Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Book Review: Max and the Cats by Moacyr Scliar

July 20, 2020 No comments

I heard about this short novel as it was mentioned briefly in something I was reading about Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, a novel I greatly adore and teach almost every year. When I read the synopsis—a young man who grew up in Nazi Berlin under the gaze of a stuffed Bengal tiger, then finds himself shipwrecked with a jaguar (maybe)—I realized it couldn’t be an accident that Martel drew from the novel. Indeed, on the front cover is a quote from Martel: “I am indebted to Mr. Moacyr Scliar, for the spark of life.”

The novel no doubt sparked some ideas for Martel’s work, and at 99 pages in rather large print, it read quickly (in one sitting for me, which says a lot when I have a four and (almost) two year old at home with me this summer). If someone like Thomas Hardy wrote this book, it would be about 500 pages long, so a lot of plot was compressed into a small space. But it worked. I think Kafka would have enjoyed it.

It’s an odd mix of reality and the absurd. It’s told from a third person perspective. Though we are limited to Max’s perspective on the world, we are never put deeply in it. It reminds me in some ways of the way the story “Gimpel the Fool” (Isaac Bashevis Singer) was told—a straight-forward account of a bizarre situation. It also reminded me of the short story “The Gospel According to Mark” (Jorge Luis Borges) in the way Max becomes an outsider everywhere he lives and is unable to integrate. In all cases, the distanced perspective helps make the absurdity of the situation work. I can’t imagine The Stranger being told in detailed, painstaking sentences as Meursault justifies his behavior.

The novel is for adults—there are some sexual situations (none explicit, though the language is blunt), as well as some anti-Semitism/references to Nazis. It’s an interesting study in how we react to our environment and how the long-term consequences of hatred tend to follow us. And I think that, rather than a characterization of a specific individual, is the purpose of the book.

For me, I read it through the lens of Life of Pi, and I enjoyed things like Max’s uncertainty about whether there really a jaguar on the lifeboat with him, the look at what motivates a person and how people raised in the same area can have differing beliefs.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Warm Summer Evenings by Phil Yeats

July 16, 2020 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about something “summery.”

Today’s post is written by Phil Yeats. In December, 2019, Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) published his most recent novel. Tilting at Windmills, the second in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.

He’s currently working on a Cli-Fi novel. Information on that project is available on his website.

 Warm Summer Evenings

 Phil Yeats

Years ago, we lived at the end of a cul-de-sac next to a small section of urban forest. On warm summer evenings, bimmers and other fancy sedans would arrive. They’d disgorge teenagers burdened with boomboxes, twofers, and packages of snack food. The drivers would depart, presumably to return their parents’ cars, and reappear on foot with others joining the party in the woods.

From early evening, the raucous music punctuated by occasional noisy outbursts from the participants overwhelmed the usual nighttime forest sounds. Near midnight, the teens, with boomboxes blaring, would emerge from the forest and disperse into suburban city streets.

Screeching owls, and cats expressing differences of opinion, would reassert ownership of their forest. In the morning, scavengers with their grocery store carts would collect the empty beer cans.

We lived in that house for twenty years and observed many teenage gatherings. They consumed prodigious amounts of beer, but we only witnessed one altercation. On that occasion, a sidewalk fight erupted as they left. A neighbour called the cops, and the men in blue defused the situation.

Altercations we didn’t witness presumably occurred in the woods. And pot—illegal in those less-enlightened days—must have been consumed.

Our neighbours complained about immoral behaviour and environmental damage. I refused to get involved in discussions of the morality of teenage behaviour but noted they left their trash in a city-maintained garbage bin near the entry path. And the scavengers appreciated the beer cans they left behind.

They were being teens on warm summer evenings, and I envied them as they trooped into the woods. Perhaps if I’d had opportunities for similar teenage social interaction when I was their age, I would have grown into a more sociable adult. Or perhaps not.

More years than I care to remember have passed, and I’m sitting outside another house enjoying another warm summery evening. Our province is recovering from its initial response to the recent coronavirus pandemic. The authorities recently eased lockdown conditions. Limited social gatherings are once again possible. Several members of our writing group organized an in-person meeting, our first in four months.

The risks were minor. Nova Scotia is nearly virus-free, and we’d be outside following the social distancing rules, but I didn’t participate. I fear my reluctance to take part was less about avoiding risk than about avoiding social interactions. Teenage lessons in sociability wouldn’t have altered this lifelong tendency.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

flash fiction none

Book Review: We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

July 13, 2020 No comments

I can’t remember how old I was when I first read “The Lottery,” but I have been a Shirley Jackson fan since then. I was excited to learn about this short novel, apparently her last published novel, so I snagged a copy. I had no idea what the novel was about; I simply bought it based on author’s name and started reading it with only the jacket flap as a preview to what it is about.

