Discipline is Freedom

by Janis Patterson

While this might sound like some a totalitarian mantra etched on the walls of some dictator's forced labor camp, it really isn't. It's a sign on the bulletin board next to my desk. And while I admit to sometimes being a minor-league martinet, I'm quite a ways away from full-blown dictator-dom.

Scary as it might sound, discipline really is freedom. I try to adhere to a reasonable writing schedule - a minimum of 1,000 words a day (a pathetically low number, I know) to be fulfilled at least 5 days a week. Most days and weeks I do more, sometimes much more, but that 1K/5day goal is my benchmark when I'm in writing mode. Editing, etc. is different.

Before I set up a minimum daily requirement, my writing suffered as I am lamentably frivolous and light-minded. The lures of lunch with friends, a night out with The Husband, some more remodeling of my office... any and all temptations that aren't writing, to say nothing of the boring necessities of life such as laundry, dusting, cooking, etc., would sing their siren song to me and my production would inevitably decline, sometimes sharply.

"I can write tonight," I would say, then trot off merrily for whatever. "I can catch up later." The only thing is, I didn't. Sometimes days or even weeks would go by with only a paltry few hundred words captured in pixels, and that just wouldn't do.

I am not by nature a disciplined person. I dally. I shilly-shally. I am frivolous and easily distracted. But - I knew something had to be done if I were to continue to regard myself as a professional novelist.

I don't know where the phrase 'Discipline is Freedom' came from. Maybe unearthed from some unconscious awareness of reading about some nasty time in human history - or maybe not. Maybe it was a gift from my abused muse. Whatever it was, it suddenly appeared in my mind one day and I knew it was true.

Now I work mightily to get at least my daily minimum done; usually it is much more, for once the pump is primed the words keep flowing, but even if they don't I have done my allotted ration. Once that is done, I can do whatever else calls to me with a light heart. I can go to lunch or shopping with a clear conscience, for the work has been done. I don't even feel resentful of the necessary housework any more - at least, not for interfering with my writing - because my book is progressing at a fairly stable pace.

Of course, nothing is perfect, and any system has to be flexible. There are emergencies and unforeseen circumstances that blow any schedule out of the water. Families have problems; mechanical things maniacally break - usually two or three in a clump. There are wrecks and injuries and illnesses; there are losses and the ones who remain must be comforted. There are also joys, such as a quick visit from a friend now living overseas, or the birth of a new baby in the family. That is called Life, and such events should always supersede rigid schedules. Writing is not and should not be the end-all and be-all; it is a job. An important and meaningful job, yes, but still a job. Life and family should always come first.

The trick is that once the breach in your schedule has happened and has passed, get back on the pony. Discipline yourself to begin once again your self-imposed schedule, then when your minimum - or beyond - is reached you can give yourself permission to go do other things and not feel guilty. Such freedom is the gift of discipline.

Discipline is indeed freedom.

Crime and Punishment - Whose is Which?

by Janis Patterson

The saddest crimes are not always fictional. Neither do they always involve gain or murder, or, if you want to be pedantic, an actual crime. Not all crimes break the law. Some crimes are the law and not even the most dedicated sleuth can set them aright.

Last year the Dallas City Council, acting against the will of the people, enacted a ban on single-use plastic bags which went into effect January 1. Pardon me, a ban on FREE plastic bags. You can still go to the store and get exactly the same bags you always did, but now you have to pay for them. The city gets about .03 for every plastic bag you get now. I think if a company or an individual enforced such a system it would sound very much like extortion.

The rationale was the money is to pay the cost of cleanup of plastic bags that are allowed to fly around. I live in a neighborhood where if I see a single loose plastic bag in a year it is something worth remarking on, but in the two weeks before the City Council vote unfettered plastic bags flew around like arctic snowflakes. And, like snowflakes in the spring, they vanished as soon as the vote was taken, not to be seen again.

