Posts filed under ‘THOUGHTS’
OBSERVATIONS & OPINIONS
This a suggestion is suggestion for a writing project, either a short story or novel. There is something terribly wrong this country and there seems no way to fix it. Perhaps if readers experience, through fiction, the hurt, the sorrow being caused in this country something may happen. This is not the same country I remember as a child. Life has somehow lost its value. The slightest disagreement could end in death. Not long ago there were two mass shootings, one right after the other. Congress was not in session. Mitch McConnell said any action to be taken could wait. I wonder how many people died while Congress waited. But let’s be honest. Any action taken by congress would have little or no effect in solving the problem of guns. Our president said he would strengthen the gun laws of this country. A visit from the NRA changed his mind. The events experienced in Philadelphia during the past few days highlight the gun problem. Recently there were three events which indicate what a vicious society we have become. A mother was holding her two-year-old daughter IN HER HOUSE. Shots were fired and the child died, hit in the head. Can you imagine in that instant the anger, the fear and the hopelessness that mother experienced? I cannot imagine the sorrow that mother will experience for the rest of her life. Her innocent child denied a future by a senseless act committed by someone with no care for life or property. But this event is in no way unique. Every day, in this country, there are people gripped by the same emotions. Close to the same time, an eleven-month- old child was shot four times while sitting in a car seat. That poor child is now fighting to remain alive. The next day there was an argument between a man and his girlfriend. Two men intervened and asked the man arguing to go to his car and cool-down. Fifteen minutes later the man existed the car and shot these two men, trying to help, dead. These days trying to be of help could cost you your life. Life has become so cheap with the increased availability of guns. The NRA strives to defeat any law which would create a safer society. Who supplies the NRA with the money to accomplish their purpose? Could it be the gun industry putting profit over? How can we change this loss of life in our country? We can change it with our vote. We must elect people who will represent their constituents and not the organizations throwing money their way. We must elect those who have never accepted a dollar from the NRA. I know this is an impossible dream but something must be done. So, I say to writers write your hearts out and maybe you will reach the heart of this country.
OBSERVATIONS & OPINIONS
FUTURE WRITERS AND AI
Just finished the latest book by Ian McEwan, Machines Like Me. I highly recommend it for it is a great read. If you wonder what the future is, you will enjoy this book.
That book is the inspiration for this article.
I recently posted a piece about the elderly writer coping with today’s technological advances and all the social platforms with which to communicate with the public. To summarize, I don’t know how most of today’s electronics work or what they can accomplish. I don’t have a clue how to use the ever-growing number of social platforms. I realize change will never cease, but the rapidity of the changes today is without equal. The purpose of this piece is to address the potential future of writing. The future of not tomorrow’s elderly writers but all writers.
The news today is addressing more and more the future of Artificial Intelligence (AI). My local supermarket has the tall rectangular device roaming around the store. I asked the cashier what the thing does and he said it spots spills. That’s it. Then the human has to come to clean the mess. A meaningless purpose but this is only one step on the road to singularity. Singularity is the time when human and AI intelligence is equal. After that the machines leave us in the dust. What will the machines be then called, robo sapiens?
What I speculate in this piece would make a great premise for a short story. Use it if you want.
I wonder about the challenge to writers in the age of singularity and beyond. When machines are more intelligent than writers. When machines are able to produce more compelling plots and better character development. They may have access to a multitude of languages knowing the meaning of every word in those languages. There also go the translators of novels, and the thesaurus will be relegated to the category of ancient works.
This is just speculation, as it was not long ago, that the personal computer and cell phone were the property of dreams.
A CLOSE FRIEND
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but I run two writers groups.
One meets every Thursday (strange for a group) at the Paoli Library in
Pennsylvania from 12:30-2:30. The group has been in existence for about
three years.
One of the writers is Emmet Robinson. He is a very talented writer and
entertainer in coffee houses with his guitar and vocals.
Here is a newsletter he produces which I fee is worth a read.
He also runs a studio for voice overs and recording books.
