In truth, each person tends to accomplish the things that are most important to that person. I know that sometimes in the past I wasn’t even conscious of what was really important to me. I was more conscious of what I thought was expected of me, or what everyone else seemed to consider important. I wanted everything for the people I loved, forgetting that what everyone really wants is . . . love. I felt guilty about what I didn’t do, or sometimes even resentful about what someone else didn’t do to help. But the important things got done just the same. Why can’t we be content with that and spend the rest of the time enjoying each other’s presence, or our memories of those who can’t be with us?

Sometimes it’s better to focus on what does get done and simply be happy with that, especially around the holidays, which seem to overwhelm all of us with expectations of perfection — whether out of a need to recapture our childhood and a feeling of being taken care of, or to recapture our childrens’ childhoods, or for some to capture a childhood they didn’t get but have always wanted.

I have wished many times that I could get everything right, for even one day of the year, but I don’t. I never have, no matter how hard I worked at it, no matter how frantic I got or how I urged others to take part in my visions of the perfect whatever — and I can be as much of a control freak as the next person. Expectations of perfection tend to leave us unsatisfied and always wishing we could do better. And yet our expectations seem to increase each year, working us into a kind of frenzy.

My new goal is to be happy with imperfection, for this season and all future ones, in fact all year. I want to look at what I accomplish and say, “This is enough. I did my best for now, and I am enough.” If I can achieve a day of joy with myself and those around me, maybe that’s the best I should wish for, regardless of whether the table is perfect, or the turkey perfect — or, in our case this year, the chicken. I can be joyful, whether everyone gets exactly the gift they want, or a card on time, and even regardless of whether I get to be with the people I want. I have lots of memories with my loved ones, and I cherish them this year as much as ever, right here in my heart, as always. They know I love them, and I know they love me. That really is the most important thing, isn’t it?

If this is supposed to be a time that we celebrate peace and love, then why do we get ourselves so wrapped up in these perfectionist delusions? Maybe it has to do with winding down the old year, and some pressure that builds from the notion that we needed to make this year better than any past year, or that we have to make next year even better, on and on until the years run out. This is madness, isn’t it? Where does it come from? It reminds me of working in a place where doing one’s work well and on time means future expectations are even greater, that the quality/production machinery gets cranked up, and pretty soon everyone’s running around like Lucy Ricardo and Ethyl Mertz trying to keep up with that crazy candy conveyor belt. Those are the kinds of jobs that kill people before they have a chance to retire and enjoy all they’ve earned — if there’s anything left.

My wish for everyone I know is that they’ll step off that track filled with holiday madness (or any other flavor of perfectionist madness) and simply enjoy a pleasant time with loved ones, basking in the lack of any need to be perfect. Laugh about the errors made attempting to get everything to the table on time, or the overdone food, or the dust on the mantle. The world only needs one Martha Stewart, really. She’s wonderful, but unique. Heaven help us if anyone ever decides to clone her. Or me, for that matter, with my trail of dustbunnies scattering behind me at the other end of the housekeeping spectrum. You ARE perfect, each of you, just the way you are. That’s why the rest of us seek to be with you all year long, or wish we were when we aren’t. You, just as you are, are the true gift we all cherish, right here in our hearts. My suggestion is to throw out the To Do List, and replace it with one that has only two goals on it:

• Have fun.
• Be happy with whatever you and your loved ones get.

Consider that failure is impossible. The one with the most gifts or the least doesn’t usually notice. If they’re aware of the world around them, they know they’re lucky to get any, and if they don’t know that, we’ll leave them to their innocence this once. Most guests don’t see the table setting, especially what’s missing from it. If the turkey takes too long to cook, you can eat the pie first. The dessert police won’t arrest you. They don’t work on holidays. Keep peanut butter and jelly or canned soup on hand in case the oven breaks (it happens).

I wish you fun, laughter, and contentment this year, creating or reliving memories that are special and uniquely yours, rather than magazine-like, cookie-cutter perfection where people are afraid to touch anything. May you be content in a life and in love well spent. Love to all of you and those close to you — just as you are.

We enjoy bird friends at greater distance these days. When I came across the linked story today, I decided I had to share. It’s a love story, just in time for that love-related holiday around the corner—if you’re reading this post while it’s fresh. But why wait until a particular time of year to celebrate love?

