Writing Advice from Neil Gaiman

Another quick video with Neil Gaiman.  Can you tell I am excited to see him speak?

Neil Gaiman is coming to Butler!

Neil Gaiman is coming to Butler!

Saw this on Youtube a few weeks ago.  A couple of sections of this made me smile.

We--Nick, Randy, and I--are going!  How exciting.

I'll post an update after we hear him speak!

Kafka, Korean Movies, and Spike Lee (Spoiler Alerts)

I am neither an expert on Kafka or on Korean culture or on Spike Lee, so forgive me if my logic is absurd.

Recently, I listened to The Metamorphesis and The Trial.  Usually, I listen to some commentary and some criticism about the books, too.

Thug Notes amuses me.  Here is a quick commentary on The Trial:

Quick thematic overview on Kafka.  Kafka explores punishment.  Early in his writings, he wrote about unreasonable punishment from an authoritarian father, but later in his work, as in The Trial, he writes about punishment from a legal system that is nonsensical and unjust.

Now, I'm about to make an illogical jump to Korean movies.  

I discussed popular Korean movies like The Host with a Korean friend.  He told me that in Korean history, Koreans have felt trapped by chance, invaded by China or Japan simply because of their location, and often pulled into brutal wars.  This history influences Korean culture, being punished by large, outside forces and being unable to control or withstand the punishment.

While living in South Korea, I watched different Korean movies, including The Vengeance Trilogy by director Park Chan-wook.  These movies, while disturbing and not intended for the faint-of-heart, explore a similar theme to Kafka: irrational punishment.  The main characters in these movies fight against horrible, severe punishment, seeking vengeance against cruel punishment.

Old Boy is the second installment of the trilogy from 2003.  

Old Boy Trailer

Here is where the spoiler comes.  

I'm not sure that I can easily or briefly summarize the plot because this is a complex story and because the characters have Korean names.  Basically, a mystery man imprisons the protagonist in a room that is like a hotel room.  The mystery man lets the protagonist out after 15 years but tells the protagonist he must find out why he was punished.  

In the end, the mystery man is someone the protagonist knew in high school.  The protagonist caught the mystery man having sex with his sister and spread rumors around school.  The rumors caused the sister's humiliation and suicide.  The mystery man blames the protagonist for his sister's suicide.

The final, and most horrific blow, is in the final punishment for the protagonist, the mystery man tricks the protagonist into falling in love and having sex with his own grown daughter.

The mystery man/antagonist punishes the protagonist for his own horrible actions--and tricks him into doing the same actions that caused him to loose his sister.  

In the end and through a strange twist of fiction and stretch of willingful suspension of disbelief, the protagonist is hypnotized to forget everything that has happened, choosing to live a happy life with his daughter--presumably, as husband and wife.

These parallels struck me as I was reading Kafka.  Perhaps Park Chan-wook takes this to a different, more graphic level, but the irrationality and brutality of the punishment in Old Boy reminds me of Kafka. 

Here comes Spike Lee.

Spike Lee did a remake of Old Boy in 2013.

Spike Lee's Old Boy

I watched this remake last weekend for the first time.  After watching this, I was disappointed for two reasons.  First, the amazing shots and cinematography from Park Chan-wook's original were duplicated without much originality.  The angles, the color, the camera action, and the sets that made the original so interesting seemed very recognizable in Spike Lee's version.

Second, and again this is another spoiler alert, the ending differed in three significant ways.  The antagonist in the Spike Lee version did not have sex with his sister.  The protagonist caught the antagonist's father having sex with the antagonist's sister.  The movie implies that the father slept with the sister and the antagonist--the antagonist was a victim of incest as well as his sister.  

When the protagonist humiliates the father and sister, the antagonist's father kills the sister, himself, and tries to shoot the antagonist.  The father intended to kill both children (including the antagonist) and himself, but the antagonist lives to fulfill his vengeance. 

And one last, significant deviation: the protagonist chooses to leave his daughter in the end.  He leaves a letter for his daughter saying he will never see her again and she must forget him.

Why are these deviations significant?

