THE STORY SO FAR: PART 14

I really wanted to include some humor in yesterday’s blog about feminized fish, but wasn’t sure the ideas that occurred to me would be deemed to be in the best possible taste. I could have worked on the issue and come up with something, but I’m trying to discipline myself to blog fast.

I really don’t like writing anything which is completely serious, though sometimes my humor is so dry it passes unnoticed. Needless to say, that is not quite the result I want, but I have learned to accept that people’s senses of humor vary – and to take my lumps.

At one stage in my pre-author life, I ran a company in Germany and had the magnificent title of: “Herr General Director.” German titles are nearly as good as their uniforms; and you omit them at your peril. If someone has a doctorate – and many do – he expects to be addressed as “Herr Doctor,” or he will poke out your eyes with a paperknife; or the bureaucratic equivalent. Addressing him as “Klaus” on first acquaintance will not go down well; even if his name is Klaus. The Germans take rank very, very, seriously.

The company retained blue chip accountants staffed by august beings all of whom seemed to have doctorates (a very German thing). Anyway, we were walking back from an introductory lunch in Dusseldorf, when we came to a pedestrian underpass which featured magnificent stainless steel hand-rails which guided one down to the bowels below.

I couldn’t resist. I loved slides as a child, and achieving adult status hasn’t made me love them less. Despite my corporate uniform of suit and tie, I jumped up on one of the rails, and had a most enjoyable ride to the bottom. German engineering is as good as they say it is.

I have seen people shocked many times in my life, but I have never seen any group quite as stunned at my undignified action as those senior accountants. Serious business people just did not behave this way. Mein Gott! It was days before they could look me in the eye.

I thought it was a hoot; and the looks on their faces funnier still. Suffice to say, they didn’t share my sense of humor.

What can I say in my defense? I was young, and, well, I’m Irish – a notoriously casual culture – and I only dressed like a corporate type in those days. I was really a writer-in-waiting, and we march to the beat of a different keyboard.

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 13

I heard on the radio recently that a significant percentage of male fish caught in Puget Sound have been identified as having female characteristics.

To use an old phrase: “There is something in the water.” Specifically, the hormones, and hormone mimicking chemicals, that we are flushing away, are ending up poisoning our habitat; and us.

Keep that word ‘us’ in your mind. It doesn’t just mean other people. It includes you too; and feminized fish are only one symptom of a much larger problem – chemical pollution as a whole. The fact that so many Americans suffer from a medical condition is not an accident. Apart from debasing the food chain to the degree we have, this country is seriously polluted in a myriad of other ways to the vast detriment of the nation’s health. Senior Citizens may be living slightly longer, but, in contrast with other countries, we are growing older sicker.  And, yes, I have facts to back that up. And, unless very rich, we are also being outlived by most of our peers in the developed nations. In short, we are aging sicker and dying sooner. What does that say about the American Way Of Life.

I first wrote about all this in Titanic Nation after reading that fish from Washington DC’s Potomac River were similarly deformed; and that such chemicals were not being filtered from our water supply.

It would be nice to think that a journey of approaching 3,000 miles to the North-West  would have left one far away from such hazards, but evidently not.

Comedian and Talk Show Host Bill Maher regularly comments that Americans are poisoning themselves, and I think he is absolutely right.

Yet I note that at a time of Presidential Election frenzy, such a vital issue is receiving no attention at all. On the one hand, we are scared stiff of terrorists; and, on the other hand, Fortune 500 companies are killing us off in droves every year. At best we are talking hundreds of thousands, and it is more likely we are talking millions. If you think about it, that equates to roughly one Holocaust ever single decade.

Could it be that the U.S. Business Model needs some tweaking?

Congress deserves its lousy ratings; and so do we for being so complacent, fatalistic, and just plain ignorant.

But, of course I’m joking. I have to be. America is the richest country in the world.

Check the data. Therein lies the shame of it all. 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 12

I am endeavoring to get back into the habit of blogging regularly, but until I master the art of writing a simple, elegant, stand-alone, paragraph, that goal looks like remaining elusive. I shall continue to try, just the same. A writer should always be faced with challenges, and, better yet, fresh challenges. 

