A LIFE OF IRREVERENCE - A PRACTICAL JOKER - I CAN'T STAY SERIOUS FOR LONG
ABOVE IS A PHOTOGRAPH SON ROBERT SNAPPED, OF HIS CAT, "ZAPPA," NAMED AFTER HIS FAVORITE MUSICIAN, FRANK ZAPPA, HOLED-UP IN SUZANNE'S HOOSIER CUPBOARD. ROBERT THOUGHT IT WAS CUTE. SUZANNE WAS HORRIFIED, AND I WAS, WELL, SATISFIED BIRCH HOLLOW WAS SITUATION-NORMAL.....BECAUSE WITH OUR ADOPTED STRAYS, WE HAVE COME TO EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED.......LIKE LAST WEEK, "WEE UNCLE ANGUS," OUR BLACK CAT, JUMPING UP ON SUZANNE'S ARM, AS SHE WAS TRYING TO HAVE HER DINNER. AS OFTEN HAPPENS HERE, THERE IS AN INITIAL CALLING UPON A HIGHER POWER. "OH MY GOD," SHE SAID, RUNNING OFF TO THE BATHROOM WITH BLOOD DRIPPING DOWN HER ARM. A COUPLE OF MONTHS EARLIER, IT WAS ME DOING THE SAME THING, WHEN BEASLEY FELL OFF THE CHINA CUPBOARD ONTO MY HEAD, AND SLID DOWN WITH HER CLAWS, GOUGING FOUR OR FIVE LARGE FOREHEAD-TO -CHIN SCRATCHES. ONCE AGAIN, I CALLED UPON GOD, AND SUZANNE AND ROBERT KNEW TO FETCH THE FIRST AID KIT. WE LOVE THE LITTLE DEVILS, BUT THERE'S NO QUESTION AROUND HERE, WHO AND WHAT IS UPPER MANAGEMENT. THE LITTLE CRITTER POKING ITS HEAD OUT OF THE HOOSIER CUPBOARD, WAS JUST ON MY LAP A MINUTE AGO, KNEADING THE FLESH ON MY UPPER LEG, AND WITH A PAW ON THE KEYBOARD, DISCONNECTED THE INTERNET. WHILE WE ONLY HAVE FIVE CATS NOW, DOWN FROM SEVEN A YEAR AGO......SMOKEY AND FESTER DIEING OF RIPE OLD AGE, IT DOES SEEM AT TIMES, THAT THERE ARE AT LEAST TWICE THIS NUMBER. THEY ACT LIKE CHILDREN AT TIMES, AND WILD ANIMALS RIGHT OUT OF THE JUNGLE, ON OTHER OCCASIONS.
THE POINT FOR BRINGING THIS UP, IS THAT MY AUTHORDOM IS THUSLY INFLUENCED EVERY DAY THAT I LIVE AT BIRCH HOLLOW. IT IS A SANCTUARY FOR THESE WEE BEASTIES, AND THEY ARE SO ENTRENCHED IN OUR DAY TO DAY LIVES HERE, THAT ALMOST EVERYTHING WE DO, HAS SOME SORT OF CAT INFLUENCE. WE CAN'T GO OFF TO ALGONQUIN FOR EXTENDED PERIODS, BECAUSE THE CATS WOULD TEAR THE HOUSE APART......AS THEY GET LONELY FOR HUMANS TO MANIPULATE. SO WHEN I WRITE THIS BLOG, OR FEATURE COLUMNS FOR VARIOUS ONTARIO PUBLICATIONS, I'M NOT KIDDING ABOUT BEING INFLUENCED BY THESE CATS. I'M SURE YOU CAN APPRECIATE THE DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY WRITING AT A KEYBOARD, WITH A CAT, OR TWO, EITHER ON YOUR LAP OR AROUND YOUR NECK. EVEN WHEN I'M THOROUGHLY PISSED OFF ABOUT LOCAL POLITICS, WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH A STANDARD OPINION THESE DAYS, I'M ALWAYS A VICTIM OF THE PURRING CATS IN THE VICINITY, WHEN NOT KNEADING THE OLD FLESH. SO AS MAD AS I MIGHT GET, OVER ANY LOCAL ISSUE, AS LONG AS I'VE GOT THE COMPANY OF ONE OF FIVE FELINES, I'M LIKELY TO MODERATE MY STANCE, DUE TO THE REALITY, I JUST CAN'T STAY ANGRY IN THEIR PRESENCE. I MIGHT GET CROSS WITH THEM, WHEN THEY SCRATCH AT THE DOOR FRAME, OR KNOCK THINGS OFF SHELVES BECAUSE OF THEIR CURIOSITY, BUT THE CUDDLY LITTLE BUGGERS JUST QUELL THE SAVAGE BEAST WITHIN.......AND WHAT SHOULD BE SMOKING OUT INTO CYBERSPACE, LIKE A NASA ROCKET, TURNS OUT TO BE A FOAM MISSILE WITH SHORT-SHORT RANGE.
