The problem is

that living life and writing about life cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

So here are some little crumbs of things that have given me late and miniscule pause.

I find myself wondering if the occasional recession isn’t sort of like those major forest fires in Yellowstone?  Maybe you’re supposed to let them happen.  Clears out the underbrush.  Resets the values.  Catastrophic, but not unhealthy for the planet.  Just wondering.

I was watching musicians last night.  And you know, yeah-yeah, drummers play hands and their sticks and their peddles.  But really?  You can tell good drummers, because they really play with their faces.  If it isn’t in the face, you’re not going to feel it.

I guess that Bob guy on Survivor wasn’t Bill Nye after-all.  I’m really disappointed.

About seasonal greetings:  I love saying “Merry Christmas.”  I like it especially when the snow is coming down.  And when I say it to strangers.  I like saying it to strangers.  And I like saying “Happy Hanukkah,” too.  So, if I were going out to get the mail today, and I saw you out there, too, I’d say it.  “Merry Christmas!!!”  Sadly, I have no Jewish neighbor, so I don’t get to talk about Hanukkah much.  But if neither expression of good fellowship fits you, I’d have to say, “Happy Holy Days!!!”  because that’s what all these feasts and fetes are.  Unless I waited till New Year’s, which is more pagan or astrological than theological.  And if that last greeting didn’t fit you, pretty much all I got left is, “Hope you enjoyed the shopping!!”

So, here’s my basket.  Just reach in there and take the one you like best.

Last night, I read one of my stories at a concert.  Or kind of one of mine—I’m related to a little LDS gospel/country western band called Joshua Creek (I say little, but they have written songs covered by national artists and have more than a medium following around here), and a couple of years ago, they wrote a Christmas song called “Everything I Need.”  It’s the usual Christmas fare, a tiny redemption story involving a child and the ironies of the season.  And they asked me to write it up in story for them, hoping to sell the package to their publisher.  I don’t know what happened to that plan (the usual, I guess), but last night, at their Christmas gig, they wanted me to read it.

I had a funny little experience with that.  I’m not real forgiving where writing is concerned; I can take the usual sentimental story and not hate it, understanding that cliché is what it is because truths tend to repeat themselves.  But when the writing is ugly or awkward or without perspective, I have better things to do—which is why I don’t watch a lot of what goes across the Hallmark channel line-up.  The song is pretty good.  All their songs are sentimental but pretty good.  Some are really good.  This one, as I said, is not a surprise—but worth hearing.

So I sat down to write the story.  I knew the publisher wouldn’t like it; they like, as Twain once put it, “tears, glorious tears.”  And I don’t write that.  Believe me, I wish I could; tears sell.  So I did my thing with it, turning out something that was a little wry.  A little dry.  And then gave it to Q. and forgot about it. 

Until last night when, with twenty minutes left before we had to get to the gig, I sat down to read it through for timing.  I started to read it out loud – three and a half pages — watching the clock.  It was going a little long, a little heavy in the set up (heavy in terms of detail layers), so I began to read a little more briskly, skimming along the top of it.

And then the funny thing happened.  I got to the last third of the story, and I had to stop reading out loud.  I stopped in amazement, blinking at the clock.  Danged if I hadn’t gone and choked myself up.  I had to stop three times.  And the child hadn’t even died yet – no, just kidding.  Nobody dies in the darn thing.

 So it seems I can write tears after-all.