Here for your enjoyment, straight from Australia, is a tale of love among cockatoos. Note the first time I read it I assumed the first page was all there was to it, and only saw the “next page” link on my second time through, so be aware, there’s more.

These are the kinds of connections that strike me after viewing movies a few times — or reading books more than once. Once I get to know a story, my focus changes and, if the depiction is sound, connections and inner workings start to reveal themselves. I see not only the primary theme, but layers of meaning, sometimes meaning no one ever intended. I like, so far, the fact that I know little about how movies are made. My lack of knowledge lets me keep the illusion alive even while I look deeper.

One of my favorite forms of interaction in movies is between humans and other animals. Horses in particular. This shouldn’t be surprising, considering the connection between horses and people throughout our shared history. But horses in movies seem significant to me because, in spite of the historical relationship, so few of us spend any time with horses today. Including me. I don’t know much about horses except that even though I’ve ridden them only three times in my life (and not very well), I love them, in real life as well as in movies and books. I ate up the Misty of Chincoteague series as a girl, and Airs Above the Ground started my idol worship of Mary Stewart’s books. When I first read The Lord of the Rings, as a teenager, I was almost as upset as Sam when Bill the pony had to be released before entering Moria. I’ve thought that if there is one tiny flaw in Peter Jackson’s movie verions of The Lord of the Rings trilogy it was that Shadowfax didn’t get more attention. He was bigger than life in the books. (But the movie version is so intense and rich that I can’t complain. I can only suggest that anyone who loves the story should also read the books.)

Maybe my fascination with horses is genetic. My mom grew up around horses. Her father traded them, and spent a lot of time at the racetrack. Her maternal grandfather, a Danish immigrant, was a rancher, and a few of her relations were cowboys, either the working kind or, more recently, the rodeo kind. My dad’s grandfather was a blacksmith. So yeah, horses must connect to my DNA somehow. Possibly to everyone’s, considering human history.

There is a special horse in the movie version of The Lord of the Rings, nonetheless. Each time I watch The Two Towers, I have to go back and play a particular scene over again. Perhaps you know it. Aragorn’s horse finds him washed up on a riverbank. The horse nudges him awake, and then kneels to help his injured rider mount. The relationship between horse and man hits me, there, every time. It’s just a movie, right? Well, a little research led me to the fact that Viggo Mortensen spent extra time with that horse during filming and even purchased the horse after finishing the movie. He went on to make his next movie, Hidalgo, with another horse named TJ, again spent lots of time getting close to the horse during filming, and again purchased the horse afterward. Old news for many fans, perhaps, but new and touching for me. I haven’t seen Hidalgo yet, but now I’ll have to.

My favorite movies are the ones with so much intricacy and detail that I can watch them over and over and see something new each time. I’m the same way with books, with poetry, with artwork of all kinds, including architecture. I like the appearance of simplicity, with complexity running deep within. I like infrastructure, lots of background and foundations we never see but sense are there. I like fine craftsmanship in all forms, and the drive to put one’s heart into one’s work. I’ve started to notice this chemistry in movies sometimes, a hint of how a cast and crew must have worked as a team, that remains as a very personal energy running through the finished product. I like to think that even what winds up on the cutting room floor has a part in that energy. That’s how the world is, after all, it’s full of interconnections and even interspecies cooperation, as well as competition, yet deceivingly simple on the surface — for all its obvious glory. The best fiction and the best artwork is, after all, a metaphor for life — at times even something beyond this life.

Which leads me to a final observation from those movies, one that led to an epiphany for me. It came to me the last time I watched The Return of the King. At the very end Frodo turns for a last glance at his friends, and his face transforms from a look of sorrow and grief to a combination of mischief, delight, anticipation, and near beatification — the same expression Galadriel wore when we last saw her a moment earlier. They remind me uncannily of accounts I’ve read of near-death experiences or of messages received from the other side by mediums. Earlier in the story Gandalf even spoke to Pippin about death, referring to it as a passage to a distant country, full of wonder and beauty.

This got me to thinking about why we love fiction, and Joseph Campbell’s perpetual examination of the power of myth.