THIS IS THE DIFFERENCE OF WORKING AT HOME, AND WORKING, AS I DID FOR MANY YEARS, IN A NEWSPAPER OFFICE. I WAS FAR MORE AGGRESSIVE AND CRITICAL THEN, AND I KIND OF MISS THIS OLD CURRIE.....WHICH UNLESS I'M GRANTED ANOTHER NEWSPAPER GIG, I MIGHT AS WELL WRITE-OFF AS A CASUALTY OF THE SOFT LIFE, HERE IN THE CURRIE HOMESTEAD.
I WROTE THIS OVERVIEW OF MY TRANSITION IN WRITING, SOME YEARS AGO, IN ORDER TO POSSESS A BARE CHRONICLE OF HOW I MORPHED FROM NEWS HOUND AND EDITOR, TO BLOGGER WITH A CAT IN HIS LAP. IT MAY SEEM RIDICULOUS THAT I WOULD NEED A ROAD MAP OF THIS PERIOD OF MY LIFE, BUT HONESTLY, AS TIME GOES BY, I REALLY DO FORGET THE MOOD I NEEDED TO POSSESS, IN ORDER TO RIP APART LOCAL COUNCILLORS EACH WEEK, LIKE THE CATS DO TO ME NOW, AS THEIR SUBJECT TOY OF THE HOUR. I NEED MY ANCHORS, AND MY ARCHIVES, TO BURY, AND THEN OCCASIONALLY DIG UP, WHEN FOR SOME REASON, I FIND MYSELF FLOUNDERING IN EDITORIAL PERSPECTIVE. UNLIKE SOME CRITICS, WHO COMMIT HYPOCRISY EVERY THIRD DAY, I LIKE TO REMIND MYSELF ABOUT MY ATTITUDE TEN YEARS EARLIER.......SO I CAN JUDGE HOW MY OPINIONS HAVE CHANGED, AND HOW MY BITE HAS BECOME MORE OF A TICKLE. IN SOME CASES, IT SEEMS I'VE BECOME DESENSITIZED TO SOME ISSUES, AND HAVE GIVEN UP ON OTHERS TOTALLY. LIKE REFORMING LOCAL POLITICIANS, AND TRYING TO INSPIRE THEM TO BE THEMSELVES, INSTEAD OF PUPPETS ON A STRING.
A LITTLE WHILE AGO, I CONFESSED PUBLICLY, THAT I HAVE LOST TOTAL INTEREST IN PURSUING CHANGES IN TOWN ADMINISTRATION.....BECAUSE IT HAS BECOME FAR MORE RELEVANT, TO ASSIST THOSE WHO CAN BRING ABOUT CHANGE MORE PROFOUNDLY, AT THE VERY NEXT ELECTION. I SORT OF THOUGHT THAT THERE MIGHT BE EVEN ONE COUNCILLOR, WHO WOULD WISH TO STEP AWAY FROM THE FAMILY COMPACT, WITH A WILLINGNESS TO SEE WHAT THE REST OF US SEE......ABOUT A COUNCIL OUT OF TOUCH, AND BEYOND REDEMPTION, AT LEAST FROM WHAT I HAVE WITNESSED OF MUSKOKA'S MUNICIPAL COUNCILS SINCE THE LATE 1970'S. HONESTLY, I HAVE NEVER EXPERIENCED ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE......AND I HATE THROWING IN THE TOWELL, WHEN I FEEL SOMETHING CAN STILL BE SALVAGED THROUGH INSIGHT. I HAVE DECIDED THE EFFORT ISN'T WORTH IT, AND I'M PRETTY SURE COUNCILLORS WILL BE REMINDED OF THEIR SHORTCOMINGS, AS COUNCIL-HOPEFULS, FOR THE AUTUMN OF 2014 BEGIN DECLARING. INSTEAD OF RUNNING MYSELF, I WANT TO ASSIST COUNCIL CANDIDATES, WHO SHARE MY OPINION ABOUT TRANSPARENT GOVERNMENT. I'D RATHER NOT RUN BUT IF IT COMES RIGHT DOWN TO IT, AND WE GET ANOTHER CROP OF STATUS QUO JOB-HUNTERS, WHO WILL GIVE US FOUR YEARS OF NOTHING REMARKABLE....OH WELL, I'LL GIVE IT A GO.
