Ponderations From the Back Porch

I am really excited to have a new Wednesday's Guest here to share with us a bit of homespun philosophy. Roy Faubion is a retired radio broadcaster, and he has written a number of columns for newspapers throughout his professional career. Roy has agreed to share, from time to time, some of his "ponderings" as he refers to his writing, and I am very grateful for that. So, without further ado, let's welcome Roy as he tells us the story of his Uncle Ed. Since Father's Day was this past Sunday, I thought the topic quite fitting.

Out on the back porch on a summer morning in Texas, we still have our cup of "joe" to start the day, so here is a cup for you. and a little something sweet to go with it. Enjoy.....

I think my image of tough men did not include tiny little flowers, lady bugs and raindrops, but Uncle Ed forever changed my thoughts on that summer day so long ago. Just the two of us - Uncle Ed and me, sitting on the grassy slope of the ranch near a tiny rivulet.

A main reason for my image of a real he-man type person was formed by my admiration for Uncle Ed. He was a cowboy. Tall, hands made of calluses from dark early to dark late physical work required just to keep the ranch going day to day. I knew him to be a loving man, a God-fearing man, a true man’s man.

There we were, nine year old me and Uncle Ed, taking time out from repair work on barbed wire fencing just to breathe in the air and watch for little animals that may be scampering about. A time of bonding, that special moment all boys seek. Truly, it was a slice of my life destined forever to remain in my memory. My uncle reached slowly out to a grass stem an arm’s stretch away and allowed a ladybug to crawl on his finger. Showing me the pretty little bug he cautioned me to never harm a ladybug. They are very important little creatures, he told me.

Gently he pointed to a little flower so tiny I had not noticed its existence.  It was so very small, yet to Uncle Ed it was a work of art. He explained to me how beauty is everywhere, if we only take time to look for it, from mighty oak trees to the tiniest whisper of a flower, all contributing to our world.

About that time a raindrop fell on my face. Uncle Ed explained to me how the heaviest rainfall is really a team effort of little water drops, combining to bring life to every living being, both animal and vegetable, on the ranch.

That day I grasped the real meaning of having a purpose. Uncle Ed, tough as a boot and gentle as a breeze, gave me understanding of what life is about. Alone we may not seem to be much. But together we can make a difference, just as the little flowers, the little bugs and the little raindrops quietly go about their business making our world a better place.

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MORE ABOUT ROY
Roy has written columns for small-town newspapers for most of  his adult life. The first column was entitled Around The Sagebrush. Second was The Clodkicker. Finally, he arrived at a title and concept with which he is most comfortable, Ponderations from the Back Porch. Through the years of being a radio announcer (preceding the term Disc Jockey) and years of news reporting, and doing all the other jobs in the industry, he racked up enough experiences to shape a column of thoughts, remembrances, and often, true stories. He is married to Dr. A. Janet McGill, retired educator, and both are active members of their church. They are also members of the North East Texas Choral Society, a 100 plus member performance choir in Sulphur Springs, Texas.

A bit of humor

NOTE*  The second week of drama camp starts today, so I will be busy again all week. I'll be sharing some bits of humor in my regular posts, and I thought I would start with a piece I wrote a few years ago for The Blood Red Pencil blog.  I got my start writing a weekly humor column for a suburban newspaper. Primarily it was about family, but occasionally, I would write about the joys of the writing life. I took some of those old columns and shared them with the readers of the BRP blog, and now I share it with you.  Enjoy....

When I sold my first short story to a magazine a few weeks ago, we were all happily playing Howard Hughes around here for awhile. My husband was planning his retirement, the kids were picking out houses in the country and I had visions of never having to look at another price tag" again before I bought a dress.

I suppose we're all entitled to our glory dreams and it sure was fun while it lasted. But now that the excitement has died down to a dull roar and the rejection slips have started to litter my desk again, we have resigned ourselves to the fact that perhaps we'll have to wait awhile before we start recklessly throwing money around buying mink coats and hamburgers.

Anjanette has given up her dream of a whole new bedroom set with maybe a new bedroom to put it in. David has gone back to mowing lawns to save the money for his new mag wheels and Michael is collecting cans for recycling to keep himself in spending money. I've resigned myself to another year at least in the bargain basement, and unfortunately, Carl still has to get up every morning and go to work. (Someone has to keep me in typing paper and postage.)

