Sunday, September 11, 2011
Lessons Learned from 9/11
I created a presentation shortly after 9/11 and later converted it into this (longish) article to assist those working in my profession, which is business continuity/disaster recovery planning.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Radio Interview with D.E. Sievers
Here's a link to a radio interview I did in October 2010 about my novel "The Trees in Winter." Check it out when you have a spare half hour.
http://tinyurl.com/26nuzpb
http://tinyurl.com/26nuzpb
Monday, October 25, 2010
A Tale for All Hallow's Eve
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
At nine every evening he walked the dog, an untrained black Lab that exploited the retractable leash like a teenager exploits an ambiguous curfew. He was forever having to unwind the leash from around his legs or lift the dog's paw and pass the handle under its belly. But the dog was nonetheless lovable so he would live with the aggravations of the evening walk for which he could blame only himself.
Midway down the block he passed the trailer trash home where a couple of beaters sat propped up on cinder blocks, their hoods perpetually raised like gaping mouths screaming fix me! But no matter how frequently he observed the dirty faced teens leaning over the cars poking around in their innards he had yet to hear an engine turn over or see one of the cars in motion. They were there now, squatting on the front steps in their backward ball caps, smoking and smirking and generally acting as though they had the world by the tail. Later there would undoubtedly be beer and girls with faces somewhat askew and a radio pumping out belligerent rap music that compelled passersby to give the house a wide berth, the odor of burning dope taunting them as they hurried past.
He reached the other end of the block where a man stood in the front yard of the corner house resting his crossed arms on the chain link. He might have been sixty or sixty-five. The Lab growled but kept his distance. The man nodded a greeting and turned to look back up the street. His face was the color of fresh ham but creased and gnarled as a crabapple. His expression was not kindly as he glared up toward where the teenagers lived so you knew that if he were a dog he too would be growling.
The Lab pulled his owner along and they soon reached the park where the dog sniffed around, peed excessively and finally dropped a load of soft feces that his owner winced to feel against his hand with only the thin layer of plastic bag in between. He dropped the bag in a trash barrel and headed back home, mission accomplished.
The old man was still in his yard when they came back along. Again the man nodded but this time imposed some commentary.
"Some neighbors, eh?" he said, tilting his head in a certain direction.
"Oh," the Lab's owner replied. "Yeah."
"You wonder what kind of people live like that," he added. "What kind of parents."
The Lab's owner nodded.
"They're an ugly stain on the block," he carped. "A damn shame."
The Lab's owner shrugged with sympathy as if to say what are you gonna do and continued on his way.
The older man lingered a few minutes and went inside. There were no witnesses to how disgusted he was except the Lab's owner and the teenagers themselves. The man lived alone, his wife dead now for just over six years. The teenagers openly mocked him whenever they passed because the man had repeatedly chided them for their loud music, unruly behavior and their yard's slovenly appearance. They had dubbed him Crabby and enjoyed much laughter at his expense. They’d even stomped on the flowers in the man's front yard, a garden he had diligently cultivated, though they’d done it in the man's absence and so he could of course prove nothing. He replanted the flowers and before long the garden had regained its former beauty while the man's hateful scowl grew only more red and puckered with enmity when the sound of raucous music came swaggering down the block.
The man with the Lab didn't know the teenagers or the man they called Crabby and they didn't know him. That, he felt, was as it should be. He had no interest in knowing any of them. He did know that there was a Neighborhood Watch program and that the so-called crabby man was one of its more active members. He had observed the man on more than one occasion delivering pamphlets on neighborhood safety to the houses on the block. But the man with the Lab preferred not to get involved. Live and let live was his philosophy. Let the teenagers rut like swine in their front yard and let the old man grow his flowers and if one should transgress against the other let the police come sort it out.