WRITING IS WHAT I WANT TO DO. SHOULD I DECIDE TO WRITE A NOVEL, WELL SIR, IT WILL BE LOADED WITH REALITIES THAT SEEM, TO MOST OF US, LIKE THE STUFF OF FICTION......BUT ARE SADLY PRETTY CLOSE TO THE WAY IT IS. I WILL HAVE TO BE LIGHT-HEARTED ABOUT IT, BECAUSE I CAN'T STAY SERIOUS FOR TOO LONG. I AM THE SAME GUY WHO WOULD HIDE THE TOILET PAPER FROM MY ROOM-MATE AT UNIVERSITY, AND WHO PUT BLACK SHOE-POLISH ON THE TOILET SEATS IN THE LADY'S WASHROOMS (BLACK ON BLACK), AND THEN HELD VIGIL TO SEE BLACKENED CHEEKS BENEATH NIGHTGOWNS.......AND THEN, PUT FIBREGLASS DUST ON THE TOILET SEATS IN THE MENS BATHROOM, ON THE MORNING OF WEEKEND TRAVEL PLANS. NOW THAT'S NASTY.
AN OLD GOLF BUDDY, HAD A THING ABOUT THE FOURTH HOLE AT BRACEBRIDGE GOLF CLUB. EVERY TIME WE HIT THE FOUTH TEE, HE'D SLICE OR SHANK THE BALL OFF THE FAIRWAY, INTO THE SURROUNDING WOODLANDS AND DEPRESSIONS IN THE EARTH. HE WAS A PRETTY GOOD GOLFER, BUT SOMETHING SPOOKED HIM ON THE FOURTH. HE WOULD ACTUALLY ASK US, NOT TO REMIND HIM WHAT HOLE WE WERE PLAYING, SO JUST IN CASE IT WAS NUMBER RECOGNITION CAUSING HIS MISADVENTURES. I BET YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO CONFESS. I WOULD DO ANYTHING.....AND I MEAN ANYTHING, TO CORRUPT THE GUY'S GAME, BECAUSE IT USUALLY MEANT BUYING A ROUND AT THE CLUBHOUSE. I'D START SINGING "ONE IS THE LONELIEST NUMBER," AND THEN COUNT UP TO THREE, MAKING HIM THINK OF "FOUR." EVEN ON OTHER HOLES, I FOUND THAT MY USING "FOUR" OR "FORE" IN CASUAL CONVERSATION, WOULD MAKE HIM MUFF HIS SHOT. FINALLY, LIKE FORMER ROOM-MATES FLEEING MY COMPANY, HARRY REFUSED TO GOLF WITH ME.
BY THE WAY, ONE OF MY MOST POPULAR COLUMNS, WAS A WEEKLY PIECE UNDER THE HEADING, "COARSE GOLF," WHICH USED TO RUN IN THE MUSKOKA SUN BACK IN THE 1980'S....WHERE I COULD WRITE ABOUT SOME OF MY TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS ON THE LINKS, AND HOW I TORTURED MY GOLF MATES OVER THE DECADES.
POINT IS, I MIGHT HAVE LOST SOME ANGER OVER THE YEARS, BUT MY SENSE OF HUMOR STILL WORKS. SO WHATEVER I DECIDE TO DO IN WRITING, IN THE NEXT YEAR, I'M PRETTY SURE IT WILL SHOW THE LIGHTER SIDE OF LIFE AND TIMES........AND DEMONSTRATE SOME OF THE REAL POSITIVES OF A SENSE OF HUMOR, OVER AND ABOVE BEING IN A PERPETUAL STATE OF GRINDING, GNASHING FRUSTRATION. HERE IS MY OWN REMINDER OF HOW I GOT TO THIS 2013 POINT OF VIEW, GOOD OR BAD. AS AN HONEST INTERPRETATION.....YEA, IT'S PRETTY HONEST.
