WRITING A FAMILY MEMBER’S (HI)STORY

 Reading the reviews in the NYT’s Books section, I noticed the many non-fiction histories of family members; that is, authors who choose to tell of their parents, grandparents or cousins’ life stories.

 

Granted, discovering your mother had a mortal secret she carried unspoken all her life, or your father had a second family tucked in plain sight you never knew about, or Cousin George turned out to have been an enemy spy, all these are exciting and a gateway to a publishable book. After all, you are a writer and have the justified appropriation via DNA.

 

But do you?

 

Both my parents lived rich and varied lives. I’ve been encouraged by many to write about them. Especially about my father, who survived the Holocaust to fight for the establishment of the state of Israel and was buried in Jerusalem, where every religious Jew only dreams to end up. What a story.

 

And what about my mother, born to well-heeled parents in the Golden country, the USA, only to abandon them and her comfortable life in order to be part of building the new Jewish state, thus replacing a life of comfort with hard physical work planting tomatoes in the scorching Israeli desert.   

 

Life stories woven into the stories of a people. Isn’t that a book?

 

But I will not write their stories. While my father lived, he was urged by many to tell his own story and always refused. It seems an encroachment on what was his story to tell and his alone, and something he would not have wanted me to do. My father was a better writer than I ever could be and he chose not to, and so it will have to be.

 

I have used many things from my own life in my fictional stories, but writing a non-fiction biography of a family member has an almost pornographic feel to it.

 

And if I had a Cousin George, I wouldn’t tell his story either. The reason a publisher would pick it up is that I am distantly related, which supposedly gives me some sort of bona fides, and the story is titillating.

 A good biography, if it is honest, contains the many contradictions of every life lived. Telling of my own is one thing. Telling of the foibles of others is another. Especially if done for your entertainment.

 

You do you, but this doesn’t work for me. Telling on family, whether scandalous or hagiographical, is something I would no more do than want done to me. It’s the Golden rule.

EVELYN CHRISTENSEN

July 9, 1949- October 14, 2026

I could write about Ev's many achievements and the glowing path of grace she has paved on this earth. But the Ev I knew would not have wanted that. She was, above all, a modest person who blushed and changed the subject when praised.

{Her family's obituary for her is linked here and speaks of imprint on many.}

Instead, I will write about what our friendship had meant and will continue to mean to me.

Ev came into my life during a very challenging stretch where I couldn’t see the road ahead clearly. She first reached out to me with a single sentence, “Sharing your journey, Mirka.” We both had a parent in a nursing home with dementia, and I had done what I never had before: ask for advice on a children’s writers’ chat board where we were both members.

From that moment, we walked hand in hand. The load got lighter, as the road got less bumpy. Long after Ev’s father left this world, and my mother followed a year later, we shared the joys of family, small triumphs and many challenges, and there was not a day when I didn’t wonder how I got such a gift of a true friend which I in no way had earned.

Now I am left with Ev’s many notes, meticulously written in the most beautiful handwriting, telling me she was the lucky one to have me in her life, when all along I knew it was the other way around. I thank God for Ev, the truest friend in need and in deed.

We met in person only once, when Ev and Ralph travelled to Oberlin, Ohio, while I was there to chaperone my daughter in an international piano competition. I cherish this photo of Ev and myself “making music” on keys painted on the street. Now she is singing with the angels, while I am left behind to pound the hard pavement.

ODDITIES of HISTORY

 

In this case…

One OCTOBER 20^th LONG AGO…

 

If you have read my blog in the past, you know I like to mull over “this date in history.”

Especially on less than well remembered items, such as the one I stumbled on today.

 

On October 20, 1774, the First Continental Congress adopted the Continental Association, a sweeping agreement that instituted a trade boycott with Great Britain. To promote wartime frugality and unity, Clause 8 mandated the discouragement of all "expensive diversions and entertainments," specifically targeting theater, horse racing, gaming, and cockfighting.

 

Well then, how’s about them apples.

 

Known as The Act for Discouragement of Entertainment, the act specifically banned:

   Horse racing

  Gaming and gambling

  Cockfighting

  Exhibitions of shows and theatrical plays

  Lavish funeral practices (e.g., buying expensive mourning clothes, scarves, and gloves)

I suppose today it would include all sorts of digital consumption products and a few more merriment-making activities.