Too often today fiction is criticized as a form of manipulation, and in many cases rightly so. We see the manipulation in advertising every day, even the most artistic of it. More and more product placement in TV, sensationalized — almost fictionalized — news rather than objective coverage, celebrity worship, so-called reality TV, politicians pumping themselves up or dragging others through the mud, and religious figures taking on exaggerated roles, promising to save us from hellfire of one flavor or another. Even in purer forms of fiction, in the quest to make money, publishers and writers pump out novels faster and faster, according to contracts and marketing ploys, seeking the next book that will be like the one that sold so well before. Stories seem to lose something in the process. They become pure entertainment and cleverly rather than artistically crafted, in a hurry, with little art remaining, little beneath the surface. A tree is cut down for something that remains on bookstore shelves for a couple of months and then is sold used for a penny at Amazon, or forgotten. The reader can begin to feel manipulated or addicted to the illusion and rapid consumption rather than edified by it.

In the midst of all this, why do we still love fiction? Why do we feel driven both to create and consume story? Is it a waste of time? Is it mere child’s play, the pastime of dreamers who need to get a grip on reality? Or is there something much deeper, an innate hunger or instinctive need at work?

If, as some philosophers surmise, and many near-death experiencers and mediums claim, this world is but an illusion, then is all fiction a metaphor for this great stage performance we call life? Plays within the play? Dreams within the dream? Is its purpose to teach us to see the difference between the smaller play and the bigger play, in order to prepare us to see beyond the greater play we act out in this life? (Which might mean Shakespeare’s Hamlet is holy scripture.) Is fiction a tool, an abstract ritual object we use to prepare us to see through that illusion and finally leave this world behind?

I wonder does that make directors, actors, publishers, and fiction writers the priests, handing out the keys to salvation in the form of story? Are theaters and libraries our true temples? Some of us would love to think so, I’m sure. What an ego pump that would be, for a few. What a power trip.

Or is the truth that each human saves himself, perhaps with the cooperation and companionship of his chosen cohorts? Does each of us take in each story and each experience and sift out those of his own choosing and discretion? Does each, in his own way, create his own story, and interpret it as he journeys through life, thus honing his ability to see past the illusion? Does each person make his own way to a deeper truth, progressing step by step toward the blazing dawn of enlightenment?

How does that come about? The best fiction, the best movies, draw us in so completely that if we let ourselves we can believe they’re real at the time we’re in the story. Is that the key to realizing how completely we can be drawn into an illusion, the key that helps us begin to see that it is possible this life, this world that seems so real and has such a hold on us, might possibly also be just a story, only an illusion? Does creating our own illusions show us how it’s done?

That’s my little epiphany, perhaps not meaningful to anyone but me. These things are personal. But I didn’t invent the possibility of the world as an illusion. Plato wrote about it in his Allegory of the Cave some 2,300 years ago, and it’s my understanding there are similar teachings in Hindu scriptures possibly more than 5,000 years old. It’s a thought probably older than that, painted on the walls of caves and leached into the earth from the ashes of ancient campfires, blown on the wind by their smoke, still inhaled each day by us. An ancient thought, as ancient perhaps as myth itself, and human self, which we explore today in the form of movies, plays, short stories and novels, through art, poetry, music — as well as through religion, history, and science. But it’s new for me to think from this perspective, and I don’t think I can ever see the fiction, fantasy, dreams, or creative endeavors I choose to partake in as a waste of time, from here on out. Not that I ever did. Some instinct in me drew me to them, and I answered. Perhaps all I’ve gained from my epiphany is an answer for those who would denigrate such as being a waste of time, of being a symptom of escaping reality or not being practical. It could be that carefully selecting my chosen forms of illusion is a way of taking greater control over my own life rather than escaping it. I can tell the “realists” who call me nothing but a dreamer to . . . watch a movie . . . read a story . . . write a poem. Get real by way of study of the dream within the dream.

Edited 12-21-2006. —BK

“I want to start a revolution of kindness.”

I still think kindness is important, though that particular revolution was started at other times by much more qualified people than I. The biggest reason I quit using it as my signature line was, I began to think people looked at those words and thought “bleeding heart liberal” or “easy mark” — or they saw it as just plain cheesy. I became self-conscious about it.

Why? Why do we think of kindness as uncool, naive, or unrealistic?

