As of late I am writing articles for React19, a nonprofit founded by the vaccine injured for the vaccine injured. What I write about is not so much tragedy, but advocacy and hope. Nevertheless, I connected with this episode on The Waltons.

John Boy won a newspaper contest and was chosen to cover a nationwide event. Since the show takes place in the 1930’s, he was chosen to cover the intercontinental flight of the Hindenburg.

The show features actual footage of the Hindenburg which itself is chilling to watch. John Boy is a witness to the event, and, as we discover throughout the show, actually rushes in to help those on the ground.

But now comes his task of writing it all down. And I could imagine the emotions in trying to do this. He can’t at first. If I were him my first thought would be how could I do these people justice? How can I capture the horror of the day without exploiting it?

His struggles are obvious when his friends and family award him with a proclamation from the town. All are proud of him for winning the newspaper contest and featuring the story. However, their enthusiasm for what John Boy will say sounds brutal and unfeeling. Much like they are hungry for the details.

At that point John Boy decides not to write the story at all. Truthfully, I agreed with him, and thought he was not going to write it. But then, after chopping down a lightening struck tree in the forest, he is able to express the story to his Dad. In a fast rush all the words and details come out. To which his father quietly responds, “I think you can write your story, John Boy.”

And John Boy does, and is relieved after. Illustrating the lesson that tragedy is still news, and still needs reading by those who weren’t there. I thought of how I would write the tragedy of September 11th if I had been in the street and witnessed it first hand. Ironically, I heard the entire story on the radio, the same as John Boy’s family did with the Hindenburg.

I just don’t know how I would write it. I guess I would just write it, and hope I did those that died, and those that survived, justice and compassion.

Currently reading: George Lucas: A Life by Brian Jay Jones, The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and Dad’s Maybe Book by Tim O’ Brien

Currently listening (and crying) to: Avinu Malkeinu sung by Cantor Azi Schwartz

As a sometimes “too big for my britches writer”, or maybe it was just a beginner’s mistake, I once attributed a character I wrote about as someone who “lived life with quiet desperation.”

John-Boy (yes, the Waltons once again), used this quote in response to a conversation with his father and his father’s friend.

The two men were bantering about how poor they were, and how they absolutely did not want to attend their 25th high school reunion. Of course, many people see their high school reunions as a measuring stick of what they have accomplished in life and what they have to show for it.

I laughed at the comment because I used it, John-Boy used it, and Thoreau applied it to the commonality of man. You live, you make money, and you die. Thoreau, at the time of writing Walton, seemed to cast a snobby eye on that commonality. He attributed it to the local townsfolk, and categorized most of them as living lives of “quiet desperation”.

I thought to myself, “Well, not everyone can afford to live off their friend’s land for 2 years doing nothing but writing, reading, doing some light gardening, and watching bees.”

But I digress.

Most certainly, men and women both have mouths to feed, children to raise, medical bills to pay off, chores to do, groceries to buy, and in John Sr.’s day, support 7 children, his wife, and his two parents by running his lumber business during the Depression.

His classmates flock into town, most financially successful. Some were married several times, others had ill-behaved children, but all sent a not so subtle message that money isn’t everything.

John succeeded in being a wonderful father, husband, and son. A fact he overlooked in himself. Rather, he measured himself against his classmates based on monetary worth. In other words, in all those 25 years, “what did he have to show for it?”

The reunion dinner was held outside at John’s house. John’s wife, Olivia, volunteered their place to hold the event, much to John’s chagrin. But it ended up memorable, as everyone, men and women, rich and poor, gathered around the table. All symbolically placing themselves back at the starting line of life, they were surrounded by all the folks that knew them when they were young. And they all felt free to joke and laugh about their journeys since then.

They ended the evening with a tearjearking (yes, I cried here too) melody that all sang together. And all agreed that John, who was voted “Most Likely to Succeed”, still was well worthy of that title. All their monetary success, in their eyes, didn’t come close to his success of love and family.