 

Governments, even the sort that proclaimed their goals to limit the governmental imposition on individuals, (such as fueled part of the American Revolution), can betray these goals at the drop of a hat.

 

It is noted that, despite the ban, theatrical performances and recreational events occasionally continued in secret during the Revolutionary War. Most famously, George Washington ignored the ban in 1778 and staged a production of the play Cato at Valley Forge to entertain and inspire his officers.

 

On this October 20^th, I hope you find joy and perhaps some entertainment in this post.

William Hogarth etching The Laughing Audience (1733) depicts eighteenth-century theater scene

“DO YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY, OR DO YOU WANT TO BE RIGHT?”

 or---

DO YOU WANT TO BE RIGHT, OR DO YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY?

Lest you suggest the title and subtitle of this post are the same thing, I would say that the order reversal makes the emphasis slightly and subtly different.

 

But here I go, making the point. Choosing an argument over calm waters.

 

My late father, a wise person, once told me that sometimes you let people lie to you, or mislead you, rather than correct their factoids. So many things are of lesser consequence.

This is not about different points of view. This post is not about personal arrogance or pride preventing us from accepting there’s more than one way to a better result. To me, a different point of view is interesting and always worth considering.

 

This is about someone deliberately and knowingly misleading and twisting facts.

 

And you know what? Sometimes, I just let them.

 

Because peace and friendliness are also of high value to me, and so in lesser matters I will strive to be happy, not right.

 

In my late father’s case, when an old friend began telling a group of their friends about a famous battle he had soldiered in (and my father knew this old friend had never been anywhere near that battle) my father thwarted the itch to correct this friend publicly. Later, when he considered making this correction privately, he decided against it.

 

I should strive to do the same more often.

IN ORDER TO FALL ASLEEP, YOU PRETEND TO FALL ASLEEP

 

😉PERHAPS THAT’S THE WAY EVERYTHING WORKS😜

Another in the vein of “fake it till you make it.” Yup.

 

But here’s the kicker—

It actually works.

I don’t know about other “fake it” situations but pretending to fall asleep works almost every time.

Ditto for pretending to be happier than you are. It worked for me countless times. It didn’t result in delirious joy, just a notable improvement on the scale of being okay.

 

The “fake it” as it relates to “make it” is often urged when it comes to dealing with the material world and professional success. I am not one of the crowned uber super-duper people, so I wouldn’t know.

 

But this I do know: Applying the “pretend” to dealing with self alone, as in “between me and myself,” is effective. It’s good advice and deserves at least a try.

 

Try telling yourself you are this or that something, and you will be a bit more of this and that. Be careful with self-admonition, because it works in the reverse also. So, if falling asleep feels elusive and you tell yourself you are never going to, guess what. 😶

 

🥱 SWEET DREAMS😴

BABY STEPS...

 

…ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER 👣

 

Notes to self:

1.      Just take one step.

2.      Then, another

3.      Start somewhere. Everyone does

4.      The only way to get anywhere is to take the first step.

 

“But it will take forever…”

5.      “Forever” is a very long time. Don’t think about “forever.”

6.      Back to one foot in front of the other.

7.      Pat on the back 🙆🏻‍♀️

8.      …And back for another step tomorrow

 

WE TEND TO FORGET THAT EVEN BABY STEPS WILL MOVE US FORWARD

WRITE IT DOWN…

 

…FOR LATER

 

Much later.

 

There’s a truth almost universally acknowledged that a writer who wishes to improve must set aside their first drafts and not so much as glance at the pages for a long time. Only after time has passed, will the writer begin to “see” if the writing carries merit.

 

This post is not about polishing one’s writing, but about perspective on one’s emotional life.

The advice goes something like this: Write down what is bothering you, even to the point of ailment, and tuck that piece of paper (or digital file) away. Let a year pass, then take it out.

 

Only then will you know if the weighty burdens of the year before are--

1.      Still valid

2.      Much lighter

3.      Ridiculous

4.      Hilarious

 

All the above are possible, and I’ve experienced them. It’s what perspective is all about.

 

In this way, the writing and revising process echoes life.

 

So, write it down for now, and read it later. Much later.

ASK FOR FAVOR, GET ADVICE. ASK FOR ADVICE, GET A FAVOR

 

Whoever came up with the above relationship advice knew of what they speak.