In the Park Chan-wook's version, the antagonist punishes the protagonist for something the antagonist himself did wrong.  Certainly, the protagonist spread rumors in both movies, but I believe most people would not consider gossip as harsh as incest.  In Spike Lee's version, the antagonist punishes the protagonist for something his father did wrong--he was a victim of his father's wrongs.

In both movies, the protagonist is just that--the protagonist.  In the beginning of both movies, we see him as foolish and as a bad father, but through his unfair imprisonment and his struggles, we root for him and want him to understand why he has been treated so unfairly.

In the Korean film, the protagonist is punished for the antagonist's wrongs, but he chooses to forget everything and continue a completely new life.  In the American version, the protagonist is punished for someone else's mistakes, but he chooses to leave his previous life and to remember the pain forever.

I'm not sure with which version Kafka would identify?

A Critique--The Castle of Otranto

I have lots of books.  

I'm trying to go through and filter the ones with which I can part and with which I want to read again.

So, I'm rereading some of the books that I may end up on the departure pile.  It's a sad, mournful task, like I'm saying goodbye to old friends, but like I said, I have lots of books.

I recently reread my old copy of Slaughterhouse Five.  It's falling apart, and I need to turn the crumbling pages as if it's 100 years old, but it's as good as I remember it.  Funny, much of the rhetoric and narrative have been imitated since Kurt Vonnegut wrote this--the narrative within the narrative, the overlapping time, the repetition--but the quality and wit still stand.

But I want to write about a different book: The Castle of Otranto.  I would not have read this if I hadn't had to read this for a wonderful graduate class about the progression of novels of the gothic and romance.  This class mapped the progression of gothic and romance novels from the 1600s to the early 1900s.  Fascinating stuff. 

The Castle of Otranto was in the list.

This is an extraordinary book for several reasons.  First, printed in 1764, this is credited as being as the first gothic novel.

Let me pause here.  The term "gothic" is very problematic, especially in contemporary times, when we think more about Trent Reznor and emo than traditional gothic.  But this novel created the first literary world in charming castles, ancient history, romantic clashes, illusive ghosts, and heroic honor.

Horace Walpole (did I mention he's the one who wrote this?) set the tone and mood and identity and basic foundation for all of gothic literature.

But that's not all.  For the next 100 or so years, most of the gothic novels imitated his basic plot and characters.  His plot is pretty complex in places, but essentially, he introduces a curse and then a beautiful princess, an evil villain, and an unknown prince.  There are some chases and some complications, and then the villain gets punished.

So this is the second point.  Sure, he created the genre, but he also created the plot and basic characters that we see today.

Walpole's plot is pretty tricky for how short it is, but essentially, this is the foundation for so many gothic novels and Disney movies we have seen--the curse, the princess and the prince get together, and the villain gets punished.  Also, his characters are a bit lacking--if not very stereotypical--but again, the volatile villain, innocent princess, and valiant prince are stock characters we meet all the time.  Walpole set this stuff up and created these for the first time.

As a novel from 1764, you can't really sit down to read this like you would sit down to read Dean Koontz or Janet Evanovich.  However, this book offers such a foundational look into the history of the novel and the genre, and we rarely have such a definitive novel as to say, "This novel set the foundation for all other novels like it."

In this case, I think we can.

I'm keeping this one for a few more years.

New stuff to write about

A couple of weeks ago my great uncle passed.  He was 93 years old, but he had been fighting Alzheimer's for several years.

My great uncle Bob is someone I would like to write about, but perhaps this time has passed.  I do not know.  

As a child, I did not understand his life or who he was--he lived on a farm without a television and often had strange kids and quiet people staying with him.  He was gracious and kind when we visited, but he didn't talk much.  We would walk around the farm, and he might point out a combine or plane or tractor, which were foreign to me off the farm.  I loved the kittens and sheep that he might have, but mostly, it was quiet and a little boring on the farm.  Bob traveled a lot when he wasn't farming--all over the world.  This intrigued me, but I sort of thought he was vacationing or something.  

I didn't understand who he was or what he was doing.

