Celebrating a milestone!

Total views for this blog just passed 400! I know that may not seem like much to some, but I'm so excited, I've decided to share an excerpt from the very beginning: First book, Parte Uno, Chapter one, page one.
Enjoy. I'd love to hear comments.

O, that I had wings like a dove,

For then would I fly away and be at rest.

Lo, then would I wander far off and remain in the wilderness.

I would hasten my escape from the storm and the tempest.

Psalm 55:6, 7 & 8 (KJV)

Maggie just had to get some sleep. After all the air miles she'd logged on the job in the last two years, she thought she could sleep on any plane, anywhere, under any circumstances. But the last day and a half were a blur of stopovers, layovers and weather delays. And all this on top of a set of jangled nerves. This latest leg on the journey had been the worst. It wasn’t even a passenger plane, but a cargo plane. The pilot said his cargo often included wild animals, which he transported from the jungle to zoos or wildlife refuges. The plane was smelly and loud, the seats were hard, and the fee was excessive - and it was the only ride she could get this way for days. Maggie grabbed at it.

She’d gotten no sleep the previous night in Bogotá, and no sleep on the cargo plane, thanks to the pilot chattering non-stop in a Spanish she could hardly keep up with. So it was with dry, blood shot eyes that Maggie looked around at what was laughably called an airport on the map. The mid-morning sun illuminated a lone plane, a Cessna twin engine, on the concrete. There were a few little buildings dusted with dirt from the airstrip - the rickety little hangar, a few tiny outbuildings and the one against which the pilot, Hector Ramos, had stacked her things. The sign over the door read Oficina.

Upon entering, it took a moment for Maggie’s eyes to adjust to the building’s dim interior. Then the sight of the young man behind the desk made her hopeful. With sandy hair, fair complexion, and expensive sports shoes casually crossed atop the desk, he had the look of a fellow American about him. Maybe she’d found the person she’d been looking for right off the bat. Maybe this trip would go all right after all.

“Excuse me,” she said. He lifted his eyes from the magazine he was reading, but otherwise did not move. “Good morning,” Maggie continued. No answer. Apparently he was a local after all, though he didn’t look like a typical Colombian.

“Buenos dias,” she tried, but still there was no reaction from him. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she haltingly tried one of the local Indian languages she’d tried to learn. She got nothing but a confused look.

“¿Se habla ingles aqui?” she finally asked. Does anyone here speak English?

“Only me,” he answered in a low Texas drawl, but his face remained as impassive as before.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, exasperated.

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“Couldn’t you tell I’m an American?” she asked.

“Couldn’t you tell I am?”

Maggie started to answer, but held her tongue, reminding herself that she needed something from this man. She drew a shaky breath to calm her shot nerves. She would be pleasant if it killed her. “I’m looking for a Marc Hansen,” she said in a controlled voice.

“Never heard of him,” he answered.

Skeptical after their first exchange, Maggie didn't take this answer at face value. “Joe Hansen?” she tried. He only shook his head, shaking the trendiest of sunglasses perched atop his head. Maggie rummaged through her bag and produced a slip of paper. “How about Marc Johansen?” she asked, reading the note she'd scrawled there.

“Hey! That’s me!” Only now did he bother to take his feet off the grimy desk. His rickety swivel chair groaned as he turned to face her.

“You weren’t expecting me?” she asked. “You didn’t get the letter?”

“Mail’s a little slow out here,” he drawled.

The mail’s not the only thing, Maggie thought. Then when he finally bothered to really look at her, she saw a mild panic spread over his face. She didn't know why that should be, but she tried to explain. “Well, the letter’s not all that -”

“Esteban!” he shouted. Had she done something wrong? Was he cursing at her? “Esteban!” he repeated, jumping to his feet. The sound of shuffling feet came from the little room behind Marc, and it started to make sense - in a twisted sort of way. A lanky young man - Esteban, she supposed - now leaned against the back door frame. At the sound Marc asked over his shoulder, “I need to know,” he said, “Did I get a letter?”

***

God is in the Details

Punctuation may seem like one of those “small” things we're not supposed to sweat. I often hear would-be writers describe past English teachers as “comma Nazis” who beat down the creative impulses of their students. “Who cares if I put a dash or a semi-colon there?” these aspiring authors rant. “What difference does it make if the quotation mark goes after the period?”

