The Simpler Life

By Mark W. Danielson

The best thing about my flying job is being able to drop in on distant friends. I was recently able to visit my best buddy during a short LA layover. Dan and I grew up together, have known each other for fifty-four years, and every visit feels like old times. We did everything imaginable growing up, riding our bikes up and down the East SF Bay hills delivering The Richmond Independent, and when we finished, would race through Wildcat Canyon on what we called the “Inter-Canyon 500” to Tilden Park and other regional parks. My paper route had a particularly steep hill near its end that frequently had a radar cop parked near the bottom. My goal was to get stopped for speeding, but in spite of my many efforts at exceeding forty miles per hour in a twenty-five zone, it never happened.

In our early teens, Dan and I were either kayaking, sailing, or piloting sailplanes or airplanes. Steve Canyon was our hero, and Twelve O’Clock High was our favorite TV show. Dan soloed a glider at age 14, and we both soloed airplanes on our sixteenth birthdays. Dan’s dad was my flight instructor, doctor, and mentor. He bought a J-3 Cub so that Dan could build flying time, and I was fortunate to be included in that, too. Being two years older than Dan, I earned my license first, and the two of us flew a plane around Northern California, sleeping under the wing. Neither of us took anything for granted, and we worked hard for what we achieved. Although Dan had hoped to be a test pilot, his vision declined during college. Instead, he has had a remarkable thirty-three year career with Northrop Aviation, has designed nine civilian aerobatic airplanes as a side-line, was an aerobatic champion, and is a third degree black belt. I’ve had an equally successful thirty-nine year piloting career with the Air Force, Navy, and numerous civilian aviation positions. We are who we are because we had supportive parents and a thirst to achieve our dreams.

(Dan and his J-3 Cub. Me and our under-wing tent.)

A lot has changed since we were kids, though. Cell phones and personal computers keep inescapable pressure on kids and under-develop their minds. Instead of jumping off a fence with a pretend parachute, or building models as we did, they play video games, or chat electronically, all the while gaining weight from their lack of exercise. The President’s Physical Fitness program faded along with daily gym class. Kidnappings and random shootings have become far too common. One day, meaningful conversation between two people may even become extinct. But while today’s kids may not have the same opportunities as Dan and I, nothing says they can’t have dreams and work to achieve them.

Our Schwinn bikes riding gave Dan and I our independence. Not only did they get us around, they also taught us coordination, energy management, and geometry. To me, there is nothing better than seeing young kids riding bicycles. Two boys in my neighborhood are just like Dan and me, but they are the exception. It’s easy for me to make a value judgment, but instead, I’ll chock this up as the new reality.

Looking back, life was simpler when Dan and I were growing up. All we had to worry about was the Cold War, and remember to “duck and cover” when out teachers told us to. Perhaps because most moms stayed at home to raise their kids, we respected adults, and identified them as “Mr.” and Mrs.” Another difference is we were happy living with one TV, one phone, one family car, and ate meals at home.

Children today face many more challenges, and the pressure to be perfect is outlandish. The media portrays unrealistic lifestyles, and kids are bombarded with technological interference. While I view these changes wishing their lives could be simpler, I must realize that they aren’t complaining because their perspective is different from mine. In that regard, I suspect they will one day look back, and like me, wouldn’t change a thing about how they grew up.

Cloudy With a Chance of Zombies

By Beth Terrell

Several posts ago, I wrote about dreams--how they fascinate me, how a number of writers have had the plots of their novels come to them in dreams. Where do dreams come from? What function do they serve? If dreams are a reflection of the dreamer, what does this one say about me? It's one of my favorites, one of my few first-person dreams. Usually, I dream in third person, and the story unfolds like a movie.