What do I mean by ‘regularly?’ I’m still working that out. Ideally, I’m like to write something virtually every day, but when that is combined with my other duties, it seems a high bar; though a worthy objective.

Anyway, I took a couple of weeks off from blogging to do some high octane editing in order to get The Blood Of Generations ready for publishing. This exercise involved ten to twelve hour days, virtually seven days a week. In all, I made several thousand minor changes, and rewrote a dozen or two passages. It was unbelievably hard work, but extremely satisfying. It’s amazing how much one can improve a manuscript when one has the perspective of time.

I used to hate editing. Just writing the book just once seemed to be hard enough work. Actually it’s the easier part where I am concerned. Re-writing is when I put the edge on the blade.

I attach great importance to the visual look of a book – even in manuscript form. Strictly speaking, that shouldn’t matter at the manuscript stage, but since I have a decidedly visual mind (and imagination) it matters to me; and, on a practical level, I find I am motivated by good presentation.

My final tasks yesterday were to add ‘Front Matter’ and ‘End Matter.’ These terms refer to the material at the beginning and end of the book – such as Author’s Note and Dedication – which are not directly part of the story.

So when will The Blood Of Generations be up on Amazon? I’m not going to give a date for another couple of weeks; but shortly is the answer for the moment. It is the fourth book in the Hugo Fitzduane series and is located in Ireland, Israel, and France.

I think you’ll find it worth the wait. It’s a classic Big Thriller and runs to a shade over 500 pages. I have described it as:

 

THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS

A Novel Of War, Terrorism,

Love, & High Adventure.

I’d say that describes it pretty accurately.

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 11

Yesterday, I wrote as accurately as I can about my mother. It was not entirely a charitable review; and it wasn’t mean to be. Dead or not (She is dead – I’m still working on it) we still have serious issues. Nonetheless, the following is what I said at her funeral service. She died in Spain, but the service was held in Ireland. It was in the late Nineties. She died, as I recall, at the age of 78 – the same as her mother, my much loved grandmother, Vida Lentaigne. Given her lifestyle, she did well.

Where do words come from? I am no practiced speaker, but my brief words came fully formed on that occasion; and they were well received. They matched the spirit of the occasion.

“As many of you know I had many differences with my mother, but she was also the main creative inspiration in my life. As a consequence of that creativity, I have been able to do the kind of things I only dreamed of when a child.

The key, I was taught, was to be what my friends in the US refer to as “an out of the box” thinker. Most of us are limited in what we can achieve because we are brought up to operate within boundaries – within the box of convention and perceived wisdom - but Mother knew no boundaries. She lived life to the full. In a word, she was extraordinary.

That viewpoint is shared by more than a few as this little story will demonstrate.

Recently, I have been having an e-mail correspondence with St. Peter. Peter@thegates.com if you are interested.

After my inquiry about my mother his initial response was merely to say she had arrived at the Gates of Heaven.

“Did you let her in?” I asked. She had led a somewhat unorthodox life. Hitting the right destination was an open question.

There was no reply for some time, and I was greatly concerned.

I e-mailed again.

Still no reply.

I e-mailed a third time.

This time St. Peter responded immediately. First he apologized. He would have replied earlier but Windows 98 had crashed again – and he could tell me in advance where Bill Gates was going.

Then he said, “Of course we let your mother in to Heaven – and immediately. She was far from perfect, and I know she had a few adventures and gave you a hard time, Victor; but she was remarkable woman by any standards; and, by God, she is entertaining.

She was a remarkable woman; and, by God, she was entertaining.

She doesn’t really need a Memorial Service. She will never be forgotten.”

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 10

My mother lived such a Bohemian life – twelve children, five fathers involved, three marriages, and countless lovers – that she  was socially shunned by the rest of the family in her day; or perhaps they didn’t quite know how to treat her. Quite frankly, no one did. She was charismatic, and could be utterly charming, but her mood swings were legendary; and, when she younger, she was prone to lash out physically and slap one across the face with considerable strength – normally without warning. I gather she did this less as she became older, but I was her first-born and she thought boys should be beaten. It was part of the culture of the time.

