Set adrift on memory bliss

I just finished a session of trying to take a picture of a moment that's long gone. Isn't that what much of writing is: Waking up the dead or giving life to people who have never existed; capturing a place and time that once was, or might be?

How and what do we even remember? Are there places we fear to tread, or worse: doors through which we categorically refuse to enter? There shouldn't be. Memory is not a safe lined with preservatives to combat time and decomposition. It's an altogether different kind of process, one that is sure to bring fiction into the mixture.

Filling the gaps, not leaving the puzzle undone, requires creativity. It's hard not to reach for facts, absolutes, The Truth, even when those may not have been part of the equation we're so desperate to solve.

So what are you gonna do? Your unflinching best. You have to trust you are doing yourself a favor. And hope you're doing whatever it is you thought you couldn't face justice, even if it's only of the poetic kind.

Attack of the Amazon Women (and A Few Good Men)

This is bad, I commented on Jaci Burton's blog. This is unacceptable. And I'm madder than Howard Beale. I sent Amazon my seething sentiment, nothing as coherent and structured as Jaci's fine lines I'm afraid, only something as illogical and absurd as what Amazon came up with.

Dear Amazon.com

Some alarming gagging, binding and blindfolding action was brought to my attention. Since said action was mostly done by you, I would like for you to extend the invasion of my tastes, free thinking and bedroom to other parts of my mental and physical health as well, to say nothing of house and garden.

We have a snail problem I suggest you help solve by removing all mention of books that even refer to the nasty vermin eating their way through my vegetable garden. Rafflesias are rather ugly and smelly; please keep a vigilant watch in case they sprout. Keep hits pertaining to carbs and fatty foods to a minimum lest people take to eating them as they may be bad for you. I'm also deeply, heartily offended by any and all mention of tobacco and smoking; they are surely worse.

Since you have made individual taste an objective issue, I will keep adding to the list until we are all safe as mother's milk. Or is it safe to mention breastfeeding? Oh no, I almost said 'boob', and maybe insulted bottle feeding moms while at it. Help me, Amazon; you're my only hope.

OR you can rethink your policies, apologize for the patronizing liberties someone took with the freedom of others, and make sure that as long as no laws are broken, writers not only get published but read as well, and your customers keep getting top-notch service in the form of all-inclusive information and open access.

If you concede that only gods get things right the first time, a) you turn this around, b) you grant that none of us are casting defected. All different - All equal; all the world knows this yet still does not practice. Please do not join that caravan.

Proverbially yours,
Dita Parker

Yeah, I climbed on that soapbox, didn't I? Couldn't help it. I get teased all the time for my intolerance against intolerance, so there you have it. I saw red. Customer Service replied that they had "recently discovered a glitch in [their] systems and it's being fixed." I sure hope so, or there will be Listmania galore.

They didn't ask what I might be referring to. They knew; so good for you, i.e. all those of you who took and are taking action.

To be continued

Previously on Dita's Den:

Dreaming of having more time to write, our protagonist was taken to the cleaners and cleared of some income producing clutter getting in the way of said writing yet to produce any income whatsoever. Doggedly hanging on to hope, and our devoted and dead sexy hero for comfort, she is momentarily struck numb by the sudden turn of events and by how dirty their windows looked in the spring sunshine.

After picking herself up and dusting herself off, Dita decided to a) clean the windows, b) the closets while she was at it, c) keep working on her WIP's.

On one less than sun shining day that made our girl rather regret the idiotic drive to clean house since it made no visible difference now, news arrived in the form of an offer. After her family ascertained her shrieks were not the result of an oncoming seizure, they alerted any alarmed neighbors that all was indeed well and the rather demonstrative Miss Parker was only a little overwhelmed and a whole lot excited.

A few days later a contract arrived; tangible proof this was not a 'Bobby stands in the shower' scenario, a dream sequence. It was real. Our leading lady did understand in that same instant she had by no means arrived in the world. She was barely taking off.

Finally ready to lose sleep over the recent head-spinning changes made to the script, she was left lying awoke one night wondering dare she believe that everything happens for a reason.

Good Friday? The best.

[After being accused of using the deus ex machina plot device, creators disavowed any knowledge of shenanigans, horseplay or monkeyshine and stated that "Humbug? Bah!" Miss Parker was unavailable for comments. She was later seen leaving the building wearing such an inimitable Mona Lisa smile no one dared point out the hem of her dress was caught in the waistband of her pantyhose. Judging from her expression, she might not have minded that much.]

Snow on the Sahara

I got an offer. I got an offer for the very first manuscript I ever sent out. Can you believe it? I'm not sure I can, not quite yet.

How likely is that? How lucky am I? How much prior work, dedication and tenacity does it take to get there? Let me count the ways... How much work will it take to keep going, keep growing? Let me keep counting...

I'm not yet sure what happens next and on what sort of timeframe. All I know is that I'm a deliriously happy camper. As if I'd been shot with pure adrenaline.

Let it rain. It's all snow on the Sahara. I'm melting.

Here comes the Sun

It dawned on me, just in perfect timing with the Equinox, that the Universe has a unique sense of balance, and a quaint sense of humor.

I had been detained again after my Great Escape, and it's always a downer, so help me, it is, the cold light and the cool air of the North after all the warmth and the colors of the South. I was tempted to wallow in some serious subcontinental homesick blues, my head and heart about to burst from all the beauty and the experiences I had breathed in.

I had to exhale, to get it all down, or as much of it as was sensible, usable and memorable, including the far from Kodak moments. Especially those. But what about the things that defy language and explanation? Those are often the things that would best describe what you miss and love most about a place. Those also happen to be the parts that get lost in translation, the things that would die with you if you were the last known representative of culture X, since you could not satisfactorily capture the meaning and true essence of something.

Still, I was about to get to it; try and do the seemingly impossible and breathe life into things without names, as writers tend to in their pathology. It makes for horrible convoluted senseless ramblings. It makes for fresh ways of looking at things, observations many have felt to be true somehow but haven't been able to voice or put down in writing. I can only hope that as time and talent progresses, I will do more of the latter than the former.

Ready to explode as I was, I came back wishing I had more time to write. Boys and girls, it is true what they say about being careful what you wish for: the Lord Marshal of employment made it so. But, drum roll...I had gotten my first literary callback, if you can call it that. I just did. Homesickness healed in record time, my stinky stinging pride was soothed. One more moment defying description; I am beyond elated. Like Jenny and her folk singing career in Forrest Gump, I'm the proverbial penniless poet, even if I can't write verse to save my life. (Threaten my kids and I'll get iambic on you.)

Truly, believe me when I say that no matter what the outcome on this one is, the encouragement and boost I got will more than make up for the disappointment I may be heading towards. Until then, BICHOK it is.