JourneyPersonal

Homeland Security's Be Ready Ad

Yesterday's New York Times Magazine has a 2-page spread from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security entitled "You Can Be Ready for an Emergency: There are things that you can do now to make sure your family is prepared." It reads like a mattress tag, and makes so many incorrect assumptions about me and my life that it's not possible for me to find this earnest effort anything but pathetic.

Bunker Mentality

Not that being prepared for emergencies is a bad idea. I grew up in hurricane country, and Mom kept a box with water, canned goods, bleach, flashlights, batteries and masking tape in the bottom of the pantry. As she was explaining the box and its contents, Mom told me that the Mormons advocated keeping a 6-month survival kit. There's a fine line between preparedness and paranoia, whether you're fearing the rapture, the nuke or the next terrorist strike.

I got a sense of the futility of this type of preparedness during the late 60s at Montclair elementary school. The air raid siren at the nearby naval base sounded, and our teacher insisted we huddle under our desks. Questions were discouraged. I went home and talked to my Mom about it.

"I thought if the big bomb hit, it incinerates stuff almost immediately, and if you're further away from the center, your main concern is radiation," I complained.

"That's right," Mom said. "But the government has told your school to prepare you for an emergency, so they're just trying to do that."

"Even though it won't do any good?" I asked.

"Well, it might make some people feel better to have done something. People don't like feeling like there's nothing they can do."

Right. And officials don't like people realizing nothing the officials can do will be of much help, either. They're paid to make sure we're prepared, so by God, we're preparing.

Back to the HSA Ad

As I gaze at this 2-page ad for the Bush administration, I can't help but speculate about the meeting in which it was conceived.

The spread is bordered in red, with highlights of yellow. Its main focus is on developing a Family Communications Plan. The first blank catches my attention: Out-of-state contact, with phone number and e-mail address.

I presume this springs from the 9/11 experience, when Manhattan phone lines must have been jammed for hours as everyone who knew anyone in Manhattan (or D.C., for that matter) tried to get reassurance. So this form is trying to direct and disperse the inevitable phone traffic from the disaster's epicenter. Good idea, actually. If we can e-mail, though - we'd probably be better off e-mailing one another, not the out-of-state contact.

The next section sensibly bids me collect my family's dates of birth, phone numbers and/or walkie talkie numbers. Walkie-talkie numbers? Why dates of birth, I wonder? I start thinking of people walking the rows and rows of tsunami victims laid out in fields, or rescue workers searching through mudslide rubble for survivors. In what case does the exact DOB matter? I wonder how long it'll be before we just microchip everybody, with the little data transmitters my cats have in their necks right now.

I'm asked to record our home, school and business addresses and phone numbers. Not a bad idea, whether terrorists are gunning for us or not. Next we designate both a neighborhood meeting place and a regional meeting place. Without further guidance, I'm not quite sure how far away from home the "regional" meeting place should be. What makes a good neighborhood meeting place? Under what circumstances will we need this information?

Being Prepared is Just Common Sense

The ad says, "Just like wearing a seatbelt or having a smoke detector in your home, it's a smart idea to be prepared for emergencies. Make a family communications plan and put together or buy an emergency kit. It's just common sense."

Common sense. Like the common sense that tells you no government official will stride into the room and slap the cuffs on you for tearing off your mattress tag.

As I go through the mental exercise of designating these local and regional meeting places, it becomes increasingly clear to me I'm not going to burden Matt with this discussion.

"If some disaster strikes in our neighborhood, Matt -"

"What kind of disaster?"

"Any kind of disaster. First try to call me. Then Daddy. If you can't get in touch with us, call Julie in Austin.

"Why not Grandma? Why not Uncle Timmy? They're closest."

"They live too close. The phones might not work."

"If the phones aren't working, how can I call anybody?"

"Good point. But if you have to leave school and we're not able to come get you -"

"They don't let me just leave school, Mom."

"I know, this probably would never happen, but if a tornado or something hit your school, go to the Leon Valley Community Center and wait for me or Daddy to come get you."

"Home is closer. Can't I just go home?"

"Well, you could if home is still there and seems safe."

"Why wouldn't it be? Didn't the tornado just hit the school?"

"Well, say the tornado hit the school and our house. Then -"

"The teachers aren't going to just let me go where I want, Mom. Are all the teachers dead, or what?"

"Oh, forget it."

I think I'll prepare for disasters by teaching my son to use his common sense in any situation, and not spend time worrying about, let alone planning for, low-probability problems.

