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 |  It's who we are. It's what we stare at in the middle of the night. It's a bug zapper. |
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My friends, When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements. It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space. One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement. “Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.” Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes. “Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.” He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away. We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move. At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.” Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?” “Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.” He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day. This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might. Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there? Thank you for your support, Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern |
| It has cost me tens of thousands of dollars to learn how NOT to write. As a student of creative writing I study the fine and gentle art of word mongering. I love mongering the words. It’s important to know that part of learning how to write means learning how NOT to write. There are more rules than you might think when you become a wordmongerer. To show off . . . er . . . I mean, for instructive purposes I’ve composed the following improper, shoddy, and incorrect versions of word assembly. Mistakes are typed in red, symbolic of blood and death—also bad writing. EXCESSIVE USE OF SPICES (ADJECTIVES AND ADVERBS) My happy, humming laptop slid rapidly and quickly off the comfy, cushy bed. I did not really drop, actually throw, quickly roll, mightily toss, or completely skip the smallish computer off the very tall bed. It really, really just slid. It really, really slid from a softly puffing pillow top mattress onto an average grade slightly tired and walked on Walmart carpet and actually seized completely up. The thickly thick power cord bent extensively and a lot. FILTERING (ACCORDING TO JOHN GARDNER FILTERING IS THE NEEDLESS LOOKING THROUGH SOME OBSERVING CONSCIOUSNESS IN WRITING.) YIKES! SOUNDS SERIOUS! For Example: Turning, I saw my laptop slide off the bed. Compare: I turned. The laptop slid off the bed. The screen went black, and I was a dead woman. This was the fifth laptop I’d killed with my bare hands. TOO MANY HE SAID, SHE SAIDS. “How could you drop your computer again?” he said, asked, or squalled at me like a wounded cat. “I didn’t drop it. It slid,” I said. “I did not drop it. It slid off, by itself,” I said again. “Linda, laptops do not grow on trees,” he said like a big numb nut. “Really!” I said, my voice sounding really, really mean. “Since when?” “Now, you’re just being sarcastic,” he said. Turning, I gave him my best and most evil eye stare. (Actually, that could be an example of filtering.) There’s more stuff that I’ve learned not to do, but I’m all tired out. Writing is hard. I need a nap. Linda (Write Stuff) Zern |
| “And the on-line quiz is going to work every single time, right?” I said with heavy irony, a touch of despair, and hoping that I would not be praying for death when it was over. Ms. Koopmann, my composition II teacher replied, “Yes, yes, of course the on-line quiz will work every time.” She smiled with a confidence that I did not trust or understand. Ms. Koopmann was my college teacher. She taught creative writing and composition II (a class that I had already taken but in another state and with another course name and another magic class identification number, therefore the computer in Florida did not recognize my perfectly fine efforts, and I was having to take it over. It’s take the class over . . . or, hire a private detective to locate my former composition II professor in North Carolina, obtain a letter stating that I did in fact take composition II, and that I stayed conscious for the class and did not argue unduly with the professor.) Since I took classes in North Carolina, the world has gone green and all written submissions, quizzes, and tests can now be submitted on-line—as in by computer, through the ether, over the Internet (invented by Al Gore or the government or some guy in a garage.) “And the on-line quiz malarkey is going to work every single time, right?” My question was intended to receive verbal reassurance from my teacher that the whole techno-mess would, in fact, work as promised. It didn’t. Half way through my first timed computer quiz, my chubby husband of thirty plus years rolled over in bed onto my computer mouse. His flopping about caused a strange, unrelated “window” to pop up on my computer screen, over the