Last February after scanning the rules, I decided to submit a 10-min play in a competition.  Ten plays would be selected and performed on stage in late June (2023).  The deadline was February 28th. I had plenty of time. I submitted my play with high expectations. After all, I had two characters, one simple set, and my play fit the time limit. The overall theme was to occur in a waiting room. I selected a bus terminal. 
      The important thing was that something significant had to happen to each character or to the plot within those ten minutes.  Mine did.  My main problem was selecting a title of my play. It had to be a clue and hook people into wanting to know what was happening or going to happen.    
     Normally, when I submit something—a play, story, book, poem, essay, or an article--- I submit and forget about it and work on another project.  That’s the nature of a writer’s life. I have had many, many rejections and am accustomed to rejection letters and emails, but golly geez… for some reason I had a good feeling about this particular play.
      On a lark, I made motel reservations so that I could be there --- some 400 miles away from my home.  I figured the trip could qualify as a mini-vacation.  It certainly would surprise my husband since we weren’t able to take a regular vacation due to some health issues.  Also our dear cat had died a couple of years earlier, and we had not adopted a new pet. Even though we visited the local Humane Shelter several times, I refused to bring home a cat until “after” our mini-vacation. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about a pet care-taker. 
     When I shared with a friend who also writes plays that I’d made motel reservations, we both laughed hilariously.
      My play was not selected.   
     I picked up the phone and cancelled my reservations. A good thing too.  For every door that closes, another one opens.   Since then, I’ve tweaked my little play and made it better. I’ve shared it with some people, and they like it.  Thing is, I like it too. I’ve changed the title three times, and I’m fairly satisfied with my latest pick.  I’ve had the best time fooling with these ten pages. I’ve cut dialogue, changed a couple of lines that widened the plot, and I gave the ending a better resolution. 
      I’m still amused at myself, but I’m relieved I don’t have to drive 400 miles on a mini-vacation to a place I never considered visiting.  Instead, I’m lining up a mini-vacation to a destination I do want to see, and I’m going back to the Humane Shelter “after” this little trip.
       Yes, of course I’m still tweaking my play.  I’m going to submit it to another competition.  Its current title is “Apple Wine.”  I thought of using “Apple Cider” and/or “Apple Vinegar" but I like “Apple Wine” better.  Like all writers do, however, I still may change it. Unlike an architect or builder, I can change my work.  The builder’s solution, as I read in a humorous essay one time, is to grow ivy over his or her  mistake.
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     I am sharing a little message I received from a friend Karen N. I asked her if I could use it as a blog. I think it applies to many of us. It's a wonderful look into what was a golden time.  Here's what she shared. Enjoy.

      I grew up in Indiana and never once questioned my mom and dad’s income, it was never a discussion. We didn't eat a lot of fast food because it was considered a treat, not a food group. We drank Kool-Aid made from water that came from our kitchen sink with real sugar. We ate PB&J & grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs, but mostly homemade meals consisting of meat, potatoes, and vegetables .
 
       We grew up during a time when we mowed lawns, pulled weeds, babysat, helped neighbors with chores to be able to earn our own money. We by no means were given everything we wanted.

      We went outside a lot to play, ride bikes, run with friends, play hide and seek, or went swimming. We rarely just sat inside. We drank tap water from the water hose outside, bottled water was unheard of. If we had a coke, it was in a glass bottle, and we didn’t break the bottle when finished.

       We watched TV shows like Leave It To Beaver, Gilligan's Island, Happy Days, Bewitched, The Brady Bunch, Looney Tunes, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Sanford and Son, and Disney on Sunday night, McHales Navy, Andy Griffith, and I Love Lucy. Mom decided everything we watched or didn’t watch. After school, we came home and did homework and chores, before going outside or having friends over. We would ride our bikes for hours. I had to tell our parents where we were going, who we were going with, and be home when the street lights came on!
 
      You LEARNED from your parents instead of disrespecting them and treating them as if they knew absolutely nothing. What they said was LAW, and you did not question it, and you had better know it!

         We watched what we said around our elders because we knew if we DISRESPECTED any grown-up we would get our behinds whipped, it wasn't called abuse; it was called discipline! We held doors, carried groceries, and gave up our seat for an older person without being asked. You didn't hear curse words on the radio in songs or TV, and if you cursed and got caught you had a bar of soap stuck in your mouth.   

        “Please," "Thank you," "yes please," "no thank you," were part of our daily vocabulary!

     The world we live in now is just so full of crooked people, hate and disrespect for others. I will never forget where I came from and only wish children now days had half the chance at the fun and respect for real life we grew up with!
     
