A Halloween to Remember
I’ve been lucky over the years for I suppose I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
Our little town was small enough that within two hours, a youngster could cover all the streets and stagger home with a load of treats.
And it just wasn’t kids who were out.
Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, to my dismay, I had to spend Halloween on my grandmother’s farm out around Lubbock. There was only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards around the old hanging tree three times. Now, the hanging tree was an ancient cottonwood by the cow tank that according to my uncles had once had a rustler strung from it. According to my uncle, the dead man would reappear sometime that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost.
They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty grotesque shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put on your clothes backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Just about. Never did find who did it.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Grab a big bat
rconwell@gt.rr.com
Carry a Big Bat
As a kid, I was skinny and short, a physique that was less than intimidating in the country school I attended in the forties.
Even back then, there were discriminating groups, the country kids and the town kids. I was considered a town kid even through we lived a mile from town on five acres with some stock and few crops, most for personal use.
Like most youngsters, I didn’t like to fight although such Donnybrooks were the most popular events during recess. I can’t count the number of times the combatants would sneak to the rear of the building and proceed to whale the daylights out of each other.
Oh, we always kept lookouts at the corner, but more than once as a lookout, I spotted teachers looking our direction, then turning away.
I finally figured out they knew what was going on, and since boys were boys, the youthful pugilists would rid their bodies of all those raging hormones and return to class docile as kittens.
More than once, I a proponent in the battle, and more than once, I ended up with a bloody nose or a scraped chin or a black eye.
When the battle was over and the dust had settled, we shook hands and then arms draped over each other’s shoulder, strolled back to class.
But, like every class in every school, we had our bullies. Take my word, some of those farm boys were big, especially those who had repeated the fourth grade three times.
That was way back in the days when schools insisted kids learn or fail. There was no kissy-kissy, bleeding hearts worrying about the kid’s self-esteem. If he failed, his father applied the self-esteem with a boot to the miscreant’s posterior.
A horrible act today. If the father weren’t tasered, stomped on, or run over, he would be convicted of child abuse, sexual deviancy, and if nothing else, driving without a license.
Our bully was named Doyle. Even today, every time I meet someone named Doyle, I think of our Doyle. Three years in the fourth grade, two heads taller than us, twice as wide, three times as strong, and mean as the dickens.
I wasn’t the only one he picked on. He selected a new victim daily so his old classmates who were now in the seventh grade would still consider him one of them. We couldn’t whip him. He was too big. All we could do was try to talk him out of whipping up on us too much.
I learned quickly not to go home crying when I got beat up. Dad didn’t care for whiners. One day when I was pretty much torn asunder by Doyle, Dad told me to pick up a club. That’s all bullies understand, a club.
A club? I would never have thought of that. Gene Autry never used a club! He always whipped the bad guys with his fists in a fair fight at the Saturday afternoon picture show.
At recess sometime later, Doyle started pushing me around, laughing and waving to his seventh grade friends. We were playing softball, and a ball bat lay nearby. I told him to stop, but he pushed me down.
I cracked two of his ribs with that ball bat, and fat Doyle never bothered me again. You know, Doyle wasn't so mean after all.
Think about it. America has a bunch of ball bats lying around. What we need now is someone with the guts to swing those bats, because right now there are half-a-dozen Doyles coming out of the woodwork, their mouths watering at what appears to be the old timey 98-pound weakling named America.
The national columnist, Cal Thomas is right. Bullies, like Doyle, fear one thing, and one thing only, strength, and the knowledge it will be used against them.
Like him or not, Bush used strength. Now, after a few months of our present administration, terrorist cells are beginning to grow once again. Is it because those Doyles don’t believe we’ll do anything about it? The answer is obvious.
I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that kissy-kissy never won the bully over. Never! But, now, on the other hand, you take a big bat---
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Carry a Big Bat
As a kid, I was skinny and short, a physique that was less than intimidating in the country school I attended in the forties.
Even back then, there were discriminating groups, the country kids and the town kids. I was considered a town kid even through we lived a mile from town on five acres with some stock and few crops, most for personal use.
Like most youngsters, I didn’t like to fight although such Donnybrooks were the most popular events during recess. I can’t count the number of times the combatants would sneak to the rear of the building and proceed to whale the daylights out of each other.
Oh, we always kept lookouts at the corner, but more than once as a lookout, I spotted teachers looking our direction, then turning away.
I finally figured out they knew what was going on, and since boys were boys, the youthful pugilists would rid their bodies of all those raging hormones and return to class docile as kittens.
More than once, I a proponent in the battle, and more than once, I ended up with a bloody nose or a scraped chin or a black eye.
When the battle was over and the dust had settled, we shook hands and then arms draped over each other’s shoulder, strolled back to class.
But, like every class in every school, we had our bullies. Take my word, some of those farm boys were big, especially those who had repeated the fourth grade three times.
