A Point in Time
David Horowitz’s new book, A Point in Time, has only 128 pages, but it may be his most important work. In three chapters, dated October 2006, November 2008, and December 2010, he follows the book’s subtitle, The Search of Redemption in This Life and the Next; however, I will need to read certain sections again before I understand fully if he concludes with the answers sought. Sometimes, as I read a nonfictional volume such as this, I get sidetracked by the beauty of language and Horowitz is an expert at this artistry. But that is what a meditation should do—elucidate the discussion with the beauty of language.
Throughout, Horowitz ponders his own life span, as he falls prey to diabetes (Type 2), cancer, and problems of his heart, in addition to the shock of the sudden death of a daughter. He builds a swimming pool for his health, but then moves into another house. This new location has room for his wife’s horse, as well as his umpteen dogs who accompany him on his daily walks.
But the author discusses Marcus Aurelius, especially with regard to his own father, and moves on to the works of Dostoevsky and ends with the Requiem Mass of Mozart. This post is not to be as long as Horowitz’s book itself, but I want to mention that the discussion on Dostoevsky touched my memory veins. Not everyone has plowed through The Brother Karamazov, but I did, many ears ago. Not only that, but my students saw the film version of it. I remember watching it every hour it was shown for several days, year after year, and I’ve never tired of it. I watched it again about a month ago. Not exactly like the book, the basic philosophy is nearly the same. The most important idea I hoped my students realized to their cores was enacted in a courtroom scene. Ivan Karamazov, a journalist in Moscow, and self-admitted atheist, finally understands on the witness stand, that if there is a devil, there must be a God too. Horowitz does not quote such simple wisdom in his work, but the gist of what he does say is close.
Horowitz writes as if he is old and might die tomorrow. I am older than he. We share some coincidences in our lives, including physical ailments, but a more important one is that he writes beautifully and I appreciate reading what he writes. I have seen him many times on television and heard him talk about this book on C-SPAN before I bought it. (I have a habit of doing that.)
I think Horowitz believes his people, the Jews, face another colossal tragedy, even in America. The handwriting is on the wall. Horowitz is a friend of Erick Stakelbeck and, of course, would have read the latter’s The Terrorist Next Door. I anticipate that with his taking care of his health, Horowitz will live to write many more good books. ♥
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
From the Horse’s Mouth
I must quote a bit from the book The Terrorist Next Door for you. On pages 186-187, the author sits down to talk with “a former terrorist operative….Today, [that man] speaks out forcefully against jihadist ideology. He has written about what transpired in his life as he adopted the jihadi mindset and was conditioned by adherents of Islam’s Salafi sect to accept violence:
“I passed through three psychological stages to reach this level of comfort with death: hatred of non-Muslims or dissenting Muslims; suppression of my conscience; and acceptance of violence in the service of Allah….
“…Once I was able to suppress my conscience, I was open to accepting violence without guilt …One Salafi method of generating this crucial attitude is to encourage violence
against women, a first step in developing a brutal mentality.”
This doesn’t need comment from me. Read the book! ♥
I must quote a bit from the book The Terrorist Next Door for you. On pages 186-187, the author sits down to talk with “a former terrorist operative….Today, [that man] speaks out forcefully against jihadist ideology. He has written about what transpired in his life as he adopted the jihadi mindset and was conditioned by adherents of Islam’s Salafi sect to accept violence:
“I passed through three psychological stages to reach this level of comfort with death: hatred of non-Muslims or dissenting Muslims; suppression of my conscience; and acceptance of violence in the service of Allah….
“…Once I was able to suppress my conscience, I was open to accepting violence without guilt …One Salafi method of generating this crucial attitude is to encourage violence
against women, a first step in developing a brutal mentality.”
This doesn’t need comment from me. Read the book! ♥
About My Facebook
In case I can’t reach everyone through e-mail, let me tell you here, I’ve decided not to do Facebook. I do not have time for it. I can’t understand how a writer has that kind of time. It’s great for posting photos of your family’s doings, but I would not be adding pictures to mine, I have the camera, but am not adept with it. My fingers are too old, I suspect.
Too, I did not care for Facebook’s practice of sending out letters over my name. Some people were not addressed properly as I would have done. And I’ve heard a report from a highly reputable source that one’s info is not 100% private. I know you can hear otherwise, but just one reliable source that it’s not “safe,” is enough. I would not put anything in it that I would want to keep private, of course, as I suppose most of you agree.
However, my blog is checked by multiple sources. I expect that and I don’t mind. That’s their job (and then someone posts it elsewhere). For example, under Henry Kissinger’s name, you may see the reference to what I wrote about him. Fine with me. For all I know, one blog reader in Russia may be Putin himself, watching what this person who thinks for herself has to say about things, including politics. He hopes to be top-dog again in Russia with the next election, you know. Maybe he has my name on some list of “marked targets.” And maybe you’ll find this blog under his name too. It really is a small world these days. ♥
In case I can’t reach everyone through e-mail, let me tell you here, I’ve decided not to do Facebook. I do not have time for it. I can’t understand how a writer has that kind of time. It’s great for posting photos of your family’s doings, but I would not be adding pictures to mine, I have the camera, but am not adept with it. My fingers are too old, I suspect.
Too, I did not care for Facebook’s practice of sending out letters over my name. Some people were not addressed properly as I would have done. And I’ve heard a report from a highly reputable source that one’s info is not 100% private. I know you can hear otherwise, but just one reliable source that it’s not “safe,” is enough. I would not put anything in it that I would want to keep private, of course, as I suppose most of you agree.
However, my blog is checked by multiple sources. I expect that and I don’t mind. That’s their job (and then someone posts it elsewhere). For example, under Henry Kissinger’s name, you may see the reference to what I wrote about him. Fine with me. For all I know, one blog reader in Russia may be Putin himself, watching what this person who thinks for herself has to say about things, including politics. He hopes to be top-dog again in Russia with the next election, you know. Maybe he has my name on some list of “marked targets.” And maybe you’ll find this blog under his name too. It really is a small world these days. ♥
A Good One for the writers Among You
In Henry Kissinger’s Acknowledgments in his new book, he lists numerous editors and/or assistant editors, secretaries, librarians, et al, and finally gets around to his wife, who read some of the chapters. Then, in case, one wonders about their day-to-day living with this baby On China, he says, on page 23, “Solitude authors (or at least this author) generate around themselves when writing.” Many authors probably have not reached this level of opportunity because of children at home, or an unsympathetic spouse, and perhaps haven’t started their own magnum opus. But this is excellent advice for those who can manage it. Living alone is not enough. Someone has to do the chores, call in needed workers for repairs or whatever, pay the gardener, and answer the phone, for the business of living can interfere with the art of living, the work of a solitude author. But wouldn’t that be a great day to be free to be a solitude author and write your magnum opus?
