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Bear with me...

A major league baseball is round and white, the outer covering comprising two identical slices of cowhide, held together with 108 stitches of waxed red thread. It's about 1/4 lb. in weight and about four inches in diameter.

It also has three labels stamped on it: the manufacturer's logo, the logo of Major League Baseball, and a facsimile signature of the commissioner.

It's a metaphor for life.

Many people will glance at something matching that rough description and conclude in a moment that they're looking at a baseball. It could be a ball designed for another league, or it could be a soft and squishy ball meant for safe play by the youngest of us, or it could be a slightly larger softball.

Some people will look at some of the elements making this a baseball and finally conclude by the preponderance of evidence that this is truly a baseball and not a squash. It's okay to be skeptical and gather more proof, at least in their minds. it's always good to ask questions because, you know, you never know until you know.

Some people will insist this is a hockey puck. They won't look at any of the evidence and side with others who maybe say that this is a hockey puck in a stealth white wrapper, and someone's trying to fool us all and there is no reason to believe otherwise.

Some people will key on a particular element such as the yarn stitches, and all they can think about is Grandma knitting mittens that kept their hands warm as children, and so they have a heart-felt (although somewhat disconnected) fondness for the baseball.

Although not saying so anywhere on it, the outer cover is cowhide, but some will insist on calling it horsehide, maybe well beyond the grave. The cowhide side will insist they're right, and the battle for the truth will immediately degrade to one-word exchanges: "Cowhide!" "Horsehide!" "Cowhide!" "Horsehide!"

Some will wonder why the commissioner has his name on the ball, when he's only some office guy overseeing the sport, and it's more important to get a player's signature on it, and a real one. The commissioner's name on it just isn't good enough, no matter how they acquired the ball. To them, it's just another baseball until a real ballpoint-ink signature is on it, whereupon the baseball is placed in a display stand and likely never again to be held in human fingers. A curse upon anyone daring to handle it as the commissioner intended.

Some have examined (or maybe even assembled) a baseball inside and out, so they have more thorough knowledge of the makeup and reasons for its makeup than virtually anyone else. They understand that it takes far too long and it's maybe far too boring to explain all to anyone except the rare curiosity-seeker who has the time and desire to acquire the fullest education on it. A baseball is complicated, but that's irrelevant to just about anyone interacting with one.

There is at least one trade secret involved with every baseball but I'm not telling what that is. Some with in-depth knowledge of  baseball prefer that the rabble be hoodwinked into knowing the baseball in a particular way. Perhaps they keep a business secret, or they feel extra-important because they know the real truth about the baseball and the world does not. Maybe this is a way they maintain a membership in a brotherhood or sisterhood, and that cannot be challenged. Rule number one: You do not talk about the baseball. You know rule number two.

Public opinion of elements of the baseball will shift, often inaccurately polled. How people vote on elements of the baseball (Horsehide? Cowhide?) will never be perfect in one way or another, and some will insist that their winning vote is final and those who didn't vote their way are losers. Winners feel good about the world and are smug and satisfied, and the losers deserve mocking and ridicule for being so ignorant. Those who feel they lost will write slogans on signs on sticks, convinced that these will convince others of "the truth"; those who feel they won will ignore the fact that they voted that baseballs can be inflated.

Every day of every year is baseball season, and though the public may feel that it's reserved for only a few key days, this goes on all the time always will.

As you go about your daily lives, outdoors and in public, have you noticed that there are rare few people handling a baseball, trusting what it is and how it may act, taking its existence at a simple level of face value, and playing ball with each other, regardless of others' impressions about the baseball? And the ones who are generally seen this way are the youth?

If you should somehow ever feel that you've ruminated on this deep philosophy as far as humanly possible and you see all the metaphorical points made here, contact me.

We'll discuss the detail that the average Major League Baseball only lasts six pitches before it's sullied or lost out of play. At which point, another identical one comes into play.

Or is it identical?

Not Knuckling Under

         One reason why I haven't written a book yet is because I'm not good enough to write a hilarious fusillade like this, which is the author's reply to a review. Note: There is much to learn about human interaction in this, so even if you don't get the humor, maybe you'll get the message behind it... 