I sometimes think we’ve become victims of our own twisted ideas about social victimology. We assume that someone is out to get us unless we get them first, that few people mean us well, that if a stranger acts kind he must have some ulterior motive. We’re more and more cautious, even about answering the phone or watching an ad on TV. And whom to vote for? Oh my gosh. What do they want now? What are they really saying? Who’s going to smile first, and will they really mean it?

Maybe I spend too much time online, where anonymity seems to bring out the worst in people. Or I watch too many violent movies, or read too much news. What is the reality of kindness in our world today? Is the world in fact much more peaceful, live-and-let-live, and even kind than I perceive?

Money comes first these days, if not in the minds of individuals then at least in the goals of the boss, the media, the government, and seemingly everyone we do business with. Try talking to a car salesman about kindness, and his eyes will glaze over. To him, kindness is me buying a car from him. But there I go, with my own victimology, perceiving him as unkind because he’s doing his job. I assume that’s all he’s about. Ignoring kindness becomes a self-perpetuating circle, because when I ignore it in others, I deplete its value. I find myself doing this too often online, out in the world, and even sometimes at home.

Today I came across an interview with Sharon Salzberg on Beliefnet titled, Is It Uncool To Be Kind? in which she explored that question. Salzberg believes that kindness takes a “5th-class status” these days. But she sees kindness as a force, a kind of empowering personal skill with which each of us influences the world, and she insists that practicing kindness is the key to our happiness.

So what ever happened to kindness? Can you be kind and still be cool? Cynicism, fear, illness, injury, resentment, greed, anger, poverty, lack of trust, pain, grief, and far too many other negative experiences, which we all have in one form or another, undermine our ability to see through other people to their innate humanness, and their kindness. Those are heavy things to work through. Sometimes they seem impossible to overcome. They fog our view of the world and each other. But maybe that’s just because we haven’t practiced focusing on kindness recently, haven’t replenished our own kindness centers — by opening our hearts. I still believe most people have a wealth of kindness inside them, and I think that being kind is the simplest way to draw others’ kindness out. When engaged in skillfully, the practice of kindness becomes a continuous exchange that all parties always gain from. How amazing is that? Why is kindness so powerful? Because it’s compassion — unconditional love — and that is the most powerful force in the universe when allowed to flow. Held inside it sours, stagnates, and becomes a mere shadow of itself, an anxious need, a sick, wasting hunger. It’s the one form of wealth in the universe that’s impossible to overspend and deadly to hoard.

So, who’s going to smile or say something kind first? The best thing about kindness is, that doesn’t matter. Because as soon as one person expresses it, the other is more likely to.

Maybe a little kindness revolution now and then is a good thing. I know I could use more practice.

“Who?” you ask.

“Poetry,” I whisper.

Those of you who’ve read Shadows Fall have probably guessed that I’m a huge fan of William Wordsworth and Emily Brontë. I’m a poetry fan, all the way around. I love dead poets, old poets, young poets, and poets yet to be born. While writing that novel, I feared that I’d bore all the non-poetry fans with my unrelenting references to poems. I held back as best I could. For instance, I wanted to quote the entire body of Wordsworth’s “Daffodils,” and the entire portion I was then familiar with of Emily Brontë’s “The Prisoner.” Which reminds me, until recently I was only aware of five stanzas of that Brontë poem, beginning with:

“He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars:”

and ending with:

“When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again—
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.”

I’m not sure why, in my prior ignorance, I only read those five, when there are in fact many more. I’ll blame it on the printings I read, which must’ve been abridged. Those five stanzas comprise a complete poem in themselves, and they’re the ones I’m most at home with, so I hope the poet will forgive me taking my time to unearth and integrate the rest.

I’d quote all my favorite Wordsworth passages here, but that would take a book-length post, so I’ll leave it at my all-time favorite four lines:

“Hast thou seen with flash incessant
Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth and evanescent,
No one knows by what device?”

I don’t have my character Beth Gray’s gift of flawless memory, but I used to work at memorizing favorites, like a single stanza of Wordsworth’s “Intimations of Immortality,” and as a teenager I copied into a journal numerous Emily Dickenson and Sara Teasdale poems. I jotted down poetic song lyrics, too. John Denver’s “The Wings That Fly Us Home” and Don McClean’s “Winterwood” come to mind, as well as Cat Stevens’ “Oh Very Young.” Song lyrics tend to go best with the music they were intended for, but the combination is a kind of poetry, with the power to touch our depths or carry us away.