By the way, Kissinger says he’s been to China more than fifty times. I remember reading, early on in their marriage his wife was learning to cook with Julia Child’s cookbook. They did/do entertain in their home, but it must be between books. Good luck, writers! ♥
In Henry Kissinger’s Acknowledgments in his new book, he lists numerous editors and/or assistant editors, secretaries, librarians, et al, and finally gets around to his wife, who read some of the chapters. Then, in case, one wonders about their day-to-day living with this baby On China, he says, on page 23, “Solitude authors (or at least this author) generate around themselves when writing.” Many authors probably have not reached this level of opportunity because of children at home, or an unsympathetic spouse, and perhaps haven’t started their own magnum opus. But this is excellent advice for those who can manage it. Living alone is not enough. Someone has to do the chores, call in needed workers for repairs or whatever, pay the gardener, and answer the phone, for the business of living can interfere with the art of living, the work of a solitude author. But wouldn’t that be a great day to be free to be a solitude author and write your magnum opus?
By the way, Kissinger says he’s been to China more than fifty times. I remember reading, early on in their marriage his wife was learning to cook with Julia Child’s cookbook. They did/do entertain in their home, but it must be between books. Good luck, writers! ♥
Sunday, October 23, 2011
My Current Reading
As you’ve read here before, my reading contains several books at the same time. Some books were postponed while I fretted about my eye problem. But reading with a strong magnifying glass with a light on it is not too bad. Unlike reading on the Nook, it is much easier to check back to a certain section and make notes. I want to talk about a book I am not reading, but got a free look at. It was too, too disappointing to read title page, publication info, Table of Contents, Dedication, Acknowledgments, the author’s Preface or Introduction—you see, I can’t easily look back to see which it was, but the exact title for this section does not matter—and then, at last, only one or two pages of the book itself. So far, I do not wish to purchase it on my Nook. Not enough there to tempt me. This tease of a book is Kissinger’s On China. I saw his interview about it on C-SPAN and it sounded interesting. Perhaps it is. If I have a good chance to do so, I may look over the real book at Barnes and Noble and then decide if I want to purchase it.
In the meantime, I am near the end of The Terrorist Next Door by Erick Stakelbeck, a short book, only 226 pages of text. The Lantern-Bearers, essays by Robert Louis Stevenson, is underway. Ann Coulter’s Demonic is also underway. The volume that is really moving along fast is 10th Anniversary by James Patterson, not his latest offering, but one I’ve had for a good while. It is rather large print and the chapters are extremely short. I like both of those characteristics in a mystery story. And, not to come up short for reading material, I’ve added to the stack, The Roald Dahl Omnibus, Perfect Bedtime Stories for Sleepless Nights. The latter contains 682 pages. I’ll be awake for a while for that one.
Now. I need to finish Terrorist and 10th Anniversary this weekend. See you later. ♥
As you’ve read here before, my reading contains several books at the same time. Some books were postponed while I fretted about my eye problem. But reading with a strong magnifying glass with a light on it is not too bad. Unlike reading on the Nook, it is much easier to check back to a certain section and make notes. I want to talk about a book I am not reading, but got a free look at. It was too, too disappointing to read title page, publication info, Table of Contents, Dedication, Acknowledgments, the author’s Preface or Introduction—you see, I can’t easily look back to see which it was, but the exact title for this section does not matter—and then, at last, only one or two pages of the book itself. So far, I do not wish to purchase it on my Nook. Not enough there to tempt me. This tease of a book is Kissinger’s On China. I saw his interview about it on C-SPAN and it sounded interesting. Perhaps it is. If I have a good chance to do so, I may look over the real book at Barnes and Noble and then decide if I want to purchase it.
In the meantime, I am near the end of The Terrorist Next Door by Erick Stakelbeck, a short book, only 226 pages of text. The Lantern-Bearers, essays by Robert Louis Stevenson, is underway. Ann Coulter’s Demonic is also underway. The volume that is really moving along fast is 10th Anniversary by James Patterson, not his latest offering, but one I’ve had for a good while. It is rather large print and the chapters are extremely short. I like both of those characteristics in a mystery story. And, not to come up short for reading material, I’ve added to the stack, The Roald Dahl Omnibus, Perfect Bedtime Stories for Sleepless Nights. The latter contains 682 pages. I’ll be awake for a while for that one.
Now. I need to finish Terrorist and 10th Anniversary this weekend. See you later. ♥
Addendum
I saw the candidates a second time tonight and they were all there and spoke and answered certain questions. Each one gave such a good speech: Cain, Bachman, Perry, Paul, Gingrich, and Santorum. I wanted to vote for each one of them. Santorum was last and I kept watching for I wanted to get the exact title of Karen Santorum’s book. It’s Letters to Gabriel. Now it’s after 1:00, time to read a bit. Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll tell you what books I’m currently reading. ♥
I saw the candidates a second time tonight and they were all there and spoke and answered certain questions. Each one gave such a good speech: Cain, Bachman, Perry, Paul, Gingrich, and Santorum. I wanted to vote for each one of them. Santorum was last and I kept watching for I wanted to get the exact title of Karen Santorum’s book. It’s Letters to Gabriel. Now it’s after 1:00, time to read a bit. Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll tell you what books I’m currently reading. ♥
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Presidential Candidates in Iowa Tonight
I tuned in late to C-SPAN tonight and missed the first speech, which was from Newt Gingrich. I’m sure it was excellent. He’s brilliant. Ron Paul was next and he did a great job too. Third was Rick Santorum, former U. S. Senator from Pennsylvania. What a speech he gave! He made me cry, telling about the baby he and his wife lost. If everyone could hear him tell that story, America would surely have fewer abortions.
After the loss, Karen Santorum, the Senator’s wife, wrote letters to the baby. Eventually, they became a small book. I think the title is Letters to Our Baby. Only 2,500 copies were published, and so, it would be difficult to find a copy. It made me think of you, Marsha and Jake, with your loss—our family’s loss—of little Johnny.