AUDIBILITIES
By Emmet Robinson King Street Recording Company
Professional Audio Services for Any Purpose You Can Think Of
Video and Photo Too!
610-647-4341
http://www.kingstreetrecording.com kingstreetrecord@aol.com
Blog: http://www.emmetrobinson.com/wp/
Celebrating Fifty-one Years in Business!
Volume 72, Summer, 2019
Small Body, Big Voice
The tiny mandolin is yet one more descendant of the lute family, with ancestors dating back to Mesopotamia three thousand years ago. Although roughly the size as a ukulele, the modern mandolin has a few interesting differences:
• For each single string on the ukulele, the mandolin has two, tuned in unison.
• Instead of gut or nylon, the mandolin is strung with steel.
• The abrasive nature of the steel strings requires the use of a pick rather than the fingers.
• The tuning is very different from that of the uke – more like that of the violin and viola. As a result, different chord formations are used.
Like most other stringed instruments, the mandolin is found in a variety of shapes and sizes.
• The body of the Neapolitan or round-backed mandolin is quite deep, and shaped something like a gourd. Difficult to play while standing, it’s generally held on the lap of a seated musician.
• The carved-top or arch-top version is much shallower, with a gently curved top and back. A simple shoulder strap allows this version to be played while standing.
• Also playable standing, the flat-backed mandolin is made from thin sheets of wood, with internal bracing added for strength. Its construction is similar to that of the guitar.
Mandolin soundboards – the fronts or tops of the instruments – may vary widely. As there must be an opening to allow the music to escape, some sound holes may be round or oval in shape. Others take their design from the violin which has two sound holes, each shaped like a stylized letter S.
While the development of this instrument can be traced over much of the world, the modern design appears to have been developed by the Viniccia family of Naples. The raised, extended fingerboard and geared tuning pegs were accredited to Pasquale Vinaccia in the late 1800s.
The versatile mandolin, and its relatives, has been used over an extraordinary range of music. There have been mandolin orchestras dedicated to the performance of classical music. Chris Thile plays superb mandolin solos of complex Bach compositions. Much of the music I’m personally familiar with is in the related fields of country and bluegrass. Bill Monroe, known as the father of bluegrass music, played a Gibson.
A highly versatile instrument, the high, crisp tone of the mandolin allows it to project well, even without the aid of a microphone.
IN THE STUDIO
VOICES
In producing musical recordings since 1967, I’ve heard a lot of singers. Many were quite good. Just recently, however, I was delighted to work with a young professional new to the area who is quite extraordinary and needs to present herself to agents with a current demo.
Professionally trained, with Broadway experience, Kelly Briscoe has every quality I admire in a singer. With accurate intonation and perfect vibrato, she presents wonderful warmth of tone – even at the top of her extensive range. As a self-described “Belter,” when emphasis is
needed, she has power to spare. Best of all, she lends genuine emotion to the lyrics – she means every word she sings!
As she was able to provide her own pre-recorded music tracks in a useful format, we began by importing them to the recording system in the control room.
Then, in the studio, she put on headphones while we adjusted recording levels and the volume in her headphones.
With the experience of many hundreds of live performances behind her, she was easily able to begin with minimal warm-up.
Her first song had an interesting history. Written in 1920 for a French musical revue, “Mon Homme” was eventually translated into English under the title, “My Man,” and performed by Fanny Brice in the 1938 Ziegfield Follies. Ms. Brice’s recording eventually earned a Grammy. Many major vocalists have produced their own interpretations of this classic ballad since then, but my absolute favorite is Kelly’s version recorded here.
Two more tunes were recorded in quick succession with revisions recorded on parallel tracks and carefully blended in. The result was an audio CD and three mp3 files that should attract the attention of any intelligent talent representative. Watch out world, here she comes!
It’s a Wrap!
After several months of extensive recording and editing, the audio version of Pax Tandon’s new book,Mindfulness Matters, now appears to be complete. In listening to her warm voice, you’ll have the sensation that she’s speaking directly to you.
