Post Time

I've been asked why I post so rarely.

Many reasons, all of them sensible, none having to do with a lack of enthusiasm for it.

First, I'm busy. Hitting the books, personal duties, personal responsibilities to others, and I pretty much say my peace in my thrice weekly column in the Ticker. That's my bread-and-butter, you know, and that's where the world goes to find me and go sniffing for yet another Ky's Prize. I love the idea of a paycheck, and I'm also strong on loyalty and gratitude that King Seneca had faith in a runny nosed little urchin who displayed some flair for prose. It all blends so well. Yeah, it's a marketing thing, but I hope nobody thinks ill of me for going with the river raft ride. It may look like it's a pure ride, but I'm paddling, and hard.

Second, I have a problem with the idea of throwing something out to the rabble, and allowing an edit of my thoughts and opinions through the comments area. Not that I feel uppity or anything. It's just that King Seneca gets to read the stuff over, and he opines. A few others get the shot, too. I don't believe in the lone inventor theory, when it comes to this kind of open creative process. I don't wholesale delete anything, either, just to flex. I get to structure my theme and thoughts in the Ticker in a way that I can't, here. This is an imperfect ramble.

Third, I have what others say are hot ideas by the bagful. I don't want to release them till they're ready to be cuddled by the world, and the blog form doesn't allow that. Sorry, but you'll get what you're fishing for in the well-stocked pond, not here.

Notice how that metaphor came off a bit strained?

I don't have time for that, and you're not looking for that.

Lightning is one thing, but to bottle it, well, there's an elixir to cure all ills.

Sorry, we're fresh out. Try the Ticker.

--K.H.

What's All This About Jelly?

I'm still knocked out by how my readers not only connect through the various channels such as Twitter and Facebook and this blog and my column and email, but how they casually flow from one to another, even though each has its own style and formula and function.

I'm turned to jelly, but not in the way you think.

One of my readers came up with a real curve, and I'm thrilled it was hit out of the park by my readers and followers.

I was asked to back away from my standard sterling prose and crisp editing with just a single word in the title of my last blog, one of those things that doesn't belong. I was to gather every email reply and Tweet and reply on here that mentioned that the one word seemed out of place, and the person I arranged this with was to donate $100 to a well-known children's charity for each one.

It was a more satisfying Christmas for a platoon of unfortunates, to the level of several thousand dollars.

Doing this again will take some discussion, but this first shot scored in a way no one guessed.

I asked my co-conspirator if this threatened a timely payment of the rent, or meant a meal of pb& j sandwiches, and it didn't. They were ready and willing and able, and called this the most fun and humility they ever expressed signing a check.

There's some talk that this little stunt may take root and sprout an oak, so we'll see. We prefer that the next... um... Easter Egg? be unexpected, so we may plot another angle for 2011.

May I thank my followers for participating in a wholly inadvertent way, and your aid and abetting brought forth some smiles of relief not expected and gratefully appreciated.

It was not just a merry sort of Christmas. It was one where Santa appeared when some were unprepared for his generosity.

And it was delivered to some who didn't have any sort of feel for what the magic of Christmas could mean. This crossed all the lines set up that bound the Christian holiday and all its traditions, at all levels of belief and celebration.

I don't know how to conclude this blog, maybe because that sort of thing has no conclusion.

Just thinking about the graceful good done also turns me to jelly.

--K.H.

Tizzy Season To Be Jelly

This chunk of the calendar promises crazy moments that buff out any ding or nick you may have.

(I was promised $50 if I could make some kind of uncommon obscure reference to Santa in the first line, and I went for the win.)

Anyway, here's a sampling of some of those recent moments...

Gram complains every year that she's never surprised. Maybe this is a geriatric thing, but we're not assuming that; we have a fun move in mind. Pipe tobacco. She has some of the Mammy Yokum look going, which gave us the idea. We won't surprise her with that observation; we don't want to be disowned.

A cousin quietly complained to me that her Mom lies to her about Santa and the Easter Bunny, among other characters. I told her that as long as she keeps talking about Santa as if he's real, she'll keep getting presents. Greed has its advantages, kid.