 

On the face of it, it doesn’t sound right. In real life it is just about spot on.

 

I noticed long ago that when asking for a favor, something I never found easy to do, others are full of helpful advice. But few of the advisers are there to be of practical help. Something about being asked for a favor causes a defensive/protective wall to be erected in the persons asked.

 

I had a friend who always asked for advice. Being asked for advice is flattering. Someone you care about values your thinking. This sets you into an expansive state. Now you don’t only want to offer your thinking on their issue, you want to be part of the solution. Being part of the solution on a practical level becomes your reward.

I was always right there, ready to do and be if that friend took my advice. I have to be honest and admit that said friend, when they asked for a favor, didn’t always get the best help from me. This is one of the ways I know the title of this post holds a truth.

 

Of course, I’ve been fortunate to have people in my life who follow their advice with practical help. The years have taught me they are not the rule but the exception. This makes them stand out as exceptional, and you know who you are.

©Anastasia Ames

WHEN THERE’S A HUMAN BEING IN FRONT OF YOU, PUT AWAY YOUR PHONE

 

Yes, I know. I know. But what if…

            It’s someone who rarely calls and I want to talk to them. Or…

                        It’s an answer to a (non-medical and not from a doctor) question I’ve been waiting for.

 Or…

                                    It’s one of my kids just wanting to chat. Or…

’NUFF with the “ORs,”--- these really can wait because there’s a live human being you are with, as in NOW.

 

I have few friends who agree and fewer who act as I do.

 

So, what do I do? With some of the above I send a one-sentence text saying I will respond later unless this is an emergency. So far, it only qualified as such once, and that is to this day my one exception.

 

I go one further and usually go for walks by myself sans phone. This is more than being present because I’m with a live human being other than myself; it’s about being with the human being that is me.

 

I suppose this sounds radical to many. I am blessed in the sense that I grew up in days of yore and have an idea of what life without phone-slavery is like, and I have little fear of keeping that aspect present in my life now.

 

You do you. I post this just as a wee consideration.

HOW NOT TO MAKE WHAT SOMEONE ELSE TOLD YOU INTO YOUR NARRATIVE

 

The above is not a simple matter. This applies to every notion and decision on life’s journey, but writers know it as how to handle critical feedback, whether from caring beta readers or less caring publishing professionals.

 

Long ago, when a beta reader to one of my manuscripts reacted to only one small aspect of the story with “how could this protagonist be so mean to her sister,” I scratched my head (the MC was in no way “mean” to her sister, nor was any aspect of the sisterly relationship central to the tale) until I remembered this beta had long complained about having a mean sister. This Beta was not on speaking terms with her only sister, something she mentioned often.

 

It was long ago, and it was also a pivotal moment in my addressing others’ input into my understanding of reality.

 

It’s their narrative. I have mine. I’ll always listen, weigh, and always, but ALWAYS, note who it’s coming from.

 

When I don’t know the person enough to evaluate, I put what they report on a mental shelf, to be looked at and considered along with other items as I move along. When I do, who they are and what I know about them is front and center.

 

I recently had two betas giving opposing advice that was not just incompatible; it was diametrically contradictory. I shelved it, and two months later I have decided (because I know them both, one much better than the other) to ignore both of their suggestions.

 

It’s my narrative. That’s why.

The DREAD of SEPTEMBER 1ST

Growing up in Israel, September 1^st was the first day of the school year. No matter what else would suggest bumping the beginning of our toil either forward or pushing it back, the schedule was as firm as it was non-negotiable.

Unless it fell on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. Oh, how we hoped it would. One year, when September began on Saturday, we rejoiced as if we had won the lottery. Our summer vacation got an extra day of freedom.

 

There was something sad that enveloped the last day of summer vacation. The whiff of changes to come loomed large, and when I reflect on that predictable feeling, which came like clockwork on August the 31^st, I realize I was always anxious and unhappy about change. Each new school year meant a new teacher, a new room (Israel didn’t have a “homeroom” system for elementary schools back then) and possibly a few new classmates to get used to.

