50 Years of Earth Day – The Time is Ripe

Global pandemic or no, the 50^th anniversary of Earth Day has come and gone.

Sadly, I saw very little acknowledgement of this half-century-old tradition meant to celebrate our responsibility to the planet that sustains us.

I’ve long espoused the vibrant history and critical importance of what should definitely be an internationally observed holiday dedicated to environmental action and education; if you’re not familiar, you can revisit my homage here. But amidst all the hubbub over COVID-19, it scarcely got a nod from major news organizations.

Still, in the face of our global pandemic, there are kernels of environmental wisdom, discovery, and yes, even hope strewn amongst the world’s headlines today. If only we, as a species, could pick them up and make the most of the revelations that this threat to our society has laid bare before us.

Yes, you heard me right. Despite the lackluster coverage of Earth Day’s 50^th birthday in light of the pandemic’s rightful hysteria, if we look at the lessons and societal developments of the past two months with an environmental eye, there’s good news to be found and a promising opportunity…if we can make use of it.

Cricket’s Final Gift

And like that, she was gone.

Like everything else she did in her life, Cricket went all-in on cancer too. On Monday the oncologist estimated Cricket would have a few weeks, maybe a couple of months to live. She didn’t even make it 48 hours.

Go at it with gusto, that was her mantra for sure.

Action shots by John Kuehl

       

***

After receiving her diagnosis, the rest of our Monday was cherished.

The horrible day you’ve always known would come

My dog, Cricket, has paws that smell like nacho cheese Doritos.

Cricket in Jackson Hole, WY – 2015

No it’s not because I carelessly left an opened bag of them on the coffee table. Even if I had, she wouldn’t get into it; she’s far too obedient for that kind of curious tomfoolery.

Snugglin’ in up nort’ – 2007

No, her paws always smell that way, especially when she’s sleeping.

Every dog has a distinct smell in their paws. Much of the time it is undetectable to our tiny, elevated, inept noses; but when dogs are resting, often looking particularly snuggly and adorable, this odor accumulates in the area around them. When they readjust or stretch, it wafts upward toward our pitiful sniffers with enough concentration to draw us in. If you follow your stub-of-a-nose, you’ll find it emanates from their paw pads, or between them, rather.

On the northernmost tip of Wisconsin 2007

Because the dog is so typically in an extreme state of cuteness, I have since childhood referred to this delicious, endearing odor as “cute smell.” Though always similar, the intricacies of each dog’s odor is entirely their own. And for every dog I’ve ever loved, their scent imprints as an olfactory connection to happiness, comfort, peace, and unconditional love.

Cricket’s cute smell is almost exactly like nacho cheese Doritos. And it is divine.

Green River Lakes, WY – 2015

Having rescued her from abandonment (how someone could have abandoned her will forever befuddle me), I’ve had the honor of caring for and being loved by our exceptional dog for more than thirteen of her fourteen-plus years. She is a highly-intelligent, energetic, loyal, playful, faithful, eager-to-please, obedient, and loving—if quirky—companion of the highest order.

She is the best, most reliable, most forgiving friend I’ve ever had. I love her completely and unconditionally, and if not for the hemangiosarcoma we just discovered, she’d be in perfect health, something I had regularly celebrated until about two weeks ago.

It’s a horrible feeling, to see this creature who has my heart wrapped around her wagging tail outwardly being every bit herself

Earth Day Revisited – Protect our home

Since things aren’t exactly moving to where I’d like them to be, never hurts to revisit this post from a while back.

Celebrate Earth Day and step up to the challenge. Do something different today; something lasting, something that matters.

No matter what Elon Musk’s plans are, this is the only home we’ve got.

Happy Earth Day, all.

______________________________________________

(Updated from original post, 4/22/2012)

Today is the 48th anniversary of the creation of Earth Day, a remarkable movement founded in Madison, WI by then US Senator and former Governor, Gaylord Nelson.

Earth Day has one central purpose: to encourage people to consider humanity’s impact on the environment and act in ways that reduce the negative effects on all ecosystems and species.

It is a simple goal, but has far-reaching implications and can be summed up in their most-recognized slogan, “Think Globally. Act Locally.” It was Senator Nelson who coined this idea, insisting that local action and education be the central method of Earth Day rather than protests and sit-ins.

“Act Locally” does not just mean in counties or municipalities, it means in our homes and businesses, and most importantly, our lives. Sure it means big things like urging local, state, and federal governments to pass laws that protect our environment, but it also means smaller things like being realistic about what we need to consume,

Your example shines on

So I took a year off.

Not purposefully. I didn’t do it in protest over the cancellation of Good Girls Revolt or randomly say last March, “I’m going to refrain from blogging for one year.” It just sort of happened.

Not that there was a shortage of things to write about. I mean, the year was loaded!