The episode ends with John sitting there reflecting the evening, rather stunned. He then spins a 50 cent piece with one hand, a talent he thought he lost. A talent his sons went on and on about, one that narrator Earl Hamner (the real John-Boy) also mentions at the beginning of the episode.

All the riches, and all the struggling and getting by in the world, but John’s children were most impressed by how he could spin a coin with one hand.

The beauty and gift of children who love you and see all the diamonds in you that you often don’t see yourself.

Onward…

Currently reading: Becoming Free Indeed: My Story of Disentangling Faith from Fear by Jinger Duggar Vuolo, Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt, The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and George Lucas: A Life by Brian Jay Jones

Quick note: Why does something tell me this post will end up as dissected as John-Boy’s post on The Waltons?

It took me several minutes just to make sure the title is right, and while I am writing this my husband, John, is talking to me about work concerns. My John was also called “John-Boy” by my Dad.

So in today’s episode of The Waltons. John-Boy is selected by the town preacher (beautifully played by John Ritter), to give the next week’s sermon. The preacher just got married and will be out of town that Sunday.

John-Boy does what any writer would do. He over prepares. John-Boy does not normally write church sermons, but rather novels, and articles for magazines. So this is a distinct challenge, in which all his writer’s insecurities creep in. Will the people like it? What if they hate it? How do I address everyone’s needs?

John-Boy’s grandmother, Esther, is over the moon with excitement. She is a solid reader of the Bible, knowing chapter and verse. And this sermon has sparked the writer in her also. Her childlike enthusiasm is obvious as she pores over verses, and writes sermons of her own. She even shows John-Boy what he should do during the sermon.

I almost thought the show’s writers would have Esther do the sermon rather than John-Boy. But Grandpa Zeb, after watching Esther instruct John-Boy, lovingly takes her hand and quotes from Proverbs 31, one of the most beautifully written pieces in the Bible. Those verses are about the beauty of a wonderful, good woman, “more precious than rubies…” John-Boy is meant to write it.

John-Boy checks out every religious library book he can get his hands on, and proceeds to talk to members of his family. Most important his Daddy and Grandpa, along with his Grandma Esther, and also observes the workings of his Mother and his younger brother, Jim-Bob.

His insecurities plague him throughout the week, and the folks in the town know he is nervous. Some decide to gossip, while others gently encourage him. After a week of writing and studying, along with a wonderful trip to the Walton mountaintop, he is able to write his sermon.

And, John-Boy being John-Boy he knocks it out of the ballpark. He artfully includes everyone he loves in his sermon. And he brings tears to the eyes of his Grandpa, and stuns his father, who just sits there like he can’t believe this is his son.

This is the lesson the world should see about the writer. How with so many of us, the work has to be thought about and carefully crafted. And how easy it is for us to shoot right pass the mark, talk to too many people, research too many books, and drown ourselves in information instead of forcing ourselves to swim to the surface.

But thankfully, with time and patience, most of us do learn to swim to the surface.

Onward…

Currently reading: Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt, George Lucas: A Life by Brian Jay Jones, and The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

I sat with Proverbs today and remained quiet and still to receive instruction. I could hear that small still voice of God. The one that urges me to take time every day for quiet, peaceful, and meaningful instruction.

As I write this I am busy filling out an application for Children’s Health Defense. It’s been a wonderful opportunity to houseclean, as it were. Update my website, my LinkedIn, my resume and cover letter. And continuing pursuing my goal of writing professionally either full or part time.

And also to further increase my work in the Medical Freedom movement. A rather odd name if you think about it. Is it medical freedom to demand that a hospital not let you die and instead honor your wishes to receive Ivermectin?

Is it medical freedom to not be blackmailed into having to get an experimental vaccine in order to receive an organ?

How far we have strayed since the days of “Do no Harm”. What harm does it do to do everything in your power to save one life? One life?