This made being around her a high risk proposition. For all that, she was a remarkable woman, in a dangerous way, and extremely attractive to the opposite sex. It wasn’t that she was extraordinarily beautiful: She wasn’t. It was more a matter of sexuality and sophistication. As handgun shooters would say, she understood “shot placement,” and could convey sexual interest at considerable range; and she was rarely resisted. A great deal had to do with her personality. She could draw people out, and – if in good form - she could be extremely entertaining. She was also different in a way that fascinated people. She was disconcertingly direct and would say the things that everyone was thinking; but few people had the courage to speak out loud. And she had a formidably strong personality. Few could, and did, stand up to her.

She was quite concerned as to whether I had “it” – by which she meant sex appeal; but finally expressed herself satisfied. I doubt I was more than fourteen at the time and wondered how she could tell. After all, she was my mother. I was also far from sure what to do with this insight. At the time, I was still at boarding school where the fair sex were scarcer that hen’s teeth. That made even the plainest school matron the object of lust; and there were not that many matrons. There were also supposed to be six Italian maids nursing one back to health in the sick bay, but since I never got sick that wasn’t much good to me. Also, I never quite believed the story; and seriously doubted, even if it was true, that they would be particularly obliging. Certainly, I assumed, one would have to be in the Sixth Form. I was also not quite sure sure exactly how I wanted to be be obliged. I knew the principles of course, but the finer points of detail still eluded me. I grew up in a house without TV in a simpler age. The Internet had not yet been invented. It was the late Fifties and I am reliably informed that the Irish – with the exception of my mother, who was Anglo-Irish - still had not discovered sex at that time. Irish babies were found under cabbages.

I am reminded of all this because half a century later, I seem to be discovering relatives I never knew existed (though none in the cabbage patch so far). So far, it is proving to be an extremely pleasant process. I feel like a detective unraveling a mystery; or, perhaps, a series of mysteries. Still, it is early days yet, and anything, or any person remotely connected with my mother, has to be associated with drama in some way or other.

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 9

There is a great danger, when researching a story, for the research to seem to be more important that the story itself. Research can be a heady experience. You can get access to places you would never normally be allowed to get near, you have interesting and exciting experiences, and – with a bit of luck – you get to meet some extraordinary people. Mind you, I probably should not have used the word “extraordinary.”

Most people, when you get right down to it, are no more than people. Seen up close, over a period of time, even people in high places are remarkably ordinary. Time is the great revealer. They get tired, they get nervous, they get testy, and few are brilliant conversationalists. Many, surprisingly enough, are not even particularly bright. Going along to get along is a faster ticket to promotion than raw talent. In short, they are no more than human.

Yet somehow, we humans have an aching need for leadership – for a magically empowered leader to spring forth and meet all our needs. We seek a champion to save the day. We seek someone to say things, and think things, and do things which we are just not prepared to. In short, our craving for leadership reflects – at least to some extent – an abdication of responsibility. We don’t like to dwell on such a concept, of course, but it remains true nonetheless.

Inevitably, that champion disappoints, and within a few years – or sometimes even sooner – we are looking for a replacement. And so this crazy cycle of disillusionment continues.

I’m not suggesting for a moment that leadership is not important – clearly, it is. What I am seeing that we need to become vastly more realistic about what a leader can and cannot be expected to do; and to appreciate that in most situations of any size, a leader needs a supporting structure to be effective. No one achieves success alone. There is always someone – frequently unknown – who aids the process.

The supreme irony is that the U.S. president tends to get blamed (or praised) for matters he (or she) does not control. The economy is a case in point. President Obama is currently being blamed for a poor economy in a situation where he inherited an economic disaster, has been obstructed by the Republicans from the very beginning, yet where the economic tide is visibly – albeit slowly - turning. In addition, corporations have never been more profitable, and the stock market is booming.

