this day, ten years ago?
I do.
From our high school librarian running in, panicked, saying that the World Trade Center tower had been hit, to everyone in my tiny school packing into the library to watch the news all day. We watched the second tower get hit. We watched them both fall. We didn't--couldn't--understand. We watched footage of the UA flight 93 crash scene after it went down in that Pennsylvania field, only to later learn of the bravery of those people on board.
On that day, teachers and administrators and students were all equals. We all sat together, without any sense of order, and watched the tragedy unfold before our very eyes. Many people came and went, but I sat in the same chair all day. My friends never moved. We couldn't move. We were transfixed and mortified, horrified for the loss of life. Horrified for those people with family and friends that were lost in the rubble. Horrified at the sights of desperation, of the people jumping from windows, trying to save themselves. It was a jolt of reality, and one that I won't ever forget.
And I remember it all. But what I remember most vividly wasn't on the television that day. Isolated far away in tiny-town Texas, we were all safe. No one had any family or friends in the WTC or aboard those planes.
A couple hours into the tragedy, the room was particularly quiet. Many students had been picked up by their parents and taken home, and so the number crammed into our modest library was decreased.
For some reason, I glanced around the room. And my heart stopped beating. There, sitting near the back, was my math teacher. A former United States Marine, survivor of multiple tours in many war-torn places of the world. Brave recipient of a Purple Heart, along with several other decorations. A great teacher and person.
And father to a son working in the Pentagon.
I'll never forget seeing the tears stream down his face. Or the look of abject horror as the news played the reels of the attack again and again. Or the quiet, terse conversation he had with his wife, also a teacher at our school. The pain in their eyes because they couldn't reach their son; the son who had just been promoted to a Pentagon window office.
On this day ten years ago, there was no such thing as far-removed, tiny-town Texas. We were all right there in NYC, the Pennsylvania field, and the Pentagon. Today, we stand together again as one nation bound by tragedy, and we remember.
Showing posts with label Real. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Real. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Appreciation (n)
Hey everyone, hope y'all had wonderful (long) weekends. I was productive...sort of. I've been spreading my attention out between my WIPs, which has resulted in just a little progress on several things, rather than a lot on one. I know that progress is progress, but still.
One thing I've really been working on is outlining my next novel--I plan on having the rough draft of The Painted Queen completed by (at the latest) November, and want to be able to jump right into another mss. So, I've been mentally working out what's next in my head: a paranormal, set in Texas, during the worst drought of the century.
Coincidentally (and sadly), I've had a lot of inspiration as of late.
As many of you know, Texas is on fire. We haven't had rain in months. Growing up in an rural and agricultural setting really sensitizes you to the weather; everyone from ages 12 to 102 knows that we're in a terrible situation here. At home the temperature has been over 100 degrees for more than 20 days in a row, all with no measurable precipitation. My home area is under water rationing, and there's talk that the wells are actually drying up because there isn't enough water cycling through the environment to replenish groundwater sources. The biologist in me knows it's true; the agriculturalist in me knows it's only going to get worse.
People are losing their livelihoods one failed crop at a time. In my area, the soil is better suited to raising livestock than grains or fibers, but some people do still scratch out a living directly from the ground. But cotton didn't produce this year, unless one could afford to irrigate, which most people can't do. I took a walk across my parents' hay field while I was home, and with each step in what is normally thick, retina-searing green Bermuda grass, puffs of dust rose. What little is left of the grass is dead, a sickly yellow husk of cellulose. The livestock looks terrible. Gone are the days of additional feeding to put that extra sheen in the coats of your cattle. Now you're taking out loans, paying for feed just to keep everything alive. If you can't do that, you sell low, knowing that you'll take out another loan to buy them back in a few months when--if--it ever rains again.
Basically, everything and everyone is baking. In a time when the east coast is drowning, we're roasting.