A good-sized crowd attended this forum, many more men than women, not always the case. These people seemed to be the salt of the earth, and they hung around a long tine to talk with the candidates. I repeat what I said in an earlier blog: Rick Santorum seems to have the ideal family for living in the White House. ♥
I tuned in late to C-SPAN tonight and missed the first speech, which was from Newt Gingrich. I’m sure it was excellent. He’s brilliant. Ron Paul was next and he did a great job too. Third was Rick Santorum, former U. S. Senator from Pennsylvania. What a speech he gave! He made me cry, telling about the baby he and his wife lost. If everyone could hear him tell that story, America would surely have fewer abortions.
After the loss, Karen Santorum, the Senator’s wife, wrote letters to the baby. Eventually, they became a small book. I think the title is Letters to Our Baby. Only 2,500 copies were published, and so, it would be difficult to find a copy. It made me think of you, Marsha and Jake, with your loss—our family’s loss—of little Johnny.
A good-sized crowd attended this forum, many more men than women, not always the case. These people seemed to be the salt of the earth, and they hung around a long tine to talk with the candidates. I repeat what I said in an earlier blog: Rick Santorum seems to have the ideal family for living in the White House. ♥
More about France, Particularly Paris
The first book I read on my new Nook was The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough, whom I saw on C-SPAN in the interview about the book. McCullough is an excellent writer who does a great deal of research for a book. He said he could have written several more books with this research. In April of 2008 I particularly enjoyed his John Adams, quite a sizable tome. The Greater Journey wasn’t quite so challenging. In fact, it was easy to read.
These Americans in Paris were, first of all, in the early 1800’s, medical students. Before anesthesia was used, French doctors excelled at cutting, off or out, parts of the body without evidence of concern for the patient. They went from patient to patient without even washing their hands! When the doctors checked patients in large wards of many beds in close proximity, as many as 100 students crowded around to observe. One student once climbed on the doctor’s back to get a look. The doctor shook him off.
One advantage for the American medical students in Paris was that they could study the ailments of women, whereas an American woman wouldn’t let a male doctor see her body. One woman declared she’d rather die than be examined by a male doctor. And she did die.
My great, great uncle, John Berrien Lindsley, was one of these medical students studying in Paris. But I can’t believe he did so without sympathetic concern for patients. He came from a religious home that was humanitarian in its outlook. In the latter years of the1800’s, Berrien was credited for ridding the South of cholera and founding the first Public Health program in the country.
Overlapping the time medicine drew foreigners to Paris, the Louvre did too. Artists came from various countries to copy paintings in the Louvre, in an effort to learn more about their chosen field of work. They numbered too many to mention them all here, but I will talk about one American who had never, at that time, lived in America, John Singer Sargent. When he was just a young man, other artists who watched him paint declared him a genius early on. This might have been why he was: McCullough narrates that Sargent’s earliest memory was his seeing a cobblestone of a bright red hue that fascinated him when his nurse took him out for his daily airing as a mere baby. This baby was not quite so mere as most, it seems, for he remembered the red cobblestone and thought about it all the time, apparently. Each day he begged the nurse to show it to him again. This must have been in Italy, for the cobblestone was at an address with a “Via” in it. As some of you might have guessed by now, of course, I added this story to my essay about earliest memories in this blog. I love the red cobblestone story.
Much more happened in this book than things medical and artistic. I believe there must not be any bloody war scenes anywhere as in this volume. I heartily recommend it to all those interested in medicine or art or war. ♥
The first book I read on my new Nook was The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough, whom I saw on C-SPAN in the interview about the book. McCullough is an excellent writer who does a great deal of research for a book. He said he could have written several more books with this research. In April of 2008 I particularly enjoyed his John Adams, quite a sizable tome. The Greater Journey wasn’t quite so challenging. In fact, it was easy to read.
These Americans in Paris were, first of all, in the early 1800’s, medical students. Before anesthesia was used, French doctors excelled at cutting, off or out, parts of the body without evidence of concern for the patient. They went from patient to patient without even washing their hands! When the doctors checked patients in large wards of many beds in close proximity, as many as 100 students crowded around to observe. One student once climbed on the doctor’s back to get a look. The doctor shook him off.
One advantage for the American medical students in Paris was that they could study the ailments of women, whereas an American woman wouldn’t let a male doctor see her body. One woman declared she’d rather die than be examined by a male doctor. And she did die.
My great, great uncle, John Berrien Lindsley, was one of these medical students studying in Paris. But I can’t believe he did so without sympathetic concern for patients. He came from a religious home that was humanitarian in its outlook. In the latter years of the1800’s, Berrien was credited for ridding the South of cholera and founding the first Public Health program in the country.
Overlapping the time medicine drew foreigners to Paris, the Louvre did too. Artists came from various countries to copy paintings in the Louvre, in an effort to learn more about their chosen field of work. They numbered too many to mention them all here, but I will talk about one American who had never, at that time, lived in America, John Singer Sargent. When he was just a young man, other artists who watched him paint declared him a genius early on. This might have been why he was: McCullough narrates that Sargent’s earliest memory was his seeing a cobblestone of a bright red hue that fascinated him when his nurse took him out for his daily airing as a mere baby. This baby was not quite so mere as most, it seems, for he remembered the red cobblestone and thought about it all the time, apparently. Each day he begged the nurse to show it to him again. This must have been in Italy, for the cobblestone was at an address with a “Via” in it. As some of you might have guessed by now, of course, I added this story to my essay about earliest memories in this blog. I love the red cobblestone story.
Much more happened in this book than things medical and artistic. I believe there must not be any bloody war scenes anywhere as in this volume. I heartily recommend it to all those interested in medicine or art or war. ♥
News from a Great Grandson
Below is part of a letter from a great grandson of mine, named Philip. It truly delights me to hear he’s taken up story-writing. He is also a student of World War II, a thought that engages my interest favorably too. Read what he says.
“Hello, Grandma, this is Phil. I really enjoyed the World War II story you sent me. I was just looking for a good World War II story when you sent it.
“I am currently writing a story about slavery set from the 1600’s to the 1800’s. History is my favorite subject. I enjoy writing as well.”