The Business of Disasters

We're also asked to capture our doctor, pharmacist, medical and homeowners insurance information, along with policy numbers. Will State Farm pay for damage resulting from an act of terrorism? Am I sheltering in place, or calling in a claim? Maybe we are just covering the bases for any mishap now. I thought that was FEMA's job. Now I'm wondering what FEMA, Health and Human Services, the National Guard think of this form. Ten to one they're rolling their eyes.

Then again, this ill-conceived, ill-executed form is just the kind of result I'd expect from any effort involving more than one government agency. Maybe that's why it's so very bad.

Designing Our Survival Kit

The Get a Kit section beckons next, with its bright red checkboxes. As an avid backpacker, I'm amused to note that the first item we'll need in the event we're forced to "stay in the same place for up to three days" is a backpack. I'm instructed to focus on food, water, and safety items. Although water is the single most important item in here, it's not mentioned first, they've failed to remind folks that the recommended 40 fluid ounces for 3 days is a bare minimum, does not include any for washing, and that's per person, folks. The list recommends allowing 800 calories per day for food, and a "dusk mask" that fits "snuggly."

The glaring typos make me wonder if the NY Times staffers saw the errors and kept quiet about them, letting the piece truly reflect the thoughts and talents of its creators.

Additional, optional items are helpfully listed with no room to write in my own. "You may want to add some that are specific to your own family's needs." These include extra food and water, a water container (gee, thanks! I never would have thought of that!), a can opener if I have canned food, prescription medication, items for elderly and a glow stick.

Items for elderly particularly made me chuckle, since prescription medications had better cover it. If Grandpa gets to pack his denture adhesive and crosswords, I sure as hell need my own comforts.

They didn't leave me any blanks to write in the stuff that would be important to me in such a case, but here's what I think of adding:

• Books
• Musical instruments
• Paper and pens
• Good wine
• Tea and coffee
• Printout of my Outlook Contacts list
• Pack of cards

If we're cooped up together for three days, I'm not sure we'll make it without those things.

My What Not To Do List

I may, in fact, take this as a nudge to update the info card I make Matt carry, and make sure he's memorized not just our home address and telephone number, but our cell phone numbers as well. But I will not:

• Run out to buy plastic sheeting, dust masks and HEPA filters to prepare for a terrorist attack.
• Let the Bush administration frighten me or my family, or take credit for protecting us from terrorism.

Why I No Longer Have a Dog

Matt found a little brass collar tag of Snicker's yesterday, showed it to me, and said it made him sad. It made me sad, too. I pass people at the park with their dogs, and I miss having a dog.

Then I was trolling through my journals from last year for novel notes, and I came across this item:

[Please note: I *know* it's not OK to abuse animals. I offer my own bad behavior up as a cautionary tale - this is what can happen when you refuse to accept your own limitations and at least TRY to address them. This snapshot shows me the extreme dysfunction I found myself in while trying to maintain my personal mythos as supercoper.]

****

[Tuesday, May 4, 2004] Last night, Greg complained a lot. A lot. About the car, the road construction, his mother's tree over her driveway, other drivers, us being late.

I never said, "Please stop complaining now. It's driving me nuts." I should have.

When Greg got home (after another call, to gripe some more), he holed up, leaving me to play with Matt and feed him. Matt asked me to come help him wipe his bottom. I left my cereal on the coffee table "for just a moment" and Snicker was at it when I returned, though she started away guiltily.

She'd puked earlier, spent the day annoyingly underfoot to the point of craziness. Maybe she was trying to settle her stomach, who knows?

I totally lost it, spanked her flank hard and screamed at her. Matt gets justifiably upset when I abuse the dog. Into the garage with her.

Then not 5 minutes later, she was up on the downstairs bed, where she knows I don't want her to be. I yelled again, pushed her off. She peed on the comforter, incontinent in the face of my towering rage. And rage it was.

She also peed in Greg's office - he cleaned it up, but made a huge, fucking production out of it while Matt's playtime with him dwindled, his bedtime getting later, my rage building.

The fucking dog! I wanted to bash her skull in, pierce her body and make it bleed, grind her bones, step on her, break her.

I realize today that this was a case of shit rolling downhill.

I won't ask Greg for what I want.

I won't say no to Matt, or set any limits on what I'm willing to do for him.

But <clorox grandma>By God</clorox grandma>, this fucking DOG has to do what I say, respect my boundaries.

