Eleven by Patricia Reilly Giff

My rating: 2 of 5 stars
I’ve been reading a lot of mystery lately.

I’ve probably read more mystery in the last month than I have in the rest of my life combined.

And I think I like it.

But this is my one caveat: if you’re going to promise me a mystery, then you’d darn well better deliver the goods. If you’re going to present a twist, then it had better leave me open-mouthed, doubled over, and gasping.

Eleven by Patricia Reilly Giff left me shaking my head, rolling my eyes, and feeling cheated.

The premise of the book is that a young boy who lives with his grandfather begins to have strange dreams and memories of his past. He remembers the number eleven, which he thinks is because he’s turning eleven years old. But (dun-dun-DUN!): It’s not!

Possibly because of the previous trauma in his life, Sam is having a hard time learning how to read. He’s the only kid in his class that can’t read very well. One day, he’s in the attic and finds Mack’s secret stash of Sam mementos (“What is this fascination with my Forbidden Closet of Mystery?” – points if you can name that quote), amongst which is a newspaper clipping with a picture of Sam with a headline stating that he’s missing – and has a different last name!!

Intrigue!!

Since he can’t read the rest of the article, he makes friends with the new girl at school, Caroline, who helps him to read the clipping and research what really happened to him.

I won’t spoil the rest of the mystery, but I will say this: some mystery.

The ending of the book to me was like going to a mystery dinner theater and having the host declare: “And the murdered is someone in this very room!!”
(The audience gasps.)
“By the way, the victim of the murder isn’t actually dead. This is just pretend, people.”

Read the book. You’ll see what I mean.

Ms. Giff got me all riled up for nothing. She promises this huge payoff by working up all this intrigue and tension, and she simply doesn’t deliver.

And this book doesn’t even count as a Cannonball Read because it’s not long enough.

Phooey. I’ll be sticking with Trenton Lee Stewart and Ellen Raskin, thanks.

View all my reviews >>

From Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose:

Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors. (Fourth Day, Terce)

I can’t get this passage out of my head. I read the chapter this passage is from more than a week ago for a class on literary deception, and I’m still thinking about it. In moments of silence, I can almost hear the murmuring Adso speaks of. And yet, to me, it is a more comforting noise, like the whispers of a mother to a sleeping child. I’ve always found libraries places of welcome and introspection, temples to the written word, temples where I may worship by browsing freely among the shelves.

Unfortunately, my attendance has been sparse of late.

Khadijah – The True Love Story of Muhammad

Nama Khadijah binti Khuwailid tentu sudah tidak asing lagi bagi kita. Sejarah mencatat seorang saudagar sukses dari suku Quraisy yang menjunjung kejujuran dalam menjalani usahanya.

Khadijah binti Khuwailid ibnu Asad ibnu Abdil Uzza ibnu Qushay. Persis di Qushay, kakeknya yang keempat, nasabnya bertemu dengan nasab Rasulullah. Ibu Khadijah bernama Fatimah binti Zaidah. Nenek Khadijah dari pihak ibu bernama Halah binti Abdu Manaf. Abdu Manaf sendiri adalah kakek ketiga Rasulullah. Jadi, dari pihak ayah maupun ibu, Rasulullah dan Khadijah memiliki hubungan kekerabatan yang dekat.

Khadijah lahir 15 tahun sebelum Rasulullah. Khadijah muda adalah seorang gadis cantik dan berperilaku baik. Suami pertamanya adalah Abu Halah an-Nabbasy ibnu Zurarah at-Taymi. Pernikahan ini berakhir ketika Abu Halah wafat meninggalkan dua anak laki-laki, Hindun dan Halah. *Hindun dan Halah adalah nama-nama perempuan. Tetapi orang-orang Arab juga menggunakan nama-nama perempuan untuk anak laki-laki mereka.

Khadijah kemudian menikah lagi dengan Athiq ibnu Aid al-Makhzumi. Dari suaminya yang kedua ini, Khadijah memiliki seorang anak perempuan yang lagi-lagi diberi nama Hindun.

Pertemuannya dengan Muhammad yang memiliki pribadi yang matang menjadikannya jatuh hati. Awal-awal pertemuannya dengan Muhammad ibnu Abdillah yang 15 tahun lebih muda darinya, terasa begitu bergejolak baginya. Hingga pada akhirnya ia memberanikan diri untuk melamar Muhammad yang diawali dengan pemberian amanah untuk memimpin kalifah dagang ke Syam. Kesan-kesannya tentang Muhammad:
Muhammad merupakan seorang pemuda yang cerdas, santun, pandai menjaga diri, dan berpenampilan sempurna. Muhammad terlihat begitu tenang ketika diam dan terlihat begitu berpengaruh ketika berbicara. Ia selalu memperhatikan lawan bicaranya, mendengarkannya dengan teliti, dan tidak pernah memperlihatkan sikap setengah-setengah.
Cara ia berjalan menunjukkan rasa percaya diri yang tinggi. Posturnya seimbang, tidak terlalu pendek dan tidak terlalu tinggi, tidak terlalu gemuk dan tidak pula terlalu kurus. Muhammad memiliki kening yang lebar, dagu yang lepas, dan leher yang jenjang. Dadanya bidang. Matanya indah dan lebar dengan bola mata yang hitam pekat. Giginya putih cemerlang.

Perkataan Khadijah ketika melamar Rasulullah:
“Wahai anak pamanku, aku berhasrat untuk menikah denganmu atas dasar kekerabatan, kedudukanmu yang mulia, akhlakmu yang baik, integritas moralmu, dan kejujuran perkataanmu.”

Setelah menikah lalu Muhammad mendapat risalah kenabian, Khadijahlah orang yang selalu berada di samping Muhammad, bukan saja untuk menyokong dakwah, melainkan juga menjadi tempat untuk menguatkan diri menghadapi tentangan masyarakat saat itu. Tanpa pernah mengeluh, totalitas pengabdian Khadijah akan dakwah Rasulullah pun menjadi tak tertandingi. Ada sesuatu yang tidak pernah berubah di dalam dirinya, yaitu kekuatan spiritual dan kejernihan cinta. Ia selalu dan selamanya beriman kapada Allah serta meyakini kebenaran risalah suaminya. Sebaliknya, Pribadi Khadijah pun menjadi kisah cinta sejati Rasulullah.

Kisah Aisyah mengenai Khadijah:
“Aku tidak pernah merasa cemburu kepada seorang wanita sebesar rasa cemburuku pada Khadijah. Aku tidak pernah melihatnya, tetapi Rasulullah sering menyebut dan mengingatnya. Ketika menyembelih seekor kambing, beliau selalu memotong sebagian dagingnya dan menghadiahkannya kepada sahabat-sahabat Khadijah. Aku pernah berkata kepada Rasulullah, ‘Seperti tidak ada wanita lain di dunia ini selain Khadijah’. Rasulullah menjawab, ‘Khadijah itu begini dan begitu, dan dari dialah aku memperoleh anak.’” (HR Bukhari, Muslim, Tirmidzi, dan Baghawi)

Tak dapat dimungkiri, Khadijah, istri Rasulullah Saw., merupakan sosok yang fenomenal. Bukan saja memiliki perilaku yang mulia, Khadijah juga merupakan sosok yang cerdas dengan ketabahan yang luar biasa – sesuatu yang memungkinkannya menghadapi segenap rintangan dan kesulitan tanpa mengeluh. Ia tak pernah mundur. Seluruh jiwa, raga, upaya, dan harta bendanya dipersembahkan bagi perjuangan meretas jalan menuju tegaknya agama Islam.

Ia rela mengorbankan seluruh harta dan jiwanya untuk dakwah Rasulullah. Dengan kematangan, kebijaksanaan, dan integritas dirinya, Khadijah menyokong, membangkitkan tekad, dan mengobarkan semangat dakwah Rasulullah. Setiap kali Rasulullah mengalami penolakan, celaan, atau hinaan, Khadijah menjadi orang pertama yang menghibur, menemani, dan meyakinkan beliau. Hal itu terus berlangsung hingga akhirnya Khadijah meninggal pada usia 65 tahun, tepat 10 tahun sejak Muhammad diangkat menjadi rasul.