Roald Dahl wrote an excellent WWII story that I will send Phil. It’s called “Beware of the Dog.” Or perhaps he can find it at the public library near his house. I once read something like the fact that Dahl wrote numerous short stories which he sent to American magazines [he was British] and they readily bought them. Many readers probably think he wrote only about chocolate for children. Not so. “Beware of the Dog" is one of the best stories I’ve ever read and some of my English classes read it too. It was also produced on film, but no dog was in it. I recall this version used the Angelus instead of the dog—I think because American readers don’t often know French. I have a thick book of Dahl’s stories, which I’ve not got around to reading yet. But I will, for it is big print. In another blog I’ll write about the latest book I read on my Nook. ♥
Below is part of a letter from a great grandson of mine, named Philip. It truly delights me to hear he’s taken up story-writing. He is also a student of World War II, a thought that engages my interest favorably too. Read what he says.
“Hello, Grandma, this is Phil. I really enjoyed the World War II story you sent me. I was just looking for a good World War II story when you sent it.
“I am currently writing a story about slavery set from the 1600’s to the 1800’s. History is my favorite subject. I enjoy writing as well.”
Roald Dahl wrote an excellent WWII story that I will send Phil. It’s called “Beware of the Dog.” Or perhaps he can find it at the public library near his house. I once read something like the fact that Dahl wrote numerous short stories which he sent to American magazines [he was British] and they readily bought them. Many readers probably think he wrote only about chocolate for children. Not so. “Beware of the Dog" is one of the best stories I’ve ever read and some of my English classes read it too. It was also produced on film, but no dog was in it. I recall this version used the Angelus instead of the dog—I think because American readers don’t often know French. I have a thick book of Dahl’s stories, which I’ve not got around to reading yet. But I will, for it is big print. In another blog I’ll write about the latest book I read on my Nook. ♥
Monday, October 10, 2011
Here It Is
Let me alert you to the following. This story has gone through contests in two separate statewide competitions, several years apart. One gave me no award whatever and the other gave me First Prize. I hope you enjoy it.♥
TO SAVE A BRIDGE
It began at midnight yesterday. The long-awaited invasion of Europe by the Allies was underway. Weather conditions on the coast proved unfavorable for troop convoys to land without the scheduled full moon. But General Eisenhower took his staff meteorologist’s recommendation and proceeded with the invasion. To our amazement, the Nazi soldiers in the Loire Valley left our streets and rushed to Normandy. News spread like wildfire and eased our war-weariness to an extent: we heard it was the beginning of the end. I wrote it all down, as papa taught me to do—and to write and read, indeed to think—like an adult, before he left for war, against a time like this.
Hitler ordered the destruction of all the wine-producing châteaux in France. Château Vougeot is not so large and well known as Mouton-Rothschild, and not one of those tourists drive out from Paris to see, but we have our good years. Hitler isn’t punishing us for putting best labels on poorest wine we were forced to send to German troops fighting in Russia. He can’t know that. No, this latest order is predicated on his diabolical bent to destroy all things French except what he stole. This means especially the wine industry, as precious to us French as the art treasures in the Louvre. I learned of his objective in time to try to save our château.
Yesterday, before hearing of the invasion, I attended my first Résistance meeting, which included just the leader and me. Though he said I was so young—my being a girl didn't matter—I learned how to plant a land mine encased in wood. Then shortly after noon when we saw châteaux in the distance go up in flames, it was time to plant those mines.
The fires formed something of a lopsided circle, and were closing in, sneaking along in the underbrush as well as reaching for the heavens. Our château, larger than the others in this area, might be last, as a sort of climax perhaps. It is the first château on the main road, just one mile from the bridge, and after us, the enemy could make a laughing exit.
With so many trees about, no one saw me move bricks and bury two land mines close together just a few yards inside our front gate, on the route the Nazi soldiers always used when they rang our doorbell. It was far enough inside the courtyard that any friend who might arrive would still bear to the right, heading for the east entry, and be safe as usual. But we expected no friends to call. They had houses to protect. Afterwards in the kitchen I deliberately cut my left hand. I see that as foolish now, but at the time I thought, how could anyone suspect me of planting mines if I had an injured hand? Mama bandaged it but she didn't know about the mines or about the deliberate cutting. We females have to cope, for our men folk are away fighting the war or doing slave labor and starving to death in prison camps. When my brother Henri turned sixteen, away at school in England, French Intelligence grabbed him up for training. Mama keeps our wine business going with the help of my six-year-old brother Jacques and me, and occasionally neighbors. But without copper sulfate it's impossible to keep fungus out of the vineyards. Much effort has gone into planting a garden—mostly parsnips and turnips—to feed us and as many others as we can. How we could use Henri now, but we haven't heard from him in over three months.
Now Jacques and I hide among the vines, where Mama sends us, with bread, cheese, and inferior grapes wrapped in a damp cloth, and in my good hand my father’s leather portfolio of valuable papers. We find two other children here and their mothers, women who have worked for us when we could afford to pay them and who have no vineyards of their own. Some still work for us without pay other than a noon meal, such as it is. We daily go about our work, hoping to avoid being picked off by Nazi soldiers at target practice.
Jacques and I are short enough not to have to crouch among the vines as the adults do. We know to keep still and quiet when the situation demands it, but my hand hurts and I find being still difficult with both a bandaged hand and the portfolio to protect. I forget my discomfort, however, when we see smoke billowing from the village church, a building used these days only for peasant weddings, though it is not big enough to hold the crowd. This is a heart-breaking blow, for our family has taken care of it since the early 1700’s.
Jacques and I relocate ourselves some distance from the château, closer to the edge of our property, almost directly across the road from the church. A short distance from the church is an open car, signifying the Nazis’ presence. We witness the top of the bell tower fall, leaving the bell held up by the four corner posts of the tower, it reverberating with a plangent chime once as burning wood crashes against it. The bell eventually gets so hot it turns red as we watch, so strange, like a bell on a Christmas card. Then we espy four soldiers, and hear them laugh with bravado, as all of them relieve themselves into the fire. I imagine they joke about trying to put out the blaze.
The one who struts around as if in charge of the others keeps repeating the word schnell, which means quick or hurry, I know, but I do not know what die Brücke means. French children do not study German in school, but Papa says that is a mistake, that we need to know the language of the enemy. I agree with Papa.
Finally the Nazi soldiers leave, driving away from us. They must be saving our house till last, for it is so near and yet they drive elsewhere. We watch the fire for a long time, until the old structure with its ten pews is no more. Only one part is left standing, seemingly not burned at all. Strange, when the rest of the building burned so quickly.
