned to the mutilation of children. This is quality film making?

What I find most disturbing about these and myriad other popular novels and movies, next to the notion that the audience for such material is apparently large and growing, is that they all begin with a writer who imagines such atrocities, creating those worlds of terror on paper. Language is too beautiful, too powerful, too all-pervasive to be used for such base means. Each of the novels and movies I referenced could have been told without the gratuitous and nauseating scenes, and the impact of the story would not have been lessened.

Lest I be accused of condoning censorship, that is not my case at all. My concern, as a writer, is at the creative level. I love language, the sound of words, the rhythm of a well-crafted phrase, the subtle twist of meaning in a skillfully constructed paragraph. I work very hard at my craft, striving to created stories that are intelligent, meaningful and entertaining. Where is the answer to this disconnect I face in relating to those who produce work that dehumanizes individuals, debases life, and glorifies violence?

Buddha said, “We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.” I would extend that to the words we write and share as well. Why would I want to share anything less than beautiful?

Read On...An Excerpt from The Case for Contests by Jacob M. Appel at Gotham Writers' Workshops and WritingClasses.com

Read On...An Excerpt from The Case for Contests by Jacob M. Appel at Gotham Writers' Workshops and WritingClasses.com

Posted using ShareThis

I attended a new writers group Tuesday (thanks again for inviting me!) and it was an interesting evening. It’s always nice to reconnect with former writing friends, hear what they’ve been up to since we last met. But the new acquaintances were most intriguing. Warning: the names have been changed to protect the innocent! As noted in a previous blog, I struggle with relating a story that is not mine alone to tell.

Samuel started the session with a wonderfully descriptive excerpt from a larger piece. The other members had the advantage of knowing the story from earlier readings, but we all agreed his writing is well done. I was impressed with his ability to provide physical, background description so vividly that the scenes come to life in my mind. That’s something I have never mastered.

Although to some in the group, such effort is overdone. Interesting that is was a gender divide. The women loved the language; the men felt it was unnecessary and detracted from the flow of action. As I’ve considered his work in the days since, and discussed it with other writer friends, I think I lean toward a division of personal preference, not sex. Some of us love visuals; others prefer action. No right or wrong here!

The most difficult reading of the evening was the final one, given by Fred. Again, the others in the group had heard pieces of the story before, so they had more of a context for what I found to be disturbingly graphic. We ran out of time for the extended discussion the piece provoked – and warranted – and some of the talk spilled over to our walk to the parking lot after we broke up. Fred seemed focused on, “But did it hold your interest?” He asked me that several times as my answers evaded a direct response. I’ve thought about this encounter quite a bit since Tuesday and think I am finally ready to offer a more nuanced answer.

Yes, Fred, it held my interest – much like a train wreck would. I was horrified, but compelled to listen, praying for some sort of redemption. Was it really necessary to tell that story in such painful detail? If so, if it truly serves the piece as a whole, if your intent was to shock the reader into paying attention to what will be a larger message of overriding importance, then I’m okay with that. I would not read it, but there are lots of literary works I will not read. I nearly stopped halfway through Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for that very reason; I plowed through, looking for that redemption, and found it – barely. I will not read the sequel. Again, personal preference, and certainly no right or wrong.

But if you wrote such cruel descriptions of disembowelment and violation simply for the ‘eeww’ factor, I would be heartily disappointed. Your obvious appreciation for the craft of writing is not well-served by such base motivations. Granted, we only met once, for two short hours, but I hold out hope that the larger message is there, yet to be discovered. I will make every effort to stay with you long enough to find it.

Mechanical priorities

What a roller coaster week! It started out with two rejections, one explicit, one by default (no news, in the case of a writing contest, is definitely not good news) which left me feeling pretty low. I spent the next few days struggling to prioritize my work and to find the motivation to tackle the necessary rewrites.

Rejection number one was a short story written several years ago and I thought it was pretty good. I revised it while in the midst of the adrenaline-rush after finishing last summer’s Antioch Writers Workshop and sent it out, with three other pieces, to various markets. Every one has now been returned. I’m left with confusion over how and where to resubmit, or if I even should. Toss these old things a file and move on to something new or keep trying? A couple of them are iffy, granted, but I see much worse items published every day. For now, I’m setting them aside.

Priorities.