As an adult, I didn't see him much, but when I did, I asked him lots of questions.  I learned that he traveled the world teaching farming and agriculture--presumably, not like when I went to college.  I asked him once how many counties he had visited, and he told me it would be easier to count the countries he hadn't seen.  He said this with a laugh.  I believe this is true--once, a few years ago, I sat in front of a world map and listed off the countries, starting in South America, moving to Africa, then Asia, and then finally Europe.  He had been to almost all of them.

The kids that stayed with him, they were foster kids.  In the last years, one has stayed with Bob to help take care of him.  I asked this former foster child now adult how many foster kids stayed with Bob over the years.  He told me it was over 40.  There is a doorframe in the farmhouse with markings all along it, both sides of the wide arch--markings with lines, dates, and names for the different kids.  It's overwhelming to see all the names and dates.

And the strange, quiet people--I do not really remember this very well--one is Jan (pronounced Yahn) from Northern Europe.  He came to Bob to learn farming and learned flying instead.  They have been friends for years.  There were others, I think: quiet foreigners and farmers and previous foster kids.  Some from other parts of the world.

In his death, I do not want his life and story to go away, but in the last years, his memories have been slipping away.  I hope and pray to have the chance to write about him, perhaps through his foster kids and friends.  

His is a story I hope to tell.

Introducing... Alfred Stifsim!

 I haven't posted in a minute, but here I am, posting to market a fellow writer!

One of our writers at the Writer's Center and in the fiction group is launching his first novel, Wild Salvation.

I am honored and excited to say that we workshopped this last year.  While I do not normally read Western novels, the plot and characters in this novel pulled me in quickly.  The descriptions are fantastic, and I wish I could attend the book launch: It’s Friday, February 4th from 6-10 pm at Howl + Hide and Wild’s in Fountain Square (a leather and barber shop) in Indy.

I'm excited to hear all about this and get my (signed?) copy!  Hopefully, more to come on this!

Farewell to Facebook

 So here's what happened.

About six weeks ago, I was getting repetitive messages from my Facebook Instant Messager.  Random stuff, but mostly, the messages were job applications, from job positions for secretaries, airline repair persons, waitstaff, and a few other messages asking for information from applicants.  "Send applicantion materials," or "Contact Joe for more information," or similar messages.  The messages would get responses ("What information do you need?" "What kind of experience are you looking for?" etc.), as if these were group chats.

On a few days, I would get a dozen or more texts.

Obviously, I was puzzled. 

My husband even removed my Facebook Messenger from my phone because it was getting annoying.

The first few days, I ignored it.  Dumb move.  I thought this was prompted from some job sites I had visited.

The following weekend, I got onto my Facebook page and explored a bit.  The contact email and phone number were not mine.  I tried to reset my password, but I could not because the email and phone number were not mine--the reset code was sent to a different phone number.  Luckily, I was still logged in.  I found a place to report that my account had been compromised.

A few more days went by, I could not log into Facebook at all.  I did some Googling about Facebook and about the best I could do was to send Facebook messages that my account had been hacked.  Turns out, Facebook has no resources or customer service.  I couldn't contact Facebook at all.  And I am not the first person to go through this.

A week or so later, I searched Facebook help pages, checked my account, and found that my account is disabled.

Funny, when I travelled abroad, I used Facebook to communicate and to share stories with family, but now, I do not use Facebook beyond sharing much beyond sharing Fiction Forge posts.  When I saw that my account was disabled, I felt relief.  I think I have only one regret: some people from my high school have contacted me for reunions.  I haven't gone to one, but I may not know about the next one.

I'm glad to be off Facebook.  

I haven't been on Facebook in over a month, and I do not miss it.  

And now for some "news" from the Onion about Facebook:

One more oldie (a little out-dated from 2011), just because this one makes me laugh:

Online Writing Groups--A New Kind of Body Language

 Perhaps I am a little sensitive to body language and personal space.  I actually took a psychology class on the Psychology of Space--personal space, body language indicators, and other body language extensions--and I learned about lots of interesting things that I had sensed before taking the class.  This was many, many years ago, so I have forgotten the terminology and facts with this, but the ideas and implications have stuck with me.  Fascinating stuff.

Body language comes in lots of different forms--eye contact, personal space, hand gestures, and body posture for a few.  

I want to give several examples from our face-to-face writing group.

