Belize It

These flowers were in boom right outside our beach door. 

This spider monkey was the beginning of our trip up the New River to the Mayan ruins at Lamanai. Lamanai means 'submerged crocodile' but we didn't see any.

 He liked watermelon and we treated him with several pieces. Our guide I. C. told us his mate died several years ago and now he is all alone.

 Water hyacinth along the river.

 A Jacana or Jesus Bird if you prefer. Walks along the debris along the banks of the river.

 Insect bats sleeping the morning away waiting for the dinner bell to ring in the evening.

 A hermit crab? I didn't have a guide for this but I suppose he arrived at our condo while we were away. Catch you later.

 Flora beside the pool.

 A flyover while we traveled to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve located at the southern end of Ambergris Caye Island.

 This coral formation is near one of the deep parts of the reserve that allows boats to pass out into the Caribbean. The sentry let us pass.

 Coming back in through the pass. San Pedro is in the background.

I think it rained every day we were there, but mother nature blessed us by washing everything at night while we slept. One particular night I heard it raining rather hard. It woke me up and I couldn't go back to sleep. After about an hour, I decided to go and read. When I walked into the living room, I saw that the sun was coming up so I walked out onto the pier with my camera and took these pictures.

 I believe this is a black cowbird, but I could be mistaken. Moments after I took this picture, he turned over a piece of coconut tree bark to see if any bugs were underneath. Or maybe he wanted something else. He left disappointed.

 Condo inhabitant. I was just visiting. He actually lives there beneath the bush.

 His Cousin? He lives there too. I envy them both.

 A ray that passed beneath the pier walkway. I wanted to see a spotted eagle ray, but this guy will have to be good enough.

 The view down from the top of the High Temple at Lamanai. The temple is 108 feet from the plaza. I took this picture with my cell phone.

 The view of the lagoon. Fresh spring feed water fills it and creates the New River that flows north to the sea. The Mayan's built their city near the lagoon and had to raise it some ten feet when it was flooded.

 The view of the menu of our favorite restaurant. Every Friday night is taco night and half price margaritas. Wish I'd know that before I left on Friday.

The view from Caliente of some fisherman cleaning the days catch.

The water was a clear green. The sky a brilliant blue. The people were happy and friendly. We had a great time at Wayo's bar on the beach. Walking through the Atlanta airport, we started making plans for our next visit. You better Belize it we'll go back.

Until next time keep reading and I'll catch you later. : )

Up Up and Away

Every year in September my wife and I journey to northern New York State with her parents. We usually enjoy this trip over Labor Day weekend. However, this year due to her schedule we delayed our trip until the end of September. Over the years, we've had to make our trip even later having to venture up a couple of times in October harrowingly close to cold weather. This year the end of September worked just fine.

One of the things I've gotten to see often is hot – air balloons drifting up from Letchworth State Park. The park, affectionately dubbed "The Grand Canyon of the East" is a splendid jewel. Anyone having seen the spectacular vistas would no doubt give an affirmative nod to the title. Every year we manage to find time to enjoy a leisurely drive through the park to view the abundance of deer and take in the scenery.

This year we were treated to an added bonus. As we arrived at the middle falls parking area, two hot – air balloons were preparing to launch. We immediately parked and got out to witness this event. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, our camera was safely resting at the house some ten miles away. Since our planned journey had consisted of a trip to Batavia for lunch at our favorite Chinese food establishment, it didn’t seem necessary to lug the camera along. A note to myself and anyone interested in taking photos. Treat your camera like an American Express card. Don’t leave home without it. I know I won’t as the pictures I managed to take were captured with my cell phone.

Our view upon arrival.

Getting up

Almost ready

Once both balloons were inflated they managed to enjoy the company of the other as the crew completed heating the air and preparing for their departure.

Once the balloon was ready, it didn't take it long to leap into the sky and soar over the trees along the edge of the cliff, but after it moved over the water it became apparent it was going to try and touchdown into the Genesee River which flows through the canyon.

The balloon just barely touched the water before it regained some distance and stabilized itself a few feet above the water.

Meanwhile back at the launch site. The second balloon prepared to join his buddy.

This is when my wife's uncle told me they were going to go over the falls and we headed for the overlook as quickly as we could.

This is the middle falls of Letchworth State Park

Here come the balloons

Heading over the falls

It was a smooth transition from being a few feet off the water to being hundreds of feet off the water

After a few minutes inside the canyon, the balloons separated and headed for wind that took them back up the river.

http://nysparks.com/parks/79/

Giving credit where credit is due.