My rage was so out of proportion to events. It occurs to me this is exactly (well, maybe not exactly) how evil, bad and wrong slaveowners felt as they were whipping their slaves. That rabid sense of needing to punish a transgression. How automatic, righteous, inflamed my reaction was.

This morning, Snicker cowered around me, making it worse. Then she wiped her asshole on the carpet right in front of me. Whack! <Whine!>

I indulged myself in a monologue. You may NOT eat my cereal. You may NOT piss in the office, or on my bed. And you may NOT wipe your asshole on the carpet.

Greg tried to help, but ended up condescendingly lecturing me about the dog's level of understanding. I cried and told him I didn't find his advice helpful.

*****

Yes, we got rid of the dog. No, it wasn't fair to her. Yes, I still feel badly about it. No, I don't want another dog.

New Year 2005 - Report

We spent the New Year at the Lodges at Lost Maples, in the Texas Hill Country. Winding roads, fabulous views, amazing birds, and the cabins were secluded, quiet, starry. Bunkbeds for Matt, his favorite, and big king-sized bed with down comforter for the 'rents. The croissant-rolls with cream cheese and sausage stuffing were to die for (luckily, since they probably clogged several arteries).

The atmosphere was quite serene but for the few tame fireworks I'd insisted we stop for on the way - mostly the quiet kind; sparklers and roman candles, fountains. We asked permission before setting them off, and the hosts said, "Sure!" One of the perks of being out in the country.

After we'd finished our own fireworks, the skies put on their own show - I love looking up on a clear, crisp, moonless night and seeing the Milky Way. We don't get that in the city, so I spent a bunch of my time stargazing.

We also played our first family game of Monopoly, very interesting in light of Greg's and my recent focus on learning about financial matters (we're reading Rich Dad, Poor Dad stuff and learning about real estate investing). Matt predicted our downfall. "See, I'm going to get lots of property, houses and hotels, I'll be like a black hole and suck your money away." Greg followed a similar strategy, but while he focused on high-end properties like Boardwalk and Park Place, Matt took control of the two low-rent sides of the board and had them bristling with houses and hotels, just as planned. It didn't take long for his black hole to do us in.

I think this was Matt's first New Year when he was awake for the changeover; he kept us apprised of the time minute-by-minute.

We inaugurated 2005 with a great trail ride - Matt riding "Coconut," a 37-year-old Shetland pony. Greg was mounted on "Brownie" who he reports didn't like him very much, and I was mounted on a patient old grey who didn't mind lagging at the back to stay with Coconut and Matt. It was a nice, long, gentle ride, with a few trots and canters thrown in. I was a bit saddle sore, but I love pretending I'm an experienced rider, noticing the details like creaking leather and the sound of hooves on stones. The Wagon Wheel Stables between Utopia and Vanderpool gave us more than our money's worth of horsey fun and good sense.

After the ride, we came back to the cabin to relax, and Greg and I took turns reading in a hammock. Greg and Matt played horseshoes until Matt devolved the game into "smash the anthills" and general roughhousing.

New Year's night included firepit fun, roasting marshmallows (OK, burning them and watching them drip) and just staring mesmerized into the flames. Our Lodges had two resident horses, one of whom appreciated our peeled baby carrots very much, and both liked petting.

This would be a great place to bring road bikes and train; State Highway 337 has some long, cruel hills with breathtaking views to make the work worth it, and not much traffic. We passed several cyclists (cautiously) who seemed to be having a good time. If it's gorgeous in midwinter, I can just imagine it in the full flower of spring!

Diana Gabaldon and Romance

One of the main reasons I went to this particular writer’s conference was to meet and learn from Diana Gabaldon, my favorite writer of historical romance fiction. Reading her works fired my ambition to write a novel because she was able to take all the things I love to read about – history, relationships, humor, fascinating trivia – and write about them well. She creates characters that I care about, that stay with me, inspire me. I care about her worlds as much as those Tolkien created, but Gabaldon's are much more accessible to me.

I was anxious to meet and talk with her, learn from her, but hesitant to approach her. My few vestiges of shyness aside, I try to imagine what it must be like to be a bestselling writer of works that pull the reader in emotionally to the extent her works do, and apply the Golden Rule (do unto others...). Surely everyone she meets at a signing feels compelled to tell her the effects of her books on them, the depth of their own love for All Things Scottish or 18th century. I tried to come up with something to say to her that I imagined hadn’t been said many times before, and came up dry. She’s been a bestselling writer for more than 10 years; I'm sure she’s heard it all.

