Editor’s Log: Writing is a Muscle–Exercise

People running in desert at dusk, side view

Exercise is hard work. Running, in particular, is tough to get started. I can find lots of reasons not to get ready until there is not enough time to do it. Yet when I do get dressed and step outside, and run…the feeling I have afterwards is one of appreciation. It feels good to have run a route. The energy gifted from the exercise helps me write.

Writing can be similar for many would be writers. Crafting essays and literature is a dream that many share, but few pursue on a regular basis. The major excuse is “not enough time”, but like exercise, we can find 20 minutes out of a day to write. Also, an added benefit is that one can write anywhere and at any time. There is no reasonable excuse not to write, unless one is not truly interested in writing.

Writing is a muscle that requires frequent exercise. For some, starting slow is okay, so long as the practice happens along a routine such as 20 minutes four times a week or 10 minutes daily. Start slow to be smooth, and smooth will become fast. Ignore the voice in your head that finds sudden interests in doing chores that you normally avoid.

The writer athletes at Deadwood Writers share posts based on regular exercise of word-smithing. Many would tell you that their start with writing was erratic. “Post monthly? Really.” These athletes, including myself,  at one time enjoyed watching and thinking, without actually pursuing. What you’ll find in the recent posts game-time displays of athleticism that writers do. The effort and study of words is a constant drive so that each month’s post is smoother than the previous one. The purity of writing, like exercise, is not winning accolades—the purity of writing is to become better at it during each run.

Hope you enjoy the efforts of our deadwood writers. May they inspire you to comment and continue your writing journey.

Not So Famous Leapers

LeapingFrogsA Leaper is someone born on February 29th. In the United States, 187,000 people have this distinction. Worldwide, it’s about four million. The odds of being born on February 29th are roughly one in 1,461. I say roughly even though 1,461 is not an approximation because three times every 400 years we suspend the practice when the centennial occurs on a date not evenly divisible by four. The years 2100, 2200 and 2300 will not have leap days but 2400 will. This is to account for the few radical leap minutes that sieve out of every orbit around the sun.

Not many famous people were born leapers. No Presidents or Kings or World Champions of any sort that I could find. This seems to be a birthday devoted to also-rans, supporting actors and bronze medalists. Cases in point:

  • Writer Stephen Curwick (Police Academy), born 1960
  • Actors and twins, Mark and Paul Easton (All Mine to Give), 1956
  • Writer Howard Nemerov (The Homecoming Game), 1920
  • Dinah Shore (American singer and actress), born one hundred years ago this month
  • Jimmy Dorsey (American saxophonist, composer, and bandleader), 1904
  • Writer Stephen Chalmers (Looking for Trouble, etc.), 1880
  • Pope Paul III, 1468

You could argue that Jimmy Dorsey and Dinah Shore grabbed the brass ring, but the rest were soon forgotten. Even the Pope looks like a typo at first glance.

You could say this day is cursed in some regards as it was on this day in 1692 that the first warrants were issued in the Salem witchcraft trials in Massachusetts. It was also on this day in 1504 that America’s first adopted Son, Christopher Columbus, used his knowledge of the lunar eclipse that was to occur on this day to convince Jamaican Native Chiefs to continue providing his men with provisions or else the gods would turn the moon blood-red. It worked, and it has got to go down as detente’s greatest magic trick since the Trojan Horse.

If that’s not scary enough, guys, consider yourselves lucky not to be living in Europe where some countries still consider this Bachelor’s Day. That’s the day the gals can propose to the gents. If the gent declines he must buy the gal a pretty dress, or twelve pairs of white gloves to hide her ring-less finger.

If you’ve ever wondered why it’s February that gets bequeathed, it’s not because it started life as the runt of the litter. No, you can thank Big Ego for the backhanded privilege, Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus’s specifically. He nicked two days from February to begin with and gave them to his own namesake month because Julius Caesar’s namesake had 31 days. Et tu, Augustus?

Responses to what you plan on doing with your extra day this month varied, but most writers said they would spend the day writing, or doing nothing different. The 29th falls on a Monday this year so a long weekend could be in the cards if you have some vacation time coming. If not, call in sick and do something different next weekend, something totally sporadic. Why not? What boss is going to dock you for taking a sick day that’s only symptomatic once every four years? Besides, February 29th should be groundhog day, not February 2nd. Make it the National Labor Lottery Day and if Punxsutawney Phil wakes up and sees his shadow on the 29th, we all go to work that leap day. If he doesn’t, we all take the day off. Hint: put the rodent in a den on the north slope and don’t let him sleep in.

In other news, I had a couple of good suggestions for what to include as a freebie for buying my book, Broken String, when it comes out. The bookmarker idea won because it is such a good fit and very cost effective. And, it can be sent out digitally. That won out over the book of matches, (ouch!) but it was close!

Read On!