The invasion happened overnight. One day everything was normal. The next, the world was overrun by zombies. In some ways, they were just like you saw in the movies--slow and stupid--and at first they were easy to avoid. But beneath the stupid and behind the glazed expression, there was hatred. It wasn't brains they wanted. It was flesh. That, and maybe new converts. You'd see them shuffling along in herds, heads lolling, mouths agape, ragged clothes grimy with dirt and blood. They were slow, but they had perseverance. You had to give them that. I mean, they never slept, so it was inevitable that, sooner or later, they would pick off a few of the careless or weak. Someone who fell asleep in a park or left a door unlocked, or who just happened to have a fatal lapse of concentration. They'd close their eyes and wake up--if you could call it that--with great chunks ripped from their bodies and a wash of blood down the front of their shirts.

Their ranks swelled, and it got harder and harder to stay away from them. They were everywhere.

Then they got smart. They moved a little faster. Looked a little less empty around the eyes. They seemed less like herds than like packs. We kept on the move, never staying in one place too long, because that was how they got you. Smelled you maybe. Or maybe they had some weird kind of extra sense, like bats. Not sonar, exactly, but something that told them when they were in the presence of prey--even when it was carefully concealed.

There were twelve of us. We traveled in a pack of our own, steering wide of what were once human settlements and hiding from roving zombies and gangs of still-human predators.

Then one day, they got Bill. Before the invasion, Bill was my financial advisor. We went to college together. I still don't know how they got him. We just turned around, and he was gone.

Now, any reasonable person would have realized it was too late to do anything for Bill. Friend or no friend, he was a goner. But there was no blood on the ground where he disappeared, and no one had heard him cry out. I wondered if there was a chance he was still alive. None of us had ever heard of zombies taking prisoners, but they were doing lots of things they'd never done before. They were...how could I say it?...They were evolving.

We crept to the nearest colony. There were groups of zombies wandering around the area. We crossed a narrow wooden bridge, and my stomach clenched when I looked down and saw what looked like sharks thrashing in the water below. A bloody stain spread across the surface of the water.

"Don't look down," said my friend David. "They can't hurt us up here."

We found Bill behind a building that had once been a warehouse. He was still alive, splayed flat on his back and tied by his wrists and ankles to stakes set in the ground. A pile of dried wood piled beside him suggested he'd been invited to a bonfire--probably as the roast. We looked around. Zombies all around, closing in on us. They didn't seem to know we were there, but if we stayed put, it was just a matter of time.

Behind us, a slurred voice said, "I can help you."

Startled, we spun to face the speaker. It was Bill. But Bill was bound and staked to the ground. How...?

We looked closer at the speaker. It was Bill, but not Bill. They say everyone has a double somewhere. Bill's must have got zombie-fied awhile back.

"I can help you," it said again.

Bill's undead double crept over to where Bill lay, untied him with fumbling fingers, and plopped into his place. There was a hint of emotion on the Double's face, but it was impossible to tell what it was. Fear? Resignation? Quickly, we thanked him and slipped the bonds around his ankles and wrists, tying them loosely so that the Double might have a chance to escape. None of us had ever seen a thing like this. Self-sacrifice? From a zombie? That was awfully nice of him.

We looked around. The area was thick with undead. Since there was no way out, we ducked into the old warehouse and hoped for the best.

There were zombies inside too. We ducked down the aisles, between shelving units, getting separated, occasionally seeing glimpses of each other. Finally, only David and I were left. I told myself the others had escaped. That they would be just fine. But David and I were in trouble. The zombies were closing in, herding us toward the side door of the warehouse. I looked outside and saw a milling crowd of zombies. Zombies in front of us, zombies behind. If we stayed where we were, the ones inside would catch us for sure. If we stepped outside, the ones on the porch and in the yard would see us and close in for the kill.

We looked at each other.

"What now?" David asked.

I shook my head. Hopeless. I said, "We go out there and pretend to be dead."

"It's a long shot."

"It's all we can do."

He nodded. We let our heads loll, tried to look hollow inside, and shuffled outside. He moved out among the zombies. I sat on the porch steps beside a zombie in bloodstained overalls. He was a little bit chubby, a little bit bald, with boyish features. Kind of cute, in an undead sort of way. Our gazes met, and I realized with a shiver of fear that he knew I was still alive.

