BEATNIK SILENT(LY) FALTERS IN HIS SELF-DESIGNED HALTER

Maya Angelou

Woke this morning and my first thought was about Pat Sajak & China/India. The game show expert, in a recent denial of the idea of global warming, called those who support the idea that global warming must be halted, "Racists." A friend of mine, yesterday, wondered, "WHAT?" This morning, before I even arose from my bed to see what was the matter, I understood, the WHAT. If we don't allow India and China to develop their industrial might, millions will be doomed to poverty. Add millions in Africa too. They are peoples whose skin isn't tinted pink. Got it, friend? Those who use global warming as a reason to stop industrial development would, as a byproduct, become racists. Poor scientists. They come up with the facts and politics blindsides them with handfuls of shit. 

Sunshining Day

Then I get out of bed to find that Maya Angelou at 86 has died. Overwhelmed at 76, sitting with a paper before my eyes that blinds me to the sun-shining day outside my picture window, I feel old and tired but, mostly, sad. As I read Maya's lifetime of accomplishments, my petty goal to get someone other than myself to publish one book of mine before I die feels futile, impossible and, mostly, inept. A desire to abandon all thought, quit writing and sit in the sun, merely enjoying my continued existence, is overwhelming ... almost.

HARRY BERNSTEIN TICKLES A BEATNIK'S FANCY

Harry Bernstein

Late at night [it's 3:52 am] sleepless after a funeral in Spokane, I gained new hope for my project to get someone other than myself to publish a book of mine. Inspiration arrived in the form of the story of Mr. Harry Bernstein whose first book was published at the ripe old age of 96.

Actually, I was feeling pretty energized before the trip to Spokane, but finding Bernstein's story added a nice plot twist for this post to the writer's blog I, as the Silent Boomer, keep. Can't wait to get back and get to work again. After struggling for several weeks with a plotting difficulty, a solution appeared on the drive from Vancouver to Spokane which I jotted down and now carry in my hip pocket along with various bits of debris. 

SILENT BOOMER THRASHES THROUGH ANOTHER STICKY THICKET

The plot gets twisted....

This week has been a good week for writing, but I did learn a painful lesson about plotting. Awhile back, I jammed a different Chapter -7- into the novel, then renumbered all the chapters that followed. I added the chapter because I felt I wanted to complicate the plot at that point and, secondly, to add some danger for PI Manning for the purpose of hyping up the excitement. I thought the novel might be dragging. Well, the plot complication I added created other unforeseen complications that couldn't be resolved in a plausible manner. Each time I moved from one chapter to the next, I'd discover my Chapter -7- complication created many other situations that needed to be adjusted for. The adjustments piled up and each adjustment made other adjustments necessary until the plot became a bog through which my mind could no longer safely travel. This week, I've had to go back and remove Chapter -7- and another later Chapter that was dependent upon Chapter -7- for it's existence. I'm in the process now of rereading and reworking—where necessary—everything after the offending chapter to make sure that consistency prevails. The writer who said that writers must have their plots in order before beginning to write seems to have been correct. I did sit down this week and tried to lay out a plot before continuing, but, goshdarnitall, I just can't see my way clearly through to the end. I like the beginning immensely, and I know, roughly, the ending, but the middle steps aren't clear yet. I just can't imagine, sitting still and waiting to see the plot all the way through. If I do that, I could easily quit writing altogether.

Want to mention an interesting project that friend and poet/song writer, klipschutz, and his pal Jeremy Gaulke have begun. It's a pocket size poetry chapbook, they call fourbytwo. They are trying to develop a zine that is financially sustainable as well maintain a certain level of quality. I like the format, and the poetry, of course, is exceptional. Follow the link to see what it's all about. 

BEATNIK SILENT MUSES ABOUT RICK PERRY

Tired today. I decided to wake early and worry about Rick Perry, governor of Texas, who has created more minimum wage jobs than any other governor in these United States. So he brags. He recenlty managed to steal Toyota's U.S. headquarters from California. Those poor Japanese business people don't know what they've let themselves in for. To the gun toting Texans, they'll just be another lighter-skinned version of Blacks and Hispanics Texans so love to despise. Is the savings worth it, Toyota?

I feel about as clever as a distended bladder, but I managed to get in an hour of rewriting and updating of the first 170 pages of Manning this morning before I folded my eyelids and crept into the blank sheets of my tired thoughts. Long time between entries so I'm putting this here to let readers know I'm still at it. Part of the delay between entries is that Mertie and I took off three nights and four days to drive over to the Left Coast of Oregon, but that doesn't explain the rest of the days, does it?