Rasulullah tidak pernah menikah dengan perempuan lain pada masa hidup Khadijah. Allah pun menghormati Khadijah. Jika ada wanita yang langsung menerima salam dari Allah, maka Khadijahlah orangnya. Peristiwa itu terjadi ketika Jibril mendatangi Rasulullah dan berkata, “Wahai Muhammad! Sebentar lagi, Khadijah akan datang membawakan makanan dan minuman untukmu. Kalau ia datang, sampaikan kepadanya salam dari Allah dan dariku.”. Rasulullah pun menyampaikannya. Khadijah menjawab dengan rasa syukur, “Allahlah Pemelihara kedamaian dan sumber segala damai. Salamku untuk Jibril.”. Jawaban itu menunjukkan kecerdasan dan kesucian Khadijah. Ia mengagungkan Allah dan berdoa kepada-Nya agar dianugerahi kedamaian dan keselamatan. Ia pun berterima kasih kepada Jibril yang telah menyampaikan salam dari Allah itu kepada dirinya.

Allah menjaga diri Khadijah dari segala cela, sehingga penduduk Mekah menjulukinya sebagai “wanita suci”. Khadijah berperan besar dalam menjadikan rumah tangga Rasulullah damai dan tenang. Karena itu Allah menjanjikan baginya sebuah rumah di surga yang terbuat dari permata yang senantiasa diliputi kedamaian, yang steril dari kebencian dan permusuhan. Rasulullah bersabda,
“Aku diperintahkan untuk memberi kabar gembira kepada Khadijah bahwa akan dibangun untuknya di surga sebuah rumah dari permata; tak ada hiruk pikuk dan rasa lelah di sana.” (HR Bukhari, Muslim, dan Ahmad)

Khadijah pun menjadi wanita teristimewa bagi Rasulullah. Rasulullah selalu menyebut-nyebut nama Khadijah dan mengistimewakan teman-teman Khadijah, walau hingga Khadijah wafat.

Perkataan Rasulullah Saw. mengenai Khadijah:
“Tidak. Demi Allah, aku tidak pernah mendapat pengganti yang lebih baik daripada Khadijah. Ia yang beriman kepadaku ketika semua orang ingkar. Ia yang memercayaiku tatkala semua orang mendustakanku. Ia yang memberiku harta pada saat semua orang enggan memberi. Dan darinya aku memperoleh keturunan, sesuatu yang tidak kuperoleh dari istri-istriku yang lain.”

SUMBER:
Novel berjudul: KHADIJAH – The True Love Story of Muhammad
Judul Asli: Khadijah Ummul Mu’minin Nazharat Fi Isyraqi Fajril Islam
Pengarang: Abdul Mun’im Muhammad
Penerjemah: Ghozi M.
Penerbit: Pena Pundi Aksara
Penerbit Asli: Al-Hai-ah al-Mishriyah

Aaah.. Betapa beruntungnya seorang Khadijah.. Wanita mana yang tidak ingin memiliki suami seperti Rasulullah kita tercinta??
Dan untuk kita kaum hawa, bila kita sudah menikah nanti, dapatkah kita seperti Khadijah??
Kisah cinta Khadijah dan Nabi Muhammad begitu menyentuh dan romantis. Seperti kisah cinta Nabi Sulaiman dan Ratu Sheba (Bilqis). Mereka masih tetap saling mencintai dan menjaga keromantisan mereka hingga akhir hayat mereka. Semoga pernikahan kita nanti juga langgeng seperti mereka yaa.. Aamiin..

I’m honestly feeling like a productivity powerhouse right now.

Today consisted mainly of Drama rehearsals, both for my graded piece at the start of 2010, but also for a small musical I’m participating in. That made me feel good, because I’ve done a damn lot today. Plus the 5000 words towards my NaNoWriMo novel I’ve done in between acting. Did I not mention that?!

I – to my horror – realised that I need to write 3000 words per DAY in order to complete this, but I figured, if I can do 5000 words in about two hours, then why not dedicate two hours for the rest of the month, each day, and work on the novel. It’ll be done in no time.

Especially because everything is getting a lot more exciting now. Granted everything – and I do mean everything – will change when December comes to edit the novel, but for now I’m happy to say that this is a good first draft. First drafts being one of my many weaknesses.

Today I want to share a short passage I’ve only just written. The main character has been kidnapped by the main antagonist, and is an undisclosed location, trying to deal with the situation and the revelations he has been presented with.

‘I want to save you! I want to free us all! We never had a choice, not once in our lives. They get in early, before we have minds of our own. The Voices infect us, and we can’t resist. You know it’s true. You’ll be running around after them until you die.’

What had started off as rage now seemed to have developed into tears of a madman. The flicker of candle light reflected off the Dark man’s sparkling tears, which wiped away a certain amount of dirt from his unclean face, leaving a thin trail of natural skin.

The emotions of the Dark man seemed to be being washed away by this flood of sudden emotion. He seemed so passionate about his opinion, and as much as Tobias fought a small part of his brain, he agreed with his enemy.

Tobias knew with a very small but very significant part of his brain, that the Dark man was partly right. Tobias had never had a choice, and would never again.

I don’t think I’ll be writing any more tonight. As much as I want to get to 40,000 before I hit the sack, I’m incredibly tired, and have been working hard all day. Surely I’ve earned some sleep.

Today was supposed to be the day I get to 40,000 but I think that if I write an equal amount tomorrow as I did today, I can get ahead before it’s over. I’m on 38,000 now – I think – and so 4000 words should be possible. Tomorrow is a lot less of a cramped day.

I’ll probably post when I hit 45,000, but if not, I’ll see you at 50,000! Wish me luck.

I can’t believe I have less than a week left to write the rest of this story.

Chapter 14. God help me.

 Since his early days in politics Julian understood the danger of taking himself too seriously but in the self-contained political nursery he had the freedom to earn a first prize in ego-istic diversion and evasion for which he was richly rewarded. The danger was forgetting his duty to serve those who put him in office and generally doing the right thing. Julian’s undying intention  was doing the right thing every time but  had become a distracted.

H1s drive for political success also lead him to the  mundane and to the unidimensional and artificiality.   Julian began thinking and lengthened  his walks in the countryside and his mood shifted to the contemplative and aesthetic.

Direct contact with the natural became thrilling. Sometimes from a high grassy hill he watched a low dark cloud approach and turn angry. Thunder and lightning and gusts of wind would shove him toward shelter before drenching him in warm rain.

On Sunny days barn swallows drew his attention with flashing iridescent colors. They made tiny ripples when plucking a soggy bug off the mirror surface of the pond.

Julian began feeding the pigs at the end of walks.

The pigs grunted agreeably while crunching one the dried  corn cob.  

“What’s going on in your world?” Julian asked the pig one day who wedged its snout between the weather beaten slats up to its eyes.

“The corn is good but something’s on your mind,” the swine said.                                Julian would be the first to admit hearing voices but talking animals was not on his horizon. Nevertheless the pig spoke again.

“You are a man with a weighty stuff on his mind,”

Julian was game. He knew that anything was possible.

“What do you know about men with weighty stuff on their minds? You’re a pig.”  

“By the same token you are a human. What do you know about anything?”

“Time out” said Julian, “Why does my first talking pig to be a wise-guy.”

Just then the old man, Smith, was beside him and leaning on the fence, his elbows  hooked over the top slat and staring at the mass of hog flesh like he had been there for hours.

“Smith!” 

  “I see you made it home in one piece the other night.” Smith said.

“What?” Julian said, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. 

“I had a dream. I never left the house.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.

“Who are you? What do you want?” asked Julian.

“What do you need?” Smith answered.

“My mother said you don’t exist,” said Julian feeling testy.

“Only Royal would say that.”

“She’s still saying it. You know my mother?”

“She’s a great woman.”

“She talks to plants.”

“I taught her how,” Smith said.

“Lord,” said Julian now restless and a little aggravated, “You are a  busy man. Here’s your hat what’s your hurry.”

The old man faced him and said, “What do you want, Julian Crown? You were happiest kingfish I ever saw and the saddest lame duck there ever was.

“What do I want?” Julian repeated deliberately.

“That’s what I  said,” Smith said.

He was serious despite having a warped sense of humor. Julian felt he was suddenly languishing in primordial brain  goo where shit and shinola were yet undifferentiated.

Julian took a hard look at Smith.  

Seconds passed like hours. The pigs disgusted by the lack of attention snorted and decided to nap.

Julian P Crown, the chief executive wanna-be shifted from the world of light and dark opposites – this and not that – the ying and the yang to the non-cognitive cognition of the impossible way he existed..  