top of my quiz. It was a window offering mandarin Chinese lessons. Okay, I was taking my first computer quiz in pajamas, in bed, with snacks. I clicked on the window; it disappeared. The computer quiz gods decided that I was A) dead B) cheating or C) descending the stairs like a goddess (that’s a quote from the reading I was being quizzed on, and that’s why that’s funny.) The quiz god “locked down” my quiz taking. I choked on a pork rind. “Sherwood, you just blew my first quiz.” I clicked on boxes, windows, and pictures of a blinking padlock. “AND I KNEW ALL THE ANSWERS.” “Urrrrrrghabloooooolig,” he said, squashing my bag of Bar-B-Q pork rinds. “Wake up, man. I have eleven minutes to figure this out.” I clicked and cursed. The clock ticked down. “Ugh, I have ten minutes.” “Whaaaaaaat?” “I HAVE EIGHT MINUTES.” I clicked madly. “You rolled over my test, and oddly enough when I asked the Help Desk what to do when a chubby husband rolls over on top of a computer mouse causing the, “Do you want this document translated into Mandarin?” option to pop up, THERE WAS NO ANSWER.” He fumbled for his glasses. The clock ticked on and on. I balled up my fist, shook it at the sky, and cursed the computer quiz gods. “Sherwood, I’m doomed and damned.” The clock ticked down and a cartoon bomb exploded when my twenty minutes had expired. A cold hard lump formed in my throat, nostrils, and sphincter. I emailed my teacher to explain my quiz taking failure. Her email “came back” with the computer explanation “no such human being exists on this earth.” I have begun to pray for a computer related on-line death for a version of myself that resembles a cartoon. More about avatars at a later date. Linda (Computers are the devil’s workshop!) Zern |
| “There’s a new duck in the chicken coop. Check it out.” Our hoard of grandchildren thundered past me to “see” the new duck. “How did that happen?” My husband asked. “The grandchildren? Or the duck?” He sighed. “The duck.” “Honestly, I’m not sure. Seems Doris’ daughter, Margo who sells Harleys, met a lady at a biker rally whose daughter was raising a duck in her back yard but now she and her college roommates are moving to a new apartment where ducks are not allowed and Margo remembered that we wanted ducks, not knowing that we had already gotten ducks from the Tractor Supply Company and raised them in a metal bucket.” “Hmmmmm.” “Exactly. The two college roommates brought Henry Poole, the duck, in a leopard print cat carrier—drunk. The roommates not the duck.” “Wow.” “Yeah, so they were driving around Saint Cloud drunk with a duck.” “How does this stuff happen to you?” “Rumors and scuttlebutt.” I sighed. “The best part is when the college roommates—Tiffany or Brittany, or Jenny, or some such—informed me that Henry Poole was used to eating people food. I let them know that he’d be eating sad old duck food from now on.” “How did that go over?” “Fine. It was when Charles Dickens, our duck, tried to murder Henry Poole that they seemed a bit shocked by the rules of the chicken coop and farm life in general.” He shook his head and looked resigned. “Did Charles Dickens kill Henry Poole yet?” “Not yet, but the jury is still out. I’m keeping everybody separated until they sober up—the ducks, not the roommates. The good news is that Miss Havisham, Charles Dickens’ wife, has started laying eggs.” “Nice. Let’s celebrate. I’ll make omelets.” “You’re on,” I said. And that’s where omelets come from children, not the grocery store and not giant refrigerated trucks. Omelets come from eggs. Eggs laid by Miss Havisham. Eggs that Charles Dickens the Drake will defend to the death, even if he has to drown Henry Poole in the cast iron bathtub in the duck pen. It’s a jungle out there in the chicken coop of life. Stay frosty. Stay focused. Linda (Lucky Ducky) Zern |
| Eye contact was the first casualty. I haven’t made eye contact with another human being for two years. It’s hard to know where to focus my clever, witty retorts when all I see is the top of people’s heads as they . . . The cheery sound of tinny elevator music can be heard. Several fat minutes pass. What was I typing? Oh right. . . . hunch, as they hunch, over the glowing screen of their machines. They’re probably checking out my clever, witty retorts on Facebook or beating up on birds. I blame the machines—also the birds. The second casualty has been my self-esteem. My two-year old granddaughter, who does not speak any form of English that I recognize yet and still poops in her pants, brought one of the machines to me and showed me how to sling birds from a slingshot. I couldn’t do it. She laughed, took the machine and . . . A clever ringtone of “Afternoon Delight” wafts through the sizzling airwaves. You wait impatiently for me to turn down the offer of free money from a bankrupt federal government. . . . and with her