That was way back in the days when schools insisted kids learn or fail. There was no kissy-kissy, bleeding hearts worrying about the kid’s self-esteem. If he failed, his father applied the self-esteem with a boot to the miscreant’s posterior.
A horrible act today. If the father weren’t tasered, stomped on, or run over, he would be convicted of child abuse, sexual deviancy, and if nothing else, driving without a license.
Our bully was named Doyle. Even today, every time I meet someone named Doyle, I think of our Doyle. Three years in the fourth grade, two heads taller than us, twice as wide, three times as strong, and mean as the dickens.
I wasn’t the only one he picked on. He selected a new victim daily so his old classmates who were now in the seventh grade would still consider him one of them. We couldn’t whip him. He was too big. All we could do was try to talk him out of whipping up on us too much.
I learned quickly not to go home crying when I got beat up. Dad didn’t care for whiners. One day when I was pretty much torn asunder by Doyle, Dad told me to pick up a club. That’s all bullies understand, a club.
A club? I would never have thought of that. Gene Autry never used a club! He always whipped the bad guys with his fists in a fair fight at the Saturday afternoon picture show.
At recess sometime later, Doyle started pushing me around, laughing and waving to his seventh grade friends. We were playing softball, and a ball bat lay nearby. I told him to stop, but he pushed me down.
I cracked two of his ribs with that ball bat, and fat Doyle never bothered me again. You know, Doyle wasn't so mean after all.
Think about it. America has a bunch of ball bats lying around. What we need now is someone with the guts to swing those bats, because right now there are half-a-dozen Doyles coming out of the woodwork, their mouths watering at what appears to be the old timey 98-pound weakling named America.
The national columnist, Cal Thomas is right. Bullies, like Doyle, fear one thing, and one thing only, strength, and the knowledge it will be used against them.
Like him or not, Bush used strength. Now, after a few months of our present administration, terrorist cells are beginning to grow once again. Is it because those Doyles don’t believe we’ll do anything about it? The answer is obvious.
I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that kissy-kissy never won the bully over. Never! But, now, on the other hand, you take a big bat---
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Sunday, October 4, 2009
another so called change
Another So-Called Change
Excuse me for saying it, Mr. President, but you’re beginning to remind me of the ubiquitous soccer mom, her day filled with frenetic activity from before dawn until after sunset.
She runs the kids to school, after school activities; she shops; cleans; attends PTA; volunteers, all while packing in a dozen other obligations. All these responsibilities stretch her thinner than a politicians’ promise.
And whether she likes it or not, she is well aware than many of her obligations suffer from lack of attention.
You’re doing the same.
By taking on too much, cap and trade, stimulus, health, immigration, Olympics, and education, there is no way you can devote the requisite energy and attention to them all.
Sure, you were voted in because many wanted change. In their eagerness to make their lives better, they grasped at straws, and you were the straw they grabbed. So desperate, they never thought to ask what kind of change you had in mind.
Mr. President, you are attempting to change too much, too fast. What do you think all the fuss is about? And no, it isn’t because we’re a mob, savages, Nazis, un-American, non-Democrats, or uncooperative. Just because we disagree doesn’t mean we uncooperative. It simply means eighty percent of us want to be heard and not have our opinions simply dismissed as you so curtly did with that steely-eyed remark in August, "I want them to get out of the way so we can clean up the mess. I don’t mind cleaning up after them, but don’t do a lot of talking.”
And now you plan on drastically changing education in America. As in all your various agendas, your team resorts to half-truths and outright fabrications to support your premises.
Since you’re from Chicago, it is no surprise you select people you know from that area to fill positions. That’s the way the political game is played. We all know that. Still, your choice of Arne Duncan as Secretary of Education is puzzling. Either it was simply a political payback or a coin toss. It couldn’t have been his accomplishments as CEO of Chicago Schools
Greatschools, a nation wide non-profit organization that provides K-12 information about all private, public, and charter schools, ranked Chicago schools as a 4 out of 10 while rating Nederland and Port Neches as sevens and eights. A sobering comparison, huh?
After eight years as CEO, Duncan couldn’t even get the district to a passing score, and yet you’re listening to him about how to better American education?
Get real, Mr. President.
According to the Associated Press, Duncan explained his rationale for wanting longer school days by saying ‘Young people in other countries are going to school twenty-five, thirty percent longer than our students here.” He added to the AP. “I want to just level the playing field.”
Sounds noble, you think?
Mr. President, that’s just another of the many fabrications to make your position look good.
In fact, according to the AP, U.S. kids spend more hours in school (1,146 instructional hours yearly) than kids in Asian schools that outscore us in math and science.
True, Japan and Hong Kong, said the AP, have longer school years by up to twenty days, but only spend 1,005-1,013 instructional hours yearly.