Before we are back with the others hiding in the vines, I see by a trace of moonlight those same four soldiers return in their open car and stop at our front gate. They never have driven right up to the door; even when it rained. I think they like to hear their hobnailed boots pound our brick, in step with each other, as if they paraded before their Führer himself or were bent on his command, as was apparently the case now. They do not notice the disturbed bricks as they march toward the château forty feet away.
A few minutes before, I was a child. Now I grow up. I think of Papa and Henri. If I were a German officer, would it cross my mind that a French prisoner was someone's father and therefore spare his life? That's exactly what I think about these four Nazis. They are each probably someone's father, certainly someone's son. Guilt overwhelms and tortures me for my brutal action to be undone.
But it is too late, even if I knew what to do. The mines explode, leaving voices and hobnailed boots silent on an eerie parade ground. I cry out in agony on my knees, pressing my bloody bandaged hand into the soil to punish myself. I have killed a human being, not just one, but four. Jacques does not see what happened but as he puts his arms around my neck, I feel his little body twist around to look for the source of the big noise. I try to concentrate on the irritation of the knapsack of bread and cheese bobbing against my back. I cling to him, trying to hold back my tears, as we move forward into the vines, looking for Mama.
No one has seen her all evening.
I think of the difference between soldiers killing soldiers at war and a child killing soldiers as I’d done. War is not a child's duty, but that is what the Résistance is about. I console myself with the thought I might have saved Mama's life as well as the château. (As I write this now, I know eight French citizens, all friends of ours, burned to death in their homes last night.)
I stumble and drop the portfolio. My hands shake as I grasp at posts and miss, almost falling, and even at vines to try to stop the shaking. The silence among the women and children is unreal.
Hours pass as we wait for something to happen other than the new putrid smell among the smoke. Nothing does, except in the semi-darkness I realize my bandage has a dark spot. Blood. Soiled blood. As my eyes linger on it, it seems to grow. Blood covers my hand. It transfixes me and I soon fall asleep.
As dawn breaks, the women move about in a surreal tableau like eager spirits gathering up the dead before daylight catches them at it. They sweep up bits of uniforms and ignite the pile, its odd-smelling smoke becoming part of the already polluted air. Two women salvage four Luger pistols from the shrubs, apparently thrown from the blast unscathed. Strange, I think, but I know nothing about firearms. Other women get the car down the road and into a ravine. A boy, hardly older than Jacques, siphons out almost a full tank of petrol.
With difficulty I remove traces of my part of the tragedy, though no one seems to connect me with the event. Perhaps the bandaged hand has done its job. Some women replace the broken bricks with whole ones from over the courtyard and pour cherished Cabernet Franc Red over the wide-spattered -blood on the bricks and swab them down, anticipating a uniform redness. I keep wondering where Mama is.
At last everyone leaves our property to see about their own houses, most of them small cottages. Survivors from the burned châteaux will be back tonight to sleep at ours. I must help get everything ready for that. Jacques and I go into the house.
Mama does not appear. I search all the rooms in the part of the château still in use. On the floor near the front entry, leaning against the baseboard, rests a homemade gun. Afraid to touch it, I nevertheless pick it up and stow it in a closet, out of sight, wondering what Mama had in mind for it. The Résistance leader told me people had such guns but never said who had them.
With sinking heart, I replace the portfolio of valuable papers in Papa's cabinet in his study, and secure its key in its hiding place. I give Jacques the last of the cheese and grapes and tuck him into bed. How much of his composure is fear and dread, and how much is bravery, I can’t determine. Covering him with his favorite red blanket, I see my hands of the same color moving about. All is blood, my heart cries. I stand outside his door until I hear the sound of a child sleeping. Then, unable to hold back my tears, I make my way along the road toward the church that is no longer there. Perhaps it will still offer refuge.
This night, which seems not over though it is a new day, I witness the making of history important to my family, the destruction of this church. An ancestor of my great, great grandfather, the first Vougeot in the Loire Valley, built the church of storybook design in the seventeenth century. As I near the rubble with some charred slabs of wood still burning, Mama rises from the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and comes toward me.
"Cherie, oh my cherie, I got four of them with just one shot!"
She is shaking in a frightful way, her teeth clattering, even with the heat of the fire still around her on a warm night. It shocks me to see her wearing her best dress, a crimson silk she bought in Paris. Yes, she would want to look her best if she were shot dead or captured by the enemy. How long has she been here?
"I thought of Charles and my Henri and I just shot them, four of them with one shot!"
I don’t like her laughter or her huge glassy eyes. I wonder at her need to come to the church after killing the enemy so happily. She is proud of what she has done; perhaps her prayers are those of thanksgiving.
"Man maman, let's go home."
"Where is Jacques?"
"He's asleep, man maman. He was so tired. He didn't see anything except the fires. Come home now and I'll fix you breakfast. We'll share that last egg.”
"What the war has done to you, my Rose-Hélène! Here you are, not yet fourteen, leading your old mother as if she were blind or crazy."
She stops walking. "Four of them!" Ordinarily she would never call herself old.
"Hush, man maman. Come along. You need food and rest.”
"Suddenly she throws back her head and yells, as if to the world, "Four with one shot! I saw them coming! Coming to destroy us."
She bursts into tears. I hug her, twice bigger than I.
How much of the truth should Mama hear? Would knowing everything cure what seems to be a new problem? From now on, would I be taking care of her? I hug her a little tighter. Surely Papa would be home soon but in what condition? Maybe I'd be caring for both of them.
At least I save our house and thousands of bottles of our best wine, sealed up behind a brick wall, hidden from the Nazis. Some people will probably claim me a hero, if they ever discover the truth, but I decline and don't admit anything. I’m just another French patriot out of millions. I won't let myself become a hero, or a pacifist either. We have seen too much of that at Vichy. Our once-loved Marshal Petain is even now accused of treason. Yesterday I would have been afraid to write this down, but today it seems safe, for the war must be almost over. The Germans have more important missions than to return to this part of the Loire Valley to finish off one château.
As we begin the trek back to the house, I see the church bell now lying among the ashes. I must get Monsieur LeMaine to retrieve it, for its replacement in the new church when the time comes. We pass the confessional, not burned at all. We stop. Light plays up in old-style French an inscription on the rough-hewn relic: This confessional is for anyone at anytime but especially for a Vougeot with a great sin. A chill envelops me. I reach out my bandaged hand to the confessional to promise my return to it, priest or no priest. Even a few of them have turned into collaborators.