I saw someone collar poor Catherine Coulter in the hotel gift shop, and thought, "Damn! She can't even buy a bottle of Advil without having to gladhand." I renewed my resolve to not thrust myself on these writers.

My friend Marjohn, whom I met on the plane to Vancouver, didn’t have that shyness of appearing just another fan. She’d come all the way from the East Coast and wasn’t leaving without having made the effort at contact. She approached Gabaldon and said, “I’m so happy to meet you! The relationship of Jamie and Claire is the most mature, touchingly rendered romance I’ve ever read.”

The bestselling author has got to have heard this before, but that innocuous comment touched a nerve, Marjohn reported. “It’s not a romance,” Gabaldon snapped. Marjohn didn’t argue. Gabaldon went on to explain that she felt her work was miscategorized by those in the publishing industry.

At one of the sessions, Gabaldon expanded on this theme. Her recent book, Lord John and the Private Matter, is typically placed with her other novels in the Romance section at Barnes & Noble. This is a ridiculous mistake, she says, because the protagonist is a gay man, there is no romance in the book at all, and the one sex scene is a brief glimpse of a chance encounter with a sympathetic male prostitute. Because there is no heterosexual relationship or romance featured, it simply doesn’t belong there.
When the Barnes and Noble managers explain that her fans will look for her works in the Romance section, Gabaldon warns them that they’re going to piss off the readers with that strategy.

I wondered. As a user-centered designer of websites, I sympathize with Barnes & Noble's plight of anticipating reader search patterns and expectations. I know that Gabaldon fans will look for her works in the Romance aisle, even if she next turns to the technothriller genre.

And I have more – probably way too much – faith in romance readers, especially those who’ve responded to Gabaldon’s books before. She’s right – there is no heterosexual romance in the book, no hetero sex, and no hetero relationships. But we have Grey’s relationship with his mother, his friends, even chance acquaintances, all rendered with that emotional authenticity that we’ve come to expect from Gabaldon. John Grey is an inherently emotional character. There are two fundamental relationships underlying and informing the book – Grey’s relationship with himself, and his relationship with Jamie Fraser, the dashing hero of Gabaldon’s Outlander series, which is further developed in the John Grey book.

Now, I do agree that the John Grey book doesn’t belong in the Romance category. As far as formula, this one is fundamentally a mystery. Gabaldon writes so well, in my opinion, that all her books belong in the Literary Fiction category. My best suggestion is that her works be featured in a big endcap display, but that's not exactly practical.

Which brings us to another problem. Relegating any book to a category is inherently a criticism, isn’t it? Jane Austen and Emily Bronte wrote romances, of course, but we don’t find them in that category. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but the Romance label squelches any association with quality. Some of my book group buddies were amusingly mortified to have to stoop to buying a book from that category, whereas shopping in the Science Fiction or Mystery sections didn’t bother them.

Then I realized, there’s an easy way to tell how readers are responding to the John Grey book. Her Amazon reviews. A quick scan of those find folks who feel, like I do, that the Gabaldon magic transcends genres, as well as hugely disappointed fans who want nothing but Claire and Jamie.

I’m reminded of musicians being inveighed to play their tired old standards over and over again. I’d be disappointed if I went to see Paul McCartney and didn’t hear “Maybe I’m Amazed,” myself. But that doesn’t mean I resent him moving on to something new. (We can hash out whether he actually has another time.) Musicians also struggle with the categorization issues. Is Alison Krauss Bluegrass? Gospel? Christian? Pop/Rock? And of course, the answer is, "Yes."

There’s an ugly, depressing undercurrent of homophobia in some of the negative John Grey book reviews which I’d hoped not to find. That hostility is largely veiled. I’d rather the homophobes declare their abhorrence openly, so folks who aren’t similarly blinkered can engage in a discussion or skip those reviews as someone they're never going to agree with anyway.

I suggested we read Outlander, but worried that the gay men in our book group would be offended by the characterization of Jack Randall, the antagonist depicted as a sadistic gay/bisexual. When Lord John Grey surfaced later in the series as a sympathetic, believable, honorable gay character, I wondered whether Gabaldon had felt the same pressure, and decided to demonstrate her belief that all gays aren’t predatory sadists.