He walked his Lab through the coldest days of winter, through the warm spring and the hot summer and when the autumn leaves descended to enshroud the street in the dry dead stuff of obsolescence. He walked the Lab at six in the morning before leaving for work. He walked him when he arrived home at five and again at nine. As October began to peter out he began noticing the Halloween decorations going up on doors and windows, tiny white tissue ghosts hanging from a tree, the odd scarecrow or skeleton propped against a mailbox. There were not many small children on his block but there were teenagers who could be relied upon to commit the usual pranks: eggs splattered against a car windshield, toilet paper festooning a house or tree, the remnants of smashed pumpkins littering the street.
On Halloween night he walked the Lab as usual. He had seen not a single trick-or-treater but in front of the trailer trash house the teenagers were in fine form. Five or six of them sat in the middle of their lawn, encircled by no less than ten jack o'lanterns, each facing the street and each containing a candle flickering beneath its sinister grin. The kids themselves were seated in a circle and within that concentric ring of lotus-positioned bodies sat the largest pumpkin of all. Music was blaring, pot was burning and spirits were flowing. The owner of the Lab was careful not to stare but let his dog pull him along as always.
The man who lived in the corner house was out in his yard leaning on his fence, glowering. Lined up behind the chain link his flowers looked poorly but were still hanging onto life, the first frost not yet come. The man with the Lab nodded briefly as he strode past, not wishing to appear receptive to an airing of the man's thoughts. On his way back home he took an alternate route so as to avoid both the man and the teenagers. He just wanted to get home and to sleep before the local hobgoblins began howling at the moon.
When the man walked his Lab at six the next morning he had to sidestep pumpkin fragments just as he'd expected. There was no sign of life at the trashy house but the lawn was littered with beer cans and assorted garbage and the jack o'lanterns of the previous night were gone. The cars sat immobile on their cinder blocks as always, their opened maws gaping hopelessly as ever. Not a soul was to be seen at this time of the morning and the man himself was not quite awake as the Lab tugged him around the corner.
When the Lab did his business in the park the man tended to it and promptly set their course toward home. He was more alert on the walk back and thought to look toward the corner house, wondering if it had been the victim of pranks. He retracted his dog's leash, drawing him closer to his side, and walked quite near to the chain link. There were no eggs splattered against the house, no toilet paper trimming the trees or adhering in soggy clumps to the windows. In fact there seemed nothing amiss whatsoever until he noticed the row of flowers just behind the chain link. Or rather the absence of flowers. For the flowers had gone away and in their place sat a long row of smugly grinning jack o'lanterns.
He looked at the first one, nearest the corner, then regarded each one in turn counting as he went. In some the remnants of a candle was still flickering. He counted twelve but never made it to thirteen because the thirteenth which was the last in line was no jack o'lantern at all but rather the scowling head of the man the teenagers had called Crabby, the Neighborhood Watch man. It took a moment for the man with the Lab to react, for someone had crowned the severed head with the top section of a pumpkin, stem poking up like the lid of a kettle, and it blended in nicely with the other jack o'lanterns.
The facial expression on the head was not terribly different than it had always been but the owner of the Lab started just the same, lurching away from the fence. The Lab caught the scent and began barking fiercely. The man pulled and yanked on the leash as he strove to put distance between himself and the ghastly sight but the dog continued to prance and snarl and dance circles around him so that he had to turn pirouettes to unwind the leash from around his legs and then rein the dog in and lift his paws and pass the handle under his belly until the whole mess was untangled. It was terribly aggravating as usual but the dog was lovable so he patted him on the ribs and pulled him on up the block. After all, it was his own fault if he hadn't taken the time to train the dog properly.
by d.e. sievers
Happy Haunting, boys & ghouls!
From the heartland,
Your ever watchful neighbor
At nine every evening he walked the dog, an untrained black Lab that exploited the retractable leash like a teenager exploits an ambiguous curfew. He was forever having to unwind the leash from around his legs or lift the dog's paw and pass the handle under its belly. But the dog was nonetheless lovable so he would live with the aggravations of the evening walk for which he could blame only himself.