All that remains now is duplication and packaging of the eight-disk series. For details, contact Schiffer Publishing at 610-593-9292.
Note: The printed version is currently available on Amazon, and is well worth the small investment. Pax simply makes the point that a positive view leads to more positive experiences and a fuller, richer life.
The Artist’s Voice
A Philadelphia artist brought in a PowerPoint presentation needing narration to accompany her powerful original images. Rather than use a professional narrator, she chose to lend her own voice to the production and did very well. Working from her original script, she spoke softly, quietly, but with sincerity and heartfelt emotion. In a world of so many pleasantly glib voices, she was a refreshing change of pace.
Interesting…
All of the voices I’ve recorded this year have been those of women. Where are the guys?
FROM THE ATTIC
Grit and Determination
In processing a recorded biography, I heard the inspiring story of a woman who managed to rise to success from very humble beginnings.
Born in Pittsburgh in the 1920s, the African-American daughter of a steel worker and a domestic, she lived with her family in a two-room third floor apartment where the beds were shared and the building’s single bathroom was shared with other tenants.
Developing a love for reading at an early age, and inspired by a sister, she did well in school and decided to attend Tuskegee College in Alabama.
Although both her neighborhood and her schools had been ethnically mixed, her bus trip to the South was a very different experience. The long trip required many transfers from one bus to another and, beginning in Wheeling, West Virginia, the buses were rigidly segregated with black passengers often ushered off to make room for whites.
On arrival at Tuskegee, she found herself without sufficient funds for enrollment and had to call on a brother for help.
At last, with grit and determination, she completed her courses and graduated in 1948 with a degree in commercial dietetics.
Considering the challenges she faced, earning her degree was an astounding achievement. Every time I think my life is too difficult, I’ll think of her and her triumph over adversity!
A New Record
Some restoration projects are more complex than others and require the creation of many individual sound files. The previous record of sixty-four, set by a local university, has just been broken by an overseas client with an order for more than 120! Can you beat that?
Family Reunion
The tape I received wasn’t playable due to a missing pressure pad in the cassette shell. So, I carefully opened the shell and transferred the tape to a new one. With that out of the way, I could then digitize an entertaining recording of a family reunion held in New York in 1960.
The client provided text, so the CD labels were easy to produce.
More interesting was the photo for the CD covers. At first glance, it seemed fine. On closer inspection, it was clear that the upper left hand portion of the photo had somehow been tapered off. Well, now, we can’t have that!
Using appropriate software, it was possible to re-create what was missing. As there are no single buttons to push for this kind of photo restoration, it was done with hundreds of tiny strokes with the equivalent of tiny digital paintbrushes. As all of this could be done within 30 minutes, it fell under the standard rate for custom CD covers of $24.95 for processing, plus $2.75 for each cover printed. The restoration allowed including the entire photo, not just most of it.
A Lucky Save
Although I normally retain digital audio files for only a year, some instinct borne of decades of experience leads me to save some of them even longer. A recent request for a single copy of a piano recording proved that to be a useful practice. With the file still in the system, no processing was required and the extra copy was ready in just minutes!
Word Gets Around
Because the menu of services available here is diversified far beyond the norm, happy clients tell their friends and word gets around. This results in inquiries and orders from beyond the immediate neighborhood. For example…
• A call from Oklahoma City developed into an interesting restoration project. An old tape of a musical family get-together had gotten mangled in the recorder and needed repair. In the absence of a suitable local provider, a search of the Internet led to the tape arriving here.
Opening the cassette shell, I found the damaged portion of tape to be quite short – only two or three seconds of music would be lost.
Using a precision splicing block and special adhesive tabs, the damaged portion was carefully removed and the remaining ends joined.
The repaired tape was then reinstalled in the cassette shell, tested, digitized and transferred to disk. Once all was processing was completed, two CDs and the original tape were sent to the client by certified mail.
HINT: After playing a cassette tape, wind it completely to one end or the other. This will prevent a loop of loose tape being caught in the machine and damaged.