   By-and-by Smith broke the silence and drew Julian out of his puddle of thoughts. “Shall I give you a hint?”

Julian remembered the helplessness and confusion of the naked dream like a first grader.. 

“I want what everyone wants,” Julian said,

“Go on.” encouraged Mr. Smith. 

“I can’t ….. I’ve forgotten everything. I can’t bullshit. I can do it  for the joke. The public is not a joke.

“Have you forgotten sincerity and frankness?

“No. It’s not that. I discovered, early on, that the harsh facts were embarrassing and unwanted.

I learned fast what people wanted to hear and what they wanted to think. I didn’t mislead anyone from a certain point of view. I was consistent with their expectations,” Julian said wisely, “actually I furnished the sand so people could stick their heads in it. I learned people didn’t want to know the important things.”

 “Was that right?”

“Yes and no.” said Julian.

“To begin with the language of politicking is bullshit,” Smith debated.                       

“The truth comes in many shapes forms and persuasions,” said Julian, “Which facts do you want – in which combinations? The truth for one man is bullshit for another and a lie to another. I know bullshit. It  has a goal and a purpose and like simulation and dissimulation can be useful depending who uses it. It diverts. It is a permissible evasion, an implied distraction, a magic show. People pay money to be tricked. Beats me why but they do it.”

“What was your motivation?”  

“Why did I do it? I didn’t start out with it. I did it because I was good at it and survived with it. In the back of my mind I planned to tell it like it is. But, it’s complicated,”

“A means to an end became the means of the means?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you consider yourself a failure?” Mr. Smith asked.

Julian could not evade the truth of the question and answered spontaneously.

“I’m not a bullshitter. I’m a chicken shitter.”

“That’s how you feel? You sound like a whiner. And, a poor one at that, although your efforts are supreme. The commonwealth didn’t suffer because of you. More good happened during your administration than you think.”  

Smith had Julian’s complete attention.

“You are not a sufferer, a willing victim, a sacrificial lamb or a sacrifice prey. You still have two balls. Let them hang. Make some thunder.”

Julian stopped whining and let his balls hang.

“You ask some damn good questions.” Julian said feeling much better.

“Well, Let’s see if you have some damn good answers.”

“I have a lot of answers. I have trouble with the question.”                   

   “Let me help you. You have not appreciated the love and loyalty of your friends and family. You must let them help you. You need seven general things.” said Smith.

“OK?”

“First you need a queen to keep  your personality open and bring decency to your life.”

 “Estelle.” said Julian.

“Second, you need a counselor for guidance to give you balanced and informed advice. “

“Andy? Hattie?”

“Third is a protector. You need someone never hesitates to protect you and your intgrety?”

“Like Miles?”

“Keeps you honest,” said Smith.

“Reporters,” Julian hissed.

“Fourth is your steed.”

“Chariot.”

“Not exactly. Chariot can be your symbol for industriousness, hard work and exertion. You are always in danger of laziness.”

“Humanity won’t let me.”

“Close enough. Fifth is steadfastness that is not swayed by deception or confusion. Steady like the elephant.”

“Think like an elephant. Bullshit is a slippery slide.” said Julian.

“Six is generosity.”

“I think I am generous.”

“I mean, generous with the heart – in the ways that will take you to high office. You took hits for so called friends thus making you appear libertine and licentious. The Latex Panty Scandal for example.”

“Jeeeze! “I’ll never live that down. What’s seven?” Julian asked.

“Command – command of your own world  – promoting richness and dignity in your personnel world so you can bring it to your constituency. Bottom line. Handle your family and friends decently and you can handle the presidency decently.”

Julian pondered.                  

“Incorporating all seven, your concern and good intention will go a long way.” Smith added.

Julian turned thoughtfully and started to walk toward the house.                            “Sam wanted to tell you something.” Smith said.

“Sam College?”

“Sam is a good boy.”

“Sam was sent by Satan to torment me. How do you know him?”

“Sam thinks you are worthy.”

“Worthy of what? Are you related?”

“Sam is my son.”

“You said your name is Smith.”

“It is. Smith College.”

“Smith is your first name?” Julian protested, “Why didn’t you tell me?

 “We didn’t want to prejudice you.”

“I thought you were a demented old fart who didn’t exist. How could I be more prejudiced?

“We have debated your worthiness. Sam is a good judge of character and may be right about you. About Sam, Governor. Could you see clear to give him a job? He would be an asset.”

“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” Julian said mechanically feeling quite confused.

“Who are you?”

“No one, really.”

“Come on. Your advise is precise and relevant and common sence. You are somebody.” 

  “OK. I am – aware.”

“Cool but …? Julian stopped because he knew that pursuing his question was futile. He saw Estelle waving from the kitchen window and started to excuse himself but Smith College was gone.

David A. Brensilver’s “ExecTV” is a provocative social satire resurrecting public executions. Inspired by an attorney’s bombastic assertion that his death row client dictate his own method of execution, the brilliant but misunderstood (i.e., unemployed) documentary filmmaker Dov Montana concocts “ExecTV.”

Propelled by ego and severely lacking tact, Montana assembles his team. The principals feature Lerz Feingold, the stuttering ‘Tude Entertainment programming director; secretary-bimbo-turned-interviewer (but forever a bimbo) Serena who emits “like” with every breath; defense attorney and impromptu singer (he inserts relevant lyrics into classic tunes) Conrad Thistle III; and the refreshingly taciturn inmate Randall Snell, the notorious “Killer Castrator.”

With exaggerated reenactments, personal interviews, and a captivating finale, ExecTV is the ultimate reality TV program. Brensilver’s satire illustrates how “lensfaces” and “audiopaths” have distorted every form of media to dramatic dribble. His portrayal of humanity isn’t pretty, but the inherent greed is real.

It is 2028 and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, posing as Will Armstrong, is alive and composing. The immortal who has survived history’s greatest challenges including its most recent, the asteroid strike called “the Shudder,” now finds his identity at risk. But the science and arts utopia in which he resides, Ipolis or the sapient machine One, favors Mozart above all its citizens and goes to extreme measures to ensure his safety.

What unfolds is a comedic opera with an intricate plot. While Mozart pines for the sexually confused sex-change clinic nurse Katerina, investigative journalist Helen Printo and spy Alex Burton scheme to catch the immortal, Canadian diplomat Lester Parson ponders his role in the North vs. South nuclear war as well as his empty love life, and sadistic art student Bella Gunn searches for the emotion that first drew her to painting, One works to keep the world safe. Each character delivers his/her own song, a story of his/her past, and as the work progresses these distinct threads join to create an unlikely symphony.

Rayner’s novel sets the most timeless themes of love, identity, and art in a technological world endangered by greed and corruption. Individual viewpoints recount personal pasts and solidify Ipolis as the nurturing utopia. But Mozart remains at the center of this humorous story, weighing his secret immortality as the world approaches self-destruction.

I wish I was the kind of writer who benefited from an outline before I write, but they never work out for me. My work changes so quickly from the outline that I just don’t bother. I know my destination, but how I get there is different from day to day. The thing is, writing my first novel like that has created a god-awful-mess of a first draft. I have written the same scene two different ways fifty pages apart. Scenes are out of chronological order, or some are missing altogether. While re-reading my draft I’ve been getting new ideas for the story, so I’m adapting a reverse outline technique. If you’ve got a messy draft and are looking for a way to manage it, this might work for you as well.

As I read my draft, I have some index cards nearby (the big ones not the 3×5) and made a card for each scene (not each page). On this card I write a title for the scene, what pages the scene is on, the setting and the characters. I also write a quick summary of the scene and where it fits into the larger whole of the novel. I write comments in the manuscript as well. I do this for the entire manuscript.

If you’re like me, your scenes are not in the right order on the actual page, so the first thing to do is to put the index cards in the order the scenes will be for the second draft. For example, if you wrote the last scene of the book into the middle of the manuscript, you move the appropriate index cards to their correct order. There are three reasons for this: 1) You’re going to write the outline using these cards 2) It’ll make finding the scene in the word processor document easier (because you put the page numbers in there) and 3) It’s easier to move index cards with a title of each scene around than chopping up a million pieces of paper and doing it.

Next, boot up your word processor (don’t do it by hand unless you’re good at judging space) and outline the novel you have based on your scene cards. Get the existing stuff down and then save it. Then re-read the outline, adding in new scenes and taking out old ones and save this under a different file name. Now you can always refer back to the original if you need to.