And now, to top it off, we're on fire. When the whole world is a tinder box, one little spark is all it takes to turn 16,000 acres into a barren wasteland. The winds from hurricane (or is it tropical storm?) Lee brought a relief from the heat, but now are only fanning the flames higher. Mandatory evacuations are underway. People are losing their lands, their homes, and their lives.
While everyone else is running away from the fire, our local firefighters are running into it. Helicopters are hauling in water, but there are still hundreds of people on the ground, physically putting out the flames or digging trenches to save what little is left. Everyone is at risk. Under-equipped volunteer firefighters are rushing into the smoke, trying their damndest to save everything--to save something.
It takes a special kind of person to do that.
This post isn't looking for pity. It isn't about complaining or whining. Even though this is the worst drought I've ever seen, I know we'll pull through it. We always do. What this post is about is appreciation. Appreciation for the people in the service industry who run toward the fire when everyone else is running away. It's for the families of those firefighters who wonder if their wife/husband/mom/dad/daughter/son will come home tonight, tomorrow, next week. It's for the people who collect food to feed those working 18 hour days in the smoke and ash. It's for the people who open their homes to the homeless, who lend washing machines, a change of clothes, blankets, or beds. For those who raise funds to cover random expenses or to buy a meal for someone who has lost everything. For those businesses that put out the mason jars at the front counters--even spare change helps.
In the larger scheme, my WIPs mean nothing. The fact that I have the electricity to power my laptop and a place to stay with a roof over my head is more important. The fact that my family and friends are out of harm's way is the most important.
This post is about appreciating what you have, because you never know when it might be taken from you.
I know I need to work on that. Do you?
One thing I've really been working on is outlining my next novel--I plan on having the rough draft of The Painted Queen completed by (at the latest) November, and want to be able to jump right into another mss. So, I've been mentally working out what's next in my head: a paranormal, set in Texas, during the worst drought of the century.
Coincidentally (and sadly), I've had a lot of inspiration as of late.
As many of you know, Texas is on fire. We haven't had rain in months. Growing up in an rural and agricultural setting really sensitizes you to the weather; everyone from ages 12 to 102 knows that we're in a terrible situation here. At home the temperature has been over 100 degrees for more than 20 days in a row, all with no measurable precipitation. My home area is under water rationing, and there's talk that the wells are actually drying up because there isn't enough water cycling through the environment to replenish groundwater sources. The biologist in me knows it's true; the agriculturalist in me knows it's only going to get worse.
People are losing their livelihoods one failed crop at a time. In my area, the soil is better suited to raising livestock than grains or fibers, but some people do still scratch out a living directly from the ground. But cotton didn't produce this year, unless one could afford to irrigate, which most people can't do. I took a walk across my parents' hay field while I was home, and with each step in what is normally thick, retina-searing green Bermuda grass, puffs of dust rose. What little is left of the grass is dead, a sickly yellow husk of cellulose. The livestock looks terrible. Gone are the days of additional feeding to put that extra sheen in the coats of your cattle. Now you're taking out loans, paying for feed just to keep everything alive. If you can't do that, you sell low, knowing that you'll take out another loan to buy them back in a few months when--if--it ever rains again.
Basically, everything and everyone is baking. In a time when the east coast is drowning, we're roasting.
And now, to top it off, we're on fire. When the whole world is a tinder box, one little spark is all it takes to turn 16,000 acres into a barren wasteland. The winds from hurricane (or is it tropical storm?) Lee brought a relief from the heat, but now are only fanning the flames higher. Mandatory evacuations are underway. People are losing their lands, their homes, and their lives.
While everyone else is running away from the fire, our local firefighters are running into it. Helicopters are hauling in water, but there are still hundreds of people on the ground, physically putting out the flames or digging trenches to save what little is left. Everyone is at risk. Under-equipped volunteer firefighters are rushing into the smoke, trying their damndest to save everything--to save something.
It takes a special kind of person to do that.