tiny fingers flung birds about like artillery from the battle of the Bulge. I felt like a big, fat fingered old person. The third casualty has been freedom: personal, private, individual, collective, group, and institutional. Gone. Once we traveled long distances, through darkened streets, on rainy evenings without the benefit of the “emergency cell phone.” Those were primitive times. We existed by the seat of our pants, vulnerable to engine failure, flat tires, bad directions, fender benders, and weirdoes in farm houses with telephones. But we were free. Free to use two hands on the steering wheel. Free to use our blinkers. Free to get the news about the cupcakes for the party when you arrived at Sally’s house and not when you’re trying to merge onto I-4 at the Maitland Exchange. Like I said those were . . . I ignore you and answer the phone call about the cupcakes. And you wait and wait and wait and wait . . . and good news, Sally was able to get the Spider Man cupcakes on sale! . . . primitive, primitive times. I would finish this but there’s this new APP that’s all the rage where you try to blow up balloons with moose toots. It’s a scream. So let me just finish up this level, and I’ll be right with you . . . no, no, no, no, oh no . . . come on get in there, you moose toot, you . . . Linda (Answer That!) Zern ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| “Show don’t tell” is the first commandment you will hear when taking any writing class. It’s good advice. It’s just that telling is easy and fast and showing requires an endless and judicious use of measures, weights, and scales: too much color, not enough noise, pointless detail, overly obvious contrasts, silly use of clichés. When it comes to teaching the art of writing, I’m beginning to suspect the same dilemma exists—that showing is harder than telling. We plow through short stories discussing theme and plot and character and decide that we do or do not “like” the story, but we rarely seize on the why and the how of a story. Why did it work or not. How did the author make it work? Is there evidence in the text itself to explain why a story is magic? How do they do it? I wish that more writing teachers were able to show me why a writer is great rather than tell me that a writer is great. |
| I am not a nubile forty-year old anymore. It’s official. I am a little old lady. Here’s how I know. Books Make Me Tip Over: I knew it was the beginning of the end when my twelve-year-old book bag, fully loaded and contents subject to shifting while in transit, made me tip over. College is not for the weak or shrinking. “Hey, lady, are you okay?” asked the young man, approximately the age of bee larva, as he watched me sling my backpack over my shoulder. I staggered under its weight and tilted towards the center of the earth. The book bag weighed more than half of me. I staggered to the left and then lurched to the right. I was not dancing. The young man did not offer to help. My husband finally bought me a rolling briefcase. It makes me look like I’m impersonating a professor, but it’s big enough for my books and my assorted eyebrow stencils. The Eyebrow Stencils: I have to color my eyebrows on with a crayon. It’s time-consuming and fraught with the potential for goof-ups. Too much crayon and I’m Ronald MacDonald’s mother, too little and I’m Whoopie Goldberg. And the lingering tendency for my knucklebones to freeze up like a bad hinge made in China makes eyebrow placement a bit iffy. A Burning in My Finger Bones: Sherwood showed me his index finger. He said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me? My knuckle feels like it’s on fire.” I held up my knobby hands, my aching elbows, and possibly one throbbing knee. “Yeah, that’s arthritis. I have fingers that are starting to look like they’re trying to run away from my hands. What’s your point?” I still get hit on by men, but they resemble Captain Ahab from Moby Dick or gypsy wizards: I don’t want to talk about it. I get extremely nervous when young children stare at me, especially my grandson Conner, who finds my advanced age and decrepitude a subject of extreme and ongoing puzzlement: “YaYa, why are you so spotty and so bumpy and so old?” “Conner, look over there; that person might be older than me.” Then I hobble away as fast as my plantar fasciitis will allow. No matter how you say it, spin it, or twirl it, it’s official; I am a little old lady. Linda (Golden Girl) Zern |
| 1) I’ve written a poem/essay/story/book/epic novel, but I’ll die if anyone reads it/them. 2) I’ve written a poem/essay/story/book/epic novel; would you mind reading it/them and then telling me how much you love/like/adore it/them? 3) Give it to me straight. 4) Excuse me; I have some re-writes to do. |
