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scriptexecution · 3 years

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The Important Pitch That Became a Dismal Swamp, by Mark Pumphrey

As a Buddhist, I’m supposed to be able to exhibit loving-kindness toward everyone. But Buddhists are human beings, and sometimes we do not measure up to that high standard. Tonight is a good example of one of those times in my life. I don’t know when I have ever felt so put upon and shut out. Everyone else left the pitch tonight happy. I left feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule.

I was to pitch my writing project to a producer who has a few notches in his gun. My instructor had said some promising words about my story, and even the great Christopher Lockhart didn’t hate it when I pitched it to him. I was encouraged.

Our pitch VIP was delayed by a very important call about his latest very important film project, so my class and I were pitching to another producer who stepped in at the last minute to replace him. She did a great job of coaching classmates one through seven with their pitches. I was number eight. I had practiced my pitch assiduously and was rarin to go.

The guy who was supposed to hear our pitches showed up just before I was to give my pitch, What a stroke of luck, I thought! I have never been so wrong. I gave my pitch and thought I did a good job. I asked if there were any questions. No response. The guy barely addressed me directly, preferring to talk “generally” to the entire class.

He started expounding on how important it was to show enthusiasm and get loud when pitching a project. You know, like him. I shook my head in agreement--point taken. Thank you. Would you like to see my Look Book? Dead silence. He expounded about budgets. I found an opening in the non-stop speech he was giving generally and said “We all have budgets for our projects. Would you like to see mine?” Dead silence. But plenty of more expounding. And not a single question or even comment directed to me, except one: “you’ve got that Southern accent which is an advantage...but,...you’ve got to be enthusiastic about your presentation. If you don’t care about your project, no one else will be.”

Excuse me. Did you say “don’t care”? I have spent the last twenty-eight weeks of my life devoted to this project. I think I care about it, thank you.

What hurt most, though, was that with the very next student, he was a changed man. He asked her numerous questions about her project. Would I like to see your Look Book? Why, sure, let’s see it. Great job! Great presentation. Great energy! The same scenario played out with every single one of the remaining students who pitched to him tonight. How does that song go? “ They're writing songs of love, but not for me, A lucky star's above, but not for me...”

Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for each of my classmates for their positive interaction with the gentleman. One by one, he gave them all the same treatment--Great job! Love your idea! Great presentation! Great energy! A couple of classmates reminded me later that they didn’t get to pitch to him at all, but only to the lady producer. Three students got to pitch twice. I’m happy for them. Really.

But why me? Why not me? How was this fair?

Our instructor had said more than once in class, “Don’t be upset if they don’t like your pitch.” I wasn’t. Honestly. What upset me was that, unlike everyone else he commented on, this guy didn’t engage with me at all and he didn’t tell me if he liked my pitch or not. He didn’t tell me anything except that my pitch didn’t have enough enthusiasm like the others he had heard before he got his sound figured out, and that my Southern accent was an advantage. Thanks a lot.

#pitching a screenplay #disappointed #not fair #unequal treatment #did you hear my pitch at all?#subjective criticism #tomorrow is another day

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Facebook Says My Writing Student’s Website Is Spam That Violates FB Community Standards on Spam. I’m Dropping a Message to My Classmates Here So They Can View Upcoming Events on My Website. My Website Is Not Spam, by Mark Pumphrey

Here's a link to the Upcoming Events section of my website, where you will find the three events, two book talks on my novel, The Expert Witness, scheduled for May 3 and May 12, and a seminar tying my novel to the topic "Steps for Learning to Write Creatively," in which I will provide an overview of what we learned in the Master Writer's Course and a bit about the business side of writing from the current course, scheduled for May 24. All three events will be held from 5:00 - 6:00 p.m. https://mark-pumphrey.cms.webnode.com/upcoming-events/

#writers and writing #writers websites

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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I Vow to Write at Least Three Hours Each Day, by Mark Pumphrey

The image is of The Trondheim Sun, a Bronze Age artifact uncovered by a farmer in Denmark in 1902. It depicts a small bronze horse with wheels pulling a chariot in which sits a bronze sun covered with gold. An old Norse legend tells the story of a divine horse who pulled the sun from east to west, with the wheels representing the sun’s motion, as it was believed in those days that the sun moved across the sky. Only one side of the disk is gold representing daytime. The other side is dark, representing night.

I am choosing a photo of this ancient artifact as a symbol of my commitment to write for at least three hours each day. I chose this image for many reasons:

Writing is like a divine horse pulling the sun from east to west each day. Words are sacred, like the horse. Life is short and I must not let the sun go down on a day with no writing It doesn’t get easier but as long as I keep pulling the sun each day the world will see daylight-and dark. A good writer sees both daylight and dark--the reality of all things--and writes about both. Just as a sunrise or a sunset can inspire, so can writing inspire. That the horse pulls the sun each day is important because day by day is the only way to finish that which I have started writing, whether it be a haiku or a four-hundred page novel. Like the bronze artifact, writing may be lost for a time, going out of favor, perhaps, or simply forgotten. But if it is worthy, that which is written will stand the test of time. That is what I hope to do with my writing.

#bronze #bronze artifact #writing #writing daily #writing-discipline #norse legends #discovery of lost art #vows of commitment #horse pulling the sun #trundholm sun chariot #norse bronze age

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Great Things Take Time: Why I Have Valued the Advanced Master Writers Class

As I near the end of the Advanced Master Writers Course, I am feeling something akin to adoration for the art of writing. The closer I get to the sources of information about writing as a craft, the more I realize that it is also an art. I have an overwhelming desire to be a part of the world of writing and writers. I feel kinship with other writers: they get it. Life is more than a matter of mundane day to day existence. Through writing, I can soar and I can state truths and make a difference in the lives of the readers of what I write. I consider the written word holy, because more than anything else, it can change lives for the better. To be the broker of such changes in people’s lives as a writer is a great honor and one that I reverence.

I have loved so much about the Advanced Master Writers Class. Michelle Murry is a great teacher. The curriculum has been demanding but I have learned so much from it that it is well worth all of the time and hard work I have put into it. I have loved getting to know the members of this particular class. What we have in common is a bond that will always be there, I think, no matter how much we diverge in our future careers as writers. I look forward to seeing the names of my classmates in lights!

What I have not enjoyed so much is the slowness with which I absorb so much information. I was not experienced with many of the technology tools we have been required to use in the class, and it seemed like everything took me twice as long to complete as it should have as a result. But I did learn how to use some new technological tools that I never thought I’d master.

Another thing I have not enjoyed about the experience of being in the class is that, even though I am retired, I have many other activities and commitments that I have had to push aside because dedication to the class and to writing was more important to me and meant dedication to completing the homework assignments on time and done correctly.

If I weren’t such a slow human being, this perhaps would not be a problems, and I perhaps would not have had to skip OLLI-UTEP classes and assignments, singing lessons, Tumblewords meetings, Buddhist activities, hikes in the mountains with my husband, and meetings and events of the many community boards of which I am a member.