I liked it, but I wished I had liked it more.

The novel is told by an unreliable (or, at least, extremely subjective) narrator named Mary Katherine (aka Merricat). Her voice is so off (not as in an author’s mistake, but as in there is something “off” about her character) that the whole time I was constantly putting together clues to figure out what her real deal is. It’s not too hard to guess the truth, which was a little disappointing. I wanted the mystery to be even more mind-blowing than it was. I don’t think it was a fault of the novel: I think my expectations were unfair. I think that, knowing Jackson, I was expecting a twist…and expecting a twist ruined the experience for me.

Without giving away too much, as there are spoilers if revealing the entire plot: the novel follows Merricat, who lives with two family members—her sister Constance and her uncle, Julian, who is nearing death. Okay, there is Jonas, too, Merricat’s cat. Merricat does weird things: she makes up power words and buries things in the yard—her own form of witchcraft. She also spends lots of time outdoors, doesn’t like to brush her hair, etc. In short, she is what I would have called a “witch” when I was a kid.

We learn that Merricat and Constance’s family was all killed years ago when they consumed poisoned sugar at dinner. The three main characters are the three survivors: Merricat had been sent to her room during dinner, Constance doesn’t like sugar and had none, and Uncle Julian had some of the sugar but didn’t die (but consuming the arsenic caused his current condition). After the unfortunate dinner, Constance was put on trial but eventually acquitted. Julian spends most of his days reminiscing about the event, which he knows so many details about but also can barely believe happened. He is living in un-reality and basically waiting to die. In the meantime, he is working on a book about the murders.

Everything is going as fine as circumstances would allow—Constance is constantly cooking for the others as well as taking care of Uncle Julian, while Merricat usually wanders around outside (though she goes into the village from time to time and observes that others in town seem to judge her). A few in the town seem to want to reach out, but Merricat keeps us skeptical of them and their motives.

All turns south when Merricat and Constance’s cousin shows up and seems to want to claim the family’s fortune and oust Merricat and Julian. Merricat calls him a “ghost” and a “demon.” She hates him and wishes him dead. I won’t go into further details so as not to ruin the novel, except to say that the house almost becomes a character. Merricat and Constance seem to keep the house exactly as it was before the murders, and if anything is disturbed, as it is when their cousin arrives, Merricat gets quite angry.

The novel was short—only about 150 pages—but it did not read quickly for me. For the entire novel, the characters are in their house or property (Merricat briefly goes into town), giving it a claustrophobic feel. This is part of the charm of the novel—emulating their lives—but also a liability. There is so much about what they request Constance cook for them, what they have to wash or clean, etc., that I felt at times it could have used some editing. But I think the author intended it this way—to mirror what their lives are like.

I did appreciate two things. First, Merricat’s misanthropy was chilling, and I liked getting deep into her head, especially the way she notices all kinds of details. She reminds me of myself when I was a kid—young enough to have no responsibilities and thus able to notice and appreciate many of the small things that adults overlook. Only, I was never that negative! Second, I enjoyed the ending. It was somewhat fairy-taleish (I wouldn’t go so far as to say magic realism, but it did require a certain suspension of disbelief). The view seemed slightly more omniscient toward the end. I think if I were an editor, I would suggest the book be written through a series of voices, so that the reader can see how all the voices fit together. This would have perhaps been a more effective way to layer the truth together in way that had a big impact on the reader.

I’m not sorry I read the book, and I would share it with writing students to study use of a limited and highly subjective narrator. I also saw a personal connection to a family member in the unhealthiness of keeping a house exactly as it was: the house begins to take on a meaning it should not inherently have.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Sally and Julius by Cathy MacKenzie

July 9, 2020 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about something “summery.”

This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon, as well as MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series.

***

“Sally and Julius”

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Mom,” Sally asked, “isn’t it kinda neat that July and August, the best months of the year, are the longest?”

“Are they?”

“Yeah, 31 days. Two months in a row.”

“Hmmm, guess so.” Her mother stopped rinsing the dishes and gazed at the wall.

Sally was positive her mother was reciting the alphabet song: “Thirty days have September, April, June, and November. All the rest have thirty-one…”

Her mother wiped her hands on the dishtowel and faced her. “But I thought December was your favourite. And May, your birthday.”

“No, Mom, the summer months are the ones I like the best. And so did Julius and Augustus.”

“Julius? Augustus?”

“Julius Caesar. We learned about him in school. He had an ego, just like Marlene and Chloe. They think the world revolves around them, just like Julius did.”

“And who is Augustus?”

“Augustus is his nephew. Great nephew, I think.”

“I see.”

“So, do you know what Julius did? He named July after him, and he made it 31 days. That was the longest month back then.”