        I'd like to rebut--point by point--your two-star review of my non-fiction how-to book, THE KNUCKLEBOOK.

        First, the title is my publisher's idea, not mine. He has extensive experience getting these things right, to the point where he sells many books that make money for himself as well as the authors. The checks I got from the sales of this book have me convinced he got this right. Oh, were you expecting a check for something, dear reader?

The subtitle--the words right under the title, the ones right there on the cover--tell you exactly what to expect inside. "This book will teach you all you need to know about the most frustrating yet entertaining pitch in baseball--how to throw it, how to hit it, how to catch it, how to coach it, how to umpire it, and how to watch it." You gave this two out of five stars, in part, because you didn't find any stories or bios of knuckleball pitchers. Well, according to everything right out front there, without cracking the cover open, you could assume that this is also not a story about a little girl and her fuzzy bunny in 18th century Antarctica. Therefore, maybe you should have given this only one star? I'm sorry it never occurred to me to deceive the reading public by writing a book that was not exactly what they'd expect from reading the cover.

You said that the information inside was "obvious." To you? I had to interview Hall Of Famers as well as many others to gather all this information, because none of them knew all of this. If this is obvious stuff to you, then why aren't you in the Hall Of Fame or coaching it? Maybe you know all this, but haven't put this into practice. Sounds like you must be God. If you are, I'd also like to apologize before you throw a lightning bolt at me. But I'd also like to call you out for not posting this under your real name. I wouldn't mind meeting you if you are God. (Give that idea some time, though; I'm not finished with my life on Earth.)

I get the impression by your attitude that you're taking this book as a bit of a personal affont. If I had any idea that you wanted me to write the book for you and you alone, I would not have done so. That would have sold only one copy, and that's not worth the effort. This book was written for many people, those who didn't know this stuff, who wanted to be entertained, who wanted different ideas and clues to how they can approach their knuckleball experiences in a better way. I've sold thousands of copies, and it still sells a decade after publication. The information inside holds up, and readers keep discovering it as useful and uplifting. Even if they're reading it for free at the library, my aim is still accomplished; I have information to pass on to those who'll appreciate it, and I'm doing just that.

        One thing I should have included, which I mention every time I talk about this book: If you take the information and either make the Hall Of Fame or blow out your arm, I'm taking neither blame nor credit. Like the pitchers who take this information out on the hill, you're on your own. No one else is taking blame or credit. That's the same thing with book reviewers, too. You might pitch a complete-game shutout, or you might get lit up and hit the shower right after the last note of the Star Spangled Banner. That didn't occur to you, did it? I guess you aren't God, after all.

My review of your review: One moon.

--Dave Clark, author

F!

I suspect I did something hideous in the womb to be born into a language as forlorn as English.

Before I go further, the title does not refer to "forlorn", or "further."

I'll get to that in a moment.

First, a peeve.

Is there one English word in common usage that refers to turning on a light?

Not that I know.

For "turning off", you can use the word for a fire, "douse", I suppose. Sounds awkward, though.

I realize that the U.S. had the happy opportunity to steal the King's English and make it better, and it has, in some respects, but not perfectly, as you can see.

That's bad enough.

What I feel is worse is the overuse of expletives.

I can't believe anyone is angered to the point where they'd use one about every third word.

What do they say when they're totally and completely torqued off? "Oh, crudsy?"

They have nothing left in their ammo belt.

And I'd like to see a better expression of the respect and dignity I know they have, if they'd elect to show it.

They may switch off, to other words beginning with other letters. Then again, probably not.

Settling for particular expletives seems to be the kind of habit I see when people put on comfortable old slippers, instead of severe language like this. Really? You'd wear the slippers but not say those things in front of your mother.

Furthermore, the word I reference is a vulgar term for what is the most beautiful experience two people can enjoy between them. I don't understand.

I've given myself migraines trying to get around this, avoid this, and never while needing Valium.

I rarely have the urge to even use the term H-E-double hockey sticks.