Don’t misunderstand. More time would help, but let’s be realistic about what is done and how it is achieved.
I can’t believe you’re taking the word of a man who couldn’t get his own district above a forty percent ranking. No, it had to be a political payoff.
And for Pete’s sake, either tell your people to stop making up data or be perceptive enough to figure out when they’re blowing smoke rings.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Excuse me for saying it, Mr. President, but you’re beginning to remind me of the ubiquitous soccer mom, her day filled with frenetic activity from before dawn until after sunset.
She runs the kids to school, after school activities; she shops; cleans; attends PTA; volunteers, all while packing in a dozen other obligations. All these responsibilities stretch her thinner than a politicians’ promise.
And whether she likes it or not, she is well aware than many of her obligations suffer from lack of attention.
You’re doing the same.
By taking on too much, cap and trade, stimulus, health, immigration, Olympics, and education, there is no way you can devote the requisite energy and attention to them all.
Sure, you were voted in because many wanted change. In their eagerness to make their lives better, they grasped at straws, and you were the straw they grabbed. So desperate, they never thought to ask what kind of change you had in mind.
Mr. President, you are attempting to change too much, too fast. What do you think all the fuss is about? And no, it isn’t because we’re a mob, savages, Nazis, un-American, non-Democrats, or uncooperative. Just because we disagree doesn’t mean we uncooperative. It simply means eighty percent of us want to be heard and not have our opinions simply dismissed as you so curtly did with that steely-eyed remark in August, "I want them to get out of the way so we can clean up the mess. I don’t mind cleaning up after them, but don’t do a lot of talking.”
And now you plan on drastically changing education in America. As in all your various agendas, your team resorts to half-truths and outright fabrications to support your premises.
Since you’re from Chicago, it is no surprise you select people you know from that area to fill positions. That’s the way the political game is played. We all know that. Still, your choice of Arne Duncan as Secretary of Education is puzzling. Either it was simply a political payback or a coin toss. It couldn’t have been his accomplishments as CEO of Chicago Schools
Greatschools, a nation wide non-profit organization that provides K-12 information about all private, public, and charter schools, ranked Chicago schools as a 4 out of 10 while rating Nederland and Port Neches as sevens and eights. A sobering comparison, huh?
After eight years as CEO, Duncan couldn’t even get the district to a passing score, and yet you’re listening to him about how to better American education?
Get real, Mr. President.
According to the Associated Press, Duncan explained his rationale for wanting longer school days by saying ‘Young people in other countries are going to school twenty-five, thirty percent longer than our students here.” He added to the AP. “I want to just level the playing field.”
Sounds noble, you think?
Mr. President, that’s just another of the many fabrications to make your position look good.
In fact, according to the AP, U.S. kids spend more hours in school (1,146 instructional hours yearly) than kids in Asian schools that outscore us in math and science.
True, Japan and Hong Kong, said the AP, have longer school years by up to twenty days, but only spend 1,005-1,013 instructional hours yearly.
Don’t misunderstand. More time would help, but let’s be realistic about what is done and how it is achieved.
I can’t believe you’re taking the word of a man who couldn’t get his own district above a forty percent ranking. No, it had to be a political payoff.
And for Pete’s sake, either tell your people to stop making up data or be perceptive enough to figure out when they’re blowing smoke rings.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Bias in Reporting
Honest Writing, not Biased
I’m constantly amazed at how columnists of different cultures can get away with accusing those who disagree with them of bias, a reprehensible behavior many of them are pulling off with every word they write.
I don’t know if they perceive their slant, their view, to be biased or not. To
compound the problem, many of them do not understand some of the subjects of which they write.
One, a national columnist who is Hispanic, took on President Obama’s speech to school kids, but in doing so, he revealed his own lack of expertise in the realm of education, a lack of expertise shared not only many columnists, but most legislators.
As in many of his columns, he displayed Hispanic bias. Now, you can call it ‘cultural pride’, ‘Latino experience’ or ‘Hispanic histronics’, or whatever, but bias is bias is bias.
I read the speech. While I disagree with much of the president’s agenda, I saw nothing wrong with his speech.
I did agree with the columnist when he suggested throwing money at education did not automatically improve it. He continued by remarking that some of the highest funded schools in the country are the worst while some charter schools are accomplishing much more with less funding. Why? Greater autonomy and flexibility.
He’s right. Throwing money at education doesn’t make kids smarter.
I could only shake my head when the writer put the blame for black student failure on teachers by claiming that many teachers have a lot of trouble imagining black American students as being high achievers. I don’t know what he meant by ‘many’. I do know of all the hundreds of teachers with whom I taught over a lifetime, I could count on one hand the type of whom he spoke. But, however you cut the deck, so few could not have created the dreadful problems so many black communities today face as he stated.