I looked around again. There were zombies everywhere. There was no place to run.

"I brought you something," he said. "I've been trying to give it to you." He held up an oversized T-shirt. It was long enough to be a dress. Yellow, with a giant smiley face on the front. He said, "I wondered if I could take you to the dance."

A dance. A zombie dance. It was a heck of a lot better than being eaten. I reached for the T-shirt and said, "I guess I could do that."

He smiled. Stiffly, like rigor mortis had set in. But still, a smile was a smile.

The zombies had begun to move less like Herman Munster and more like just plain people. I suddenly understood that it was the quickness of our movements that had frightened them and driven them mad. Now that they were catching up with us, they felt more kindly toward us. Which was a big improvement.

I closed my eyes and saw how it would be. Humans and zombies, living and working side by side. I heard music, something jazzy, saw an apartment building. Through the windows I could see people dancing. In one room, a zombie in a black sweater, black trousers, and a red beret spun and dipped his wife, a June Cleaver-ish zombie in a poplin dress and an apron. They danced as they waited for the toaster to release their English muffins. A human girl stood on her father's feet as they waltzed in their living room. On the next floor, a mixed group of humans and zombies pulsed to heavy metal music, eating hors d'oeuvres and swilling beers.

It was a wonderful world.

Where do dreams come from? The same place stories come from: the subconscious mind. You see, writers are always writing, even in their sleep.

Mr. Mt. Juliet

By Beth Terrell

The slide show at John's funeral has a clipping from a newspaper report of a high school football game. In the newspaper photo, John is looking over his shoulder, football tucked in the crook of his arm. The camera captured him in mid-stride, forever suspended in mid-air. He was our quarterback all through junior high, our receiver in high school, our baseball pitcher, and a lifelong supporter of Mt. Juliet athletics. The next slide shows him in his late teens. He is smiling, thick curls tousled, a beautiful young man wearing a patterned shirt from the '70s. Our senior year, he was the prom king. We voted him "Mr. Mt. Juliet," completely without sarcasm.

In a Hollywood movie, a guy like that--handsome, athletic, popular--would also be the jerk who dunked the geeky hero's head in the toilet. In real life, he was sweet, a little shy, a good-hearted partier who sometimes partied a little too hard. He would struggle with that all of his life, but, as the presiding ministers said, "He always strived to be a good man--and he was."

On Monday, he died of a massive heart attack. He hadn't been sick. He hadn't seemed frail. He'd gone to work that morning; he'd played golf with three of his best friends on Sunday; we'd seen him at the reunion in September, hale and whole and fine. And now, suddenly, just...gone.

His family buried him today. Even with the service held in the funeral home's largest chapel, the funeral home owners had to bring in extra rows of folding chairs to accommodate the crowd. One classmate flew in from California for the service. Some who had not been back to Mt. Juliet in thirty years came to pay their respects. We were shell-shocked. We'd lost classmates before--some to accidents, some to illness, but never like this, never so suddenly. We had always known we weren't immortal, but we'd never before felt old.

A week ago, we still felt young and full of potential. Today, we had to face the fact that the clock is ticking. We no longer have a lifetime to reach our dreams. Seeing the chapel full of grieving people, we took stock of what it meant to be successful. John never played in the NFL. He never starred in a movie. He never made a million dollars. But if love is the only thing we can take with us when we go, he was a rich man. To us, he will always be Mr. Mt. Juliet.

Dream Weaver

By Mark W. Danielson

Dreams are Utopian in nature. Here, everyone plays on a level field. The blind see, the physically challenged run, dogs catch their mailman, and pigs fly. This is the surreal dimension that lies between our conscious and unconscious realms. It’s where the brain is free from our behavioral boundaries. A place of creativity. I cannot explain why people dream, or why so few of our dreams are remembered. All I know is they happen.