​        And we were never bored!

​                It is important to have friends. It is important to know people. It is important to have professionals who know how to take care of our safety, health, cars, insurance, legal, and banking needs, and most especially, the education of our children.  It’s also important to have a handyman who can come and help when little things occur such as a window screen that blows off during a high wind storm, change a fluorescent light bulb, repair a rail, or move a tree that fell into the yard.  I found that handyman, and I’ve told him several times how I appreciate his help. I also pay him.
                 One time the front lock on our door jammed and the entire lock system had to be changed. Another handyman came and fixed it. In fact, he had a card that read “Mr. Fixit.”  He was busy all the time. Trust me, there is nothing more satisfying than knowing there is someone a person can call upon for help.
                 There are also people who focus on and help us with our spiritual needs. It seems appropriate during this month of Eastertide to mention that spiritual needs speak to a range of needs—peace, a sense of awe, a sense of fulfillment, purpose, and a sense of feeling loved.  These feelings can come by means of music, literature, friendship, nature, family, and or course, one’s faith.  Listening to performances of Chopin’s “Ballades” gives that feeling to me. Reading a story or a poem that speaks to one’s inner needs is important nourishment.  A hike in the outdoors or simply sitting on one’s porch watching the sunset or sunrise can fulfill a need.
                I came across a little poem the other day that I think summarizes the appreciation that most people experience.  It was written by my father at some point in his life. (He died in 1980.)  At any rate, he was an accomplished man, very humble and very educated.   I will share it with you:
I’m thankful:
                For home, books, and friends,
                For forest, field, and flowers,
                For breezes that blow, and
                For gentle showers…
I’m thankful:
                For the glory of Fall
                For the inspiring Spring
                For birds that sing---
                Yes, I’m thankful for everything.
 
                It’s a simple poem but it speaks to what was important to not only him but also to poets and writers of every stripe and nation.  April is NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, so in spite of the chaos of national politics and international conflicts, disasters, and tragedies, if one truly examines  life,  it does seem to boil down to nature, home, friends, words,  and music.  Poets are handy with words, and sometimes their lines like Mr. Fixit help us adjust and express our feelings. Happy National Poetry Month!

 For many who’ve tuned into the news, it seems our world and culture is unraveling. Change is everywhere, and much of it is not good.  My daughter and I got to talking about the word “bad” versus “badly.”  I told her I read somewhere that one easy way to remember the difference between “bad” and “badly” is to think of “badly” as being able to feel some object or item with one’s hands.  If deep in one’s heart, someone senses sorrow, grief, or guilt, he feels “bad.” Bad is an adjective, meaning inferior or poor such as a bad check, a bad cold, bad news. Badly is an adverb, denoting “very much.”  If a person feels bad, he is not well.  If a person feels badly, that means he is not smoothly touching something.
               Of course I had some help from a columnist in our newspaper who writes about words, grammar, and usage and by checking an old handbook I  found stashed on my shelf. The Plain English HAND BOOK by Walsh was revised and published in 1959.  It states previous issues were in 1951, 1946, and 1939.  That’s WW II times!  The handbook went on to become a reliable reference throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and now, here for me in 2023. Amazing! 
                I found it interesting that the opening line of the Preface reads as follows:  “This is the complete handbook containing all rules, definitions, and illustrations necessary to the mastery of functional grammar and usage.”   Those editors would never recognize words we use today.  I remember when words such as ‘cyber,” “modem,” and “nerd” were new. The dictionary recently added more than 300 words found in our daily usage, pop-culture, and politics. SCRABBLE players can vouch for many of them. Consider a few added in 2023: “rage farming,” “nearlywed,” “hellscape,” and “liminal space.”
                When I was in the 9th grade, I certainly didn’t know the difference between bad or badly, but I did know when something was “good.”  Children were taught to be “good.”  Bad was something nobody wanted to be.  When I look at the world today I ask, is our world and culture good or bad?  Is it unraveling? If so, what WAS it previously?  I’m sure it was bad back then and even before then.   Evil has existed since the beginning of time, otherwise, why would there be a need for a Redeemer?  But that’s another subject.  Evil is rampant, yes, as witnessed by headlines in newspapers about murders, pedophiles, and such. But that also is another subject.
                  “Blood leads” is a term for journalists.  It makes headlines. Think of the line at the grocery store and the magazines that feature scandals, mayhem, and blood. Today it may be the Murdaugh trial, some celebrity, or tragedy, but tomorrow there will be other deeds to cover.  In spite of all that happens, there is much good in this world, more than we can fathom.  People are basically good-hearted, sympathetic, helpful, and generous.  The definition of good is “having positive or desirable qualities” such as beneficial, helpful, excellent.  There is good news and bad news. I guarantee, if you look for what is good, you will find and experience it.  Really good books dwell on good, bad, and evil themes and characters.  They often become classics. And what makes a classic a classic?  That also is another subject.  