Newspaper days were good, blogging is better
I have been writing an editor's retrospective feature column for the past few months, for a swell publication in Ontario, known as "Curious: The Tourist Guide." By the way, of the 20 or so publications I've written for since 1979, I have enjoyed my lengthy tenure with these fine folks.....who are truly generous with editorial space and always open to new feature ideas. The column has been about my days working in the editorial department of a weekly newspaper formerly known as The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, Ontario. I began as a cub reporter at a sister publication known as the Georgian-Bay/Muskoka Lakes Beacon, then published from the community of MacTier, south of Parry Sound. In the early 1980's I moved over to the news editor's position of The Herald-Gazette, and then on to full editorship, which included management positions with The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun, a popular summer time publication.
From 1979 to 1989 belonging to Muskoka Publications, here in the hinterland, was an aspiring writer's dream come true. After graduating from York University my girlfriend, at the time, wanted me to accept a job in the downtown Toronto area. I lasted in an office job exactly one half of one day. I couldn't do it! I came home to Muskoka, opened up my first antique shop in Bracebridge, known as Old Mill, and as most collectable dealers need (other than a rich partner), I looked for a supporting job to cover my extravagances. So I landed a job as a cub reporter for a small publication serving the Georgian Bay - Muskoka Lakes region. My parents took turns running the shop while I was at work. It was a business that would be closed after a short run simply because I got more gigs writing than I had expected and simply couldn't devote the time to hunting, gathering and refinishing the antiques I needed to stock the shop. It would be in the late 1980's that I opened another shop known as Birch Hollow Antiques, still chugging away today, with my wife Suzanne at the helm.
I worked at these sister publications until management decided my irreverance and failure to worship them with full heart and soul, meant I was no longer committed to their editorial plan. Well as you may detect sarcasm, it was true that I was irreverent to a fault and I offer no apology. I just didn't agree with their management decisions and I simply couldn't deal with the way I was being minimized as a writer. I was a journeyman writer who could compose a story quickly, efficiently, accurately and responsibly.....and that guaranteed the publisher wasn't going to face a lawsuit because of my reporting shortfalls. As for editiorial excellence, well, very few of us can be excellent about our tasks all the time but whenever I was putting material together for public consumption, I didn't cut corners or offer-up crappy copy juist to meet deadline. A few of the publishers I worked for had changes they wanted to implement and they knew, rightly so, that I wasn't going to be shaped by anyone or any wild and whacky editorial scheme they thought would be the next money maker. They knew in advance I'd probably try to dump their initiative on a rookie staffer who was still by industry standards a "keener," and didn't know when to duck the pitch! I wasn't adverse to negotation but I didn't dance on command....and if I sensed at any time an editorial project was being headed up by the advertising department....well by golly, I did everything to miss the opportunity entirely. I could be invisible fast when I saw the briefcase-toting ad sales manager coming up the stairs toward my office. I hated ad-supporting feature stories but I loved the news beat.
My tenure at the helm of The Herald-Gazette was a cherished time.....I loved to go to work each morning, and the fact I had some fine colleagues who mentored me constantly with sage advice, it was better than having spent tens of thousands of dollars in a university journalism course......this was immersion at its most precarious. Every word we put out there to the public could have meant a lawsuit, a firing, a reprimand.....and statements from the publisher like, "you'll never work in this business again." Being responsible and honest about the job was mandatory if you wanted to stick around. One miscue was all it took to be dumped. I had an amazing ten years in the day to day operation of a community newspaper and for the most part it was a hoot. Even the difficult moments with management non-confidence, and incredibly draining press nights into the wee hours, political run-arounds and smoke and mirror games with news sources, we never hoisted those frosty mugs of draft at the local watering-hole, (after the paper was put to bed), that we didn't feel it was all worth the battlefield of landmine-navigation.
