The Anchor

There are plenty of distractions in life that could cut me loose from my moorings and set me adrift in the sea of a stormy life. There is a wonderful relationship between that which is fluid and that which is static and solid. I've come to learn that even the foundations of the earth can be shaken and if viewed in time lapse photography can be seen to move quite easily. The static can impede the fluid and the fluid can erode the static.

I have to ask that question in my heart. What moorings are gradually moving? Are the underpinnings of what brings meaning to life still there or have they become unhinged? What does it mean to all that I have known when a new discovery results in negating the truth of an unquestionable past experience?

It's similar to "knowing" that the earth is flat and then discovering that it isn't. In order to understand the far reaching ramifications of the new understanding one must accept the idea that understanding grows over time. The problem is that we humans tend to cling or desire to cling to things that don't change. We long to live in a world that has order and when that order is disrupted we find ourselves falling down the psychological hierarchy of met needs.

Finding Focus

I find it more difficult to do one thing as I age. That is to focus. I'm wearing trifocals. You may be familiar with the kind that have no lines and provide a gradual shifting of focus. I keep my neck busy as I am constantly adjusting my gaze up and down. Huh, now that I think about it, that could be the reason for my headaches!

The marvelous moment occurs when I can establish the focus. It's like everything else fades away and I can allow the focus to draw me in. There are certain tricks to find focus. Everybody has their own method. For the visual, I usually allow a camera to remain on auto focus. That is until I find I can't get the camera to focus on my subject. Then I use manual focus and wait till I see the funny little red flashy thing telling me it's in focus.

If the focus I'm attempting to achieve is about writing, I often find myself pacing throughout the house. I gaze out windows and then I return to my seat. Strangely enough things come into focus in my mind and words begin to flow. Some days the amount of writing focus is proportional to the amount coffee in the pot.

Emptiness...

There is emptiness in space. The volume inside this glass is filled with the atmosphere. Travel a few hundred miles up and nothingness would fill the glass.

What happens when this condition exists in the human heart? Has the person died in such a condition?

It is a metaphorical question. It concerns the seat of emotion when the universe implodes and reality is shattered into a million unrecognizable bits never to be reassembled.

I always say, "Live and let live." Not all would agree. Apparently they believe death is necessary in order for life to proceed. So be it. Before a glass can be filled it must be emptied.

Allowing Peace to Prevail

The chatter and clatter of the world can be overwhelming to a tired mind. At least that is how I feel now and then. So I seek moments of retreat to allow my soul to draw energy from simple things like a sunrise. The natural pounding of the surf beats the tension of my heart into submissive bliss. The yin and yang nature of course and soft sand beneath my bare feet helps to melt the coldness of an artificial world.

Just watching the unbroken surface of the ocean is a calming experience. Then to see a dolphin break into the air and others to follow stirs my imagination of other worlds. We are all part of the same world, yet we live in totally different environments.

Often times I'll venture out into the salt water and float for hours allowing the ebb and flow to move me. It reminds me of the relationship between large bodies of the earth, the moon and the sun. Wave after wave oscillate as the most natural metronome I know. There is no synchronization here. Rather, it is a simple transfer of energy. I release tension and my body heat in exchange for peace. The ocean gives if freely and generously. It is vast and infinitesimal all at the same time.

It is here that I remember just how small I really am in comparison to the scheme of the entire universe. I'm merely the speck of a sand upon the thousands of coastlines of the earth. Even so I have a voice, am sentient, and connected in so many ways to all of it.

Currently there are 6.94 billion of us on the planet and a few in space. How marvelous to know that I am not alone. As the population continues to increase it may be more difficult to find these moments of quiet.

We share the same air, same planet and have a need for this quiet. We need peace to prevail. Can you hear the ocean? Can you see the dolphins? Can you hear the seagulls? Can you feel the sand? Can you feel and smell the breeze? I can. I have peace.

...I draw energy from that.

The Writer's Bridge

Every year about mid October they shut down this bridge so people can jump off. I don't think they let them jump off without a parachute! Thankfully, that's a springboard for another story to be written by someone who makes a practice of jumping off perfectly good bridges.