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Recently Peter Funk (of “Candid Camera”) had a piece in the Wall Street Journal bemoaning how companies building electric cars are no longer putting AM radio in their systems.  He reflected how in his youth youngsters couldn’t live without their transistor radios and how people listened to their favorite programs on AM radio.  How difficult it must be for youngsters today to realize there was a time when people didn’t have the computer, internet, or mobile phones.  Remember when a long-distance telephone call caused a person to almost quake with fear because getting a “long distance” call meant some sort of family emergency or death. 

When I was much younger, I sat for several dental students to take their final dental exams at the University of Pennsylvania (I was teaching in a Philadelphia suburb at the time).  In appreciation, the students got together and gave me a transistor radio.    I’ve still got it somewhere.     It is fun to watch old TV programs and note how characters answer or speak on the phone. The really old TV programs show the black square rotary phone. More modern ones show characters using wall phones, then wireless ones, and now the small ubiquitous “smart phones.”  Seems now that everyone has a cell phone and communicates, communicates, and communicates. Fact is, researchers from The U. of California, Irvine, and Microsoft Research, found that people on average check their inboxes 77 times a day. Some things go out of style as innovations occur. Graham Bell and Thomas Edison would not recognize this world. 

 Sometimes when I don’t sleep, I’ll turn on the radio in the middle of the night and listen to Coast to Coast with George Noory.  The other night, I listened to a noted astronomer who has a career making predictions based on his knowledge of astrology.  He explained the various alignments of the planets and predicted a stormy, difficult 2023 and 2024.  In fact, he said that in two years, America might not even exist or it might be a star rising like a phoenix from the ashes.  The predictions were dire.  It all came over AM radio, and I loved listening until I fell asleep.
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When waiting for some appointment, people often flip through magazine pages, appalled at some of the stories.  Others put the magazine down and watch people go by.  I recall someone telling another, “Let’s go to the Mall and watch people.”  That was long ago, when going to the Mall was an occasion. Writers are observant. They have to be in order to develop stories that interest or fascinate.   Truth is stranger than fiction, as the old saw goes.  To be honest, that is so. Truth is, we will have six more weeks of winter. Punxsutawney Phil told us so…. Whether we talk and tell stories via the modern phones, listen to them over Sirius Radio or AM stations, or make up tales about characters we see or imagine, there is a story to be told.  

     Confessions are good for the soul. Here’s one I will make.  Sheepishly, I’ll admit, I got hooked.  I got hooked watching the History Channel’s series, “The Curse of Oak Island.” Of course there is treasure buried on Oak Island, otherwise why would the Laguna brothers—Rick and Marty—and their team spend millions of dollars and dig through muck and stone searching for the money pit?   They have built a dam; they have bored holes; they have researched bits of wood; they have dynamited areas; they have used technology and heavy machinery; they have drained the swamp; and they have captivated millions of viewers who hope they will find buried treasure.  Actually I laugh thinking surely I cannot possibly be hooked, can I, watching people dig holes? 

     In teaching and critiquing manuscripts and writings, I tell students they must have a good hook at the beginning of their stories. In the Oak Island saga, the hook can be termed “the search,” which for some two hundred years has driven people to study the landscape and terrain of that small island off the shores of Nova Scotia. Will it be the Holy Grail? A chest full of gold?  Perhaps the lost manuscripts of Shakespeare’s works?  What I know is the search, the hook as it were, is the story, and in this case, it isn’t fiction.

     Speaking of adventures and holes.   Years ago the librarian in our town (now deceased) told me of an adventure I should take with my children. “Visit the Blue Hole,” she said. “It’s a wonderful short trip from here, and you’ll have a good time.”   So, on a summer day, the family packed up and we traveled east to Castalia, Ohio, where we were informed the “Blue Hole” was located. 

     When we arrived and asked where we should go to see the Blue Hole, the woman in the restaurant –I think it was a Dairy Queen, said she’d never heard of it. Another person, overhearing our conversation, said she knew about it, but that it was “nothing special.”  Off we went, not knowing what to expect. Truly, it was nothing special.  Except it is. From 1920 until it closed in 1990, the Blue Hole was a tourist spot, and some 165,000 visitors came annually to see it.  Alas, we never did see the Blue Hole. What we did see was a little park area, a couple of benches, and a hand pump. It wasn’t the Blue Hole. Later we learned the real Blue Hole, a fresh water pond fed by an artesian spring, had closed, and it was in the private domain of the Castalia Trout Club. We later also learned there are several blue holes in the area.