Here's the kind of shopping procrastination one can do in today's age: Last year, one relative sat on the couch surrounded by family and friends, tapping on his smart phone, emailing gift certificates from various online merchants to others in the room. Every minute or two, we'd hear a phone go off, then the owner would look at the text and smile and personally face-to-face thank him. Wonder what happens this year? There's no guessing.

A cousin bought a gram scale from a police auction. We dare not assume the previous purpose, but the plan for this year is creative: He's weighed every present he's handing out, and he made a chart, recording what gift he's giving to whom, by weight. As an untagged present is picked up from the tree, he'll weigh it, check the chart, and hand it to the rightful recipient. This is a perfect subplot for an episode of "Big Bang Theory". Who says reality can't match fantasy? Then again, they might use X-ray.

One relative wanted to celebrate Festivus and still maintain his green sensibilities, but he's pretty much given up on the idea, finding it impossible to locate an all-natural aluminum pole.

Due to widespread family, our Christmas runs late and long. Eight days of Hannukah? Try twelve days of Christmas, and for real. It starts by purchasing a tree the evening of December 24th, for a buck. And the savings beyond that... and the on-time shipping... try it; you may enjoy it.

I hereby break rank with my rule never to link to cute crud or anything of actual benefit and enjoyment by providing this:

http://media.wror.com/Podcasts/1935/WallyTiffanyStory.mp3

Make it a joyous Christmas and warm holiday season with friends and family. You do deserve it, you know.

--K.H.

The Only Tree In The Forest

My editor, King Seneca, suggests that I consider expanding my column as well as this blog into some form of cottage industry.

That concept amuses me.

Battalions of ideas march through my head, many of which aren't in the usual Facebook/Twitter categories. I could swing this.

I'm sure other coquettish maidens would enjoy the possibilities in a heart-shaped pillow like the one I mentioned Dix found charming, with the possibilities therein equally satisfying in real-life or imagination.

I had to have the ignition switch changed in the Tiger, and I kept the original. Maybe some fan would like to bid on the original keys on eBay?

He's suggested conferences, or seminars, or writer appearances, and perhaps discussing a page of my handwritten notes, then an auction of same for charity. A few with no direct profit could enhance it elsewhere, according to someone close to me who's bull-strong with Economics. Interesting idea, otherwise. Nobody knows what I look like, and this coming-out may prove productive.

There are so many more: My Cubs cap, my iRiver Clix music player (which I used to record many notes on-the-fly, over the years), and a Ky's Prize personally whipped up for an auction winner. Ky's Famous Decaf blend? A documentary on Istra Censi? (Why nobody's done that yet is beyond my comprehension.)

No, I didn't wander away from the topic.

J.D. Salinger was the lone tree in the forest. At once torn to shreds and applauded as a genius, he enhanced the buzz for his books by living out life in a small New Hampshire town, and living in... seclusion? No, in plain sight.

For all the secrecy and mystical ghost-like presence he had--sans telephoto images shot from the bushes--he spent far more than a few evenings openly enjoying local church suppers and other functions, known as Jerry.

Aren't there any real detectives left in this world? Oops, sorry, I guess it's just that those characters aren't graduating from j-school.

Without setting up a website and selling gew-gaws, pitching convertibles on TV, or opening his coat and whispering, "psst...buddy", he just went home and chilled with his homeys, and that was the exact right thing to sell a quarter-million copies of Catcher In The Rye annually, never mind his other books. And he was an author--of all critters--famous for writing a book, which is an oddball combination if one has celebrity painted upon them.

This was marketing genius, long before anything AS SEEN ON TV.

Billy Mays should have bowed down to him. As we do now.

--K.H.

Space For Sale, Space Sold

In hard-copy or online, that's what we do. That's what we all do and always have, in some shape or form. We have blank space for sale, and we sell it with a clever application of stick-on text and graphics. Furthermore, we power up a measure of that in most of our daily actions, in print or out of print.

You want to receive all you reach for in this world? I'm told to think marketing. I agree.

Check your ego the moment you awaken. I'm told that, too. And I'm seeing it work for me.

And there is more.

I'm obviously in the writing business, and I'm often not believing my good fortune when King eneca runs another pack of my blather, never asking me to submit something else, or suggesting that perhaps I've finally launched myself straight off the roof in a headfirst dive at the cement parking lot.