I have to cross this bridge many times in the course of a year. I've become a huge fan of this bridge. It helps me span the gaps of reason in my mind to build on imagination. For years people had to meander down a treacherous winding single lane road to the New River far below. They would then cross a rickety old style bridge and wind their way back up the far steep mountainside to get to where they were going.

Now, taking either pathway makes for great writing. There are adventures the old way and thrills driving across the new bridge. The bridge was completed back in the 1970's. It's birth had to happen in some one's imagination and be sold as a solid idea that could be achieved to government officials and tax payers. Once the money was earmarked companies had to be informed, bids received and the workers hired to do the job. It took a lot of work and community cooperation to build this tallest bridge in the Northern Hemisphere.

People drive across the bridge every day. Except for the feeling or fear of falling they don't give the bridge a second thought. That's the job of the writer. Their job is to build structures to help bridge the fiction gap so people don't have to experience building the bridge themselves. If they have to do the work, they would rather take the old scenic route and escape the labor. Of course if you are writing about building a bridge then yes, put the passenger in the construction worker boots complete with hard hat, shovel, bull dozier, welding hood and whatever other tools you may need to assemble this complex yet elegant bridge. Then as they drive across and see the other bridge crossers they can move with pride of achievement.

Sometimes I stand at the precipice of writing. Everything seems well constructed and then I find a huge impasse, a gap that needs crossing and I find it's time to build a bridge. At that moment I have to make a decision. Do I take the road less traveled? Or do I jump the gap with super human ability, or do I build an elegant bridge? Or, do I hollar "Geronimooooooo" and dive into the canyon below? Don't rush me, I'm thinking.

What is community?

I've moved around a lot in my lifetime. I've often struggled with connecting with a particular community. I've been in the military, served as a pastor and have worked from California to Italy. I've seen all kinds of people in the world. One thing I know is that I need to connect with community. I don't do well when I'm alone.

Another thing I've discovered is that there are so many places to find community. Face to face is always the best. You can hear a tone, see a face that displays an emotion, and feel a touch when you shake hands or pat each other on the back.

There is no substitute for community. Live voices whether they be spoken or written have a place in helping me think, grow, love and imagine life. I've discovered my community is no longer a single zip code... but the planet earth. Community is the mass of humanity that can connect with my heart or my heart with the voice of the community. It's a place to exchange ideas and to respect where others are coming from. So I will continue to search for community where ever I may be.

I'm Hungry for something...

I'm hungry for something. I can't quite put my finger on it. I don't know that it is food. I just need something more... than this.

Did you ever feel that way? It's kinda like I've moved to the little town called Bland, Virginia. It's a nowhere kind of place. I decided to go to church there one Sunday and the people leaving the Church building said, "We aren't having church today." It about knocked me over.

Even so, some would say that emptiness is my need to have a relationship with God. I already have that. There is something else missing though. It's like I've reached a place where I'm no longer satisfied with allowing life to pass me by. I don't like walking through the woods and looking back to see no footprints.

I'm missing a legacy. I feel like the hole left in the water when you pull your finger out. There is no hole. Therefore, I must write. This is the accounting. This is my giving back. I have something of value to share. To quote a famous movie line, "I will not go quietly into the night." I have a purpose.

Abandoned Old KY Home

I drove by this house today. I have to travel this route every so often and have seen this house standing empty for over two years now. Today the yard has been well manicured, the ivy is gone and the trees have been cut down. I'm curious to the history that is here. When I stopped I walked around the back and discovered that some of the locals had destroyed what they could and spray painted the walls. It had become a night time haunt for whom ever wanted to come and spend a night partying. Nature was slowly reclaiming the structure as vines had penetrated the walls and were threatening the integrity of its durability.

I thought about when it was built and how they may have measured out the foundation. I imagined the farm that once produced beef and perhaps corn. Now it was abandoned standing empty with broken windows. It was now a haven for wildlife.

I could imagine children playing around the house and neighbors attending celebrations. There had to be a farm dog helping herd the cattle and neighbors helping put up hay at harvest time. This house is beautiful and it's charm is wonderful. Someone took a lot of pride in applying the stone facade. How then did it come to be in such disrepair?