But because I am so slow, and because I wanted to do well in the Master Writers class, I feel like I had no choice but to miss a lot of the things I would normally be doing with my time. Yet, because writing is my top priority, I believe I did the right thing under the circumstances by pushing everything else aside for the time I have been in the Master Writers Class and Advanced Master Writers class. I think a writer’s life must necessarily always have a single focus on the writing in this way—otherwise there would always be something to intrude on the time I should be spending writing or practicing the pitching what I have written.

It has been good to push myself beyond the boundaries I didn’t even know I had. It did not feel good beforehand or even during assignments that required me to push myself—such as completing a 342-page novel with 38 chapters; creating a face-forward presence on the Internet like I have never had before through the Mastery Journal and the website; creating videos with myself front and center on the screen; putting my own writing products on social media, or inserting myself into the “room,” whether it be “The Inside Pitch,” Hollywood insider conferences, or reaching out to producers and studio executives. As Michelle Murray says, I have come to understand that I “belong in the room.”

My writing has been influenced by the class and what I learned in the class by giving everything I write from now on better structure. I am definitely (or had been), the “gardener’ type of writer I read about in an article I read recently: someone who just throws seeds onto the ground and then waits to see what comes up. What I have learned in the Advanced Master Writers Class (and the Master Writers Class before that) has changed me from being a total “gardener” as a writer into being a “master builder” kind of writer, who understands structure and balance and symmetry in writing, an engineer of sorts who plans, designs, builds, and markets writing products in an organized way. It is a matter of becoming a right-brained creative who has learned to apply some left-brained organizational skills to the craft of writing.

#creative writing #creative writing-instruction #dedication to craft #priorities

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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This is a 58-second video I created in support of the Financial Literacy Film Festival, 2021. Information on how to register for the film festival, which will be streamed and online, is on the second page, following the video clip. #FinLitFilmFest #MichelleMurrray

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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“The Expert Witness,” By Mark Pumphrey Received by Frances Goldin Literacy Agency

Frances Goldin Literary Agency, Inc. Powered by Submittable Title The Expert Witness by Mark Pumphrey in Ria Julien

812 Dulce Tierra Dr. El Paso, Texas 79912 TX United States 9155044925 [email protected] 03/29/2021 id. 19682276 Original query 03/29/2021

Cover Letter

Dear Ria Julien:

I'm writing to seek representation for my first novel, THE EXPERT WITNESS, a psychological crime novel with a gay relationship as a subplot.

The novel opens with reflections by Paul Stone, a reference librarian at George Washington University, 37, and Carol Gromski, 40, a Ph. D. linguist who Paul encountered four years earlier when they both lived in Columbia, SC. Paul has followed Carol to the DC area to avenge her treatment of him that left him traumatized when she ended their relationship with extreme accusations and icy precision. Carol has moved to Chevy Chase, MD, near her home, Lewes, Delaware, Paul lives in Bethesda, MD. Carol has been unable to get tenure at the University of South Carolina, at North Carolina State University, and now at George Washington University. She reinvents herself as a forensic linguist and through the seduction of a high-ranking Department of Justice official, represents the DOJ as an expert witness at murder trials. Because of Carol's bizarre behavior toward him,

Paul has suspected that Carol's new career turn is a shell game. He wants to expose her in a court of law to the media and so, the public. In interviews with Carol's family members, police officers, an attorney, a university official, and a government official about Carol's personal history and her expert testimony, Paul begins to also suspect that Carol is a murderer who is severely psychotic and dangerous. As the story unfolds, Paul collects information using his skills as a librarian and pursues Carol in a way to prompt her to file a harassment lawsuit against him. In court, Paul has his chance as a defendant to present the information he has about Carol's fraudulent and murderous behavior. Visitations in dreams from three people who were murdered by Carol help Paul unravel the twisted path Carol's life has taken. Paul's relationship with Luc Ferrari, a Frenchman is the B story of the novel. The mood of the novel is introspective, with a sense of trouble just below the surface and sympathetic characters in secondary roles to balance the depraved nature of Carol Gromski.

I am a retired library director, my last position was as the Director of Libraries for the City of El Paso. I am originally from Kentucky, having been born in the same tiny town as Barbara Kingsolver, whose family I recall from my early childhood before my family moved to another Kentucky town. Barbara has been kind enough to correspond with me a few times over the years, and Ms. Goldin did as well once when I was trying to reach Barbara after her move to Virginia. I have also lived and worked in South Dakota, South Carolina, and North Carolina in addition to West Texas. I am married to Jean-Claude Linossi, my partner of the past thirty years. I enclose a copy of my novel which I wrote from September-December, 2020. It is 344 pages long and has thirty-eight chapters. I hope you like what you see and look forward to hearing from you.

Yours,

Mark Pumphrey

File Upload Expert_Witness_Version_1.3.pdf

#psychological crime novels #crime novels #gay romance

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Finding an Agent For My First Novel, By Mark Pumphrey

I. My first thought about finding an agent to help sell my book to a publisher is that it is wise to start with agents and editors I already know, either well or as a passing acquaintance. The stronger the tie to the people at the agency, the better for a new writer. If the agent is also a book editor and/or publisher, even better!

In my case, I would start with Lee & Bobby Byrd, the founders of the family-owned a operated Cinco Puntos Press in my home town of El Paso, Texas. The Byrds are very active as both vendors and supporters of libraries, and I am a retired library director with forty years of experience as a professional librarian. Cinco Puntos Press is the home of writer Benjamin Alire Saenz, who won the Pen Faulkner Award for his book “It All Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club. The book was published by Cinco Puntos Press. I am a member of the Southwest Book Awards Committee, and I read and recommended another Cinco Puntos Press book for an award two years ago, “Folly Cove: A Smuggler’s True Tale of the Pot Rebellion,” by Kermit Schweidel. I am also a personal friend of an author who has been published by Cinco Puntos Press: Sergio Troncoso. I have lots of people at this press that would support effort to get published.

Next I would contact Frances Goldin Literary Agency in New York City. Though Ms. Goldin has passed away, her staff continue at the same high quality of representation of authors as was the case when Ms. Goldin ran the agency. I had one correspondence with Ms. Goldin years ago when I was looking for the address of an old acquaintance, the writer Barbara Kingsolver. Though we are not close friends or even friends, Ms. Kingsolver was kind enough to correspond with me a few times years ago, on the basis that we were born in the same tiny Kentucky town and I had briefly known her family as a small child before my family moved to another town in Kentucky. Ms. Goldin made it possible for me to get back in touch with Barbara, who I had not seen since she signed our (my husband Jean-Claude and I) copies of La Cuna--even bringing us to the front of the line for a brief chat before signing our books. I have a kinship to Barbara Kingsolver simply because we breathed same air and had the same influential grade school teachers in Carlisle for a brief time. I think my writing style would resonate with the Francis Goldin Literary Agency agents because my style and my themes are similar to those of Ms. Kingsolver.

Finally, I would contact Jotham Burrello at Elephant Rock Books in Connecticut. When I was the Director of Libraries for the City of El Paso, I served as a judge for this small publishing house’s annual Young Adult fiction award, the Helen Sheehan YA Book Prize in the year this honor was bestowed on Lucia Distefano”s book “Borrowed,” a book that went on to receive starred reviews and other recognition. On Elephant Rock Books website, I am quoted in the publicity for “Borrowed,” and I would definitely remind Mr. Burrello of that, and of my participation in the Sheehan Award judging.