A personal essay I had been so pleased with when I first wrote it last fall (rejection number two) benefitted from some trimming, some additions, and a general tightening of focus. It’s better now, I hope, but I’ve forced myself to set it aside for a few days before a final reading and resubmission. My AWW writers group has been very complimentary of this piece, so I have high hopes for it. The difficult part at this point will be deciding where to send it. Entry in a contest with a monetary prize and publication in a little-known journal, or a try for acceptance in a more prestigious outlet with a greater chance of rejection?

Priorities.

Then there’s my thesis novel. Yuck. I’m at the point where I don’t even want to look at it anymore. I’ve been ignoring it for several weeks now, waiting for a couple of new readers to comment on the completed draft, but it’s time to stop procrastinating. I went back through the chapter outline and realized what a mess it is. Scene flow, chapter breaks…the longer I look at it, the more confused I become. After a bit of shuffling, consolidation and deletion, it was better, or so I thought. I sent it to my mentor for review and she came back with a list of pointed – and difficult – questions about my characters that I’m having trouble answering.

Today, after making the adjustments I noted on the outline, I took out all the chapter numbers. I want to see where story wants to break, not where I think it should. My characters have shown me the way before; I trust they will do so again, if I will let them. As for the mentor questions, I’m going to sleep on it.

Priorities.

....Addendum:

So after I posted the above, I realized my overly-active pessimism had taken hold and wiped out the memory of two very exciting opportunities which came my way today. I hesitate to say more at this point (see pessimism note!) but once everything is settled, I'll be happy share. In the meantime, just trust me and share my joy. Thanks!

Between a rock and a scary place

A writer friend and I agreed to enter the Cup of Comfort for Couples contest, writing a brief story about our marriages and critiquing each other before submission. We figured it would be a good exercise if nothing else.

What I found when I tried it was surprising. I started with a gentle humor, celebrating my husband, and ended up reliving emotional baggage that he has tried desperately to help me jettison for the past thirty-five years. Where did all that come from?

I also ran head-on into another issue that I’ve been avoiding. How do I write about myself, my life, without harming those I love, or at least those with whom I’ve come into contact? My story is not just my own; it is often theirs as well. There are parts of my life I will never write about, never share, because the other people involved in those incidents deserve their privacy. It is not mine to invade or to air publicly.

Ralph Keyes addressed this issue at length in his wonderful The Courage to Write. I disagree with many of the writers he references, including William Faulkner, who said, “A writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one.” Faulkner’s pointed comments, and others like them, weigh heavily. Is my writing dull and lifeless because I allow what he calls my “censor-in-chief” to edit my words for fear of offending? Am I being less than true to myself, and to reality, by shielding those stories from the light of day? Keyes admits he sticks mostly to non-fiction because of the fear that “fiction might lead me into dark caves I’m hesitant to explore.” So I’m stuck? Which is worse…avoiding sensitive topics out of respect for others or bad writing that ignores truth?

Fellow writers, what say ye?

Hard as it is for me to believe, I have made it all the way through my novel – rewriting, editing, slashing and adding – in just under a month. I’m not yet convinced that is a good thing. I am fortunate to have a dedicated core of writer companions who are prepared to read those 163 pages and give me an honest evaluation before I even look at the draft again. I’m still considering an additional scene with Gordon and Evelyn, and maybe another ‘Ah-ha!’ moment for Toni on the true definition of family, but for now, I need to step back.

The universe also very kindly provided me with a desperately needed Hungarian translator. I have a smattering of Hungarian dialogue in my book, mostly for effect, but the final revelation for Toni also depends on the language, and I want it to be portrayed accurately. Turns out a gentleman who purchased my Historic Warren County, and who has become a sort of email pen pal (is that possible?), is fluent in the language, has the proper equipment to type the foreign digraphs, and has been kind enough to offer to review my efforts. Synchronicity in action!

So for the next week or so (if I can force myself not to give in and return to the draft), I will work on other projects. Most urgently, I have a lengthy program evaluation paper due tomorrow (1/30) for my grad school program. I’ve taken on a publicity campaign for a new community park in Lebanon, Ohio, working with a delightful 90-plus year old woman whose family originally owned the land. I have several things outstanding for the Museum that I really need to spend some time on, and as much as I hate to think about it, it’s tax time. All those things, plus an extended break to read a few things from my waiting stack of books, should keep me occupied. Of course, I can always be interrupted if someone needs a lunch date…

Why I Write

In the course of an in-depth discussion on revision techniques, how many readers to have during editing stages, etc., one of my writers’ group friends asked a general question of all of us: Why do you write?