To me it is simply called being human. To strive to do the good things, and make every attempt to walk on the straight path, and to turn neither left or right. To yearn for wisdom and instruction, to not lean to heavily on your own understand, nor to be too confident in your own feelings and perceptions.

And for me the book of Proverbs answers those many questions. That quiet time for rest and reflection, and instruction.

It is nearing sunset and almost time for Shabbat, when I set the stress of the week aside and all its troubles. Where I simply take joy in God’s beautiful world and embrace my family. So I am off to touch up and polish my application until the sun goes down

More to come soon.

Shabbat Shalom

It has been a few years since I last updated this blog. My writing passions have led me in a new direction which is advocacy for the vaccine injured. I currently write about those unsung heroes in the vaccine injury movement, who are reaching out to others. It has been a rewarding job thus far.

So all this new writing has led me back to this blog to open the windows and air out the place, like I mentioned in the previous post. This place could do with a bit of housecleaning. Redoing my opening page, and making sure all my links still work.

As I mentioned before, all my new React19 articles are in the Works section. Another article should be coming out in the next few weeks and I will be sure to post it here.

I also plan to write on here regularly. I have been writing extensive articles and commentary on Facebook. But will post articles and thoughts I have of interest from that page on here as well.

Stay tuned!

It has been a few years but I am getting this blog up and running again. There are a ton of cosmetic changes to be made, and updates to provide, so bear with me.

The New Monkees book is on indefinite pause at the moment. I don’t foresee resuming this project. Although, I may take the material I have and write little vignettes from time to time, we shall see. But don’t hold your breath for those.

I am currently writing for React19 on a volunteer basis, as my passion lies with advocacy work. I am also working on memoirs regarding my experiences from the years 2020 to 2022.

I am working on the art of book writing as I am a long distance writer novice. I see myself now as a sprint author, working on interviews and articles. In other words, right to the point short work, with right to the point quick deadlines. My hope is the more I sprint, the more stamina I will have to put in the long distance book work.

Listening to: Chainsmokers: This Feeling.  Post Malone and Swae Lee:  Sunflower

Reading: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

I reside with a constipated mind.

Italy is artistic overload. It is too much. It overwhelms.  I found myself sitting in beautiful places, in not so beautiful places, in crowds, by myself. Sitting there with open journal, open mind, and an open heart, and I couldn’t put a fucking word down.

The epicenter of the entire planet of artistry. I lived it and breathed it. It was like surrounding yourself with absolute genius. I felt like the newest, tiny bright star surrounded by a universe of stars and I recognized my smallness.  And I couldn’t spit out a goddamned word.

Now finally to be out of that place, sitting here in the Hobbit House, I can let down. Music blaring in my ears loosening my fingers. Ray Bradbury, my benevolent guardian angel whispering, “Don’t think, Amy, just write.”

And he is so right.  Italy made me think, made me hesitate because I was surrounded by artistic greatness. I was this little tiny David surrounded by towering Goliaths.

It was only when I got away, safely ensconced in my familiar, that I could come to grips with the whole experience.  I am even rocking my office chair while I write. That is something I never did before but it is keeping me in some sort of infantile rhythm, along with the music of course.

Today I washed my hair, took the longest bath. I shaved off all the barnacles, as my Dad would say whenever he shaved, and yeah I now have to shave my chin, along with my legs and armpits.

My body is done.  It is worn out.  I have walked, slugged luggage all around Italy.  Climbed on and off trains. Jesus, the luggage even started to give up on us too.  Handles broke, zippers refused to close, my backpack on the very last day broke its zippers. Every physical representation of doneness.

However, today as I sat in the bath, my mind started racing like you wouldn’t believe.  The writing was back, but not at first.  Honestly, I came downstairs and nothing was coming out.  But music provided the laxative, yes it really is a goddamned laxative, and all of these words came out. Isn’t that such a weird metaphor for what is really happening?