The suggestion is made that parents ask the schools why their low-achieving kids (of all races) are being short-changed. I think that’s a great idea, although not in the way he intended. I like it because in order to ask the question, those parents will have to get off their lazy tails and up to school. (fat chance)
Perhaps if the columnist had more experience in pedagogy, he would not have permitted the current federal administration to lead him by the nose when it suggested education reform by ‘charter schools, merit pay, greater accountability, etc.’
First time I heard that nonsense was in the days of Mark White—Jeez, how long ago was that, a century?
To begin, merit pay is simply a shaggy dog story!
What unbiased instrument will be used to determine which schools or teachers receive extra pay? Who will evaluate? A robot?
Years back, Texas tried such a plan. Many of us remember it as a joke, a senseless effort by state legislators to justify teacher raises.
The plan had supervisors evaluating teachers under them, teachers with whom they had worked for years. So, take a wild guess at the results.
There is no fair and impartial means to determine merit pay just as there is no way to establish fair and impartial guidelines for accountability. Testing can’t measure school quality. All it simply measures is which districts spent more time teaching the test.
Perhaps the closest thing to it is coaching. Win or die. And that’s pretty harsh, gambling a career on sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds.
How would you pull off that little miracle in an English classroom? When the columnist, or President Obama, or Education Secretary Arne Duncan find out, I wish they’d let me know.
I’ve seen thousands of kids go through school, and ninety-nine percent of them who do well have support at home. And yes, many of the homes were one-parent, but that one parent supported, disciplined, and loved the kid.
I have no idea how to solve so many of the problems that plague youngsters in deteriorating communities, but whatever the answers might be, parental love, discipline, and involvement has to be at the very top.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
I’m constantly amazed at how columnists of different cultures can get away with accusing those who disagree with them of bias, a reprehensible behavior many of them are pulling off with every word they write.
I don’t know if they perceive their slant, their view, to be biased or not. To
compound the problem, many of them do not understand some of the subjects of which they write.
One, a national columnist who is Hispanic, took on President Obama’s speech to school kids, but in doing so, he revealed his own lack of expertise in the realm of education, a lack of expertise shared not only many columnists, but most legislators.
As in many of his columns, he displayed Hispanic bias. Now, you can call it ‘cultural pride’, ‘Latino experience’ or ‘Hispanic histronics’, or whatever, but bias is bias is bias.
I read the speech. While I disagree with much of the president’s agenda, I saw nothing wrong with his speech.
I did agree with the columnist when he suggested throwing money at education did not automatically improve it. He continued by remarking that some of the highest funded schools in the country are the worst while some charter schools are accomplishing much more with less funding. Why? Greater autonomy and flexibility.
He’s right. Throwing money at education doesn’t make kids smarter.
I could only shake my head when the writer put the blame for black student failure on teachers by claiming that many teachers have a lot of trouble imagining black American students as being high achievers. I don’t know what he meant by ‘many’. I do know of all the hundreds of teachers with whom I taught over a lifetime, I could count on one hand the type of whom he spoke. But, however you cut the deck, so few could not have created the dreadful problems so many black communities today face as he stated.
The suggestion is made that parents ask the schools why their low-achieving kids (of all races) are being short-changed. I think that’s a great idea, although not in the way he intended. I like it because in order to ask the question, those parents will have to get off their lazy tails and up to school. (fat chance)
Perhaps if the columnist had more experience in pedagogy, he would not have permitted the current federal administration to lead him by the nose when it suggested education reform by ‘charter schools, merit pay, greater accountability, etc.’
First time I heard that nonsense was in the days of Mark White—Jeez, how long ago was that, a century?
To begin, merit pay is simply a shaggy dog story!
What unbiased instrument will be used to determine which schools or teachers receive extra pay? Who will evaluate? A robot?
Years back, Texas tried such a plan. Many of us remember it as a joke, a senseless effort by state legislators to justify teacher raises.
The plan had supervisors evaluating teachers under them, teachers with whom they had worked for years. So, take a wild guess at the results.
There is no fair and impartial means to determine merit pay just as there is no way to establish fair and impartial guidelines for accountability. Testing can’t measure school quality. All it simply measures is which districts spent more time teaching the test.
Perhaps the closest thing to it is coaching. Win or die. And that’s pretty harsh, gambling a career on sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds.
How would you pull off that little miracle in an English classroom? When the columnist, or President Obama, or Education Secretary Arne Duncan find out, I wish they’d let me know.
I’ve seen thousands of kids go through school, and ninety-nine percent of them who do well have support at home. And yes, many of the homes were one-parent, but that one parent supported, disciplined, and loved the kid.
I have no idea how to solve so many of the problems that plague youngsters in deteriorating communities, but whatever the answers might be, parental love, discipline, and involvement has to be at the very top.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Great American Novel
The Great American Novel
Have you ever dreamed of writing the ‘Great American Novel’? No? How about an Academy Award for a screenplay?