I write to tell a story, to entertain (fiction in general). I write to present and then solve a puzzle, to cause that “Ah-ha!” moment (mysteries). I write to evoke a mood, to share an experience, to vent, to argue a point, to persuade (essays). I write to share things I have learned, to offer fresh insight to age-old problems, to reframe old arguments into new ways of finding common ground (academia). I write to clarify my thoughts, to find my way through the maze of life, to find answers, or at least to better understand the questions (blog, journal, ramblings like this one). I write to celebrate language, the rhythm of words, the nuance of meaning, the exactness of a well-chosen phrase. And, yes, I write in hope of someday finding a publisher who feels my words are worth wider distribution and – ta dah! – payment.

I write because I have no better way to express the churning thoughts which fill my mind. The blank page is my friend when I need to communicate. I don’t speak well; my mind too often goes blank when I’m in conversation, whether it be with one person or a dozen, and I can’t seem to follow my ideas to a logical conclusion. There is no ‘delete’ button when I talk, no find-and-replace for the mischosen word.

During my current graduate school program, where I am pursuing a master of arts degree in creative writing, my faculty advisor, my mentor, and at least one professor have asked me variations of that question: Why do you write? One of them asked, “If you were stranded on a desert island with a stack of blank paper and a pen, knowing full well no one would ever see the results, would you still write?” That brought me up short for sometime; my rote answer to the other unanswerable question in my life, “What will you do with your degree?” has been to make a living with my writing. But as I continue my studies, and my writing, I realize that while earning an income with my words would be wonderful, it is no longer the driving force behind my efforts.

I write because I must. It is the fulfillment of my nature, my potential. I am a writer.

Rough week - started really well, fizzled into nothingness.

I was feeling pretty good about my progress Monday and updated my Facebook status to read: “Well, 86 rewritten/edited pages, just under 25,000 words - not too bad for a week's work, assuming the words themselves aren't too bad! Onward...”

After dreaming about Toni and company all night, I went back to the manuscript Tuesday morning and ran a Find & Replace search on some problem words that came to mind. I found 23 occurrences of ‘finally,’ 38 of ‘then,’ and lots of things getting ‘dark,’ ‘darkening,’ and ‘darker’ while people keep shaking their heads. Far too many exclamation points, too – thank you, email/texting/chat/Facebook.

Wonder what other pet phrases I’m missing?

I’m gathering tonight with some dear gal pals for reconnection and inspiration. Here’s hoping for a better start and finish next week.

“As far as how much you are putting into this story, you already wrote the manuscript...to my limited knowledge that is the hard part.....editing is the last road of the journey.”


Thought-provoking words from one of my strongest cheerleaders, my father, in response to my musings yesterday about the relative ease thus far of the long-anticipated rewriting. How does one explain the writing process to someone who has never experienced its highs and lows, its joys and frustrations? I’m going to make the effort, as much for my benefit as his. The unexamined life and all…

Contrary to his contention, telling (writing) a story is the easy part, relatively speaking. We all have stories in us that we love to share. Putting them down on paper requires the commitment to see them through from start to finish. The manuscript currently under construction was written in a month-long marathon. Not recommended as a practice, at least in my estimation, but the exercise had a purpose. The daily word count required to meet the deadline required me to turn off the internal editor that often impedes that initial process. Instead of fretting over the exact word choice or the most finely-tuned phrase, I was able to push through and construct a story arc, adding characters and settings, and ending up with a complete story with a start and an end. My apologies to the post-modernists who don’t believe such constructions are necessary. I don’t care for their creations any more than they would care for mine.

So, after the bare bones of the story are down on paper, the much more difficult process of rewriting and editing begins…if an author wants the story to be worth reading. That is the stage at which I find myself with this current novel. The characters are there; the plot begins, develops, climaxes, and ends (sort of). But it is rough, very rough, and inconsistent and jagged and deadly dull in parts. I need to smooth out those rough edges, tie up loose ends, bring dates and timelines and descriptions into a semblance of order and, with any luck, along the way add enough interest and tension and description and maybe a bit of humor to keep a reader sufficiently involved to stick with me until the end.