• A caller in North Carolina provided a challenge in the form of a poor quality video file of what appeared to be a talent show. The file was made from an original source, which had then been discarded. Somewhere in the middle of the video was a five-minute segment needing improvement.
Since the file I received would not import directly to any useful application, I resorted to trickery and deceit to fool the computer into accepting the file anyway. The requested improvement proved to be possible and, along the way, I had an interesting learning experience.
• From a client in Colorado I received a VHS tape of an original school performance of The Sound of Music for transfer to disk.
•A client who makes his home on the island of Maui keeps rummaging through his garage and finding more tapes of his original concerts. The two newest were recorded in Grand Rapids, Michigan and Panama City, Panama respectively. I wonder what he’ll find next?
NOTE: For safe delivery in sending original recordings here, please send by Certified Mail with a return receipt request.
POEMS & FLEETING THOUGHTS
FEAR
I am not afraid d
Of dying,
What I fear most
Is not living.
REALITY
Death is an
Important moment
Of life,
Not because
You are gone,
But because
Your days
Of accomplishing
Are over.
These two pieces were written with the thoughts of how
we are constantly told what to do to prolong life.
But in reality, the prolonged life may be a life of
little value.
Old age does take its toll.
And some thoughts when you achieve an age
you can’t believe are in conflict with the past
and present.
POEMS & FLEETING THOUGHTS
TRAGEDY AND GREED
Planes crash,
People die,
And industry
Gets slapped
On the wrist.
A BELATED VANENTINE
A BELATED VALENTINE’S DAY GIFT
I had intended to post this yesterday, but transferring from one computer to another shut my goals down.
Finally here it is. I wanted to share with you a story of love, although you will have to read this short story to the end to see what I mean.
This is my first published story, published by Enigma. The location of the story is the Mid Atlantic Air Museum located in Reading, PA. Every year the present a fantastic show during the first weekend in June celebrating the men and machines of WWII. If you are drawn to history, to see aircraft of that era flying as well as reenactors and vehicles of the war we fought, I encourage you to attend.
I am member of the museum and have worked admissions for more than ten years. If you can locate me, when you make the effort to attend, tell me if you enjoyed the show, and if you can’t attend, tell me if you enjoyed the story.
REUNION
The June morning was brilliant and clear with just enough of a breeze to keep you cool despite the predicted eighty-degree day. At the age of eighty-two, for Christopher Johnson, getting up in the morning was not an easy chore and had lately not seemed worth the effort. He turned his head and looked at the pillow beside him. “I miss you so much honey,” he said quietly. His wife Peggy had died less than a year ago. One night they went to bed as usual. The last words he had said to her were the words he always said to her before falling asleep, “I love you.” When Chris awoke, Peggy was dead of a heart attack. A few days later he was looking into her grave knowing a large part of his life was now buried in the cold earth. After almost sixty years of marriage, the pain of her loss was intense, almost as intense as the love they had shared all those years.
With Peggy still on his mind, he sat up and began to stretch his arthritic limbs knowing the pain that would follow. Next he stood up and took a few steps; those first steps, they were the worst of the day. He winced with every movement, but soon his joints and muscles settled down to the constant pain that accompanied him these days.
He had gotten up earlier than usual, for today, unlike most of his days, he had an appointment, something to do. He opened his closet door and, in the back, he found what he was looking for: his U.S. Army ranger dress uniform, the one he had worn on his return home after being wounded during World War II. With persistent pain, he maneuvered his body into the uniform that, after sixty years still fit his slender frame. He looked in the mirror, and the toll of those sixty years stared back at him. The hair on his head and his mustache had gone gray years ago. His eyes, once admired by his fellow soldiers for their ability to spot enemy aircraft or fortifications before anyone else, now watered behind heavy bifocals. He inspected his image, looking over the uniform for signs of moth damage. The area of his uniform he examined first was his chest; there hung the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was proud to have served his country, proud of his awards but knew, that in combat, a split second could mean the difference between a dead soldier and a hero. Satisfied that his uniform had survived another year, he returned it to the closet and dressed in his usual summer shirt and khakis.