I'm not totally against that, or any other coarse word. If the occasion demands it and no other word will do, then feel free to launch it with the full power and effectiveness demanded.

Other than that, I wish people could do better. Really. I'd be proud of them, and they'd realize they really don't mean what they say, the message being ignored and missed through needless repetition.

I want to help. I want to make them better. I want to lead them by example. I want them to understand that communicating with the world at large may bring them rewards and more prosperity in their days by mastering their tongues. They could enter better circles of people.

But I don't think that'll happen. This is a fool's errand.

I don't think I'm better than they are for this, really.

I'm so lost, so confused, so saddened.

Oh crudsy.

The Star Wars Technical Flaw That Isn't

I'm not a huge fan of any of the star industries, which includes Trek and Wars and People magazine, but I check them out now and again just to try to find something the goggle-eyed fans have missed. Being an outsider, I might see things in a different way. I think I found something.

I think I have a doozy, and it has to do with Star Wars.

It's at least in the first movie, which somehow is subtitled Episode IV. (I have no answer for that.) (Neither have I seen any of the other movies, to see if this is also in one or more of them.)

Fans point out a technical flaw. They say that the flying fighters and space machines with engines can't make sound, because this is in the vacuum of space, where there can't be sound.

However, I have a wonderful answer to that, courtesy of a little tour I got with a pilot of an American air-breathing fighter plane. I extrapolated a concept I saw in the cockpit of an aircraft that is rightfully called a Warthog. I'm sure I could have seen this idea is in many others.

Anyway, flying in space is especially deadly, considering the amazing velocities at which things move. Even marble-size objects can have a five-figure closing speed and more, and can therefore destroy whatever they hit in a blink.

When one is flying fighter craft in the vacuum of space, one therefore needs as many sensory clues as possible to gain advantage in the fight and avoid damage.

Visible information through cockpit windows is a given. So is a variety of onboard sensors that transmit location of surrounding craft and objects to a screen or heads-up display.

One more thing, which is my answer to the so-called flaw: These craft are also equipped with surround-sound equipment to produce artificially-generated engine sounds from all quadrants. These sounds provide additional information to the pilot as to type and location and approach of potentially-threatening craft and objects. It's as if the pilot was outside of and free of the aircraft and could hear exactly what was around and what it all was doing.

Naturally, it's a skilled pilot who decides from moment to moment what sensory information is the most vital, be it directly-visual, display icons, warning lights, feedback from the controls, or artificial auditory clues.

The fact that theater viewing of this movie included 3D sound should have tipped off the audience that there are many ways to be environmentally aware, and the setting of space may not present every way that could prove useful. The technology outfitted in the craft would make up for that, giving every pilot every possible bit of vital information possible, in every way useful to a pilot's full compliment of physical senses.

Zoom! Roar! It's sound, but not from space. It's what it could be, if space transmitted sound.

Not a flaw.

Now can I be a Star Wars fan? 

Headlong To Wrong

We prefer a sound bite to accurate communication.

While I can't patent this discovery, I can explain it, with a note that fine writers understand this and take advantage of it.

We'd rather state something in a minimal count of syllables than to clearly and accurately convey the message. Its equally evil twin is our urge to get done, rather than call that spade exactly what it is.

You'll find the occasional exception, such as weathercasters using "significant" instead of "substantial". "Significant" signifies something; it's a symbol for something. "Substantial" means "an outrageous scary load".

An example of syllabic shorthand:"Birth control."

It doesn't control birth, but it has three syllables, and flies out of the mouth so you can go on to other words.

"Pregnancy control" is more accurate, not to mention five syllables. But that's still not accurate.

"Pregnancy prevention" is as accurate as English-speakers can state it. Six syllables.

Too much for ... all of us?

Have you ever heard anyone--even doctors--use that term?

I'm betting the lunch money that's a "no."

So are we open to change? Change is good. That's what is implied.

So a broken leg is change, right? So are you in favor of a broken leg?

I think you'd prefer "improvement", each and every time. Three syllables. Take a moment and ask for that, instead. You always seem to get some sort of change, for good or ill, but a shift is all you get, like a kiddie roller coaster. Go get that improvement. No one's asking for it, so there must be plenty left to grab for yourself.