And I kid you not, the moment the Chainsmoker song started, my eyes filled up with tears.  Simply because the entire time in Italy I didn’t listen to any music! The act of lying down with music blaring, something I need, something I have been doing since I got my very first Walkman as a little girl, I didn’t do.  But I am now, and that makes all the difference.

My goodness.  Oh and by the way, editing this post has been a trip, all the Freudian slips I used in freewriting are cracking me up!

The picture below, CHRIST,  just doing laundry was an artistic experience.  Hell, even using the BATHROOM is an artistic experience!

I finished up A Fan’s Notes last night, and found myself, towards the last few pages of the book, just pausing and looking up.  Tears in my eyes, I felt this struggle and pain and fighting against the dying of the light.

Fan’s Notes is what it is, a fictional memoir on the sloppy writer’s life of Frederick Exley. A suffering artist, no doubt,  in real life. One who spent time in institutions, who never saw the end of the bottle, a glutton who gorged himself with food and simply lived, with the occasional street fight.

And he adored Frank Gifford and saw something in Gifford’s rise and fall that opened up a chasm within himself.  His muse.  A muse in the form of a beautiful, well built, sturdy football player. The popular guy, the one with all the success.  And Exley rooted him on every step of the way. And defended Gifford’s honor when a cruel and judgmental public grew tired and bored of the eventual old and injured Gifford.

Gifford himself threw a party for Exley.  However, as in the case with artists like this, it didn’t help Exley in any way. The pain and suffering is the grit that he needs.  To me it seemed like pity from Gifford.  A pity Exley didn’t need.

Exley was and is the tragic hero and the everyman. The guy or gal in each of us that craves the excess and the madness that comes with writing.  The person inside that loves writing so much and needs to write so much that the high is fed and fed by all the rest of the vices.  The alcohol, the drugs, the food, the sex, the fantasy life. The observation of all the people in the world and how do we write them? How do we get the racing narrative in our brains all down on paper?

Exley did it in such a masterful meaningful way. He meandered a lot through Fan’s Notes but he journied well.  He was a slob and he knew it. He made no excuses at all.  He was certainly no John Irving who ever remains fit and businesslike.

No,  Irving is the long distance runner, the long performer, in it for the long haul.  Skilled, toned, and ready.

Exley is the one hit wonder, the guy out of left field who suddenly wins the race, then disappears from view, but you never forget him.  And in that brief spurt, or ejaculation,  shall we say,  of words, he changes everything and connects with us all.

God bless you Frederick Exley.

 

Currently listening to: Sunflower by Swae Lee and Post Malone

Currently reading: Still reading Exley and Golda Meir

The next documentary I watched on the puttering habits of authors,  Philip Roth. John introduced me to Roth’s book, Portnoy’s Complaint when I was around 18, and he, my Jewish boyfriend, happily pegged me as Portnoy’s “blonde shiksa.”

I found Philip Roth to be quite different than the robust, barrel chested, John Irving, wandering around like a retired military general. The ever present man with the plan.

Roth, instead of embracing old age, has let old age happily roll around on him, like a restless sleeper on bedsheets.  His clothes loose around his body.  He limps, his back aches.  He writes standing up to stretch out his imagination and no doubt, his legs.

His writing, like Irving’s, nevertheless routine.  He has a process too.  His home also like Irving, residing in nature by a body of water.  Something about literary authors, ones who write about general life. They seem to require existing by a body of water. Much like  our craft’s  literary Abraham, Henry David Thoreau, centuries before.

Roth’s characters seem like arms that reach far beyond Roth himself. However, he has found that as he grows older, his characters grow old with him and engage no doubt in the metaphysical confusion of death that he is soon reaching.

Roth worries about suicide, having come close to it himself from tremendous back pain.  He then employs this to the business of writing and somehow connects his chronic pain to the other great writers.  Warning of writing as a somewhat dangerous business given the number of suicides.  He warns that you don’t have to look long for suffering when you are writer.  On this point, I agree with him, writing does come with suffering.