Midway down the block he passed the trailer trash home where a couple of beaters sat propped up on cinder blocks, their hoods perpetually raised like gaping mouths screaming fix me! But no matter how frequently he observed the dirty faced teens leaning over the cars poking around in their innards he had yet to hear an engine turn over or see one of the cars in motion. They were there now, squatting on the front steps in their backward ball caps, smoking and smirking and generally acting as though they had the world by the tail. Later there would undoubtedly be beer and girls with faces somewhat askew and a radio pumping out belligerent rap music that compelled passersby to give the house a wide berth, the odor of burning dope taunting them as they hurried past.
He reached the other end of the block where a man stood in the front yard of the corner house resting his crossed arms on the chain link. He might have been sixty or sixty-five. The Lab growled but kept his distance. The man nodded a greeting and turned to look back up the street. His face was the color of fresh ham but creased and gnarled as a crabapple. His expression was not kindly as he glared up toward where the teenagers lived so you knew that if he were a dog he too would be growling.
The Lab pulled his owner along and they soon reached the park where the dog sniffed around, peed excessively and finally dropped a load of soft feces that his owner winced to feel against his hand with only the thin layer of plastic bag in between. He dropped the bag in a trash barrel and headed back home, mission accomplished.
The old man was still in his yard when they came back along. Again the man nodded but this time imposed some commentary.
"Some neighbors, eh?" he said, tilting his head in a certain direction.
"Oh," the Lab's owner replied. "Yeah."
"You wonder what kind of people live like that," he added. "What kind of parents."
The Lab's owner nodded.
"They're an ugly stain on the block," he carped. "A damn shame."
The Lab's owner shrugged with sympathy as if to say what are you gonna do and continued on his way.
The older man lingered a few minutes and went inside. There were no witnesses to how disgusted he was except the Lab's owner and the teenagers themselves. The man lived alone, his wife dead now for just over six years. The teenagers openly mocked him whenever they passed because the man had repeatedly chided them for their loud music, unruly behavior and their yard's slovenly appearance. They had dubbed him Crabby and enjoyed much laughter at his expense. They’d even stomped on the flowers in the man's front yard, a garden he had diligently cultivated, though they’d done it in the man's absence and so he could of course prove nothing. He replanted the flowers and before long the garden had regained its former beauty while the man's hateful scowl grew only more red and puckered with enmity when the sound of raucous music came swaggering down the block.
The man with the Lab didn't know the teenagers or the man they called Crabby and they didn't know him. That, he felt, was as it should be. He had no interest in knowing any of them. He did know that there was a Neighborhood Watch program and that the so-called crabby man was one of its more active members. He had observed the man on more than one occasion delivering pamphlets on neighborhood safety to the houses on the block. But the man with the Lab preferred not to get involved. Live and let live was his philosophy. Let the teenagers rut like swine in their front yard and let the old man grow his flowers and if one should transgress against the other let the police come sort it out.
He walked his Lab through the coldest days of winter, through the warm spring and the hot summer and when the autumn leaves descended to enshroud the street in the dry dead stuff of obsolescence. He walked the Lab at six in the morning before leaving for work. He walked him when he arrived home at five and again at nine. As October began to peter out he began noticing the Halloween decorations going up on doors and windows, tiny white tissue ghosts hanging from a tree, the odd scarecrow or skeleton propped against a mailbox. There were not many small children on his block but there were teenagers who could be relied upon to commit the usual pranks: eggs splattered against a car windshield, toilet paper festooning a house or tree, the remnants of smashed pumpkins littering the street.