New comers may seem more withdrawn into their personal space--you know, arms crossed, weak eye contact--but over time, they can become more relaxed and comfortable.  Their body posture reflects this.

Some group members are highly respected and valued.  When they are speaking, the members generally stop, listen, and make eye contact.  When Tom talks, everyone listens.  When Kristen gives a critique, we are paying attention.  When Randy is talking, we are ready to laugh.

Group members that talk too much or do not contribute as much to the group do not receive the same response to the group.  In the past--I am thinking of two past members who workshopped their novels and did not spend much time on reviews and then stopped attending when their novel was finished--the group generally recognized the lack of reciprocation.  The body language would be more shut off, personal space would not be open, and body posture would close off when these people spoke.  As awful as this is, I was less likely to pay attention when these members were talking then when Tom or Kristen or Randy are talking.

The converse is not exactly true for the online groups because the video chats attempt to create a sense of "meeting."  But the meeting does not really work to read how others are responding to each other.

In an online writing group, eye contact is not obvious.  A writer might appear to be looking at me, but they might be just looking at their screen/word doc/self video.  Body posture and hand gestures are limited, too, because we can only see a small window of their body.  Personal space and body posture are very limited because most writers are posed to see their computers in the best position possible.

And of course, sometimes, writers may use a photo or image to hide their video.  This hides all body language.

Perhaps I sound old-fashioned, but the face-to-face writing groups allow for a plethora of body language that helps us to understand each other and our reactions within the group.  Even if we do not understand body language directly or have all the vocabulary to explain this, I think we all sense this.

Happy Dance for a Weary World

It's been a long and frightful road to here hasn't it, my friends? Such a crooked and snarled path we have had to tread these past two years and more.  

"India Reports New Record Death Toll as Indian G7 Delegation Self-Isolates in London"

Grasping roots and seemingly impassible bramble thickets set in our way at almost every turn such that there little else to do save to brave the thorns and move forward. 

"Anti-Asian Hate Crimes Reported in NY, SF as New Study Shows Surge in Crimes Against AAPI People"

Now, here we stand, bloody and scarred at what we hope to be the end of this the trial of our generation. 

"Chauvin Lawyer Files Motion for New Trial as AG Seeks Harsher Sentence for Murder of George Floyd"

But the end seems elusive...ever moving just out of grasp. 

"Community Demands Answers After Black LGBTQ Teenager Mikayla Miller Found Dead in April"

Doom scrolling through any news feed will leave you to fall to the path and cover your head against the encroaching wilds.

"“New Normal” for U.S. Climate Is Hotter and Wetter, According to New NOAA Data"

And yet...

As I flick through the incessant rain of news and stories pretending to be news, a small thing appeared on my screen. At first, I thought little of it. It was just a man in the Yukon with another vlog to peddle. It seemed of little relevance against the backdrop of such serious and weighty matters bracketed the little video. 

But then, he appeared again. A different video this time, but still just of him. It was just that. A video of this man...dancing...in the frozen Yukon. 

This time I watched.  His name is Gurdeep Pandher and he dances the Bhangra on the shares of Lake Laberge. 

"5-Year-old is a Neighborhood Hero For Drawing Colorful Messages of Hope on Her House During Lockdown" 

I remember smiling as this 6'+ trunk of a man gamboled on the frozen lake.    

"India’s Richest Man Retools Factories to Provide FREE Oxygen to 1 in 10 COVID Patients Across Country"

It turns out the Bhangra is a Punjabi dance of joy and positivity.

"Watch NASA Mars Helicopter Make Aviation History: The First Powered, Controlled Flight on Another Planet"

So here, in the middle of the dross and dregs of my news feed is this Indian man dancing his happy dance at the top of the world.

"‘The Manta’ Sailing Vessel is Designed to Feed on Plastic Waste for Power–While Cleaning Oceans"

Other videos followed. Videos with him dancing with other people from the region. First Nation peoples dancing their traditional dances along with him. Irish dances high stepping in time with the swing and sway of his choreography. Bagpipers, even, bleating out a traditional tune as Gurdeep danced his dance of joy.

"Sister Makes Video For the Classmates of Her Brother With Autism Who is Starting First Grade – And it’s Adorably Helpful"

The videos were more than just a bit of entertainment. There was a purity to it that quieted something in me. 

