I was a late convert to Facebook. I was hesitant to get involved with "social media" because it just seemed too much -- too much information, too much time, too much everything.
When I dove head-first into publishing my novels, everyone (and I do mean you) told me I had to have a Facebook page for my writing. Fair enough. I started a professional page and began putting up content related to my books. Lots of content. I'm reminded of the comment someone made back in the 1930s about the famous vaudeville stars (think Jack Benny and Fred Allen) as they made the transition to radio: In vaudeville, you could use the same material every show, every day for years and get laughs. On radio, you use it once and that's it.
To figure out what I should post, I began looking at what others posted. There are a lot of baby pictures. There are a lot of cat pictures. There are a lot of photographs of people I don't know. But all that's fine. It's interesting to see what other people think is interesting enough to post on a public forum.
I joined Facebook in May 2012. In that year, my feelings about Facebook have changed. I still think it's too much information and too much time, but I'm also starting to understand its world-wide appeal.
I've connected with people I knew from high school. People I didn't realize I missed being in touch with. I met new friends (a lot of new friends) who share my interests. I've latched on to some personal and professional pages on which I read very interesting stuff. I love learning, and it's a new opportunity.
Occasionally, I post personal thoughts and insights -- like this one. I can't imagine too many people care to hear my opinions on things or stuff, but I occasionally post something I consider pithy -- or at least interesting.
My spouse, Matt, says I always discover something really fascinating about ten years after everyone else found it fascinating. Fair enough. I don't care if I'm late to the party as long as show up. (And, for the record, I don't believe in being late. It shows respect to be prompt.)
Generally, I'm enjoying my time on Facebook. Although there are still a few things I don't understand.
For example, why do people think cats are illiterate? All the cats I know would ask properly for a cheeseburger -- and would add "please." Cats are many things -- stupid isn't one of them.
Another example: how can people not find animals beautiful? I love all the kitty photos, the doggie pics, the rabbit snaps. All of them. But I don't understand why people feel a need to "shame" their animals on a public forum. Would you like it if someone publicly "shamed" you every time you peed on the bed, or ate through a power cord? Probably not.
Lastly, I don't understand why people say mean and hurtful things on other people's Facebook pages. It astounds me some of the rude comments I've read. Perhaps it's the supposed "anonymity" of posting online that gives people power to be mean. But, even if no one else in the world knows you said it, YOU still do. There's no anonymity in knowing yourself.
On the flip side, I've been on the receiving end of some very considerate, thoughtful, even kind words from people who follow my pages or just stumble onto them. People I've never met, perhaps people I'll never know in person, taking the time to type something kind and encouraging. I'm so amazed at the generosity of some people. I always try to be kind and considerate of others -- keeping in mind the tired but true dictum: if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing.
But, right now, I have writing to attend do. I'm working on another novel and my time is very precious, and I need to -- wait, another picture of baby kitties! Hold on! I'll be right back.
19 June 2013
09 June 2013
06 June 2013
01 June 2013
Win a signed copy of "Murder at Eastern Columbia"!
My newest novel has just come out: "Murder at Eastern Columbia," a James Murray mystery. It's a really cool story about a young man in 1931 Los Angeles who wants to be a writer, and his alter ego, tracking down clues and trying to solve the murder of the girl with the sorrel-colored hair.
Wanna win a copy? Of course you do! Here's a contest. Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Wanna win a copy? Of course you do! Here's a contest. Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
22 May 2013
Melamine Answer Man
Who hasn't wondered what kind of melamine dinnerware was used by Darrin and Samantha Stevens on "Bewitched" (pictured)? Or the kind used by Lucy and Ricky on "I Love Lucy"? Or perhaps what brand Alice favored when serving "The Brady Bunch"? Now, you can find out on a new page I just added to my PlasticLiving.com website here.
13 May 2013
The countdown has begun.