Meanwhile the check isn't even cashed yet. I'm afraid to· cash it because I know it will be gone all too soon; and besides that, it's still a big thrill to go in and look at it every now and then. (I know that will pass, since it only took me two weeks to stop opening the magazine every five minutes to see my name in the credits.)

From here on in, no other acceptance will probably ever mean as much or create quite the stir that this one has.

Someday, discussing the terms of a sale with an editor in New York will be old hat. I won't have to try to act cool and professional on the outside while on the inside I'm jumping up and down for joy.

Someday, I won't call my best friend to announce, "You are now speaking to a famous writer person!"

"Who is this? Is this some sort of crank call?"

Someday, selling stories will all be part. of the routine around here and no one will stop by with champagne to celebrate. The kids won't be announcing it to every creature that moves up and down the block, and my husband won't run around the grocery stores making sure the magazine is prominently displayed. (I told him I didn't get any royalties, but he did it anyway.)

But until that someday rolls around, I guess I can stand all the excitement just a little bit longer.

Pretty Pictures

My Liitle Barn

Instead of doing one of my usual rants about something, I thought I would just share some pictures I took this morning.

Texas has some of the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets that I have ever seen, and this morning was a great one. I'm glad my animals woke me up in time to see this and capture some of it.

We had several inches of snow here the other day, and it is so cold the snow is hanging around. My horse does not seem to mind it at all, as long as there is hay coming.

Our dog, Poppy, isn't bothered by the snow either, unless her ball disappears.

As any photographer knows, you can take a hundred shots before you get a special picture. Of all those I took this morning, I think this one is the best.

This one is kind of interesting. I played with cropping just a corner of a larger picture.

This process of finding just the right image is not unlike the challenge of finding just the right words to create an image in writing. Both take patience and perseverance.

Homespun Philosophy and Fans

A long time ago when asked in an interview why I want to be a writer I voiced grand and noble ideals about the power of the written word to impact society. "If the words I write," my answer continued, "can make just one person laugh or cry, think or question, then I will have accomplished something significant."

Well, I must admit the basic dishonesty of that answer. Yes indeed, I've always wanted to stir emotions and challenge minds.  But of just one person? Let's be real here, Will Rogers did not attain national prominence with an audience of one.

I've always liked Will Rogers, and coming from a long line of homespun philosophers myself, I've felt a kinship with his ability to bring a a down-home, simplistic approach to complex issues. When I first started writing a personal column for a Dallas newspaper I thought if I really tried I could develop that same style and speak out as a modern-day version of that great sage.

Pretty nervy of me, huh?

Now in my more mature years, I can chuckle at the brashness and idealism of that youthful vision. Maybe I had more nerve than good sense back then, and sometimes I wonder if I still have that disparity.

While I never gained national prominence with that column, I did touch a few minds and hearts, and that was a source of great satisfaction. Not too long ago I ran across a  letter I received from a reader. The letter started "This is a fan letter," and was signed. "Your friend, Charlie." I never got to meet Charlie, even though he continued to send me letters over a period of several years, but his gesture early in my writing career meant a lot.

It still does, these many years later. It was my very first fan letter.

More On E-Book Rights

This issue of e-book rights to previously published books and who owns them has been a hot topic on blogs, and a really informative post was written by Kassia Krozser on the Booksquare blog. She points out that the flap over the move by William Styron’s heirs to license the digital rights of his books to Open Road Integrated Media, a new digital publishing company headed by Jane Friedman, who previously worked at Harper Collins is all about money.

Random House, where some of the work was originally published, saw an opportunity to cash in on works that have already earned a tidy profit and attempted to block that effort. Thank goodness the courts ruled in favor of the heirs.

As J.W. Coffey (Redheaded Celt) so aptly put it in her comment on this blog yesterday, everyone, except the ruling judges, forgot about the original contracts for those books that had no mention of electronic rights. Which is another point that Kassia makes. People can have all kinds of opinions about this issue, but legally, the "work" belongs to the author.

If you have the time and inclination, check out the Booksquare blog and the insightful comments left there.

One Lovely Blog Award

My friend and fellow author, Ginger Simpson, surprised me with the One Lovely Blog Award yesterday. She made the announcement on her blog, Dishin' It Out.