 

It wasn’t the return to school, which I mostly liked. It was the return of the daily homework assignments, which I mostly disliked. When I reflect on my distain for homework, I realize very few assignments were stimulating or interesting. The few that were interesting made me happy. But most were a drudge and the word boring is too kind for the almost mindless regurgitation imposed. How can one not feel sad that many months of these daily backpacks laden with heavy cement were about to be placed on our backs, and for so-o-o many months until summer vacation begins again?

The last day of August bore the color of cement.

 

You know how you might dread something, like getting a shot or swallowing fish oil pills, and the dread grows inside your belly until it swells too large to be contained and floods your whole being? That about describes what August 31^st was like.

 

But, like the shot or smelly pill, once done it amazes how needless the dread should have been.

 

September 1^st, by the end of the school day, all was well and you are assured it will continue to be, rolling from week to week until the great summer vacation comes again.

 

So many years later, I still feel both August 31^st and September 1^st every year they come around.

I say to the me-of-then and to school children in Israel, it will be all right.

My very first September 1^st: still joyous with my best friend the first day of first grade, before we knew a thing about the vat of daily homework we were about to be dunked into.

The words behind us spell “Hello First Grade”

OH, NO. STILL TALKING ABOUT AI

DH, one of the original techies (he designed both hardware and software when few knew what those “wares” were) mocks the big to-do about AI. He maintains it isn’t different from the digital tools we have been using for forty years, only more sophisticated and functional, but not fundamentally a new species of “ware.”

 

I tend to agree, and I’m no techie. Digital tools have been with us since the mid-20^th century, and in our homes since the late part of the same. They just keep getting more able and their functionality is replacing an increasing number of functions that once required living breathing individual beings to operate.

 

Digital tools are just that, TOOLS.

 

Cars replaced horses, typewriters replaced pencils. Spellcheckers replaced thumbing through printed dictionaries, and printed dictionaries were replaced with ones brought to light on screens.

 

Now AI tools also manage technical writing once done by hardworking humans with the job title “Tech Writer,” and genre fiction can be spewed in minutes by the same tools. Echoes of the assembly line workers being replaced by machines? You bet.

 

It is uncomfortable to be replaced. It is both exhilarating and uncomfortable to adjust to most changes.

 

It’s also pointless to whine or rail against it. Digital tools are here, and they keep getting better in the sense of becoming more precise.

 

But the point where we give up on meaning in our creative lives is nowhere here and never will be. I’m reminded of chapter 23 in The Little Prince, where he comes to a train station and someone is selling “water pills.” The salesperson promises it would save the buyer some minutes they would otherwise have to waste drinking water. The Little Prince is baffled, as he’d rather take the few minutes saved and go to the nearest brook or water well and take in the fresh drink of water.

 

If you want to churn a novel, AI is a (still mediocre) tool, but it will do, and it will keep getting better at it. If you want to grow through the journey of creating a novel with all the amazing insights and emotional experiences it will provide you, the creator, you will write it, every word of it, as it flows out of the fountain of your God-given creative stream.

PEOPLE WHO AVOID THEIR OWN FEELINGS WILL NEGLECT YOURS

There’s a much-used axiom that starts with “There are two kinds of people. The first… .”

One can replace the “two” with any number. The point? Classifying humankind into simplistic categories.

It sounds like a version of folk wisdom. In a way, it is. Of course, all simplifications miss the gray zone most inhabit.

 

I’m about to reflect on one such and give it credence because I noticed that in life and also in literature there are two sorts of people. Those who talk about their feelings, sometimes ad nauseam, and those who never talk about feelings (theirs or others’) and view feelings as indulgent and ultimately pointless.

 

In between lies the vast majority of humanity. But I was thinking about one of the extremes today after reading a full bestselling novel from a writer who has written many like it (a popular one that shall remain unnamed here) where feelings or reflections on such were utterly missing. Not the sort where the reader/listener (audio version is also selling well) can surmise the emotional landscape from the actions, but where the main characters neither reveal nor discuss how anything makes them feel, and their audience is going on a wild action ride with nary any emotion beside excitement generated by action.

 

Some writers of commercial fiction write this way. Some people live this way. From life experience I also know that those who dismiss feelings as “messy” don’t stop with their own. Regardless of whether the underlying reason is early trauma or sociopathy, they will make no room for your feelings either.

 

If you write, think about the emotional landscape. For the rest who just “live,” consider how barren your lay of the land is and how much more alive you could be if you notice and acknowledge feelings as you go about busily doing this, that, and the other.