And now you have an outline of the second draft, with your planned changes. Sure, the second draft might not end up looking like that either, but it gives you an idea of the changes you’ll need to start on. Because that’s the thing about revision, especially of long works. Where the heck do you start? I know it sounds like work (and it is), but anything that helps you write a better novel is worth trying at least. Anyone who has other outlining techniques for revision, or even other revision techniques, feel free to share.

——————————————————————————————————————

I posted another short story I wrote for my semester work called Transplantation. It’s underneath the Pages section to the right. Don’t want people thinking I’m just writing about writing without having actually done it. And I hope someone else benefits from my reverse outlining I posted up there. It’s working pretty well for me so far. And I do know there are places where the process could be streamlined, but I’m one of those people who could never use the shortcuts in math either, I always had to work the entire problem out on the page.

I DID IT!

I WROTE A NOVEL! IN 24 days and 50,000 words and, C. S. was my guardian angel this morning!

I DID IT!

That’s right, he actually came in a dream as I am at the finish of this book!  I woke up from a nap yesterday and this dream about C. S. Lewis — it had something to do with libraries and librarians and also the book F. 451! Dunno.

Writing this book released dreams about 7 times…

Seriously!

I’m sad to let the characters go, a bit, but the end of the novel has written itself — in a half dream state.

It occurs to me that there are many different messages in the book and I’m very happy about that — at the core though is love.

all right ————————- onwards to the last words to sum up the whole…

I thought I’d look at C. S. during the crafting, for luck!

back later and xxoo!

exhausted!

Heart of Clouds!

November 18, 2009
Reject me, please

By Chris Rodell, a freelance writer and author who blogs at www.EightDaysToAmish.com

I’m nostalgic for the days when I used to gauge my how hard I was working by the frequency of my rejection letters. I knew I wasn’t working hard enough unless I was getting at least one rejection a day. This made sense because if the rejections were coming with regularity it meant that my stuff was being considered elsewhere and would by the law of averages produce a positive result. These days I rarely count on getting either the rejection or the positive result. It’s a Twilight Zone existence where I spend my days yelling down a long canyon and hearing no echoes. After a fun and fruitful decade as a freelance magazine writer, I’m using the godforsaken downturn in that field to sharpen and pitch four book proposals (an upmarket satirical novel, a downmarket non-fiction humor book, a memoir and a fantasy tale about how the world would be better a place if Dick Cheney was a kindly undercover superhero). The general reaction has me thinking maybe it’s time to come up with a fifth book proposal. I spend about half my time sending out fastidious query letters to agents and publishers and the other half wondering why no one bothers to respond. The obvious answer is, of course, I’m a unqualified hack and that my ideas suck.

But there is evidence to the contrary. I’ve worked with some of the snazziest magazines in the country — and I’m talking about ones that still exist and actually lived up to their commitment to pay me. My ideas have earned flattering interest from top ranked industry people who tell me my offbeat stuff’s great, but just not quite right for them. “Just keep pitching,” they say, “You’re bound to find the right person. Good luck!” So pitch I do. I pitch the way the sweaty guys in the locomotive coal pits did when they wanted the train to make it up a really steep grade. I just keep on shoveling. But despite all the evident energy, the wheels on my locomotive just keep spinning. There is no progress. No advancement. I get a real surge of satisfaction after I’ve spent a couple of hours pouring through the top dealmakers at Publishers Marketplace until I’ve found 10 worthy targets and tailored my lively query letters to their specific interests. How can it miss? I never do it like this, but I wake up those mornings feeling like I ought to shave and put on a really nice shirt.

I’m sure two or three of the recipients will respond with hosannas about my proposals, ask to see more or — hallelujah — offer me a contract on the spot. But no one responds. Never. They don’t say yes. They don’t say no. I don’t know whether they got them and are considering them, if they rejected them outright or if they didn’t get them and are sitting there banging their heads on their desks and beseeching, “Why on earth won’t somebody send me a proposal about Dick Cheney in cape!” It’s worse than even prom time in high school when at least I knew by the hysterical laughter that I’d earned yet another rejection. Then there are one’s like this that came last month from a top editor: “Thanks for sending this! I’m going to read it tonight and get back to you tomorrow.” I still haven’t heard back. Has she been abducted? Should I call? Send flowers? Form a search party? If she has been abducted and I succeed in saving her from lost time space ship experimentation you’d think she might look favorably on my proposal — or at least respond to my query with a crisp, “No thanks.” I guess maybe I was raised differently. If someone asks me a question, I answer. I respond to all my e-mails, even ones from students or fellow freelancers who are struggling and seeking veteran advice. I tell them what I can but always include the Bob Dylan line from the 1997 song “High Water” to add necessary perspective: “Don’t reach out for me, can’t ya see I’m drowning, too?” Pity my poor wife. She sees no result and certainly no income. In weaker moments, she counsels that maybe it’s time for me to find what she calls “crap jobs,” as if my professional existence could possibly become any crappier. Bless her heart, she just doesn’t have a clue.

There are no crap jobs and it’s too late for me to pack a lunch pail and head to plumber school. I’m in it up to my neck. The only thing left for me to do is to continue to fail at a more spectacular level. I can’t quit. I have to believe I have good ideas and one of them is soon bound to bear fruit. And on that happy day there will be a grand party. There will be extravagant booze, cigars, succulent seafood and dances of mutual joy until the sun comes up and the band slams the trunks on their battered instruments and heads for home. It’ll be one of the world’s greatest parties. And, by God, you’re all invited. Just be sure to R.S.V.P. It’s only proper.

By Rusaila Bazlamit; originally published on Reflect Upon on July, 22, 2008

So finally I have read [The Fountainhead] a novel that I knew many people praising… Once I started reading it I couldn’t stop till I finished it…
The novel is written by Ayn Rand… in the novel Rand chose Architecture as a form of self-expression…

Gary Cooper as Howard Roark; Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

I can’t understand why during my 5 years studying architecture none of my professors recommended the book… It is such a good book and deals with architecture in a new critical way… allowing us to interpret the history of architecture and the modern practices of it in a new way…

Many of the main characters are involved in Architecture whether they are architects like the main character Howard Roark or they are critics of architecture like Ellsworth Toohey…

The Fountainhead; Ayn Rand

The Fountainhead; Ayn Rand

The novel talks about selfishness, egotism and altruism through another perspective which shakes some of the bases of how societies are led to approve or condemn actions that are defined as virtues or sins by other people for whatever agenda…
As you are reading there will be many sections which you forget you are reading a novel but you concentrate on the ideas presented… again gaining more insights about architecture and society.
I liked the way Rand has used architecture as a medium to convey her own philosophies…
The novel is definitely a must-read… especially for architects and architecture students…
The novel had been made into a movie in the 1940s but I’m always disappointed when a novel is turned into a movie… so I recommend the novel… having said that I found this video of Howard Roark’s speech toward the end of the movie… is worth seeing… [ full Howard Roark courtroom speech]

Howard Roark: A building has integrity, just like a man.

The Fountainhead; Ayn Rand

The novel also tackles some of the ideas related to Capitalism and though I’m myself an anti-capitalism to the core… I have to say that I had a new understanding of Capitalism that made me reflect more about some of own ideas related to man, freedom and wealth…
Also the concept of self, self-sacrifice, selfishness made me think about the concept of the self in my own Islamic beliefs which I’ll talk about some other time…

It is a mind opening when we understand the hidden driving forces that shape, create and re-create some of our basic cultural and societal patterns…

The Fountainhead one of my best novels of all times…

After neglecting this thing for… however many months it’s been, I think it’s time to come back and writing something here.

So I have new novel out, Open Stage. I’ve approved it for publication at CreateSpace, but it’s not yet shown up on Amazon. It should soon.

It’s an old-ish story. I wrote a screenplay called Blind Faith years ago, intending to recruit actors and shoot it on video. It was to be a sequel to a feature-length video I had made previously called Crosswalk, a story about a character named Gilbert Ragwater. Well, for better or worse, Blind Faith never got off the ground, and the screenplay sat in a file cabinet drawer.

