Doggie drama

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“WAIT” I yelled as the little dog rushed into the path of an oncoming car.

My heart was pounding so hard that I could barely hear anything else, yet the man in the car must have heard my yell since his reaction was immediate.

I closed my eyes, not able to watch. But I did not think to plug my ears, so I heard each and every agonizing squeal as the breaks battled to stop the forward momentum of the SUV. I had little hope for the little dog, SUVs are heavy, and the man had not been given much warning. I feared that today was a day I would witness a tragedy.

Time froze and then there was silence. Even the birds stopped their usual happy chirping.

Cautiously, one lash at a time, I opened my eyes. There was the little dog, sniffing the bumper of the SUV that had come to a stop just an inch from his curious little nose.

With a final sniff at the metallic monster, the dog continued his journey across the street. He pranced over to where I stood, but as a mere human, I was not worth his attention.

He had risked his life, braved the dangers of the road, to pay his respects to the dog at the end of my leash. But Pepper, my schnoodle, gave him no more attention than she would an old piece of paper. A single sniff, and her nose went into the air, uninterested.

With a bark and a bow, the little dog again tried to gain her attention. He playfully bounced around, exuding friendly charm from every doggy pore. It was no use. Pepper looked off into the distance, royally refusing to acknowledge the bouncy little dog’s existence.

With what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, the little dog dejectedly lowered his head and rambled back across the street. Thank goodness, this time there were no cars to liven things up.

I looked down at my dog, sitting in regal splendor, waiting for me to continue our walk. I looked across the street at the sad little dog who now seemed so alone.

It was a doggie soap opera in the making. Who would have guessed?

Star People

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Sometimes an event happens which impacts you, even though you might not at the time be aware of its importance.

It is usually a very minor event, barely memorable at all. It is only years later that the ripples it sends through your life are felt, and exactly what the event meant is revealed.

I had just such an event as a teenager, although I only recently became aware of the fact.

I was walking with my best friend’s little sister, and to keep her from becoming bored I began to tell her a story. As we walked I drew inspiration from pretty much everything around us, which might seem unlikely since the story was about a group of people, who I called Star People, who travelled through space.

Believe it or not it was a leaf, shaped somewhat like a star, which launched the entire thing.

We must have walked for at least an hour, me weaving new elements into the story as inspiration hit.

We had not planned to take quite that long of a walk, but when I looked at my companion’s face as the story developed and noticed how enthralled she was, it spurred me to even greater leaps of imagination as I strove to increase the level of entertainment.

I was challenged as I had never before been challenged.

Looking back, I can now recognize that event as the one that switched on my storytelling gene. I was hooked.

Words

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People say things that are accepted at face value all the time. Words strung together to make a meaningful phrase, only the phrase isn’t always as meaningful as it first seems.

Our language is filled with little sayings that sound okay on the surface, that seem to make sense. Until that day comes when a switch goes off in your brain and you think to yourself “huh?”

One example is the oft asked question, “Why do you always focus on one thing?” It is a common enough complaint to hear, used in arguments every day across the country.

But what exactly does it mean?

Because if someone focuses on more than one thing, is she really focusing on anything at all?

Consequences

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Is it any wonder that our children cyber bully? Look at what is modeled for them.

Spike Lee was upset because a man he felt should be in jail was not. So what does he do? He retweets the man’s address to all his followers. He did this because he wanted to cause the man pain.

In other words, his intent was to cyber bully the man. Or at least, to get everybody who follows him to do the bullying for him. Because make no mistake, the intent was to bully, to cause harm.

He made an error and put in the wrong address, so a couple in Florida are receiving hate mail and death threats that are not really intended for them. At any moment a madman with a gun might break down their door and begin shooting, supposedly in the name of justice.

So Spike Lee apologizes to the couple for his mistake. As if his only crime was to type in the incorrect address.

Which shows that Spike Lee is clueless about the power of the Internet, and the responsibilities we all have while using it. EVERYTHING on the Web has the potential to go viral, which makes every ill thought posted a million times more powerful than if it were kept private.

The Web is a public place. The citizens of the Web are made up of good people, bad people, and quite a few crazies.

So all you celebrities out there who glory in your ability to sway your followers at will, watch what you say. If someone gets hurt because you don’t understand the difference between a phone call and a tweet, you are responsible.

So be responsible. Think of the possible consequences before you post.

The underdog

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I am tough when it comes to the underdog. Point out someone who cannot stand up for himself who is the victim of an injustice, and I’m immediately ready to fight tooth and nail for that person. I’m not one to stand idly by while a bully beats up the little guy.