I do understand that we're guilty of the inaccurate shorthand because we know it works and we may feel we have loads to say and little time to get it out.

My main point is that fine writers may recognize that a dive into a thesaurus for a better/cuter/sleeker/eggheaded substitute word may appeal, but they may also realize that a replacement that's accurate will prevent the reader from sliding by the term, forcing them to slow and allow a thought to get attention and sink in, rhythm be cursed. Calling a spade nothing but a spade sometimes does the job better than a swoopy poetic schuss. Look up the word, "schuss" (which you will) and it means, "ski downhill." A schuss is fun, but maybe the speaker doesn't want to put the listener on a fun ride.

The author may want uplift, not downhill travel.

This may improve your communication.

It'll at least tell the audience that you're thinking, and that may be the actual effect you're trying to bring across.

I'm no grammar nanny, so I won't encourage you to find your own examples and give it a try, but you may stumble onto others.

I just wanted to note that accuracy has a purpose, and you may appreciate that all the more in your daily interactions.

We Look, But Do Not See

Most everyone loves to take sides in discussions and arguments, and I discovered something about them that no one else has spotted.

People assume there is one side or another, and that's where everyone stands.

King Solomon may have discovered something revealing about that, however.

There may be another side, one that may grab the topic by the ears and shake it, if only everyone saw it.

I have an example.

The second amendment refers to "... the right to bear arms...".

Take a breath, and think about that last word. "Arms."

Many discussions have taken place over what our founders meant by word choices and phrases in our founding documents.

"Arms", however, by all measures, means exactly what it meant back then.

Not "firearms", specifically, but any arms.

In their days, it may have been scythes or knives or whips or clubs.

To the Frankenstein monster, it was pitchforks and torches,

Nowadays, this may be pepper spray, laser pointers or Louisville Sluggers.

All along, it could refer to chairs, or the requisite weapon in corny murder mysteries: fireplace pokers.

Prisoners could be armed with broken glass, or even a ballpoint pen. Or, shoelace.

I saw a fairly recent police report referring to the weapon in a battery case as being a "shod foot". A foot with a shoe on it. The shoe may have been a Nike, or a Birkenstock, or one of those Crocs things. Scary or not, painful or not, a foot with a shoe on it just became an "arm". If nothing else, a foot as an arm is ironic.

An unarmed person has no arms whatever, nothing that could or could not fire a projectile. Certainly there are no guns at a knife fight, but there sure are arms at one.

Let that concept percolate, if you will, and keep that thought at the handy when you hear reference to "arms" "unarmed" and armament.

Also note that many objects can be considered tools or harmless accessories or arms, depending on their use or potential threat of use.

Just to kick the wheels in high gear: Do you think our founders meant something far larger when they wrote of "the right to bear arms"? Was their concern above and beyond the mere possession of only firearms?

Mulling that concept, I'm personally finding it impossible to imagine anyone being against the Second Amendment, when regarding defense against violent aggression.

I'm also disturbed by what their reason was for including this as any amendment, never mind the second one. Was this necessary to state as the second-most important amendment? If so, what was going on so that they felt they had to do this?

Maybe it was the second one they addressed, or it was raised at that time by one of them and the rest failed to argue that it perhaps was less important than others to follow? Was there a conscious pecking order to the amendments?

The factual story behind why the Second Amendment is as it is may be lost to history.

Most telling, however, is the fact that so many discussions of the Second Amendment get heated and political and wobbling off-track because those on both sides of the fray always assume "firearms".

We may have a brand-new argument going. Perhaps this will trigger a larger discussion regarding personal safety, crime prevention and punishment, outside the bounds of what the Second Amendment states, and encompassing arms of all types, the firing kind or not.

Therefore, those involved in the discussion may find more common ground and agreement, because now none of the argument can involve firearms as the sole subject of the Second Amendment.

The argument now will become: How can we all be safer and more secure and trust one another so we will all stay out of harm?

 

We Need To Dig Up Thomas Edison

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We need to dig up Thomas Edison. We have a job for him. Looks like he's the only one who can do it.