On Halloween night he walked the Lab as usual. He had seen not a single trick-or-treater but in front of the trailer trash house the teenagers were in fine form. Five or six of them sat in the middle of their lawn, encircled by no less than ten jack o'lanterns, each facing the street and each containing a candle flickering beneath its sinister grin. The kids themselves were seated in a circle and within that concentric ring of lotus-positioned bodies sat the largest pumpkin of all. Music was blaring, pot was burning and spirits were flowing. The owner of the Lab was careful not to stare but let his dog pull him along as always.
The man who lived in the corner house was out in his yard leaning on his fence, glowering. Lined up behind the chain link his flowers looked poorly but were still hanging onto life, the first frost not yet come. The man with the Lab nodded briefly as he strode past, not wishing to appear receptive to an airing of the man's thoughts. On his way back home he took an alternate route so as to avoid both the man and the teenagers. He just wanted to get home and to sleep before the local hobgoblins began howling at the moon.
When the man walked his Lab at six the next morning he had to sidestep pumpkin fragments just as he'd expected. There was no sign of life at the trashy house but the lawn was littered with beer cans and assorted garbage and the jack o'lanterns of the previous night were gone. The cars sat immobile on their cinder blocks as always, their opened maws gaping hopelessly as ever. Not a soul was to be seen at this time of the morning and the man himself was not quite awake as the Lab tugged him around the corner.
When the Lab did his business in the park the man tended to it and promptly set their course toward home. He was more alert on the walk back and thought to look toward the corner house, wondering if it had been the victim of pranks. He retracted his dog's leash, drawing him closer to his side, and walked quite near to the chain link. There were no eggs splattered against the house, no toilet paper trimming the trees or adhering in soggy clumps to the windows. In fact there seemed nothing amiss whatsoever until he noticed the row of flowers just behind the chain link. Or rather the absence of flowers. For the flowers had gone away and in their place sat a long row of smugly grinning jack o'lanterns.
He looked at the first one, nearest the corner, then regarded each one in turn counting as he went. In some the remnants of a candle was still flickering. He counted twelve but never made it to thirteen because the thirteenth which was the last in line was no jack o'lantern at all but rather the scowling head of the man the teenagers had called Crabby, the Neighborhood Watch man. It took a moment for the man with the Lab to react, for someone had crowned the severed head with the top section of a pumpkin, stem poking up like the lid of a kettle, and it blended in nicely with the other jack o'lanterns.
The facial expression on the head was not terribly different than it had always been but the owner of the Lab started just the same, lurching away from the fence. The Lab caught the scent and began barking fiercely. The man pulled and yanked on the leash as he strove to put distance between himself and the ghastly sight but the dog continued to prance and snarl and dance circles around him so that he had to turn pirouettes to unwind the leash from around his legs and then rein the dog in and lift his paws and pass the handle under his belly until the whole mess was untangled. It was terribly aggravating as usual but the dog was lovable so he patted him on the ribs and pulled him on up the block. After all, it was his own fault if he hadn't taken the time to train the dog properly.
by d.e. sievers
Happy Haunting, boys & ghouls!
From the heartland,
Your ever watchful neighbor
Monday, October 11, 2010
Excerpts from "The Climb"
My blogging has slumped lately, but only in favor of higher writing priorities. I've completed my novella, titled "The Climb," and have begun my first non-fiction book, about the artist Robert Craig. I don't have a great deal to blog about, beyond those things, so I'll post a couple of excerpts from "The Climb." Hope you enjoy them.
From "The Climb" ...
The increasingly milder climate worked its charm upon the landscape, bringing all of its disparate elements into a natural and exquisite harmony, the earth and all that grew and moved upon it becoming as one organic and indivisible whole. Likewise did the common experiences of those who navigated that world unite them in ways that transcended the purely physical. There were sympathies and sensibilities, felt but not spoken, that forged a bond of solidarity which engendered trust and understanding and tacit collaboration. Together, they formed a model of human ecology that eased the burdens of all and made it possible to thrive both as individuals and as a collective. They climbed across the landscape that rustled and hummed all around them, and of mutual accord, made that song of life their own.