This picture is from the Letchworth State Park site

Watching these two balloons take flight was a wonderful thing. I got so caught up in the excitement of the experience I have no idea where three of our party viewed this event. My father - in - law had a better vantage point to take pictures and when I get those I'll add them to this post. He was closer to this view. My photos were taken from the viewing area overlooking the falls. The few minutes it took for all this to happen made the entire trip. Next time maybe I'll be in the balloon taking pictures of the ground. That would be awesome too.


As I promised the following three pictures were taken by my Father-In-Law from above the falls viewing area.

Good job Max. I hope you enjoy these shots.

Until next time keep reading. : )

The Hurting Place

‘The Hurting Place’ didn’t start out as many stories do. It didn’t enjoy a smooth and effortless transition from idea to finished work. In fact, the idea for which I intended to use the title is an unfinished orphan so well hidden that I cannot locate its whereabouts. Maybe it’s served its purpose and if that was only to act as a place holder for the title, then I guess I should be thankful. In my opinion, the title fits the story. With it attached to the manuscript, I managed to craft a story I doubt I'd have accomplished with the previous title. So here is how it all worked out.

The first germ of an idea occurred in the fall of 1980 when I arrived at Concord for my freshman year. My housing assignment placed me in The Towers, which stood in the shadow of the remains of an old water tower. Every day, I passed by this tower on my way to and from classes. I heard many stories associated with the tower, but the one that was the most interesting was that the students used to cut the lock off the service door and go swimming in the tower. This story was freely passed down from class to class for years. I can only imagine there are thousands of former students who are receptacles.

Years later the story of an accidental death surfaced in the nearest town. Apparently, someone decided the story of someone swimming in the water tower sounded good. This person decided to go about doing just that in an active water tower. Once inside the tank they quickly realized exit from the water was impossible. How long it took for this person to perish is only speculation, but I’d think it wasn’t a short amount of time.

The question I posed myself was: If I was the person in the tank, and I knew what the outcome would be how would I spend my last few living hours? This is the idea I started with in 2002. The title of the story was to be: ‘In Trouble Deep’. I set to work and started writing the story. The total word count of my effort was less than five hundred. The problem was I wasn’t comfortable with the approach I’d taken to tell the story. I wanted it to be introspective on the part of the swimmer concerning his life. Where had he been successful and where had he failed. As much as I tried to make something happen, I couldn’t get the story to move.

 Even though I couldn’t get anything out of ‘In Trouble Deep',’ I liked the pieces that had given me the idea for the story. On the other hand, ‘The Hurting Place’ had been assigned to a story about a homeless man who had met a gentleman who had befriended him and offered to provide him a place to reside should he ever decide he wanted to live in a home and not on the street. It is another story that failed to move, but I really liked the title. So I took the title ‘The Hurting Place’ from one story and gave it to the water tower story that had stalled. I flipped the idea around and set to writing.

The odd thing about the process was that it wasn’t linear. That is to say, I didn’t start on page one and write until I reached ‘the end’. I wrote scene chapters as they came to me over a course of nine years. When I would share these pieces with fellow writers, and they asked where I was in the story I couldn’t tell them. All I knew was that I wasn’t finished, but the story was moving along. Slowly, but I was making progress. By the way, I wouldn’t recommend this method if you want to write a novel. It was very time-consuming and difficult. But I think I ended up with a nice story.

Okay, that’s how The Hurting Place got its name.

Until next time keep reading.

The Making of a Storyteller ( Part 3 )

Okay so where was I when last we visited? Now I remember. I was telling you about my recounting TV shows to my fellow students. Let’s carry on.

In grade school, I managed to compose some poetry. I know now that I was only sticking my toe in the water to see how it felt. It must have felt okay because I kept at it, and once I got in high school; I started receiving some positive feedback from people whose opinions I valued. That feedback encouraged me to keep putting words on paper. My sophomore year English teacher labeled me a romantic. This shocked me. How could that statement be true? I wanted the stories I’d started to write to reflect Poe and Sterling. I resisted accepting that brand applied to my writing.

Now – after more than thirty years – I know she had me pegged correctly. It’s funny how sometimes people looking from the outside in can see more than the person on the inside looking out. Even though I now accept that label, it took years to get comfortable with it. Such is life.

In college, I continued to straddle the fence of storytelling. I wrote poems and some short stories. Some were okay but most fizzled out and didn’t amount to much. Once I graduated from college, I decided I wanted to see if I could sell some of the words I’d written onto the page. I became a Writer’s Digest subscriber and a book club buyer. With no typewriter available, my stores were poured out into notebooks and loose leaf sheets of paper. I entered contests not hoping or expecting grand prizes or awards. Sometimes a simple nod can go a long way, and I think most writers just want someone to say, “I liked that story.”