Cutting to the chase: He did not invent the light bulb. He improved on it. Flip the switch, bulb is on and doing the job. Flip the switch off, done. Off/on/off/on/off/on/off.

The bulb is working, the moment we power it up, and it's rested and ready the moment we power it down.

Cars do this stuff, too.

But it's really too bad that we put up with sluggish performance with our high-falutin' productivity toys like desktop computers and laptops and tablets and phones.

I'll prove to you what a sheep you are.

I already know you have a computer or tablet or phone on (so you can read this). Go get another device, one that's powered down.

Ready? Turn it on.

Now, we're going to have a little discussion about all the performance problems you'd think we'd scream about and bully the manufacturers into fixing. But we don't, because we are growing wool.

Have a phone that rotates the screen or pauses it or reconfigures it just because you set the phone down or rotated the thing? For heaven's sake, WHY?  Lightbulbs work in all configurations, the same exact way, in case you're unfamiliar with a flashlight.

Is the toy now powered up and ready to use, yet?

Didn't think so.

I'm typing this on a Chromebook, one of the few outliers in the toy department. Power on, work. Power off, all done.

I like "done". "Done" is the best part.

Done getting ready. Done working for me.

Notice I'm not a Luddite, but until a few so-called world-class big manufacturers stop making prank hardware for sheep who don't care, I won't purchase their products, and I'd really like to buy a riotous assortment of them. Most look potentially fun.

Okay, bazillions of people will buy them anyway.

Well, this is the electronic version of "The Emperor's New Clothes".

Ominous sound goes here:

(Click.)

The Dish On The Super Bowl, And Other Sporting Activities

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Anyone care to tell me what this crap-o-matic thing is in the middle of my text panel, and why some do-good meat-wad decided I have to have it? Why do people do this without leaving some info, such as, "My name is Homer Guelph, and I'm a 4th level tech with Google, and I thought you'd have some some kind of paroxysm of thrill if I just stuck this on your blog by surprise, and you can't possibly get rid of it. Aren't I just the most very special person on this planet since the unicorn?" No, you aren't. Google, quit deciding for me what I want and what I don't want for "improvements". Frankly, what I want--and I intend to get--is for Google to take a flying bite, dry up and blow away, and plunge into a catastrophic and unrecoverable business cycle, with corporate headquarters relocating to an unflushed toilet. 

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A Writer's Magic Word

I'm going to reveal it here, but it needs a moment of setup, so please bear with me.

George Plimpton once played with the New York Philharmonic; another of his many don't-try-this-at-home first-person insider activities.

He rehearsed with a triangle. Leonard Bernstein asked him to tap it. Again. Again. Then Bernstein said that each one of those was different, and asked Plimpton, "Which one did you mean?" He continued with, "Practice, practice, practice."

A triangle. You can mess it up? Apparently so.

Imagine a writer's dilemma, filling a page or screen with words, seemingly like a stream of... triangles?

What's a writer to do?

Fortunately, we have a magic word, to substitute for a musical instrument, but understanding it and practicing it is the writer's version of Bernstein's goal: Which one do we mean?

This is getting convoluted, so I'll get to the point.

The writer's magic word is "exposition".

What do we say? When do we say it? How do we say it? What do we mean?

Prose is music. Composed with the alphabet keyboard, not a musical instrument. The feel and style is exactly the same, however.

It's also been likened to a musical instrument similar to a triangle: a bell.

When do you ring the bell? How loud or soft? What tone do you mean to make? How often do you play it?

An entire work is like a composition of only bells. The writer constantly reveals information in an assortment of ways and amounts, ideally to say what they mean.

What may be more important with writing, however, is not so much the beauty and lilt of the prose, but the fact that, once you've rung the bell, you can't un-ring it.

One word, one twist of phrase, one hint, one shading delivered at the right time and with the right tone, can express a thought that will color and define everything that follows. The memory of that bell that has rung will continue, changing a viewpoint or impression of the rest of the piece, to the good or ill of the writer's intent. Mention a murderer's gun in the first line of a mystery and see how the story works from there.