Just a couple more weeks until my new novel is released. This new work is two stories in one -- both taking place in downtown Los Angeles in 1931, the depths of the Great Depression. Here, in this sample, the main character's alter ego talks about pawn shops and what they mean to him:
"I've spent a lot of time in pawn shops and pretty much hated every minute. I used them myself once in a while, of course; I visited them on occasion for help with a case: but every time I hated it. Every one of them held captive so many happy memories and told of so many desperate people and their desperate times.
"I would look through the window at a set of shiny new golf clubs and wonder at their story. Had they been a gift from a loving wife to a deserving husband? Had she smiled with delight when he opened the box and figured out what was inside? Had he leapt to his feet and given her a big, thankful kiss? Had he told her how much he loved them and would think of her every time he played?
"What happened between those happy times and now, when they sat here, covered with dust, unused and unloved? What happened to make the man pawn them? What had he said to his wife when discussing the state their finances had fallen into? Did she cry when he suggested the clubs? Did she admonish him to keep them, telling him that somehow 'everything would turn out all right'? Did he lift his hand and wipe from her face the lone tear that had started to fall, smile at her and say 'as long as we're together, everything will turn out all right'? Did she give his hand a squeeze, acknowledging that he was right, telling him that they were just 'things' anyway? Did the money from the clubs save their house, or their car, or the life of their child who had come down with a pimple that turned out to be infected? Or did the money come too little and too late to save the house, the car, the kid?
"I never knew the answers to those questions. That made them haunt me even more. It made me hate pawn shops more than that. I didn't want to see all the detritus of so many lives and have to always wonder what was behind each piece that sat there with a sad price tag on it. What was the price of happiness? I don't know; but I can tell you for sure it was more than the amount scribbled on the yellowing card propped up against the small velvet-lined box that held two gold wedding rings."
"I've spent a lot of time in pawn shops and pretty much hated every minute. I used them myself once in a while, of course; I visited them on occasion for help with a case: but every time I hated it. Every one of them held captive so many happy memories and told of so many desperate people and their desperate times.
"I would look through the window at a set of shiny new golf clubs and wonder at their story. Had they been a gift from a loving wife to a deserving husband? Had she smiled with delight when he opened the box and figured out what was inside? Had he leapt to his feet and given her a big, thankful kiss? Had he told her how much he loved them and would think of her every time he played?
"What happened between those happy times and now, when they sat here, covered with dust, unused and unloved? What happened to make the man pawn them? What had he said to his wife when discussing the state their finances had fallen into? Did she cry when he suggested the clubs? Did she admonish him to keep them, telling him that somehow 'everything would turn out all right'? Did he lift his hand and wipe from her face the lone tear that had started to fall, smile at her and say 'as long as we're together, everything will turn out all right'? Did she give his hand a squeeze, acknowledging that he was right, telling him that they were just 'things' anyway? Did the money from the clubs save their house, or their car, or the life of their child who had come down with a pimple that turned out to be infected? Or did the money come too little and too late to save the house, the car, the kid?
"I never knew the answers to those questions. That made them haunt me even more. It made me hate pawn shops more than that. I didn't want to see all the detritus of so many lives and have to always wonder what was behind each piece that sat there with a sad price tag on it. What was the price of happiness? I don't know; but I can tell you for sure it was more than the amount scribbled on the yellowing card propped up against the small velvet-lined box that held two gold wedding rings."
11 May 2013
27 April 2013
Digging the Past
I know everyone's seen this already, but I just have to add to the internet traffic for this wonderful find: a 100-year-old time capsule from Oklahoma. How cool is this?
This is an example of why I love being a writer. When I research a story (like the 1930s novel I'm currently working on) I seek out old books, old movies -- sometimes old people -- to find out about the world of the past. In a way, it's like opening a time capsule of information that has not been read in decades, reveling in memories that have not been probed for ages, and bringing back to life (if only for a few minutes) the minutia of a world that has long since stopped existing.
The people of 1913 Oklahoma who created this time capsule did the world a great favor. They included art or their time, fashions, laws of the native peoples, letters written to descendants of families -- and even recorded their voices to be heard in the next millennia. I know a lot of people could not care less about the past. It's a shame, really, because as the saying goes, their past is our prologue.
You can read more about this find (and see photographs) here.