Back at the house, Mama cleans and redresses my wounded hand with not a shadow of mental aberration showing on her beautiful face. We share the fried egg and days-old brioche. I will be more satisfied with her condition when she changes into her everyday work attire.
Later this morning, while mama sleeps, with her crimson dress hanging in its proper place in her armoire, the women feed eighteen local refugees in our kitchen. I slip out of the house and walk to the church ruins again, to talk directly with God this time.
I kneel before the inscription with the crackling and popping of dying fire sounding all around me. I confess my sin of taking human life and know forgiveness as I have never known it in my short life. When I rise to my feet, a ray of sunlight shines through the valley's smoke, settling on the strip of wood where the inscription was a few minutes before. It is no longer there. It lasted just long enough for me, I reason.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I return once more to the burn only to find the confessional itself is now ashes. But something wonderful will replace it in our lives. When we rebuild the church, I will insist on the same inscription on the confessional, especially for a Vougeot with a great sin.
I stand in the middle of the road for a time, looking toward the bridge, as if to see Papa and Henri coming home. But of course, the smoke over the valley is too thick to see anything in the distance. But the bridge must still be there. Perhaps I—
Yes—it strikes me—that must be what die Brücke means, the bridge! They meant to destroy the bridge, once they had crossed to the other side. Awe-stricken by a deed I was not aware of doing at the time, I wonder about forgiveness while saving a bridge. I need to talk with Papa.
Mixed joy and sorrow envelop me as I return to the house, to finish writing the story of this day. I am not sure I like being an adult. But one thing is certain: I will never be the same person as before.
On the front step I look around. Toward the east the air has cleared a bit and through an intervale I would ordinarily miss noticing, I witness blue sky just waiting to spread over this valley. It will be difficult to realize the war still goes on.
Let me alert you to the following. This story has gone through contests in two separate statewide competitions, several years apart. One gave me no award whatever and the other gave me First Prize. I hope you enjoy it.♥
TO SAVE A BRIDGE
It began at midnight yesterday. The long-awaited invasion of Europe by the Allies was underway. Weather conditions on the coast proved unfavorable for troop convoys to land without the scheduled full moon. But General Eisenhower took his staff meteorologist’s recommendation and proceeded with the invasion. To our amazement, the Nazi soldiers in the Loire Valley left our streets and rushed to Normandy. News spread like wildfire and eased our war-weariness to an extent: we heard it was the beginning of the end. I wrote it all down, as papa taught me to do—and to write and read, indeed to think—like an adult, before he left for war, against a time like this.
Hitler ordered the destruction of all the wine-producing châteaux in France. Château Vougeot is not so large and well known as Mouton-Rothschild, and not one of those tourists drive out from Paris to see, but we have our good years. Hitler isn’t punishing us for putting best labels on poorest wine we were forced to send to German troops fighting in Russia. He can’t know that. No, this latest order is predicated on his diabolical bent to destroy all things French except what he stole. This means especially the wine industry, as precious to us French as the art treasures in the Louvre. I learned of his objective in time to try to save our château.
Yesterday, before hearing of the invasion, I attended my first Résistance meeting, which included just the leader and me. Though he said I was so young—my being a girl didn't matter—I learned how to plant a land mine encased in wood. Then shortly after noon when we saw châteaux in the distance go up in flames, it was time to plant those mines.
The fires formed something of a lopsided circle, and were closing in, sneaking along in the underbrush as well as reaching for the heavens. Our château, larger than the others in this area, might be last, as a sort of climax perhaps. It is the first château on the main road, just one mile from the bridge, and after us, the enemy could make a laughing exit.
With so many trees about, no one saw me move bricks and bury two land mines close together just a few yards inside our front gate, on the route the Nazi soldiers always used when they rang our doorbell. It was far enough inside the courtyard that any friend who might arrive would still bear to the right, heading for the east entry, and be safe as usual. But we expected no friends to call. They had houses to protect. Afterwards in the kitchen I deliberately cut my left hand. I see that as foolish now, but at the time I thought, how could anyone suspect me of planting mines if I had an injured hand? Mama bandaged it but she didn't know about the mines or about the deliberate cutting. We females have to cope, for our men folk are away fighting the war or doing slave labor and starving to death in prison camps. When my brother Henri turned sixteen, away at school in England, French Intelligence grabbed him up for training. Mama keeps our wine business going with the help of my six-year-old brother Jacques and me, and occasionally neighbors. But without copper sulfate it's impossible to keep fungus out of the vineyards. Much effort has gone into planting a garden—mostly parsnips and turnips—to feed us and as many others as we can. How we could use Henri now, but we haven't heard from him in over three months.
Now Jacques and I hide among the vines, where Mama sends us, with bread, cheese, and inferior grapes wrapped in a damp cloth, and in my good hand my father’s leather portfolio of valuable papers. We find two other children here and their mothers, women who have worked for us when we could afford to pay them and who have no vineyards of their own. Some still work for us without pay other than a noon meal, such as it is. We daily go about our work, hoping to avoid being picked off by Nazi soldiers at target practice.
Jacques and I are short enough not to have to crouch among the vines as the adults do. We know to keep still and quiet when the situation demands it, but my hand hurts and I find being still difficult with both a bandaged hand and the portfolio to protect. I forget my discomfort, however, when we see smoke billowing from the village church, a building used these days only for peasant weddings, though it is not big enough to hold the crowd. This is a heart-breaking blow, for our family has taken care of it since the early 1700’s.
Jacques and I relocate ourselves some distance from the château, closer to the edge of our property, almost directly across the road from the church. A short distance from the church is an open car, signifying the Nazis’ presence. We witness the top of the bell tower fall, leaving the bell held up by the four corner posts of the tower, it reverberating with a plangent chime once as burning wood crashes against it. The bell eventually gets so hot it turns red as we watch, so strange, like a bell on a Christmas card. Then we espy four soldiers, and hear them laugh with bravado, as all of them relieve themselves into the fire. I imagine they joke about trying to put out the blaze.
The one who struts around as if in charge of the others keeps repeating the word schnell, which means quick or hurry, I know, but I do not know what die Brücke means. French children do not study German in school, but Papa says that is a mistake, that we need to know the language of the enemy. I agree with Papa.