One happy discovery of the past few years has been my introduction to the poems of Mary Oliver. Her tribute titled, “The Buddha’s Last Instruction,” inspires a vision of a sunrise, as well as the impression of a soul so ignited. (It can be found in her book, House of Light.) Don’t take my word for it, and don’t be satisfied with the tidbits available online. Mary Oliver is a living poet, and I encourage everyone to support living poets by buying their work. I feel thirsty for poetry just contemplating the title of her collection, Thirst. I long to gather her entire works, including her poetry and essays, immerse myself in poetic expression, then join forces with the cosmic rendering of words into new forms: She’s also written two books on writing, A Poetry Handbook and Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse.

You might like her poetry as much as I do, or you might want to try the works of any number of other living poets, such as Maya Angelou, Margaret Atwood, John Ashbery, or Annie Dillard.

If all language had to be delivered as poetry, I’d be too silent (some people think I already am), because I’m so in awe of the great poets. I’d spend my attention listening to them, and never think what to say myself. But there’s no point in those of us who are less gifted remaining silent, when letting one’s words take wing requires practice. Think what a lovely world that would be — all poetry.

If I had to name a novel that is most like one of my pets, it would be to place my gray cat Emily in Jane Eyre—as Jane herself. We’re not sure of her history, but we know it was difficult, until she settled into an easy life here with her Mr. Rochester—our cat Merlin.

Merlin used to meet other cats, even those he turned out to like, with a lot of hissing and grumbling and suspicion. But he fell in love with Emily at first sight, eager to welcome her into the house. We weren’t so sure about this skinny cat with her gray hair all dirty, brittle, and falling out. (In her modest, dove gray governess dress?) She was timid (terrified) of Merlin and us, everyone in fact but the dog, who even as a puppy I hesitate to compare to Jane’s charge, with her hair in ringlets—even though Emily became his surrogate mother and he is somewhat spoiled in a charming, innocent sort of way.

With Merlin, though, it was as if he stood at the door, opened it wide, and beckoned her in, saying to us, “Isn’t she beautiful?” while we looked on in amazement. She always did have lovely eyes, I must admit, but—but—we feared she was out of his class. Merlin never fussed over her presence, and he shared everything he owned with her from the first day. Up until then, I was his favorite. I hope that doesn’t make me the mad woman hidden in the basement attic. Er—no, that’s too literal.

What novel has your pet lived?

***

To me being privileged means having more than one’s basic needs met, and there are degrees of privilege, and it is relative, and basically meaningless. I’m more privileged than some people I know, and less privileged than some I know. But all I can really say about that is what I see on the surface.

It’s tragic that so few people in the world have adequate food, water, sanitation, shelter, clothing, necessary transportation, education, rest, safety, security, and health care, even some people in the US. Those should be basic, subsistence level expectations, especially considering how far we’ve come technologically in this world. Unfortunately those advances seem to be reserved for the wealthiest people in the wealthiest countries, for those living under certain forms of government and economics. Basic civil and human rights should also be considered subsistence level—everyone should have them. Not everyone does, even in the most economically “privileged” countries. We can’t even agree on what civil and human rights people should have.

But I also think many people in the world have a skewed notion of what it is to live under what they consider privilege (i.e. better apparent economic or social conditions than theirs). It looks easier. In many ways it is. It’s no guarantee one will be happy.

Comfort exists on many levels. People in wealthier conditions still get sick (health care doesn’t guarantee health), suffer, die, lose loved ones, fall in and out of love, get abused, depressed, lonely, fearful, deal with pain (much of it hidden and not obvious to anyone else—some physical, some psychological or emotional). They experience disability, addiction, disasters, worries, or slip through the cracks of their society. Many so-called privileged people live very unhappy lives, or don’t only because they overcome adversity no one else would guess at. Just because some people have their basic subsistence levels met in ways that too many in the world don’t, doesn’t guarantee they won’t still lead difficult or even miserable lives. Conversely, among those who don’t even have what we consider the basics, you’ll find some fairly happy people.