While Chris hung up his uniform, his mind still held the Medal of Honor and the events that led to its award.
The day was D Day, early in the morning of June 6th. Chris was among a group of Army Rangers that would be the first to hit the beach. Their objective was to climb and secure the cliffs overlooking the landing sites. These cliffs held guns that could hazard the ships and soldiers, and the hazard needed to be removed. German soldiers were stationed on the cliffs, ready to rain death on unprotected soldiers landing on the beach below. Chris and his three buddies Frank Grimes, Larry Schwartz and Duck Dupont were together in the landing craft, along with twenty other rangers heading toward the beach.
Chris had begun basic training knowing no one. Soon he gravitated to three other guys who seemed to be as lost and alone as he was. The four of them gradually became friends and survived the ordeal together. Of the three, he was closest to Duck Dupont. Duck’s real name was Willard; he gained his nickname Duck during a basic training class. The class was walking past the artillery area when a practice round went off. Most of the class flinched, but Duck was on the ground with his head covered by his hands. From then on he was known as Duck.
His thoughts returned to June 6th.
It was still dark and they landed unopposed. The men quickly and quietly disembarked and headed for the base of the two hundred foot cliff – it would be quite a climb. When everyone was in position, they fired ropes up the side of the cliff. This brought the response they expected, Germans began firing down the cliff and rangers began to collapse on the beach. Chris and his friends were to stay together and climb along with most of the rangers while the rest provided cover fire. Soon the German fire lessened then ceased as the rangers continued their climb.
The four friends were the first to reach the top of the cliff. What they saw sent a shiver through them all. Before them, set back about fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a series of three bunkers. The first light of dawn streamed through the trees beyond the enemy, and all seemed quiet and peaceful except for the machine guns projecting from behind sandbags. They knew they had to act fast, for if they didn’t, the rangers coming up the cliff would be cut down as soon as they reached the top. They split up into two groups; Chris and Duck went to the left – Frank and Larry to the right. The two flanking bunkers had to be eliminated before the middle position could be attacked. Each group approached the nearest bunker and tossed a grenade inside. The simultaneous explosions sent German soldiers into action. The rangers had missed one. Along with fire from the third remaining bunker, a fourth bunker opened up along with mortar fire from behind the bunker. The fourth bunker surprised the rangers and had a clear shot at them. Duck was literally cut in half by machine gun fire. Larry was attacking the third of the bunkers they had seen, having just pulled the pin from a grenade when he was shot. They never did find Frank. Chris entered the first bunker they had taken out, pushed aside the mangled German bodies and manned the machine gun. He quickly took out the bunker they had overlooked before, creeping up to the last remaining bunker; he destroyed it with grenades. The actions of the four men had saved the lives of the rangers now reaching the summit of the cliff and helped secure the landing site for the invasion.
In the early morning silence, after the heat of battle, Chris collapsed on the ground part from fatigue, part from pain, but mostly from grief – his friends were gone. Chris had shrapnel wounds in his left arm and hip. At some point his helmet had taken a hit and deflected the bullet but the impact gave him a nasty scalp wound. Blood now streamed down the side of his face and soaked his collar.
These are the memories that flooded into Chris’s mind as he put away his uniform and prepared to spend a weekend at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum as a guest of honor, something he had done for the last five years. This would be his first year going without Peggy at his side. He knew it would not be the same without her, but he still looked forward to the event.
The museum had organized a weekend devoted to the history of World War II for the last ten years. It was a living history lesson with vintage aircraft flown in from all over the country, and encampments set up with hundreds of reenactors dressed in the World War II uniforms of the United States, England, France and Germany. The museum also invited veterans from the war who would give first hand accounts of combat. But none of them told what the war was really like for their memories were selective, cleansed by time, and they all carried within them that area of memory they would never enter again.