True, many authors, many artists, have been plagued by the fiery highs and bitterly cold lows of bipolar disorder, addictions, and such.  Many of them putting in their best work on their 3 or 4 night benders of no sleep and freeway minds.  I don’t know if that is Roth, however, it certainly isn’t Irving that I can tell.  And no, it isn’t me either.

But he, like Irving, still makes it look easy.  Hell, even easier.  He too gets a notion to talk to a gravedigger and just meanders down the street to talk to one.  Lo and behold there is the story. What?

And the hilarious thing is, he has all these women from young and nubile, to mature and collegiate, to hippyish, to sturdy and conservative, all singing his praises like groupies at a rock concert.

Will men do that for me when I publish?  I wonder…

Currently reading: Fan Notes by Frederick Exley, My Life by Golda Meir

The story, the journey is long, and it is a pain in the ass.

No, no, mainly me, I, Amy, is a pain in the ass. Amy, codependent, resident over thinker, town bawler, hysterical laughing girl with a great comeback, I can be a pain in the ass.

But I wouldn’t have me any other way.

Today it was time to get back to the page again.  I was inspired last night by a documentary about John Irving, who seemed to make it all look so easy.  I couldn’t get over it.  This man, thoughtfully puttering around his beautiful house by the river, filled with huge trees. A trusty and loyal dog by his side, an even more trustworthy and loyal wife as well, just existing with his routines and his formats.

To me it seemed like absolute paradise.

This man, this John Irving, when caught with inspiration for his stories, treats it as reality immediately.  It is like he receives his orders from headquarters.  Here, go investigate the red light district halfway across the world.  Yup, he nods, he packs a suitcase, grabs the trustworthy wife who has no idea yet of what he is up to, and heads off.

Me, my wings are still wet, my face still damp with tears.  I am still in the newness of it all.  Too easily swept away by waves of emotion and heartbreak and extreme highs and lows.

But yes, I could comfort myself in saying that I am writing about real people who never remain still for you. Real people aren’t your creation. They have minds and wills of their own whether you want them to or not.  And they will not be controlled nor should they be.

And real people can die, and you can never resurrect them.  Once their story is over, it is over.  No sequel, no prequel, just gone. The end.  The original Monkee, Peter Tork, passed away the other day.  He never shared his full story, his full life in autobiography form like the others did.  His entire story will remain with him, unless someone chooses to piece together everything and write a meaningful biography.  His voice, however, will not be there anymore to lend it any credibility.  It is left to the family and friends to know for sure.

But I digress…

John Irving though, his fictional work,  he looks at it like wrestling.  Constant practicing of repetitive movements to hone your strength and discover your agility.  Boring to people watching but at the time of performance, that big moment, absolutely exhilarating.

He is correct though, much of the heavy lifting is left to the writer alone.  Whether that be staring out of windows on million dollar properties, or using a bed as a chair, typing at  a too low end table.

It is the journey, the love of the process that counts.  Not the big game, not the end result, but the day to day repetitive motion of pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.  It is the endless cups of coffee, or that special high when you describe something just right.  The accolades, the hooking you up to a microphone and reading excerpts from the book, that is just, well, I don’t know if you would even call that icing on the cake.  Perhaps just presentation.  The offering to the world.  The giving away of what you worked to build, and leaving it all to the mercy of your reader.  Then coming home, kicking off your shoes, putting on your glasses, and getting back to work again.

I am still learning at the feet of many great writers and I suspect I always will be.  It is an honor being a part of this world, but a continuing process of self esteem building is essential.  You must grow to be successful in this writing business.  Too many authors veer off the road to self doubt, to addictions, to vices.  Staying the course in this business is tantamount.

John Irving walks his dog, works out, and makes pizza decorating his speech with little French or Italian phrases. He serves the pizza haphazardly off his no doubt thoroughly scrubbed kitchen counters.  No plates!!!! I marvel at how clean they must be to eat off of it.  He knows his shit.

A good mentor to follow behind.