Her mother put down the dishtowel and glanced at her before pouring soap into the dishwasher.

“And then when Julius died, Augustus wanted a month after him, so he named the next month Augustus. And he had to have 31 days, too.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I do. We learned about them in school. Well, except for the months. I found that out by myself. On the internet.”

“Sounds like Augustus was a tad egotistical, too,” her mother said.

Sally giggled. “I think they were freaky. But then guess what happened?”

“What?” Her mother seemed intrigued, latching onto her every word.

“Then the year had too many days, so they had to take two away from February. And that’s how come February became the shortest month.”

Her mother turned back to the dishwasher, pushed the on button, and closed the door. “Interesting. You’ll have to tell Dad that story.”

“Maybe I will.”

When her father returned home from work, she relayed the story to him.

“It’s an interesting tale,” he said when she was finished, “but what’s so special about July and August? Why did they pick those months?”

“Julius liked the summer, Dad. And so do I. Augustus just took the month after Julius did. Not sure if he liked the summer as much as Julius, though.”

“But…”

She scampered off, not wanting to listen to anything else her father would say. His “but” said it all. He’d find holes in her story. She had to admit she was a bit confused. What about the other months that had 31 days? How come Julius didn’t make his month 32 days? Or perhaps way back then the months had less than 31 days and his was the longest. Maybe after Augustus died five other egotistical jerks came along and named months after themselves, too, and made their months 31 days. She’d have to Google it. Maybe there was more to the story.

But, for now, summer waited. She couldn’t waste any of it. It’d be over before she knew it.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

 

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Spirit Animal by Val Muller

July 2, 2020 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about something summery. Today’s piece comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series with several other books in the works. Check out her blog for news about upcoming releases at valm16.sg-host.com/blog.

Spirit Animal

By Val Muller

It was the summer without vacations. Two of them cancelled already, and the re-rescheduled one for August not looking good, either. And with Benny being quarantined from friends, it was looking to be a summer to blemish the memory.

I kept thinking of my own summers, the freedom I had to bike with friends, to live outside until Mom called me in for dinner, to build secret campfires and clubhouses out of scrap wood. At seven, Benny was maybe a little too young to do all that on his own, especially without help. Our previous decision to cap the kid count at one seemed like a bad idea this summer. How much better might things be with a little brother?

Instead, it was up to me and Helen to make up for the global pandemic in Benny’s small world. Helen was doing her best, balancing work-from-home with summertime fun. And I’ve basically been on conference calls for the last ten weeks. I came out of the office for a coffee and I saw Benny there, looking dejected. On the most beautiful day in June, just sitting there on the steps staring at the carpet.

So for the holiday weekend, I knew I had to repair Benny’s summer.

We were watching a cartoon, something about spirit animals. Benny asked what that was, and that’s when I decided. “We’re going camping,” I said. “We’re going on a quest to find your spirit animal.”

“Camping?” Helen rose an eyebrow from the kitchen, where she was making dinner. “Where?”

With social distancing, I wasn’t sure campgrounds were even open. Benny looked at me expectantly. I opened my mouth and hoped for the best. “In the back yard, of course!”

So down to the basement I went, searching for my old gear. My tent, the sleeping bags. “It’s a two-man tent,” I reminded Helen, thinking back to our camping days.

“That’s okay,” she said with a little too much relief. “You boys have fun. I’m sure I’ll be okay having the house to myself for a night.”

That night, I remembered why grown-ups don’t camp so much. The humidity, the mosquitos. And, of course, the loss of that “I’m invincible” feeling of childhood and adolescence. Every rustling in the bushes on our three-acre lot, I wondered about our safety. Would a fox attack? Would they smell dinner on our breaths? And what about the bear everyone was posting about on the neighborhood Facebook page? At night, he owned the neighborhood. Even the coyote being tracked down the road would defer to the bear, I’m sure.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Benny asked. He sat on the sleeping bag in the tent, looking at me expectantly. He seemed so little, so young. I rustled his hair and gave him a hug. Sometimes I forget how much of a kid he still is.

“We should go out of the tent,” I said. “We need to find your spirit animal.” I smacked my arm. “And unless your spirit animal is a mosquito, we aren’t going to find it in here.”

“How do we find my spirit animal?”

I glanced inside at the warm glow of the television. Helen was finding her own spirit animal, no doubt. I didn’t know how to answer. I was winging this. I don’t honestly know what a spirit animal is. I’ve never had one of my own. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of vision quest or something. Not something I’m qualified for, really.

“I think a spirit animal has some qualities that you share with it. Something deep down inside of you. It’s powerful,” I hoped aloud.

“How will I know what mine is?” Benny asked.

“When you see it, you’ll know.”

