Writing

What is writing?

I catch myself asking that question almost every day now. What prompted this was listening to one of my favorite Podcasts, The Thomas Jefferson Hour. The creator, Clay Jenkinson was interviewed (some would say cross-examined) by his recent guest host, an attorney, about his life in Bismarck North Dakota. They discuss “Writing” with a capital W and a sense of place. This got me thinking.

Am I a writer?

If the definition is, One who is paid to produce works that derive income or royalties, the answer is a resounding no. However, if it's someone who every morning parks his hind-side at a desk and taps away at a keyboard attempting to clarify his thinking, improve written communication skills, synthesize experiences and knowledge, I emphatically say in a sonorous voice, Yes. I leave it up to you, the reader to make your own assessment.

Sense of place?

My attempt to share a “sense of place” is my fictional creation Hercule Peridot. Indeed, the notion is to synthesize my love of gems, share my travel experiences, apply the science of deduction, practice the art of creative writing, and have a little fun in the process.

Scattered stories.

The fictional stories are scattered throughout this blog. So, to help the reader establish some sense of continuity, I’ve listed Peridot's adventures so far in chronological order:

The adventure continues. It looks like our heroes are headed for the United Arab Emirates.

. . . stay tuned.

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Engineering Beef Stew

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

When the Universe Calls in Sick

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . . Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

The Marvelous Dr. Vo!

Have you heard of our hero, the marvelous Vo? The brainiest brain in the solar-cell show! When inverters go KLUNK! and transformers go FIZZ! The whole place erupts: “WHERE THE HECK IS THAT WHIZ?!” He bounds through the chaos; he leaps through the smoke, While lesser-sized geniuses cough, wheeze, and choke. With NextWave in orbit, his V-Team aligned, He can fix what’s gone wrong before YOU’VE even whined! Now here come the rookies, all polished and new, In plastic pajamas of spotless bright blue. Their manuals gleam and their hairdos are slick, But a speck on a panel makes each of them sick! “Don’t scratch me! Don’t scuff me! Don’t put me to work! I’m a premium product, not some common old jerk! I’m pristine! I’m perfect! I’m fresh off the shelf!” (Then a tiny cloud passes and ruins their health!) “Poppycock!” cries Vo. “That’s the silliest stuff! A gadget’s not useful just looking all buff! You don’t become REAL by avoiding each dent; You become REAL by the hours you’ve spent!” So le...

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