I’m inclined to think it was for the better. For the novel, I reworked a number of things and added some material that (in my opinion) makes Ragwater’s world more vivid. Although it’s now bulkier, the overall effect is that it’s more streamlined and elegant. It’s meatier. It makes a stronger, more well-focused statement about love and fidelity. Well, okay, not a statement. It challenges the reader to think about what he/she expects of relationships.

Anyway, the novel is a far better presentation of the story. A novel can dig deeper into a character’s head than a movie can, and that’s where this story needs to be. Open Stage takes full advantage of the opportunity. Blind Faith was like a skinny little kid, awkward and unsure of himself. Open Stage (while I would never claim it to be flawless) is that kid after he’s grown up, filled out physically, gained some “life experience,” developed some self-confidence and decided what he wants to do with his life.

1955. Novel. An American, Sebastian Dangerfield, and his British wife living in Dublin, Ireland just after WWII. This man is a true rogue and this novel is a true picaresque. Banned for obscenity. Fighting with his wife, hiding from collectors, sleeping with women, brawling, flunking law at Trinity, drinking, and waiting to get rich.

Donleavy once cited his chief artistic principle as: ”To make your mother and father drop dead with shame.” The Modern Library made it 99 on its list of 100 great 20th century novels. No character development. No real plot. Dorothy Parker called it “the picaresque novel to stop them all.”

What is it about? In Dangerfield’s words: ”Got to fight. Must resist or go down in the pile.”

By the way, if you look up the Ginger Man on google you will discover than dozens of bars have taken up the name. Dangerfield made the paper once with this headline: “Man Amuck in Public House.”

The writing style is unique. More like Joyce than anyone else, but not the extreme late Joycean style. It does not stay in first or third person. Sentences often lack verbs.

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Dear Reader, I am sure you have heard the saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Now, please read this fiction short story:

At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”

“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.

It’s a long distance marriage, and the ‘married bachelors’ have been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work. And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words: “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!)

“How was your day?” the husband asks.

“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines to meet!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.

“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says, “It’s killing – the work. Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”

It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived “quality” lovemaking with his wife, full of performance anxiety, each performing for the other’s gratification, putting on an act and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.

“Yes, darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her potent cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly intoxicating cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.

“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Mesmerized, marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.

“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.

“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his faraway wife and at the same time looks yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman lying so close to him.

“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together,” the wife says to her distant husband while she snuggles close against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her.  Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.

“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.

“I love you, darling!” the wife says.

Their lovey-dovey conversation completed, both the long distance spouses disconnect their cell-phones, focus on their present objects of affection, and, with renewed zeal, carry on the passionate amorous activity presently in hand. After all, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

At the beginning of this story I had quoted a famous saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Now I am temped to say: Absence makes the heart grow fonder – for someone else.

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

For many, the subject of memory remains a mystery.

As a writer, I’m particularly interested in memory. I’m working on two psychological thrillers, both dealing with recollections of past events. The second novel contains a number of flashbacks prompted by triggers, such as a particular sound or a certain smell. For a long time, I assumed that the strongest memories are the most accurate, but about a couple of years ago I heard otherwise.

Apparently, memories get muddled. When a person remembers an event from long ago, they’re really remembering a memory of that event. In some instances, people reinvent memories after a particularly traumatic event.. I’ve even heard that criminal lawyers dread dealing with witnesses who claim to have vivid memories of a crime, as so often the opposing lawyer manages to cast doubt on the witness account.

However, I still think the strongest memories are generally the most accurate. Recently, I got to see a class photograph taken at primary school. I hadn’t met any of the pupils or teachers for years and had moved location many times since the taking of the photograph. Children tend to remember grown ups as being “old”. As an adult looking back, I was expecting the teacher and headmaster to look much younger in the school photograph. But they didn’t. They looked exactly how I remembered them from years ago – a couple of rather austere grown ups. The hair, the facial features, the expressions all matched.

So what does this mean for me? It means that I’ll trust my memories and intuitions in future.

The Island

The Life Coach

1

Prologue

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark…. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach.  Check your road and the nature of your battle.  The world you desired can be won.  It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.”  - Ayn Rand

Such is my faith that I do not know who I am. I am not in charge of my life as I believed it was, just a few years ago…
My name is Jay Storm. I am a counselor and a psychological therapist and a so-called life coach.

Ironic, isn’t it; the life coach is not in charge of his own life. Many clients have I helped towards realization of themselves and their inner abilities to live a better life; to be fulfilled as what they truly are.
Myself? I don’t know what I am doing here. I have many thoughts in my head, but I do not know where they come from; they don’t seem to be mine anymore.

What to do? Where do I go? What is going to happen to me and more important; who am I if I am not me?

Picture a white room. Everything inside this room is white;

which means that there are no references or contrasts that can indicate where I am or what kind of room this is.  No shadows, not a trace of any other colour.
If a black spot suddenly would appear in front of me as if there was a wall there; how would I feel? What would that spot mean to me and how would the room change? Maybe it wouldn’t change, but just prove to me that this is a completely white room; that it’s there. I can see it now although it’s still very white.

I am trying to see myself as the black spot. I think I would feel very much alone. More now than before the black spot appeared.

Who has created this room which would drive me insane if I kept on staying here?

I think I would draw another spot a short distance from the first one and then a line in between the two spots. I would already feel much better. I would keep on doing this until I had lines and dots all over the room and I would be satisfied and say to myself; “Hey, I have a grip on this now! I can clearly see the room.”

Maybe it could work out that way, but I doubt it would make my life better or make me understand it.

I woke up one morning after having a nightmare. I could not remember what I had been dreaming, but I was very alarmed and felt uncomfortable when I set my feet on the floor. I just sat there for what must have been 15 minutes; totally empty, but I could still feel the turmoil inside my stomach or rather in the Solar Plexus area … I was sweating although the room wasn’t very hot. I knew: ’sweat coming from within’ as I called the phenomenon to myself. Something significant had been going on during the last half hour…

Something deep inside that had been waiting for many years to break through. This had started to happen about 20 years ago. I had started meditating 2 years before, which had affected me profoundly. My mind had opened to depths I couldn’t have imagined existed just 2 years before…
Now I was just waiting for the revelation to show up; what was this about? I lay down on my back with my head on the pillow. I think I just dozed off again, but then came the voice in my head: “wake up Jay, wake up Jay, WAKE UP JAY!!”

I found myself standing on the floor several steps away from the bedside. Now I could only hear the sound of tiny bells in the middle of my head… Then; as it was coming from far, far away; a distant voice from a child saying: “do you remember, Jay, when you were a little boy sitting in the light many years ago?” I didn’t know what to say or how to express myself… “Just talk normally”, the child’s voice said. Still I hesitated; “the shining light and the flowers, Jay!” The voice sounded a little annoyed now. I said: “you mean; you were there? How do you know about this? Who are you??” Then, to my amazement the voice said: “I am you and you are me!”, “please, can you explain?” “I am Little Jay, who saw these visions and I still know them and live them. Would you like to recapitulate them and be one with me and then I can be one with you…” I went to the bed and sat down. I was crying now.

L.J. as I had always called him and who had been on my mind and in my heart for so many years… Could this be true or was I still dreaming?

It took some time before I came to my senses again and it seemed like the boy understood; he was waiting for me. I said through tears that I would love to be close to him. Then I heard his clinging laughter in my head; L.J.’s laughter as I remembered it when I laughed as a boy! I became euphoric now; I laughed and I cried and went around in the room, stopped by the window with tears of joy flowing down my cheeks.
What a joy!

croenning@rocketmail.com

See also: www.illioscoaching.com

The Cafeneion

2

The Cafeneion

Doll enters the cafe. She marches up to the counter and says in a loud voice: “I had too much Tsekoudia last night and I have decided that I need some more today; as a cure and, while you’re at it, please pour two shots of whiskey too!”

She looks at Glow behind the counter as if she is not going to process her orders and laughs her horse like laughter.

She continues to stare at Glow with blood shot eyes, but Glow doesn’t mind her; she’s just happy to have a paying customer…

Doll finally turns around to view the other guests this early Friday morning:

“Bloody Hell, what a sorry creed you are hosting here today, Glow! I think I will have my drinks served outside.
Out she marches without a glance at the others. No one complains about her outbursts; they all know her…

Jay was sitting in his corner, tapping away on his computer keypad: exactly what is written above.