The majority of Dallas citizens made their displeasure with such a scheme known, contacting their council members to protest and say that such an idea was unacceptable. Trying to respond to the will of the people some councilpersons suggested that since the majority of the problem was in a certain part of town, that this part of town be subject to the ban but that the areas without the problem be left unaffected. The resulting argument was laced with all kinds of unprintable epithets. Such a division, said the spearhead of the banning movement (a resident of that part of town and a person some think power-mad), would be unfair.

So does he think it is fair to deprive the citizens who have done nothing of their plastic bags unless they pay a bounty? But the city council, their eyes aglow at the thought of .03 or so a bag, apparently thinks so.

I dislike the label ‘single-use’; after having been used to bring home your shopping these bags are wonderful for damp kitchen garbage, for picking up while walking your dog, for wrapping your shoes to pack in a suitcase, to put your wet bathing suit in for the trip home, to use as a waste receptacle in your car… The number and ways of re-uses are limited only by one’s imagination. I also dislike the much-touted ‘multi-use’ bags; they are ugly, they get dirty and unsanitary very quickly and you must always remember to have some with you and to take them into the store. Plastic bags are so much easier and cleaner.

I also dislike injustice, and of being either deprived or charged all because of something I didn’t do. Being a cynic, I started stockpiling bags as soon as our state capital banned bags, knowing that the power-mad element of our own city government would inevitably flex their own muscles. As a more visible means of protest last month I also bought several thousand blank bags from a wholesaler to take whenever I go to the store. Yes, I had to pay for them, but not one penny for them will fall into the greedy hands of those who voted for the ban. Neither am I the only one to plan to do my future shopping in the suburb cities, therefore depriving Dallas of any sales tax I might owe. Just for the record, I also hate those speed bumps you find on far too many residential streets. They are supposed to be deterrents to speeders; I don’t speed, but even if I slow to a creeping roll I, my passengers, my cargo and my car are shaken and jolted. What government regards as ‘fair to all’ always seems to end up as ‘unfair to those who obey the law’ whether it be littering or speeding.

Perhaps this outrageous insult to the wishes of the citizenry is an object lesson in why people like mysteries. In most mysteries there is a definite crime that is viewed by all as a crime. In most mysteries there is a force (police, detective, amateur sleuth or whatever) who can right the wrong and set society aright again. The will and good of the people is respected and justice triumphs. Even in thrillers, one person – or at most a small group – can fight terrible odds for what is right and save the freedom of the country, the world, the universe, or whatever is at risk. Whether it is the murder of a single person in a country vicarage or the destruction of an entire world such a triumph of what is right and good gives the reader a sense of satisfaction, of order restored. All is set aright. Justice has prevailed.

At least we can still find such a hopeful resolution in fiction. In real life... the politicians win.

To 'Net or Not To 'Net

by Janis Patterson

I think everyone will agree the internet truly revised our world. The question is, is it a good change or a bad one?

Yes, it has given us the gift of instant communication, but it has taken away the graciousness of laid, embossed stationery and a note in actual handwriting. It has also taken away the ‘cooling down time’ necessary to actually write a letter and  allows us to hit the Send button more quickly than is often good for us.

The ‘net has opened up the world to us, but also shows us things we don’t wish to see. It is also not reliable – opinions and even downright lies are presented as facts, with little ability to check and balance. Too many people believe that what they see on the ‘net is automatically accurate.

The ‘net has given writers an unprecedented opportunity to market their work. No longer do they have to struggle their way through the strong grip and stronger prejudices of publishing’s gatekeepers. Writers are now in control. The downside of this is that there are writers (and I use the term loosely) who regard almost any kind of drivel they are able to put down as publishable, resulting in a horrible flood of unprecedented dreck that reflects badly on all writers.

Worse, the ease of publishing on the ‘net has translated into an ease of theft. Every day there is a new pirate, either giving our work away for free or – adding insult to injury – charging for our work without recompense to the writer. Grrrr….

I’m not popular enough (yet!) to be pirated, so at the moment my worst ‘net bugaboo is email. I love email and marvel at the ease with which I can chat and exchange ideas with people around the world. How easy now for writers to interact and counter what is essentially a lonely profession. You young whippersnappers have no idea of just how lonely writing was before the community of the ‘net. I had sold two novels before I ever talked or even exchanged letters with another writer.

