My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Thought-to-Text Software, You’re Lying!

by on ·Food for Thought, Technology, The Writing Life

Last night, during one of my occasional insomnia episodes, I wrote an entire novel in about 20 minutes. Anyone who has struggled to write anything worth reading will tell you that sometimes composing a single concise paragraph can cause brain strain. So imagine writing an entire novel while lying in bed. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I did that last night. I was proud of my creation. I imagined a best seller. Okay, maybe a best seller is a stretch. I’d settle for making the shortlist for the First Novel Award.

Before the naysayers start shaking their heads, let me clarify.

Some people count sheep to try and force themselves to doze off; I write stories. The novel I created last night was in my head. I considered jumping out of bed, rushing to the computer, and trying to recreate the tale, but I knew from experience that the masterpiece would vanish before I could pull the chair to the desk and sit down. I’m sure of this because it has happened to me more times than I can remember.

Like Tony Morrison and other noted authors I’ve studied, I do my most productive writing in the middle of the night. So, sometimes I climb out of bed around 3 AM, go to the computer, and begin pecking on the keyboard like a mad woman. The goal is to get my thoughts saved before they vanish because I know I’d be fooling myself if I waited until morning, thinking I would remember every detail.

So last night, I got an idea as my conceived novel was dissipating into my subconsciousness. It was more like wishful thinking. What if – I thought, considering all of the fancy technological devices that do everything from responding to voice commands, “Alexa, play Mozart,” to robotic vacuuming our floors – there was a device that responded to thought commands? For instance, take last night, when that remarkable story created itself in my head; how nice would it have been if I could have used telepathy to send that novel to a device on the nightstand that would record my thoughts? Then, in the morning, I could set the gadget next to my computer, push transcribe, and have those thoughts reproduced onto my computer screen.

It would work similarly to voice-to-text software that is already available. So why not thought-to-text (TTT software, or better yet, let’s call it Ms. T software)? What a help that would be for writers. We would merely need to compose in our heads whatever we want to write, be it a poem, article, or novel, and send those thoughts to Ms. T. When we are ready, Ms. T will transcribe those thoughts into language, send them to a computer file, and Walla!

Instead of manually typing the words dictated by the device, we would issue a voice command, “Transcribe.” Initially, folks like me who are fascinated by technology might want to sit in front of the monitor and watch as our story transcribes word-by-word, line-by-line onto the screen, giving us a finished manuscript in minutes instead of hours or years. Then, of course, we might have to go back and clean up the document, proofread and edit it just like we do with voice-to-text software. Voice-to-text or speech recognition software turns spoken words into written words. It’s pretty neat. I use it occasionally, especially if I’m in a hurry to produce a typed document because, like the average Jill, I speak faster than I type.

Maybe, my concept of thought-to-voice software is far-fetched. But, if nothing else, it is a strong plot for a sci-fi novel.

I am a never-say-never, nothing is impossible kind of person. And considering the speed and innovativeness of today’s tech geniuses, I would not be surprised if, during my lifetime, someone didn’t invent a thought-to-text device. Think about it; law enforcement officers might be able to do away with lie detectors. But, unfortunately, like every other well-intended invention, Ms. T could spell trouble in the wrong hands. However, for honorable people, what a boon it would be!

Who knows, perhaps a brilliant and beautiful mind is already working on a TTT program.

“Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting.” – William Randolph Hearst

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The Gift: Contemplating the Black Doll, White Doll

by on ·Food for Thought, Lifestyle and Culture, Race Matters

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” ― C.G. Jung

In this Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine, Damon Young wrote a column titled, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” Young’s column is published weekly on the inside back cover of the magazine in the space previously utilized by Gene Weingarten, a former syndicated humor columnist for the paper.

Young, a noted journalist, has written for numerous newspapers and other publications and is also the author of What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir in Essays. In addition, he is the winner or nominee of several awards, including the NAACP Image Award. He has earned his props.

Since Young began publishing his (humorous?) perspective columns in The Washington Post Magazine, I’ve read many of them. One that impressed me, entitled “The Whitest thing I’ve ever seen,” was about the infamous Will Smith slap at the Oscars.