“Sometimes I hate these two lost cases of humanity”, he mutters to himself.
“They are ugly in all senses of the word, lost in this forsaken place. They are constantly grumpy and unpleasant to be around. They are drinking a lot, which doesn’t make them any more edible…”

Doll is big as a walrus and can scare any man or woman out of their wits by lashing truly horrible sarcastic comments at them in a pitched voice that must blow any decibel measuring instrument in to pieces.

She is usually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in dull blue-grey colors and she never wears a bra; everything dangling freely around on her torso; no walks on the cat walk for her; ever

Glow has a flare about her, but her grumpy and negative appearance kills it immediately…

Doll stumbles out the door sighing heavily with one hand on her forehead. Glow follows with the drinks on a tray and a huge glass of red wine for herself.

Before she can put the tray down on the table, Doll has grabbed the glass of Tsekoudia and gulped it down in one go. With the tray placed in front of her she immediately grasps for the nearest glass of whiskey and hoists it down her throat, followed by the other at the same pace…

Then she burps loudly with her mouth wide open. She licks her mouth and laughs her laughter again.

Glow has placed herself neatly with crossed legs on the other side of the table and is now sipping her wine like a lady.

There are still some British manners left in her, although she might not be aware of it.

Her face is shaped like the Himalayas as they can be seen on a satellite photo taken from space.

She constantly moans about the Café that doesn’t bring the money she had anticipated 4 years ago…

For Jay it works like this: he cannot stay too long with any of these hippos. “No wonder people are shunning this place”, he says to himself.

Jay feels like he is provoking them by his shear appearance; so he puts his money for his espresso on the counter and steps outside; saying good bye to the two beauties that have arrived at a more happy state now.

Doll’s face has turned purple and he worries for her health, but why should he?

After a few steps Doll growls something that sounds like: “Honey, are you leaving? Don’t you like us anymore?!” and then the laughter…

Jay hastens off, reminding himself that this must be the last time he visits this place, which is something he’s told himself through grinding teeth many times before.

The Café is shabby and worn out by being old and in the latest years neglected. There’s occasional leakage from the ceiling due to dried up concrete or, more likely; the remaining concrete is at a level of 20% compared to the rest of the compound which fills up the remaining 80% that is consisting of sand and pebbles…

When it rains the few guests must balance their steps in between buckets and pots that covers one third of the floor.

There’s an old gas heater by the wall and it’s lit during these wet circumstances; this mainly happens in wintertime and early spring.

The furniture is made out of the traditional Greek wooden chairs wound up with hemp string fitted as seats. Every 15 minute one should take a walk to ease up the tensions in one’s but and back. There are wooden tables to match the chairs. There are no table cloths on the tables. The owners are not too keen on extra expenses for laundry and the hassle of too much equipment in the Café.

In fact this is not a Café as a Northern European would see it. It’s a traditional “cafeneion”, where men used to smoke 60 cigarettes in 2 hours and have a glass of Ouzu and Mezes; a small dish of sardines, small pickled cucumbers and sweet red pepper and olives, all sprinkled with olive oil and served with white bread…

Jay lives just 150 meters down the street, so it’s convenient for him to drop in and have his morning coffee there now and then.

He starts his stroll down the street and already after 20 meters he is feeling relieved; the air is fresher; the light brighter…

The Café is situated on a little Platia named after a once famous Cretan General

It could have been a cozy place, but with these owners it will never happen. They just want to get out of the business and sell the whole establishment.

Jay lives in a newly renovated old house. His friends would call it a luxury to live there, but he can afford it with his reasonable income in the form of a pension and disability benefits from his own country. He feels better here; his disease can take the Mediterranean climate much better than up north where he comes from.

Looking down the street he can see the fishing harbour which lies by the local beach – just a few minutes’ walk away.

By turning his head up the street he has a full view of the “Lefka Ori”; “The White Mountains”. The name does not come from the snow covered wintertime scenario when there’s snow down the mountain sides and the highland plateaus. The highest peaks reach up to 2500 meters. The white comes from the color of the building minerals of these mountains.

At this time of the day Jay goes for a bicycle trip into town to meet friends and to buy the latest newspapers; The Guardian is his preferred paper.

He puts his computer in the bedroom cupboard and straps the rucksack onto his back and when he’s finally ready; he jumps the stairs down and fetches his bike in the shelf in the front garden. He’s happy as a little boy every time he he’s going for a ride on his bicycle.

In less than 3 minutes he’s in the street saddled for the best event this day. He turns the corner where the talkative owner of the barber shop sits outside in the still cool morning air. Jay smiles and waves his hand at him; a gesture that releases a loud “Kali Mera, fille mho!” Jay is always impressed by the power of the little man’s voice! No “sotto voce” there, but then he is a Greek man…

crnning@gmail.com

See also: www.illioscoaching.com

the aggressor

3

If my words did glow like the gold of sunshine

and my tunes were played on a harp unstrung

would you hear my voice come through the music

would you hold it near as if it were your own?

Grateful Death: “Ripples”

Chet

I am in a room which I call the office although it’s a bedroom, but with desks and chairs and a sofa for those of my clients who would like to lie down. The room also has a view to the sea, which is a view that has always had a calming effect on me. The walls are painted ruby red with thin golden vertical stripes. I painted it in this color on impulse and wasn’t at all sure if this was the right color. I like it, but I don’t know if my clients approve to it. I have asked them and they politely said that it was all right…

I was sitting in my swivel chair with my feet up on the desk, dozing off now and then. Late night yesterday and red wine to go with it…
“Too much, old man” I said to myself.

I was waiting for an early morning client while contemplating the last session with him; one of many and no progress whatsoever.

I had given him many hints to try something else, but he wasn’t very bright and couldn’t take it in.

The door bell rang and I went to open the door. Jock was standing outside viewing the sea; his face purple due to his constant drinking.

“Oh, Doc”, he said, “I had too many Heinekens yesterday and I am not quite sure if I can think straight today.” I was hoping that this statement would lead to a second and more favorable one, but he looked at me and smiled; “still there are things I have to talk with you about, Doc.” He insisted upon calling me Doc and I had given up trying to correct him.

“Right, Chet; come on in.” “You look great and stylish as always, Jock”. “Thank you Doc, It’s mostly for the ladies, you know. There has to be some style to it, especially in my age.”

He finally came up the two steps to my entrance door and went inside. Inside I could smell his perfume or maybe it was his after shave.

I went ahead and opened the door to my “office”.

He climbed in and sat down in his usual chair;

the deep ruby red one that had inspired me to paint the walls in the same color.

“So, Jock, you had something to tell me?” “Ah, I love this chair Doc!” was his answer.

“Something else to tell me?”

“Yes, sorry Doc, I always get distracted when I am here, but I feel it’s doing me good, you know.”

“In what way?”

“At first I am a wee bit nervous, you see, but then, after landing in this chair I just feel so relaxed.”

“Ok, Jock, but what was it you had to tell me?”

Finally he seems to get to the point, which hasn’t got too much point.

“You see, Doc, I had this telephone call last night from…”

“Lill?” I said. “Yes, you know, Doc, I am so angry with this woman; she stole my money, you know…” “Jock, how many times have you told me this story and when are you going to do something about it?”

He turned, if possible, even more purple now; his nose was shining like a beacon; “You know. Doc, I feel good when I come here to have these chats, but when you start cutting me off like this I actually get a little angry!” He had a stiff smile on his face all the time he was saying this.

“But, you know why I do it, don’t you? Or have you forgotten?” He stared at me with the same smile on his face. “Doc, when I feel bad as I do now, our chats will not benefit me at all. I pay you to make me feel better, don’t I?”

“Why do you have to bring this up every time you’re here, Jock?”

“And how many times have we gone through this same routine?” “You haven’t done a damn shit about your own situation. Not a single step towards finding the obvious solutions I have told you about to solve your frustration with women… What are you going to do about that?..”

“But, but, you are the doctor!”

“Jock, relax, how many times have we had this subject up for discussion?”

“Of course we have had it up, as you say, that’s why I am here, right?!” He had risen out of the chair and came walking towards me. Angry now; he came up to my face with his fists clenched.

“Jock, anything stupid from you and I will report you to the police, we have talked about this too, many times, your anger takes over and you cannot control yourself.”

He stops, turns as if to go back to his chair, but then turns back to stare at me again. “I’d like to see your diploma, Doc. Sometimes I wonder if you have any education at all!”