World War II weekend started Friday morning and, although he wasn’t scheduled to give his presentation until Saturday, Chris always went Friday to wander the hanger and apron crammed with vintage World War II fighters, bombers, trainers and transports. He could remember when the skies were filled with their kind. Now there remained only a few of each. On those warm Friday afternoons, he enjoyed walking through the encampments. At one point he saw three men in ranger combat uniforms. He smiled to himself, glad to see his branch of the army represented. Chris loved strolling through the tents. In his mind, there was nothing like the smell of a real canvas tent; the open flaps were your windows and the grass was your floor. He had seen the tents his grandchildren used when they camped, it was like camping in a nylon bag, no smell, no character. In one of those old canvass tents, he could stand, close his eyes, and the memories of his days in the army would flood into his brain.
Another reason he enjoyed the Fridays was the veterans whose attendance was heavy. The old men and women enjoyed the smaller crowds and slower pace that Fridays afforded. He enjoyed conversations with his contemporaries, reliving the past and recalling the days they were once young and involved in the great adventure they shared.
Saturday morning arrived, the sky again clear and blue. He went through his morning routine, slowly struggled into his uniform and waited for his nine o’clock ride to the museum. Chris looked forward to the day. Although he had never made a big deal about his award, one day bathed in the admiration of people who appreciated the sacrifices made during World War II did not hurt him, not at all.
With his first lecture scheduled for 10:30, he was anxious to get to the museum. He found the tent for his lecture. There were about fifty folding chairs set up. He took a moment and stood there alone, letting his mind recall memories that he usually avoided, memories that he would touch slightly, just slightly today.
As he waited at the speaker’s platform, the tent began to fill up. At the back of the tent, he spied the three young men in ranger uniforms he had seen the day before, standing together apart from the crowd. Maybe today they would learn something about the uniforms they wore.
The chairs were full and people were standing in the back as Chris went into his presentation. He shared with them the events of that early morning on the French coast, sanitized, but with enough action to keep the crowds attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Half way through the questions one of the men dressed as a ranger raised his hand and said, “Sir, I just want you to know we appreciate what you did for your country.”
That brought a smile to Chris’ face, “I appreciate that son,” he answered.
The presentation over, the tent was cleared, and it was time for a little lunch and a chance to watch the vintage aircraft flying. This was the part he most enjoyed. The drone of the B-17 accompanied the whine of the Merlin powered P-51s. He knew the planes were the big draw, not old men wearing old uniforms, but he was happy to be part of the show.
First to fly were the trainers, SNJs and T-28s. Then the observation aircraft would fly, the L-19s, followed by the transports, the C-47s and a C-54. Before the fighters and bombers took off, the reenactors took the field in front of the crowd. To the left were the men in German uniforms, to the right the U.S. Army.
The uniformed men fired blanks and mock mortars at each other. There were also smoke grenades thrown by both sides. All this action took place in a grassy area between the runway and aircraft taxiway. As usual, the fire department stood ready for the grass fires the smoke grenades always started, and this year was no exception. The grass fires were more of a nuisance than a danger, and they were always rapidly dealt with. In fact, the dense plumes were greater than any of the regular attendees of the show could remember, and the fire company quickly prepared to hose down the grass. Chris stood there with the rest of the crowd as the shroud of smoke drifted over them.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the rangers, “Sir, we need your help.”
“Sure son, what can I do for you?” came Chris’ reply.
“Could you join us sir?” the ranger questioned. The ranger started walking towards the smoke set off by the mock battle, flanked by the two other rangers Chris had noticed before, and bewildered, Chris followed.
Soon smoke enveloped the four men. The crowd, watching the firemen putting out the grass fire saw the three reenactors on the field but could not imagine why an old man in uniform was traipsing in after them. They saw the four enter the clouds of smoke and lost sight of them.
Chris walked, not knowing where the three young men were taking him. His arthritis bothered him as he entered the smoke, but a few steps into the haze his pain was reduced, and then gone. He noticed something else; he no longer wore his dress uniform but wore the ranger combat uniform, same as the reenactors. All at once he was puzzled and amazed and had no idea what their destination could be.