 

MARKING THE FIRST MONTH AND THE NEW CAT

 

a.k.a ROMI PROGRESS REPORT

You might recall we adopted a new cat. DH named her Romi.

Romi spent the first six days hiding under a bed in her dedicated room.

On day seven, she came out, looked at me, and sat at the window making sure I stayed far away.

On day eight, she came and sat next to me.

Day nine was a watershed moment: Romi came for pets and even let me pet her belly. She has been doing this every day since.

Day sixteen was the first day I let her begin exploring the rest of the house. For the next six days, this was always while my two resident cats were safely closed off in my room.

From the second week on, I have been doing the “scent swapping” thing with towels and grooming brushes changing places, so all three could experience each other’s smell. Day twenty-three was the first day they saw each other.

 

Only a couple of days later, and Romi was playing well with my orange cat, Nougat.

 And a few days ago, day thirty-three, all three played together and then got rewarded with a tiny snack, per cat experts’ advice to associate good, friendly play with good, tasty things. They've been playing daily together ever since.

Patience pays. Here’s to happy homes, y’all.

GOOD CONVERSATIONS HAVE LOTS OF DOORKNOBS

 

In my growing up years I observed how the adults in my life would get together with friends to have “coffee & Cake” and good conversation. If these conversations sometimes sounded like arguments, it was because they were. Sort of. Someone would posit, someone would give their sharp observation, someone would object.

 

But these weren’t fights. They were stimulating arguments. Often, one of the adults would concede they hadn’t thought about all the ramifications and will reconsider their position. Even when they agreed to disagree, it was not unusual for the next gathering to bring reconsidered concessions.

 

My parents and their friends thought folks who got together to talk about the weather and comment about the nice refreshments were dull and not worth inviting over again. Inane conversation was not conversation, but polite banter appropriate for quick passersby. Friends and relations worth engaging with had real conversations and many times challenged each other.

 

That was the world I grew up in.

 

Imagine my surprise to find the norms were different in the USA and polite company never brought up religion, politics, or anything that might have a whiff of differences. The ethos of my new country required a major cultural shift.

 

Today, many in the USA lament that they can no longer talk to members of their family or people who they once considered friends. In truth, I suspect this is because Americans had no training in real conversations of substance. How to walk away from an exchange that shed light on different values or perceptions and come back open-hearted to engage again or even see another’s point of view? This requires training.

 

A good conversation has lots of doorknobs. It also requires the interest in twisting the knobs to peek at the other side of the door.

 

I have recently lost an Israeli friend (at her choosing) over differences, but it stands as an anomaly in my relationships there. Over many years, I have lost a few American friends for just such. I accept this is a cultural limitation and, in some ways, also my inability to fully integrate.

I don't want to over-idealize this. I dislike yelling, which was sometimes part of these interesting conversations of my childhood. To this day, I shudder when the volume/decibel goes up. But even loudness did not indicate a future break in relations and calling others by names of historic mega-villains was something I didn't hear back then.

 

I was born a dual citizen and have lived all of my adult life in the USA. But we’re always from where we grew up, aren’t we? I cherish the Israeli me and the training it gave me.

YOU DON’T NEED TO TELL EVERYONE EVERYTHING

 Or—

YES, THERE IS SUCH A THING AS OVERSHARING

 

I had a friend who, in conversations with near strangers in the space of one minute, would sashay into personal intimate details of her life, which included details of her marital life that would have made her husband cringe.

 

It was endearing in one way. Boy, she really trusts me with this very personal information, you might think.

In another way, it was downright baffling, as in what is she talking about? This was in no way part of our conversation, you may be thinking next.

 

The faux intimacy turned out to be exactly that. It was a way to try and induce similar intimate details from others. I eventually caught on.

 

Not that she got that out of me. I choose how much to tell based on my own sense, and my sense was that it was not right. But I value all people and valued this friend for a hundred and one reasons even as I kept cringing inwardly when I witnessed her act.

 

This goes double in writing. Anything you share about your life should be the truth (or your truth as best you know it) but never the whole truth because some self-protection (not to mention tact and a sense of propriety) should always be part of the picture.

 

In an age where our leaders have lost some of that sense and “breaking norms” is viewed as a badge of honor by some, it is even more important to remember that norms are for the benefits of all, self and others.