Starving for acceptance or appreciation is a difficult path to walk. Every moment without feeling that joy is like existing as a water starved houseplant. Every day, the dirt gets a little harder and the leaves become more brittle. Then one day a stiff wind comes along and kills the last bit of life left in your dream. The books go onto the shelf. The subscription is canceled. The notebooks with dozens of stories and pages and pages of poetry go into a box that finds its way into a dank dark moist basement. Years later that box degrades and falls apart. The papers damp and rotted beyond rescue find their final resting place in a bag of trash.

Years later, I typed some words into an email and hit send. I didn’t expect anything. I just wanted to let the lady on the receiving end of that note to know how I felt about her. With her words of encouragement, I continued to peck out more and more lines. She insisted I write more, and I did. Before long, I had the first attempt at a short story in years. When she read it, she liked it, but wanted it bigger, fuller, and bolder. I stretched the story and bulked it up, but it never became more than a short story. Wake Me Up Someday is hanging around on a hard drive waiting for a little work and a rough polish. Someday it’ll get both. I'm sure.

Keeping company with that story is others. These orphans may one day get their chance and come back to the forefront again. If not I’ve learned some things from them, so they haven’t been works without merit. Each one has given me more and more confidence in what I love doing. Also they’ve helped me embrace the romantic inside me, and that’s okay. What would this world be without love? Thanks Theresa for all your love and encouragement.

When next we meet I’ll give you the back story of The Hurting Place. Until then keep reading. : )

The Making of a Storyteller ( Part 2 )

Looking back now, I think it would be safe to say that Robinson Cursoe was an ambitious book for a ten/eleven year old to attempt. However, when the book was finally finished there was a feeling of great accomplishment. Completing that book gave me the confidence to read other books. Most of the books will never be measured against Defoe’s tale, but each had its own value. If for no other reason, they provided entertainment.

The library of Griffithsville Elementary School was no public library, but it did offer a wealth of reading opportunities for its students. Many of which I read or at the very least perused well enough to decide not to read. Among the books that entertained me were Between Planets, Red Planet, and Space Cadet. These books were written by Robert Heinlein a noted master in the realm of science fiction.

Another writer I enjoyed reading was Curtis Kent Bishop. He wrote sport stories dealing with football, baseball, and basketball. Two of those three interested me and I learned if the book had his name on it, it was worthy of reading. One of his books – Lank of the Little League – is still with me as a fond memory. That either speaks positively for my memory, the quality of his writing, or both.

The first book I ever read more than once was Sabre Jet Ace written by Charles Ira Combs. This book is the story of Joseph C. McConnell a fighter pilot in the Korean War. He was the first triple ace jet fighter pilot. I think I enjoyed this book the second time I read it as much as I did the first. Once again, I can thank my mother for this joy. Having told her I couldn’t find anything at the library  I hadn’t already read, she suggested I reread a book that I previously enjoyed. Hesitant at first, I soon realized really good stories can be read and reread over and over. Thanks again mom.

But reading isn’t the only thing that played into my love of telling stories. During my time in grade school and later high school, I was blessed with the task of being one of the first students to arrive at the school every day. In those days in the sixties, when students arrived at school, they entered their classrooms and found something to occupy ourselves with until the beginning of school. On many occasions, we would gather to talk about what was on TV the previous night.

“Did you see Gunsmoke last night?” I might ask one of my classmates.

“No, what was it about?”

That was all it took to launch me into a detailed oral reconstruction of the entire show. I felt I needed to speak to every lift of a hat, every order of whiskey, or every draw of a gun. To tell of the goings-on’s of an hour TV show took time. But somehow I finished before class started. On the rare occasions when I didn’t there was recess to complete the telling.

Almost always before I finished I had a gathering of nearly a dozen fellow students standing around my desk hanging on my every word and detail. I must have done a good job conveying the story, because I was soon being requested to recount other shows I’d seen the night before. More than once I had friends tell me they didn’t need to watch a show they just needed to make sure I did. That way, I could recount everything to them the next day. That was okay by me.

When next we meet part 3. Until then happy reading. : )

The making of a storyteller ( Part 1 )

The biggest influence on my love of reading and stories was my mother. Some of my fondest memories from childhood were on the nights she would read or tell me and my brother a story. My mom grew up the oldest of eight children in a coal mining community. Being the oldest child put her in the unique position of helping to raise her siblings. I’m sure many of the stories she told them at night were also the stories she told us at night.