Even though the trees and grass is well manicured the structure still remains in shambles. I can't imagine it will ever be returned to its past glory where fire's roared in the fire places. The tin roof has lost its ability to shed water and the interior has been exposed to the elements for years. Even so, someone has a dream to do some restoration. It will be interesting to see what happens in the coming months as I travel this road again. There may be new hope for this Old Kentucky Home once again. At that point, the past will meet the future. This legacy of some one's dream will continue to grow dear in some one's heart.

Springboard for Writing

I don't get called out very often, but when I do I'm ready to let my mind run wild. I have a fairly stress free job repairing machines throughout Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky and Virginia. The longest trip is to Bluefield, Virginia which is where I went yesterday. I write science fiction when I take a notion to write. I was thinking about how scientists use stars and heavenly bodies to give their space craft a gravity assist to increase speeds. I feel that way once I make my way around Charleston, West Virginia. I feel like gravity has thrown me headlong on a journey into the unknown mountain passages. Likewise my mind begins to loosen up and free flow thinking occurs while driving through the mountains. It's like Charleston is a gravity assist to plunge my thinking deep into writer's territory.

This particular assist brought my mind to childhood memories. One of the reasons was pondering the previous night's visit to the Huntington, West Virginia Writers group called "Patchwork Writers of Huntington." It was my first visit and had several different genres of writers in attendance. There were children's writers, biographers, crime writers and me the new near future SciFi writer. I was remembering the stories shared of a childhood memory. I was transported to several events in my childhood that instantly gave me that feeling I needed to be at a computer typing till the cows come home.

Several thoughts became spring boards for writing. One was the experience of the secrets of the attic. The steps to the attic were not standard, barely 4" inches wide at that. It was a steep ascent. The attic was bare but there were large windows at both ends of the building which helped light up the attic during the day. There was hard wood flooring in the attic, but it was empty except for the dust and cobwebs. There is a secret there... hence the springboard.

Another memory poured in right over top that memory. It was the first Christmas in the new house. The house wasn't new, just an old farm house, but it was new to us. (same house with the attic) At the time I was next to the youngest in the pecking order of five children. I always wanted to follow and play with my older siblings, but they didn't want anything to do with me. After Christmas, I had my new jeans, shoes and winter coat on and was ready to go out and play in the snow. I watched as my two older brothers went exploring in the woods. I decided to follow. They slid down the hill toward the creek. I did the same. They walked along the creek that had ice across it in the deep pools. I followed out of site ducking behind trees when they would stop to look back. There was a tree that had fallen across the creek and they walked across it. I came to the tree and was quite intimidated. I started to cross. It was very icy. I lost my footing, slipped off the log and broke through the ice... another spring board!

There were many adventures at this house. It belonged to a farmer and he would store his corn in the corn cribs, grain in the grain bins and hay in the big barn all within view of the little house. We would sneak out to his barn break his bails of hay and jump from the loft into the pile. I would only jump from the first story into the hay pile. My older brothers and sister went all the way to the top of the barn and jumped. I couldn't overcome my fear enough to do it. But then it was time to move and I had to bring myself to jump. When I finally did, I landed wrong catching my chin on my knee and nearly biting my lip off... another spring board.

Back to today... I have a completed novel waiting for an agent and publisher to say, "Let's do some business." I've received a couple of rejections, and wondering how many more obligatory rejections I will need to go through before finding the magical combination that gets my work noticed.

Here is a description of my work:
THE TOUCH ME NOTS is an 80,000 word Near Future Science Fiction suspense filled action novel. An accident at the GenRose Corp genetics lab exposes Dr. Nathan Rysner to genetically altered material igniting a chain of world changing events. Nathan becomes implicated in a deadly explosion of the lab and is on the run from the FBI, CDC and the Black Ops Agents responsible for the chaos. Along his journey to vindication, Nathan discovers he has new genetic capabilities. He uses these to undue the Black Ops military mission to create an invincible warrior. Nathan inadvertently initiates a world wide pandemic of healing. This threatens the medical and drug industries, yet frees everyone from all life threatening illnesses. Nathan meets his life love Sherry Turner, who helps him discover a purpose to live. The hope she gives enables Nathan to rise above the darkness and tragedy he must face. The turn of events at the end will have readers returning to the beginning to search for clues.