This is an example of why I love being a writer. When I research a story (like the 1930s novel I'm currently working on) I seek out old books, old movies -- sometimes old people -- to find out about the world of the past. In a way, it's like opening a time capsule of information that has not been read in decades, reveling in memories that have not been probed for ages, and bringing back to life (if only for a few minutes) the minutia of a world that has long since stopped existing.
The people of 1913 Oklahoma who created this time capsule did the world a great favor. They included art or their time, fashions, laws of the native peoples, letters written to descendants of families -- and even recorded their voices to be heard in the next millennia. I know a lot of people could not care less about the past. It's a shame, really, because as the saying goes, their past is our prologue.
You can read more about this find (and see photographs) here.
26 April 2013
21 April 2013
Sorrow
I feel sad for all the people involved in both the Boston bombings and the West fertilizer-plant explosion. I feel empathy for the people who were killed, those injured, and even those who just happened to be in the area. Even if not physically affected, they are mentally affected -- which can often be just as bad.
Of all the people connected to these events, you know who I feel the most sorrow for? Ruslan Tsarni -- an uncle of the two Boston bombers.
I suppose this might come as a bit of a shock. Why don't I feel the most sorrow for the people who died? Or the people permanently injured?
Fair enough. But, put yourself in the place of the uncle:
You're sitting at home, minding your own business and you see a television report showing the suspected bombers and you recognize BOTH of the bombers as relatives. You are an immigrant to America, you love your new country as much as you love your heritage and here you are: faced with such a horrible action taken by people you know and are related to.
Tsarni could have stayed in his house, cowered in a corner for fear someone would find out that he was related to the suspects. What did he do? He appeared in front of national media, told everyone who he was and his relationship to the suspects and implored them to turn themselves in. He stressed that the suspects -- his nephews -- brought shame to their family, shame to their home country, shame to their status as immigrants.
Some have dismissed his actions as a clever public-relations ploy. Perhaps it was. But perhaps it was another example of one or two people bringing shame to an entire class of immigrants. History is replete with stories of immigrant parents disowning their children for doing something that brought shame to their nationality. This is nothing new. For many immigrants, it matters to them that they "do the right thing" as American residents or new American citizens. They want to prove that they are worthy of being an "American."
It took a lot of courage for Tsarni to put himself square in the public focus like he did. I sincerely hope all the other Americans who heard his pleas understand that the guilty are not "immigrants," they are not "Islamists," they are not "Chechens." The guilty are the people who placed the bombs that did the damage.
You can read more about Tsarni here.
Of all the people connected to these events, you know who I feel the most sorrow for? Ruslan Tsarni -- an uncle of the two Boston bombers.
I suppose this might come as a bit of a shock. Why don't I feel the most sorrow for the people who died? Or the people permanently injured?
Fair enough. But, put yourself in the place of the uncle:
You're sitting at home, minding your own business and you see a television report showing the suspected bombers and you recognize BOTH of the bombers as relatives. You are an immigrant to America, you love your new country as much as you love your heritage and here you are: faced with such a horrible action taken by people you know and are related to.
Tsarni could have stayed in his house, cowered in a corner for fear someone would find out that he was related to the suspects. What did he do? He appeared in front of national media, told everyone who he was and his relationship to the suspects and implored them to turn themselves in. He stressed that the suspects -- his nephews -- brought shame to their family, shame to their home country, shame to their status as immigrants.
Some have dismissed his actions as a clever public-relations ploy. Perhaps it was. But perhaps it was another example of one or two people bringing shame to an entire class of immigrants. History is replete with stories of immigrant parents disowning their children for doing something that brought shame to their nationality. This is nothing new. For many immigrants, it matters to them that they "do the right thing" as American residents or new American citizens. They want to prove that they are worthy of being an "American."
It took a lot of courage for Tsarni to put himself square in the public focus like he did. I sincerely hope all the other Americans who heard his pleas understand that the guilty are not "immigrants," they are not "Islamists," they are not "Chechens." The guilty are the people who placed the bombs that did the damage.
You can read more about Tsarni here.
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