How 2 Wrong Turns Became 3 Rights

This week a string of Wrong events converged into a theme. And I tip my hat to Tony, whose quote I found after I'd already learned--and so I could appreciate that it couldn't be put any better.

Event the First:
This week I returned to writing a book I'd set aside two months ago. I'd needed time to recover from a nasty injury--and time to screw up my courage. My backpack had been stolen in May and along with my laptop I'd lost a notebook containing some 50 new pages. Though I'd had some grave doubts about sections, the lost pages came to assume almost mythical importance. And if I couldn't recover those pages, how could I hope to go on?

One day like any other day, I simply couldn't not continue. I accepted the futility of trying a word-for-word recapture. Hell, after a couple of months I couldn't even outline exactly what I'd done. Then again, though, I'd started doubt some major decisions that I did recall: including the too-sudden killings of two minor characters I'd come to like. I set out to take every day as it came, along with each narrative turn.

End result: the two minor characters not only lived, they took on more active roles. And the female character has transformed into something shockingly different from the act that she'd put on. As I wrote, freed of my fears of the loss, a section I'd forgotten about took its place back in the narrative queue but at a new time, in a different way. Now my confidence came back to me. My book was back in business. And...

                               BONUS!

Lighting struck again: a cool idea for a spin-off series starring the two Seattle characters whom I haven't killed and a major player in the Boss MacTavin series, largely set in San Francisco.




Event the Second:
I needed shirts for the new job. No problem, I thought. At Value Village in Capitol Hill I could certainly find 3-4 like-new top quality shirts, worth $150-$200 marked down to $12-$15 each.

Drat the cat, though. That VV store had closed and the nearest other sites weren't to be easily reached. What to do? I Googled Seattle Thrift Stores and made my decision: I'd try...Salvation Army?

Talk about wrong roads. The Men's Shirt rack held hundreds of dress shirts--and every one of them looked soiled, old and cheap. They might as well have been stamped Loserville, fine with the crowd that had thronged there.  I wheeled around, about to go. But on the way I spied a rack with attractive looking shirts that hadn't attracted a crowd.

Here, sold as Sportshirts, were the designer and premium shirts: Sean Jean,  Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger, Tommy Bahama, Ralph Lauren...I walked out with one helluva trio for under $50.  And I'll return to that store twice a month, now that I know where to look.

Actually, there's more than one, all complementing Tony's:

1) As I learned with the pages I'd lost: Though I hadn't lost them on purpose because the work displeased me, the experience taught me faith in greater powers at play. I remained chained for as long as I thought the lost pages couldn't be bettered. 

2) Listen to the inner voice! I'd killed off two characters, mainly because they weren't coming to life and I didn't know what to do with them. Now one of the two characters refused to die and came roaringly to life in the most unexpected way. And, with her, so did her partner. 

3) If we need to tweak our thinking about the 'wrong' turns we've taken, we also need to be slower about drawing any conclusions. I found three simply sensational shirts because my eyes were open as I was leaving that store.

So, travel wisely and well today, friends, today and all your other days. Learn from your right turns, your left...and your wrong. 

The Hard Art of the After-Fall

On April 5, at approximately 5 a.m., I took a hard tumble on a dark street while hurrying toward the bus stop.



The fall was bad enough to cause one driver to screech to a stop. He helped me to my feet and stayed till I assured him that nothing was broken and I'd be okay...though I did seem to hurt all over. I turned down his request for a ride to a nearby hospital. He left reluctantly, turning to ask me one last time. I thanked him. But no, really, I was Reb MacRath. I'd studied Aikido for too many years to not know how to tumble.

Wrong. I needed help getting onto the bus and more help getting off it. Though still sure that nothing was broken, I'd strained a groin muscle almost certainly.  Or I had a hernia. I left a message on the sick line at work, explaining that I was temporarily immobilized. Since the next day, Wednesday, was my day off, I had two days to rest and heal. I should be fine by Thursday, I thought. And I had to be fine by Sunday--because that was the Magic Day.

Yes, I'd booked my ticket months ago for a cross-country train tip from Seattle to Buffalo. And, let me tell you, I'd planned the trip down to the tiniest details: a glorious walk through my old college campus...a long walk through the downtown area...visits with my sister and an old friend I hadn't seen since my years in Canada...a visit to my parents' graves.

So I'd heal because I had to heal within the next five days. Right?