     Oak Island’s treasure, I understand, has been discovered. I’m still hooked. Like a good story, like a good book, there is intrigue, mystery, good characters, and a plot. Every writer should get hooked on his or her own story. Interestingly enough the Blue Hole is still the subject of articles and questions about its history.   When I talk about watching the digging on Oak Island, my husband likes to say, “Well, well, well --three holes in the ground and it rained.”  I note, however, he seems intrigued. 

I am late writing this blog. I try to get one written each month, but December has almost slipped away , and here I am trying to corral a couple of days left before the end of the year.  My wish for everyone who reads this is summed up in a line or so written by a former U. of Richmond (VA)  alumni who said:
             “My wish is simple: 
             Peace in every nation,
             Joy in every heart
              A mitten on every hand.”

I am going to try to find out her name, as she deserves the credit for putting so much into four lines.

This wish rests on a foundation of hope.  I’ll leave it there even though there are doubts that such successes can ever occur.  Even so, we can hope.  And so the year of 2022 ends.

     November came as a surprise.  I wasn’t ready for it. Because of a hospitalization situation, the month slipped up for me from what I thought would have been sweet late October weather with  bright leaves, blue skies, and cigarette cream- colored fields, freshly harvested.  But, instead, I was “up a tree,” metaphorically speaking.  From a hospital window I watched russet leaves silently fall to the ground.  All now is well, but I have one thing to say:  Nurses are angels. They are. Every one of them.   It occurred to me many times over, how to be nurse calls for a certain type of person: one who can be patient, one who can be efficient, and one who can convince a person that all will be well. 
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           They have good training too. I checked this from the Internet: The minimal qualifications needed to become  a practicing registered nurse  ( RN) are an associate degree or a Bachelor of Science in Nursing, and passing the National Council Licensure Examination for Registered Nurse.  To be accepted in a nursing school a person must have “a high GPA and good scores in math, chemistry, biology, psychology, and other subjects. The profession is rewarding, challenging, and always exciting.”

       I was not the hospitalized person. I was, instead, an observer. As nurses assisted, performed tests, and calmed nerves, I watched, amazed to think that in this world of chaos and trouble, there are individuals who deserve every dollar and more for what they perform. Let me tell you of one little example that has nothing to do with medicine.  The patient was impatient.  TV wasn’t captivating. Reading was not possible. What to do?  Ah yes, music, but not any music. Soft piano jazz –a lá Oscar Peterson type jazz--would work. So, one young male nurse/ assistant found a way to bring in the music. All night long, the soft piano jazz music played and so the restless patient found peace.

       So, it seems appropriate to me that as we move to join Thanksgiving gatherings –and get busy during the holiday season beyond--, to express thanks for nurses, nurses’ assistants, and all those who work in hospitals, nursing homes, and emergency wards. They are the angels who bring help and messages of assurance. Bless them all. Whether it’s an emergency, a broken bone or two  from falling out of a tree—as two different men from my church have recently experienced--What WAS EACH ONE  DOING UP A TREE AT THEIR AGE?????- it is good to know there are those who work even on holidays and weekends to bring help and healing to afflicted.  Perhaps one of two men was putting up Christmas lights; the other probably was working on his deer blind. December is coming.  As you put up your tree, be careful. Don’t fall. 