I’m not so good at taking care of myself in the same manner. For some unknown reason I begin to wonder if I am causing inconvenience, or pain. No thought of my own inconvenience or pain.

I am currently in the midst of one of those dilemmas. Almost two months ago a woman driving a giant SUV backed into my car while in a grocery store parking lot. She gave me her insurance card so I could get my car fixed.

I called her insurance and began the process. A few days later I received a phone call from her begging me to do everything in my power to keep the cost under $500. If it went above that mark her insurance would go up. She told me she had been unemployed for 8 months, and an increase in her insurance premiums would cause her distress.

I empathized with her since I have been under/unemployed for 2 1/2 years. It has been stressful trying to  cobble together a series of contract positions to replace my full time job. Is it any wonder that being unemployed made her an underdog in my eyes? So when she gave me the name of a local body shop that she felt would be low cost, I went.

Unfortunately the quote they gave me was more than $800.
I did nothing for the next several weeks while I thought it through.

What was the right thing to do? My car was drivable, but leaving the damage lowered the resale value.
I knew I should get it fixed, but she had begged me to keep it low.
I had no control over what any shop charged.
If I got it fixed and her premiums were raised, I would be causing her distress.

Round and round I went. Until the epiphany hit that I was the victim here, and it really was not fair of her to cause ME distress like she did. I was the true underdog.

Earlier this week I finally made the call and set up the appointment. I am still dripping with guilt, but I will get the car fixed.

Chaos and backstabbing

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Every so often over the past year I have been tortured by sudden, overwhelming, violent shivers. These shivers have been caused not by a medical condition, but by a memory. A memory of a place of evil.

A workplace in fact, but not one where those who wish to keep their soul should be employed. Although from the outside it looked normal and quaint, it was in reality located on a portal to the underworld and ruled over by the devil himself.

I spent three long months among the denizens of that nightmarish place, wrestling every minute to maintain my sanity. I had never before experienced such a heightened degree of chaos in any workplace, and I can honestly say it was the worst three months of my life.

I’m pretty tough, but I still almost lost the battle and succumbed. All that chaos kept my head spinning and I began to forget the world contained friendly faces, pats on the back, and laughter, because at this office there were only scowls, backstabbing, and curses.

Ohhh. There is that shiver again.

It was so horrible, so much evil, so…so…so….

I know what you are thinking, “There she goes, letting her writer’s imagination run away with her. A portal to the underworld, indeed!”

Whether you believe me or not is up to you. But I now know that evil does exist in the world, and it sometimes disguises itself as genial-seeming managers.

Chaos and backstabbing, a menacing combination.

No dialogue needed

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I want to share a fun assignment from last month with you.
The challenge was to write a visual scene in screenplay format where two characters are in an argument, and no dialogue is used.

I chose to write about something I know a little bit about.
********
INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LIBRARY – DAY

Twenty-one fifth grade students mill around quietly. Some read, some are on the computers, others move among the stacks.
SAMANTHA, 40s, blond soccer mom turned stern librarian, stands at the checkout counter in front of a computer monitor. She raises an eyebrow at OLIVER, impish 12-year-old with cannot-be-controlled brown hair who punches a fellow student repeatedly. His SNICKER as each punch elicits a grimace is the only sound in the library.
Samantha drops a BOOK with a BANG on the counter. Oliver looks up at Samantha, sees the eyebrow, and GULPS.
Samantha points to a table with two chairs to the left of the checkout counter, Oliver drops his raised fist and shuffles dejectedly to the table. He drags his feet the entire way. He plops down in the chair facing the counter, puts both elbows on the table, and drops his head into his hands.
Samantha watches Oliver sit. She begins to scan the barcodes of books from huge pile located in a Returned Books bin. Heard throughout the library is a slow, steady series of BEEPS.
Oliver lifts his head from his hands and looks around. He spots a huge dictionary on a nearby pedestal. It is almost a foot thick and very old. He looks toward Samantha.
Samantha stops scanning, picks up a stack of books, turns, and moves into the office behind the counter.
Oliver jumps up and grabs the dictionary. He carefully balances it on the edge of the table opposite his chair, hanging halfway off. He returns to his seat.
Samantha enters from the office pushing a full book cart. She moves to a shelf ten feet to the left of Oliver. She kneels down and shelves books.
Oliver slides down in his chair and stretches out one leg. He gently raises his leg until his foot touches the overhanging dictionary. He bends his knee and slowly straightens it. He does this again. The third time he bends his knee he straightens it with as much force as he can muster. His foot WHACKS into the DICTIONARY and it topples sideways, knocking over a CHAIR with a CRASH.
All eyes in the library turn toward Oliver. Samantha jumps to her feet, turns fearfully toward the noise, and raises her hand to her heart.  She looks at the overturned chair, at the dictionary, then at Oliver. The expression on her face changes to irritation.
Oliver looks at Samantha and immediately lays his head on his arms on the table. Samantha moves over and puts the chair and the book back in their proper places. She stands, arms crossed, looking down at Oliver.
Without moving his head Oliver cautiously opens an eye, sees Samantha standing over him, and tightly recloses it.
Samantha stands over Oliver a moment longer. She looks at the clock. She looks at the other students, all working quietly. She moves quickly around the counter into the office. When she reappears, she has in her hand a stack of plain paper and markers of assorted colors.
Samantha moves to Oliver’s table, pulls out a chair, and sits. She gently places the paper and markers near Oliver’s lowered head.
Oliver opens an eye and sees the paper and markers. He slowly raises his head and looks toward Samantha.
Samantha winks. Oliver sits up straight, grabs the blue marker and uncaps it. He moves the paper directly in front of him and looks again at Samantha.
Samantha smiles. Oliver returns the smile and begins to draw.
Samantha moves to the checkout counter. The slow, steady BEEP of the SCANNER is the only sound in the library.