“Sometimes my clients aren’t yet ready to face themselves, Jock. You are one of these clients. My diploma is hanging on the wall, Jock, you have seen it before.” “Yes, but it’s nothing worth, you know, Doc; if your sessions doesn’t help me, I might as well find someone else who are really willing to help me out of this…”

“Jock, I have told you before; if you are dissatisfied with my treatment you are free to go wherever you want.

Actually, I advise you to do it as you seem to turn into a state of anger every time I criticize your lack of faith in yourself and just walk away to the nearest bar instead, for your precious Heineken.”

He spun around and in one second he came up to me and hit me under the nose and then punched my chin; real hard.

I just sat there, bleeding from my nose and looked at him. He was still angry, but a little bewildered now. He was slow, but he seemed to realize what he had done now…

I told him to leave and he turned on his heel and marched out of my office. I could hear the door slam when he left the house…

croenning@rocketmail.com

See also: www.illioscoaching.com

on the beach

4

On the beach with L.J.

My house was situated not far from the sea and I felt the urge to get out on my bicycle to shake some of my anger off.

I had had to clean up my messy face and put on a scarf to cover it up

Now I was on my bike; heading for the most peaceful beach at Christopoli. It was still early in the morning and I enjoyed the trip on my bike; as always.

Bicycling is one of the best ways of moving bodies. The fresh breeze in my face, the smell of the sea, the feeling of wellbeing as my body works to keep up my desired speed; in fact it is the most supreme vehicle on wheels that humans have ever innovated…

The lush sunlight coming through the canopies of the trees; the flickering in my eyes and brain makes me feel like I am going to have an epileptic episode…

I am still on my bike and I am doing well, but I am not here… I can watch everything around me, but it’s strange, although I have been doing this trip many times. It feels like I am switched into an automatic pilot mode.

I am leaving the lane of trees and I start to recognize my surroundings again.

“It’s ok Jay, it’s ok; nothing to worry about”, a soft and distant voice is telling me this. I start talking with it and soon realize that it’s L.J. who has shown up again.

“I am happy to have you here, my little friend”, I say and he responds with “ok” and nothing else. I am baffled and wonder if he just wants me to shut up while I am still on my bike?

“That’s right!” he says, “wait until we’re on the beach where we can play and swim and have a good time, that’s better than all the talking you seem to be obsessed with!”

Then silence…

I have reached the so-called Golden Beach now. It lies on the leeward side of a hill which keeps the wind away and hence, also the waves that can be dangerous some times on the beaches lying further west on the island; facing the ocean.

I find a place just beneath some outcrops

that provide shadow. I am not a fan of staying too long on the beach and in the sun.

“Congratulations Jay; this is a wisely chosen spot!” says L.J.

I lay out my big towel and lie down. There are just a couple of devoted sun lovers here yet; turning their bodies every 20 minutes or so and in between smearing themselves in with greasy and sticky cream. They can stay for the whole day like this.

I find it awkward to “talk” with L.J. and he says in my head that I can communicate with my thoughts; “as you have done before, remember?”

“Yes I remember; I was 23 years old and my mum was dying. I was the only one in her room; the rest of the family had pulled back to the adjacent room. She was in a coma and suddenly I could hear her voice in my head, as I heard L.J. now. She said, “So you do love me then!” I jumped out from the wall I was leaning to. My reply came immediately: “YES!” spoken in the same way as she had done. Then silence… she died 10 minutes after this “conversation”. I was the last one to stay with her…

“That’s it”, L.J. said, “that’s the way you can talk with me too; without a sounding word…

I smiled and then I laughed. I felt happy with this little boy inside. “Oh, but I am not inside you anymore, Jay. Let’s just see it this way: I am with you, but not inside you.”

“Now, let’s get into the water!” I was immediately up on my feet and ran into the water and then plunged into it and dived down to the bottom. It wasn’t very deep here. I felt the joy of being one with the salty sea, more than I had ever done since I was a kid, that is; when I was L.J.!

“Exactly, does it feel strange to you?”

“It sure does, my little friend, it sure does! Does this mean that we are as one now?”

“I am not quite sure yet; I must feel it from you first.”

By these words my tears started running down my cheeks. I didn’t know why, but I have always pictured myself as a loner and this was something very peculiar and strange for me.

“Don’t worry Jay. Do you remember what the dandelions and the light said to us way back then?”

I dried my cheeks with my scarf and said; “yes and I don’t think I will ever forget it in our lifetime, L.J. In fact; everything around us said that we were one with them. The dandelions said that they were as the light shining down on us, like suns, each one of them. Then the light; repeatedly telling me: you are never alone; we are all one, through all eternity…

And the weed, the grass and the bushes were shining with a purple aura around them and inside this aura there were small beings floating or flying around. No, I will definitely never forget these moments in our life!”

L.J. was laughing his laughter now; the one I laughed more than 50 years ago.

I felt this bliss inside, filling my whole body; it was aching inside my chest. I had to lie down for a while and let the blessed tears just run by their own pace now.

“Surrender, surrender” was all I heard in my head or was it my heart or L.J.

“Let’s take a long swim now, Jay” “Yes, let’s do that!”

Again I ran into the water like a little boy would, except this time I swam far away out and then let myself just lie still and let the sea just swing me along.

I stayed for 20 minutes and then returned back to the beach which had started to be filled up with sun worshippers now.

“Time to leave”, I told myself, but there was no reply this time. I felt good anyway; I could need some time by myself for contemplation…

crnning@gmail.com

See also: http://www.illioscoaching.com

Coming Closer

5

It’s a hand-me-down

The thoughts are broken

Perhaps they’re better left unsung

I don’t know, don’t really care

Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripples in still water

When there is no pebble tossed

Nor wind to be blown

Grateful Dead: “Ripples”

Home from the beach

Jay and Pearly Shade

Jay feels happy when he goes back home after the trip to the beach and the communications with L.J.
He feels like a little boy; whether it’s the ride on his bicycle or the meeting with the boy; it will be the same, because cycling is

an activity he has always enjoyed since he was a boy.

He rides along all the cafés along the Nea Hora Beach; it’s full of tourists now enjoying their holidays in the sun.  He has never been a tourist himself, but he enjoys the sight of playing children on the beach and in the water.   These people would come from his northern areas of Europe and this was their vision of Paradise on Earth.

They had 2 weeks with the sun and the lazy life on the beach; charging their batteries before they went home to jobs and school and rain and the cold Nordic climate.

He reached the main road and turned the corner and sped up his pace the last 100 meters to his house.

He parked his bike in the shed in the front garden, locked it and went up to the front door.  He opened the door and could hear someone singing inside; following the music on his CD player.  ”Ah, Pearly is here”, he said to himself.  Pleased to have her around again.

She was his secretary and kept a neat protocol over his clients’ addresses etc.  and more importantly; their healing progress as Jay kept a journal for each of them.

Pearly was also his friend and had been so for some years…

She was a remarkable woman to be around.  She was the most balanced person Jay had met; which was also the reason why he had asked her to take the job after his former secretary who had gone home to Germany after many years down here.

To his amazement she had answered yes, on the spot.  ”I have been waiting for this “proposal” since Ingrid left”, she said and sent him an inviting smile.

All his office routines went smoothly with Pearly.  She was such a pleasant person to be with.

He came into the hall and saw her dancing around while singing.  ”She could have been a  singer too”. he thought, “she could become whatever she’d wanted to with all her talents and her character!”

“Hi Pearly!”  he exclaimed, “I am going to have a shower, just 10 minutes.”   “Go on; I am not going to disturb you, if you don’t want me to”, she shouted back.

He smiled and went into the bathroom, which wasn’t too big, but very elegant.  Jay had a good taste for design and had had some arguments with the Architect and finally she had given in to his argumentation.   It was tiled from the floor to the roof in black and white rectangular tiles with vague flower patterns.   The bathroom have to be of high standard he told the Greek Architect.  She was a proud, Greek woman and used to deal with macho Greek men.  Jay had used some time to convince her that he was not like Greek men and especially not Cretan men.

She had laughed at his statement and then she’d become more willing to listen to him…

He had his shower and put on his Arabian Koftan that worked as a bathrobe…

Pearly was busy typing cards by her desk now and didn’t look up when he came into the office.  She was always very focused on what she was doing; at any time.   He was thinking as he always did when she was in his house: “what if we could be a couple?”   He always put it aside after rethinking it; she was his secretary and wouldn’t it be a little awkward to be working with his partner and in the house all the time.