The column in today’s paper flashed me back to an afternoon decades ago, sometime in the mid-1980s. One of my former employers, Harper (Note: I am using pseudonyms for my employer and all of his family members) and his wife had invited me to their home to visit with his adult daughter, Sandy, and her first child, a daughter Ashley. If I remember correctly, Baby Ashley was around three or four months old.

Sandy’s husband, Nick, may have been there too, but I don’t remember seeing him. I had an excellent relationship with these people and had met Sandy on a few occasions before when she had visited her dad from her home on the West Coast.

I could go on about the genuine friendship I had with this family. I liked them a lot, and I feel those feelings were reciprocal, but I want to cut to the chase and reveal how this ties in with Young’s column.

Before visiting the Harper’s home that day, I had contemplated what gift to buy for the baby. I figured that perhaps baby showers and the couple’s friends had already brought numerous presents for Ashley. However, I wanted to give her something unique, so that’s what I got.

After I gave Sandy the nicely store-wrapped gift box during my visit, she opened it to discover a beautiful black baby doll for Ashley.

Some people might question my gift choice, but I saw it this way. Although Sandy and her husband are white, I felt they would have no problem with the black doll. (For my readers who may not have noticed from some of my previous posts, I’m a black woman. Now, back to the topic.) I usually bought black dolls for my daughter but wasn’t bothered when she was gifted white dolls (as she sometimes was). My cousin, Andre, had even sent her a Cabbage Patch doll when he was in the military and stationed in Germany. I still have that doll in my home.

If I were right in thinking that Sandy and her husband were as open-minded and socially conscious as Sandy’s dad, then I knew they would see nothing wrong with diversifying their daughter’s doll collection.

Sandy thanked me and expressed her appreciation. Several months later, I don’t remember whether Sandy sent me a note or if her dad delivered the message, but Sandy wanted me to know how much the child was enjoying her doll. Ashley is a grown woman now, and the doll — I don’t know what became of her.

After reading Young’s column this morning, I was a bit irritated and had some serious cognitive dissonance going on. I was questioning my gift choice all those years ago while at the same time feeling disturbed by Young’s reaction to his daughter’s white doll.

I saw no harm in my choice for Ashley’s doll collection, which I figured would likely grow as she would. But talk about second-guessing a done deal. Young’s column had me wondering if my idea had not been good despite how it seemed at the time. After I left the get-together, did the Harper family react the same way the Youngs had toward the white doll? Did they contemplate what to do with the black doll? My gut feeling says no.

Click on the link to read Young’s column, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” And, since I am always curious to know what my readers think, I’d appreciate your comments on this post.

 

 

 

 

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The Writing Life: Demons and Muses

by on ·The Writing Life

As much as I enjoy writing, I like reading about writers. I am always curious to learn about similarities and concerns we novices share with authors who have earned acclaim in the literary world.

Last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine featured an article about Akhil Sharma, a writer in residence at Hollens, a small university outside Roanoke, Virginia. He did something that I have been longing to do and, if I live long enough, plan to do, albeit an anomaly. He revised and rewrote his first book. Unlike mine, a small 130-page memoir about my maternal family genealogy, his book – An Obedient Father – was an award-winning novel.

According to the NY Times article, Sharma was disappointed with his first effort (likewise). The 17 years it took him to earn back the advance he received from the publisher wasn’t his only source of angst. Even the literary awards the first-time novelist received, including the PEN/Hemingway Award, did not ease his feeling of dissatisfaction with his original book. So, 22 years after his first book was published, he rewrote and republished it. The revised version is due out this month. Way to go, Sharma!

I am far from being a writer on the level of Sharma, Angelo, Morrison, Baldwin, and numerous other notables. Still, I deeply understand and share his desire to rewrite his book. I feel the same way about my first (and so far, my only) book, Legacy.

It is the perfectionist in me that finds some of my paragraphs annoying. Clarification wasn’t the issue and I think I did well reporting precisely what my research revealed. Still, I made some boo-boos. That occurred because of my decision not to have my copyeditor review the book a second time after I made revisions. (Mistake!) The other reason for the rushed publication was that I was trying to hasten it before my mother succumbed to her terminal illness. Although mother got to read some of the early chapters, she died before I finished writing the book.

I’ve been writing another book for over a year. It is now the priority, and since it is far from completion, only heaven knows when I’ll get the opportunity to revise Legacy.