Finally the Nazi soldiers leave, driving away from us. They must be saving our house till last, for it is so near and yet they drive elsewhere. We watch the fire for a long time, until the old structure with its ten pews is no more. Only one part is left standing, seemingly not burned at all. Strange, when the rest of the building burned so quickly.
Before we are back with the others hiding in the vines, I see by a trace of moonlight those same four soldiers return in their open car and stop at our front gate. They never have driven right up to the door; even when it rained. I think they like to hear their hobnailed boots pound our brick, in step with each other, as if they paraded before their Führer himself or were bent on his command, as was apparently the case now. They do not notice the disturbed bricks as they march toward the château forty feet away.
A few minutes before, I was a child. Now I grow up. I think of Papa and Henri. If I were a German officer, would it cross my mind that a French prisoner was someone's father and therefore spare his life? That's exactly what I think about these four Nazis. They are each probably someone's father, certainly someone's son. Guilt overwhelms and tortures me for my brutal action to be undone.
But it is too late, even if I knew what to do. The mines explode, leaving voices and hobnailed boots silent on an eerie parade ground. I cry out in agony on my knees, pressing my bloody bandaged hand into the soil to punish myself. I have killed a human being, not just one, but four. Jacques does not see what happened but as he puts his arms around my neck, I feel his little body twist around to look for the source of the big noise. I try to concentrate on the irritation of the knapsack of bread and cheese bobbing against my back. I cling to him, trying to hold back my tears, as we move forward into the vines, looking for Mama.
No one has seen her all evening.
I think of the difference between soldiers killing soldiers at war and a child killing soldiers as I’d done. War is not a child's duty, but that is what the Résistance is about. I console myself with the thought I might have saved Mama's life as well as the château. (As I write this now, I know eight French citizens, all friends of ours, burned to death in their homes last night.)
I stumble and drop the portfolio. My hands shake as I grasp at posts and miss, almost falling, and even at vines to try to stop the shaking. The silence among the women and children is unreal.
Hours pass as we wait for something to happen other than the new putrid smell among the smoke. Nothing does, except in the semi-darkness I realize my bandage has a dark spot. Blood. Soiled blood. As my eyes linger on it, it seems to grow. Blood covers my hand. It transfixes me and I soon fall asleep.
As dawn breaks, the women move about in a surreal tableau like eager spirits gathering up the dead before daylight catches them at it. They sweep up bits of uniforms and ignite the pile, its odd-smelling smoke becoming part of the already polluted air. Two women salvage four Luger pistols from the shrubs, apparently thrown from the blast unscathed. Strange, I think, but I know nothing about firearms. Other women get the car down the road and into a ravine. A boy, hardly older than Jacques, siphons out almost a full tank of petrol.
With difficulty I remove traces of my part of the tragedy, though no one seems to connect me with the event. Perhaps the bandaged hand has done its job. Some women replace the broken bricks with whole ones from over the courtyard and pour cherished Cabernet Franc Red over the wide-spattered -blood on the bricks and swab them down, anticipating a uniform redness. I keep wondering where Mama is.
At last everyone leaves our property to see about their own houses, most of them small cottages. Survivors from the burned châteaux will be back tonight to sleep at ours. I must help get everything ready for that. Jacques and I go into the house.
Mama does not appear. I search all the rooms in the part of the château still in use. On the floor near the front entry, leaning against the baseboard, rests a homemade gun. Afraid to touch it, I nevertheless pick it up and stow it in a closet, out of sight, wondering what Mama had in mind for it. The Résistance leader told me people had such guns but never said who had them.
With sinking heart, I replace the portfolio of valuable papers in Papa's cabinet in his study, and secure its key in its hiding place. I give Jacques the last of the cheese and grapes and tuck him into bed. How much of his composure is fear and dread, and how much is bravery, I can’t determine. Covering him with his favorite red blanket, I see my hands of the same color moving about. All is blood, my heart cries. I stand outside his door until I hear the sound of a child sleeping. Then, unable to hold back my tears, I make my way along the road toward the church that is no longer there. Perhaps it will still offer refuge.
This night, which seems not over though it is a new day, I witness the making of history important to my family, the destruction of this church. An ancestor of my great, great grandfather, the first Vougeot in the Loire Valley, built the church of storybook design in the seventeenth century. As I near the rubble with some charred slabs of wood still burning, Mama rises from the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and comes toward me.
"Cherie, oh my cherie, I got four of them with just one shot!"
She is shaking in a frightful way, her teeth clattering, even with the heat of the fire still around her on a warm night. It shocks me to see her wearing her best dress, a crimson silk she bought in Paris. Yes, she would want to look her best if she were shot dead or captured by the enemy. How long has she been here?
"I thought of Charles and my Henri and I just shot them, four of them with one shot!"
I don’t like her laughter or her huge glassy eyes. I wonder at her need to come to the church after killing the enemy so happily. She is proud of what she has done; perhaps her prayers are those of thanksgiving.
"Man maman, let's go home."
"Where is Jacques?"
"He's asleep, man maman. He was so tired. He didn't see anything except the fires. Come home now and I'll fix you breakfast. We'll share that last egg.”
"What the war has done to you, my Rose-Hélène! Here you are, not yet fourteen, leading your old mother as if she were blind or crazy."
She stops walking. "Four of them!" Ordinarily she would never call herself old.
"Hush, man maman. Come along. You need food and rest.”
"Suddenly she throws back her head and yells, as if to the world, "Four with one shot! I saw them coming! Coming to destroy us."
She bursts into tears. I hug her, twice bigger than I.
How much of the truth should Mama hear? Would knowing everything cure what seems to be a new problem? From now on, would I be taking care of her? I hug her a little tighter. Surely Papa would be home soon but in what condition? Maybe I'd be caring for both of them.
At least I save our house and thousands of bottles of our best wine, sealed up behind a brick wall, hidden from the Nazis. Some people will probably claim me a hero, if they ever discover the truth, but I decline and don't admit anything. I’m just another French patriot out of millions. I won't let myself become a hero, or a pacifist either. We have seen too much of that at Vichy. Our once-loved Marshal Petain is even now accused of treason. Yesterday I would have been afraid to write this down, but today it seems safe, for the war must be almost over. The Germans have more important missions than to return to this part of the Loire Valley to finish off one château.