-Phil

Freedom’s Daughters

Freedom’s Daughters

FreedomsDaughtersI read somewhere recently, if you want to really re-experience a past event in your life, listen to some music from that era. I know whenever I hear Happy Birthday Sweet 16 *, I’m immediately transported back in time to my sixteen-year-old self.

Recently I read a book that did the same thing. It took me back to the 1960s with all the dreams and hopes that I, and many others, had for the future. Freedom’s Daughters by Lynne Olson tells the stories of “the unsung heroines of the Civil Rights Movement from 1830 to 1970”.**

She talks about the fact that most people, when they think about slavery, the Civil War, Negro, Black or African-American people standing up for their rights, think of men. There’s Nat Turner, Frederick Douglas, Booker T. Washington, Martin Luther King, Julian Bond and Maynard Jackson to name just a few.

Very few books have been written about what women did, the risks they took, the boycotts they organized, the sit-ins they participated in and the many, many times they were beaten, arrested and sent to jail.

Freedom’s Daughters tells the stories of more than 60 of these women. There are the ones we all know about like Eleanor Roosevelt, Marian Anderson, Mary McLeod Bethune, Rosa Parks, Fannie Lou Hammer and Eleanor Holmes Norton. But how about Pauli Murray, who on April 22, 1944, organized and led a group of 50 Howard University students to sit in at Thompson’s Cafeteria in downtown Washington, D.C.?

 

Diane Nash

Pauli Murray

Diane Nash

Diane Nash

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you heard about Diane Nash, who as a student at Fisk University, in 1960, led a successful sit-in of the lunch counters in Nashville, Tennessee? She went on to become a leader of the Freedom Riders, co-founded SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) and helped organize the Selma Voting Rights Movement.

 

Penny Patch

Penny Patch

 

Lunch Counter Sit In

Lunch Counter Sit In

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Does the name Penny Patch ring a bell? As a white Swarthmore student, she sat in at a segregated Pennsylvania roller skating rink and at whites’ only restaurants on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. She was arrested, spent the weekends in jail and then returned to class on Monday mornings.

Freedom’s Daughters tells their stories as well as many others. The book jerks you back to the past and puts you in the moment so powerfully that it’s almost impossible to put it down before you’ve read the last sentence.

* Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen, music by Neil Sedaka, lyrics by Howard Greenfield, 1961

** Freedom’s Daughters by Lynne Olson, Copyright 2001, A Touchstone Book, Published by Simon & Shuster

 

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Are You the Trusting Sort?

Corner Bakery Café

Horsham, PA

Billy Joel had it right: it’s always been a matter of trust.

3:43pm

cellphone manA strange little coffee shop that is, or was once, a restaurant. This place serves the typical coffees and latte espresso drinks, but it also offers a choice of real food, not just the token pastries. I ordered my sandwich and soup at the counter like I’m at fast food restaurant, but the staff delivers it to your table or booth. This place has booths. They look comfy, red leather-ish, but I’m at a four-person table. There’re just a few other people in here, so I don’t feel guilty taking up the room. I see the employees bussing other tables, a strange mix of customer service.

The guy behind me is the only other business-y person here. I know he’s a “professional” because he’s been on his cell phone since he arrived. I’ve refilled my coffee twice; he hasn’t stood up yet. Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom?

“My wife can tell you better….”

He’s got a small briefcase at his side with a thick black leather day planner of sorts. He wears a blue button-down shirt. A bag of chips with his sandwich, not baby carrots. An iced drink not hot, and a tablet-type laptop he’s working on.

“I’m a relationship guy myself….” I overhear.

I can tell that.

 

3:56pm

He finally hangs up his phone and walks away, leaving all of his stuff on the chair. He’s not careless; he’s natural.

There’s an unwritten code of trust in coffee shops—don’t touch other peoples’ stuff. It never crosses my mind to do anything like that. I guess he feels the same way. It’s also echo-y empty in here now, safety in no numbers. Regardless of how many people are in a room, I, leave my computer and my bags open while I stand, stretch or go to the restroom. I recently started putting my laptop monitor to sleep when I step away. Not that I’m writing secret recipes of potato chips, but I feel protective of my writing these days.

Being casual with my stuff does not mean stupid. I always carry my purse and cell phone when I walk out of site. My purse holds the important things in my life: car keys, wallet, Office Guys, writing journal and lip balm. After that, everything else is replaceable. Losing my current writing drafts, my photos, and those expensive power supply plugs would suck–especially since I haven’t backed up my work in months–but I don’t need to pack up and carry all my stuff when I walk 10 feet away.

I learned the potential danger of having my purse out of site years ago while grocery shopping in New Jersey. I was digging through a pile of apples when this guy walks up behind me. “You shouldn’t leave your purse unattended in your shopping cart,” he said, startling me. “Anyone could walk off with it.” Like he could have, I thought. I thanked him for that advice and continued shopping with my purse on my shoulder. Because of that, I always carry my driver’s license and credit cards close to me. My laptop and pens are worth money, but they’re really only valuable to me.