Also from "The Climb" ...
She faced him now as they spoke, and he looked upon her without shrinking, and in so doing, both seemed to lose sight of any reason why they should not look upon one another in the naked light of day. His rich brown eyes told of the sorrows he'd known and the longings he'd felt and the delight he was taking in her presence. His long hair danced in the breeze over his muscled shoulders and beads of moisture ran down over his bare chest. He returned her gaze and was rewarded with two priceless gems of sparkling blue, suffusing the face in which they appeared with light and life and a beauty for which no distant glimpse could have prepared him. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks and trailed down her back while sunlight shimmered off her bare shoulders. Having gained the ability to look upon one another freely, without reserve, with boldness and complicity and ease, it seemed they would never stop.
OKAY ... Now that I've completed the novella, I need to begin writing another novel. What shall it be, I wonder. The non-fiction book will occupy some time, but I see no reason why I can't be working on a novel concurrently. They are two different sorts of animals, after all. There's a novel I began some years ago that may fill the bill. It will be a fun story to tell, and I already have a little bit of a head start into it. In case you're curious, I'll just say the book will be about everyone's favorite sailor man ... and the untold story behind the man.
But for now, bon voyage from the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
From "The Climb" ...
The increasingly milder climate worked its charm upon the landscape, bringing all of its disparate elements into a natural and exquisite harmony, the earth and all that grew and moved upon it becoming as one organic and indivisible whole. Likewise did the common experiences of those who navigated that world unite them in ways that transcended the purely physical. There were sympathies and sensibilities, felt but not spoken, that forged a bond of solidarity which engendered trust and understanding and tacit collaboration. Together, they formed a model of human ecology that eased the burdens of all and made it possible to thrive both as individuals and as a collective. They climbed across the landscape that rustled and hummed all around them, and of mutual accord, made that song of life their own.
Also from "The Climb" ...
She faced him now as they spoke, and he looked upon her without shrinking, and in so doing, both seemed to lose sight of any reason why they should not look upon one another in the naked light of day. His rich brown eyes told of the sorrows he'd known and the longings he'd felt and the delight he was taking in her presence. His long hair danced in the breeze over his muscled shoulders and beads of moisture ran down over his bare chest. He returned her gaze and was rewarded with two priceless gems of sparkling blue, suffusing the face in which they appeared with light and life and a beauty for which no distant glimpse could have prepared him. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks and trailed down her back while sunlight shimmered off her bare shoulders. Having gained the ability to look upon one another freely, without reserve, with boldness and complicity and ease, it seemed they would never stop.
OKAY ... Now that I've completed the novella, I need to begin writing another novel. What shall it be, I wonder. The non-fiction book will occupy some time, but I see no reason why I can't be working on a novel concurrently. They are two different sorts of animals, after all. There's a novel I began some years ago that may fill the bill. It will be a fun story to tell, and I already have a little bit of a head start into it. In case you're curious, I'll just say the book will be about everyone's favorite sailor man ... and the untold story behind the man.
But for now, bon voyage from the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Novels, Novellas, and Non-Fiction
Four days ago, on Sept. 25, I completed the novella I've been working on for the past four months. Not a bad time for completing a novella, I think. At that rate, I could write three novellas in a year. Or a pretty-good-sized novel. But you can never be sure. Largish novels can become bogged down, or grow in unexpected ways, and pretty soon three years have passed and it's still not done. My first novel was very-good-sized. I don't think I'll be doing another one of those for a while. There's something a bit more satisfying about a work that doesn't require years to complete. Pretty-good-sized will be just fine with me. Or merely good-sized. At any rate, I have leapt from the recently completed novella directly into something very different for me: non-fiction.