 

THINK.  Think well before you speak or write. Ask yourself if sharing is beneficial on the whole, and only then go forth.

Wise living, it turns out, includes silence. If you must speak of unspeakables, talk to your cat.

THE BREAKOUT NOVEL as a FATA MORGANA

 

If you haven’t heard the term breakout novel, a short definition would be –

“A breakout novel is a book that dramatically elevates an author's career by achieving unexpected, significant commercial success, generating major buzz, and introducing them to a much wider audience, often becoming a bestseller through strong word-of-mouth and a unique, emotionally resonant premise that sets it apart. It's the pivotal book that moves an author from obscurity or mid-list status into literary stardom.”

 

A post about a writer who experienced it after years of writing is here.

 

When I began writing in a disciplined way, i.e. with the intention of being published, it didn’t occur to me that one could waddle on the periphery of the published writers’ sphere and then one day—

BOOM! ZANG! BANG! Confetti falling from the sky, phone ringing with requests for interviews, and fan letters pouring in.  

This, because it hardly ever happens. One could omit the word “hardly” and be accurate in saying it never happens. This is a realistic way to think of it.

 

It did happen to Dan Brown who wrote (and published) for a time before The da Vinci Code sent him to confetti land. It happened to others. But most writing folks are laboring without publication or pushing one-at-a-time published books with little traction propelling forward.

 

As years pass, the breakout novel feels like the opportunity to make a difference in a writer’s trajectory is akin to a Fata Morgana, or a vision of an oasis that is always out there, but never here.

 

And that’s okay, because the journey is rich regardless.

FROM ANECDOTE to STORY

A few years ago, my then agent sent to all his writers a short list of what an editor he knew was looking for. One item on the editor’s wish list sparked my writing gears.

It was “A story unbelievable but true.” Documenting the factual in the story should come in an Author Note, it said.

 

I have a few such anecdotes from my own life, the sort that, when I shared them with friends, not all of them believed me. But I knew they were true because they happened to me, for real.

 

I immediately wrote about one of these and, as soon as I finished, I also knew it was not for publication because it wasn’t the sort of “True but Unbelievable” anecdote the editor was looking for. That story wound up on my website, where it appropriately seemed to settle.

 

You can read it here: https://mirkabreen.com/my-blog/f/before-you-check-my-real-bloga-little-story

 

The thing about anecdotes is that they are already stories. How to turn them into the sort a publisher would consider is elaborated on in this link: https://janefriedman.com/how-to-turn-an-anecdote-into-a-story/

 

Whether for publication and of wider interest or not, all interesting anecdotes are worth telling. If no one believes you, you know what you know and others were nonetheless hopefully entertained. 

A NEW BEGINNING 🐈‍⬛

 

Meet Romi.* She is now our new cat.

*DH Chose to re-name her, in lieu of her shelter name "Elsa."

She is people shy and for the next couple of months will be “decompressing”, as the rescuer put it. She was returned by a previous adopter because she hid for three weeks and they deemed the adoption a failure. I won’t give up that easily. But any input you may have helping "wallflower cats" is welcome. 

She really likes other cats, I’m told. The introduction to ours will be gradual, per their needs as well.

For the next couple of months, one bedroom is her dedicated room. For the first three weeks the door will be closed unless I can be there to supervise. I will be there when I can, reading quietly or communicating with friends on the phone.

This means that for DD's upcoming visit I will make a bed in the living room for our daughter. She wouldn’t want to sleep with a litter box next to her, anyway.

By the time she comes next, things should be back to normal, or our new normal. 🤞🏻

I guess life was too calm, so I needed to complicate it. 🥵

I hope you welcome the new Breen:

STOP TRYING TO CALM THE STORM

 

CALM YOURSELF, THE STORM WILL PASS

 

Some months back, I found myself in the middle of a cascading chain of events that made no sense, were disturbing, and of which I tried to exert control and fix.

Yet, every fix created another chain and not one of the people or entities involved would own their part in the problem. Some were possibly blameless, but it was impossible to tell who or what caused this.

 

I know I sound vague, and someday I might write down the details of those months of discombobulation. I still get upset remembering it, so that day isn’t here.

