Fiction: Miou-Miou

Carver had defeated the last of the electronic security measures meant to keep people like him out of the warehouse. Now all he had to do was find a yellow box marked KLF-00391, and he could make his rendezvous and collect a cool twenty-five grand. Carver didn’t know what the yellow box contained; that wasn’t his concern. He was merely the acquisition department.

He scanned the first aisle and saw three yellow boxes. Quick checks showed they bore the wrong numbers, and he moved to the second aisle. Here, there were a couple of dozen yellow boxes, and Carver became engrossed in checking the numbers. It took him a moment to realize he was being sniffed.

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Pen to Paper: Starting the Year on the Lighter Side

Welcome back to another year of Catsignal.

This is shaping up to be a busy year for me as I add teaching duties to my usual freelance work. Consequently, the Pen to Paper feature may become more of a weekly link or linkfest rather than deep, well-considered insight from me. But there are lots of writers with valuable things to say to us, and I’ll be pleased to help spread their words. (What the new schedule might mean for fiction on Thursdays remains to be seen. I haven’t written anything for this week yet…)

As proof, we’re going to start things off with a funny, yet perceptive, look at projects we have effectively abandoned: Twelve Ways to tell if Your Novel is Dead. I’ve got a couple of these that I might just as well admit are as finished as they’re going to get … but I don’t think I will.

Occupy: Do Not Go Gentle Into That New Year

As we bid 2011 good riddance, let’s take a few moments to gird for the battles ahead in 2012:

* It’s an election year: the president, a third of the Senate, and the whole House, plus various state governors and legislators and others. Meantime, a vocal minority is still holding our national government hostage to its revolutionary cant and its pledges to everyone but the American people.

* The assclowns who wrecked our economy are still in their high towers, still looking down on the 99%, still snapping their fingers for their pet government officials.

* The militarization of our municipal police departments proceeds apace.

* The wars on drugs, terror, immigrants, gays, women, workers, and free speech continue unabated.

I hold increasingly little hope for the American experiment our forebears set in motion, but I tend toward pessimism. We are not, in fact, preparing for a civil war, and many of our problems are perennial or even cyclical. And as one of the great book editors of our era, Marco Palmieri, tells us, “Pessimism is a misuse of imagination.”

So let’s be imaginative as we look ahead.

John Lennon said, “As soon as you react with violence, they know exactly what to do with you. Using humor and creativity in protest are the only things the establishment are not prepared to deal with.”

The establishment has gotten pretty good about using pepper spray to deal with peaceful, creative people. But we can still out-think them and bring them to heel.

Norman Lear urges us to use our creativity and our patriotism and our sense of right and wrong to stand up for the Constitution and for human decency. The country we save may be our own.

Fiction: Angels We Have Heard While High

Erik knocked lightly on Craig’s front door and walked in.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi. How was Christmas dinner with the family?”

“About like always. Lots of food. My sister’s kids running around like maniacs. Everyone asking me when I’m going to get married and have kids. When I’m going to get a better job, a better place to live, some get up and go.”

“Grim,” Craig said. “I just got off work. People sure can be bitchy on Christmas. Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Craig provided each of them with a bottle of beer.

“And,” he said, “I’ve got something else that will put the mellow back into the holiday for both of us.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I got a nice little Christmas present in the mail yesterday from my brother.”

“Your brother the big-city cop? What is it?”

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Pen to Paper: One Writer’s Life

I have read a few things – a very few things – by Vaclav Havel. I don’t remember what they were, though. I read them because he wrote them, and I knew who he was, and when you respect someone you are inclined to read at least a little of what he has written.

Havel was one of those rare, shining creatures – a writer whose words made an enormous difference in his own lifetime – that the rest of us scribes admire and, in our weaker moments, envy. He was a playwright who became a dissident and helped to lead his people from life under the Soviet yoke to one of self-determination, and who led then as president of his country. That’s a heck of a story arc, but few of us would care to emulate his years in prisons and a labor camp, no matter how many books we might sell afterward.

He is gone now, but his words and his example remain for us always.