As passionate as I am about writing, sometimes when I feel that it is wearing me down, I’m inclined to agree with George Orwell. The author of 1984, Animal Farm, Why I Write, and numerous other books opined, “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon who one can neither resist nor understand.” Ditto!

I wrote Legacy to provide my mother with an answer to a question that she often told me she had pondered for years. Even if I don’t get to rewrite the book, since books outlive their authors, perhaps the published volume will provide a starting point for some other descendant of the Station/Williams clan who may want to delve further into our family history.

“Every family has untold stories buried in the fog of the past.” – Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

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Wake-Up Call

by on ·General

My daughter is often not at home when Amazon brings her packages, so she usually has them delivered to my place. She told me yesterday that Amazon would bring a package for her the next day (today). “No problem,” I said.

An hour later, she called me, concerned that the tracking information Amazon emailed her showed that the package would arrive between 4 AM and 8 AM. I said, “It won’t. No one in their right mind makes deliveries in the middle of the night. They probably meant 4 PM to 8 PM.”

Several months ago, an ambitious young Amazon driver brought me a package at 9:45 PM. That was the latest delivery I’ve ever received – that is, until very early this morning when my doorbell chimed, wrenching me from dreamland back to reality. In my darkened bedroom, I trained my squinting eyes on the clock on the nightstand. Once focused, it was as though I could hear the timepiece shouting 5:21 AM! Amazon? I said to myself – at 5:21 in the morning. No way. I reasoned.

I rolled out of bed. Then, shuffling sleepily along the hallway, I continued through the living room and to the door, thinking – I must be dreaming. This is not happening. I switched the light on along the way and stole a glance in the wall mirror, startling myself. The eye mask I had hurriedly pushed up on my forehead was lop-sided, leaning left, while my night scarf had slid down and partially covered my right eye. I looked a fright; I mean sight.

When I reached the door and peered through the peephole, I could see someone who looked like a baby-faced junior high school kid wearing the familiar Amazon uniform. Still, I cautiously asked, “Who is it?”

He politely said, “Good Morning, Mam. Amazon. I have your delivery.”

In my sluggishness, I had forgotten to put on my robe, so I adjusted my nightgown to modestly cover “the girls” before cracking open the door just wide enough to grab the cereal-box-sized package being extended.

“Thanks,” I said before closing the door. I was tempted to add a few choice words about the ridiculousness of making deliveries in the middle of the night, but then I decided why take out my frustration on a kid trying to earn an honest living.

As I write this, it is 5:58 AM, and I have been wide awake since the predawn delivery. I’m entertaining the idea of sending a message to Amazon telling them what I think about their delivering packages during a time when most normal people (and undoubtedly some abnormal ones, too) are asleep. Or maybe I’ll call their 24-hour customer service number and share my thoughts. Instead, I let rational rule. What good would it do to chastise a customer service rep? He or she will likely follow procedure, apologize and tell me that my complaint has been duly noted and will be forwarded to the appropriate manager. Then as soon as our call ends, the rep will start laughing with coworkers about the crazy customer’s complaint before sending it to the recycle bin, aka File 13.

Now, I am sitting here flippantly imagining what if the company has created an after-midnight deliveries shift to penalize customers who they consider frequent complainers. Customers like me who call them and fuss about orders received days later than scheduled, damaged items, and packages that they show were delivered – “Delivered to someone, but not to me,” I tell them.

I envision tit for tat; Amazon will penalize people on the frequent complainers’ list by disturbing us with early morning wake-up call deliveries. The unique packaging will be imprinted with a retaliatory slogan, instead of “Better late than never,” the taunting catchphrase would read “Better early than never!” followed by a smiley face emoji.

Energized by a cup of freshly brewed coffee, the sleuth in me learned that Amazon’s standard delivery time is between 8 AM and 8 PM. As a result, most purchases reach the customer’s residence no later than 8 PM. However, deliveries for Prime members who request either same-day or two-day delivery can arrive as late as 10 PM. I also discovered that the company hires DSP (Delivery Service Partners) and Flex drivers who are independent contractors. Those workers can choose their hours and schedules; some have a quota they need to satisfy on the days they elect to work. Most importantly, I discovered that when a Prime customer places an order, if they select the delivery “Overnight by 8 AM” option, the order will be delivered between 4:00 AM and 8 AM.