Is rewriting the easy part, as Dad suggests? Not really. But neither is the initial story line, if I am completely honest with myself and with my readers. It is dreadfully easy to get lost in a maze of minutiae that is incoherent and bland, with no plot to speak of and nothing to compel a reader to turn the page. Unfortunately, books like that get published – I’ve read them! My goal is to create something that Dad, and maybe someone with no sentimental attachment, will actually enjoy reading and, as any good author hopes, make them want to open the book and start reading again after savoring the last page.

And we’re off!

Seventeen pages of rewrites Wednesday, which sounds like an awful lot, until I realize those pages were all workshopped and edited and fussed over repeatedly in the past several months. They shouldn’t need much more.

But I have found a new story line that needs to be inserted, a couple of new scenes to write, and deleted two characters entirely, so I guess that’s progress.

Thursday: Only two pages so far, but it’s an entirely new storyline (sort of) in an added scene. Plus LOTS of distractions made for a short work day…I know, no excuse!

Friday: Twelve pages today, thirty-one pages for the week (ok, three days…) and nine chapters total. Two new scenes, a growing complication that also – I hope – explains Toni’s motivations. Not bad for the first week out, I suppose.

For some reason I feel strangely uneasy with my progress. Isn’t this supposed to be more difficult? Am I fooling myself, and coasting? Where’s the labored, “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again,” variously attributed to Oscar Wilde and others? Not that it’s been a breeze. I still agonize over my word choices, second-guess my sentence structure and obsess over all the little critique comments I’ve received (…she sighed regretfully). But this rewriting/editing thing is actually moving along pretty well. Knock window, cross my fingers, jump over the crack in my desk – we’ll see what next week brings!

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings…”

After what has really been a lifetime of preparation, with a more intensely-focused period these past fifteen months, my time has come. Nothing quite as grandiose as Lewis Carroll’s “cabbages and kings,” but my time to create. I am ready to set aside all the books, all the studying, reading, researching and dissecting the words of others and immerse myself in a story of my own making. It’s time to write my thesis.

So many have asked recently, “What is your thesis about?” “How can you write that many words?” and the ultimate enthusiasm-damper: “Why?” In an effort to answer those questions, and many others often of my own making, I’ve decided to record my progress in this blog format. It will also serve as a journal of my work that will make my final evaluation of the process easier to write.

Because my graduate school program is in creative writing rather than, say, education or computer technology, I will not be producing a traditional thesis based on an in-depth study of the work of others with an occasional original thought thrown in to satisfy academia. Rather, I am writing a novel, literary mystery if one must apply a label. The initial rough draft was completed in 2005 during the masochistic National Novel Writing Month exercise. It’s been languishing at just over 50,000 words ever since. I resurrected the manuscript for last summer’s Antioch Writer’s Workshop and found, surprisingly (to me at least), that much of it is pretty good. A lot of it is pretty bad, too, but that is what I will be working on for the next six months.

The radical rewriting and editing will require all of the skills I have studied in-depth during the earlier quarters of this program. I have practiced writing dialogue and narrative, scenes and character sketches. I have read massive amounts of 20th century literature to compliment the two years I spent reading the Classics. And I have gleaned the rules of good fiction writing. More importantly, I have learned how and when to break those rules, as so many have before me, and I am eager to begin this next stage of my journey.

Yesterday, after a rough start, I began searching through my manuscript for character details and today I finished creating the spreadsheet which will serve as my roadmap. Every person is listed; the timeline is detailed; the settings are in order. This afternoon I pulled out all the comments from fellow AWW workshop participants (which I have deliberately avoided reading until this stage) and made notes, remembering the admonishment to take what works and leave the rest.

Tomorrow I begin writing. I’ll record my progress in these pages for those who are interested and as an assist to my overloaded memory banks. I may share a scene or two as the mood strikes. But above all, finally, I will write.

My time has come.

blasphemy laws

Has the Irish government gone too far?

Finally, it's over for another year...

What is it in human nature that pushes us to buy into the Hallmark card holidays? We invest an inordinate amount of time, effort, and usually far too much money into a single family gathering, thinking that one day of forced togetherness will somehow make up for the other 364 days of squabbling and emotional distance. It doesn’t, of course, even if we manage to get through the day itself with gritted teeth, pasted-on smiles, and carefully avoided conversational topics. Too many people crammed into a too-small living area do not make for a memorable occasion, at least for me. And I don’t know of anyone who can honestly say they do not heave a sigh of relief when the door closes on the last guests, or the car pulls out of the drive, headed for the peace and quiet of home.