We lit a small fire in the portable hibachi grill. We roasted marshmallows, and I wondered what kind of animals liked marshmallows. While we ate, a small brown toad hopped onto the patio nearby, perching on a damp spot.

“Is that my spirit animal?” Benny asked.

“A toad?” I glanced at its brown, warty surface. “I don’t think so, son. Do you like to eat flies?”

He laughed. “No, Dad, I guess not.”

We waited. In the distance, the crickets chirped, and some nocturnal bird warbled. Late-lingering fireflies blinked under the trees. An owl hooted.

“Am I a cricket?” he asked, moving his arms like a praying mantis.

We both laughed.

“I think you have to see your animal to know it,” I said. I looked at the toad again and wondered if that was my spirit animal. Just kind of sitting there. Being useless except for eating bugs. Maybe it would be good at conference calls. I shivered and shook my head. No. This was not my quest for a spirit animal. Tonight belonged to Benny.

I wondered what kind of young man he would be, what kind of man he would grow into. He was so young, so sheltered. What was this year in quarantine doing to him? Would he know how to socialize? Would he trust others, or be governed by paranoid fear? Would he follow what he was told without question? Would his basis for human interactions be movies? Cartoons where characters go on vision quests to find their spirit animal?

Was I a failure of a father?

At the end of our property, two eyes glowed.

“A fox,” I whispered.

Benny gasped and whispered to me. “Cool, but it’s not my spirit animal.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he said.

We went to sleep that night without an answer to his spirit animal quandary. I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling that something was wrong. My first instinct was to check on Benny. He slept soundly next to me. I dashed to the house to peek in the living room window. Helen was sleeping on the couch, the TV still glowing, an empty wine glass on the table next to her. The glow from the house lights illuminated the camping area in an even twilight, and I turned to inspect the yard.

The humidity was stifling, but still I shivered. Something was off.

I turned around, and that’s when I saw it. The bear, the one everyone had been spotting. So far the neighbors had posted a picture from someone’s bedroom window, far-off and grainy; a picture of its muddy paw prints crossing the road; and several shots of its scat around the neighborhood.

This one was within striking range of me. It was brown—smaller than I thought it would be, but still a terrifying size, one that could tear apart dog or boy or man. And it was sniffing around Benny’s tent.

It’s a parents’ worst dilemma. Being useless to help your child.

I could have easily walked into the house to safety. But the bear was right next to Benny. I thought back to all the documentaries I must have watched, and I realized I knew nothing about bears. I thought I remembered that they like to leave people alone, that they are non-aggressive. But was I supposed to freeze? Play dead? One kind of bear, you’re supposed to raise your arms in the air menacingly to make yourself look bigger, I think.

And in the midst of my son’s life being threatened, I had the awful thought that my phone was in the tent, so there’s no way I could capture what would have been an amazing shot.

In an awful moment, the bear rose on two feet, sniffed the top of the tent, and let out a small groan, a grunt. What was it saying? Was the bear saying “Grace,” pre-dinner? And Benny the main course?

My mind raced with how I would tell Helen. It was then that I decided. I would scream. I would distract the bear and let it chase me. Maybe I would die, but that’s what parents were supposed to do for their children.

Something held my tongue. The bear turned to stare at me. Our eyes locked for an eternity. Stars lived and died. Planets crumbled.

I knew then I was looking at Benny’s spirit animal. Gentle, unprovoked, but with terrifying power beneath.

The bear grunted once, then lowered itself and walked nonchalantly back into the shadows of the yard. I knew Benny would be okay. Tonight and always.

I carried him inside a moment later, though, just to be safe. We slept on the floor next to Helen and her empty bottle of wine. I decided in the morning I wouldn’t tell Benny about the bear just yet. He would discover his power in his own time. For now, I’d let him be a little boy.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

flash fiction none

Writer Wednesday: my news + upcoming and new releases

July 1, 2020 1 comment

A funny thing happened when I was pregnant with my daughter. When I sat down to write, I experienced writer’s block for the first time. I know it may sound weird or unbelievable to many, but prior to that moment, I’d always had something I could write about. Even if it was drivel, at least it was abundant 😉

But when I was pregnant with my daughter, it was like my brain refused to function. I would stare at the blank notebook in front of me, and my brain just wouldn’t work. I guess maybe pregnancy brain is a real thing.

I still needed a creative outlet, so I took up drawing, something I’d done in high school and a tad in college. Something about its wordlessness soothed me. After my daughter was born, I was informed that I had one of those babies who just didn’t like to sleep. There are entire moments of my life erased by sleep deprivation, and I understand first-hand why it is used as a form of torture. My son, born two and a half years later, was better…but still didn’t sleep through the night for a while. At least he didn’t wake like 5 times per night, though, for 15 months straight…

As soon as he started sleeping through the night, my writer brain awoke (and ironically, I am crap at drawing again!). And the experience of having kids pushed me into a depth I hadn’t known before–I see the world with more clarity. I like to think of my kid-induced gray hairs as “wisdom.” The work I have written in the last few months has certainly started taking off, and I’m excited to be making my comeback.