Of course there were the standards. Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, and my favorite, and I think her’s as well, Epaminondas and his Auntie. Most stories she told us were recited and not read, but later on we did get a great number of stories read to us from one of my older brother’s school books. As desperately as I’ve tried, I cannot recall the name of the book or any of the names of the stories in the book. One thing I do remember is that when she opened this book to read, I opened my ears to listen.

It is from that book that I developed a love of stories put down on paper. It was almost like some magical spell fell upon me when she read the words from the page that transported me from the comfy covers of our bed to the grassy plains of the Midwest. In that land of buffalo and Indian braves I got to experience an excitement far beyond the reaches of our valley. So it was that I longed for that red book to be opened so I could be once again the hero of the story.

From this love of words it would be reasonable to conclude that I had no problem learning to read. Far be it from the truth. Learning the mechanics of reading somehow eluded me. Not until the fourth and fifth grade did I become comfortable holding a book in my hands and reading the words on the page. That is when I bloomed as a reader and began to use our grade school library to its full advantage.

The first book I can recall reading on my own was Robinson Crusoe. I proudly sat down every evening after dinner and turned the pages eager to see what was to happen to Robinson. Not many days after I started this Everest of words my mother asked if she could read it too. I was happy to allow her to read this book. It would only add to her vast collection of stories. The next day the book remained home as I went to school. That evening after dinner I asked her if she wanted to read the book that night. To my horror she told me she had already finished it. She read in a day what it took me two weeks to accomplish. At first, I felt dejected because it was taking me days to read the book she’d managed to finish in hours. I put down the book determined to let it go unfinished.

When my mother realized I’d stopped reading the book, she questioned me as to what had caused me to abandon the story. I explained to her that it must be too challenging of a book for me since she had read it in a few hours and after days I’d only managed to scratch the surface. She told me that everyone reads at different paces based on their reading expertise and the personal desire to finish the story. This made sense to me, and I rejoined Robinson on the island now content to stroll along the words rather than rush through them making sure to take my time and savor all their meanings.

When next we meet part two. Happy reading.

A couple literary did you knows?

I love books. I can thank my mother for this. She introduced me to stories and the books wherein many of them reside. I say this because one of my favorite stories she told my brother and me during our childhood is nowhere to be found in print, so it must have made its home with her. One of the best stories I know, but not what I want to write about. So I’ll begin with the first literary oddity.

Do you know what a lipogram is? If you don’t already know, then you will be surprised to learn that a lipogram is a written work composed in such a manner as to avoid the use of one or more alphabetic characters. Thank you dictionary.com.

Ernest Vincent Wright would you please take the stage please. Mr. Wright was an American author who lived from 1872 to October 7, 1939. Between 1896 and 1918, he published three books. Several years before 1936, Wright accepted a self-imposed  challenge to write a novel completely lacking the letter “e." Why would he do such a thing you ask? The answer is simple. Someone told him it couldn’t be done. It took him years to complete the manuscript but once completed it contained 50,110 words. Nary a one contains an “e." Where would such a book find a publisher? It didn’t. So in 1939, Wright self-published the book himself. Shortly after the printing, the warehouse holding many of the copies burned destroying nearly all copies of the book. Some did reach circulation, and they are quite valuable. If you happen to have a first printing of Gadsby cherish it. If you’d like to read it for fun, it is available as an e-book or POD.

When I was first told of this feat, the story indicated the letter “e” on his typewriter was broken, and he decided to write a book anyway. As it turns out, he intended to avoid the letter and took great pains to guarantee none snuck into the finished work by tying down the “e” key.

The next oddity happened in my lifetime. I even remember when the announcement was made on TV. I can’t recall the show, but there was a great production made about the book and the introduction of the author. The book published in the summer of 1969 had quickly sold 20,000 copies, and by the end of the year it had spent 13 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list.

So sitting in front of the TV that night, the nation expected to see Penelope Ashe a housewife from Long Island and the reported author of, Naked Came the Stranger. When the curtain opened, the first of twenty five Newsday journalists stepped out onto the stage. The entire book was written as a literary hoax. The brainchild of Mike McGrady, a prize-winning reporter for Newsday, he solicited twenty-four of his fellow writers to be co-conspirators in his truly unique work of fiction.

In recruiting his cohorts, two hard-and-fast rules presided. The book should contain as much sex as possible, and it should be written as awful as possible. Why would this noted journalist do such a thing? It was an experiment to see if good writing didn’t really matter. They found out it didn’t. The adage of sex sells was upheld. That’s still true today. Books considered soft porn are the top-selling  books year after year, and their authors are becoming rich spewing out sex scene after sex scene between the covers. But if you want to read a collaboration of hot steamy sex check out Naked Came the Stranger. It was rereleased in 2004 and has sold over 400,000 copies.