2. I think it is important for new writers like myself to think realistically about which agents and publishing houses to try to gain an invitation to pitch my novel to. It is unrealistic for me to try to pitch to a major publishing house such as Random House or HarperCollins. A good agent will know that. The larger publishing houses do not even consider a book unless the author already has a large following of readers and a track record of writing books that sell well. All three of the agencies I listed above are small for a good reason. I think the agent I choose or who agrees to take me on as a client will also need to be aware that I am starting very late in the writing profession. As a retired 67-year-old who at the age where one begin to wonder how many years one has left on this planet, the agent will need to set realistic goals with me for what I can actually accomplish in the compressed amount of time I have left. My classmates are mostly 20-somethings, so it is realistic for them to prepare themselves to work in a Hollywood television series writers room. But I really don’t believe that is something that is in the realm of possibility for me, and my agent would need to look at it in the same way I do. This would also apply to the process of applying for temporary writing jobs in the high-powered world of Hollywood--it would be an impossible goal for a 67-year old with limited experience to develop applications for jobs for which I am unlikely to be a serious candidate due to my age.

3. I think I need to find an agent who will allow me to express my doubts about my writing. An ideal agent will help me become a good actor, pitching the hell out of a book I wrote that I know in my heart is not my best work. I need to be able to express all of my worries about whether I am good enough without being stifled by my agent or forced by my agent to be an unreal version of myself when I meet the public in an effort to generate interest in my book. Even though I feel I need a sensitive agent who understands my need to express how I really feel, I also need for that agent to push me a little, so that I will not avoid and actually stay on track with doing all the things that are required of a writer on the business side of the equation. My agent should not allow my shy nature to stop me from performing well as a promoter of my book. If I become shy at a book launch or reading, the agent will need to be there to remind me to engage more with the people in the room, and not leave me to my usual pattern of avoiding whatever is unpleasant or uncomfortable or that makes me fearful.

#Querying Literary Agents #literary agents #tips for getting published

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Example of an APA-Style Research Essay (on Alan Ginsberg), Written by Mark Pumphrey

Allen Ginsberg was a Post-Modernist poet who was a part of the Beat Generation in the 1950s. Along with Sylvia Plath, Ginsberg introduced a style of writing that was emotionally charged and designed to create a dialogue with the reader, oftentimes forcing the reader to confront controversial issues such as, in Ginsberg’s case, homosexuality. In his poems, he addresses sexuality frankly but sensitively, as in “To Aunt Rose” where one “mourns the “tears of sexual frustration” shed not only by Ginsberg’s aunt but by all those who suppress the urges of the body,” (Iadonisi, R. A. (2001). Allen Ginsberg 1926-97. In E. L. Haralson (Ed.), Encyclopedia of American poetry: the twentieth century. Routledge).

A Zen Buddhist most of his life, Ginsberg could be equally direct when speaking of spiritual matters. During an interview with Gary Pacernick for American Poetry Review, he asked Pacernick to imagine being knocked out by nitrous oxide in a dentist’s chair:

“Ginsberg: Have you ever been put out? Okay, so what's the last thing you hear? Or what's the last sense that disappears? To me, it was sound. The music, the Muzak. So what if the last thing to go is the end of the symphony? Like, the pain is gone, physical feeling is gone, sight is gone, taste is gone, smell is gone, the only thing left is sound. The sound is the music, then you hear the last note of the symphony and --

GP: Well that's a nice one. But than there's all the folks during the Holocaust who were butchered every second by the Nazis.

Ginsberg: Yeah, but on the other hand, the last thing they heard was the sound of a scream and then the scream ended. And there was nice, peaceful --

GP: Let's hope.

Ginsberg: Well, unless they were reborn. Do you think they went to hell or something?

GP: I don't believe that.

Ginsberg: They wouldn't have gone to hell. Do you think they went to heaven?

GP: I don't think so.

Ginsberg: I don't think there's a heaven. So therefore where did they go? They certainly went to a peaceful place.

GP: I hope so.

Ginsberg: Well, where else?

GP: I think you're right!

Ginsberg: Can you imagine anywhere else? Can you even imagine someplace that wasn't peaceful?

GP: I'm Jewish. I'll have to go with that.

Ginsberg: The Sheol, or maybe Sheol.

GP: Sheol. Okay.

Ginsberg: The Buddhists might give the worst case, that they get reborn to go through it all over again. Reborn as Nazis. Reborn in Israel and persecuting the Palestinians.

GP: That would be hell.

Ginsberg: Okay. I gotta stop.”

(Pacernick, Gary, “Allen Ginsberg: An Interview,“ American Poetry Review. Jul/Aug97, Vol. 26 Issue 4, p23-27. 5p.).

As can be seen in this exchange with an interviewer, Allen Ginsberg and the Beat Generation preferred the relative over the absolute. In contrast to Victorian writers, who attempted to make their writing as realistic as possible, the Post-Modernists of the Beat Generation rejected realism in favor of an artificial element interjected into their stories and poems, constantly reminding readers that as authors they had no intention of explaining the meaning of what they wrote to the reader. Instead, they made it clear to readers that it was up to them, the readers, to subjectively decide for themselves what the work of writing meant.

As a Post-Modernist, Ginsberg also rejected all of the “isms” as the purpose behind his writing: Rationalism, Totalitarianism, Freudianism, Fascism, Marxism, Capitalism, Darwinism, etc. In other words, Ginsberg was not about to create a grand narrative to explain any large-scale theory that had been put forth as an explanation of the sum total of all human experience. Nothing could explain everything at once, in Ginsberg’s opinion.

According to Lyotard, the Postmodern Age was one of micronarratives rather than grand narratives, micronarratives being those in which small, localized understandings of the world dominated the novel or poem but could not claim to express any ultimate or absolute truth. ( Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition (1979) published by Manchester University Press, 1984).

To Ginsberg and his fellow Beat Generation writers, people living in different parts of the world could not possibly have the same view of the world, nor can even people from the same cultural background (members of an Italian family living in New York City, for example) have the same view of the world.

I come from a family with four sons. The sons, all four of us, have different memories of the same events, different ways of looking at the world, and different beliefs. Even married couples who think they know each other completely will find over time that they are separate individuals who think differently and react differently in the world based on their own personal internal moral and ethical compass.

This is what the Beat Generation and Allen Ginsberg particularly brought that was new and capable of changing the landscape of creative writing in general in the 1950s—the notion that each individual reader is singular and will have a singular vision of what the book or poem an Allen Ginsberg or other writer of the era creates for them to read is actually about.

I personally do not care for this change brought about by the Beat Generation. I do not like the expletive-laden, drug-driven, explosive nature of Beat Generation thinking about writing. I prefer the stories and poems that came before, that sought to change the world without being offensive and intrusive or demanding with the reader, gradually nudging readers to think differently about the world, the way Harriet Beecher Stowe did with her great book Uncle Tom’s Cabin that played a huge role in the War Between the States by opening the eyes of many to the evils of slavery. I need stories and poems that have redeeming characters—characters who act in noble ways or who elicit our compassion between of their innocence in the face of hardship, such as the slaves who ran away to the North in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

What followed the Beat Generation micronarratives were the “kitchen sink” films that first appeared in Britain in the 1960s—dramas that depicted everyday characters doing bad things to those around them, in which nothing is left out and every emotion, mostly negative emotions was shown to the audience in full-force. Moviegoing became not entertainment but a sociological and psychological scream therapy session that left viewers drained because of the runaway roller coaster emotional experience they had just experienced after watching the hard-hitting, gut-wrenching drama about people in conflict with each other acting in abusive ways to each other.

