inspiredbyactualevents.com

Writing guides and handbooks fall into roughly two categories: Some are long, comprehensive, and, except for the extremely punctilious writer, unfathomable; a few are direct, useful, and ideal for serious writers who would rather write than spend hours finding the rules for semicolons. In the latter category falls Brandon Royal’s brilliant The Little Red Writing Book.

The articulate exposition of his twenty principles of writing and thirty rules of grammar fit neatly into 159 short, accessible pages, pages undoubtedly well-thumbed by thousands of grateful writers for years.  Built carefully and simply around the categories of structure, style, readability and grammar, Mr. Royal’s little book will satisfy both the sit-down-and-read-all-about-it reader and the frustrated-fly-by-and-check-something-quickly writer. 

I recommend this wonder to all my writing students; one day the writing committee with wise up and make this a primary text for all writing courses at my school.  I won’t hold my breath, but you could buy a copy now here anyway.

Tonight...I pulled my punches.

We went to a small piano concert. Four high school seniors, graduating this month, performed a small concert sponsored by their studio.  The show gets low marks for production values.  These amateur night extravaganzas insult the art they should celebrate. Nonetheless…

Four performers. One has a perfect ‘performer name’ - Ace Tardo.  Ace couldn’t play for...well...for shite, as the Brits say.  Cute kid, great smile, knots in his fingers.  But with a name like Ace Tardo, he’ll be a star one day, a star at something.  If he doesn’t want to use his name to become a star, I’ll take it.  Ace Tardo.  Wow.

Another performer could play better, but made the mistake of playing without a score, forgetting his notes, and resorting to opening the score to find his place.  His teacher should be shot for letting him play without his score before he was ready.

A third was a beautiful young woman who could play like a dream.  Her long expressive fingers deftly crossed the keys, leaping high, pouncing from phrase to phrase with the grace of a big cat.  She worked without a score since the music was part of her already.

Finally...and this is the point of this note....was Michael, the pianist we’d come to hear.  Michael’s mother works with my wife. Michael is, in a word, brilliant. He should be a concert pianist.  He, alone among his peers, felt the music, moved through it with ease and joy, a joy belying his awkward stage presence. (Someone MUST teach all these kids how to walk onstage and, for Christ’s sake, bow correctly - one hand on the piano, dip shoulders and head and DO NOT cross any arm over any waist anytime.)

Michael should study music performance.  Period.  He’s headed for college...pre-med.  I understand he can do this easily.  Smart, hardworking kid, Michael.  But...doctors are a dime a dozen.  Well… millions of dollars a dozen, I guess, but the point is how many dazzling concert pianists can my humble city produce?  I hope Michael, whose Chopin Etude moved his audience deeply in spite of the dreadful setting and whose sterling recovery after flubbing the middle of the Polonaise was an unappreciated display of profound professionalism, really wants to be a doctor.  Really want it a lot. 

If he is passing on becoming a pianist because being a concert pianist won’t pay the rent (which I suspect), he is cheating the world and, worse, himself.  And I, who know better than to let such a tragedy unfold sans comment, said nothing to Michael of how his playing moved me, nothing of my hope for his art. 

I may have another opportunity.  Here’s hoping I pull no more punches with the dazzling Michael and his golden fingers.

I may be the last person on the planet to have read Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. It’s sold a gazillion copies, I understand, in its 20 year run. I’m trying very hard to like it. The Alchemist is just not my kind of book.

It’s a fable, full of inspirational, follow-your-dream, pursue-your-Personal-Legend storytelling. It tells the pleasant story of Santiago, a poor Andalusian shepherd boy, who is told by an old man (Melchizedek, the King of Salem, believe it or not) to go to the pyramids to find his treasure. Santiago is perfectly happy being a poor Andalusian shepherd, but after several odd messengers encourage his quest, embarks to Egypt to find his treasure. He travels across north Africa, stopping in Tangiers, where he makes a bundle for himself and his employer selling crystal and turning the crystal shop into a smash success. He amasses enough gold to return to Spain a rich man, but is once again compelled to chase his Personal Legend.

Santiago and his caravan reach a popular oasis boasting “three hundred wells, fifty thousand date trees, and innumerable colored tents spread among them,” a welcome sight after long, dry weeks in the desert.
This oasis is also a safe haven for the many tribes warring in its environs. Santiago, since he is committed to his dream (still faithful, of course, to chasing his Personal Legend) becomes the oasis’ much needed spiritual guide and finally learns the secrets of the alchemist which I will not reveal here because I didn’t exactly understand them. In short, on his quest, Santiago finds material and spiritual wealth, overcomes daunting obstacles and impresses the hell out of everyone he meets. But...he must travel on, to the pyramids, to his treasure, to his Personal Legend.