 

This is what I came away with on the constructive side, which is to say that I learned something going forward. The pivotal key, the thing most needful, is to calm the waters inwardly. The raging storm may dissolve into stillness on its own or may become a hurricane. But, beyond the commonsense actions to cope or even rescue, the storm’s story is its own and will run its course.

 

My responsibility is to work on having the grace and equanimity to better endure. I wish you all the same.

This: It will be fine, or it will be over. Repeat.

 

ME and MY MOTHER’S FALLEN ASIMONs

 

ASIMON: A token (from Greek: ἄσημον ("ἀ-σεμον"), "without a sign", in the language of the Sages) is a means of payment that was used for using a public telephone. The token is a non-negotiable currency, and its price was updated from time to time. The token was inserted into an appropriate slot in the public telephone to make a call from the device.

 

There is an expression in Hebrew, “the ASIMON finally fell.” It means a major realization had finally illuminated one’s consciousness. {הָאֲסִימוֹן נָפַל}

This expression harks back to the clinging sound of the metal token falling into the slot the moment someone answered the phone on the other end. If no one answered, you weren’t charged and the token would eject and be returned to you to use the next time you made a call from a public phone.

 

Time was when regular coins were used to make calls. Rapid inflation made it impractical, and pay phones were re-fitted to accept special tokens, “ASIMONs” only. You could buy them at the post office and use them no matter how much the charges increased, similar to the “Forever” first class stamps of today for physical mail.

 

Most young Israelis have no idea what an ASIMON is. They’ve never seen one. Goodness, they’ve never used or seen a public pay phone. Whole articles in Hebrew exist on the interwebs to explain the expression’s origins. Once the young’uns read these articles, their ASIMON would also fall, or cling, and they’d realize why this odd expression exists.

 

A time will come when postal stamps and perhaps postal service will also have to be explained. Denmark has just ended their postal services for physical letters, and Sweden no longer has cash money. The physical reminders of what once was continue to exist as collectibles, perhaps to be sold on eBay or some such.

 

When I cleared up my mother’s belongings, I found that years after their demise, she had held on to a bagful of ASIMONs.  I kept a few because the tangible, touchable, handleable still matters. In the same way we may keep a hairbrush of someone who has left this world, even keeping their strands of hair still in it, I hold on to these ASIMONs.

Why?

I will not sell them on eBay. I don’t need them to explain the Hebrew expression regarding an important realization, as the digital virtual net does a fine job of that.

 

I need these physical metallic objects in my life to testify that I didn’t imagine what was. It really was part of the world, my world, just like all the other things both inanimate and living that have left it and exist as memories and legends.

ASIMON= Israeli token for pay phones

{The Hebrew date on them corresponds to 1966}

WHERE IS YOUR REAL LIFE?

 Just as I was about to scream at the maddening younger folks who seem to live in their phones that “LIFE IS NOT INSIDE YOUR PHONES, people!” I had a vision of my (much) younger self.

 

In it, I was curled up with a book, more books resting on the floor to be read later, oblivious to the sounds and scents wafting through the window. ’Twas my mother who burst through my bedroom door and yelled to “GET UP AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL.”

I’m not inventing this scene. It is an actual memory, or memories (plural) of just such at our home from long ago.

 

My mother told me she was admonished to “GET YOUR EAR AWAY FROM THE RADIO, YOUNG LADY.”

 

So, kids are living inside their phones, and I lived inside books and their fictional stories. Far back in cavemen days, listening to stories by the fire was a real thing, also. Humans always seem to reside in some form of retreat. At least, as much as the demands of earning a livelihood would allow.

 

TikTok shorts are not novels, but they are stories in their summary way. What all the above testifies to is the human addictive need for stories.

 

Which, as a storyteller, makes me happy. I don’t feel like yelling anymore.

 

At least, not until the next time I’m on a train or in a waiting room full of people and every one of them is staring at the little rectangular device in their hand.

PAPER is FOREVER (?)

 

As we stand now, in mid-2026, printed paper books still reign supreme in Kidlit.

 

Children, as it turns out, haven’t flocked to eBooks as predicted.  Children’s books haven’t flourished as self-published books, either. Both spheres, predicted with unwarranted assurance twenty years ago, have had a generation to take hold and----- 

THEY DID NOT.

 

There is clearly a strong market for the self-published in romance/erotica and mystery books for adults. There is an ever-growing market for audio books for adults, also.