Until next we meet, keep reading.

In the beginning

So let’s begin. What’s in a beginning? More importantly what should the beginning of any writing do?

Before I tell you what I think an opening line should do let’s look at what American Book Review considers the top five opening lines. Imagine the daunting task of choosing these from thousands and thousands of books. Somehow they did it and here are the results.

Number 5

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.

 Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (1955)

As is the case with many of the novels in the list of 100, I had to do some research regarding this book. From this opening line it is evident the POV character has an infatuation with Lolita. This sentence wants the reader to ask who Lolita is, and what makes her so desirable? The shocking answer is that she is a sexually promiscuous girl of twelve which makes the character of Humbert Humbert a pedophile.

Let’s move on.

Number 4

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967; trans. Gregory Rabassa)

After reading this opening, two questions come to mind. What did Colonel Aureliano Buendia do that caused him to be sentenced to the firing squad? Next, why would he think about his first time seeing ice when facing his death? Basically this book is a multi-generation account of the Buendia family. In 1982, Gabriel Garcia Marquez won the Nobel Prize for his body of work. This book, being his most popular work, definitely had a lot to do with that decision. Thanks in part to his opening sentence.

Number 3

A screaming comes across the sky.

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

Combined with the title this opening sentence spoke of something new. The two words in the sentence that speak to me are “screaming” and “across.” Set in Europe at the end of the Second World War, this combination depicts a rainbow which stretches from one place to another. Some device which screams across the sky could only be a rocket. The V-2 rocket which if perfected before the end of the war may have changed the course of the war’s outcome.

Number 2

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813)

Did these words carry more weight two hundred years ago than they do now? A bold statement is that something could be acknowledged a universal truth. Our universe is a vast place and to think that anything could be true throughout it is quite staggering. Then to say that a single man with money would want a wife simply boggles the mind even further. So why would a single man with money want a wife? Who is this single man, and where did he get his money? Does he want a wife? Does he need a wife? Will he find a wife that will make him happy? Does he need love? How many more questions could this sentence spawn? I don’t know?

Finally we’ve arrived.

Number 1

Call me Ishmael.

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)

That’s it? Why not: My name is Ishmael. Maybe: They call me Tom. What about these three words is so powerful? Why is it considered the best opening line in literature? Why did he use the name Ishmael? It certainly doesn’t have the same impact today as it did one hundred and sixty two years ago. So to get a better understanding of the line, I think the reader has to be aware of how important The Bible was to people living in 1850s. Since Melville could have chosen any name for his narrator the question as to why he decided upon Ishmael is important. The name comes from The Bible and is the name of Abraham and Hagar’s son. I won’t go into the complete details of the significance of this correlation except to say that Melville uses the name to signify the narrator as an outcast. If we examine the line we see that he doesn’t say his name is Ishmael but to call him that. In essence he is saying that he is an outcast. By doing so he proclaims himself unworthy.

Someone living in the 1850s would have been very familiar with The Bible and would be aware of the name and the significance of it. When someone of that time read that first line it would’ve created a number of questions. Why did he call himself Ishmael? Why does he consider himself an outcast? Why is he unworthy and of what? Will this man ever tell us his real name? What happened to this man? To find out we must read further.

The main goal of an opening line is to make the reader want to read the next line. The line creates a desire to know more about the person, place, or thing the story is about. The lines that make the reader need to answer these questions and read the next line are the ones that go down in history as great opening lines. This line deserves to be at the top.

Out of the list of one hundred books with the best opening line(s) I myself have only read seven.

#12   The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain (1885)

#48   The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway (1952)

#53   Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury (1953)

#56   Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe (1719)

#59   Catch-22, Joseph Heller (1961)

#64   The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)

#100 The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane (1895)

I’m not going to list the opening lines of these books as well, but if you’d like to check to see how you’re doing in your reading of best opening line novels you should check out this link.

http://americanbookreview.org/100BestLines.asp

Now when it comes to reading, everyone has their own personal tastes. Some people like mysteries while others like action adventure. I’m sure you have your own favorite first lines from books that you love. If you’re a voracious reader then your list probably changes quite often. Here are my top three lines.

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.

Franz Kafka, Metamorphosis (1915)

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird (1960)

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

Stephen King, The Gunslinger (1982)

Although they didn't make the top one hundred list it doesn't matter. I've read them. Tell me what are some of your favorite lines. Maybe I'll read them too.