By the 1970’s the effects of what Ginsberg and other Beat Generation writers had started had come full circle back to the United States, in all sorts of creative formats: art, performance art, film, dance, music, theater. The one holdout was television, in which network broadcasting standards took longer to erode.

But erode they did with the onset of cable. Cable, free of the restrictions in content the FCC placed on network television, developed free rein to film the kind of violence, sexually explicit and obscenity-laced dialogue that had its birth in the idea that the author did not have a voice in how his or her writing is interpreted by the audience. Nor did the author have any responsibility for upholding community standards in what they wrote.

It was thus that Allen Ginsberg wound up in court defending his book of poetry, Howl, facing down government censors who would have it banned.

In a telling specific incident, hundreds of copies of Howl were confiscated by police at an airport as they were being shipped into the United States.

That is where I again differ with many on the outcome of the Ginsberg saga. Even though I may personally find elements of the Ginsberg poetry and the writings of other Beat Generation writers repugnant on a personal level, I wholly support the right of such writers to write in the style in which they are drawn to write, and to freely share their books with readers everywhere. For me, that is where the real decision point for readers appropriately comes into play.

Choose whatever book you want to read. If its content offends you, close the book. Choose whatever film or television show you want to view. If it offends you, turn it off. But do not deny other readers or viewers the right to read or view whatever they want, by condemning and then attempting to censor books or video productions. That is the American way, in my view, as stated in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, and it should be upheld in all cases of censorship.

A highly-acclaimed film that I saw in the 1980s will illustrate the point I am trying to make. I believe Spike Lee’s “Do the Right Thing” was a nearly perfect film—until the ending. The sympathetic main character was the owner of the local pizza joint. He was kind to everyone. In the explosive last scene, an angry mob burns down the neighborhood—including the pizza joint. No. That is wrong, in my world view. Nothing justifies that kind of wanton destruction of the livelihood of an innocent character.

“Do the Right Thing” is a direct descendant of the Beat Generation. Allen Ginsberg would approve of viewers who come away from the theater thinking about what a “great” ending the movie had. I do not even like destruction of property in a comedy, such as the destruction of the mall in “The Blues Brothers.” And gun violence? Forget it. Click.

This is the popular culture change that was wrought in the 1950s by the members of the Beat Generator, among whom Allen Ginsberg was front and center. It was a powerful change that is still creating ripples in popular culture to this very day.

A symptom of this is the Hollywood wisdom that if a script that is not formulaic, requiring a writer to select a specific genre of screenwriting that is “popular” with audiences in order to make the resulting film bankable. If you have an idea for a screenplay that addresses a higher ideal and that lacks a certain amount of sex and violence and smart-mouthed characters, go home. We do not want you here. Money, money, money. That is the name of the game and you might as well accept it if you want to make it in this town.

I will personally be glad if we ever return to the novels and movies and television of the golden age when stories were character-driven and inspirational and with stories that fill the reader or viewer with emotion—that gives us the good kind of goosebumps.

However, it would be wrong to conclude this essay about Allen Ginsberg without acknowledging the many other ways he as its leader and the Beat Generation as a whole influenced popular culture and culture in general, not just in the United States, but worldwide.

Eliot Katz, a friend of Ginsberg’s, said this about the influence Ginsberg had over politics and government:

“In the mid-1990s, with Bill Clinton moving the Democratic Party away from its liberal traditions and toward the political center, and with Newt Gingrich engineering far-right Republican victories with his “contract with America” that many of us were calling a contract on America, Allen began asking poet friends around the country for poems addressing those deteriorating times.” (Eliot Katz, “Recalling Allen,” Paterson Literary Review, 2006, Issue 35, p62-66, 5p.)

Ginsberg paid attention to politics with the same intensity with which he paid attention to his poetic vision, and the effect of his protests and rallying of other creative types to oppose government atrocities is still felt in the United States today.

As Eliot Katz puts it in “Remembering Allen,” the piece he wrote upon the occasion of Ginsberg’s death, Allen Ginsberg never wavered in his fifty years of political and social activism from the principles he developed as a founding member of the Beats:

“Prevailing cultural mythology says that 1960s radicals became more conservative as they got older. Along with thousands of known and unknown organizers from that era who continued to display long-term progressive commitment, whether by public activism or private lives spent in professions like social work or education, Allen’s life and work help put the lie to that myth. Throughout the years that I knew Allen, his social-activist commitment never wavered; he only grew better able to explain his thoughtful, progressive beliefs in clear, lively language that was usually difficult for open-minded people to dismiss.” (Katz, Eliot, “Remembering Allen,” Paterson Literary Review, 2006, Issue 35, p62-66, 5p.)

As for war, Allen Ginsberg was always in the thick of it:

“According to history books, U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War ended in 1973 and the Vietnam War finally ended with the fall of Saigon in 1975. But, fulfilling the Shelleyan invocation of poets as “unacknowledged legislators of the world,” in his 1965 “Wichita Vortex Sutra” Allen Ginsberg declared an end to the Vietnam War—something that was much harder and took much longer for mere presidents to do.” (Poniewaz, Jeff, “Allen Ginsberg: Poet, Prophet, Catalyst of Utopia,” Paterson Literary Review, 2006, Issue 35, pp44-50, 7p.).

Ginsberg also cared deeply about nurturing all of the other Beat Generation writers he befriended. According to Rolling Stone writer Mikal Gilmore, after the obscenity trial Ginsberg weathered after the publication of his explicit book of poetry, Howl, Ginsberg turned his attention to the others in his group:

“Though Ginsberg was vindicated and suddenly famous, he was determined not to arrive as the Beats' sole writer hero. Over the years, he helped Jack Kerouac in his long quest to publish On the Road -- a book about Kerouac's adventures with Neal Cassady (who was called Dean Moriarty in the published text) -- which had been turned down by numerous major publishers since 1951. The book was finally published by Viking, in 1957, as a result of Ginsberg's efforts, and went on to both good commercial and critical reception. It is now recognized as a milestone novel in modern literature. Ginsberg also championed the cause of William S. Burroughs -- a much tougher sell, because Burroughs was a drug user who wrote radical prose (such as Junky) and because he had killed his wife in a shooting accident in Mexico, in 1951….Ginsberg later helped Burroughs assemble the final draft of Naked Lunch and worked tirelessly until the book was published in the United States. (Which resulted in Naked Lunch's own obscenity trial and another ruling that the book could not legally be considered obscene.)” (Gilmore, Mikhal, Rolling Stone, 05/29/97, Issue 761, p34, 5p.)

Ginsberg could be quite humorous even in his most serious poems, such as “America:”

“The ‘other poems’ included classics of Ginsberg's gregarious humor such as “America”, which ends ‘I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel’, one of several references to his homosexuality. An attempt to prosecute the volume for obscenity failed.” (Noel-Tod, J. (2014). Ginsberg, Allen (1926--97). In I. Hamilton, & J. Noel-Tod (Eds.), Oxford paperback reference: The Oxford companion to modern poetry (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press, Inc).