Psychologists love to analyze our dreams, giving their interpretation of reason to our every unreasonable thought. Others believe our dreams can predict future events. Still others believe that dreams provide a link between the living and the dead. Again, I am no authority, but from my experience, whenever I have the presence of mind to jot down a word or two about my dream, I will nearly always remember it in vivid detail. My simple note becomes a direct link to that thought, whatever it may be, and from it, I can write about it.

Gary Wright’s song “Dream Weaver” offers yet another perspective on dreams. The song begins, “I just closed my eyes again. Climbed aboard the dream weaver train. Driver take away my worries of today. And leave tomorrow behind . . .” This song’s take on dreams is escapism, and for some this may be the case, but I prefer looking at dreams as an opportunity to get in touch with my subconscious. Whenever I write, I allow these subconscious thoughts to flow through my keyboard, bringing my characters and events to life. It’s an amazing process, if you think about it. But thinking can stifle that connection, so I simply let loose and see what happens. The result is piles of connected words and thoughts that ultimately become a story.

The joy in writing is allowing my brain the freedom to roam. I never worry about first drafts because I don’t want to deprive my characters of anything. In my current murder mystery, I was three quarters of the way through my first draft before I discovered who the assailant was. Suspense translates better that way. After all, if I’m not surprised, the reader won’t be either.

Last week, I wrote about sleep deprivation and Beth Terrell wrote about dreams. To me, “In your dreams” is more of an opportunity than a phrase. I find I dream more when I’m away than when I’m at home. I am probably a light sleeper because my mind never shuts down, but when it does and offers me some interesting clips, I watch, listen, and allow myself to be inspired.
The above photo is of a Vision Seeker’s Dream Catcher from Peaceful Path’s Native American Crafts. In Native American legend, bad dreams become entangled within the web-like patterns of the loop and perish at the first light of dawn, whereas good dreams and thoughts pass through to the sleeper below. Perhaps I would sleep better if I packed one of these in my suitcase . . .

Sweet Dreams

By Beth Terrell

When I was a little girl, a family friend once told me, "If you tell your dreams before breakfast, the three bears will come down from the hills and eat you." This was enough to make me hold my tongue until after the table was cleared, but not enough to keep me from sharing my dreams.

I've been told that no one likes to hear other people's dreams. Apparently, I'm an exception to the rule. Dreams fascinate me--my dreams, your dreams, everybody's dreams. Listening to someone else's dream is like a glimpse into another person's mind.

They say everyone dreams, though not everyone remembers. I've also heard that you can increase the chances of remembering your dreams by keeping a journal by the bed and writing down everything you remember about your dream the moment you wake up. The more frequently you do this, the easier it becomes to remember your dreams.

Betty Webb, author of Desert Cut and Desert Wives, dreamed Lena Jones, the protagonist of her Arizona-based mystery series. I've heard of other writers who dreamed the plots of their novels. I don't remember all my dreams, and some of the ones I do remember aren't interesting enough to share. But every now and again, I have a dream that seems like a gift, a dream that has a plot and characters, a dream that makes me open my eyes and think, "Thank you, God."

I usually dream in close third person, and while there is a protagonist with whom I identify and whose emotions I share, it is more like watching a movie than anything else. Friends who don't write are often baffled by this. An artist friend dreams in pictures, all light and form and color. This makes me wonder if writers dream differently from accountants or architects or attorneys or visual artists, not only in content but in structure.

Because of this fascination with dreams, I put a dream journal on my website: www.elizabethterrell.com. I've been thinking of doing a Dream Project, in which people email me their dreams, genders, hobbies, and occupations, and we compare and contrast the types of dreams different people have.

Dreams can reveal character in our stories as well, but they must be used with caution. The action-packed beginning scene that turns out to be a dream is not only a cliche, but a sure way to make the reader feel cheated. Long, detailed dream sequences are more likely to interrupt the action and feel self-indulgent than to rivet the reader to the page. On the other hand, a few lines or a paragraph about a troubling dream can illustrate a character's inner turmoil: Even in sleep, Elise couldn't escape her ex-husband. He chased her through her dreams, his belly distended with other women's rotting flesh, so close behind her that his grasping fingers brushed the back of her shirt. She woke up gasping, voiceless, tangled in the bedclothes, the sour smell of fear and sweat rising from the sheets.