Route 91 festival, Russiagate, hurricanes, wildfires, Trump BS, North Korean BS, NFL protests, a landmark corporate handout tax bill, and Stoneman Douglas.

We lost great contributors to our culture like Tom Petty, Chuck Berry, Chris Cornell, Walter Becker, Don Rickles, and Mary Tyler Moore.

There was plenty to write about, and it’s not that I didn’t have anything to say; I did. I just didn’t feel like saying any of it would have mattered. I’m coming to terms with the notion that my opinions on issues, art, culture, and society are largely irrelevant; regardless of what I think, the world keeps moving in a direction that appears almost incongruent with my beliefs. It seems the harder I push in one direction, the more forcible the opposing reaction.

Thankfully, the fate of all things does not rest on me or my beliefs and there is no force more powerful than an idea whose time has come.

The Revolt will no longer be televised

This post is dedicated to the finer gender, endowed with prudence, grace, beauty, and compassion.
May the world mirror your shining example.

Tonight I finished watching the first (and now only) season of Amazon Video’s Good Girls Revolt.

It has been an excellent viewing experience: captivating, fun, poignant, reminiscent, educational, and above all, feminist.

The period drama portrays varied and realistic (if dated) female characters cast against the backdrop of a weekly, national news magazine chronicling the tumultuous end of the sixties, the then-endless Vietnam War, and a historic push forward for the advancement of women. Over the course of 10 engaging episodes, these women struggle, grow, and eventually unite around a call for equal opportunity that, sadly, still rings true 47 years later.

I suppose, then, it is no surprise that Amazon cancelled the series.

La Fin, TA-DA! — Page count: 380

Yesterday, I hadn’t. But today…I have.

After nearly four years, lots of struggle, pain, heartache, and perseverance…

I just finished my first novel.

A draft anyway—but a damn solid one in my novice opinion. And with a full day to spare before my Christmas deadline.

Sure I’ve got some cleanup to go back and do, resulting from the plot-surgery I did over the summer. But I’ve got my list ready and none of it intimidates me.

I’ve wanted to know what this feels like for a long, long time. Sure, almost four years on this story alone, but it was a full 20 years ago that I truly dove in to my first novel (later abandoning it).

For the record (and for all you aspiring novelists out there), it feels really incredible. Inspiring. Liberating. Powerful.

Today, I am (technically) a novelist.

Can’t wait to start the next one.

Write on! And on, and on, and on…

The Home Stretch — Page count: 348

Back in November, as I was savoring the last mild temperatures of the year, I finally sat myself down and dug in to sort out the rest of my plot. Ever since I shook things up, I’ve just been treading water. Unable to write much further without plotting a course (pardon the pun), and uninspired every time I tried to think my way through to a new ending.

I got it all sorted out that day (at least enough for this first draft) and once again felt invigorated to finish this beast. I finally set myself a deadline, and let my two writing confidants know what it was.

I’m proud to say that

A somber harbinger

I’ll admit I know very little about the machinations within the House Democratic Caucus. I have no doubt the strings and chains of its internal workings are beyond my comprehension and it would likely disgust me to understand them.

That said, I’m really upset that Pelosi has retained the post of Minority Leader. Even more so that my congressman, a ranking member of the Progressive Caucus, supported her in her bid.

So I wrote him today.

Cent Mille — Page count: 327

Psssst…I broke a hundred thousand words today. By a lot.

It fritzed the “Word Count” window in the status bar on Word for Mac. It’s just an empty box now, which if ever there were an indicator that this draft is going to be too long, I guess that’s as good as any.

One hundred thousand. 100,000. 100k. Cent mille. 100 Grand. Mmmmmm…I should eat one of those tonight as a reward.

I know it’s just a number, like any other, a pointless milestone on this road to mastery or madness. But I can’t help feeling like I’ve gotten somewhere. Like this story of mine is actually becoming a novel.

It’s weird. I know it’s nothing, but somehow it’s something.

Anyway, just thought I throw that out there.

“Drowned Out”

In answer to Karen Rawson’s recent gauntlet throw-down, I managed to sneeze out this, my first attempt at flash fiction. So here’s the 98-word “Drowned Out” which I based on the photo below.

“Guess the party’s cancelled, huh?” he jeered.

“It’s nothing to smile about!” Kim snapped, hating him even more than the night before.

Her daughter’s 6^th birthday party washed away in minutes. Streamers, croquet, cookout, slip-n-slide—all gone before Sandy had even woken. Kim’s tears welled as sandbox toys swirled in a darkened eddy by the grill.

“I guess I’ll call the moms and let them know.”

“Ya think?” he assed while she pondered his funeral as a suitable birthday gift. “Whole day’s free now! What to do…”

Drop dead, she thought and thanked God she’d hidden the whiskey.