On the other hand, email is a great time suck, especially when one must wade through a plethora of spam. One account is great at sifting it out – though I must check the spam filter regularly, as for some reason legitimate communications are occasionally routed there – but my other account doesn’t even know what spam is. I must admit I’m tired of endless advertisements for stuff that will enlarge body parts I don’t have, of apparently entire populations of nubile young women from foreign shores who are willing to do anything with those same unpossessed body parts, of cheap watches and bags guaranteed to look just like their expensive models, of medications for sale cheaper than anywhere else, of princes and bank managers begging me to share their fortunes… you know, you probably get the same rubbish in your email box.

It doesn’t take much time to flip through and delete the annoyances, but some have to be scrutinized. Once I almost automatically deleted a request to submit a proposal from a very legitimate publisher simply because from the subject line made it look like spam. The thought that I might have missed other legitimate offers made me cringe, which is why I now take time to check things more carefully.

So what does this have to do with writing? I’m griping because it takes precious time away from writing. My computer time is limited; I get sucked into research (more often than not simply surfing with a fancy name) for much too long; I get tons of emails; spam must be checked – or at least the subject lines glanced at; contacts much be kept active and much-needed information exchanged. It’s all necessary, but it all takes time away from writing.

Perhaps life was easier in the days when the postman came once a day and long distance telephone calls were too expensive to make save in the most important instances. Then there was just you and the typewriter and your story… Something lost, something gained. I would not take anything for my writing friends from around the world, nor for the ease of research or the exchange of information, but I do get nostalgic for the days when I didn’t have to deal with offers and promises about intimate body parts or shared fortunes from third world countries or having to take time to re-learn my email program after it has been ‘improved.’ 

The ‘net has given us all unbelievable freedom, but has failed to learn – as writers have always had to know - that freedom is not license, nor is change always progress.

They Could Have Been Somebody

By Mark W. Danielson
One of the most important monuments to freedom lies directly behind Notre Dame at the eastern tip of the Isle de Paris. It is also one of the least visited because its location below ground level. I stumbled onto it many years ago and pay homage whenever I visit Paris. The Monument to the Martyrs of World War II is a tribute to the 160,000 French deportees Hitler enslaved and never returned. Some were part of the French resistance citizen soldiers, but most were people like you and I. The monument’s courtyard is designed to give the visitor a sense of the emptiness experienced by these prisoners with nothing visible but river and sky. Its narrow entrance leads to a single light bead in the floor representing the eternal flame. Beyond that is a crypt lined with thousands of lights that represent these martyrs. To each side is a jail cell reminding us of how these people lived. Facing them are triangular shaped urns filled with ashes from concentration camps; the remains of shattered lives that could have been.

Had Hitler been as good a tactician as he was charismatic speaker, I would probably not be alive. Either that or I’d probably be speaking German. I visit these war memorials because I owe my freedom to those who fought and died. Imagine invaders pulling you from your home and sending you to a slave camp. It happened to these civilian men, women, and children. Sadly, most who visit Notre Dame never see this memorial because they don’t know it exists. Each day, thousands of people wait to walk through this historic cathedral, but few ever cross the street out back, open the gate to the grassy park, and walk down the stairs. For those who do, one visit leaves a lasting impression.

My intent here is not to sell tickets to Paris or discuss history. It is merely an opportunity to reflect on those who never had the opportunity to write as I do. Imagine how many authors are among the ashes in those triangular urns. Think of the stories they could have told. Imagine the things they could have achieved in their lifetime. Yes, they all could have been somebody, but Hitler robbed them of that.

Freedom isn’t free. We’ve all heard that before. But most of us also take freedom for granted. Our ability to post on this web site is a classic example. I post every two weeks, rain or shine, but I also realize I can because it’s a hard-fought privilege, not a right.

Should you get to Paris, I urge you to descend those steps and spend some time in that courtyard before entering the crypt. You won’t leave without needing to write your own story.