Has he done everything right? Certainly not. However, he has accomplished a great deal including winding up two wars which, if the Military Industrial Congressional Complex had its way, would drag on indefinitely. As for Healthcare, at least he has done something which is more than can be said for previous administrations. Further, I suspect that Obamacare constitutes only one step towards what has to be drastic reform. The current system is a disaster. Our Healthcare system costs up to twice as much as other developed countries and delivers inferior results. The populations of most other developed nations live longer than we do – Canadians about two years longer – and do not have to endure the misery of economic stress resulting from medical costs which many Americans experience.

What I fail to understand is the visceral hatred so many Republicans seen to have for Obama. Racism undoubtedly plays a role, but many of the other elements that make up this unhealthy stew of anger, loathing and bigotry are based upon little more than a tissue of lies compounded by ignorance; and a deliberate unwillingness to judge the issues based upon the facts. We are not talking about normal political differences here. Darker emotions are in play which do not bode well for this country.

The two major charges against Obama are that he failed to bring down unemployment sufficiently, and that he has put the country more heavily into debt. Both charges are superficially valid if you assume that Obama took over the presidency when the economy was normal, and that the Republicans were focused on job creation. Such was not the case in either situation.

Instead , it is a simple fact that Obama took over just as the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression had started, and the Republicans took the view that blocking Obama’s every action in order to make him a one term president was more important that working for the good of the American people. The phrase ‘despicable behavior’ comes to mind. The appalling ratings that the public give Congress would seem to suggest that others share such views – though why Congress as a whole should be blamed for what has predominantly been Republican intransigence escapes me.

I write this as someone who has never been an Obama fan. But, I do think it is helpful to look at the facts every now and then.

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 8

It is curious how the mind works. Mentioning Gregory Peck yesterday prompted me to try and recall how many movie stars I have met in my life.

I’m actually not much of a celebrity fan, but some of the movie stars I encountered back in the day were impressive people in their own right and bring back very special memories. For example, I met Gregory Peck in the South of France, and a nicer man would be hard to encounter. However, I’m not going to give a laundry list here. I’m merely struck by the oddities of the human mind, and how one thought leads to another; or doesn’t – as the case maybe.

In my case, I suffer from a form of dyslexia so the day I recall a full shopping-list will be a remarkable one; and I have no ability to remember either phone numbers or license tags at all. On the other hand, my ability to recall the past is considerable; and if I’m doing research, I can generally recall the sense of a discussion in considerable detail – particularly if I have a prompt. It can be a note, or even a memento. Best of all, is to have a recording. There, the sound of the other person’s voice brings it all flooding back without my necessarily listening to the full recording itself.

My memory seems to need stimulus. In contrast, I know some people who rattle off the fine details of history or literature at will. I am deeply envious.

Americans are widely considered to suffer from a sort of mass amnesia – certainly as far as politics is concerned. Given the polls and actual voting patterns, that would appear to be true. In contrast, rightly or wrongly, I think a great deal about the past, both because I think context is necessary for events to make sense, and because I regard it as raw material for a series of humorous (and I hope entertaining) books I hope to write. I plan to call them Confessions Of A Book-Writing Man. So far, I have planned five – all short - but the series may stretch to a couple more. It is hard to be precise because there may be an adventure or two left in me before I slump forward onto my keyboard. What an appropriate way for a writer to go. The alternative – dying while making love – has always seemed to me to be somewhat tactless.

On the other hand, though being dead might aid structuring the project – there is a precision to dates that always impresses - it looks like impeding the actual writing. This afterlife thing does not seem to be guaranteed. Probably best to begin them sooner rather than later. 

Which brings me back to movie stars. Do you remember Peter Van Eyck? He wasn’t a major star like Gregory Peck, but he was an excellent leading character actor who seemed to practically monopolize the role of the not-too-terrible German officer in war movie after war movie. The Desert Fox; The Longest Day; and The Bridge at Remagen are but three examples. He was also in The Spy Who Came In From The Cold with Richard Burton.

I mention Peter Van Eyck because we shared a girlfriend for a while and I still get a strange frisson when I see one of his movies. The lady in question – a truly delightful woman – is, I hope – still alive; and shall remain nameless.

Isn’t it strange how movies play games with one’s sense of time.