The three re-enactors slowed down and Chris easily caught up with them. “How in the hell are you, Chris?” asked Duck. Frank and Larry were slapping his back and pounding his shoulders, his young shoulders.
“We’re on a mission and need your help,” said Frank. “We need the squad together,” he continued.
“I’m your man,” said Chris taking off his helmet and running his hand through his thick dark hair. His mind still could not wrap itself around what was happening.
Some of the crowd there to watch the flying saw four figures begin to emerge from the smoke, the figures of four young men. The men entered another cloud of smoke before them and were gone.
Chris and his three buddies came out of the haze. They were on a dirt road surrounded by a forest. They were all holding rifles, but Chris could sense no danger. They were on patrol and Chris felt better than he had ever felt in his life. He was with his best friends, men he had missed all these years and men he loved. The sky was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The trees and grass were the greenest green he had ever seen. He set out with his three friends, easily matching their stride.
Suddenly, Chris’ eyes filled with tears. He did not know how, did not understand what was happening, but somehow he knew his young and pretty Peggy was waiting up ahead.
THE END
PRESIDENTIAL QUESTIONS
President Trump,
Would you object to someone grabbing Melania’s pussy?
Have you thought of or grabbed Ivanka’s pussy?
I understand you think Ivanka is hot.
A HORROR LEGEND IS GONE
I should have posted this piece on Halloween night, but better late than never. I feel this small piece of horror history needs to be shared.
As a writer of horror, I look to the roots of my addition. The source which first opened the world of horror to me has just died at the age of 98. At least they think he died.
He was one of the elements which first opened the world of horror to me. He was Zacherly, the host of a late-night Saturday show centered on classic horror movies. If you didn’t live in the Philadelphia, New Jersey, the New York area, you probably have never heard of him.
Born John Zacherle in 1918, he provided all the original classic horror movies. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy and the Invisible Man among others. If the movie he was showing was not a classic, but a cheesy effort, he would interrupt the film to make comments or insert his image into the film.
During breaks he would camp it up standing in the coffin of his wife, stake pierced. Also, he would talk to Gasport, a potato sack containing who knows what hanging on the wall. Only Zacherly could understand what this sack said, which I found out from Zacherle’s obituary was his son. Go figure.
Another activity, often perused by this ghoulish host, was brain surgery. The brains looking very much like cauliflower. I hesitate to speculate who these brains belonged to, but it is tempting.
I was a teenager when this was all happening. Offered by Zacherly was a passport to Transylvania. Of course I sent away for one. With a bright red cover, it was a cherished possession. It was lost before I had a chance to use it.
A legend is gone. I hope he lives on in reruns, or that murky world where horror meets reality.
WRITERS CROSSING THE LINE
While attending a dinner with a friend, his wife said, “Glad you have a hobby like writing.” My then-wife saw me bristle and understood why. This incident occurred some time ago but not forgotten.
At the time of this event I had already been published and aware of the agony associated on being a writer on the quest to being an author. I have pondered the issues of writing and differences of the title as writer as a hobby or writer as a profession and arrived at the following conclusion.
My thoughts are these. As I went for putting words on paper to attempting publication, I felt writing could no longer be deemed a hobby after experiencing the rejections, multiple times of my work. After some thought, I realized writing can be a pleasant pastime; that some write for the sheer joy of the experience. Never seeking publication, only enjoying the mind wandering to places they would never have considered. Simply enjoying the process of creativity.
Writing is a hobby until you decide to publish. It is then you crossed the Rubicon. There is no going back. You crossed the line from hobby to profession, and God help you. For unless you are extremely talented, a writing gem hidden from the world, you will most likely experience rejection. The words you consider magnificence will push upon the brick wall of reality.
But if you goal is to become an author you will experience a level of doubt and rejection you never anticipated. But someday, if you carry on, your work will find a home and you are on the road of being an author. The difference between writer and author is perseverance.
You made it!
You’re an author now and the years of writing as a hobby are behind you.
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