Little River

“The Withlacoochee River narrowed, and then branched. We stayed to the East of the water and followed the smaller split before Henry Lee stopped the carriage.

“This is Little River, Miss Katherine.”

It was small and still, greenish and amber hued yet clear and crisp. Three men could lie boot to hat and bridge it in the area selected for our fishing festival. I know I must have looked unimpressed with the quick way in which Henry Lee went on to defend the spot.

“It's been raining, all them fish are gonna come through here looking to eat up all the washed out bugs. It's a good spot, Miss.”

His smile forced my surrender, he was clearly pleased to be out on such a task.”

-excerpt from 'Before Bed, Monday, August 19, 1861' in Diary of Mimosa Creek. 

(Despoina Publishing/ E.M.K. 2012)  

Photo: Little River, April 6, 2014. E.M.K.

The Cowardice of Stereotyping

As a writer, I focus much of my attention on the flaws of the human character, and by extension, the bleaker bits of the human condition. The fragility of the human mind is my forte. It is my gluten-free bread and farm churned butter. It is, as they say, my wheelhouse. Every writer has a method of character development. Every writer has particular aspects of the character development process at which they particularly excel. For me, the mind of the character will often reflect a haunted spindle from which carefully woven woe may be expected. Much beauty resides in the phantoms of the mind. It is my wheelhouse, and I am very good at my craft.

But this isn't just another blog update detailing how much genius fits into my little mortal mind. This is something deeper and more significant to the umbrella under which we all huddle. This is about cowardice, ignorance, the easy path, and a general lack of wit, sense, taste, and finesse. This is about the epidemic of little tiny minds collectively creating myths and monsters out of everyday people. This is about character development and how the reading of characters, the writing of characters, the viewing of other humans, and the treatment of other humans, when rooted in wide accusations of social stereotypes is proof of one lacking in self-awareness, frankly hateful, and not very clever at all.

Let's run some field examples:
1: Girls in pink. Boys in blue.
2: Black male = Enraged criminal. Drug dealer.
3: White male = Upstanding citizen. Family man. White-Collar criminal.
4: White female = Excellent mother. Now or in future.
5: Black female = Prone to fits of unintelligible rage. Poor mother to many children only related by her genetic profile.
6: Fat = Lazy. Gluttonous. Disgusting. Undereducated.
7: Thin = Vain. Self-absorbed. Approval-seeking.
8: "Seeing a therapist" = Weak and fragile to the point of distrust and suspicion.
9: Homosexual male = Woman hating flower.
10: Homosexual female = Man hating thug.
11: Wealthy = Trustworthy, moral.
12: Impoverished = Scheming opportunists.
13: Christian = Correct in every aspect.
14: Atheist = Evil in every aspect.

I could go on.... but who with a functional mind would want to?

We see others, characters in the stories of our own worlds, in either our own way or the way we're told to. It is a stark and necessary choice. You could have possession of your own intellect or you could sneer or smile when it seems socially acceptable to sneer or smile. You could enslave yourself to the whims of hatred, the fleeting pointless extension of a collective wrong if you wished. But who would want to? Why should this happen if it serves no purpose beyond the ease of not thinking for oneself?
Does it affirm something? Is the distance placed between the person who believes "fat is gross" magically made greater by that sorry weak implanted thought and the thinker's own image problem?
It's a placebo loaded down with hatred.

It is my business to create characters and populate tales. It is not just my business, many others tread this path, but it is a part of the job that I very much enjoy. That said, there is little more that infuriates me so quickly as the thoughtless and careless use of stereotypes. (This is specifically a focus now on literature, although many deep examinations have been made of music, film, and society at large by more eloquent sources than me.) When a writer uses a stereotype as the sole basis of character explanation to a reader, it is an act of unmitigated perpetuation of prejudice. It is vile. It is dangerous. It shows their readership no respect. It lacks in every noble aspect of creativity and honestly, it is simply poor form and bad writing.

Black, gay, atheist, fat, or poor are not character flaws.

It's a rambling rant, I grant you that. But there is meaning here. There is no greater value in all the world than to see people as who or what they are when they are permitted to exist as themselves. There is treasure, vast and waiting to be claimed, in tolerance. People are characters, Love. They are characters which occupy your story. What you deem “wrong” in them does not make all those things you see “right” in you more real. And you, symbiotically, are also a character in their story.

A character beholden to some arbitrary expectation of what they ought to be, based on some overarching view of definition, is a failure. So too is a mind and a life.

3 1/2

I'm just terribly private, you see? Everything about the process seems like such an unavoidable hurdle. It isn't like I dislike people.

I like people.

I like what makes people people.

The ticking and the tocking.

If that feels as if you've just stepped close enough to overhear some nugget of a conversation which was in no way aimed in your direction, then you understand. I feel that way all the time. I started you off on the same foot I'm usually standing on.

And it isn't as if people don't like me. Contrarily, people often find some part of me worth gravitating towards. Usually, it's some part that is a stranger to me. It's fascinating, flattering, and more-often-than-comfortable, unnerving.

See? This is my 'unnerved' face. (actually, it was taken while we were on holiday in Atlanta in July. The lights in the bathroom at Hotel Indigo (fantastic place) made my eyes look weird.)

Don't wrap this gift in the gaudy paper of ungratefulness. Or please, at least, do not read it as such. I am thankful for interactions, although it may force me to seem like a new-born doe on ice. I'm doing my best. Between the unfairly neglected Official Facebook page, the even more neglected blog, and the criminally neglected Twitter feed, it may not seem like it, but I'm doing my best . . .and you matter.