Ginsberg has always had detractors, with whom he fought passionately, including one of his biographers, Michael Schumacher. But, according to Norman Podhoretz, and old friend and schoolmate from Columbia University (who had also fallen out with Ginsberg), in one instance Schumacher had gotten it right about Ginsberg in the biography of him:

“Here Schumacher for once gets it right when he says that I "was hearing nothing of . . . Ginsberg's harangues against middle-class living and values." Intransigent as I was in turning a deaf ear to his literary counterattack, I was even more determined to stand my ground on the moral and cultural issue between us. This was not because I was an uncritical admirer of "middle-class living and values." As it happens, in that period I was full of complaint about the "flabbiness of middle-class life" in Eisenhower's America (even using that very phrase in "The Know-Nothing Bohemians").

(Podhoretz, Norman, Commentary. Aug97, Vol. 104 Issue 2, p27. 14p)

Podhoretz goes on to say that “as the years roll by, and with the arrival of successive generations treading all of us down, this common background of experience has bred in me a sense of kinship with these writers that I did not feel when we were young.” (Ibid.) The same is true for many readers of the generations following the Beat Generation.

Allen Ginsberg died at the age of 70. He was often called the Poet of Death, but in this passage from an article by his colleague, Jeff Poniewaz, sees Ginsberg in another light:

“Poet laureate of death, he looked death in the face and came to terms with death, made peace with death as much as Whitman, having weathered the death of his mother in ’56, Cassady in ’68, Kerouac in ’69, his father in ’76, his Buddhist teacher in ’87, and faced his own mortality philosophically and with humor to the very end.” (Poniewaz, Jeff, ““Allen Ginsberg: Poet, Prophet, Catalyst of Utopia,” Paterson Literary Review, 2006, Issue 35, pp44-50, 7p.); and:

“In the end, his occasional seeming egotism can be seen as merely the sheer exuberance of boyhood, which he never lost, no matter how old he became.” (Ibid.)

As Eliot Katz said in “Remembering Allen,”

“With an astonishing literary imagination, an original sense of poetic forms and rhythms, a unique mixture of humor and historical insight, and an extraordinary ability to show the interconnectedness of various aspects of our emotional, spiritual, and political lives, Allen energized poetry to give his work a sense of timelessness that I think really will make it “good to eat a thousand years.” Certainly, fifty years after “Howl,” Allen’s poetic and activist legacies continue to move young people to believe that, as the global justice movement puts it, “another world is possible” — a world with much less poverty and war, with far cleaner air and water, and with a deeper commitment to civil liberties, civic participation, interpersonal cooperation, and democratically accountable social institutions. (Katz, Eliot, “Remembering Allen,” Paterson Literary Journal, 2006, Issue 35, p.62-66, 5p.)

Katz’s summary of Allen Ginsberg’s contributions to popular culture was written in 2006, but they are still just as true today in 2021.

#Alan Ginsberg #The Beat Generation #Poetry #Social Activism

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Link from Here to 22-Page Comic Book “The Dream Team,” by Mark Pumphrey

The set of downloads at this link to my webiste :

https://mark-pumphrey.cms.webnode.com/trip-advisor/

are (in order from the top down) the panels for a 22-page comic book I created called "The Dream Team," about a group of well-intentioned and misunderstood teenage zombies who "live" at the Final Resting Place Cemetery and who lead normal lives until have to do battle against the marauding vampires in their neighborhood. They communicate telepathically with each other and are guided by their dreams, thus the name of the comic book. To view the panels, you must first click the "Publish" button in the upper right-hand corner of this page. Then click on the link to this page in the pop-up that appears when the page is published. Click on the first download at the top of the list below. Then you will find the downloads to open to the comic book panels in the lower left-hand corner of this page. Click on each one in top to bottom order to read and enjoy!

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Here’s a link to my website, where you may find a download button to view the video game I wrote as a class project in the 2021 Advanced Master Writers Class. (The game is playable). Once you are at my website, scroll down to the second download button. In the upper right-hand corner of my website, click on Publish. Then click on the link you see on a pop-up.that will take you back to my website. The Download link for the game is now activated. Click on the download button to begin playing the game..

https://mark-pumphrey.cms.webnode.com/trip-advisor/

#video games #video games-writing

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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To see a sample of the storyboard for a commercial I wrote as a class assignment in the 2021 Advanced Master Writers Class:

1.Cut and paste this link to my website into your search browser to visit my website: :mark-pumphrey.webnode.com/trip-advisor/

2. Next, scroll down until you see this title: Click on the Download Button Below to See a Sample of the Storyboard for a Commercial I Wrote as a Class Assignment in the 2021 Advanced Master Writers Class.

3. Click on the active Download button below this title to see the storyboard for a commercial I created.

#commercials #commercial storyboards

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Sample of a Flash Fiction Exercise Using the "Picture This" Prompt in the 2021 Advanced Master Writers Class: Describe Characters Who Are Apathetic, Overwhelmed, and Disgusted

C. Picture This Prompt Exercise.

1. Apathy. Lavinia Kelly walked into the doctor’s office with a decided slump, holding the postcard that had informed her that it was time for her annual physical. At the age of 91, and with weak posture, Lavinia walked across the waiting room with a sluggish drag, in a careless fashion. The baby lying on the chair next to Lavinia suddenly fell to the floor before his mother could catch him, and Lavinia sat motionless, as if nothing had happened. Once in the doctor’s office, Lavinia responded to the doctor’s cheery words with a look of total disconnection. Her results were in from the blood test that had been done a week in advance of the physical. When the doctor told her that the test results were all good, Lavinia responded with no emotion whatsoever. When the doctor asked Lavinia why she had left blank the question on her medical entrance form especially designed for the elderly, “What are your current interests?”, she only stared at him, as if to stare into a void.

2. Overwhelmed. Sol Lee had played the drums in a jazz band for over thirty years. But tonight, he looked a little off. From the first set, he gripped the drumsticks far too tightly, with a wide-open look in his eyes. During the intervals when the drums sat it out, Sol continually slapped his palms against his forehead, as if to jar himself awake, while moving his right foot up and down. Instead of the relaxed posture expected of jazz drummers, Sol sat rigidly upright, literally on the edge of his chair, not relaxed against the back of his chair even once throughout the entire performance. At the same time, ironically, his shoulders were slouched. He also had a look of defeat on his face. There was no trace of self-confidence in his body. He looked flash-frozen in his chair. When the night was finally over, Sol still sat in his chair, in a fetal position, his arms cradled while his body rocked back and forth. At least it was over!

3. Disgusted. Tara Patel, just hired to work for the Clean India Mission, walked down the streets of the Lalbagh slum area near her office at the north campus of Delhi University. A member of the Keep India Beautiful team, Tara observed the dirty stagnant water, clogged drains, narrow lanes, cramped houses, and heaps of garbage, while wrinkling her nose and trying not to smell the stink that welcomed her to Lalbagh. Dropping all subtlety, Tara held her nose in order to protect her nasal passages from the noxious fumes and squinted her eyes to shield them from damage. Tara pulled up her slightly curled upper lip while pulling her eyebrows down. She shook her head from side to side and stuck out her tongue at each new encounter with the filth in the slum area. On the walk back to the office, her whole body shook as she shivered with a look of disbelief on her face. Upon her return to the office, Sarah described her experience with guttural sounds emanating from her throat and with sneers and snarls as she spoke.