I would so much rather see us spend quality time together more frequently, in much smaller groups, when we can actually hear one another talk about something other than the weather and the latest TV reality show. Letters may be passé, but email is a great way to stay in touch quickly and regularly – and I don’t mean the Fwd: Fwd: Fwd messages. Even grandparents have email these days, at least in our family. Phone calls work, too, and hey, guess what? The phone rings at both ends! A quiet meal, a cup of coffee (or tea!), a walk in the park – those are the moments of emotional connection and relationship-building that mean the most to me. I can do without the holiday hoopla with its unrealistic expectations and over-hyped anticipation of…something.

Lunch, anyone?

Now - it's all we have

So – I let my ego self get the best of me today. While waiting ever so patiently (NOT!) for the arrival of my first authored book, all the months and weeks this project has entailed (19 months, so far, since the contract was signed in April 2008) caught up with me and I had a meltdown right in the middle of the kitchen, crying on the floor over spilled puzzle pieces, not milk.

I’ve been doing pretty well with the waiting since the final proof was approved and returned to the publisher in August. They’ve been promising delivery by Christmas, and it’s getting awfully close. I received an email Thursday morning (12/17) saying the publisher’s copies had been received at their offices in Texas and to expect our delivery that same day or the next. It’s now 6 p.m. Saturday and nothing. WHERE’S MY DAMN BOOKS?!

Ok, sorry, thought the meltdown was over.

Rather than addressing the rising tension of the past few days and taking a little extra time in morning meditation to deal with it, I’ve been fiddling with mindless distractions. Baking has been one; yesterday, I cleaned the house top to bottom. Today…I was running out of things to occupy my hands and my mind, so I pulled out a jigsaw puzzle mystery thing that has been collecting dust for several years. After an hour or so sorting pieces and trying to connect all the edges to complete the frame, I realized I needed the kitchen table for dinner (duh!). I scrubbed the filthy card table which had collected two season’s worth of crud on the back porch, found a table cloth, and started moving pieces from one table to the other on the back of a poster board…and dropped a whole tray full. The dogs looked at me rather oddly when I plopped down on the floor in the midst of the scattered bits and cried, but they cuddled in and settled down to wait. Good puppies!

Geo showed up a few minutes later and, bless him, joined us on the floor until I collected myself. I realized then I’d been avoiding the whole issue and letting tensions build for the past two days. I’m better now – a glass of wine helps! – and I’ll wait, semi-patiently, for the arrival of the tangible evidence of my work. Until then, I need to occupy myself with more work, not with avoidance and escape into fantasies of what will happen when the books arrive. Today is what matters.

“Life can be found only in the present moment.” Thich Nhat Hanh

That’s the moment I need to be in. Wish me luck!

Practical traditions

Baking is taking up a good portion of my time these days as I enjoy a self-imposed sabbatical from academia before diving into my thesis in January. Bread baking is a regular event, but as the winter holidays approach, I dig out the recipes for sweets. We’ve jettisoned a good number of mindless (and in my opinion, pointless) traditions over the years, but the baked goods give rise to meaning of their own.

Topping that list is my great-aunt Zella’s Friendship Cookies, which are always greeted with raves when they appear on the buffet table. I don’t remember Aunt Zella much, really, but she – and her recipe – is a tangible connection to my grandfather, Chick Little. He was the primary male role model in my early childhood (Sorry, Dad, but it’s ok. We’re good now, and you know I love you!).

Grandma and Grandpa Little offered stability, grounding, and a sense of home that was difficult to grasp as my mother struggled to find her place in the world as a single mom. I don’t remember Grandma baking Aunt Zella’s cookies very often, but she had so many wonderful recipes (Banana Nut Bread – another holiday favorite!) of her own I’m sure she never felt the need to borrow from a sister-in-law. Their home was the center of my existence, even after Mom remarried and we moved twenty-five miles away. Grandma and Grandpa were always there for me.