Surprise: Gabaldon knows her readers better than I do. She’s unwilling to cut loose those for whom romance means one man and one woman, but willing to risk alienating them in favor of broadening her own horizons, and those of her readers willing to undertake the journey.

I attended each of the sessions where Gabaldon explained in generous detail just how she achieves the stunning effects of emotional versimilitude in her novels, the vivid historical details, the sex scenes that are hot without being lurid. I asked her whether she intends to write about the Hispanic culture, since her father was Hispanic. She said that didn't interest her so far. I asked several questions of Gabaldon and the other historical fiction writers, and got amazing, in-depth answers that provoked the "Aha!" response.

I never did thank her as a fan. I show my appreciation by buying, thoroughly enjoying, imitating and being inspired by all of her books, even the eBook snippet of the John Grey story that was available a few years ago. I'm not one who treasures physical mementos. It would mean a lot to have her inscribe my splayed, waterstained, dogeared copy of Dragonfly in Amber, but I took only carryon bags and that book alone weighs five pounds. And since I’m sitting here back home in San Antonio, having missed my moment, I’ll just have to say my fan bit here.

“You’re doing wonderfully. Thanks for moving us along."

Surrey Writer's Conference

I'm here in Vancouver at the Surrey Writer's Conference. I had my early day yesterday, the Masters Classes that only the hardcore sign up for.

The first session was "Seven Sherpas for the Novelist." I signed up for this because, indeed, my attempts at writing the novel have me feeling like I'm climbing K-2 without guides or even equipment. The information was incredibly helpful. I expected to be challenged to outline the book. This particular guide - Elizabeth Lyon, an experienced book editor, suggests that we outline the major scenes as well. And went on to make an excellent case, having us outline one of our own scenes, and then add depth to it with subtext, foreshadowing, character details. That one exercise made a much better scene out of one I'd thought was pretty good. Good thing I had this class before I'm slated to show this work to anyone, I thought.

Then the second session started - Building an Arc with Donald Maas, an agent. I was irritated by his East-coast, used-car salesman delivery, until I realized that those qualities are exactly what I want in an agent, aren't they? Someone passionate, unafraid to hawk, pound, chide and chivvy publishers into giving me a great deal.

He started, I thought, rather obliquely, asking us questions. As a conference presenter, I know the value in that, get the people involved, invested. But these were *questions.* Like, what's the saddest thing that ever happened to you? And had those of us willing to share, talk about them in vivid detail.

Everyone had amazing stories. Moving, hurtful, incredibly tender, touching. People were unafraid to share their stories, seemed *eager* to share them.

I'd already noticed that. The folks I've met have been quite forthcoming to me, and I find myself listening more than talking - if you know me, pretty unusual behavior.

I'm beginning to realize that a prerequisite for being a writer of fiction is exactly that willingness to delve into the hurtful, tender parts and try to really figure them out, find the inner truth shining within even the most painful experience.

So after we had written down our saddest experience in vivid detail, we wrote about the biggest choice we ever had to make, the one person we hadn't forgiven, weren't sure we ever could, the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen, and on and on. All in incredible detail. All shared with this group of strangers.

Then he turned us deftly to our own work. In the plot you have envisioned, pick the main character, the protagonist. What does he or she want most? Now, what would be the one thing that would make that incredibly difficult? Write it down. Now what would make it impossible? Have that happen. Now what would make her give up, would absolutely make her or him fail, despair? Have that happen. He was relentless. When we showed signs of avoidance, he said, "This stuff does happen. You just told me it does." Kept pointing out the vivid details of our own experiences that made them really ring with truth for everyone.

Quite an education so far! I felt like a limp dishrag, and definitely a "conscious incompetent" on the scale Elizabeth Lyon outlined for us. I'd heard it before, but hadn't thought to apply it to myself in this context.

Marriage Mystery

The mystery at the center
of a deep, enduring relationship
is the fact that each of you
loves and celebrates
the very innermost part of the other.

Not the confident shell
but the naked, needy soft thing inside
that loves and gives and hopes,
and needs love so desperately.
The paradox is:
It’s the only part of us
that really deserves love.

Marriage is a process of surrender and trust,
and emotional disarmament.
Progressively allow your beloved
to earn her way through
those forbidding gates.
Let her see this deepest part of you
and merge with it.

I believe your marriage is a real,
soul-to-soul connection,
and not just a hunger for what the other represents
- security, acceptance or even strength.
I believe the glimpse of that inner soul
is what attracted you
and will continue to bind you together.