#flash fiction #flash fiction--class exercises

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Sample Pages from a Spec Script of the 2020-2021 Version of "All Creatures Great and Small" which aired on the PBS Masterpiece Theatre. Spec Script by Mark Pumphrey

ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL

EPISODE TITLE: THE AGRICULTURAL SHOW

SCENE ONE

INT. FARNON HOUSE SMOKING ROOM. DAY

Siegfried Farnon is off to York to be a judge at the Great

Yorkshire Show. James is left in charge and Tristan is more

than happy to leave it to him. Helen will be at James's side

at the surgery as well as on the farms, so Tristan can ramble

while Siegfried is away. The men gather in the smoking room

so Siegfried can enjoy his pipe before his departure.

Siegfried is sitting in his favorite chair, while James and

Tristan stand and walk around the room during the

conversation.

SIEGFRIED

It's only a few days, gentlemen.

You will be fine, I have no doubt.

JAMES

Oh, we will be alright. It is you I

am worried about, Siegfried. I know

how you like a party. Just remember

that York is a city, not a village

like Darrowby.

SIGFRIED

Good God, James. I am not a child.

I can take care of myself, thank

you.

TRISTAN

But why now, Siegfried? You have

never attended the Great Yorkshire

Show before.

SIEGFRIED

I am to be a judge in the cattle

show, for one thing. I have

certainly done enough of that in

these parts, so of course they

asked me. Word travels, you know.

TRISTAN

Yes, you are known far and wide, I

must say (looking at James and

winking).

SIEGFRIED

For another reason, this is the

centennial of the Yorkshire

Agricultural Society. They have

sponsored by the Yorkshire

Agricultural Society that I first

became interested in the future of

farming. My father was what you

would call a gentleman farmer,

using organized and scientific

methods, attending conferences and

workshops, and encouraging me, a

girl, to develop my love of animals

into an interest in veterinary

science.

SIEGFRIED

Fascinating. I have to tell you I

have never met a female

veterinarian before. Yet I find it

quite delightful.

AVERILL

Oh, yes, we do exist. There were

four other women who graduated with

me from the Agricultural College at

the University of Leeds. All so

long ago now. I have an established

practice in Northallerton, near

where I grew up.

SIEGFRIED

North Riding. Yes, I know it. Why

that's not far from where I'm

located in the Dales.

AVERILL

Yes, Darrowby. I have been there.

Charming village. I am afraid

Northallerton is mainly known for

the livestock market and our high-

quality manure! But I love it

there. It is home.

SIEGFRIED

Shall we go for some tea at the

food tent? We can review the

judging sheets. And I would love to

hear more about your practice and

your town. I believe the first

event is not until ten.

SCENE THREE

INT. FARNON HOUSE HALLWAY AND PUMPHREY LIVING ROOM. DAY.

JAMES

(James is speaking on the phone in

the surgery with Mrs. Pumphrey, who

is seen in her lavish living room,

holding her dog, Tricki Woo, with

her free hand).

Mrs. Pumphrey. How can I help you

today? And how is Tricki Woo?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, Mr. Herriot, I just do not

know.

MRS. PUMPHREY (CONT'D)

I am so worried about Tricki Woo.

My baby. He is not eating for three

days. Well, meals of course. But no

treats. That is not like him at

all. He just lies under my bed and

moans. I cannot think what the

matter could be. Oh, you must help

us, Mr. Herriot. My Tricki is in

terrible pain...(bursting into

tears) and I do not know why!

JAMES

Not to worry, Mrs. Pumphrey. Can

you bring Tricki Woo into the surgery

right now?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, yes, Mr. Herriot. We will be

right there!

(Scene changes to the

surgery with James taking

Tricki Woo, who snaps at

him, from Mrs. Pumphrey

and stands him on the

examination table)

MRS. PUMPHREY (CONT'D)

Oh, Tricki, my darling boy! He's

not himself, Mr. Herriot.

JAMES

Perfectly understandable, Mrs.

Pumphrey. If I were in pain I would

be unpleasant, too. Now, tell me

please what you have noticed. You

said he moans a lot?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, yes, every night, Mr. Herriot,

under my bed, he moans and moans

without stop all night long. I have

not slept. If I could reach him I

would hold him to my heart, poor

darling. He only comes out to eat

his meals. He's on a diet, you

know, so he gets small meals more

frequently.

JAMES

How many meals would you say, Mrs.

Pumphrey, Tricki Woo gets in

an average day?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Well, at first it was six. But the

meals are so small and Tricki

looked so hungry I increased it a

little.

JAMES

And how much is a little, Mrs.

Pumphrey?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, I would say...only...twelve?

JAMES

Mrs. Pumphrey! No matter what is

ailing Tricky Woo, that is far too

much food, even if they are small

meals. Tricky Woo will never lose

weight that way.

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, I do understand, Mr. Herriot.

It's just that I am very weak when

it comes to my sweet boy. I just

want him to have whatever he wants

and to be happy. But now this. Oh,

Mr. Herriot, you must help us.

JAMES

I will do all I can to help him,

Mrs. Pumphrey. Now tell me, have

you noticed any other symptoms

other than the moaning and not

wanting his treats?

MRS. PUMPHREY

Well, yes, Mr. Herriot. When he

does come out from under the bed to

eat, he walks with his little head

hanging down and pulled to one

side. And he seems to be walking on

one leg most of the time. And it is

as if every step is causing him

pain. He walks ever so slowly.

JAMES

I see. Thank you Mrs. Pumphrey

(James turns to Tricky Woo).

Alright, my young man, let's see if

we can figure out what might be the

matter.

JAMES (CONT'D)

(James rubs Tricki Woo's coat and

hind legs thoroughly, stopping at

points along the way to feel Tricki

Woo's body more intensively. He

then examines the front legs in the

same manner, and the head).

Ah, I think I know what we have

here.

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, Mr. Herriot. Is it serious?

JAMES

Not at all, Mrs. Pumphrey. You can

rest easy now. Here we are. (James

turns Tricki Woo's head around to

face Mrs. Pumphrey)

JAMES (CONT'D)

It seems Tricki Woo has gotten his

right front leg tangled up in his

collar. There we are. (James

carefully lifts Tricki Woo's right

leg and pulls it through the

twisted collar. Tricki Woo shakes

his long hair and barks. Mrs.

Pumphrey reaches for Tricki Woo,

then holds him in her arms, her

tears flowing).

MRS. PUMPHREY

Oh, goodness me. I never thought.

It's all that hair, you see. It

hides the collar. Oh, Tricki, my

sweet angel. (Tricki Woo licks Mrs.

Pumphrey's face). Mr. Herriot, how

can I thank you. You have saved our

lives!

JAMES

It was nothing, Mrs. Pumphrey.

Really.