Wrong. Long story short: I did board that Amtrak train and take the trip, but not as planned. I accepted gratefully a wheelchair at the station and needed to sleep upright in my cabin every night. The train car attendant brought me my meals. And in Buffalo I ended spending most of my time sitting with my leg raised or lying down. I met with my sister and friend, nothing more--except for a round-trip cab ride to a nearby Starbucks once.

I'm home again and somewhat healed 15 days after the fall...but not nearly healed enough to return to work yet. So today I'll see a doctor or cab to an emergency clinic. What's my situation and what do I need to do?

Equally important: What the devil have I learned?



1) I'd felt angry and bitter the day of the fall. I'd paid for my vacation a half-year before and had been planning it down to the tiniest details. The timing of the injury couldn't have been worse, I thought. But I see now that the timing could have been much worse. If I'd fallen three days later, I'd have had to cancel the trip because of the pain. If I'd fallen four months before, I wouldn't have had the medical insurance that I now enjoy.
2) The fall itself could have been much worse--and I think those years studying Aikido did help. Tens of thousands of break falls and rolls did teach me to protect my head when landing.
3) Suddenly, it's become completely unimportant to me to run for a bus or to be first in line for anything. As a man with a cane now, I'm focused on each step along the way.
4) Our infirmities bring out the worst in some people and the best in others. We'll meet bullies who'll go out of their way to block our path, demanding we move when we're barely able to stand. But we'll also meet saints who go out of their way to see if we need help.
5) The thigh bone's connected to the hip bone and the hip bone's connected to the back...The groin pain and hip soreness were clear enough to me. But the back pain came later and mystified me. That is, until I played amateur detective. I was having enormous difficulty getting out of bed--and also having a good night's sleep. Could the villain be the old foam futon, set on the floor with no frame?
Had the back strain resulted from tossing and turning on the old foam's hardened ruts?
6) Our life strategies must be connected as well. Today I'll see a doctor...after having a new bed delivered at noon. I'll need to set up a work schedule that meets my doctor's orders. And I may need to take more time off.
7) Finally, for now: be grateful for the humblings. We all need to be reminded that we are not invincible and are not here forever. Because my movements were so restricted, that vacation was all the sweeter. And I wouldn't have exchanged it for a week on the world's finest beach.

In Praise of The School of Hard Knocks

The last two lines contain the key: an ongoing curriculum.

On this cold, wet Sunday in the city of Seattle, I find myself thinking about this today: appraising my first year in the city...and my three years as an ebook author--after four published books and then 25 years in The Desert.

Conclusion: I have aced some  essential courses...but I am not, as I had thought, a PhD from this rough school. In fact, I've flunked a few courses and have more years of hard study ahead. Plus, some still worse knocks, I'm sure.

Literary and office politics (or politricks) continue to confound me, despite the progress I've made at writing, editing, cover designing, event promotions, online presence, etc. I've developed substantial followings on Twitter and Facebook. And I've continued to work on my usage of both. At the same time, I've revamped my resume for another job search.

Yet in this last month I've tanked in two job interviews. The numbers of my book reviews pretty mirrors their sales. I am no less mystified by cold shoulders from writers I've championed.

But, as a continuing student, I vow: no more miserable report cards like this:




For the new semester, which has just begun--only in MacRathWorld can a semester begin in November!--I have a new instructor.

He was prominently featured in my last post on Authors Electric. His name is Balthsar Gracian and you'll find your introduction here:

http://authorselectric.blogspot.com/2015/11/books-youll-be-killed-if-caught-reading.html

Gracian's little book, The Art of Worldly Wisdom  is subtitled  A Pocket Oracle. And it is exactly that.

http://tinyurl.com/oha4u6u

More than an oracle, or a manual, it is also the perfect antidote to the chief pop power guides, Machiavelli's The Prince and Robert Greene's 48 Laws of Power. What I love about Gracian's The Art is its unique dual focus on material success and personal excellence.

It contains 300 pithy aphorisms. I plan to study one each day, then take the remaining two months every year for an intensive review.

Oh, the School of Hard Knocks will continue to deliver its tough, bruising lessons. But Gracian seems an excellent guide for dodging the worst of those lessons and enduring the handful that one can't evade.

Goal for my first years' tutelage under Gracian: to become an upperclassman in the hard knockin' school all attend.