He had asked her once;  as a joke, of course.  She had looked at him with her most sincere expression, taking her time.  Finally she had said: “I think that would have worked out well.”  Jay had jumped in his chair, but just smiled at her.  ”Maybe some day”, he replied and now it was her turn to smile back at him.

Since then they had always enjoyed each others’ company…

Pearly was in love with Earl Grey and used any chance she had to be close to him, but Earl was clear as always; in any matter:  ”You know that I am married, don’t you Pearl?  I have a good wife and I am never going to leave her.”  Pearly knew this, but she liked his ways and his direct approach to anything that came in his way.

Earl, Pearly and Jay were a threesome who always had a good time together.  They seemed to fit each other in all ways.

She had later asked Jay if they could have a session one day.  She felt she had some problems with her feelings for Earl and wanted to clear it up as Earl was very clear in his views about this.

After the tiny session she had said; “you know, Jay, it’s only Earl or you that I could partner up with”.

Jay was put back about this; he just said that he’d keep it in mind…

crnning@gmail.com

See also: http://www.illioscoaching.com

A man

6

Chet meets with Earl Grey

It’s the day after his visit to Jay. Chet is sitting in the Bar Tropic, having a Margarita. It’s still early in the morning, but he has called Earl Grey over to have a chat with him about yesterday’s ,

incident.

Bar Tropic is run by a British couple who are sweet enough; as they know how to treat their guests in their bar. The bar is a special place in the way that it’s built in to an old, ancient house which still carries memories which are blended with the flashy decorations the couple have created.
They have been allowed to paint and decorate as they like.
The colors are horrible here and there, but it’s fancy and their guests seem to like it.
The customers are mostly British and a few Greeks who want to have a different environment in a Northern European milieu than their well known Greek establishments.

Sometimes there are some Scandinavians popping in too, but they don’t stay long…

This early morning the only guest is Chet. He is sitting by the bar sipping his Margarita and chatting with the bartender, a sexy Greek girl who usually takes the morning and the late night shift. Jock still has a certain charm. He is what Jay calls a “Sweet William” who talks softly and politely with women. Sweet as he may seem; he’s very angry with them, mainly because he cannot keep his “Sweet William” attitude for a long time.
He is a moaner and opens up for anything sad he carries inside.
The girls and women grow tired from listening to the same old stories, which are the same as he is telling Jay; and anyone else…

After half an hour Earl enters the bar and walks up to Chet who’s a little tipsy by now and way into his first Heineken.
Earl smacks him on the shoulder and Chet turns around, with a red face, ready to return what he sees as an insult. He sees Earl and sighs. “Ah, it’s you Earl! Good to see you although you are a little heavy handed!”
“Nee buther, Chet, just a friendly gesture.” Earl loves to mock him a little for his Scottish dialect.
Chet is feeling better now after his Margarita and Heineken. “Maria, can you pour up a beer for the hot dog merchant here!”
“No, no; it’s too early for me, Chet. What is it you want to talk about?”

“Ah, I have messed up again; you know my temper.” And what kind of stupidity have you performed this time?” Chet looked at him. Chet knew he couldn’t get away with an easy explanation with Earl.
Earl didn’t care if people liked him or not. He had taken his stand many years ago and was happy with that; never stepped back for anyone.
Chet was still reluctant to tell anything, because he also knew that Jay and Earl were close friends and if he said something stupid he knew that Earl would be gone in a second.

“Come on Chet, I haven’t got all day!” Chet drank the rest of his beer and started to tell about yesterday’s event. He was clear enough to realize that he had to put the blame on himself. Earl would spot any excuses or attempts to talk around the subject…
“Ok, here it is; I made a fool of myself yesterday at Jay’s house and I don’t know how to make it up with him again. I am such a fool, but I don’t seem to be able to change it to the better.”
Earl looked at him and then he told Maria to bring a Greek Coffee for him.
Chet was not prepared for what was coming now; “You bloody idiot!” Earl said, ” you know as well as me that if you follow Jay’s recommendations, you can come to terms with yourself, but you are too bloody lazy, stubborn and self centered you little dick! Pull yourself together and do something right for once!”

No soft words delivered from Earl Grey; straight to the point; as he saw it…
Earl sat for a while in silence. He got his coffee and sipped down to the coffee grains. Then he rose up and turned to Chet again. “Pull yourself together and apologize to Jay and please; stop your drinking for a couple of weeks at least to clear up your brain if you still have one!”

Gone he was and Chet felt like the idiot Earl had called him. He rose up and paid Maria who just stood there eying him up and down. “Take care, Chet.” He nodded and was out of the door; his chin hanging down almost to his chest…

Maria heard him swear all the way up the alley…

crnning@gmail.com

See also: http://www.illioscoaching.com

Tiles

7

Jay’s real nightmare

Jay is lying in bed.  He has had a bad night after going through the session with Chet.

He went to bed early; exhausted after the special events happening to him.  He cannot understand the position of L.J.

He turns and then turns again, adjusts his pillow, checks the temperature on the air condition’s remote…  turns it down, just to turn it up again 10 minutes later.

Chet is only one of his cases, but the L.J. affair gives him more trouble; on a different level.  He cannot understand what is happening.  How can the little boy that was him come back in such a way and behave like a Guru?  How can his childhood memories pop up like this and in such a form?

“Now you are trying to be rational about something that is definitely not rational, Jay”.  ”Psychologically you can call L.J. your Alter Ego or a Sub Personality or your shadow; coming up from your unconscious to tell you something significant; something you don’t want to see or touch, something you think you have finished.”

He twists and turns, scratches his aching body…  Then gets out of bed to fetch a glass of water he left in the fridge.  He picks it out and drinks it in 3 gulps; “Ah! What am I doing this cold water can kill me drunken like this!”  His chest aches from the ice cold water.  He wanders around in the kitchen; paces around the table looking down at the floor.

He stops in the middle of the floor and looks down to the right and then to the left.  ”What is this?”  The floor is moving on both sides of him, like it is turning into a liquid form.  He stands still and do not dare to move in case he should take a wrong step and drown.  ”But this is my kitchen floor, made of concrete and laid with thick tiles!”   Telling himself this; reassuring himself that his surroundings are quite natural, when they are not, as he sees it now, is way out of line.  What to do?

He thinks of all the exercises he has been through in all the groups he has attended.  He has had some very bad experiences and some very good ones.  Now, being all by his own and in his own kitchen, he should be able to cope with it.

“But, on the contrary!  I have no one to guide me or tell me what is happening right here and now!”

“Ok, breathe deeply and focus on your lower abdomen and let whatever happens happen.”  With these words he manages to focus on the situation occurring around him.  He looks down on the floor again, first to the right and then to the left.

On his right side, the white tiles have turned pitch black!  When he looks down again he sees that it is shaped like an abyss.  Way down there he can see something moving; something light as smoke.  It’s partly yellow, partly grey.  It moves around like weed in the sea, but there’s nothing reassuring about that image.  He feels cold and knows that it’s not the water that has kept him cold these minutes he has been walking around…

He quite clearly feels that he is being sucked down into the abyss.  He feels all right about it though, because the shapes down there are some kind of life form; it’s not only a deep and bottomless abyss.

He steps very carefully now, because between his left and right side there is a narrow line of tiles, just 10 cm wide that he has to balance on. Finally he turns to have a look on his left side; the floor is like it should be, at least the first 20cm, then the floor changes to a grassy small hill.  On top of the hill he can see buildings and people moving around.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaims, “this is about life and death and I am given a choice whether I want to live or die!”

His whole body is shivering and sweat is running down his back and stomach. His head feels heavy as a bowling ball with all the holes blocked.  He looks down to the right again and is tempted to just let himself fall into the abyss.

“If it’s death I know I am safe, but I feel like going up the green hill anyway.  After all; it’s where I still belong.”  He turns to the left and steps into the green grass, which is now turning into his kitchen floor again.

He can hear a deep sigh from his right side and then the whole kitchen floor is stabilized and turned into a regular floor and oh so well known white tiles again.

Tears are running down his cheeks.  He feels relieved, but inside his chest there’s a tremendous pain…  ”It’s not your heart”, he says to himself, “it’s not your heart”…

.

He stumbles back to bed, feeling numb now…  He just falls down into the bed and is asleep before his head hits the pillow

crnning@gmail.com

See also: http://www.illioscoaching.com