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

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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Brothers, Lovers, and Other Family Matters

by on ·Brothers and Sisters, Family, Siblings

In my private journal, I am free to rant and rave and take a giant step to hang dirty laundry out to dry on the vent line, while in my public journal, I usually keep posts impersonal. However, this one is taking a baby step over the line.

My younger brother, who I refer to as Little Bro, is a grown man, retired from the workforce a few years ago. He recently learned that the hearing problem he has had in one ear for some time has compounded. I wouldn’t mention this personal matter online except that Little Bro already revealed it yesterday on social media. So I take that to mean—and Judy Judy will likely agree with me—that since he initially made his condition public knowledge, I am not violating his privacy.

After reading on Facebook that my brother now has significant hearing loss in his other ear, I posted a link on my page to one of several articles I’ve read, suggesting that – smoking and drinking – the combination of alcohol and tobacco can be a volatile cocktail. When Little Bro rebuked, I reminded him that our dad, a smoker, and drinker, had died of a stroke.

Flashback to June 2006. My Little Bro is planning a cookout on Saturday, June 24. I spoke with him on the phone the day before, and we briefly discussed getting a birthday cake for dad whose birthday would be the day after, and surprising him with the cake at the cookout. It’s just as well that we scratched that plan because dad, who always looked forward to attending family cookouts, wasn’t feeling well that Saturday morning and decided that he would not participate this time. Nevertheless, our family enjoyed the cookout, minus dad. Unfortunately, the next afternoon dad suffered a debilitating stroke. It left him temporarily paralyzed and ultimately led to his death two months later, on August 30. Dad was an alcoholic. According to what mother often told me, he had been smoking cigarettes and drinking since she met him in his early teens.

Dad’s birthday is coming up in two weeks. Had he lived, he’d be turning 95 years old. I miss him a lot.

Little Bro and I had a brief and cordial exchange online about the smoking and alcohol subject, and he said, “I’m going to keep smoking and drinking. I don’t believe that study.” Discouraged but not surprised, I replied to him, “Do you. Love you.” End of discussion.

I know that if my mother were alive, she too would have concerns about my brother’s health-harmful habits; simultaneously, she would continue admonishing me about living in sin. I recall that those were two of her favorite subjects relative to family matters. However, like most adults, my brother and I have stubbornly maintained the mindset that – I’m a grown a** adult, and I’m going to do what I want. No matter how we choose to live, everybody has the same final destination. Don’t we?

The exchange between Little Bro and me reminds me of one of my favorite Billie Holliday songs.

There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticise me but I’m going to do
Just as I want to anyway
And don’t care just what people say . . .

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

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Clearing Headspace of Rambling Thoughts

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

I am a contented introvert and don’t mind admitting it. I can socialize without awkwardness, but I’d rather have my privacy than interact with a crowd. Unlike extroverts who draw energy from social gatherings, I’ve never felt the need to surround myself with people. I prefer to enjoy my solitude and be alone with my thoughts at this stage in my life. I found it interesting to learn that, according to Business2Community.com, some celebrities have been identified as popular introverts, including Harrison Ford, Warren Buffet, and Anthony Hopkins. I chuckled when I read that Hopkins said, “We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think.”

I admit I do, do, do spend much time in my head, and if it’s true that overthinking leads to procrastination – well, bingo! That explains a lot.

I don’t just think about contemporary things; sometimes, I contemplate the past. Take the declaration made by historical figures like the alleged promoter of personal freedoms, Patrick Henry, who said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” But, of course, that has me thinking, “Wasn’t Henry a slave-owner?” Go figure.

Speaking of death and briefly putting sarcasm aside, I must vent about something. (That’s one advantage to having your own platform.) I can’t stop thinking about the most recent tragic shootings in Buffalo, New York, and Uvalde, Texas. What kind of deranged person shoots down people shopping for groceries and little elementary school kids like he’s playing a violent video game? Some folks say that the perpetrators are (or were, in the case of the Uvalde shooter) mentally ill. Do we know that? DO WE KNOW THAT, or is it just a lame excuse alleged because the act was so unconscionable? I think such evildoers are mad with the world, and because they are dissatisfied with their life, they can’t stand to see anyone else happy. Undeniably, misery loves company. I don’t care what the killer’s race or ethnicity is. I don’t care what political or social mandate they endorse; there is no justification for the cold-blooded, ruthless killing of anyone, especially children. Killing people is not a black or brown thing. It’s not a white thing. Maliciously killing someone is an evil act, regardless of who the moral degenerate is behind it.

God – if S/He is still alive – must certainly be disappointed in humankind. As if the original sins are not enough, centuries of people have added a multitude of unnatural transgressions, keeping the hellfire burning. I imagine that contemporary Moses will have at least 2000 Commandments saved on a computer tablet instead of ten inscribed on two stones whenever there is a world reboot.

Every time I scratch my head, I think about hair. Hair is a sensitive subject for Black women. It’s one of those topics that we aren’t supposed to talk about in public, like politics, religion, and sex. But Black women aren’t the only ones who wear the fake stuff. According to the Ultimate Looks blog, “Hollywood hairstylist Priscilla Valles, whose clients include Kylie Jenner, Chrissy Teigen, and Christina Aguilera, estimates that 97 percent of all female stars wear hair extensions — both onscreen and off.”

I wonder how some folks would cope if the fake hair industry suddenly went bust? Can you imagine how many celebrities and wanna-be celebs would lose their minds if they could no longer buy those long tresses? Never say never, readers. It could happen. Anytime there can be a shortage of toilet paper, paper towels, and even baby formula – baby formula, for God’s sake! So then, what’s to prevent fake hair from suddenly becoming unavailable? I imagine that some of you readers are saying, “don’t even think about it.”

After seven straight years of going to the gym three days a week, my routine got canceled by the pandemic, and I haven’t been back. My wallet appreciates the rest, but my body is punishing me by puffing up. Although I exercise at home, I am not as driven to stay on a sixty-minute, tri-weekly schedule as I used to do. When Coronavirus shut down everything, I had two months of credit remaining on my membership, but I suspect my credit has expired since I have yet to return.

Tamper-proof packaging has gone too far. I understand that the Chicago Tylenol murders in ’82 prompted the wrap rage, but now it takes a village to open a factory-sealed package, like that bottle of eye drops I recently brought. I struggled for several minutes to get the clear plastic shrink band off the cap before I could finally grip and tear its perforated edge. And then, as if removing the shrink band wasn’t tricky enough, the cap presented another challenge. I was twisting it and snarling like a pit bull mangling a chihuahua. The lid wouldn’t bug until I grabbed a pair of pliers off the shelf. Even with the pliers, it took several teeth-gritting, forceful turns before the cap loosened. I know that tamper-proof packing is to prevent wrongdoers from tinkering with products and protect young children from ingesting detergent pods and other poisonous substances. But what’s the point of safety sealed packaging if consumers can’t open the products? I wonder if the CDC Injury Center keeps track of how many people wind up cut and bloodied while struggling to open blister packs, clam-shell hard-plastic, and heat-sealed items. And OMG, the irony of the situation is that there is a prize created for products with the hardest-to-open packaging – the Oyster Award. Don’t take my word for it; ask Google.

And while it’s on my mind – I’m not a big fan of the idiot box. But, except for a couple of all-news channels, I have one favorite TV program, The View. I am so happy that the show is nominated for nine Emmy Awards. I can hardly wait until September to see how many of the golden statues they’ll win. The cohosts are intelligent and entertaining, and their hot topics always give me something else to think about (besides a preposition at the end of a sentence).

(Artwork for this post created by Khalil Brown-Royal.)

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