Plotting a revelation — Page count: 316

I quit my job after nearly 14 years with the company.

It was time. I wasn’t happy there, despite my best efforts. Fortunately, my lovely partner is in a position where we could afford to do so. So I broke one of the cardinal rules of novel-writing: Don’t quit your day job.

Things are much better. Been knocking things off the life list, doing some freelance work when I can find it and, thankfully, I’m writing again after sitting at the 3/4 mark for half a year. I’m told that’s normal; I don’t know how it can be. But I’m not going to dwell on it. Ever forward.

So I’m walking the dog the other day, after the most productive day of writing I’ve had in six months, and I’m pensive.

One of the things that has been bogging me down is knowing that my plot intentions seemed to be

Pitfalls and stumbling blocks — Page count: 308

I finally broke 300. And it’s been a hard-fought 30 pages.

The closer I get to the end, the further away it seems. Not in terms of actual pages or plot points, but in all the holes and unresolved, unrefined, unrealistic details that pop up and needle me as I keep trudging forward. Which is disconcerting since I’ve been following this outline for almost two years.

I push this awful beast ahead; it pushes back. I make it through a tough chapter; three revisions stem out of what I wrote to be implemented at a later date. I’m starting to lose details I wrote months, even years ago. I know I have something to say, I just don’t think I’m saying it and I don’t even trust myself right now to be able to judge.

Unlike earlier in the process, any long day of writing ends with more misgivings and inconsistencies than when it started. I don’t hear my story, hear my characters…I don’t even hear my voice anymore. And while I may be sluggishly plodding toward a finished draft, with each page I become even more confident that it’s a giant pile, that the story is complete garbage, and that no one, NO ONE is ever going to read it.

I want to quit.
I mean I really want to quit.
But if I don’t finish this monster, I’ll be damned.

“The best way out is always through,”
                                                                            -Robert Frost

“When I face the desolate impossibility of writing five hundred pages, a sick sense of failure falls on me, and I know I can never do it. Then gradually, I write one page and then another. One day’s work is all I can permit myself to contemplate.”
                                                                           – John Steinbeck

I hate that I want this.

Ebbs and flows — Page count: 279

No matter what our plans or best intentions, life somehow always has a knack for getting in the way.

It was a tough summer. A lot of stuff went wrong. A lot of sh-stuff got in the way. Life’s been handing me a lot of lemons lately, and I’m rather sick of drinking lemonade.

Nevertheless, I managed to make some good progress on the story and work my way through a number of difficult chapters that I’d been avoiding.

I’d be lying if I said that all of the life challenges this summer hadn’t influenced the story. Amazing how that happens. I always figured I’d dream up a story and write about it. I never realized how much the course of life, or love, or hopes and dreams would play into the crafting of said story.

Just as this blog is chronicling my process of writing this novel, so has the novel become a private chronicle of what transpired throughout the course of writing it.

No, it’s not becoming autobiographical. But there are enough reflections of the happenings of my life throughout the telling (at least in this draft) that I think it will almost serve as a sort of chronology for the time I spent writing it. Just to me, of course. I’ll be the only one who knows which bits were pulled from reality and which ones sprang from my mind.

I think I like knowing that.

My workflow has been sporadic. Some of my writing days were spent actually writing. Some were organizational, retracing the scenes of my outline and restructuring where necessary. Some days were just spent editing, when the words weren’t flowing but the story was still captivating. I’ve been told I shouldn’t do that. But hey, it’s better than ignoring the story completely and feeling like a failure at the end of a “writing” day where I didn’t write anything really.

This, however, I found most interesting. In the thick of the lifeload of crap that was being thrown my way this summer, where things had completely hurtled out of my control and I was cast adrift in a perfect storm of happenstance, misfortune, and bad timing, I found respite in an unlikely place.

At times, it seemed the only sense of control I could conjure up came from when I was writing.

It never really occurred to me how empowering the crafting of a story is. After all, it’s mine. Really, truly, wholly mine. I drive the story, I drive the dialog, I drive the action. MINE!

The next time things go south in my life, I’ve got to remember that. When I’m feeling out of control, I should spend more time at my keyboard: more time in control. Win-win.

When life hands you lemons, write.

If You’re Like Me, Then You Hate John Green or How to Quit the Deadly Comparison Game

Look out writers, Karen’s talkin’ truth again.

Source: If You’re Like Me, Then You Hate John Green or How to Quit the Deadly Comparison Game

The Cosby conundrum – Thoughts on fallen heroes

I heard my first Bill Cosby album when I was five.

Memorized my first Cosby routine when I was seven (it was the “Noah…Right!”).

Performed it before an audience of hundreds at age eight (I received Honorable Mention).