I am writing a book about the artist Robert Craig, who had been kind enough to paint the cover for my first novel. Someone is making a documentary film about him, and a book seemed like a nice thing to complement the film. I don't know how far along the film is, whether in progress, finished, or not yet begun. And I don't really care. The book is coming along nicely so far, and is fun to write. I doubt I'll make a habit of writing non-fiction, but this book I can do. Wonder if I can finish it by year-end. Probably too optimistic. Especially given that I will be dependent on the subject of the book to provide me with biographical data; and his turnaround time is not always as brisk as one might hope. But that's okay. The book will get done sometime over the course of a year. And while I'm waiting for the data I need, I'll just work on my next novel. Just as soon as I decide what it will be about and start writing it.
I may post excerpts from the recently finished novella in the near future, but it may be a bit longer before the entire work will be available; I am entering it into a contest soon that prohibits me from publishing it. But if it wins, they will publish it for me. And give me other good stuff. So I figure it's worth a shot.
And that's what is going on in my literary world.
From the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
D.E. Sievers Reads from "The Trees in Winter" - 3 New Lit-Vids
Pull a chair up to the fireside, pour a glass of wine, and let your Uncle Sievers regale you with passages from his novel, "The Trees in Winter." Three new Lit-Vids here for your viewing and listening pleasure. If you like what you hear, maybe you'll even want to buy and read the whole novel? And tell everyone you know to do likewise?
READING #1 (6:52)
READING #2 (5:06)
READING #3 (4:22)
Greetings from the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
READING #1 (6:52)
READING #2 (5:06)
READING #3 (4:22)
Greetings from the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Do You Write or Type (or Keyboard)?
Pondering the mechanics of writing these days. Some find it odd that I write in longhand. To which I respond: doesn't a writer write? If I am typing, am I writing? Sure, many will say. To which I will trot out the old reactionary stance espousing the mystical process by which precious literary treasure travels from the writer's heart/mind/soul down the arm, through the hand, into the pen, and finally, by means of some ineffable brand of alchemy, onto the blank page. When I write on paper with a pen, I feel like a writer; on a keyboard, like a data entry clerk. No offense to those who embrace the clerkly mode.
Writing, it seems to me, is in reality 100% thinking. Dreaming. Pondering. The act of transporting those thoughts to paper (or digital memory), merely a mechanical task necessary to make your thoughts available to others; whether others find them comprehensible is another matter altogether. But the task of transforming your thoughts into a collection of characters on a page is like the task of plugging in an electric guitar. You can play that guitar to your heart's content unplugged, but no one will hear it but you. Like your thoughts. Plugging in the guitar makes your musical virtuosity available for others to experience, for better or worse.
And yet, on second thought, I must ask: is this really true? As I continue to ponder the process of writing, I must acknowledge that a great deal of the sculpting of the written word occurs only after it has been written, once you can sit back and see what you have said. Rarely does unimpeachable writing spring directly from the pen (or keyboard) on its maiden voyage onto paper (or onto a computer monitor). The act of revising is as much or more a part of writing than merely producing a first draft, which is generally found wanting. And so, while the process of writing continues to consist of thinking (it is required no less for revising than for the initial draft; well, actually, maybe somewhat less), it becomes harder for me now to dismiss the act of putting words on paper (or ...) as a mere mechanical task. That mechanical task, in revising, becomes more than merely a mechanical task but in fact becomes an element in that wondrous alchemy which is writing.
And so, which medium--the pen or the keyboard--represents the more effective or more legitimate method--and which method more legitimately entitles one to assume the august designation of Writer?
