I’m a writer. I write about life, love, truth, and conflict. I can imagine just about any eventuality given enough time and quiet. It’s a problem.
When one of my gang is late for a family meeting, dinner, or activity, I can have them stripped naked, bleeding from their temples, and thrown in a ditch before I’ve set the table. I can’t help it. It’s a job hazard.
My imagination is an excellent asset, except when it’s not.
When creating a story, an author is encouraged by the gods of writing to take her beloved characters, chase them up a tree, and then throw rocks at them. Sometimes those beloved characters get stuck up in that tree, and the author has to figure out how to get them out of there. If a rock hits them in the head, they fall out of that tree dead.
What? It happens. In my brain.
After writing my first book in the Strandline Story Series (Beyond the Strandline) I had an advanced copy reader email me and ask, "But you're such a nice lady, how can you write such terrible things--and about children?"
Because, when writing apocalyptic grid collapse scenarios there are a lot of people up trees, even children. If the lights should go out, electric quits flowing, and the pumps shut off the world will stop being quite so fast food convenient and friendly. It's said that the US is seventy-two hours away from anarchy because that's when the food runs out. It's a genre that lends itself to all the troubles necessary to write intense, realistic fiction. Food isn't automatic. Water is life and death. Enemies are endless. Sex is serious business--again.
Prepper fiction is a target rich environment for an author.
Fiction creates an opportunity for readers to explore life events vicariously, to work through trouble and tragedy by looking through the window of a novel into the lives and troubles of characters who've been run up a tree. It is a safe way to prepare, to process, to contemplate possibilities.
My family thinks I'm a doomsday diva, claiming that I've probably dug a secret bunker someplace, where I've stockpiled huge mounds of dehydrated broccoli. No. But if I had dug a secret bunker, I'd hide it under the foundation of the barn and use old freezers as waterproof storage units, but it would be hard because the water table is pretty high in Florida so I'd have to figure out how to keep my bunker dry . . .
See? Up a tree, with people throwing rocks.
Don't think it could happen? Neither did the Venezuelans, the Syrians, the Bosnians, Europe after Hitler, the Ukraine after communism . . .
Linda (Read More Books) Zern
Facebook is a marvelous work and a wonder, full of opinions, ideas, politics, and philosophy. Everyone is talking. A lot of folks are trash talking. Most people are talking at each other, rather than to each other. Some jokers are frothing at the mouth, and still others don’t talk at all, they just eavesdrop.
When in the history of this world have more people been talking?
The problem: Society has, maybe, never been more uncivil or paranoid.
The answer, according to everyone on Facebook, is that more talking is needed. Facebookers call it dialogue but really that’s just a fancy word for talking. The conventional wisdom is that more talking is needed, and then when we reach some level of excessive talking a wormhole of cosmic understanding will open and all will be well.
Hmmmmm . . . not seeing it.
A Facebook friend of a friend of mine, of anonymous acquaintance, (you don’t know them so quit trying to guess) recently left my church, trashed my leaders, and castigated my beliefs. There was a lot of talking. Please understand; I stand firmly in the camp of freedom: religion, speech, choices.
Your right to talk is sacred to me, but don’t be surprised if I talk back. My friend talked and talked and talked, but there was no reaching of some beautiful wormhole of cosmic understanding. There was no ranting and no raving but there was also no miraculous discovery of common ground. Sad. But true. It’s life and living and I respect that.
Want to know when the conversation got moderate? When the friend of my friend, who is someone no one knows, started selling stuff and suddenly, the agenda changed: You have what I want, and I make what you need. Let’s make a deal. And boom! The world got a little more civil.
If the world wants civil, then sell more stuff. It’s amazing how thoughtful people become when they want your money or your circuit boards or your business. Trade tempers the temper. Historians understand the importance of goods and services that trade hands, open borders, and broaden horizons.
“Trade was also a boon for human interaction, bringing cross-cultural contact to a whole new level.” (Live Science, Heather Whipp)
America has always been a nation of shopkeepers. It kept us civil. It kept us polite. It keeps life personal. Small business keeps us united. Keep that in mind when folks talk, talk, talk about bigger and bigger centralized government.
I have heard that the rule of thumb for those on Facebook, doing business of one sort or another, is to not say anything on social media you wouldn’t say at a cocktail party before the drinking.
Of course, there are ALWAYS exceptions to the rule and people who feel free to trash talk regardless of what they’re selling in their lemonade stands: rock stars, comedians, talking heads, and other curmudgeons.
Let the free market decide.
Linda (Fifty Percent Off) Zern