This post isn't looking for pity. It isn't about complaining or whining. Even though this is the worst drought I've ever seen, I know we'll pull through it. We always do. What this post is about is appreciation. Appreciation for the people in the service industry who run toward the fire when everyone else is running away. It's for the families of those firefighters who wonder if their wife/husband/mom/dad/daughter/son will come home tonight, tomorrow, next week. It's for the people who collect food to feed those working 18 hour days in the smoke and ash. It's for the people who open their homes to the homeless, who lend washing machines, a change of clothes, blankets, or beds. For those who raise funds to cover random expenses or to buy a meal for someone who has lost everything. For those businesses that put out the mason jars at the front counters--even spare change helps.
In the larger scheme, my WIPs mean nothing. The fact that I have the electricity to power my laptop and a place to stay with a roof over my head is more important. The fact that my family and friends are out of harm's way is the most important.
This post is about appreciating what you have, because you never know when it might be taken from you.
I know I need to work on that. Do you?
 |
| Found on facebook--that's the Austin, Texas skyline. Taken by Austin photographer Deanna Roy http://www.deannaroy.com/ |
 |
| Taken around Bastrop, Texas. Over 200 hundred homes have been destroyed, with many more in imminent danger. |
Friday, July 1, 2011
Happy 4th, y'all :)
"Our country is not the only thing to which we owe our allegiance. It is also owed to justice and to humanity. Patriotism consists not in waving the flag, but in striving that our country shall be righteous as well as strong." ~James Bryce
"This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave." ~Elmer Davis
Happy Independence Day, everyone--I hope everybody has a great weekend. :)
And please--keep in mind those who allow (and have allowed) you to celebrate and enjoy this time. We have so much for which to be grateful.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
In Real Life.
Recently, a post in the Wall Street Journal has garnered the ire of many a YA author and aficionado. Before I say more, find the article here .
The particular piece has been rebutted (aka, torn to shreds) by many, many other people thus far. It's caused a veritable outrage on twitter, making the '#YAsaves' tag/conversation the third most active twitterthingy going on in the US. That is A LOT of conversation.
And it's a good thing, don't get me wrong.
But for me, instead of getting all wound up over it, it's easy to just let it slide. Roll off, no problem. Why? Well that's easy: Because I don't care what some obviously narrow minded woman has to say about my genre. Seriously. Couldn't give two shits. (Como se dice 'publicity stunt'?)
Should the article have been filed under the 'Opinion' headlines? Probably. Would it have still sparked off this wildfire of a debate? I think so, because we're all so passionate about what we write. (Which is why we write in the first place, right?)
I don't think anyone with a lick of common sense will allow the article to cast a cloud of distaste over all YA. It's clear to me that the woman in question didn't look very hard to find something suitable for her daughter to read. Anyone who does think blood and guts and torture is that all YA is, well, fuggetaboutem.
What I obviously DO take very obvious issue with is the free and easy way the writer drops names--not cool. She obviously never learned the golden rule of writing: Respect your fellow writer. If we don't respect each other, who will? It's hard enough to make it out there like it is, without all the backstabbing, etc. in the workplace. Who hasn't gotten the "Why don't you get a REAL job?" question? Pisses you off, huh?
That's the aspect of the article that made me most irritated--the lack of writerly respect. THAT pisses me off. THAT makes me want to say "Okay, darling, if you can do it better, by all means...."
Then you'll hear the crickets chirping.
I don't have gratuitous violence in my YA. As a matter of craft, it's my intention to not have gratuitous ANYTHING in my YA. Everything in the story plays an integral role. But there is violence. There is blood. There is loss. Because the stories I try and tell could be real to someone, somewhere. My characters get broken down, kicked around, but come out on the other side stronger for it. Some of the best people I've ever met in my life weren't raised in 'perfect' homes. Everything wasn't marigolds and roses all the time. They had hard lives, much harder than mine was as a child. And if I can ever measure up to 50% of them, I'll consider myself extremely blessed.