As we begin the trek back to the house, I see the church bell now lying among the ashes. I must get Monsieur LeMaine to retrieve it, for its replacement in the new church when the time comes. We pass the confessional, not burned at all. We stop. Light plays up in old-style French an inscription on the rough-hewn relic: This confessional is for anyone at anytime but especially for a Vougeot with a great sin. A chill envelops me. I reach out my bandaged hand to the confessional to promise my return to it, priest or no priest. Even a few of them have turned into collaborators.
Back at the house, Mama cleans and redresses my wounded hand with not a shadow of mental aberration showing on her beautiful face. We share the fried egg and days-old brioche. I will be more satisfied with her condition when she changes into her everyday work attire.
Later this morning, while mama sleeps, with her crimson dress hanging in its proper place in her armoire, the women feed eighteen local refugees in our kitchen. I slip out of the house and walk to the church ruins again, to talk directly with God this time.
I kneel before the inscription with the crackling and popping of dying fire sounding all around me. I confess my sin of taking human life and know forgiveness as I have never known it in my short life. When I rise to my feet, a ray of sunlight shines through the valley's smoke, settling on the strip of wood where the inscription was a few minutes before. It is no longer there. It lasted just long enough for me, I reason.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I return once more to the burn only to find the confessional itself is now ashes. But something wonderful will replace it in our lives. When we rebuild the church, I will insist on the same inscription on the confessional, especially for a Vougeot with a great sin.
I stand in the middle of the road for a time, looking toward the bridge, as if to see Papa and Henri coming home. But of course, the smoke over the valley is too thick to see anything in the distance. But the bridge must still be there. Perhaps I—
Yes—it strikes me—that must be what die Brücke means, the bridge! They meant to destroy the bridge, once they had crossed to the other side. Awe-stricken by a deed I was not aware of doing at the time, I wonder about forgiveness while saving a bridge. I need to talk with Papa.
Mixed joy and sorrow envelop me as I return to the house, to finish writing the story of this day. I am not sure I like being an adult. But one thing is certain: I will never be the same person as before.
On the front step I look around. Toward the east the air has cleared a bit and through an intervale I would ordinarily miss noticing, I witness blue sky just waiting to spread over this valley. It will be difficult to realize the war still goes on.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
A Note till Tomorrow
Some of you have probably been looking forward to my promised story or stories. I have not forgotten. I have had to be away from the computer too much lately. I hope sincerely to have some freedom in that respect tomorrow. But here is my first-prize winning poem.
THE SCENT OF SUMMER©
Between the meadow
and the ditch
I dig asparagus, as wind
wafts over planted fields,
encircling cathedral spires
(that some call pines).
I scent twice-turned earth
as sweet as new-cut hay
so fresh, so brief,
one could miss knowing
the thrill, the joy,
of all this. ♥
Some of you have probably been looking forward to my promised story or stories. I have not forgotten. I have had to be away from the computer too much lately. I hope sincerely to have some freedom in that respect tomorrow. But here is my first-prize winning poem.
THE SCENT OF SUMMER©
Between the meadow
and the ditch
I dig asparagus, as wind
wafts over planted fields,
encircling cathedral spires
(that some call pines).
I scent twice-turned earth
as sweet as new-cut hay
so fresh, so brief,
one could miss knowing
the thrill, the joy,
of all this. ♥
Sunday, October 2, 2011
What a Lovely Day It Is, but Isn’t Every Day that Way?
No news overnight, of course. However, I’m not sitting here, just taking chair space. I am busy writing something all the time. Currently I’m checking over past writings for possibly sending them out to some national contests, actually international contests, for some subscribers for the magazine reside in other countries. The items in mind I have never sent anywhere till now. It will take months to know the result of such contests, but one must be patient. Let me add here, three requirements are necessary to succeed at this sort of contest. One is patience after you send out your manuscript. Don’t watch the kettle come to a boil. Another is awareness that there is always someone who writes better than you. And the third one is the necessity to stay busy. Begin a new story, or finish the one already started. Patience, awareness, and necessity, in this order, begin with PAN. Get accustomed to the word PAN. Make it your mantra. Don’t reverse it and take a nap. Stay busy with writing.
While I’m busy at this project, I write little on the current novel or my nonfiction book, write just enough to keep in touch. But the stories for any contest will go out and it will be back to the other. Of course, we’ll also soon know the topics for next year’s League contests, and they will take priority.
(What I can’t understand are those would-be writers to say they don’t know what to write about. While they don’t have ideas, I don’t have time.)
As you start a new writing project, remember what David McCullough said was the third aspect of writing: thinking. I’m sure he didn’t intend it comes third in the doing, I’d say second. This is the order I pose them for myself: research, thinking, and actual writing. Of course, one thinks all the time he’s researching and making notes, and while writing. But during the thinking process, an author is concerned with such things as how to start the magnum opus or what to tell when. I like my idea of writing something first and then deciding where it goes. But you must decide which method is best for you. ♥
No news overnight, of course. However, I’m not sitting here, just taking chair space. I am busy writing something all the time. Currently I’m checking over past writings for possibly sending them out to some national contests, actually international contests, for some subscribers for the magazine reside in other countries. The items in mind I have never sent anywhere till now. It will take months to know the result of such contests, but one must be patient. Let me add here, three requirements are necessary to succeed at this sort of contest. One is patience after you send out your manuscript. Don’t watch the kettle come to a boil. Another is awareness that there is always someone who writes better than you. And the third one is the necessity to stay busy. Begin a new story, or finish the one already started. Patience, awareness, and necessity, in this order, begin with PAN. Get accustomed to the word PAN. Make it your mantra. Don’t reverse it and take a nap. Stay busy with writing.
While I’m busy at this project, I write little on the current novel or my nonfiction book, write just enough to keep in touch. But the stories for any contest will go out and it will be back to the other. Of course, we’ll also soon know the topics for next year’s League contests, and they will take priority.
(What I can’t understand are those would-be writers to say they don’t know what to write about. While they don’t have ideas, I don’t have time.)
As you start a new writing project, remember what David McCullough said was the third aspect of writing: thinking. I’m sure he didn’t intend it comes third in the doing, I’d say second. This is the order I pose them for myself: research, thinking, and actual writing. Of course, one thinks all the time he’s researching and making notes, and while writing. But during the thinking process, an author is concerned with such things as how to start the magnum opus or what to tell when. I like my idea of writing something first and then deciding where it goes. But you must decide which method is best for you. ♥
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