A lot of this may have to do with choice, though much of it doesn’t, but let’s face it, being privileged doesn’t guarantee you’ll make the right choices—or that your family members will. Some of this also has to do with individual thresholds. Some of us handle certain types of stress more easily, some have chronic health issues, and some have an inability to think we have choices, even when we do.

So the idea of “privilege” doesn’t really tell you how much one will suffer or how happy one will be.

No one can know another’s pain. We can try, we can develop our empathy and compassion to a deeper level and care about others, try to walk in another’s shoes. But we don’t live the other’s life. To judge what another considers his or her suffering, abuse, or pain, is simply judgmental and likely unjust. Privilege is relative, and can exist right alongside extreme suffering.

So in many ways privilege as we think of it is pretty much meaningless. It seems to me that instead of nurturing a notion of being privileged or not (as if one should feel guilty for being what others consider privileged), it’s more important to nurture compassion, unconditional love, mutual concern. This isn’t to say there isn’t a grossly unbalanced distribution of wealth and power in this world. Obviously there is. It’s also clear that a wealthy person in a position of power is more likely to help his wealthy peers than those he doesn’t consider his equals. But we have to be careful of what we allow to separate us, of allowing ourselves an “us and them” mindset.

The idea of measuring privilege separates us.

The idea of all people belonging to the same human family with equal rights to the basics, and with equal capacity for suffering and happiness, connects us.

***

What does privilege mean to you?

And while we’re at it, Happy Independence Day!

Late in 1993, after a lot of discouraging experiences attempting to sell my fiction, I decided to “quit fiction writing for good” and I wrote nothing but personal journals and technical manuals for a year. I began writing fiction again early in 1995, but with a difference. I did it, as I’d begun as a girl, to please myself, primarily to complete a story I thought had to be written or it would drive me nuts. That story had been percolating inside me since I was seventeen. I surprised myself then by doing some of the best fiction writing I had in my life to that point. My decision at that point to please only myself with what I wrote carried me through a kind of barrier into a different way of looking at writing fiction.

There’s a point where the writer has to throw out all the advice, all other opinions, and write the story that’s inside her, the one that haunts her, that begs to be written. If she begins to do it only to earn money or fame, her enthusiasm may dampen. If she exposes her writing to the wrong kinds of criticism at the wrong time, her passion may be crushed, or she may write more to please others than herself—sometimes so many others that she feels pulled in all directions at once. I’ve done that in the past, and I found myself doing it again recently—writing to please too many others. Maybe from time to time I need to “give up” again, if only to get back on track with the writing I’m supposed to do.

Of course the writer needs to learn the basics, hone her skills. Then, after writing for self, she needs to be willing to let someone edit her work and be open to revisions. The two-minute rule mentioned in the blog Eric referred to makes sense, too. Something in any story needs to draw the reader’s interest in as soon as possible, unless the writer just wants to hide her novel in a drawer and bring it out to read on her own now and then.

But I think a writer needs to begin any work of fiction out of love, a personal hunger to write it. Something has to draw the writer in, make it worth the effort, and perhaps make it impossible not to write. It may very well break the writer’s heart. In fact, maybe a writer has to let a story break her heart a little to do it right. Maybe fiction is meant to break out of one’s heart, the way love does. I usually know I’ve gotten somewhere or succeeded at something in a manuscript, when I find it brings me to some deep, heartfelt emotion.

Writing for myself sounds selfish and not very businesslike, but I think my best writing happens when I do. I’ve learned the most about myself when writing this way, and it’s the most honest writing I’ve done.

Themes emerge in what we write, truths we’ve learned about life show up in our stories, and we sometimes come face to face with our own humanity when we realize what we’re capable of imagining, when we think about what we’d do in the situations we place our characters in. These are things that don’t show up in a story intentionally, but in unconscious, serendipitous ways, through the interlocking and intersecting of seemingly disparate elements. The best writing is in many ways a revelation to the writer as much as to the reader. If getting to that necessitates shutting out what others want from our fiction, it’s worth the effort.