So it seems to be a bit of a neat trick to observe oneself unloading all trace of ego and attacking the latest and greatest opportunities to market oneself and one's wares. It's a type of stepping outside oneself and honestly and accurately judging one's work and knowing when it's got a shine and magnetism, and when it's crapola.

The first step is to recognize that, and to let the world know that one is ready and willing and able to charge full-tilt into the world of marketing savvy. (Did I say that right?)

According to a relative, this is hen's-tooth rare in the world of novel writing. Oh, that manuscript is my precious baby AND DON'T YOU TOUCH MY BABY! Or, "I recognize it's your baby, but I see so many freakin' baby pictures, I'm too toasted to tell which one is about to blossom into a best-seller." Well, maybe the literary world has to somehow have a structure that'll recognize the fire and drive in an author as well as his or her baby.

Maybe I shouldn't speak for my relative. I have a safe and secure job, and he's still scrambling to enter the world of book publishing, despite some track record and experience with a nonfiction work.

Gee, is the world of novel authoring as fictitious as the product? Maybe it's his place--and not mine--to decide to be that snarky. Or not.

--K.H.

Caught In The Inter Net

My editor, King Seneca, suggested I write a book, and thanks to the electronic planet we now live upon, we have a problem rarely voiced.

I'm guessing I checked in on a literary agent's blog and found some screwball formatting of text and images, and reported same. Considering how much I see and do on that internet thing, that is my best guess. I got an apology, and I'll accept it with grace, but I have no definitive idea why I received one.

In the age when visual text communication was all of the dead-tree style, there was the editor's cut-and-paste, and the dispersal of multiple copies of their handiwork, at once wide-reaching and limiting. Print eight thousand copies and you had around eight thousand readers. They digested your production, right down to all the whoopsies. Sure, a misprint caused chuckles and some ridicule, but only to those readers. Thanks to the internet, however, the entire world can see your screw-ups.

Then again, there's so much online, relatively few may see the results of your sweat equity, and it can be corrected literally in a flash.

What a colossal two-edged machete this Internutty thing is.

I suspect that the biggest and most widespread online entities hire folks whose entire goal is to minimize errors electronically cast out from pole to pole. Catchy appearance is always required, and so is not embarrassing oneself when one is implying crisp professionalism. And this stuff is far more complex than the cut-and-paste of eight pages daily.

You know what I think?

I think that, despite the grand and glorious opportunity for an eye-crossing hodge-podge where crisp layout belongs, there's also the broad opportunity for readers to give this stuff a pass, then go on. I like to think that the web-thing gives more readers more chances to show their grace and forgive and forget the gremlins too easily loosed upon them.

You think it's tough to bop out a daily rag on time and reliably ready for the corner hawkers? At least you're doing the same boring thing on a daily basis, so you're probably going to get relentlessly good at it. Just try a non-time-critical one-shot that doesn't present itself well to your intended audience because they're doing something freaky with their browser software, and you're using the simplest and most common and trouble-free gear, so you never see what the problem is.

Wow, did I ever get to babbling, there.

I need a really good editor.

--K.H.

Communicaging

Funny how technology at once connects the world and walls off individuals from universal contact.

I've done the standard wrestling with how to become all the more accessible, without spilling my personal entrails all over the internet and various data feeds.

I'll expand accessibility at this time with the following two services:

Email= kynelleharris (at) gmail.com

AIM= KynelleHarris

As soon as I can figure out the advantages and function (and overall usefulness to others) of internet electron corrals such as Facebook and Twitter, I may adopt one or both. I may later consider others.

Then again, if the above two prove awkward, silly, preposterous, dysfunctional, and who-knows-what-other-forms-of-twaddle-and-lowest-denominator, I'll abandon them like a match lit a moment too long.

UPDATE: I've been told that I should lock down my own name on other common email services so no one can pretend they're me. I can't picture anyone degrading themselves in such a way all over the internet, but I followed through and now have kynelleharris@hotmail.com and kynelleharris@yahoo.com. I won't answer emails through those addresses, just so you know.

--K.H.