"Believed to Be Solitary, Male Sperm Whales Actually Hang With the Boys – In Friendships That Can Last Years"

A purity of joy that allowed me to pause my doom scrolling and look beyond the existential dread.

 

"Spontaneous Spirit of Humanity Takes Center Stage Around Erupting Iceland Volcano"

Maybe...just maybe...life is about a little bit more.

Online Writing Groups--the Hiccups (burp)

In my last post, I discussed how our writing group has grown over the last year--probably because we are now online and not meeting in the 'hood in downtown Indianapolis.

This leads to another "difficulty."  I use this term loosely because this is not really a problem--more of a hiccup.

Previous to the 'Rona, when new members joined, we would take a few minutes to review the writing group guidelines, once a year or so.  The guidelines are not extensive, but they are loosely based on the Iowa Writers' Workshop.  Our previous noble leader, David Hassler, defined our guidelines and put them into practice.

Please indulge me.  This was one of David's favorite quotes.

In the last year (as mentioned), we often have had new members every meeting.  New members receive a copy of the guidelines, but I do not recall discussing them as a group in some time.  The online format and larger group size cramps time, so we do not have time to go over the guidelines.

Perhaps I am a little too type-A.  I like my rules.

We have had several submissions with 10-point font or single-spaced.  They are within the page limitations, but because the guidelines are 12-point, double-spaced, the submissions are much longer.

Also, with the larger group sizes, the submissions become almost a "competition" to get reviewed.  I do not like this.  For one thing, our group has seen many members join our group long enough to have their novel reviewed, and then we never see them again.  Also, the new members are often more anxious about having their work reviewed, but reviewing can be more important than having your work reviewed.  Sometimes, too, the newer members do not seem to put much effort into reviewing others' work.  This gets lost in the larger groups and with the competition to submit--often the same people submit, and the older members do not submit to stay out of the "scuffle."

Now into the grit.  Some of our guidelines are about the discussions.  Again, we are based on the Iowa Workshop, so the writer whose work is being discussed is to remain silent, and each critiquer is allowed a turn to speak.  Over time, we have allowed the writer to ask questions and respond.  Mostly, this has been fine.  In the last months, a few writers have taken this time to defend their writing and explain what they are trying to write.  

Cringe.  

Mostly, I can't listen to this for too long.  Recently, I stopped a writer who was explaining what her main character was thinking and doing.  The writer has done this before.  I tried to gently say that this was not coming through on the page and she should not explain this but write it.  She continued to explain, and again, I said I would rather read her next draft than for her to tell me what she intends for the character to do.  She started explaining again. 

Oh, dear.  

Randy says that critiquing is a little like volunteer work.  We spend lots of time reading and reviewing others work for no money.  

I think this is funny, sort of.  

Mostly, this is true.  

Online Writing Groups--Open the Doors!

Over the years I have been in our writing group (13?), we have seen people come and go, sometimes staying for a few meetings and sometimes staying for a year or more, but this year has been different.   In the year of the 'Rona while our writing group has met online, we have had a flurry of new members.  

Because meeting online doesn't require us to drive to the 'hood in downtown Indianapolis, we have had people join us from Washington, Gautemala, Texas, North Carolina, and other places.  This is both tremendously interesting and difficult.

Obviously, meeting online allows for people all over to join the group (during our set time at 7pm, two Tuesdays a month).  The diversity in this group is excellent.  I do not know how many new members have joined over the last year, but at a few meetings, we had over 15 attendees.  

This was both exciting and awkward.

A few of us talked offline about keeping our comments brief, but some of the newer members talked long.  With 15+ people critiquing 3 pieces in 2 hours, we ended up timing the critiques to make certain everyone had time to comment.  

As happens often in the summer, the numbers have dwindled a bit.  We have loyal members that continue to attend, and a few others are busy with writing projects (yes, exciting publishing and promoting endeavors--I hope to devote some posts to them in the future!), and they will probably return.

So as exciting as the ease of online meetings encourages more people, the large meetings have been difficult.  