I can’t tell anyone how to make money writing fiction. It’s possible no one can tell anyone how. Publishers seem as mystified as anyone as to what will pay off and what won’t. But I do know how to plumb my own heart while writing, how to answer the call of a story. That’s what has kept me doing this so long in spite of all my frustrations and failures. If all I wanted were to make money, I’d have quit—for real and for good—long ago. I don’t advise anyone to write fiction for money. I plan from now on to write fiction that draws me in a way I can’t ignore and can’t resist. Even so, I know it may break my heart. But anything worthwhile in life carries that risk.

All five people who were in the house got out okay, with only their clothes—or in my dad’s case his pajamas—on their backs.

Life is strange, how it plods along, and then—poof!—a puff of smoke and a pile of charcoal is all that’s left of everything you own, as if it was a cruel illusion—which I suppose it is. Physical things create an illusion of permanence in an impermanent life. Love is all that lasts.

I’m still in shock, and I wasn’t even there. It barely affects me except in my heart, because it happened to people I love in a house where I lived as a kid. A house in which I spent good times and bad with people I love. Some of my dad’s things (some once my mom’s), my niece and nephews’ things, and their mother’s things that can never be replaced are gone, and they’re all traumatized. I’m rambling because I really don’t know at this point what to feel or what to say. Blogging is futile and inconsequential, it helps no one, yet I feel compelled to write.

Life can be as fragile as a house built of tinder, filled with things that in the end are meaningless except for their connection to memories, to people we love. Sometimes love is the only glue that holds us together. Love and memories.

I’m grateful for the helpers, and for those they help.

I love you guys, and I’m so glad you’re alive.

–

Still rambling . . . the family is already on their way to recovery. Relaxing, letting the adrenaline seep out of their systems. The family dog is safe and has a place to sleep tonight. Dad will have to wait an incredibly long time for new teeth (his dentures were lost in the fire), but he has new keys to his van, thanks to my brother, something to wear, thanks to my sister, and is in good spirits.

The strangest thing is, just yesterday my husband and I read this website with avid interest, and just minutes before we heard about the fire we’d been talking about how an earth dome like that would be more resistant to damage from fire than a conventional wood frame house. Then my sister called with the news.

The problem with wood houses is they are fuel. Aside from the fact that they cost the lives of trees. I wonder why, in our world where we consider earthquake safety essential, we still consider it normal to live in tinderboxes.

I think my next house is going to be something like this.

Later I taught myself to type on an old Smith Corona typewriter my mother or her mother purchased when Mom was in her teens or early twenties. She was born in 1923, if that gives you a clue to its age. It’s one of those typewriters that could be used to trace a murder suspect because of the way it slightly superscripts certain characters. I used it while seated on the floor of my bedroom beside my bed. Sometimes the typewriter rested on the floor, sometimes on a little castoff maple end table.

When I was about eighteen my parents bought me an electric typewriter for Christmas, and when I opened it my mother recalled hearing me pound away on the old one to finish up a term paper a few evenings earlier. She had almost given me the new typewriter then. I used this typewriter on an old sideboard from a great aunt’s house that originally had extra leaves one could add to extend it into a spare dining table. The leaves had, by the time I used it as a desk, been converted into storage shelves under my parents’ breakfast bar.

I later bought my own more modern electric, with a little daisywheel that whirred back into position at each return, instead of the whole carriage moving. I used this typewriter on an old wooden desk my husband bought at a friend’s garage sale. This desk has a center section that lowers to hold a typewriter, which I thought was pretty snazzy. It reminded my father, the first time he saw it, of a desk he used when he was in the Army during WWII. The most frightening detail of this story is, we still own that desk–though not the daisywheel typewriter. We also still own the castoff maple end table. (Oh my God, do we need new furniture.)

I’ve never dreamed of building an office over the garage as a place for me to write (as the man did in Eric Mayer’s post). I’ve been too busy writing. I write where I can, sometimes in bed like Colette, though that doesn’t seem to help me write stories like hers. But then, she never had a laptop computer she could carry anywhere she wanted.

I still do some of my best creative writing on a yellow lined pad with a pencil—and a good eraser.

I also, like Eric, prefer those chunks of uninterrupted time. Even when I think I should have time, I’m interrupted or distracted by pets, by spouse, by my own ineptitude, by the Internet, and by the dryer buzzing, or by guilt and self-loathing over house or yard work left undone. It’s always something.

The writer simply writes through it all. But sometimes it is a real pain.