[Subject:] Linda L. Zern Is Named A Semi-Finalist In HumorPress.com <http://humorpress.com/> 's "America's Funniest Humor!" Writing Contest [Message Body:] Linda L. Zern a writer from Saint Cloud, Florida was named a Semi-Finalist in the most recent "America's Funniest Humor!"(TM) Writing Contest held by HumorPress.com <http://humorpress.com/>, one of the Internet's highest-ranking humor contest sites. For her accomplishment, Ms. Zern has earned publication in HumorPress.com <http://humorpress.com/> 's online humor showcase. Her entry, "Coach-Of-All-Sports," is about the Olympic phenomenon that causes the non-athletic among us to become instantaneous experts on all things sporty: beach volleyball bikini waxing, soccer ball kicking, synchronized swim stuff, horse dressing (dressage.) There isn’t a sport on this planet these folks couldn’t coach to a gold medal—or disqualification, whichever comes first. "Coach-Of-All-Sports" will be featured in the current showcase through mid-October 2012, after which new results from the bi-monthly contest will be posted. Other writing awards and recognitions earned by L. Zern include publication in the last four HumorPress contests. HumorPress.com <http://humorpress.com/> 's bi-monthly writing contests provide great opportunities for writers who specialize in humor, and for those with real-life humorous anecdotes to share. # # # |
| “Sherwood, my darling of thirty plus years, we need a ‘safe word.’” “Okay. Why? Hunh?” My husband never complicates our conversations with excessive word usage. “Because, love of my life, the news reports are claiming that it’s all the rage. According to a best selling—so it must be good—book that is making its author one million dollars every twelve and a half minutes, we are supposed to be tying each other up and spanking each other with switches.” “Why?” “For fun.” He may have shrugged. The weirdo lights of four separate computer monitors cast a sluggish shadow over his shoulders so it was hard to tell. I continued trying to bring my beloved up to date on the latest pop culture phenomenon celebrated by our society—fifty shades of hanky panky kink. Although, even as I type this, I realize it’s probably not all that new of an idea and that cave dudes were probably dragging cave chicks around by their ponytails long before the literary world fell over the cutting edge of really icky writing. “And apparently when you get annoyed by being tied up and switched, you yell the safe word and then the other person has to knock it off.” “Sounds like a lot of work,” he said, while lights flickered across his rumpled forehead. “Well, I don’t want to be the only kids on the block without a safe word, so I’ve come up with one. The word is scat. It’s a perfect word. It means move on along and animal dung. How about that?” He scribbled something on a sticky note. Later we took the safe word out for a test drive. With a wicked Simon Legree gleam in his eye, my husband tipped his desk chair back and said, “Hey, babe, why don’t you come on over here and . . .” “Scat,” I said. “Come on babe, let’s . . .” “Scat.” “Babe?” “Scaaaat.” See how safe a safe word can be? It’s amazing. Works every time. Actually, we’re way too old fashioned to need a safe word. Not so old fashioned as to be clubbing each other with tree limbs, but you know, old fashioned. We’re still crazy about each other without requiring props. I’ve always said that true love is the face you see when you wake up from general anesthesia, and not the face you see coming at you with flex cuffs. I just added that last part to be cutting edge and relevant. Linda (Tongue-Tied) Zern |
| In rehearsals, dancers will go over a section of a ballet endlessly, repeating the same steps over and over and over again until the ballet master is satisfied with the finished product. To save their legs, dancers will often “mark” a percentage of the run-throughs. Marking is when a dancer just goes through the motions by walking the steps, counting the beats out with their hands, or not performing the jumps or turns completely. Different dancers mark a piece in different ways, but everyone does it at some point. The problem with marking is that it can become a habit, and a dancer might think that marking a piece is as good as dancing a piece. It’s not. Nothing can take the place of dancing a number as hard and as fast as its supposed to be danced. Nothing. While marking has its place, marking can never be dancing. The same is true of writing. You can talk about writing. You can read about writing. You can dream of writing, but nothing can take the place of writing—tens of thousands of words written as hard and as fast as you can write them, full out and breathing hard. Writing that never stops, not in the daytime, not in the nighttime, not even in the dream times. In dancing, it’s called marking. In writing, it’s called stalling. |
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