This also poses a problem for us as we ease back into the world of non-'Rona.  Will we continue to meet online or develop a hybrid system?  Will this exclude the members from other places in the country and in the world?

And now I leave you with this quote.

Online Writing Groups

 I haven't posted in a while.

I have been a little discouraged since the rejections from Frank and Gala, I think, and recent stresses from life have been keeping me from writing.  Unfortunately, writing is probably the thing that keeps me most sane.

Nick and I are hiking this weekend, and this time invigorates me.  Our conversations range from the silly to the serious, and the scenery is lovely.  Here's a shot from The Garden of the Gods.

Anyway, I have been staying active in the Fiction Writing Group through the Indiana Writers Center--the same writing group I have attended for nearly 12 years now.  Although the members of this group have changed over the years, a few members (Randy, Tom, Kristen) have been strong, wise, lovely leaders who I am glad to know and call friends.

In the last year, we have changed our format to an online writing group.

Let me back up for a moment.  During my MFA (yes, some years ago, from 2009 to 2011), I did many online workshops, but these classes were not through a virtual-meeting based workshop.  These workshops were writing intensive, with threads and comments, branching from the main comments that each person posted.  Each member would post a critique, and the readers would respond to each others' critiques, sometimes with long, involved threads.  The writer could read but was not allowed into the discussion until at the end.

In our current online format with the Fiction Writing Group, this has worked extraordinarily well to meet in a Zoom meeting for two hours.  But there have been some bumps along the way.

I hope we will begin to meet in person again soon.  Part of the appeal and attraction with this group is the camaraderie we have developed, and this is difficult to develop in a two-hour Zoom meeting.

One reason for this: in person, we chat about our lives and get to know each other.  We catch up on what is going on.  Several conversations may be going on, inside the room, or even coming and going to the room.  In the Zoom meeting, only one conversation can happen, and while I may want to catch up with Randy or Tom or Kristen, this may seem excluding to newcomers.  

I find the online writing group phenomena very interesting.  I may explore this more in upcoming blogs.

Three Facts

I have learned three facts since the 31st of March, 2021: 

Fact One: I would not have survived the Covid-19 infection. 

Fact Two: I felt safe that Nick was with us when a Sasquatch terrorized our cabin.

Fact Three: My family survived when my lungs were shut down; thus, I can stop worrying.

On March 31st, I received, gladly, my second vaccination for Covid-19. I was warned of side effects, but it didn’t matter to me since I was getting the second dose no matter what -- AND importantly, the side effects were downplayed by the qualifier: 'it is rare, but....'. Regardless, a rare walk through Hell was worth the protection from the evil things that this virus can do. I want to reach the point when I’m no longer worrying about getting infected and when I considerably reduce the chance of spreading it. I want to get to the time when my family and I can travel freely, and when we can invite friends over. A time when the only thing to worry about is all the other things that I normally worry about!

Almost exactly four hours later, I could not pick up heavy objects such as a pitcher of water for the K-cup machine, and my knees suddenly gave out from under me as I reached up into a cabinet. Two hours later on, the muscle pain arrived in my legs and both arms -- a kind of numbing pain like when you’ve hiked all day, but much worse. The rest of the night, I experienced chills, hot sweats, severe muscle pain (especially the back of my legs), and most interesting of all… strange and vivid dreams.

Here is where Fact Two ‘factors’ in. Sorry that it is not in order.

My family and my friends Nick and Heather were staying at a cabin surrounded by dark evergreens way up in the mountains and right up to the shore of a sepia-colored and frigid, still lake (I remember wondering if the oxygen content was too low for this sub-alpine lake). I had the job of unpacking our food and, for some odd reason before putting the items away in the small kitchen, to count them… out loud. However, not too long after I had unpacked everything, we understood, by either instinct or by deduction, that a Sasquatch was scoping our cabin and stalking just beyond the perimeter of sight. I started to pack up the food and (again), count the items out loud. Out loud in real life, too, for I woke up from this dream a couple of times at this point and told myself to stop counting -- it was OCD and it was driving me crazy!