I'm sure there are writing instructors out there who do ignore lyrical prose and discourage enthusiastic students, so intent are they on ferreting out stray semi-colons and exposing errant ellipses. But if we let them, these fuss-budgets can help us bring clarity to our writing.

Allow me an analogy. Let's say you invite friends to dinner because you're a fantastic cook with a vast repertoire of recipes. However, after they arrive you tell them if they want clean plates, they'll have to wash them themselves. Also, they'll be eating with plates on their laps because your table is towering with junk. After all, you're too busy creating a delicious meal to be bothered with details like clearing off the table or providing clean forks. No matter how good the food tastes, your guests' enjoyment of the event is seriously hindered because you didn't care enough to complete the experience.

Likewise, we puff ourselves up saying we're expressing important ideas, forming flowing phrases built on precisely right words. We can't be bothered with quotation marks and colons. But you've invited a reader into your world and your writing. Don't make them to guess what you mean or figure out what you intend. That takes them out of the experience.

Don't sweat the small stuff

A decade or so ago, I added the following to my collection of favorite quotes: 

“Any idiot can face a crisis, it is this day-to-day living that wears us out.” (Anton Chekhov)

I think of this quote often, because it's so true. A child goes missing, a car veers off the road and we hear,

“I barely looked away and suddenly he was gone.”

“I took my eyes off the road for just a second and the car was up a pole.”

How often do we hear of terrible fights breaking out between people who later say, “It was all over the silliest thing.” When the big stuff hits, some mysterious reserve within us kicks in to handle it, but the little things often make us the most emotional.

Case in point: Recently I had a heated argument with a co-worker about whether to type one space or two after a period. It's an argument I've had with others before, and a casual glance at this entry will tell you where I land on the subject. It's not as though it even matters, really, but it makes me crazy when I see it done in what I learned was the “old-fashioned way.”

I've got lots of specific thoughts on the virtues and pitfalls of punctuation, and will post them all in due time, but for today, I guess I just want to say, “Watch out for the little things.”

Oh, my long neglected blogspot!

I won't bore anyone by detailing all the reasons I haven't posted anything for so long. It comes down mostly to some minor health issues and being crazy busy with school, and both situations seem to be remedying themselves now.

The only thing I've written in months is the little essay below. The topic is timely for a couple of reasons. I created it for a student who needed a serious shot of confidence before delivering a major speech. Also, the spring flowers are starting to bud just now, including the variety I've detailed in the essay. Enjoy.

Autumn Joy

About 25 years ago, Robert Fulghum made a ton of money from his book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. As an avid gardener, I believe that all I need to know I learn in the garden. Here are some of the things I have learned:

• Your leaves and stems can withstand a lot damage if you have strong roots.
• Sometimes you have to cut a plant down to make it grow up.
• You can't force a plant to bloom before its time.

When I first got my own yard and flowerbeds, I tried hard to learn how to care for the plants, and I had moderate success. But there was one little plant that seemed to resist all my efforts.

 

It was one of the first to show buds in the spring, but then it just sort of sat there, no matter what I did. What I didn't understand at the time was that this plant was doing just what it's supposed to do.

The flower is called Autumn Joy. It makes its first appearance in March, then bides its time, masquerading as a humble little clump of green. Then finally in August, when most other flowers have died back, this thing shoots out the sturdiest of stems.

Because its stems and buds form a perfect inverted bowl shape, it never needs pruning. Along about September, its blossoms appear in beautiful purples and violets. With a snip of a few stems, it practically arranges itself in a vase.

Over the years I've found it will grow under in sun or shade, drought or flood, rising above whatever hardship it is exposed to. In fact, the only problem it has is that its stems and blossoms are so abundant that it sometimes collapses under their weight. When that happens the plant has to be divided and made into more plants.

After some time, my yard was covered in Autumn Joy. The only thing to do was share it. I've given away more of these plants than I've been able to keep. It's been a privilege to see this beauty spread far and wide.

I believe you are like this flower. It has taken a while, but those sturdy stems have branched out to support vivid blossoms. The only thing you have to do now is share that beauty with others around you.