I once heard that there is a best selling novel in every person. The secret is to get it into print. We all dream, but you have to work to make the dream a reality.
And it is much simpler to do than you might imagine. You just go out and do it. That’s what I mean by simple. Now, I didn’t say easier. I said simpler. In some uses, simple and easy might be synonymous, but not in this case.
Over the years, I’ve had aspiring writers call and ask how to go about it. That’s the big problem, that first step.
Well, if you’re interested in any kind of writing, the next few months should give
you the jump-start you need.
Twenty-five years ago, I read a news release about a Romance Writers’ Group meeting at the old Hilton on I-10.
The speaker was Robert Vaughn. I had no idea who he was, and I wasn’t particularly interested in getting hooked up with a bunch of flighty romance writers.
My wife and I talked it over. I think it only cost ten bucks or so for all day, so I went. Simple as that.
Robert Vaughn was remarkable. The romance writers were extraordinary.
I wrote my first women’s thriller from the information I garnered that day. Now, it’s never been published, but that few hours provided me the impetus to get off my keister and do what I had been prattling about for the last twelve or thirteen years.
That organization is now the Golden Triangle Writers’ Guild. And if you’re interested, it meets the second Tuesday at 7:30 pm at Barnes & Noble out at Parkdale.
And what’s really nice is that once a year in October, the Guild hosts a writer’s conference, bringing in writers, agents, and editors from around the country.
This year the conference is at the MGM Elegante from October 22-24. For more information, go to the web site, gtwg.org or contact D.J. Resnick at kdwriters@yahoo.com.
There’s something there for everyone. Song-writing, mystery, suspense, romance, thrillers, action-adventure, poetry, forensics--over thirty presenters will be here for those three days.
In addition, Lamar University Continuing Education is offering a series of non-credit writing courses both online and on campus. They offer them each spring and fall.
There are several from which to choose: article writing; teen writing; how to write fiction; novel writing, and several others. Go the ‘The Write Site’ at Lamar Continuing Education. Instructors are experienced writers such as D.J. Resnick, Jessica Ferguson, Carol A. Thomas, Jessica Burkhart, and yours truly.
Yes, I shamelessly admit that I teach a short six-week course in the spring and fall titled ‘Writing the Novel.’ It is a hand’s on course where students actually write parts of the novel so we can critique in class.
By the end of the six-week period, many students have written the beginning, the end, and outlined the middle of the book.
As I mentioned earlier, the biggest problem with writing is to figure out that first step. In addition, grammar, format, and submission methods are discussed.
Nothing turns an editor or agent off like poorly constructed sentences and grammatical errors. You might have the greatest story ever told, that legendary ‘Great American Novel’, but if the editor can’t get past the first few pages because of poor writing, it will make no matter. Today, we’re fortunate to have spell check, which catches the majority of these errors—but not all.
If you’re interested in more information about any of the writing classes at Lamar, go to www.lulearn.net’writesite or contact Rhonda at 880-2233.
There’s a lot of myths about writing, and either at the conference or the writing classes, you’ll have many of them dispelled.
So, if you’ve ever had the itch to write, the next few months can scratch it for you.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Have you ever dreamed of writing the ‘Great American Novel’? No? How about an Academy Award for a screenplay?
I once heard that there is a best selling novel in every person. The secret is to get it into print. We all dream, but you have to work to make the dream a reality.
And it is much simpler to do than you might imagine. You just go out and do it. That’s what I mean by simple. Now, I didn’t say easier. I said simpler. In some uses, simple and easy might be synonymous, but not in this case.
Over the years, I’ve had aspiring writers call and ask how to go about it. That’s the big problem, that first step.
Well, if you’re interested in any kind of writing, the next few months should give
you the jump-start you need.
Twenty-five years ago, I read a news release about a Romance Writers’ Group meeting at the old Hilton on I-10.
The speaker was Robert Vaughn. I had no idea who he was, and I wasn’t particularly interested in getting hooked up with a bunch of flighty romance writers.
My wife and I talked it over. I think it only cost ten bucks or so for all day, so I went. Simple as that.
Robert Vaughn was remarkable. The romance writers were extraordinary.
I wrote my first women’s thriller from the information I garnered that day. Now, it’s never been published, but that few hours provided me the impetus to get off my keister and do what I had been prattling about for the last twelve or thirteen years.
That organization is now the Golden Triangle Writers’ Guild. And if you’re interested, it meets the second Tuesday at 7:30 pm at Barnes & Noble out at Parkdale.
And what’s really nice is that once a year in October, the Guild hosts a writer’s conference, bringing in writers, agents, and editors from around the country.
This year the conference is at the MGM Elegante from October 22-24. For more information, go to the web site, gtwg.org or contact D.J. Resnick at kdwriters@yahoo.com.
There’s something there for everyone. Song-writing, mystery, suspense, romance, thrillers, action-adventure, poetry, forensics--over thirty presenters will be here for those three days.