I had no trouble reentering the dream after my scolding, returning to my now unpacking and -- ugh -- counting the food items again, for Nick had convinced us to not panic over the beast and said he’d get dinner going -- he would be setting up the campfire just beyond the porch. So, we all felt safe with Nick around. We played board games in the sitting area and drank and snacked and teased and laughed though large rocks would surely be tossed into the lake to scare us off and thick branches were sure to be tossed at the cabin walls. We felt safe because of Nick’s clarity in logic and his --vast-- experience in the Outdoors. We knew that Nick would be more than sufficient in common sense and strength to convince a Sasquatch to back off and find another cabin… if it had to come to that. And, it didn’t come to that. Thus, Fact Two. 

Facts One and Three need setup.

The statement that follows is not entirely true. I had some reprieve from the episodes in the morning and felt strong enough to go into work for a few hours. The truth is that I went into work in the afternoon for a few hours, but I was very weak*. Ah -- very weak is not extremely weak, so I went in to continue my experiments for, if I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have any data for an entire week**. My post-doc helped with the -80C freezer door a couple of times (it’s a tight locking device), and he and the rest of the lab were extremely good at sending me home soon after I had completed my tasks. So, once I did get home, another wave of the rare vaccine side effects had come ashore to send me to a restless bed of chills and sweats and massive headaches throughout the night.

The next morning (yesterday), I talked myself into going into work again. Why? Look for the * and ** above. So, I went in and got my work done and, by the end of my day, discovered an annoying, dry cough.

This cough would give rise to Fact One, and Fact Three will soon follow.

By last night, my muscle pain had gone away completely. However, I began to struggle for air. My dry cough had turned into a deeper, more consuming fit. My analogy is like trying to breathe through wet concrete. I had to prop myself up on pillows like I do with an asthma attack, and then wrestle with a heating pad during the 'chills' phase whilst another migraine-like headache took residence. More restless sleep. 

This morning, I went into work, because * and **, yet, being early Saturday, no one was around to hear, see, or imagine my struggles... or scold me. I hit the hay when I got home and laid there on the pillows with my worried dog sniffing my nose and mouth and curling up next to me. The sun was brilliant and pouring in as the blinds were partly opened. I examined the big soft maple in my front yard. I felt the rough bark in my memory, and I wondered how much time my tree had remaining on Earth; wondered if I would live here long enough to really know. I closed my eyes, tried to quash coughing fits… rubbed my dog’s neck… listened in on my roommates who were busy at work grooming dogs downstairs; their home business a valuable source of stability to them and to our family… listened to their voices that were incredibly clear, meaningful, and distinct… heard my partner come and go into the room, felt his hand on my forehead, heard him start to ask a question but then stop and open the door… and close it. I heard a wheeze escape from me.

So… Asthma, too.

Fact One. No, I would not have survived a Covid-19 infection. Not me. Not these lungs. Not with my asthma. Here’s my reasoning. The vaccine is not the Coronavirus, but my body’s reaction to the mRNA vaccine would have, one might suppose, mimicked how my body would have reacted to a very real, general viral infection. In other words, a large percentage of the damage done would have been my own body’s fault. Add to that a nearly perpetual infection/propagating machine that is a virus, and then asthmatic fits and childhood scarring…? Again: Fact One. Wet concrete x 96+ hrs = bye-bye.

Actually, Fact Three had shown itself to me on many previous occasions if wearing different skins and by other means. Today, it was in the form of stillness.

I told myself to do it. I held my breath. No. More like, I prevented air from entering my lungs. I laid still. No air. I surprised myself how long I could go without any discomfort.

I look over at my tree and it is firmly planted. I feel the sun on my right leg as the star still conducts nuclear fusion. I lay my hand on my dog’s back. She still snores. I hear Chris calling out over the roar of an industrial air dryer. I hear Jose responding. I hear a dog bark from outside. No air. I hear the squeak of the hall floor as Scotty leaves for the garage to get on the treadmill. I am still. I have no air. I am both angry and relieved. I am finite; I can be put to memory, even by the ones who love me. I can be both missed, yet survived. I will be gone; they will manage. No air. Still. No air. It is fine, you know, to need air... to want air... to fight for air. Breathe. Peace of mind. Exhale. No worries. Breathe. It's true, even if extrapolated on the thinnest of experimental evidence (exhale): Fact Three.