When I was unceremoniously forced from the paper with a drastic reduction of hours, which I assume they knew would force me to seek employment elsewhere, I lobbed myself unceremoniously over to the competing publication, which ended badly a half year later. I needed a break from being an employee. Did I mention I got kicked out of Cubs as a kid for insubordination. How many can say that? For a number of years I reverted to my old standby, as an antique dealer, and we ran a successful small shop on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, with my business partner-bride Suzanne. This new antique business was called Birch Hollow which we still operate online today. This is when I began writing a freelance piece (I didn't ask for any remuneration) in the Muskoka Advance, a weekly Sunday paper, called "Sketches of Historic Muskoka." Following this was a huge and prolific period of demand when I was researching and writing dozens of features for The Muskoka Sun each winter, from first snowfall to first lilac bloom. I wasn't doing it for the money. I just enjoyed writing and selling antiques. Not very complicated. I needed my antique business for profit but writing was for the good of an ever-questing artistic soul. Eventually however, management decided to impose a few controls on this seasoned, gnarled, curmudgeon of a writer, and once again I said, well, (amongst other things about what they should bite)..... stuff it! I had no shortage of publications that wanted my contributions but I determined in this universe-reaching new century that it was time to make my antique obsession turn over an occasional profit. It's a problem of all dealers.....we like to spend and that doesn't always balance with what we earn....but we're surrounded by a lot of neat old stuff with potential.
I remember telling a boss once, in a heated debate, that I didn't take the editor's job because of any prestige, or for that matter because it offered a great wage. It sucked. I was in it because of writing, and even as editor, to fill the big hulking white spaces between the ads, I often composed seven to ten articles and more each week. It was a co-operative newsroom task that by necessity demanded lots of editorial submissions. The ads were husky and plentiful back then and demanded a substantial amount of copy each edition. I've had a lot of publishers and managerial overseers snear at this comment, when I'd tell them quite bluntly....."you think I put up with you guys just for the meagre beer money stipend? I write because I love to.....that's it.....and I'll take the few thin dimes you pay me and buy a new typewriter ribbon....why...because I love writing so much." I wasn't fooling. They just didn't get it. I was the most productive writer they had but they couldn't deal with any one saying they loved their job. And over the years they did everything they could to make me hate it. It just didn't work. Sure I've been wounded a tad but not enough to detract from an enterprise that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
I was thrilled to be able to spend a day writing. Just writing. No distractions, no banging-door meetings, no intrusions.....just writing. It has taken many decades to find comfort amidst solitude. There was a time when I needed a constant din to feel as if I was in the ball-game. Back then there were always intrusions, always distractions, and there weren't many days when management calmed to satisfaction with anything. We were required to attend lively meetings to trim up the troops. I loved it when they tried to motivate us! We were self-motivating..... period! I almost clobbered a new managing editor at one meeting when he told the writing staff he was going to "nurture us like flowers in a pot." From that point I hated the guy and he knew it. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever said that to me again, I would embarass him beyond recovery. Funny thing was, this was the goof who had to break it to me....with a smile only a belt sander could have removed, that I was being cut down in hours to status of a part-timer, after a decade's service to the publication. As a former baseball player in regional fastball, I knew some pretty incredible hand signals, and I gave him all of them in a magical sequence mixed with some of my own invention.....and a few other rude ones. I refused the part-time offering needless to say. Best thing I ever did! I actually started to make money in my freelance approach, and I was able to concentrate our antique business beyond the storefront and into e-commerce, which we still pursue now with steady results. The only jerk I answer to these days is the one writing this blog. My wife is the accountant. As long as I turn a profit she has no reason to order a staff meeting.
When we closed our antique shop in Bracebridge in the mid 1990's, moving it to our Gravenhurst home, and I began a different approach to writing, having a much higher standard of who I'd work with and for, my home office with computer became a nurturing, resource laden, inspiration oozing paradise. I could write for hours on end and never have one urgent request for my attendance at a disciplinary meeting. I was able to run my antique business on-line and world wide, and my writing enterprise, geez, I was free at last. I could write at any time of the day or night and not have calls and frequent, annoying raps on my door intrude upon the story-line. Sure there was the household din sometimes, because I was a Mister Mum to my two lads Andrew and Robert (looked after them while my wife went back to her teaching job), yet surprisingly, I seemed to write more and better with the voices of the lads playing in the other rooms. They play guitars now and have a music store here in Gravenhurst......their replacement noise being the play of three cats and a dog, snoring, growling, shreiking with the timely, regular interuptions..... maybe an occasional nuzzle, when they've determined its feeding time at the zoo. I miss the boys but these critters are good company. It's sort of a passive news room.....they don't bark commands and get in my face, or bloody hell, ask me to stop my work mid paragraph to take a used car photo for the advertising department. I hated that with a passion.