In addition, Lamar University Continuing Education is offering a series of non-credit writing courses both online and on campus. They offer them each spring and fall.
There are several from which to choose: article writing; teen writing; how to write fiction; novel writing, and several others. Go the ‘The Write Site’ at Lamar Continuing Education. Instructors are experienced writers such as D.J. Resnick, Jessica Ferguson, Carol A. Thomas, Jessica Burkhart, and yours truly.
Yes, I shamelessly admit that I teach a short six-week course in the spring and fall titled ‘Writing the Novel.’ It is a hand’s on course where students actually write parts of the novel so we can critique in class.
By the end of the six-week period, many students have written the beginning, the end, and outlined the middle of the book.
As I mentioned earlier, the biggest problem with writing is to figure out that first step. In addition, grammar, format, and submission methods are discussed.
Nothing turns an editor or agent off like poorly constructed sentences and grammatical errors. You might have the greatest story ever told, that legendary ‘Great American Novel’, but if the editor can’t get past the first few pages because of poor writing, it will make no matter. Today, we’re fortunate to have spell check, which catches the majority of these errors—but not all.
If you’re interested in more information about any of the writing classes at Lamar, go to www.lulearn.net’writesite or contact Rhonda at 880-2233.
There’s a lot of myths about writing, and either at the conference or the writing classes, you’ll have many of them dispelled.
So, if you’ve ever had the itch to write, the next few months can scratch it for you.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Saturday, August 29, 2009
take a grandson fishing
Add a Day to Your Life-Take a Grandchild Fishing
We’ve all heard it said that God never counts a day of fishing against your life span. Who knows, maybe He’ll even toss in an extra day if you take a grandchild fishing. And maybe even a third day if the child manages to snag a fish on that first trip.
That’s what happened to Gayle and me when a couple Saturdays back, we went fishing for the first time in a few years.
We’ve had our boats, and always got a kick out of fishing the river and lake. Once, years back, we had a deep V in which we went offshore—offshore to me being no more than a couple miles from the beach.
Once we had a twenty-one foot pontoon boat, and believe me, cumbersome as they are, they are ideal fishing platforms. We sold our last boat, a jon boat, a couple years back. It had been setting up for the past ten.
Now, we bank fish at Sabine Lake, and usually we do okay. More than anything, it’s a chance to relax, soak up some sun and breathe in the fresh, clean air off the water.
A month or so back, the older grandson, Keegan, who is almost five, mentioned something about fishing. At that age, their little I-want-this and I-want-that minds jump from one interest to the other faster than a cricket dodging a hungry chicken.
I just figured he’d let it drop, but he didn’t.
One day he popped in and informed me he had found the ideal fishing pole at Target.
Again, I just figured he’d let it drop, but, guess what? He didn’t.
Without warning, all the planets fell into line, Mars was larger than it would be for the next trillion years, and the day arrive when we kept him because both his Mom and Dad were working. Fate couldn’t have dealt out a better hand to the little guy, so, we decided, why not?
That morning, we found him a small Zebco rod and reel, a Lightning McQueen outfit. Back at the house, I pulled out our tackle boxes, brushed ten years of dust and debris off them; dusted, then washed and oiled the fishing rods and reels; finally managed to find a couple that worked well.
I’m not even going to go into the problems we faced getting licenses on a Saturday. But we got them.
We decided to go to Sabine Lake. We could have fished down at Port Neches Park, but the little guy would have had to wear a lifejacket, and the ninety-degree plus sun was too hot.
We fished the south revetment with all the rocks where I quickly discovered ten years had handily curtailed my balance as I tried to bounce from one rock to another. While I was bouncing, Gayle was catching fish. Finally we gave up and headed down to the causeway.
The beach was sandy, the water shallow, and believe it or not, the fish were biting, more or less.
Keegan quickly shed his shirt while I threw out his bait and handed him his rod.
In the meantime, Gayle caught another fish.
And then Keegan had a strike, and his line drew tight and the tip of his rod bent down.
Oh, was he excited, yelling for his ‘MeeMee’ to come help.
He did the most of it, and hauled in a fat little redfish about fifteen inches long. After we took a few pictures, we turned the fish back, explaining to the little guy we had to obey the law.
We were out two, maybe three hours, and all three of us were ready to come home and hop in the swimming pool.
Maybe next time, he’ll catch one that Gayle can fry up for him.
I know one thing, from the look on his face and the way he laughed, he’s got the making of a lifelong fisherman.
The other grandson is Mikey. He isn’t quite three. Another couple years, and we’ll have a team of fishermen around here.
Do you think God might toss in a fourth extra day for another grandson?
Oh, well, even if He doesn’t, it’s worth it.