I was really touched by the reason she chose me and this is what she wrote about me: A great friend and confidante, and a very smart lady. She has some amazing articles on her site. Maryann is one of those people who comes into your life for a purpose, and she's certainly served hers well in mine.

So it is with the same gratitude that I pass this award to three authors who have enriched my life with their friendship and support.

Helen Ginger -- who has a terrific blog and newsletter packed with helpful information for writers. She is so generous with her time and expertise, and I really admire her for that. She is also a terrific editor.

Dani Greer -- another lady who shares her expertise graciously and frequently. She was the founder of The Blood Red Pencil blog, and can also be found at Blog Book Tours blog. I also chose Dani because she so appreciates my humor.

Morgan Mandel -- I chose Morgan primarily because I admire her courage in publishing her own book, Killer Career. Not only did she take the publishing bull by the horn, so to speak, she did so with an attention to detail and professionalism that I respect greatly. She shares advice, resources, and book reviews on her blog.

All three of these ladies also manage to do more in 24 hours than most people I know. I stand in awe of all of them. So ladies, I pass the honor along to you.

Here are the rules:

1) Accept the award, and don’t forget to post a link back to the awarding person.
2) Pass the award on.
3) Notify the award winners.

Away From My Office

I always wanted to be able to say that, "Maryann Miller is away from her office." Somehow that makes me sound so much more important than the person who leaves the room to clean a toilet or feed the animals.

But I digress. I'm out of my office today because I'm doing a guest blog at Christine Duncan's Blog . It's a piece about rejection -- as in an editor does not want my work, not a personal rejection. In the business of writing, it is important to make that distinction when an editor says, "Thanks, but no thanks."

If you have a minute and are so inclined, stop by Christine's blog and share with us how you deal with the rejection slips.

The Writing Life

Years ago when I first started writing my children were all young and the formidable task of ‘writing around them’ was daunting.

I remember one time in particular when one of my two-year-old twins, Danielle, known lovingly as Chicky, had just settled down beside me to help or hinder my writing. She contributed a few words of dialogue consisting mainly of a few well-placed “Mommys,” spiced with a few unintelligible words or praise or criticism.

When she left the room, I breathed a sigh of relief and raced to get a few thoughts on paper before she came back. But alas, she’d gone into the kitchen to get the box of cereal I left on the counter and was off sharing it with her brother.

Should I have been delighted she was sharing for a change? Or angry because she snitched the cereal and hid in the laundry room? If I hadn’t beaten our dog with my child-psychology book years before that, I could have looked for the answer. (A note to all the dog-lovers who are about to call the Humane Society. Our dog was much larger and harder bound than the book, and he loved the extra attention.)

That’s the way my writing life went for years. The moment I thought I had the most subtle, cynically amusing thought, matching the excellence of an Erma Bombeck or a Judith Viorst mapped out in my head, I was interrupted.

I remember thinking that if it weren’t for my kids, I would’ve been famous years ago. I could’ve sat beside Johnny Carson when he was still doing the Tonight Show and chatted amicably about my latest thought-provoking novel or my charming little anecdotes on life, If it wasn’t for the endless “MOMMYS”.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…”
“Mom, what is…?”
“Mom, can I have a snack?”
“Mom, would you tie my shoe?”
“Mother, if you don’t keep those twins out of my room…”
“Mom, why is it raining outside?”
“Mom, where is my homework…my lunch…my shoes…my coat?”
“Mom, if you’re not doing anything important, can you…”

And, believe it or not, I was a lot more prolific back then.

Career Beginnings

The one or two fans who have been following my career since its beginning, gulp, almost thiry years ago, you know where the title It's Not All Gravy comes from. For the rest of you who might be wondering, here is the story.

My very first publishing success was a weekly column that I did for a local newspaper in a suburb of Dallas. It was a humorous look at family life and at the time I had plenty of family to draw material from; five kids, two dogs, a couple of hamsters, and a husband thrown into the mix somewhere.

When the original column started, the one thing I didn't expect was notoriety. I wasn't used to being recognized in the grocery store, unless it was by the cashier who remembered me coming through her line with two grocery carts full of baby food; and usually the only adult I talked to in the park was myself.

