When You Attack My Family

Tears came as I drove my four-year-old son home from preschool yesterday. I had been doing a good deal of processing since the heinous attack on an Orlando nightclub early Sunday morning. Many voices have risen, and mine is perhaps the least important among the crowd. After hearing commentary from the Justin Torres of the Washington Post yesterday on All Things Considered as we drove home, the dam broke.

Mr. Torres uses the word "sacredness" to describe the club in his Post essay (In Praise of Latin Night at the Queer Club). On NPR he says "people talk about the gay bar like it is church."

Look, I'm a white, middle-aged straight man from Kansas. On the surface, I'm as far from Latin Night at Pulse as anyone in this country. But I've been there--different city, different club--and I've seen that sacredness first-hand on the face of some of my closest friends.

No, not friends. Family.

When you realize this attack was on us, our family, it changes everything. Those weren't "just" gays, or Latinos, or whatever-box-you-might-try-to-put-them-in-to-make-you-feel-safe. They were us. Our brothers and sisters and family.

My heart breaks when I hear of this tragic event bastardized into Islamophobia or a rallying cry for the gun-crazed Right and their "out of my cold, dead hands" mentality. Our Muslim brothers and sisters are family, too, and they've suffered at the hands of men who look a lot like me. I grew up in a small town in which everyone owned guns, hunting was a way of life, and shooting cans of Barbasol to watch them explode in a cloud of foam was just "something to do" on lazy Saturday afternoons. The sacredness of church, mosque, synagogue, or gay club does not stop at the second amendment.

I shed tears on the drive home yesterday for all of us--gay, straight, Muslim, Christian, Latino, black, white, whatever-you-are. I shed tears for the sanctity of life and how awfully easy it is to have that life stolen. I shed tears for all of us, our American family, and how God-awfully dysfunctional we can be.

I'll pick up my son again this afternoon. There will be more NPR coverage of Orlando. He will one day grow old enough to talk about such tragedies. I hope and pray I can help him understand what the word sacred means in exactly the context Mr. Torres used it. I hope and pray he will know the meaning of family, too.

***

Listen to "'These Are My People': Writer Reflects on Orlando Attack in 'Washington Post'"

Read "In Praise of Latin Night at the Queer Club

Ain't Taking Shorts No More (Writing for Free)

NPR's Morning Edition ran a piece this morning titled "Is Writing Online Without Pay Worth It?"

Listen to it. (Or at least read the summary) Then read David Carr's original article at the NY Times, "At Media Companies, a Nation of Serfs".

Yes, they're talking, in general, about non-fiction (sort of...I guess). Hell, just commenting on an article online is offering content for free. Some irony there, considering some of the comments on Carr's article. According to Carr, your Twitter feed and Facebook profile are forms of writing for free. Yikes... Facebook has learned how to cash in. Twitter isn't there. Yet.

Look--this isn't new. I occasionally listen to sports talk radio. I know, it might seem a little "out of character" for me, but it is entertaining. And you know what? The callers provide much of the content (and they are weirdos). No, it isn't a new phenomenon at all.

But is it scary? Yes, especially to anyone who wishes to write for money. Is there a corollary to fiction? Hell yes. I read a good deal of fiction online for free. Yes, many of the markets are well-paying (Apex*, Clarkesworld, Fantasy, etc.), but I'm not buying copies of Fantasy and Science Fiction or Asimov's when I'm spending my limited reading time with Redstone SF or Lightspeed online for free. I currently have subscriptions to Shimmer, Space & Time, and Necrotic Tissue. I try to spend a little money on small press every month (books, etc.), but the writing, I think, is on the virtual wall.

Will I stop blogging? No. Will I stop commenting on others' blogs, tweeting, or any of the other content-creating exercises? No. Am I going to throw an old-school Harlan Ellison rant about paying me? No.


Not yet.

And writing fiction? I'll quit when I'm dead. (but hopefully not from starvation)

*okay, so I did sign on for the Apex subscription, but I could read it for free.

On Time

A few thoughts on time for today...

First, I'm happy to report "Mandatory Waiting Period" will appear in Permuted Press's forthcoming Times of Trouble anthology edited by Lane Adamson. Our escapade with time travel was one of the last times Jamie and I exchanged manuscripts and beta-read for one another, so this one's for you, Jamie. Thanks.

I've been thinking about time lately, how much of a curse and blessing a full time job can be. For one, it eats oodles of time. I see other writers in my relative position all over the social media map, and think, how the hell does he/she/it do that? I'm lucky to blog a few times a week and maybe hit a forum once or twice. My kids eat oodles of time, too, but I love those little scamps. There's a weird trade-off: my job and my children provide plenty of inspiration and writing fodder, but suck away the space to sufficiently use it (hence the curse/blessing).

Finally, NPR (I'm addicted) broadcast an interesting science tidbit last week on the way we perceive time. It's worth the read/listen. "How to Live Forever! Or Why Habits are a Curse"

Here's hoping you find the time to do what you want/need to do today.

Meat. And Storytelling.

I couldn't help but listen to this story from NPR...a bit of human evolutionary history coupled with mention of "storytelling" as uniquely human behavior (you have to listen closely for that last bit, but it's in there).

Further proof that barbecue is good for you. Mmmmm.

"Meat, Fire, and the Evolution of Man" by Christopher Joyce

Any day I can mention barbecue and storytelling in the same post is a good day.