We’ve all heard it said that God never counts a day of fishing against your life span. Who knows, maybe He’ll even toss in an extra day if you take a grandchild fishing. And maybe even a third day if the child manages to snag a fish on that first trip.
That’s what happened to Gayle and me when a couple Saturdays back, we went fishing for the first time in a few years.
We’ve had our boats, and always got a kick out of fishing the river and lake. Once, years back, we had a deep V in which we went offshore—offshore to me being no more than a couple miles from the beach.
Once we had a twenty-one foot pontoon boat, and believe me, cumbersome as they are, they are ideal fishing platforms. We sold our last boat, a jon boat, a couple years back. It had been setting up for the past ten.
Now, we bank fish at Sabine Lake, and usually we do okay. More than anything, it’s a chance to relax, soak up some sun and breathe in the fresh, clean air off the water.
A month or so back, the older grandson, Keegan, who is almost five, mentioned something about fishing. At that age, their little I-want-this and I-want-that minds jump from one interest to the other faster than a cricket dodging a hungry chicken.
I just figured he’d let it drop, but he didn’t.
One day he popped in and informed me he had found the ideal fishing pole at Target.
Again, I just figured he’d let it drop, but, guess what? He didn’t.
Without warning, all the planets fell into line, Mars was larger than it would be for the next trillion years, and the day arrive when we kept him because both his Mom and Dad were working. Fate couldn’t have dealt out a better hand to the little guy, so, we decided, why not?
That morning, we found him a small Zebco rod and reel, a Lightning McQueen outfit. Back at the house, I pulled out our tackle boxes, brushed ten years of dust and debris off them; dusted, then washed and oiled the fishing rods and reels; finally managed to find a couple that worked well.
I’m not even going to go into the problems we faced getting licenses on a Saturday. But we got them.
We decided to go to Sabine Lake. We could have fished down at Port Neches Park, but the little guy would have had to wear a lifejacket, and the ninety-degree plus sun was too hot.
We fished the south revetment with all the rocks where I quickly discovered ten years had handily curtailed my balance as I tried to bounce from one rock to another. While I was bouncing, Gayle was catching fish. Finally we gave up and headed down to the causeway.
The beach was sandy, the water shallow, and believe it or not, the fish were biting, more or less.
Keegan quickly shed his shirt while I threw out his bait and handed him his rod.
In the meantime, Gayle caught another fish.
And then Keegan had a strike, and his line drew tight and the tip of his rod bent down.
Oh, was he excited, yelling for his ‘MeeMee’ to come help.
He did the most of it, and hauled in a fat little redfish about fifteen inches long. After we took a few pictures, we turned the fish back, explaining to the little guy we had to obey the law.
We were out two, maybe three hours, and all three of us were ready to come home and hop in the swimming pool.
Maybe next time, he’ll catch one that Gayle can fry up for him.
I know one thing, from the look on his face and the way he laughed, he’s got the making of a lifelong fisherman.
The other grandson is Mikey. He isn’t quite three. Another couple years, and we’ll have a team of fishermen around here.
Do you think God might toss in a fourth extra day for another grandson?
Oh, well, even if He doesn’t, it’s worth it.
Friday, August 28, 2009
free is nice, best is better
Free is Nice, but Best is Better.
A wag on my old high school chat group sent me this article that is typical of many whizzing around cyberspace this year.
The article states that “Obama’s health care plan will be written by a committee whose head says he doesn’t understand it, passed by a Congress that hasn’t read it, whose members will be exempt from it, signed by a president who smokes, funded by a treasury chief who evaded his taxes, overseen by a surgeon general who is obese, and financed by a country that is broke.”
Now, we can laugh at this, but you know, if you stop and think about it, it could also make you cry.
I don’t know the name of committee head who made the remark-if they made the remark, but you’re as aware as I that no one in Congress understands the entire bill. It’s impossible. From front to back, the document is couched in government jargon.
However, you and I both know that when Congress started pushing the bill that 1. the majority of our representatives had not read it and consequently, 2. they had no idea what was in it, and 3. they knew they were exempt from it.
Given the third point, it is obvious why they were indifferent to the first two points. Hey, we’re just stupid and ignorant beasts of the field out here. They’re important; they’re Congressmen(at least until 2010).
I don’t see how anyone can argue those points, nor 4. argue that our president doesn’t smoke. Of course, smoking is his own choice. It’s no skin off my teeth if he wants to savage his body like that, but he has a lot of gall to insist he knows what’s best for millions of Americans while abusing his own body.
On top of that, 5. we cannot dispute the fact Treasury Chief Geithner did not pay his 2001-2004 taxes in the amount of $43,100.00, or 6. that the surgeon general from Alabama is overweight.
What our president has given us is a collection of administrators with little or no self-discipline to tell us what to do. Excuse me for saying it, but that’s like naming Bonnie and Clyde the president of the First National Bank and entrusting them with the bank customers’ money.