You both sparkle with confidence:
talented, adept, sardonic, fun-loving.
But I've seen glowing in you both
a sweet inner shine
When you each talk about the other.

In years to come you will say
You know the center of my soul,
the song that is myself.
When I'm afraid or filled with self-loathing or regret,
you sing that song back to me
until I can hear it again
and take it up.

For Tom and Mitzi

Thanks to Greg for working with me to understand the depths of marriage commitment for 20+ years now. I love you, honey, more than ever, and I'm glad we're on the journey together.

Writing Fantasies

Writing dreams. I have lots, but most are not really "writing" dreams, so much as payoffs for having written something that touched people. When I'm feeling particularly powerful, I use these fantasies to plan my next move.

I began thinking, whose approbation, advice and encouragement would be the most meaningful to me? My answers were Diana Gabaldon (author of Outlander series), Terry Gross (NPR's Fresh Air), and Marion Winik.

So I Googled Diana Gabaldon, found her website replete with specific advice on how she writes, and links to the Surrey Writer's Conference in Vancouver, where she offers blue-pencil, one-on-one sessions. I signed up in July, and I've been saving my money.

When I despair of my ability to write fiction, I think, "Just try and put something down. In October, I'll meet with people who can help focus me, but for now, just practice, learn. At least have something to show them, so they can help me figure out where to go next." When the going gets tough, and my fears about money threaten to overwhelm me, I think, "OK, I need to freelance a little to feel safe. But for five days in October, I'm going to the conference, and I'll focus on the novel then. Any time I can spend between now and then on the novel is just gravy." I go next week. I have lots to show.

Persevering with the novel feels like climbing Everest to me sometimes. The dreams help carry me through when I really don't feel like writing.

Getting the call. I fantasize about when I get "the call" from a publisher about my novel, and I'm happy and excited, negotiating (with the help of a talented, hard-nosed agent) payment for the first novel (which is already written) and the advance for the sequel.

The long period of having finished, but waiting for the book to be printed and distributed. Waiting for the early reviews. Trying not to take the reviews seriously.

Then I fantasize about release parties, signing events all over the country. I want my first one to be here in San Antonio, run by my good friend Debbie, an old hand at this. My purse loaded with Sharpies. Boxes of books, my nervousness that no one will show up, but people will show up. I rehearse answering questions, picture myself listening empathetically to their own stories, hearing their reactions, being gracious, trying to keep emotional distance while learning from what I hear. I'll want a notebook to jot down insights, impressions.

Serendipity takes a hand, and news events make my historical novel suddenly relevant. Timing couldn't be better.

Then I fantasize about the series of excited, back-and-forth emails and calls with my agent during the screen rights bidding war. Being a script consultant, but I let someone else drive for once, so I can learn about this end of the business.

I'm gratified by all this buzz, but the real payoff comes when Terry Gross of NPR's Fresh Air asks me for one of her fascinating, in-depth radio interviews.

Just when I think the book has peaked, Oprah's people call to discuss my book as a book club selection, to schedule an appearance. I've already identified the 3 women friends whose fashion sense and tastes I trust to help dress me for these various occasions. There's a designer right here in San Antonio that I have pegged as appropriate for me. I will have reached an acceptable weight and size, of course.

Now I'm being courted to do appearances abroad. My first trip "across the pond" to Europe is paid for by my publishing company. I'll need to be pretty successful by then, because I'll want Greg and Matt with me on these longer jaunts - Europe, Australia and New Zealand. I'll schedule some additional time so we can be tourists together. All tax-deductible research, of course.

I fantasize about being involved in local library events with other San Antonio writers, like Sandra Cisneros and Rick Riordan. Giving talks to other fledgling writers groups, book groups.

Sometimes I think I'm crazy, but I used to fantasize about going to Borders or Barnes & Noble and seeing my name on the spine of a book - and I made that goal. I fantasized about doing the triathlon, and I made that goal. The old "To reach it, you first have to dream it" adage has always proved true for me.

And/but - I've been studying the fiction writing craft, with heavyweights such as Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird, Word by Word) and Natalie Goldberg (Writing Down the Bones) and they warn that the WRITING must be the point. The payoffs I fantasize about are ephemeral, and like a drug, their effects wear off all too quickly. They're enough to motivate me to start, but to continue, I must find my payoffs in the writing process itself, in the self-knowledge and growth that is an inevitable part of writing from deep within.