First, I made it through all four rounds of the NYCMidnight Short Story Challenge 2020. I’m not sure how I’ll place (the top 40 writers out of the field of 4,700+ all wrote stories, which will be judged and top 10 chosen next month), but I’m happy to have made it through the odds and written four decent stories using randomly-assigned elements in a compressed amount of time.

Then, I learned that my work has been included in the Elizabeth River 2020 Annual anthology. It’s a short story I wrote in my head while commuting to school and wondering about the work-home-writing balance and how to achieve it. It turned into a piece of magic realism, which I think is turning into my favorite genre to read and write. The e-book is only $1.99 if you want to read my story.

Finally, it was announced that a flash fiction piece I wrote, “Seed,” made it into Queer SciFi’s Innovation anthology. The anthology will be released in August, and I am glad to be included in an anthology that gives diverse voices to the field of sci-fi.

I’m currently working on Corgi Capers 4, something I am a bit ashamed to say I started before my daughter was born–so, like, five years ago… but it’s fun to be able to finish it again, even though it takes place in a blizzard, my least favorite type of weather. But my daughter was born in a blizzard, so maybe there is something full-circle about the whole thing.

And I’ve got a few more projects in the works as well.

I hope in all the craziness of the past few months, everyone is taking time to do something enjoyable. Even if it’s just reading a book 🙂

Writer Wednesdays none

Book Review: Wonder by R. J. Palacio

June 29, 2020 No comments

I meant to read this book long ago. I bought a copy, then misplaced it. During some spring cleaning, it emerged, and I read it over the course of three days or so. It’s a story of bullying and perseverance, and it reinforces a thought I’ve been having over the past several weeks: the world would be a better place if everyone simply read more fiction.

The book follows a boy named Auggie (August), who has a rare combination of genetic conditions, leaving him with a facial abnormality. The back of the book says it all: “I won’t describe what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.” Out of curiosity, I looked up the movie trailer, and it seems the movie didn’t go far enough in showing the extent of the abnormality—not that it matters.

What’s at the heart of the book is bullying. The reason doesn’t really matter—should never really matter. Auggie is trying to make it through his first year at a real school. He’s been homeschooled up to this point because of all the surgeries he has needed to bring him to the place he is now—healthy and able to attend school on a regular basis. As is to be expected, the kids at school are not used to seeing him, and they react in hurtful ways, especially one boy (Julian).

Several narrative voices tell the story: Auggie, of course, his sister, friends… the mix of perspectives helps us understand the whole picture and empathize with basically everyone in the story. The edition I picked up included a bonus chapter, which is told from the perspective of the bully, and it really helps to shed light on the lessons of the book—that we should always offer more kindness than is needed, and that everyone is fighting a battle.

While the book, like all middle grade/young adult works, mostly leaves the world to kids to deal with, it does shed light on the role grown-ups have (can have/should have) on a child’s life and in enabling, encouraging, or countering bullying. It also emphasizes the lesson that anger never leads anywhere productive, and kindness never harms.

At times, the book tugs at the reader’s heart. For example, Auggie tells us that he has grown accustomed to people’s reaction to him. We learn also about “the Plague,” a game played at school in which anyone who accidentally touches him must wash their hands or else they “die.” It helps to illustrate how cruel kids can be. The bonus chapter at the end makes a connection to World War II, implying that while bullying seems like no big deal on the playground, it can lead to dire situations in the real world.

My daughter, who is only 4, asks me about the books I read. I told her about this one and tried to explain the concept of bullying to her. We talked about how she would feel if she were in Auggie’s place, and what she should do if she were somewhere and saw someone else being bullied/ignored. I am saving the book for her for when she’s a few years older. I return to my thoughts of the past weeks, that the more we read, the more we can empathize. And this book certainly helps everyone do that.

book reviews none

Fantastic Friday: Three-minute friendship

June 26, 2020 1 comment

Today, I took my kids to a socially-distanced outdoor activity—a farm/playground where families were asked to stay at least 6 feet apart. As you might expect, kids have a harder time doing so. A slightly older girl approached my daughter and said, “Hi what’s your name? I’m so-and-so. Can we be friends? I don’t have any friends this year.” Then the girl looked down at her toes while my young daughter processed the words. “Yes,” my daughter said. At once, I saw the other girl’s eyes light up. The two of them shared three random facts before her parents called her away to a more appropriate distance.