It's also been likened to a country music star always wearing a cowboy hat onstage. That's so the message has rung, with clarity and purpose: This is not the New York Philharmonic you're listening to, son.

As for writing, you will ring that bell or wear that hat, and your exposition is--if played like a symphony musician--music to the reader's ears.

The Underlayer Twist

The deeper I get into Tess Gerritsen's The Silent Girl, the more I'm convinced of her brilliance.

I call an element of this mystery and underlayer twist. There may be another name for this, but I don't know it. Just as a note, I've already tried to incorporate this into a manuscript I'm peddling to agents, a commercial mystery called OTHERS. So I'm alert to the element.

What this is, is an element of the story that, if the reader knows a reference or detail intimately, it may be a mistake... at first.

A stolen car is recovered, and the original owner's registration and insurance card is found in the glove box.

The problem is, in Massachusetts, the insurance company info is printed on the registration, so drivers don't have insurance cards like other states.

Mistake?

Ummm... no.

This car, though stolen out of Springfield, could be from another state.

And it could have started as a leased vehicle. They're notoriously returned with personal paperwork still in the glove box, and often sold to a new owner that way. I've seen it myself, often.

Now, this has me thinking. Really thinking. And, this may prove to be an utterly meaningless detail, later on.

Was this a possible mistake really meant to throw off a reader who knows something in-depth?

I'll give her that.

It's been done before.

And it's clever as all getout and never easy to incorporate.

And there's another one...

Every martial arts school I've been in was not quite like the one she introduces early on. I've found instructors to be terse, firm and even, and unfailingly cordial to outsiders.

I've yet to see an instructor show much more than respect--maybe some humor and openness--but not the kind of melodrama I'm reading. No fear, no nervousness. Confidence, which is a main by-product of all martial arts training.

She's got me thinking again... and it's maddening.

I can't finish this book fast enough.

Her style certainly does not seem to be canned, or conventional, or trite in any fashion, and it's because I know some crap.

I don't think I'm giving her too much credit, either. This plot is woven too well.

And one more interesting note: Perhaps this is a huge advantage of doing a book signing for readers who haven't read the book, yet.

Oh, the questions, the accusations, the protests...

The spoilers.

Amazing job, Tess.

It's A Bet

A famous rock band once released their new album free of any charge, then asked downloaders to pay what they thought it was worth.

The average donation turned out to be about what they would have normally charged, for an album that buyers would have normally taken a bet on, not having heard it in total and therefore knowing for sure if payment was worth it.

That's the point, right there.

Movies, music, food, all marketed as a bet.

Unlike socks on a store shelf or a birthday card, those are items that people use their hard-earned coin to bet on.

The bet is based on impressions, assumptions, prior experience, and opinions of trusted others. The assumption is that the product will be at least as claimed, maybe better, but worth at least the transaction price to the purchaser. You don't find out with lots of things if they're worth the money you paid up-front until you've pulled them on, started them up, swallowed them.

So it is with writing.

My column provokes the occasional question:  Ever consider writing a novel or play? That comes from two views: My columns are already popular (thank you very much; I'm obviously doing my job) and I show some talent that can spill over into other facets of the prose-generating business. (Thanks for that viewpoint, too.)

I write the column twice a week, and it's been around for a few years, so my track record is lengthy and popular enough so it's an excellent bet I'd find a willing agent for some other form, and a ready market.

Funny how this works. On the strength of those columns, an experienced agent and editor could estimate my sales prior to any actual ones, and plan accordingly. There might actually be an advance!

Still, they're promoting a bet, no matter how successful the author has been to then. A few top-shelf authors currently shoot YouTube videos like movie trailers, to pump up demand for their next book. I've seen some, and they're pretty cool. Hope they're financially worth it; video can cost a wad. Although some look like they were shot with an iPhone--near-perfect, close enough.

I can name a few big authors who have written novels that wouldn't have sold well if it weren't for the fact that they authored them. After safe bet after safe bet, there was a bit of a fail. Let's not get into Hollywood producers who shot a bomb or two. Or three. Trusted, normally-reliable producers.