I do remember thinking, Once I've been published, that's it. I'll have it made. I made a nice career upswing on the strength of the web graphics book I cowrote, but it didn't remake my life, I didn't suddenly morph into the perfect person I've got in my head I need to be.

So I'm still on the journey. And sometimes I can accept the fact that I'll be on this journey until I stop breathing and my heart stops beating (sometime in my 90s, I'm thinking now). Sometimes I can't, and these fantasies are what get me back to the keyboard, the spiral notebook, the words, words, words.

Sex and Drug Education

I'm currently engaged in conversation with a friend about what to tell my kid about sex and drugs, and when. And do you tell them how you happened to come by this information? Do you 'fess up that you've smoked dope, snorted cocaine, had sex with strangers, had abortions, and it wasn't all it's cracked up to be?

I'm still naive enough to believe that telling the truth - as much truth as I can stand to tell - is better than lying or playing it coy.

I picture that having a heart-to-heart discussion of the pain I caused myself by having sex too soon, readily and often would be helpful. I've had thoughts of writing a book(s) on the subject. "The real truth about sex for girls" and "The real truth about sex for boys." Include gay/lesbian/bi/transgender discussion, masturbation, petting/experimentation, diseases and their prevention of course, suggestions for backing off a partner who's pressuring you and so forth. Include graphical descriptions of genital warps, herpes, as well as pregnancy, abortion and AIDS. Evoke the emotional distress of having given it up and then being abandoned or disdained. (Doesn't sex sound fun now, kiddies?) And "the good part" of course, bonding, physical sensation, maturation, release.

I picture that telling Matt honestly about my tentative experiments with drugs, and how GLAD I am I remained tentative and cautious with them, would have a good effect. Telling him horror stories about friends and acquaintances who weren't so cautious and ended up fucked up, fired, hurt or dead wouldn't hurt.

The key element I think is having thought about your own use and its effects in your life to a great extent, and being willing to let go of wanting/needing your children to think (a) you can do no wrong (b) have done no wrong, and (c) you're a hero. And of course, having matured past the need to overindulge in drugs or alcohol anymore. I don't quite trust that I'm there yet, but right now, it's looking promising.

Test: If there was an honest book on the subject, would you give it to your kids, or otherwise try to prevent them reading it? If you'd let them read the book, my sense is the info would be more powerful coming from you.

I get e-mailed pleas to participate in Texas' school board textbook adoption discussions, to ensure they include accurate, comprehensive sex education materials. I'm all for that - it's ridiculous that we're having to have the discussion about whether or not to include condom use and training. Can you say Ostrich?

But I don't intend to leave the incredibly important job of educating my son in these matters to the school district. However I decide to impart the information, he'll have the whole story.

Hurricane Memories

The recent hurricanes in Florida sparked a spate of e-mails among my old high school buddies about the hurricanes we lived through in Corpus Christi, Texas. The most notable was Celia, in 1970. I also remember family tales of Carla, that hit Houston in 1961, as well as Beulah in 1967 or so.

Celia hit Corpus hard, and our house was pretty messed up. I was too young (10) to worry about the insurance settlement, getting SBA loans to replace the floors, carpets, roof, fences, windows and so forth - so for me it was amazing. My apologies if, for you, hurricanes are more about trauma. Here are some images.

• Boarding up windows with plywood. When you ran out of plywood, taping the windows with criss-crosses like a magic talisman against evil. Tape worked about as well as you'd expect a magic talisman to work.

• Making sure you were wherever you wanted to be when the storm struck. Then during the "eye," deciding you really needed to be somewhere else. My brother Tommy went from his friend's house to his girlfriend's house (Marsha Hedrick - now his wife), much to my Mom's dismay.

• Making the drive out to relatives' houses in landlocked Sinton, Alice, Banquete, San Antone, Austin. If you decided to go, it was usually a waste of time, the storm was either no big deal or your house was fine. If you didn't go, you were tempting fate.

• Staying glued to the radio. Tracking the storm's progress with pins on the maps the Caller-Times printed. Walter Furley and Gene Luper giving us the details in their best fatherly fashion.

• Surfers dreaming of riding the tidal wave. This was my brother Tim, begging Mom "Can I at least just go down to the bay and look at it? (No!) Oh, MAN!"

• Watching the fences blow down and the cedar shingles fly. Until a shingle came through the very window my dog and I were looking through - then we were both crying and relegated to the windowless hallway.

• Seeing that cars and trucks were blown way down the street, swept into ditches.