But all my daughter has been talking about is the friend she made, and I would imagine similar thoughts are occurring with the other girl.

I read the book Wonder this week (review coming Monday), which follows the story of a boy who was bullied because of his appearance. The novel emphasizes the importance of kindness and the harm that even a single act of bullying or cruelty can have on someone.

I wasn’t going to go in this direction for today’s Fantastic Friday post. In fact, I’ve been having a hard time writing Fantastic Friday posts. It’s not because I haven’t had positive ideas or experiences, but in the current climate, with riots, anger, continued closures, fear… it seems way too easy to say the wrong thing, and I didn’t want any of my posts to be taken the wrong way. If I write about one thing, am I ignoring others? Will my post seem trite compared to the gravity of other issues? If I admit to getting together with family, will I be torn apart for putting people at risk? Is a fun post about mask-making going to incite anger by anti-maskers?

But this week, in addition to reading Wonder, I came upon a short YouTube clip. It’s actor Mandy Patinkin, the one who portrayed Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride. He’s the one with the famous line “you killed my father…prepare to die,” which he recited so many times in the movie.

In the YouTube clip, he recalls watching the film several decades later and realizing the importance of a minor line that he barely remembered saying. But now, he realizes it is a chunk of wisdom that perhaps only comes with age: his character spent so much time seeking revenge for the death of his father that he lost his own identity. When he finally got the revenge he was looking for, he didn’t know what to do with himself. https://youtu.be/s_t3uDVPiRc

I was reminded of a favorite show of mine, Doctor Who. The 12th doctor’s regeneration speech contains advice from a (sort of) immortal being to his next iteration. It emphasizes the importance of being kind and the waste in being cruel. https://youtu.be/dwHWDrtLuCY

And this all reminds me of a thought I’ve been having over and over these past few weeks. I would be willing to bet that the world would be a better place if more people read fiction. There are so many lessons, so much experience packed into pages that we can live lifetimes within a single month. If more people read fiction, they would have that many more opportunities to empathize with characters they might not have ever been exposed to in the course of their lives. Fiction allows us into the minds of all kinds of characters—bad ones and good ones, popular ones and the marginalized.

Through all the fiction I’ve read, I’ve taken one lesson, and it’s something that I’ve been growing towards increasingly as the years go on and as I have become a parent. There is no harm in being kind. I’ve had students ask me why I’m not mean, like some of the other teachers. I’ve been asked why I’m kind. I answer: I would hope that my own kids would have kind teachers. I would have wished that all my teachers were kind—which was not the case.

I cannot remember a time in my life when I was harmed by an act of kindness. But I can remember dozens of times when people were kind to me. I cannot remember a time in my life when cruelty was beneficial. But I still have emotional scars from as early as preschool when those around me chose not to be kind.

With all the uncertainty and fear in the world, it is easy to lash out in anger, to take sides, to dig in one’s heels and become defensive. And anger and cruelty have awful domino effects.

But kindness spreads, too. It was a lesson one of my most memorable teachers taught me.

I have had many talks with my daughter about being kind and not engaging in cruelty. And I was glad that she embraced the girl’s friendship today—even if it was a three-minute friendship. Maybe the girl will remember that one moment of kindness when she looks back on a very challenging year. And maybe she will pass along that kindness to another.

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: On a Cold Winter Night by Chiara De Giorgi

June 25, 2020 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to find 5 words in a news article that jump out at you. Write a story using those words.

This week story comes from Chiara. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, not quarantined anymore but still doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Here you can find the article Chiara read. The title is: ‘Murder Hornets’ in the U.S.: The Rush to Stop the Asian Giant Hornet, and the five words she picked are the following: Spider-Man – dragonfly – winter – night – underground.

On a Cold Winter Night

by Chiara De Giorgi

Dragonfly-Woman cursed under her breath, then stilled herself in the dark.

After the discovery of murder hornets in the U.S.  that year – following wildfires in Australia, locust swarms in Africa, a very infectious disease that spread all over the world, and other ill-matched catastrophes –  she knew to expect anything, and the giant spiderweb she had just been caught in could mean a lot of things- mostly horrible things.

Her heart sank when she felt the spiderweb move. She closed her eyes and swallowed. Was this going to be the end, her end? Eaten by a giant spider, underground, on a cold winter night? After all she’d been through, after all the people she’d helped and saved… it didn’t seem right.

She opened her big, marvelous dragonfly eyes. She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Dragonflies can detect so many more colors than humans with their eyes, however they can’t really see anything without light. Dragonfly-Woman had fixed the issue with enhanced contacts, which gave her an owl’s vision. Now she could spot a bulky form slowly making its way towards her, making the web’s threads vibrate, slowly but steadily.