I must admit that a keyboard may serve just as effectively as a pen. Even more effectively, many would argue. It's so much easier to delete, insert, move words around, spellcheck, etc., they would argue. So much easier to evaluate what you have written when beholding it in crisp clear Times New Roman characters against a white background. And I must concede that the scribblings in my notebook are often not terribly attractive, if not frustratingly illegible. And yet, I can read what I have written; I am lucky enough, most of the time, to be a match for my own handwriting. And I can cross words out, add new ones, even tear out pages if need be. I can draw arrows from one place to another to indicate where a sentence or word or paragraph should be relocated during the transposing stage. Because yes, I do eventually type up what I have written. It is, to me, a necessary evil, but I do it. So why not do it at the very start? one may ask. To which I respond: I can take my notebook and pen with me everywhere I go. I do not require a battery or a power source. I can whip out my notebook inconspicuously in mixed company, whether on a bus or in a department store or even during a boring lecture, and I can instantly transport my thoughts onto the page. Who knows when that flash of inspiration may come? Should I risk losing a valuable line of inspired dialogue because I chose to depend upon a machine, which may prove unreliable or inconvenient, or because I have allowed myself to believe that I can write in no other way than by means of a machine?
No, I say! I will depend upon nothing and no one but myself as I strive to perform this magical and capricious process known as writing. Nothing except my little notebook and my pen. And the machine that is my brain, which I carry with me wherever I go. And when I can no longer depend on that machine ... well, friends, that will be all she wrote.
From the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
Writing, it seems to me, is in reality 100% thinking. Dreaming. Pondering. The act of transporting those thoughts to paper (or digital memory), merely a mechanical task necessary to make your thoughts available to others; whether others find them comprehensible is another matter altogether. But the task of transforming your thoughts into a collection of characters on a page is like the task of plugging in an electric guitar. You can play that guitar to your heart's content unplugged, but no one will hear it but you. Like your thoughts. Plugging in the guitar makes your musical virtuosity available for others to experience, for better or worse.
And yet, on second thought, I must ask: is this really true? As I continue to ponder the process of writing, I must acknowledge that a great deal of the sculpting of the written word occurs only after it has been written, once you can sit back and see what you have said. Rarely does unimpeachable writing spring directly from the pen (or keyboard) on its maiden voyage onto paper (or onto a computer monitor). The act of revising is as much or more a part of writing than merely producing a first draft, which is generally found wanting. And so, while the process of writing continues to consist of thinking (it is required no less for revising than for the initial draft; well, actually, maybe somewhat less), it becomes harder for me now to dismiss the act of putting words on paper (or ...) as a mere mechanical task. That mechanical task, in revising, becomes more than merely a mechanical task but in fact becomes an element in that wondrous alchemy which is writing.
And so, which medium--the pen or the keyboard--represents the more effective or more legitimate method--and which method more legitimately entitles one to assume the august designation of Writer?
I must admit that a keyboard may serve just as effectively as a pen. Even more effectively, many would argue. It's so much easier to delete, insert, move words around, spellcheck, etc., they would argue. So much easier to evaluate what you have written when beholding it in crisp clear Times New Roman characters against a white background. And I must concede that the scribblings in my notebook are often not terribly attractive, if not frustratingly illegible. And yet, I can read what I have written; I am lucky enough, most of the time, to be a match for my own handwriting. And I can cross words out, add new ones, even tear out pages if need be. I can draw arrows from one place to another to indicate where a sentence or word or paragraph should be relocated during the transposing stage. Because yes, I do eventually type up what I have written. It is, to me, a necessary evil, but I do it. So why not do it at the very start? one may ask. To which I respond: I can take my notebook and pen with me everywhere I go. I do not require a battery or a power source. I can whip out my notebook inconspicuously in mixed company, whether on a bus or in a department store or even during a boring lecture, and I can instantly transport my thoughts onto the page. Who knows when that flash of inspiration may come? Should I risk losing a valuable line of inspired dialogue because I chose to depend upon a machine, which may prove unreliable or inconvenient, or because I have allowed myself to believe that I can write in no other way than by means of a machine?
No, I say! I will depend upon nothing and no one but myself as I strive to perform this magical and capricious process known as writing. Nothing except my little notebook and my pen. And the machine that is my brain, which I carry with me wherever I go. And when I can no longer depend on that machine ... well, friends, that will be all she wrote.
From the heartland,
D.E. Sievers
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