The Friendship Cookie is a basic sugar cookie, but with a unique twist that makes them extra-special – kind of like Grandma and Grandpa. They were simple, down-to-earth people, not concerned with material goods or social status. Family was the reason for their hard work, from Grandpa’s forty-odd years at the gravel pit followed by another dozen at the township landfill, to Grandma’s gardening, canning, sewing, baking and general mothering of all the grandkids and our assorted friends. But by simple I do not mean unintelligent. While I’m pretty sure neither of them graduated high school (mid-1920s), they were wise in the ways that matter. They knew money was a tool, not an end; they taught us kids to treat others with respect, no matter their social standing or skin color; and they loved each other throughout nearly 53 years of marriage, right up until Grandpa died just five days shy of 85 years.

Baking several batches of Aunt Zella’s cookies every holiday season is a long process, but it gives me time to reflect on those years with Grandma and Grandpa, to converse with them mentally, and to remember the love they shared so willingly.

As traditions go, it’s one I plan to keep.

Early New Year’s resolution

I know it’s a few weeks until 2010, but I’m getting a head start on my self-improvement campaign. As anyone who follows my ramblings knows (and there are a few regular readers), I tend to lean heavily on socially and politically charged commentary, even though I try to remain objective and to avoid personal character attacks – unlike many of my fellow bloggers. However, only so much can be said about the issues which pass for importance in our world today. I remain convinced that my word and actions have little or no effect on the world at large. All my fussing does is raise my already-borderline-high blood pressure, to my own detriment.

So enough! The broken political system, the grievous inequalities in economic resources, the narrow-mindedness of much of organized religion and of dogmatic persons of whatever stripe, the inane celebrity-obsession which passes for real news – all these will have to muddle on without my input. No more adding to the overwhelming negativity swirling in the ether. I’ve said all I care to on these matters…for now. We’ll see how long my resolution remains resolute.

I’ve been reading a number of other blogs recently, while on hiatus from my academic pursuits at Antioch McGregor (watch out, January…I’ll be back!), and I’ve noticed that it is possible to comment on less incendiary topics and still write with relevance. Life in my own backyard, with my family, friends and personal interests, offers a wealth of topics. So here goes –

After years of baking, I find I am still somewhat surprised when the odd assortment of ingredients I throw into my huge stainless steel mixing bowl – yeast, oil, honey, oats, flour and salt – result in an edible and delicious (I’ve been told) loaf of bread. It is rare when a kneading session doesn’t find me fretting over the temperature of the yeast when proofed, on the consistency of the dough, on the relative humidity of the kitchen where I store the bowl as the dough rises. And yet the outcome is almost uniformly good. I can’t remember the last time I ruined a batch (jinx!) and I’ve been baking at least two loaves every-other-week for over a year now, and much more than that sporadically for the past thirty years.

Many people don’t understand when I tell them I refuse to use a machine. I love the process of baking bread by hand, from scratch. I even love that astonishment when the perfectly baked loaf is turned out onto the cooling rack after another successful attempt. It’s a feeling of satisfaction that I can’t fully explain. Control, maybe? The sense that I really can do something right, critical outside opinions to the contrary? I don’t know.

But stop by some morning and we’ll discuss it over a cup of Irish Breakfast tea and a slice of freshly baked bread.

My take on Deception

In a review of Ziyad Marar's book Deception which I wrote recently for the online Metapsychologyreview.com, I must confess I held back a bit. Deception on my part? No; prudence. It was my first effort for the website and I didn’t want to make it my last. I said nothing false. But I did stop short of opining on its theoretical basis to any great extent. I feel a book review should be just that – a thoughtful summary of the contents, not a personal polemic as to whether the reviewer agrees with the conclusions or would have stated things differently. I do not set out to rewrite others’ work. However, I made copious notes while I read Marar’s latest entry to Acumen's The Art of Living series and, as befits the career student I seem to have become, I feel the need to use those reflections to write a longer, more personal response.

The debates surrounding deception, honesty, lying, truth and Truth have long held a fascination for me. Since my high school philosophy teacher introduced the idea of absolute truth I have searched for that impossible nugget. My studies at Antioch McGregor offered the chance to immerse myself in the evolution of that concept, from Plato and Aristotle through Kant, Hegel, and my personal favorite, Emerson. I don’t claim to be any closer to an answer, to Truth, but I do have more of an awareness of the nuances of truth as it relates to the day-to-day life we call reality. The root of my argument with Marar’s work: his statement that “There is no undeceptive way to live” (148).