And point 7., at 9:41 am, August 20, 2009, the U.S. debt was “11,731,591,419,387.00 and growing over a hundred thousand every five (5) seconds. That comes out in excess of thirty-eight thousand for each American—not counting the twenty million illegals in the country.
And Folks, we still have the trillions of the health care bill to add.
I hear from the media that the Democrats are tired of trying to come up with a bi-partisan bill. There’s talk they’ll go it alone, using the strong-arm tactic of ‘reconciliation’, a political technique allowing a group to bend the rules enough to pass a bill.
You know, those guys-and gals up there-I’m talking about both parties- are, the most part, career leeches—whoops, I mean legislators. They’ve made a more than comfortable living off the American taxpayer for a good spell.
I find it hard to believe (but then I’m not too smart) that the Democrats would hazard a chance on pushing the bill through by themselves and taking the subsequent political hit next year.
Given the ineptness with which government has run various programs over the years (FEMA for a beginning), the plan has a better than average chance of catastrophe. If that happens, there goes the Democrat party.
I’d hazard a guess that then only the iron-clad liberals would stick with the party. From left-leaning voters all the way over to staunch conservatives would be furious at the tax hit they’ll take plus the trauma of the health bill being jammed down their throats.
Cal Thomas summed it up when he quoted an excerpt from an editorial in the Daily Mail in Britain. “Our(Britain) survival rates for breast, prostate, ovarian, and lung cancers are among the worst in Europe despite huge additional expenditures.” Free is nice, but best is better.
The writer is right. Free is nice, but best is better, and despite our problems, our health care is the best in the world.
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
A wag on my old high school chat group sent me this article that is typical of many whizzing around cyberspace this year.
The article states that “Obama’s health care plan will be written by a committee whose head says he doesn’t understand it, passed by a Congress that hasn’t read it, whose members will be exempt from it, signed by a president who smokes, funded by a treasury chief who evaded his taxes, overseen by a surgeon general who is obese, and financed by a country that is broke.”
Now, we can laugh at this, but you know, if you stop and think about it, it could also make you cry.
I don’t know the name of committee head who made the remark-if they made the remark, but you’re as aware as I that no one in Congress understands the entire bill. It’s impossible. From front to back, the document is couched in government jargon.
However, you and I both know that when Congress started pushing the bill that 1. the majority of our representatives had not read it and consequently, 2. they had no idea what was in it, and 3. they knew they were exempt from it.
Given the third point, it is obvious why they were indifferent to the first two points. Hey, we’re just stupid and ignorant beasts of the field out here. They’re important; they’re Congressmen(at least until 2010).
I don’t see how anyone can argue those points, nor 4. argue that our president doesn’t smoke. Of course, smoking is his own choice. It’s no skin off my teeth if he wants to savage his body like that, but he has a lot of gall to insist he knows what’s best for millions of Americans while abusing his own body.
On top of that, 5. we cannot dispute the fact Treasury Chief Geithner did not pay his 2001-2004 taxes in the amount of $43,100.00, or 6. that the surgeon general from Alabama is overweight.
What our president has given us is a collection of administrators with little or no self-discipline to tell us what to do. Excuse me for saying it, but that’s like naming Bonnie and Clyde the president of the First National Bank and entrusting them with the bank customers’ money.
And point 7., at 9:41 am, August 20, 2009, the U.S. debt was “11,731,591,419,387.00 and growing over a hundred thousand every five (5) seconds. That comes out in excess of thirty-eight thousand for each American—not counting the twenty million illegals in the country.
And Folks, we still have the trillions of the health care bill to add.
I hear from the media that the Democrats are tired of trying to come up with a bi-partisan bill. There’s talk they’ll go it alone, using the strong-arm tactic of ‘reconciliation’, a political technique allowing a group to bend the rules enough to pass a bill.
You know, those guys-and gals up there-I’m talking about both parties- are, the most part, career leeches—whoops, I mean legislators. They’ve made a more than comfortable living off the American taxpayer for a good spell.
I find it hard to believe (but then I’m not too smart) that the Democrats would hazard a chance on pushing the bill through by themselves and taking the subsequent political hit next year.
Given the ineptness with which government has run various programs over the years (FEMA for a beginning), the plan has a better than average chance of catastrophe. If that happens, there goes the Democrat party.
I’d hazard a guess that then only the iron-clad liberals would stick with the party. From left-leaning voters all the way over to staunch conservatives would be furious at the tax hit they’ll take plus the trauma of the health bill being jammed down their throats.
Cal Thomas summed it up when he quoted an excerpt from an editorial in the Daily Mail in Britain. “Our(Britain) survival rates for breast, prostate, ovarian, and lung cancers are among the worst in Europe despite huge additional expenditures.” Free is nice, but best is better.
The writer is right. Free is nice, but best is better, and despite our problems, our health care is the best in the world.
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
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