I wonder if my daughter inadvertently checked that overnight box? I need to phone her right now and ask her. But it’s early. Um, yes, it is.

 

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Are Scary Movies Grossing Us Out?

by on ·Entertainment, Movies

What right-minded, mature woman’s idea of date night is to binge-watch horror movies? I emphasize mature (or senior women, if you prefer), not teenagers and young adults because many in the latter group enjoy blood and gore films. Granted, some older folks do, too, but I prefer dramas, romance, or a good action flick over a gruesome horror show.

My tolerance for scary movies began to wane decades ago when moviemakers decided that scaring viewers half to death wasn’t enough. Instead, they started blitzing us with enough blood and guts to make you holler for your mama. Psycho spooked me. Rose Mary’s Baby sent shivers down my spine, and Freddie Krueger cost me many sleepless nights. When I discussed this subject with my daughter, who I consider a connoisseur of movies, she reminded me that the Nightmare on Elm Street films had plenty of bloodletting by the razor-handed villain. Okay, scratch that one from the scary minus the bloodletting group. Still, there is no denying that horror movies have progressed from extremely frightening to highly gruesome. Nothing is off-limits, meaning anything goes.

As I was saying, recently, against my better judgment, I binge-watched the Final Destination films with my SO. Afterward, when I told my daughter, she said, “Mom, those films are old.” Then, I reminded her, “So are we. We catch up when we can.”

For my readers who haven’t seen the Destination films, the theme is about people cheating death – or so they think. I am not exaggerating when I say the death scenes are disgusting. After watching the first four movies (I know – I can’t believe I made it through them either) and needing a break from seeing bodies beheaded, crushed, and disemboweled, we decided to hold off on watching Destination 5 for a few days.

A week later, we watched number 5. I admit the screen watched more of me than I did it because, as I often do, when I anticipate gore coming, I covered my eyes or turned my head. And, to my surprise, even Mr. Macho SO found some sights horrifying. I know this because on a couple of occasions, when I refused to look at the screen, he shrieked, “Whoa! Oh, my God,” and I know his scream had nothing to do with pleasure.

Folks in the film industry who rate movie popularity claim a vast audience for pictures depicting horrific incidents of physical violence and psychological terror. Hollywood seems so hooked on including unpleasant occurrences in movies, including those not in the horror genre, that nearly every film is likely to show at least one repulsive scene. Think about it. How often have you been watching a drama or side-splitting comedy when, as if the director decided that the movie was too clean, a character pukes? Who wants to see that? Not me.

My SO suggested that movies like Final Destination should be rated G for gruesome. I reminded him that there is already a G category. According to the MPFA (Motion Picture Film Association), there are currently several categories of films based on content. Those are rated as follows, with my slightly inflated descriptions.

G – General audiences. Come on. Come all. Everybody’s admitted.

PG (for parental guidance) and PG-13 – These films could have some moderate violence and mild sex scenes that you may wish your preadolescent darling had not witnessed.

R – Restricted. Under 17 must bring a parent or adult guardian. In addition to disturbing violence, films in this category may contain risqué sex scenes. Call me prudish, but at my age, I’ve grown tired of seeing naked people on screen sucking faces and booty bumping. However, I prefer implicit sex scenes over murder and mayhem.

NC17 – means no one under 17 is admitted (even if you drag along an adult).

M – for mature audiences. These extreme films show butchery, intense violence, and torture. Reportedly, some movies in this category are so shocking that viewers have been known to faint or vomit. Films like Raw, Martyrs, or We Are the Flesh are a cup of blood for anyone inclined to the macabre. I’ve never watched them, and I won’t, but I read that some scenes include cannibalism and excessive torture. So viewers are advised to skip the popcorn and the cherry Slurpee!

I think people who enjoy overdosing on psychologically disturbing films have one foot on the dark side, but that’s just me. An article on Health.com expresses a different opinion of people who enjoy having the devil scared out of them.

In the meantime, I thought of a category for films depicting grisly scenes. How about DG (D-disgustingly G-gross)?

I don’t care how filmmakers categorize them because I’m done with horror films. I find them as repulsive as a urine-soaked floor littered with wads of toilet paper in a gas station restroom. Picture that. On second thought, don’t!

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