She steeled herself, ready to set her delicate-looking wings in motion. Would she be able to cut through the spiderweb, though? Spiderwebs are incredibly resistant, after all. Maybe I could just cut the beast’s head off, if it comes to me at the right angle, she thought, and smirked. I’ll make sure it does.

“Hey, spidey, spidey, spidey? Why are you hiding in the dark-ey?”

The bulk suddenly stopped. Damn!

A surprised voice rose from the darkness:

“Dragonfly-Woman?”

“Who… Spider-Man?” she asked, shocked, as the big bulk came nearer. “What the hell are you doing down here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here! I thought you were dead!”

“Me? Dead? Why?” she asked, surprised, then remembered. “ Oh, yeah… Well, you know how dragonfly females pretend they’re dead when they want to put off their suitors…?”

Spider-Man cracked a glow stick and suddenly a greenish light washed over the walls of the tunnel. It gave his face a gaunt and sick look.

“You pretended you were dead?” he almost shouted, outraged. “To escape my… advances? That’s insane!”

Dragonfly-Woman scoffed. “Was it?”

“I was devastated!” continued Spider-Man. “I roamed with no purpose for months, I almost got killed by a giant murder hornet, and were it not for Lady Bug I wouldn’t be here!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but— Wait, what? Lady Bug? That vapid bimbo?”

Lady Bug jumped into the light, a belligerent expression on her plump face.

“Excuse me, did you just call me a bimbo? Did she just call me a bimbo?”

“Er…”

“You let him believe you were dead, so you clearly didn’t want him. So now what? You changed your mind, you slut?”

“Don’t you dare call me a slut!”

“Or what?” Lady Bug laughed. “Did you forget you’re trapped? What if he left you there? Hey, here’s an idea”, she added, turning to Spider Man. “What if we left her there? She’ll die for real, this time.”

“You would never…”

“Oh, but wouldn’t I?”

“Girls! I mean, insects! Insect-girls! Whatever! Shut up!”

After a few seconds of silence, Spider-Man reached for a blade in one of his pockets and cut the threads that kept Dragonfly-Woman captive, then stood in front of her as she plucked the sticky tendrils away.

“I am over you,” he announced in a tired voice. “I am over everything, actually. I don’t want to go back to the daylight ever again, it’s too depressing. I thought I’d let a rat, or a bat, bite me, but I don’t like the competition, and Rat-Man and Bat-Man were here before me, after all.”

“What are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“We’ll be fine,” whispered Lady Bug, “just like we were before.” She turned to Dragonfly-Woman and looked at her with sadness in her eyes. “You can go, or you can stay. It’s all the same to me. To us. Our world got dark long ago.”

Dragonfly-Woman’s eyes glinted in the darkness. When she spoke, her voice was resolute. “I will go back outside and check the situation. As the Crow-Man said, it can’t rain all the time. I’ll come back for you as soon as it’s safe, and we can be friends again. No hard feelings. Okay?”

She stretched her right hand out, and Lady Bug slowly reached for it and shook it, a smile blossoming on her lips.

“Okay.”

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

flash fiction none

Writer Wednesday with Nick Maley

June 17, 2020 No comments

Do or Do Not (book)This week, I have a chance to feature Nick Maley, author of The Do or Do Not Outlook: 77 Steps to Living an Extraordinary Life, which he describes as a little book of big ideas.

Nick is known as “That Yoda Guy” because of his involvement in working on/creating the character Yoda in the original 1979 Star Wars film The Empire Strikes Back. He’s got a museum in St. Maarten called That Yoda Guy Movie Exhibit, which is where I met him.

Easily, my visit to the museum and my chat with him is the most memorable part of my trip to the tropics. (He chats with everyone who visits his museum—that’s the kind of person he is). Anyone who knows me (and my dogs, Yoda and Leia) knows that I have an affinity for Star Wars, but what really stands out about my trip there has nothing to do with the sci-fi franchise. When I told Nick I was a writer, he encouraged me to continue with my Corgi Capers series, the first book of which had been published just a few months earlier. Since then, I’ve written five more, with several in the works.

And that encouragement is what his book Do or Do Not is all about. His goal is to encourage others, as others have stepped up to encourage him. He hopes that those who succeed will pay it forward by helping youngsters in the future.

The book is organized as short pieces of advice meant to be read and reflected on one at a time, for busy people—he suggests reading/acting on/reflecting on one per day. Each chapter in the book contains a place for you to write your own goals/reactions related to each chapter, keeping you motivated and on track to find your happiness and success. Nick notes that each day, it’s important to make small steps toward your goal. It’s through successive small steps that dreams are made.

At 13, he was told he was an idiot. At 18, he was teaching at a university.