Okay, that's not great writing, but doesn't it show how much Elise fears her ex-husband? Much more than this, though, and we risk losing the reader. Not every story needs a dream, and even those that do rarely benefit from excessive detail. Dreams in fiction are like fine spices, which can enhance a good meal--or ruin it.

Sweet dreams!

Dancing and Dreaming with Dogs

Ever since my husband and I got our papillon, Luca, my anxiety dreams have changed. I used to have normal anxiety dreams: the one where I've just learned I have an exam for a college class I've never been to and I don't even know where the exam is, or the one where we do a play and complete a fantastic first act, only to realize we've never rehearsed Act II. But now my anxiety dreams involve losing Luca in a crowd and knowing he's about to be stepped on and I can't reach him in time to stop it. Or we're out in the yard and a hawk swoops down to snatch him up, or we're in a walk-through aquarium/zoo, and giant frogs the size of Old English Sheepdogs are trying to eat him. My friends who have children laugh at me. They say they had the same kinds of dreams when their children were born.

Tuesday evening as I was leaving for work, my husband, Mike, called me on my cell phone to tell me Luca, "might be limping a little." To understand the anxiety this elicited, you need to understand several things:

1) Luca is exceptionally small for his breed. He weighs a grand old four pounds eleven ounces, half the size of his litter mates, with a delicate build and spindly little legs like a deer--or maybe a fairy. He wasn't bred intentionally to be so small; he just turned out that way.

2) In April, he broke his left front leg. I was lifting him over the baby gate so I could go to work, and about four inches from the ground, he squirmed out of my hands and landed in exactly the wrong way. The little leg bone just... snapped.

3) As a result of the above-mentioned accident, he had to have a metal plate surgically inserted, after which he had to be kept quiet for eight weeks. This means that he either had to be in his crate or being held. No small feat for a little guy of a year old.

4) The cost was...well, let's just say that after a day spent weeping in bank offices, I was saved from having to refinance my car by a substantial loan from my mother.

5) I am completely, absolutely, utterly in love with this dog.

So when Mike said Luca was limping, for just a moment, my heart stood still. Finally, I managed, "The one he broke?"

"No, the other one. His..." There was a pause while he looked. "His right front leg."

By the time I got home, "maybe limping a little" had become a no-doubt-about-it, walking-on-three-legs injury. Not an obvious break like the one in April, but still...

I took him to the vet the next morning, and fortunately, the injury turned out to be a sprained elbow. A few pain pills and a few days rest, and he should be fine. In fact, the limp is barely noticeable today. Even so, I'm struggling against the urge to make him a little suit of armor from bubble wrap.

Instead, when his sprain is healed, we'll go back to our canine freestyle classes. Canine freestyle is heelling and tricks to music. It's often referred to as dog dancing. We're still beginners, but it gives us something fun to do together, and it gives something to aspire to (see border collie Fly as "Gladiator Dog" and Carolyn Haines and her golden retriever Rookie dancing to "You're the One That I Want").

Luca also helps me write. Generally, that means snuggling next to me or in my lap while I type, but in my most recent book, I gave him what was meant to be a bit part. I did it so that, when I get my publishing deal and begin my book tour, he can go with me. Brilliant, right? His Lordship of Eternal Cuteness draws the crowd, which then stays to buy my books--or at least to have a conversation that will make me seem less desperate and more in demand. Then I realized I needed a reason for the good guys to know the bad guy is sneaking into their house, and suddenly, Luca's bit part is a major plot point.

This is the serendipity of writing. Everything is fodder. Things we think are completely unrelated end up on the page. The things we love (and hate and fear) find their way into our stories. This time, it was Luca. Next time, I have plans for Karma, our 15-year-old Tibetan Spaniel. After that, who knows? From dog dances to bigfoot festivals to public Laundromats, everything we experience makes us better writers.