Armistice Day

 I want to let you in on a gold-plated investment. And you don't have to pay a dime. It's my own private holiday, scheduled for March 17. That's right, tomorrow. No, not St. Paddy's Day, though I've got nothing against the wearin' of the green.

It's Armistice Day.

It's got nothing to do with the war in Iran, or any war, except my personal wars, your personal wars.

It's the day I forgive anyone any wrong they''ve done me in the past year. I lay down my sword and shield. I shed the weight of all those grudges.
Does this mean forgive and forget? No. To forget can be dangerous. You can let yourself in for further wrongs, further hurts.
But it does mean giving up playing those hurts over and over in your mind, indulging in revenge fantasies, crossing the street when you see them coming toward you.
It means shirking the work. Doesn’t that sound nice?
And you'll find it harder to form those grudges in the first place, knowing they've got an expiration date.

And here's a bonus: while you're forgiving that person who's hurt you, or forgiving the world that's wounded you, you can forgive yourself, too. Give yourself a break. Don't forget what you've done to hurt other people, you have to learn from your wrongs, so you don’t repeat them. But forgive. It doesn't help to beat yourself up.

Set down all that baggage. Straighten your back and move on down the road with your load lightened.
Armistice Day. Yeah, it's a thing.

 

Character as algorithm

 

If you’re a writer, you’re familiar with this phenomenon: a character takes on a life of their own, dictating to you what they will and won’t say, will and won’t do. What the hell, you say. I brought you into this novel world, and I can take you out of it.

Well, yes—but that’s your only choice if a character gets uppity. Kill off the character, or delete them. You cannot discipline them.

Why is that? Why can’t you do whatever you want with a character?

Because a character is essentially a set of rules you’ve created. An algorithm, to use a despised word. A series of nested if…then statements that guide the character’s actions.

Take my old friend Sherlock Holmes, for instance. Here is rule number one of the Holmesian canon: Holmes solves puzzles. 

Corollary: he solves them with his mind, not his fists. 

Tom Stoppard on words

 “I don't think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you might nudge the world a little or make a poem that children will speak for you when you are dead.”

― Tom Stoppard, The Real Thing

The fiction of despair

No, this is not about Kafka … except in that some days a lot of Americans are feeling like a giant cockroach when they wake up in the morning. But let’s not get off track right from the start. It’s about another kind of fiction born from despair … or at least desperation. 

Let’s start again. I’ve been peeved lately at some of my friends on Facebook for posting “news items” which are obviously thunderingly false. No kidding, right? False stories on the internet? Breaking news: water is wet. 

Let me back up yet again. Confession time: politically (and culturally) I’m a leftie. I mean, way left. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool bleeding heart snowflake woke antifa democratic socialist. If you’re Maga, you may want to leave the room. (Or maybe not. Y’see, I’ve had a semi-epiphany about the Maga movement which might interest you. I’ll get to that later.) So as I’ve said, I’ve been, well, disappointed lately, at my leftie friends (which are about 99% of my friends).

 It started with the news that Stephen Colbert and Rachel Maddow and Jimmy Kimmel were teaming up for a talk/news show, or an entire channel, one that would be a mighty bulwark against the shadow of Trump reaching forth its hand from Mordor. 

“After years of frustration with network pressures and watered-down stories, the trio is reshaping how news is delivered. Maddow’s sharp analysis, Colbert’s fearless satire, and Kimmel’s late-night humor create a dynamic fusion aimed at shaking the media world to its core.” 

Or maybe it was Jon Stewart and AOC teaming up, or Paul McCartney and Dan Rather and Bonnie Raitt. The lineup was fluid as Marvel’s Avengers, but they were all left-wing heroes, coming to the rescue. It was all over Facebook. All untrue. All AI-generated slop. Colbert is not teaming up with Rachel and Jimmy. Taylor Swift and Pope Leo are not on board. Stephen King is staying home. Oprah has no comment. 

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

 Good news!

As I've mentioned before I'm a member of the scion society Crew of the Barque Lone Star, and a contributor to their 2024 collection of pastiches, Mr. Holmes's Neighborhood, which has been available at Barnes&Noble ...

... and is now available on the Crew's website, in a selection of digital formats, for the very reasonable price of FREE. Which is a deal not to be missed.

Especially if you'd like to read my latest Holmesian effort, titled The Sherlock Holmes Appreciation Society, the tale of the first ever Sherlock Holmes fan club, founded by none other than Colonel Sebastian Moran, and headquartered directly across the street from 221B Baker.

Here's a taste:

My dear Inspector Lestrade,

You will not know me, though I feel as if I know you from my friend Dr.

Watson’s stories in The Strand. My name is…well, perhaps it would be wiser to

leave my name out of the affair. Think of me as Mr. Anonymous, although I

suppose you could hunt down my identity if you and it necessary, since for you to

understand my story at all, I must provide you with my address, or rather my

former address—Camden House, London. Which I’m sure you’ll recognize as the

address opposite 221B Baker St.—the establishment of the consulting detective,

Sherlock Holmes. Which, I assume, is why it was chosen as headquarters for the

Sherlock Holmes Appreciation Society.

I have vital information for you. Sherlock Holmes has been murdered. I realize

that seems an impossible statement. But—

This is no good. I’ll have to go back, back to the very beginning. If I don’t

explain fully and in order, you’ll think me mad. I am not a native Londoner. I’m a

Hampshire man, son of a country squire. But the birthright belonged to my elder

brother, so it was the army for me. I joined the Royal Artillery, was commissioned a second lieutenant, and in 1879 I found myself in Afghanistan taking part in the

Battle of Charasiab. On 6 October we were advancing on Kabul when we engaged

a force of Afghan Regulars. It was my baptism by fire...

Plus there's a plethora (say that five times fast) of delicious stories by the other stalwart sailors who comprise the Crew. Dip in!

John Crowley on books

 

“Learning to decipher words had only added to the pleasures of holding spines and turning pages, measuring the journey to the end with a thumb-riffle, poring over frontispieces. Books! Opening with a crackle of old glue, releasing perfume; closing with a solid thump.”

--John Crowley