Marar opens Deception with a quote from Jerome Bruner which labels mankind Homo Credens, due to a supposedly innate desire to be found credible and to have pat answers to the often torturous questions of life. “We can delude ourselves with great ease, especially when the temptation to console ourselves is high” (17). He adds, “If I am to give you credit, I need to find you credible, while avoiding the risk of seeming credulous in giving credence to your discreditable account” (8). Marar offers studies which claim deception – of others and of our selves – is an evolutionary outcome necessary for survival. A desperate need for security can lead to delusional beliefs that could in many cases be called self-deception, but that route is by choice.

For all his heavily cited and documented text (I stopped counting at 49 references to philosophers, scientists, writers, etc., halfway through this compact 152-page effort), it seems Marar’s struggle is not with deception, but with duality and ambiguity. He stresses the difficulties human beings have in facing both, and it often seems he is speaking of himself. Marar lurches from “Truth-telling, for all its fragility, is valued by society as a whole, and is the foundation of trust” (66) to “Too much self-knowledge and realism are not healthy for good living” (141). He also surprises at times with comments such as: “A tolerance for ambiguity comes at a high price...Yet I believe it is worth the effort…Along the way, we arrive at a somewhat better understanding of what we want and have more hope of tackling our bad habits and compulsions” (61). He admits there is “much to gain” if we avoid the pitfalls of the deceptions which he continues to maintain are inevitable (132). But again, Marar switches tack and ends with a particularly chilling statement: “There are loyal lies and honest betrayals…We can see how the unavoidable fact of our deceptive natures can be used to inform a more subtle, complex but potentially more robust self-image” (151-2, emphasis added).

His ambiguity is showing! And I believe that’s a good thing. If you truly believe a delusion, no matter how false it may be, are you lying when share it with others or base future actions on its merits? From a purely legal standpoint, for culpability (guilt of the accusation of deception) there must be intent (a plan to deceive, self or others). For all Marar’s efforts to reduce fickle human behavior to deception, I think his error is in the definition, not the action. Immaturity, uncertainty and ultimately if we’re fortunate, growth and learning all lead to contradictory manifestations which he (erroneously, I believe) labels deception. “We are many people wanting many things and are forced to live one life in one body, and so struggle to explain the actions we regret but cannot resist” (47). Lack of self-discipline or motivation, certainly, or possibly unacknowledged or feared desires, but deception?

I agree that deception and hypocrisy can also be characteristics of human behavior, but I part ways with Marar at believing they take overwhelming prevalence. I found his book to be disheartening for its pessimism (and this from a confirmed pessimist!), disturbing in its sometimes callousness, and thought-provoking in its occasional flash of insight into human behavior. But for all that, I recommend Deception to anyone seeking truth, even though Marar insists, “We are not designed to seek the truth…but to create meaning.”

Recent studies showing an individual’s tendency to find pattern in chaos support that contention. I think we can do both – without deceiving ourselves.

For Whom the Bell Tolls…

I just heard some disturbing news – a neighbor of ours died of a heart attack several weeks ago. But his death wasn’t the disturbing part, at least not totally. I hardly knew him, probably never exchanged more than half-a-dozen words in the almost three years we lived across the street from his family in our tiny southwest Ohio town. There was no fuss at the house, no gathering of vehicles to mark an assembly of family mourning his passing. I learned of it fourth hand, from a student of my husband’s who used to live in our village. Even the neighbors we do occasionally chat with, however superficially, never mentioned it.

What is so disturbing is our increased isolation, of our loss of community. I remember when I was growing up in Toledo, a much bigger city than where I live now, and I busted out my front teeth falling on the pavement during a game of tag. The neighbor lady three houses down mopped up the blood with her dish towel and all but carried eight-year-old me home. I doubt if I knew her name, but she knew me and took care of me without hesitation. And again probably twenty-five years later, when my son rode his bike into the chain link fence at the end of our street, the entire block turned out in response to his cries, one neighbor corralling the other kids, another picking up the bike while this time I mopped up blood (what would we do without dishtowels?).

Would that happen today? I’m not so sure. We are so sheltered, so busy with our personal crises that we barely take time to learn our neighbors’ names, much less care for them when they need a hand. We’re paranoid, anxious, fearful of strangers – all fueled by non-stop media assaults blaring the horrors of the world into our homes 24/7. And I think we are all the poorer for the separation. It’s much easier to despise the “others,” to call the police on the neighbor’s barking dog rather than make a personal plea, when those faces we see every day don’t have names.