With the exception of a few close friends and neighbors, I also didn't expect to have many fans. (Is insecurity a prerequisite to being a writer?) So it was quite a pleasant surprise when people stopped me in the store, or came up to me at the soccer field to say how much they enjoyed reading the column. It would also prove to be embarrassing on the occasions I just ran out to get something at the last minute and wore my ten-year-old cutoffs and a stained tee-shirt. That was proper attire for a hard-working Mom, but hardly fit being a celebrity.

Family reactions to my new-found fame varied. I, of course, was thrilled. When the cover story and first column appeared I found it very difficult to bring myself to perform such mundane things as fixing supper, washing dishes, and bathing kids. I kept telling myself that certainly a 'famous writer' should not have to stoop so low, but alas, I couldn't get my kids to see the logic in my reasoning. For some strange reason they thought they still had to eat, so in the newspaper I was a famous writer and in the kitchen, I was still the maid.

Our two oldest kids seemed to be thrilled to see their names in the articles, unless I delved into something they weren't ready to share with the entire Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. Then they'd run home from school and demand to know how I could be so cruel.

Our middle son, who was six at the time, seemed a little vague about the whole concept of getting published. How did what I typed in my home office get into the paper? And why was the newspaper printing it? (I told him not to knock a good thing. At least I was getting paid.)

He also wanted to know what the title, IT'S NOT ALL GRAVY, meant. "We don't have gravy hardly ever."

"That's what I mean."

He still didn't get it.

My husband's reaction was a mixture of pride and endless teasing. He'd always supported my quest for publication and when the endless stream of rejection slips threatened to overcome me, he'd always tell me to hang in. Someday it would happen.

But he couldn't, and still can't, resist the occasional dig. Sometimes he comes into my office to inquire whether he can interrupt the famous author at work. Depending on what he wants, I might accept the interruption. Cooking dinner is not even on the list of things I'll stop for, but there are other offers well worth the break.

Career Beginnings

The one or two fans who have been following my career since its beginning, gulp, almost thiry years ago, you know where the title It's Not All Gravy comes from. For the rest of you who might be wondering, here is the story.

My very first publishing success was a weekly column that I did for a local newspaper in a suburb of Dallas. It was a humorous look at family life and at the time I had plenty of family to draw material from; five kids, two dogs, a couple of hamsters, and a husband thrown into the mix somewhere.

When the original column started, the one thing I didn't expect was notoriety. I wasn't used to being recognized in the grocery store, unless it was by the cashier who remembered me coming through her line with two grocery carts full of baby food; and usually the only adult I talked to in the park was myself.

With the exception of a few close friends and neighbors, I also didn't expect to have many fans. (Is insecurity a prerequisite to being a writer?) So it was quite a pleasant surprise when people stopped me in the store, or came up to me at the soccer field to say how much they enjoyed reading the column. It would also prove to be embarrassing on the occasions I just ran out to get something at the last minute and wore my ten-year-old cutoffs and a stained tee-shirt. That was proper attire for a hard-working Mom, but hardly fit being a celebrity.

Family reactions to my new-found fame varied. I, of course, was thrilled. When the cover story and first column appeared I found it very difficult to bring myself to perform such mundane things as fixing supper, washing dishes, and bathing kids. I kept telling myself that certainly a 'famous writer' should not have to stoop so low, but alas, I couldn't get my kids to see the logic in my reasoning. For some strange reason they thought they still had to eat, so in the newspaper I was a famous writer and in the kitchen, I was still the maid.

Our two oldest kids seemed to be thrilled to see their names in the articles, unless I delved into something they weren't ready to share with the entire Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. Then they'd run home from school and demand to know how I could be so cruel.

Our middle son, who was six at the time, seemed a little vague about the whole concept of getting published. How did what I typed in my study get into the paper? And why was the newspaper printing it? (I told him not to knock a good thing. At least I was getting paid.)<

He also wanted to know what the title, IT'S NOT ALL GRAVY, meant. "We don't have gravy hardly ever."
That's what I mean."

He still didn't get it.

My husband's reaction was a mixture of pride and endless teasing. He'd always supported my quest for publication and when the endless stream of rejection slips threatened to overcome me, he'd always tell me to hang in. Someday it would happen.

But he couldn't, and still can't, resist the occasional dig. Sometimes he comes into my office to inquire whether he can interrupt the famous author at work. Depending on what he wants, I might accept the interruption. Cooking dinner is not even on the list of things I'll stop for, but there are other offers well worth the break.