Nick describes himself as “a kid from a poor family…in a one-room house” that his grandmother rented. He was an only child, playing alone in a house full of adults.

He attributes his father to his love of creativity: an actor and singer, his dad read stories and helped Nick compose poetry as early as age five. Though his mother had difficulties, she helped foster Nick’s imagination by making him costumes or cakes that the family couldn’t otherwise afford. Growing up, Nick fed his imagination through play.

When he started school, Nick struggled against learning disabilities, including dyslexia and ADD, which put him behind in reading—and as a result of his spelling, he failed many exams.

At 11, Nick failed the exam that essentially divided students into those destined for “academic” careers and those destined for manual labor. While he did well content-wise, he always failed because of his spelling.

In his book, Nick tells us to “build on what you have that others don’t.”

In school, Nick followed this advice by getting involved with what he learned from his father—the school plays. By the time he was 15, Nick had produced and directed his own play in response to a teacher who was putting on a play that Nick didn’t think was interesting. At 16, everyone at his school was expected to work, but Nick attended a technical college instead and even started a drama society there.

All of these elements gave him a “certain degree of confidence and independence,” which is something he emphasizes in his book. “If you don’t invest in your impossible dreams, YOU are the one who guarantees that they won’t come true,” he says.

At 17, he took a phone call for his father and ended up getting a job doing makeup for a show at the prestigious Royal Albert Hall, to do makeup using skills he learned from his father. At 18, he took over the theatrical makeup classes his dad had been teaching.

Before long, Nick considered movies. He overcame the obstacle of not having a union card by being persistent, standing outside their meetings for two years until he was known and finally invited to join.

Since then, he has worked on Star Wars, Superman, and other films. He opened his museum in St. Maarten to display movie memorabilia and other amazing finds, such as facial molds (lifecasts) of notable folks from Abraham Lincoln and David Bowie.

Keeping it positive

What makes Nick stand out is his positivity. Nick shares his beginnings because overcoming the challenges in his life helped him to develop his success later in his life.

Negativity is infectious, he warns, and we must be strong to reach our dreams.

“Being able to do something that is fulfilling in life” is important to Nick. He’s been pushing people over the years to achieve their dreams, including inspiring a man with Down Syndrome to win gold in the Special Olympics, inspiring a man in his 50s to go back to school and become a doctor, encouraging an amputee to become a motivational speaker. Nick attributes “positive thinking” to achieving dreams.

“You can’t live an exceptional life by being ‘normal,’” he says. It’s a good reminder to anyone attempting the unique or creative.

The book helps readers deal with adversity, face impossible challenges, and conquer fears, noting that other people’s negativity can be infectious. Accepting other people’s negativity, Nick says, allows the limits of others’ imaginations to limit your life, too. He encourages people not to be afraid of stepping outside of what society deems is normal or acceptable.

“It doesn’t really matter what your dream is,” Nick says. “There’s a kind of formula to achieving whatever that might be.”

In his Little Book of Big Ideas, he sets out 77 steps for how we can live an extraordinary life.

The museum in crisis: “the people who fail are the ones who give up”

St. Maarten endured extensive damage from Hurricane Irma a few years ago. After only just recovering from that, the COVID crisis has shut down the museum’s single source of revenue: tourists. The museum, and Nick’s “Follow Your Star” foundation, through which he encourages others to pursue their dreams, is in danger of closing. Nick is raising funds now through Pateron at www.patreon.com/FYSF  and online sales in order to keep his museum afloat until the tourists return in (hopefully) November.

Because the museum is a non-profit, it is ineligible for loans and other aid in St. Maarten.

If you’re interested in buying his book, his publisher has agreed to sell directly to U.S. customers for $19.95, including shipping. Purchasing directly from the publisher (as opposed to Amazon or a book store) means Nick’s museum gets to keep much more of the proceeds. To order through the publisher, you can contact Nick directly at GETtheBOOK@netdwellers.com.

If you’re interested in Star Wars memorabilia or prints of Nick’s original artwork, you can check out his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/The-Yoda-Guy-Movie-Exhibit-295303327163046/, where he is posting items for sale and for auction. Some of them are one-of-a-kind finds, such as original script pages from Star Wars films. You can also find more items at his online store at http://netdwellers.com/mo/shop/index.html

Nick is not giving up on his museum, and people he has touched over the years are stepping up to support him. If you are interested and able, please consider purchasing his book or sharing this post as a way to help him keep his museum open.

Photo of me meeting Nick Maley about 8 years ago in St. Maarten. Speaking of doing the impossible, I lost 50 pounds since the taking of this picture. Nick is right—anything is possible if you believe ?

 

Writer Wednesdays none
Powered by WordPress Web Design by SRS Solutions © 2025 Val Muller Design by SRS Solutions