Along the way, wise voices speak to Santiago, sharing truths, which he gradually understands, after considerable repetition. “No matter what one does, every person on earth places a central role in the history of the world.” “No heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.” “When you are loved you can do anything in creation.” And my favorite, “When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person realize his dream.” Cue Oprah.

Doubtless, you can hear my enthusiasm for paper-thin sentiments like these. Eventually Santiago finds his treasure, and I won’t spoil the end for you. You already know it. Really.

I liked The Alchemist. The characters are flat, the dialogue is biblical, and the themes are hardly challenging, but it’s well written, unpretentious (a rarity in profound-spiritual-truth books), and the story is engaging. The book’s Hallmark moments take on welcome weight with the unfolding of its simple and seductive narrative. It also has a quality often lacking in thematically-challenged books - it’s short. Take a few hours and read it. It’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Cliff is 60 years old, a farmer with a BA in literature, and poor, recently cheated off his farm in his divorce.  Cliff is traveling the country renaming the states and the birds of North America. No kidding.  He picks up a former student with a divine ass (Cliff was a high school teacher once) and she screws his brains out from Minnesota to Montana. She moves quickly from the fantasy category to the emotional burden category.

He visits his successful gay son (who pulls 300K in the film industry) in San Francisco and ends up pursued by his ex-wife who breaks up with the man she left Cliff for. This harridan (who, naturally, has a late-in-life real estate career) suddenly wants Cliff back in her life when she develops diabetes.  People with no boundaries surround Cliff and he lets them roam freely in his life at the very time he wants to carve out a private place. Eventually, he carves, but at a price that is just sad.

Cliff speaks with an honest voice, a voice that knows he must accept what he cannot change and can get on with his life, despite the insensitive whiners who repeatedly invade his life.  If you are a 60-ish man, you are Cliff and he speaks truth to you. I don’t know if he speaks truth to 35-year-old program analysts or 52-year-old corporate CEOs.  Cliff doesn’t speak FOR me, but he certainly speaks TO me and I am glad to be his friend and fellow sexagenarian.

Yesterday, I completed Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible and can’t write a review yet. I may need to read it again to see past my anger to the real importance of this outstanding novel. Now, I am simply angry.

Every patriotic American, and I am one, loves his country and the ideals it represents. Every patriot must guard his country and its ideals from the predations of greed and hubris. Unfortunately, no country in the world can match, even approach, the wealth and power of our country. Too often, the world’s greed and hubris involve American players.

The Poisonwood Bible is set in the Congo in 1959-60 (and later) and highlights that country’s painful move into independence. Well, into a simulacrum of independence. This novel, accurate in its historical detail, plays out its deeply personal story inside the chaos of the larger world, a world set on destroying the hope of a nation and murdering millions of its people.

After decades of exploitation by the Belgians, under the inspired leadership of Patrice Lumumba, the Congolese negotiated their independence. Lumumba was elected prime minister. Too bad Lumumba didn’t realize how serious Americans and Belgians were about controlling Congo’s resources. In less than two months, Katanga, the province with most of those resources, successfully seceded with the help of American money and personnel. Lumumba was arrested and eventually murdered, with the help of the American CIA. Twenty-six years of the murderous, puppet leadership of Joseph Mobutu followed, the Congo sunk deeper into poverty and ruin, and, to this day, is torn apart by greed and corruption.

Of course, the CIA knew how to do these things. In 1953, the American CIA engineered the overthrow of the elected prime minister of Iran, Mohammad Mossadeq, who had the temerity to claim Iran’s oil for Iranians. American is still paying in blood for foolishly crushing Mossadeq’s democratic and secular vision for Iran. America installed Reza Pahlavi, the Shah, to protect its oil and we’ve all seen how well that turned out.

But wait. There’s more. In 1970, Chile elected Salvador Allende to be its president. The unfortunate Allende used the magic get-yourself-killed-by-the-CIA word when he promised a transition to a socialist democracy. Within three years, America assured his assassination and the institution of decades of sadistic rule by Augusto Pinochet.

Then, there are Rafael Trujillo, Ngo Dinh Diem, Rene Schneider and who knows how many others, but, for fear of again killing the horse I beat, I’ll stop here.

My country is a great country with a bad habit. These examples of bad behavior are not all of what America is about, of course, but they indicate a willingness to act ruthlessly when our national greed and hubris run wild and we lose our sense of fairness and decency. We have done better. Mostly, we have done better. But not always.

OK. I’m not so angry now. Now I am just little sad.

So...read Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. It may not make you angry. But it may.

For documentation of many of the activities described above see the report of the Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities (commonly called the Church Committee), 1975-76.

For a simpler version with links to many other resources go here.