MRS. PUMPHREY

On the contrary, it is everything,

Mr. Herriot. Now, please tell me

how much I owe you.

JAMES

Oh, no, there is no charge, Mrs.

Pumphrey. It was my pleasure to

help you. And Tricki Woo!

MRS. PUMPHREY

No, I must insist, Mr. Herriot. You

must let me pay you. Will one

hundred be enough?

SCENE FOUR

INT. FARNON HOUSE PARLOR. DAY.

James and Helen are in the parlor, sitting on the couch with

drinks and laughing.

JAMES

And then she said, "Will one

hundred be enough?

HELEN

James, tell me you did not take it.

JAMES

I tried not to. Believe me, I did.

But she would not have it any other

way. Consider it a down payment on

our trip to Majorca.

HELEN

And when will that be, darling? I

am worried that you are becoming

more like Siegfried every day, you

are working so hard. Such long

hours, James. Especially when

Siegfried is away. And Tristan is

not much help, especially when

Siegfried is away.

JAMES

Do not worry, darling. Siegfried is

not all about work. He can play as

hard as he works. He just knows

that when it is work, it is work. I

would do well to become like that.

HELEN

I do understand, James. I just want

you to remember to relax a bit

more, even if you are working. I'd

like to have you around for a while,

if you must know.

JAMES

I love you, Helen. (He kisses her).

HELEN

I love you, too, James.

JAMES

And besides, who needs Tristan? I

have the best medical assistant a

doctor could ever have.

HELEN

We mean to please (She smiles. The

phone rings in the hall and Helen

answers.

HELEN (CONT'D)

Hello? Oh, hello, Mr. Dalby. James?

Yes, he's right here. One moment,

Mr. Dalby. James? (James approaches

from the surgery).

JAMES

Yes, I heard. What has happened to

those poor people now? (Taking the

phone). Yes? Oh, hello, Mr. Dalby.

Yes. Yes. No, don't try to move

them. I'll be right there. Goodbye.

HELEN

James, what is it?

JAMES

Dalby says he has seven cows down

and they can't get them up. I don't

like the sound of it.

HELEN

I'll get my coat.

JAMES

Helen, it could be an infectious

disease that can be transmitted to

humans.

HELEN

I'll get my coat, James!

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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The antagonist in Expert Witness is a Ph.D. in Linguistics who passes herself off as an expert in forensic linguistics--and that’s not all. She is not what she seems. Messages from the dead point to murder.

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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The protagonist in Expert Witness is a timid academic reference librarian who must develop courage to face his dangerous nemesis in the psychological crime drama, Expert Witness, by Mark Pumphrey.

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scriptexecution · 3 years

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Sample Pages from the Novel Expert Witness, by Mark Pumphrey

Chapter 24: Jean-Luc as a Child

Born in Alsace near the Maginot Line, Jean-Luc's playgrounds as a child had been the abandoned bunkers. The earthen labyrinths made a perfect setting for the Wild West, and Jean-Luc and his friends played not soldiers, but cowboys and Indians.

The bunkers should have been dank and deep barren crypts for all that had played out in them so many years ago. But they were not. No, the bunkers were now verdant and teeming with life. The old exploded tank was now home to a menagerie of plants and wildlife, even a roost for the storks on their return to Strasbourg each year. Even the bullet casings were full of dirt, full of living microscopic organisms.

So much death giving rise to so much life.

____________

When Jean-Luc was ten years old, he would come home from school, grab an alarm clock and go out to find his friends to play. The alarm clock was necessary because when it rang, it meant he had to leave for home to start the fire in the woodstove and start supper until his mother got home.

His mother was a housekeeper and washerwoman. His father was a bank carrier by day and a popular drunk at the local bar by night. Mother was a hellion. She ruled. But she also struggled to hold her head up high, having been divorced in shame from her German husband for getting pregnant while he was off fighting in World War Two. She did not marry Jean-Luc's father until after two more children were born. Rather than bear the contempt of her husband's family, she became intentionally offensive not just to them, but to everyone. She had her pride.

She had wanted to be a singer of operettas. She became a maid. She was bitter and she hated her alcoholic husband, who she forbade the children to speak to and who she relegated to eat alone in the kitchen each night. But she had made it her badge of honor to work hard and put good food on the table. Jean-Luc's sister was sickly, so his mother depended on him, at age ten, to be the man his father could not be.

That went on for about ten years. Jean-Luc turned over his paycheck to his mother. She would not allow him to buy a car. She controlled his every move. The alarm clock was still ringing in his head as he entered adulthood.

He had met a girl. They had decided to marry and to move to the United States.

His mother had said,

"I'll kill myself if you leave."

Jean-Luc had looked at her and said,

"Would you like for me to buy the gun?"

And as he had left, he had slammed the door on his old life, had put it behind him, and had found his way to the New World, where he had been ever since. Every hellish thing that had happened to the young man had shaped him. The four hundred blows were the foundation of Jean-Luc's life.

The young man, battered by life, had escaped to a rocky, windy shore, where he looked up at the stormy sky with his head held high, and with a transcendent lightness of being, had then cast his eyes upon the ocean that would take him far away. Into a future free of all that had bound him, independent, he stood strong and gazed into an unpredictable but self-determined future.

His face was hopeful, his eyes were awake with new awareness. Life would no longer be about what happens to him, a ringing alarm clock. From that moment on life would be about what he made of it, through self-determination.

Jean-Luc's story had no end. The revelatory moment at the seashore was only the beginning of the young man's journey toward finding his own true authentic self. The journey would be long. It would take a lifetime to complete. But the young man had been ready to take the first step, buoyed by the fresh insight that what his life became was up to him, and no one else.

Chapter 25: Reunited

Paul and Jean-Luc had had letters cross in the mail after two years of no communication. Jean-Luc read Paul's letter with mounting pleasure:

"Dear Jean-Luc,

Even as a little kid I was sexual.

While other boys were dreaming about

planes and trains science projects, I was

thinking about how close I could get to the

boy lying next to me without waking him up. I have been a

lifelong seducer of men. A casual flirt. And yet, a complete

paradox, as ninety percent of the dirty little scenarios I have

imagined have never actually become a reality.

People tell me that I have a vivid imagination. They do not

know the half of it. Constrained by life in a small rural town in

Kentucky where I literally did not know a single other man or

boy who shared my desire; constrained by a stupid religious

denomination that insisted that I would be damned to Hell for

even thinking about having sex with another man;

constrained by a family-mother, father, three older brothers

who all let me know clearly from early on that I was different,

that they did not love that I was different, and that unless I

conformed to the family way I would be out, I stumbled into

middle age safely on the shelf, with no experience at all and a

loneliness that could only be relieved through overeating

and other forms of self-abuse, temporary fixes that had to

repeated over and over before there could be any relief at all.

Jean-Luc, it was very painful to give up all my self-

imposed boundaries and pretenses at the age of thirty-seven

I met you. It was hard to lose everything that had been my life.

But I have no regrets. It had to happen. I have been reborn, j

just like the Baptists I have left behind, at the age of thirty-

seven. And my second life has been every happy thing that

my old life was missing. That we are not together is also

painful. But I would not exchange my brief time with you for

anything in the world.