The YA section the lady perused obviously didn't fit her tastes. That's okay. Real hurts sometimes. I just turned off the news because hearing about some poor little girl who may or may not have been murdered is all anyone's talking about and it makes me think lots of people shouldn't be parents to dust bunnies, much less children. The story is incredibly sad. Should we not talk about that either?
If you want to shelter your children from some things, fine, I don't care. (And just because FOX owns the WSJ, it doesn't make this a conservative/Republican movement. My folks are VERY republican, but have always encouraged me to read whatever I wanted to.) Don't make this a politics issue; it isn't one. This is one misplaced opinion that's gotten a lot of attention, nothing more, nothing less. (We're so pumped about about it, I think we're actually making it more than it is. A LOT MORE.)
If you don't want real, I'm sorry, you won't like my YA. But that's okay. Because maybe there's someone out there, somewhere, who needs it more than words can say.
They're the ones I'm writing for anyways.
The particular piece has been rebutted (aka, torn to shreds) by many, many other people thus far. It's caused a veritable outrage on twitter, making the '#YAsaves' tag/conversation the third most active twitterthingy going on in the US. That is A LOT of conversation.
And it's a good thing, don't get me wrong.
But for me, instead of getting all wound up over it, it's easy to just let it slide. Roll off, no problem. Why? Well that's easy: Because I don't care what some obviously narrow minded woman has to say about my genre. Seriously. Couldn't give two shits. (Como se dice 'publicity stunt'?)
Should the article have been filed under the 'Opinion' headlines? Probably. Would it have still sparked off this wildfire of a debate? I think so, because we're all so passionate about what we write. (Which is why we write in the first place, right?)
I don't think anyone with a lick of common sense will allow the article to cast a cloud of distaste over all YA. It's clear to me that the woman in question didn't look very hard to find something suitable for her daughter to read. Anyone who does think blood and guts and torture is that all YA is, well, fuggetaboutem.
What I obviously DO take very obvious issue with is the free and easy way the writer drops names--not cool. She obviously never learned the golden rule of writing: Respect your fellow writer. If we don't respect each other, who will? It's hard enough to make it out there like it is, without all the backstabbing, etc. in the workplace. Who hasn't gotten the "Why don't you get a REAL job?" question? Pisses you off, huh?
That's the aspect of the article that made me most irritated--the lack of writerly respect. THAT pisses me off. THAT makes me want to say "Okay, darling, if you can do it better, by all means...."
Then you'll hear the crickets chirping.
I don't have gratuitous violence in my YA. As a matter of craft, it's my intention to not have gratuitous ANYTHING in my YA. Everything in the story plays an integral role. But there is violence. There is blood. There is loss. Because the stories I try and tell could be real to someone, somewhere. My characters get broken down, kicked around, but come out on the other side stronger for it. Some of the best people I've ever met in my life weren't raised in 'perfect' homes. Everything wasn't marigolds and roses all the time. They had hard lives, much harder than mine was as a child. And if I can ever measure up to 50% of them, I'll consider myself extremely blessed.
The YA section the lady perused obviously didn't fit her tastes. That's okay. Real hurts sometimes. I just turned off the news because hearing about some poor little girl who may or may not have been murdered is all anyone's talking about and it makes me think lots of people shouldn't be parents to dust bunnies, much less children. The story is incredibly sad. Should we not talk about that either?
If you want to shelter your children from some things, fine, I don't care. (And just because FOX owns the WSJ, it doesn't make this a conservative/Republican movement. My folks are VERY republican, but have always encouraged me to read whatever I wanted to.) Don't make this a politics issue; it isn't one. This is one misplaced opinion that's gotten a lot of attention, nothing more, nothing less. (We're so pumped about about it, I think we're actually making it more than it is. A LOT MORE.)
If you don't want real, I'm sorry, you won't like my YA. But that's okay. Because maybe there's someone out there, somewhere, who needs it more than words can say.
They're the ones I'm writing for anyways.
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