But children are different. It isn’t surprising the self-published haven’t flourished (or made a dent) in books for young readers. Librarians and teachers have a lot of sway there, and they do little with that segment, relying heavily on traditional publishers' catalogues.

 

But, you may wonder, how is it that the first generation growing up with cell phones, tablets, and computer games, not prefer eBooks?

 

This article by a veteran agent makes a cogent point. In fact, it makes a few points.

 

I’ve always been skeptical of futuristic declarations. That whole other genre of both fiction and nonfiction that will turn up a myriad of never-to-be prophesies. But I did buy into the notion that eBooks will take over the younger people’s market.

 

Turns out the very old and the very young are more similar than all whose ages that lie in between.

THROWN INTO THE DIGITAL SEA

 

“Every day, computers make people easier to use.”

Paulina Borsook

(In her book “Cyberselfish”)

 

 

‘Tis a truth (almost) universally acknowledged that if one hadn’t acquired certain skills before mid-life, one has missed the possibility of excelling in said skills.

 

Another way to put it is that if you didn’t learn to swim before the age of forty-five, you may learn later but never be an excellent swimmer. Same for driving, typing, reading, and of course, using digital tools. There are individuals who transcend this truth, but they are very much the exception.

 

I’m of the last generation who didn’t grow up with computers. (Okay, Boomer!)

 

Perhaps that is why I resonate to the quotation at the top of this post.

 

“Ah,” you sigh and roll your eyes. “Another oldie who grumbles about computers.”

 

The thing is, I use computers every day and depend on digital technology for almost everything. You see, I learned.

But watching others, I’m constantly reminded that while I’m doing just fine, I’ll never be truly great at it.

 

Now I’m the one sighing back at you.

DEFINITIVE OXYMORONS

 

Are you, like me, tickled by oxymorons?

Oxymoron: “a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction.”

 

There are a few more of the long-used oxymorons we no longer feel, even as a hint of a tickle:

Same difference

Old news

Only choice

Adult children

Open secret

Working vacation

Minor crisis

 

The very title of this post has a tinge of oxymoronic flavor.

"Oxymoron" is itself an oxymoron because its Greek roots combine "oxys" (sharp) and "mōros" (dull), meaning "sharply dull" or "pointed foolishness". This wordplay is a fitting example of its own definition, which describes a figure of speech that pairs contradictory terms to create a new, more nuanced meaning. 

 

Oxymorons are effective in fiction only if they are newly minted. Those are jarring in the way oxymorons are meant to be. The above listed have been around for so long that they no longer evoke that space between two opposites, and wake up the sense of questioning our grasp on reality.

MAY 19th, ROYALLY SPEAKING

 

On May 19, 1536, Anne Boleyn, the infamous second wife of King Henry VIII is executed on charges including adultery, incest and conspiracy against the king.

 

On May 19, 2018, Prince Harry of Britain marries Meghan Markle, an American actress, in St. George’s Chapel within the grounds of Windsor Castle. Some 600 guests attend the ceremony and nearly 2 billion people worldwide watch the televised event.

 

Most young’uns, and this includes young’uns of all ages😉, are much more aware of the second more recent royal event than the first.

Yet, by an order of magnitude, this first bore significance to Christian and post-Christian civilization.

 

Anne Boleyn is credited with luring a king away from Pope Clement VII and all subsequent popes because Rome wouldn’t grant King Henry an annulment (divorce) so he could marry his current infatuation. Anne, in turn, refused to become a mistress, so the King made himself effectively England’s pope and The Church of England was born.

 

To be fair, Martin Luther broke from Rome first to give birth to Lutheranism, but Henry accelerated a process that was already happening, and the Protestant Reformation and subsequent denominations began popping up like mushrooms after the rain.

 

Much of what happened to the western world would follow, including The Enlightenment and secular thinking that came with it, philosophically related to the questioning of the religious universe. We live with these consequences, both good and bad, to this day.

But what about Harry and Meghan, you say? What about them, indeed. Puffery turned to dust, it seems. Unless, in some yet to happen chain of events, their departure from England will mark the beginning of the end of Britain’s constitutional monarchy, their nuptials are forgettable. Even if this turns out to have the mentioned result, it is of little significance to those of us who are not English, which is most of us.

 

Just ruminating on the English Royals and the odd hold they have on us commoners even today.