That's a conundrum, isn't it? The whole thing. This whole thing. It's a tennis match with my ego. I'm sorry to drag you through this, but it's part of the deal. If you read this blog hoping to learn about me, then you get to have the unadulterated insight that I do not have the patience (or energy) to perform as a persona. I could dress it all up as pleasanter or easier to digest, but why? If you've read this far, you're in on the deal. We're in this together, and the person to which I would like to direct the sentiment, “you don't get to be disappointed that I'm not who you thought I was” has either already left or is reading on in a huff. Either suits me just as well as the other.

Now, let's talk about the hard stuff.

My family (biological, step, in-law, & Soda Ash) aside, I could fit in the palm of my hand all the people who I have called 'friend' in all of my life. It's a muddled concept, 'friend'. It's a simple word, used often, filled with meanings which differ from one to the next. I'll drive it home: I have five friends. Five extraordinary human beings to occupy their own little sections in my life. One of them is married to me. The other four don't know each other. That is the honest, dark, deep depth of it all. It's purposeful. It's deliberate.

Obviously, I should probably address the fact that I've likely just annoyed scores of people. I don't mean to betray or humiliate: If you know me, and feel hurt by what I just admitted, I'm sorry. I care about you, Poet. About you, Mom-of-three-one-adopted-but-three-well-loved-children-in-total. And you, quiet-yet-well-loved illustrator. All of the rest of you wondering if you're on the fence, I do care for you. I really do. The only difference between you and The Five is that The Five approach me like a medicine which could harm if taken improperly. I'm getting off-track...

The point is (finally) that I've opened myself up to a vast world of connectivity. Part of me wants the contact with readers, while part of me stumbles all over myself in the attempt. I never re-read these blog posts as I know I would delete much of what I typed, so - no edits (lucky ducks). I simultaneously get the most bizarre messages on FaceBook, as one would ask about 'the underlying symbolism' in my work, while the other asks if I've seen the latest 'The Voice'. Nine times of ten the legitimate questions have answers that I really can't share with someone who hadn't read it yet. So, my relationship with readers, a relationship I would truly like to learn to foster, is still greatly one-on-one. I'm trying to suss out how to remedy that.

This has taken 3 hours. I could write about the smallest little hidden sliver of a memory lodged in the deepest recesses of a haunted mind …. thousands upon thousands of words, in 3 hours. This is very difficult for me....worth it, I think, but difficult.

I think what caused all of this is that someone felt closer to me than she was. A reader, I never met her, connected through Facebook, read my books, sent me messages, she wanted me to be something she invented, she got angry, felt hurt, I kept hurting her. She kept getting hurt. She said that I'm a disappointment. I said it didn't concern me. She called me 'condescending'. I agreed.

Had it gone another way, it could have been a lovely conversation.

In summation and conclusion: I'm trying. I am really really trying.

Very few people are 'close' to me.

You don't have to be 'close' to me for me to care (deeply) for you.

Reading my work is the highest praise.

Being able to give me a dissertation on my own work, while flattering, does not mean you suddenly own me... or my intangible 'disappointing and condescending' intellect.

3-and-a-half hours now.

On the Lull.

The last update to the blog was in October. October. 

This isn't October. Neither November, nor even December. It's January, and only barely that anymore. So, the assignment here before me is to update you on the glorious whirlwinds of these months past.

October was damn fantastic. After toying with the notion that I could allow myself time away from the Asylum work-in-progress, I took to the rest of the month with great enjoyment. Absolutely spectacular memories were made here with my little family, and as Sprout had just turned 2 in September, everyday was a new and exciting event of exploration and adventure. She dressed up as a 'Butter-vi' (Butterfly wings, black and white striped pants, purple dress, bear-ear hat – she picked it all.) for Halloween, I rocked kitty ears, & Mike was adorable. We strolled about downtown Nashville, GA … drank in the sweet community: the love, smiles, cheer. Visited with my family before and dear friends after. Halloween was pretty great. Sprout made friends with a gargantuan chicken.

November was its own beautiful monster. I was honored to participate in Downtown Nashville's 'First Thursday' event in November. The first Thursday of each month has a fine festival to promote local love and support, arts and business. So there I was: seven days removed from the beginning of NaNoWriMo's start pistol, and doing my absolute best to keep it out of the mind for the evening. My distracted psyche aside, it was really cool and I got to hang out with my youngest sister, Syd, as well as some of my favorite ladies of Nashville. Later in the month (much later, nearly the end) I had an author event at the library of Nashville. Standard readings, Q & A, light refreshments, reconnecting with an incredibly important person to my life, terror, terror, terror, & terror. I was told that I came off as 'charming and engaging' which is the best evidence of my excellent acting ability... as I was as frantic as a kitty dangling over a full bathtub. I was so giddy and grateful for the event and the kindness of the attendants, that I went a little loopy. It's alright, no one got hurt.

And in November, Iona... More on that later.

December was sickness. The three of us were passing some nefarious virus thing back and forth for the bulk of the month. As it eased, we had travel on the horizon and ventured out to the great icy mid-west to spend sometime with Mike's side. It was beautiful there to the end of the month, but the virus was a devourer of time and mind. It was grueling.

I have no excuse or explanation for January. I just realized January is now... a few days ago. That's going to be my bad. That's on me. My fault.

Now, about November's Iona & the aftermath Asylum:
November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) – I participated this year because I needed a vacation from the Asylum novel & because I promised involvement to a few pallies.

That first week of November (First Thursday Event) – I had no idea what I was going to do. I lie, I had an idea: I had a rough idea of a thing and the direction of the thing and the direction I didn't want the thing to take and blahblah... I was winging it.

'Winging it' started to pay off and things took shape in a nice fortuitously organic way. By the time the library event happened, (November 25), I had a plump head o' steam. I wanted to finish the story. I did, and I'm very proud of the results. Iona is now available for your own library.

January is being addressed by the Asylum. Progress has been made. More on that later.