Once I heard those early stories of reckless go-cart racing and playing buck-buck in the projects of Philadelphia, I was hooked.

I credit much of my interest in performing and comedy to the childhood laughs that overwhelmed me as I sat in my bedroom listening to those 33rpm records on a tiny shoebox turntable with a mono speaker. I recited the routines in my head until they flowed out of me without thought or concentration, at-the-ready for a passing neighbor, my parents’ dinner guests, or a visit from extended family.

I have vivid memories of sitting in my PJs on Saturday mornings, cup of dry Froot Loops in hand, crunching away on sugary mouthfuls, just happy as a clam, while the infectious intro music of “Picture Pages” imprinted itself on my brain.

Picture Pages, Picture Pages, Time to get your Picture Pages.
Time to get your crayons and your pencils!
Picture Pages, Picture Pages, Open up your Picture Pages!
Time to watch Bill Cosby do a picture page with you!

To think of all those boyhood hours spent worshipping—glorifying, even—an alleged serial rapist now sickens me.

Breaking up the logjam — Page count: 237

Many writers whom I respect have said they “don’t believe in writer’s block,” and I, with a head full of great ideas that I never seem to have enough time for, have always been inclined to believe them.

They cite the inability to write as being indicative of another issue, such as disclarity of plot, an unexamined character need, a loss of love for your original idea, or perhaps the rising demon of self-doubt. And if the words weren’t flowing for me, I would pair it against this backdrop, search for the delaying speed bump, work through it, and inevitably agree that indeed, writer’s block does not exist.

Well, if whatever I just went through wasn’t writer’s block, I don’t know what is.

A sense of voice? — Page count: 224

“So it goes.”

It’s a simple phrase.

Three words. A catchphrase, of sorts. Almost insignificant. And yet it perfectly demonstrates the magnificence of Vonnegut’s exceptional “writer’s voice.”

I’m still forging ahead. I took a little time off around the holidays (couldn’t you tell?). And I reluctantly embraced some long-avoided but necessary technological advances—namely a smartphone and a new(er) computer— which brought with them some setbacks to my workflow and productivity. But I’m back.

Story is coming along. Cranked out a long avoided chapter today that wasn’t easy to write. Probably still need lots of work, but it’s written.

Generally speaking, characters are coming along nicely. They are developing in ways that I like and, in turn, they’re starting to carry the story. I’ve had several 5-10 page days and when I do, they happen sort of effortlessly. So I’ll count my blessings.

But then I start thinking about that pesky “voice.” As in, I’m afraid I don’t have one. Or that it’s inconsistent, or undefined. Or that it just plain sucks.

Ignoring conventional wisdom – Page count: 189

Writer’s conferences are a double-edged sword. On one hand, you expose yourself to other writers’ sagacity and experiences that you would not otherwise encounter, expanding your horizons and possibly giving you a fresh perspective.

On the other hand, you also open yourself up to the sob stories, tales of woe, and harsh realities of the writing and publishing industry, which can snatch the wind from your sails faster than a slaughtered albatross.

The conference at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop was of the first kind.

The one this past spring in Badgerland was of the latter.

So many of its speakers and attendees were quick to relay the “truths” and statistics that serve only to muddy the waters of creative process: the unlikelihood of finding an agent, the slim chances of getting published, the even slimmer chances of your first book selling well (and the likelihood it will be your last), and of course, the absolute impossibility of ever making a living writing fiction.

One of those painful tidbits is looming large these days.

Entr’acte – Page count: Somewhere in the middle

Forty.

40. 4-D. Two score. Four dimes. Over-the-hill. The mid-point. Intermission. Halftime. On the flip side. The start of Act II. The third quarter. Entering my fifth decade. Coasting downhill. Past my prime. The dawn of middle age. The beginning of the end.

Yes, it’s true. I recently passed the arbitrary milestone that carries with it enough gravitas and gloom to bring even the most spry and vigorous traveler to at least a brief period of introspection, if not melancholy.

Truthfully, becoming a quadragenarian did weigh on me some. Not so much for the age or the number itself (such trivialities as round numbers do not impress me), but rather in examination of my life and how, on the surface at least, I largely am right where I was a decade ago.

I entered my thirties living in the same house in the same city in the same job with the same company in which I find myself now. I had an unfinished novel at the time, and I still have one (albeit, a different one). And while I have much to show for that same decade—in knowledge, and love, and friendship, and maturity, and wisdom, and experience, and even writing—it is also a stone cold reminder how fleeting time can be and, when our daily schedules and surroundings remain unchanged, how quickly we can lose awareness of its passing.

In addition to that realization, it also was just over a year ago that, creatively charged after my trip to the Writer’s Workshop, I boldly purposed to have this novel drafted as a 40^th birthday present to myself.

Well, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…