• Water, water everywhere. Mountains of soggy carpet and ugly particolored carpet pad (who knew that was under there?) and sodden sheetrock you could crumble in your hand. Mildew. Heat. I still can't stand the smell of Lysol.

• Being grateful we were all still alive and well. Never mind the stuff, it's just stuff.

• Neighbors all banding together to help dig out, share stories, ditching the cliques and the racism and finally talking and acting like a community.

• The dogs roaming loose because all the fences were gone. I remember Phineas (we bought him from Bruce and Claire Collins) swimming across the street (Haroldson).

• Twisted pretzel light poles and all the big signs down, down, down. People taking street signs to use as home decor. Driving around to look at the damage and marvel at the storm's power.

• Lines at the gas station. Grumbling and outrage about price gougers. Feudo's Grocery with its same old friendly prices, running the cash registers on generators.

• Sharing tools and building supplies. Doing your own contractor work because there weren't enough to go around, it was cheaper, and you couldn't go to work anyway.

• Learning to build fences with a manual post-hole digger. Learning that enterprising teenagers could make good money selling this service to the neighbors. Getting really damned tired of the hellishly difficult work of digging post holes. Having to finish all the work anyway.

• Checking on the little old ladies, like Mrs. Gragg, my piano teacher, on Claremore street - turned out she was enjoying sitting around her house naked with all the windows open to stay cool.

• Thinking: Damn! Too bad this couldn't happen during school - they'd have had to let us out!

• Everybody barbecuing all kinds of meats and everyone welcome to eat as much as they liked. Venison sausage and burgers on Monette with my Dad.

  The "Gone with the Wind" poster and graffiti at the Normandy apartments on Alameda.

• Those weird, amazingly intricate little curlicue rings and bracelets we made out of colorful coated telephone wires. Cullen experienced a huge wave of those that fall, and Southwestern Bell had to appeal to people to stop stealing it. But the telephone repair guys would always give us kids some, anyway.
  

But that crap about adversity bringing out people's best? It's true.

Doing the Right Thing

Wheeling my basket of groceries to the truck, I had a choice to make. I’d parked on the far side of a wide, grassy verge, so I could either trundle my cart the long way around, or station the cart on the near side of the verge, and ferry the grocery bags across to the truck. I elected to trundle.

The woman next to me took the ferrying option. A young student-looking guy with a backpack approached her cart and began tentatively plucking at the bags. A sense of outrage began to rise in my chest. I looked over to the woman, but she was on it.

“Excuse me!” she shouted over to him. “Those are my groceries.” She quickly crossed the grass to claim them.

He chuckled a bit nervously. "It was pretty dumb to just leave them there. Someone's going to take them. I didn’t know whose they were," he said.

I piped up, "You did know they weren't yours, though." Sometimes I just can't keep my big mouth shut.

He was embarrassed, outraged. "It was stupid of her to leave them there! I mean, who’s going to pass up free groceries?"

"They weren’t free," I countered. "They’re hers. She was right there watching them." The woman gave me a grateful smile, wisely finished putting up her groceries and got in her car.

He shot me the finger with both his grubby, grocery-rifling hands. "She’s stupid for leaving them there! I’d be stupid to pass up free groceries!"

He jabbed the fingers at me again, stepping toward me, so I retreated behind the door of the truck, feeling unwise. But with the metal barrier between us, I shot back one last comment.

"It’s called karma. You might want to look into it." I pulled away, leaving him shouting and gesticulating.

Now, of course, I’m trying to identify the perfect thing to have said or done. The karma line wasn’t very good, and I was judgmental, made him wrong. I’ve decided Gandhi or the Dalai Lama would have said, "Do you need food that badly? Here’s some rice and a watermelon. But please ask before taking what doesn’t belong to you."

And his reaction was instructive. He kept referring to her as "stupid," meaning that he felt stupid for being caught trying to lift groceries in broad daylight. He was understandably angry that I didn't allow him to save face with his pseudo-protective "I'm helping you learn to be more careful" bullshit.

I conjecture that his family culture, like mine, valued being correct above all else. More important than being kind, or honest, or sympathetic. Not that those other values weren't taught as well - but the family game of "gotcha" on facts spoke all too loudly about what was really valued in our house.

I've got to remember that, when I'm searching for the perfect thing to say or do, I'm falling into that trap. In all cases, follow the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Yeah, right. But I am not haunted by the incident like I am about the Thundercloud gorilla. At least I did something this time.