I’d like to offer my condolences to the family, but it’s a bit late now. And I don’t know their names.

Maybe that’s where I need to start…

Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong. ~ Richard Armour, American author and poet

When will the intelligent among us wake up and realize the archaic two-party system which runs our country is in a shambles? We can’t even have a civil debate on the issues anymore because as soon as an idea is labeled “Democrat” or “Republican,” half the political-minded population stops listening. This further enables the career politician since they no longer have to actually address the issues with an eye to making the world better for us all. In order to hold office, they are required to simply toe the party line, pay lip service to “change” and pocket the obscene amounts of cash flowing from lobbyists and big business, all seeking to secure their positions of power at the expense of the common good. And a vote for any of the potentially forward-thinking third-party candidates is, as we are regularly reminded by the Big Two, a throw-away vote for the “other” party. Someday, I would like to be able to vote for a candidate who actually has a decent chance of being elected, not against one, and not simply have to choose between the lesser of two evils.

I freely admit I broke down in 2008 and registered as a Democrat – my first party affiliation in more than a dozen years, although I have voted in every election since high school. My turning-point issue was the war in Iraq and I (naively?) believed Obama when he promised to bring the troops home. Unfortunately, I didn’t read the fine print: those troops would then be sent to Afghanistan to further the misguided “war on terror” as we destroy yet another country and its culture.

The economy is in the tank, thanks in large part to Republican tax cuts for their big business cronies, but with more than a little help from the Democrat’s entitlement mandates that, while imposed with the best of intentions, have little basis in fiscal reality. Personal greed has become a virtue and all the hand-wringing over shrinking retirement accounts and Wall Street losses are laughable to those of us who can barely pay the rent and for whom retirement is a fairy tale.

Incessant union demands for ever-higher wages and benefits, never mind the shrinking industrial base, have urged along the collapse of many a business, not just the stuck-in-the-fifties automakers. Too many lax workers are propped up by union protections that encourage their entitlement mentality while corporate greed concentrates on shareholder return, not living wages or quality product that does not decimate the environment.

Healthcare reform, the debate du jour, will never be possible as long as the insurance industry and big pharmaceuticals continue to feed the coffers of both parties. Rumor and fear-mongering from both sides will see to that. But it looks good in the campaign to point out one’s support or opposition to any one of the latest alternative plans tossed into the mix. It shows a candidate cares…about whom is never specified. And as I have noted in earlier posts, universal insurance does not equate to universal healthcare.

Public schools are floundering, trying to be all things to students whose parents have taught them they can do no wrong, and little else. Education – true learning of critical thinking skills, not just how to land a high-paying job – has taken a back seat to nutrition, basic healthcare, sexual mores, character building and college résumé padding as parents abdicate more and more of their duties to a system they refuse to support financially.

Personal responsibility has become anathema as individuals look for someone outside themselves to blame for any inconvenience or harm, be it hair loss, high blood pressure or vanishing jobs. A society that measures its worth in the “stuff” it consumes is not long for this world, as the United States is just now learning, painfully. Self-discipline, moderation and compassion are as out-moded as the Model T.

In ancient Rome, emperors used community food give-aways and gladiator competitions to distract the populous from the corruption which plagued the government. Today, our “cakes and circuses” are the bombardment of celebrity “news,” the latest titillating political sex scandal, never-ending sports seasons by increasingly drug-enhanced teams, and what color the inane terror alert system has reached for today. Fear mongering is the modus operandi of both Republicans and Democrats; a people on edge, filled with ceaseless dread, are more easily swayed to follow someone, anyone, who can relieve such anxiety.

Of course these are all generalizations. There are good people, kind people, those who look to better community first rather than self, but I fear they are becoming fewer and more isolated. We don’t scream loudly enough to be heard above the raucous din which passes for public discourse. And where does that leave those of us who can see the chaos for what it is? Hopeless, in despair, ready to crawl into a cave and pull the boulder over the entrance…I’ve considered it, often, and if I could find a way to escape, I would.

I don’t have any answers. I wish I did.

Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber. ~Plato

GoodGuide | About GoodGuide and GoodGuide Ratings

GoodGuide | About GoodGuide and GoodGuide Ratings

Posted using ShareThis