I don't think I could ever go back to that time in my life, where I had to listen to my alleged superiors, tell me how and what to write. Since I began writing in the mid 1970's as a struggling poet/author at York University, I have never had a period when I couldn't find a willing publication or media outlet interested in a freelance piece. And to this point in my life, it's pretty much the same although everyone around here notes I'm spending a lot more time in the antique field than with writing at present. Every few years it switches around, and I get more writing gigs than antiquing opportunities. With this amazing outlet to "blog-at-will" it has opened up a lot of doors, not just for me but for many other proficient and talented writers wishing to express themselves without the whining and nattering of publishers....worried about losing ads and readers because of a controversial stand.....the side taken on a political debate.....the impact it might have in social situations. I got pretty sick of the "good time was had by all" approach to journalism, and it pretty much created the conditions for my diminished position at the paper. I haven't been fired yet from this blog site. I'm pretty buzzed about that!
You know it goes back to childhood, this problem with bullies as bosses. Shortly after we arrived in town, moving north from Burlington, Ontario, I was just delighted to receive a warm and welcoming invitation to join the rank and file of the Bracebridge Cubs, and I was working on my first badges of accomplishment. I didn't have my uniform yet but for this one evening get-together, my mother insisted on buying me a brand new dress shirt and church pants as we used to call them....just to look mildly dapper and respective of club standards. We weren't rich folks and I didn't get a lot of new clothes so I was pretty proud of my attire. Mid way through the evening it was recreation time, and we were told the group would be playing British Bulldog....which was pretty dumb considering the number of kids and the small size of the Scout Hall. We'd run back and forth and attempt to avoid being tagged. Some of the touches were a tad heavy I noticed, to the point a few kids were falling into the wall. I was pretty good at the game and lasted until there were only several players left. I made my last foray across and a kid grabbed me by the collar and ripped the whole back out of the shirt. There was even a lengthy red, multi finger claw mark down about six or seven inches on my shoulder. Some of the other lads had similar wounds that needed tending, and outfits showing the rigors of rough play.
I went to the leader and said, "Hey, look what that guy did to my shirt?" "So?," was the limit of his sympathy. "Well, he's going to buy me another shirt," I retorted with a half Irish-Dutch demeanour, dragon-like by any other description. "Buzz off kid," said the leader. What happened next would have impressed that white attired, gun slinging cowboy, "Shane"....although I never hit anyone or pulled a gun.....well sir, I told him about his "skunky" attitude (it was the 1960's), and suggested that he was a pretty poor excuse for a leader......and that yes, he would be dipping into his retirement funds to buy me a new shirt. This isn't intended to discount the good work of the Cub Scout movement, just to suggest that at this time, the leader was a jerk.
My father later let the chap know he should have had more sense that to promote rugby rules in a game of indoor British Bulldog....but I don't think I ever got money for a new shirt. My mother just fixed it the best she could and life went on pretty much as it had before the incident. The Cub leader tried to be my good buddy for the next thirty odd years, especially when he'd try to sell me on writing a promo for his failing business...... but I never forgot that shabby treatment he bestowed on a trusting kid who wanted to be part of a good program.
Guess it sums up my attitude today. There are still certain names from the former publishing business that are not to be spoken in our homestead..... and that's my right. But I don't let it become an entanglement.....in fact, if I do inadvertently think about some of these folks at all, it's because I always write better when I'm madly gnashing my teeth.....I'm a beggar for punishment but it works, it works! You wouldn't believe the huge volume of manuscripts penned in anger. Surprisingly, they don't read as angry and vengeful as I felt at time of penning! I'm suring seeing my byline pop up after all these years drives them nuts. That's all the incentive I need.
We all have our markers from the past that make us cringe, send fear and trembling through our hearts, and yet make us appreciate how far we've come, to become so pleasantly, successfully independent.
When my son Robert, who helps me polish and then publish this blog, asked me bluntly how I feel about blogging versus writing for a publication.....I said "Well, that's easy......liberated." It does take a while to get used to, so for comfort's sake I often write while imagining a former boss hovering over my shoulder, trying to read my copy......to make helpful, "I know better than you," additions and deletions...."to make the story more suitable to our readers." It's kind of like hitting your hand with a hammer because it feels damn good when you stop. And yes, despite what you've just read, I do enjoy my craft and can produce volumes without ever once thinking about the clod who wanted to nurture me like a wee flower.
Thanks for joining me on this most recent blog submission.
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