Your friend,

Paul

Soon after the exchange of letters, Paul and Jean-Luc started dating again. A few months later, Paul gave up his job at the South Carolina State Library to move to Asheville, North Carolina to begin his new life with Jean-Luc.

Chapter 26: Paul as a Child

It was the house my father built when I was a baby still in my mother's womb. We lived there until I was nearly nine years of age but then moved practically overnight from my child's perspective to a new town and a new life. No one ever explained the move to me, and I never realized until now that the move was all because of me.

It was a great house. The inspector had rated both the construction and the structural stability as excellent. My father prided himself in doing everything himself and he was a perfectionist.

I was unfortunately never alone in the house. My earliest memory is of waking up, moving from my bed to the living room couch, looking out from behind the venetian blinds, realizing that I was totally alone and disconnected in the house.

Something moved inside of me in that moment, and that is, I think, how it started. From that day forward, I could not go to bed at night unless the light was left on. I was afraid of the window my bed was pushed up against. I slept with my head face down in the crack between the bed and the wall. I had horrible dreams. I was afraid of the attic particularly and the crawl space in the half-basement that was dark and deep.

More than anything else, though I have an excellent memory of many things, there are whole blocks of time from my early life that are blank. I remember nothing at all from those times.

An unmarried older woman bought the house from the family and lived in the house quietly and alone for the next twenty years before her death. She was a meticulous house owner and the house was kept in perfect order for all of those years.

Recently I became curious about the house. I found photos of it for sale on the Internet. It seems a series of families with small children had lived in the house since the woman had died. But none of these families stayed in the house for long. And I noticed that the value of the house had plummeted for the past decade, its last for sale price being $26,000. And no one would buy it.

Then I saw why. In the photos, in my bedroom, just over my bed, a great gaping hole had formed, with insulation and planks hanging down into the room, as if exploded. But the rest of the room was perfectly kept.

And in the living room, where the couch had been, another long rend of falling plaster, insulation and planks was seen above, as if ripped apart. But no water damage was seen on the floor, and nothing else was amiss in the room.

My parents had never told me why we moved, and I had never understood-until now, seeing those unnatural eruptions in that otherwise pleasant little house.

------------------

You were a teacher, but you never taught me anything, except that one time when we were at a rest stop and you were getting impatient waiting for me to pee.

"Say 'pee-pee.' Say 'pee pee."

I did, and it worked. Still does.

But beyond that, nothing. Who were you? What did you think? How did you feel? I have no idea.

Did you know that it was unsafe to let me ride standing up in the bed of the farm truck, letting the wind hit my face in the way you knew I loved, wanting me to be happy?

Or was it hate? Hoping that there would be an accident that would put an end to the agitation because of my existence that you could not shake from your otherwise respectable life? I do not know.

Did you respect me and fear me because I refused to be a corn pone kind of farm boy that you were so fond of?

Or did you feel contempt for me because you had to cover for my inability to do things with my hands by explaining to those who noticed that I was "the baby." I do not know.

Why did you watch me struggling to learn to do things, saying nothing as I made mistakes, and then deconstruct I everything I did wrong after the fact, always careful to begin each sentence with "You should have..." I do not know.

Why did you never reveal yourself to me, let down your guard, speak intimately with me, your son? I do not know.

Why were you so afraid to show me your weaknesses as well as your strengths? I do not know.

Why did you compete so fiercely with your own sons on everything, and really want to win each time? I do not know.

I accept all that happened and all that could have happened but did not, and I accept you. But I will always wonder why.

The only thing I know for certain after much thought over many years is that this was not about me at all. It was about you.

I am sorry that I was not smart enough as a child to understand that while there was still time to help you and to understand you, instead of rebelling and making it all harder for you than it had to be.

______________

My inner child lived in my mind, not in me. But I watched my inner child enough over the years to know what made it feel happy and loved, and it was this: when the outside, exterior world complied in ways to make my inner child feel happy and loved.

Since the outside, exterior world does whatever it wants, whether I am watching it or not, it was my mind's job to struggle with the outside world and to train all the exterior things to give my inner child what it wanted: a comfortable bed, a lap, a warm fire, the soothing voice of an adult to comfort it when it fell down and became upset by a scrapped knee.

The problem my mind had with making sure that my inner child felt secure and happy was that, from moment to moment, the exterior world changed, the earth moved around the sun, and out of the seventy-six billion trillion moments that occurred somewhere each moment in the outer world, the one moment that presented itself before my inner child was never the same for more than a moment.

A new voice had to be trained to be soothing, a new lap had to be found, a new bed and a new fire were required time and time again.

I became worn out by all the repetition. It finally gave way and replaced my inner child with an inner adult who could heal his own wounds, make his own comfortable bed.

But my inner adult is still not me. I was not my inner child and I am not my inner adult. They are both creations of my mind, not me. I am only the watcher, the one who only sees, only observes without judgment, only engages with the one moment that is playing out before me in each moment of time. I am the one whose only job is to make this moment the best it can be.

____________

I was fifteen, and it was the year of indescribable joy. The year of letting go of striving and accepting myself exactly as I was, and other people exactly as they were; of letting go of judgment of myself and of other people; of letting go of language as my master, learning to control it instead of allowing it to control me.

At twenty, at twenty-five, at thirty, at thirty-five, I have reflected on how it would have been for me if I had stuck it out. If there were a second time, the only change would be that this time there would be no Bible, but just the drowning into complete transcendence.

Afraid, I returned to earth and normalcy, before it was too late. And now, twenty-three years later, it feels like it is too late to blast off again and fly on the wings of joyous abnormality.

I wondered what had ever happened to you. I would have been better off not to know. The last time I saw you was during my last year in my reluctant role as Junior Assistant Scoutmaster of our troop. The adults had pushed me into a leadership role I never really wanted and even put off for a year, saying I was not ready to become responsible for the other boys. Yet there we were, during a week of summer camping on the edge of Lake Cumberland. You were golden-haired and three years younger than me. I liked you because you were smiling, agreeable, almost complacent-easy.

The other boys had gone back to camp to change out of their swimming trunks to get ready for dinner. You stayed behind and joined me as I sprawled out on the rocky bank of the cove. For you, it was hero worship. For me it was something more. But if it had not been you it would have been one of the other boys. Funny to find out years later that the little clown in the troop turned out to be the only boy like me. Who knew?

I was all too close to a tumble into a huge, gaping mistake as you laid there on the bank beside me, silent but attentive. I thought better of it, and we returned to camp as the sun set over the lake.

That night at dinner, in tennis shoes, I retrieved the plastic plates that had been missed during the dishwashing in big metal buckets. Forgetting that I was stepping into still boiling hot water that had just been dumped, I scalded both feet and I was rushed to the hospital. That was the last of my week as your hero and the last time I ever saw you. Damn the Internet. I searched for your name and there you were: a builder and apartment complex owner in another town, on trial for negligence in the death of a young boy who drowned when he was swept down into a culvert in rushing water because you had knowingly and illegally built a drainage system that was not up to safety codes.

All those years ago, I saw your golden hair. I saw your brilliant smile. I saw your worship of me. Why had I not seen the depth of your deep-seated complacency and indifference toward the protection to all human life?

#novels--excerpts #crime dramas #gay romance #crime novels #psychological crime dramas

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