​        Ever read a book and find yourself not wanting it to end?  That’s the way it was for me with DIRT by Bill Buford.  When I got near the last chapters, I started reading it bit by bit, day by day, making it last. Truth to say, I didn’t understand lots that he had to say about French chefs, restaurants, or dishes, but I enjoyed the adventure he had while spending 6 years in Lyon, France. Actually the apartment he and his family rented was directly across the way from where Lyon’s history is commemorated in murals, something my family saw years ago when we vacationed in Europe. That was a long, -- a very long time--, ago. Even so, his book about the French cuisine brought back memories.  
      After I read the review of DIRT in the Wall Street Journal, I decided I had to read it. The library didn’t have a copy, so I ordered a copy.  I had it sent to one of my daughters as a present, telling her she might enjoy it.  She also was ordered to share it with her other sister when she finished.  After she received the copy, she laughed and told me she “got through it. I read it all the way through.”  She passed it along to her other sister, whose comment was “I tried, but finally gave up.”  They gave the book back to me.  So, there it was, DIRT, waiting for me finally to read.
        I found it enjoyable, but quickly realized it is not a book for everyone. It’s difficult. It’s full of French names, dishes, and recipes.  The idea of the title, I decided, is that the “dirt” from a certain locale in France is the reason for the wonderful flour that makes French bread so memorable.  Given this experience in reading and remembering, I sought out another book about the French.
        One hint the author of FRENCH TOAST wrote is that everyone should memorize the recipe for good Vinaigrette.  I decided one afternoon that my husband, now retired, needed something to do. I gave him the recipe and asked him to make the Vinaigrette.  I also told him the ”customary” meal there was in five courses:  the hors d’oeuvre’, the salad, the main entre, the cheese plate, and the dessert.  I informed him as well that he would be lucky if his meal would consist of only ONE or maybe TWO of those five and his “Vinaigrette” would be the star of the salad.  The book did not tell me this, but I read somewhere, that if a person makes a salad consisting of five items, it will be successful.  Okay, so I looked in the vegetable in. I have cabbage, lettuce, carrots, sweet peppers, and must find something else. Whatever I find will be served with his Vinaigrette.
       This blog isn’t about writing or the craft of writing, but perhaps it will remind the reader that books teach us about people, places, and customs, and if a person can’t travel to experience them, a book can do wonders.   A basic vinaigrette recipe?  1 tsp. of mustard, 1 tbsp. vinegar, 3 tbsp. oil, salt, pepper, and optional: tarragon.  Ah, but, there are questions?  Should it be “prepared” mustard or “ground” mustard?  Should the oil be lighter than what I used?  Should the vinegar be red wine or apple cider?  How much salt? How much pepper?  This little recipe is enough for only two salads. It can be doubled and tripled.   Oh well, there are cookbooks I can check to get me on the right tract, and I have a shelf of cookbooks. The internet also can give me answers. “Happy cooking, “as Jacques Pépin always said at the end of his show.   

     The Scribbler’s Pub is made up of a few individuals interested in improving their writing skills. They meet once a month at a local library. They read and critique each other’s works. From time to time, they invite an established or professional writer to speak about the craft of writing and publishing.  Recently I attended one of their meetings to hear playwright and published author Ruth Tyndall Baker tell about her work.  To begin the workshop, she led the group in a Q & A game. Winners were rewarded.  

     One point made as the group discussed their efforts was that a beginning writer has a hard time accepting and dealing with the idea that he or she actually is a writer. Most professions require training and then a certificate, license, or diploma is granted. A writer or poet or play writer has to determine that he or she is actually, yes, a writer, poet, or playwright even though he or she may not be published.

      When I talk with students who want to be writers, I tell them to practice saying aloud,  “I am a writer”;  “I am a poet” ; I am a playwright.”  It shouldn’t be as hard as saying “I am a teacher, lawyer, homemaker, or merchant,”   but it is. Imagine saying, “I am a minister” or “I am a plumber.”   Such a declaration implies the person has a profession, a calling, gets paid for he does, and/or has some success. In the case of a writer, a writer works alone, isolated, writing,  thinking, revising, polishing, and then submitting work. There are rejection letters, one after the other. Sometimes there is no response at all. Baker, the speaker at the Scribbler’s Pub, reminded the group she queried nearly one hundred agents and publishing companies regarding her play and only received three responses, and each response was a rejection. In spite of such a dismal situation, writers keep at it. People who think Grisham, Patterson, or Stephen King must remember that for each one, there are thousands who haven’t had one piece of work published. 

     I have been fortunate. I’ve had some success, but success isn’t a matter of money, certainly in my case. Writers do have, however, a need to be affirmed, and for that we do attempt to publish or see ourselves in print.  Even so, writing is in the process more than the result.  Most writers I know despise the process of marketing…which is difficult indeed but necessary.  Most writers I know say they can spend hours and hours writing and re-writing their work.  Whereas a painter uses oils and brushes, writers use words, and words have shadings and meanings. It becomes an artistic process. Marketing, however, is a business. It’s tough.

     I believe some people are born with the need to express themselves through the written word. My Hungarian friend,  Janos Shoemyen, now deceased, knew and used several languages. He told me English is the language best suited for the written word. English words have subtleties and shades of meanings, and it is a delight—and creative-- to select the very best word for some expression or emotion.
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     The problems most writers have, however, is to be succinct. Think bullets.  Too much rambling, and the writer loses the reader. Short declarative sentences were Hemingway’s technique. It’s something journalists learn early on. State the facts. I tend to be wordy with my writing because my thoughts keep coming.  Even though I’m a seasoned writer, I still have to cut, prune, revise, and cut words. Sometimes I have to throw away perfectly lovely sentences. Ouch.