Writing chunks

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Have you ever looked at a big project, unsure how you would ever have the time, energy, or guts to finish it? It is overwhelming, unwieldy, and very, very frightening.

That is exactly what writing a novel or a screenplay is like. As a whole it appears impossible. It is too complicated, too monstrous, too hard to wrap your head around.

Which is why you write chunks. Manageable chunks, or 10 or so pages.

Anyone can wrap their head around 10 pages, right?

Of course, if you jump into writing those 10 page chunks without any planning, well, the result would be pretty much the same as attempting to build a mansion without a blueprint. You might manage to make it look all right on the outside, but no one would want to spend very much time in it.

Pre-write! Develop the characters. Create the plot. Build the structure.

And then jump right in and write chunks.

It is a lot of fun. Really!

Today I write

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I got up this morning, made a cup of coffee, and sat down at my computer with my anticipation level off the charts.

You see, today I will write.

My program so far has been filled to the brim with prep work. Story arcs, character development, pacing, plot, etc. I have been soaking in the elements of a good story, totally immersed to the point that at times I thought I might drown.

Oh, I’ve done writing of course. Plenty of it. But it was homework writing. Writing for a professor to grade. Writing to prove I understood a concept. Writing to show I had grasped the latest lesson.

I don’t consider that real writing. Real writing raises my endorphins, fills me with joy, and makes me feel that the world is a glorious and wonderful place.

As I sit here prolonging the suspense, stretching out that first moment when I put fingers to keyboard, I realize just how much I have missed my regular writing sessions. It feels like I am coming home.

Darn it! I’m out of coffee. I guess I’ve stretched out the anticipation a tad too long. I need to go make another cup.

And then I write.

My bully story

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I was bullied in fifth grade.

Every day for most of the school year, this group of 5 girls would surround me during recess and punch me, pull my hair, pinch me, and tell me what a horrible person I was. I was new to the school, so I felt alone, vulnerable, and afraid.

Finally, in tears, I gathered my courage and told my mom about it. I remember feeling embarrassed, thinking I must have done something horrible to bring this on myself.

My mother was great! She explained to me that I was not to blame, that the bullies were the ones in the wrong.

She told me to look in the mirror, and that what I saw there was a wonderful person who was strong. She said that the girls who were picking on me probably saw that strength and were intimidated, that that was why they were being bullies. They were afraid of me!

She then went on to say that those horrible girls, the ones who tortured me on a daily basis, probably really wanted to be my friends, but didn’t know how.

That was a long time ago. I cannot remember exactly what I said, or what I did. What I do know is that my view of the girls changed and my attitude toward them changed right along with it.  They lost their power over me.

Since I no longer reacted like a victim they gradually lost interest in me and began to leave me alone. So my mom was right, I was a strong girl who could handle it. But she was wrong, the girls never became my friends.

Or so I thought until a couple of years later. We had a large group of new students move into our school, and for whatever reason several of them decided I was the perfect person to bully.

Before I had a chance to react to these new attacks I found myself surrounded by the very same girls who had once been my tormentors.

Only this time, they were there to protect me.