I'm not good enough to know what kind of publicity needs to be in place, to drum up sales and buzz prior to shelving a new book. I don't know if writing this column is enough.

Furthermore, a relative is trying to round up an agent for his novel, and getting little interest, even though he already has a nonfiction book on the racks and has gone through the publishing/editing/book tour stuff already. Somehow, that kind of track record doesn't count for much, but my little old stream of blather dribbling out thrice a week for a couple of years has what it takes to go for a strong launch in a different area of publishing. I'm told.

I'm mixed up and my brain's throbbing.

Good thing I'm not a literary agent.

Making these bets between the urgent pleas of an author wanna-be and a ripped and buff publishing giant and depending on performance from both sides to put another meal on the table has to drive some to Monster.com for some just-in-case window-shopping.

Maybe all they need to keep smiling through the briers and gopher holes is the idea that they're avoiding a punch clock for yet another day.

I sure couldn't punch one.

Maybe that's why I'm doing what I'm doing, and why I'm accused of chronic cheerfulness.

Anything else is paralysis.

Hi, Kate!

Fear not, the with-it cutting-edge electronic communication methods.

Here's the easy secret to it:

You only need to know a couple of simple and easy things about each.

So long as you're genuinely communicating a message others want to receive, well, you just found a whole new and wonderful tool to stay in touch, get the word out, read antic banter from those you know (or want to), and attend the equivalent of an anytime-anywhere in-your-house no-pressure no-driving get-together that doesn't involve one more tuna casseroles.

I'm using this post just to show a blog fan I just ran into that I'm savvy and with-it and, with a touch of noblesse oblige, I use blogging to encourage, embrace, and lift up others.

Always happy to.

--K.H.

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.

Book 'Em, Jud

I was asked a semi-strange question in an email: Do I know any literary agents who handle commercial novels?

The guy was obviously fishing, assuming that since I'm a columnist for a periodical, I'd have contacts in other areas.

Sorry, reader, but no.

My editor, King Seneca, has kicked around the idea of a collection of my columns, but I don't know how it would sell when all my columns are passed around the internet like some bizarre peace pipes, and are readily fetchable on the Ticker's archive page.

The reader went on to ask me if I had any knowledge of a Jud Laghi, who's an agent out of New York. Definitely a fishing expedition, and not a productive approach for someone who is otherwise apparently savvy about the novel writing/submission/promotions process. And I read the first chapter, which sounds interesting--such as it is--but I don't read novels, so even if he went totally over the gunwale and asked me to be a beta reader, I don't think I could offer any worthy opinion, or additional aid and comfort.

Sure, I could likely blue-pencil it to confetti, as I'm proud of my ability to sniff out the naughty punctuation, spelling, and grammar gremlins. But I get the feeling he's written a drop-dead killer story, judging by the brief synopsis he also volunteered. I'm nervous about this, afraid I'll somehow wind up with more of the manuscript, and I may like it, and I may inadvertently plagiarize sections, or fall headlong in love with it and wind up killing columns with gushy babble. I may fall prey to the noise of the bestseller list and actually read it once it hits paperback, but my effort at the moment does not involve a prediction. It involves taking care of my own prose, and I have quite the load of that to dredge through.

Not because my editor warned me, or it's a facet of journalism I learned in school, or I have a legal beagle barking at freely-offered best-sellers-to-be accompanied by a faint-yet-detectable fishy aroma, I've got to request my readers to please not send me any of their own material. I'm not a valuable galley reader. I couldn't provide a snappy jacket blurb unless there's a blurb store in the neighborhood, and one that takes Visa. You'll have to hunt down your own literary agent elsewhere, on your own.

As you see, I didn't offer any cohesive reasons for deleting the email. Maybe the request struck me as just too weird to address with any lucid effort. I'm sorry, Mister Whoever-You-Are.

I'm rarely downbeat or setting up walls betwixt me and my readership, and I suffer the worst of fools far too gladly (as you well know by now), but I think I may have an excuse for my behavior, this time.

I had a disturbing last evening, you see.

It was a dark and stormy night.