Is it because laptops are so cheap these days?

No, there’s just this hands-off vibe, this respect for other patrons. Haven’t found it in any other stores, food places or restaurants. Just coffee shops.

Is it the clientele? Does the cost of drinking expensive coffee give you higher morals? Are people too wrapped up in themselves, like Cell Phone Guy behind me? Maybe we’re all too intense on working that few can’t be bothered with thievery?

Is it the neighborhoods which coffee shops live in that breed safety? Even in a questionable strip mall like this one, where the coffee shop is on an exposed corner next to a European wax salon and a chain Mexican restaurant, I feel secure.

Is it exclusivity? Remember, this coffee costs money. People like Mr. Cell Phone can afford it. Even me, a freelance writer, I splurge for the luxury of space to write.

Is it chain store vs. Shop Local mentality? I would never leave my valuables in some McFastfood joint, for example, but I’m not threatened in coffee shops whether it’s an independent store, a local chain or a big name chain. I have no paranoid delusions, no sense that somebody’s watching me. There’s just something about the atmosphere, the expectation.

From One Extreme to Another

“Kalamazoo to Timbuktu.” That song, recorded in the ‘50s by Mitch Miller, linked two locations together because of their individually unique names. Michiganders, like me, recognize the name of one city and wonder about the other. Where in the world is Timbuktu? Does it really exist? Or is it just part of an expression that we say when we’re exaggerating about a far-away place?

Those of us who think about Timbuktu envision a made-up land where no one lives; there are no roads, no public services, no bathrooms, no grocery stores or cushy conveniences for miles around. A place so remote, we relish the peace and quiet that we think we’ll find. We mention to friends of our upcoming travel plans by saying, “We’re goin’ to Timbuktu, in the middle of nowhere.”

But Timbuktu isn’t a popular destination for tourists. The city rests at the southern edge of the Sahara Desert in the country of Mali, and it has always been very hard to get to. Instead of planes, trains, and automobiles, think: boats, camels, and twenty hours in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Without the benefit of that last luxury, early seventeenth century explorers were lured to their deaths by the legendary “city of gold.” Most of those adventurers were massacred and others died as a result of the harsh desert environment—particularly, scorching sun and no access to fresh drinking water. Timbuktu was, and is, nothing less than a tumultuous place in West Africa.

Gold is still associated with Timbuktu. Along with cotton, it accounts for 80% of Mali’s earnings from exported goods. But possessing an abundance of one of the earth’s most valuable commodities has not protected the country from poverty. Mali is among the world’s twenty-five poorest countries.

Part of the poverty problem began seven hundred years ago when Timbuktu’s resident king, Mansa Musa, gave away tons—literally, tons—of painstakingly-mined gold during his journey to Mecca. He gave so much to the poor as he encountered them along his route that the precious metal quickly lost value and the costs of other goods escalated. Today’s descendant residents of Timbuktu are so mad over the king’s actions that they won’t even speak his name. They blame him for having carelessly ruined their economy.

Control of Timbuktu repeatedly toggles amongst various militant groups and the Malain government. In 2012, Peter Gwin reported for National Geographic News that “Islamists have enforced a Taliban-style interpretation of sharia.” The extremists destroyed tombs and stole ancient manuscripts. They also “broke down the sealed holy inner door of the 15th-century Sidi Yahya Mosque” which as Gwin further noted: “according to tradition, its opening would bring the end of the world.”

During the terrorists’ occupation, girls in Timbuktu couldn’t go to school and women had to wear burkas. According to Gwin, one father lost his twelve-year old son to the Islamist army. The young boy was tricked. He thought he would earn a bag of rice for his family by performing “manual labor at the Islamist base in the center of the city.” When the father found out that his child had inadvertently signed up for holy war, he tried to reason with the commander that his son was needed at home. In response the father was told, “You may have his body when he has fulfilled his duty to Allah.”

Tumultuous.

The U.S. Department of State names a number of the threatening operatives that are active in Mali. They include “al-Qaida in the Lands of Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), Ansar al-Dine, the Movement for Oneness and Jihad (MUJAO), and extremists tied to Al-Murabitun.”

Now there’s another group: Emirate of the Sahara. On January 16, 2016, they kidnapped a Christian surgeon and his wife from Burkina Faso—another of the world’s poorest countries. Dr. Ken Elliot and his wife, Jocelyn, moved there forty years ago to provide medical care to those in dire need. The kidnappers were suspected to be transferring the elderly couple, who are in their eighties, across the border and into Mali. Negotiations resulted in the release of Jocelyn on February 6, but little is publicly known about Dr Elliot’s current condition. Needless to say, he remains in great peril.

KellyDeadwood-2016-2Feb-StatueOfLiberty

This month, we Americans look at our history. February–Black History Month–is a time when we think about where we came from and where we are headed. Black or White, Christian, Muslim, or other, how blessed are we to be able to openly pray for an end to evil, violence, oppression, and hatred?