Hello, world.
I have been thinking how, since the dawn of civilization, women have always been the throw-aways of war. Victims of rape, kidnap, murder. Ironically, as man became more 'civilized,' the throw-aways came to include anyone outside the tribe whose language, or skin-color, varied from the accepted norm. In my new novel, THE SPY LOVER, about the American Civil War, I address the issue of racism, especially toward Chinese soldiers, in both the Confederate and the Union Army.
In that War, men and women 'of color,' nurses as well as soldiers, were always the last of the wounded to be carried from the battlefield. And they were the last, if ever, to be treated by medics. In my research for THE SPY LOVER, I discovered that white orderlies in field-hospitals (usually huge complexes of filthy tents) referred to soldiers of color as 'skins.' 'Redskins' (in those days referred to as Indians) 'Yellowskins' (Chinese) and 'Brownskins' (in those days referred to as Negroes.)
Unless their wounds were superficial, these 'skins' were usually left to die unattended. My Chinese uncle, Ayau Kam, used to talk about his ancestor from China, who emigrated to Hawaii, then the U.S. mainland. When the War started, this ancestor, John Tommy Kam, had enlisted at Staten Island, New York, and fought valiantly for the Union Army, after being promised U.S. citizenship if the North won the War.
One of the many little-known facts about the American Civil War is that fifty-two Chinese are documented as having served in that War, fighting for the Union side as well as the Confederacy. It is astonishing to me that, until now, no book has been written about these incredibly brave soldiers, fighting for a country that essentially scorned them. Many were immigrants who arrived in ports like Charleston and New Orleans, then gathered in small farm settlements up and down the Mississippi River. With no women of their own available, they intermarried with Creole women, Native Americans and African Americans, and produced broods of beautiful, mixed-blood children.
When the War began, some of them were kidnapped by the Confederate Army and forced to fight for the South. Many defected to the Union Army, rather than fight for slavery. In real life, John Tommy Kam was believed to have perished at the Battle of Gettysburg. But other Chinese soldiers survived the War. And when it was over, the U.S. government broke its promise, refusing these brave soldiers U.S. citizenship and the pensions they were due. They were unilaterally cast off. Forgotten.
The hope was that they would go back to China, and leave America 'pure.' Instead, the following decades saw a great influx of Chinese immigrants into America, fleeing their own country which for thirty years had been engaged in its own civil war (that reportedly cost 30,000,000 lives.)
Chinese laborers helped build America, they laid most of the tracks for the first railroads going east to west and west to east. During that time they died in the thousands of fever, starvation, outright murder. Their bones are buried beneath those tracks. Still, more Chinese immigrants arrived. They proved to be hard-working, honest, and - with a shortage of their own women - continued intermarrying with white women and every other available race, and proved to be excellent husbands and fathers.
Their growing numbers, hard work and perseverance threatened white America. Just as they had been denied citizenship after the Civil War, anti-Asian sentiment grew, culminating in the Naturalization Act of 1870, and the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 (both enforced by the U.S. government until 1943!) And worse, Americans reacted to their growing numbers with the heinous Chinese Massacres that spread across America in the 1870's, 80's, and 90's.
Even after the slaughter of Chinese was made illegal, punishable by imprisonment, it continued in the back alleys of cities where they were creating their own small Chinatowns. Astonishingly, it continued until 1965 when all restrictions on national origin and race were abolished. ( Still it continues in these United States: the demonizing and victimizing of each new immigrant group.)
But, what of the brave Chinese heroes of the American Civil War? Those who perished, and those who survived? Were they ever to be officially acknowledged? Only in April, 2003, was the House Joint Resolution #45 introduced to Congress, to posthumously proclaim all U.S. Civil War soldiers of Chinese descent to be honorary citizens of the United States, in recognition of their honorable services. But, their pensions were denied to their descendants. 2003. One hundred and thirty-eight years later.
In the course of five long years of research and the writing of THE SPY LOVER, I discovered the war records of John Tommy from Canton China, and Hawaii. (Along the way he had dropped the name 'Kam,' perhaps to sound more American. In the novel I renamed him Johnny Tom.) His records show he had fought in six different battles with the famed New York Excelsior Brigade. He had also suffered long, debilitating months in two different prisoner-of-war camps. He had saved lives, and was promoted to corporal. He fought valiantly, and perished at the Battle of Gettysburg.
In time, I found John Tommy's place of burial in the Soldiers' National Cemetery at Gettysburg National Military Park, amongst the 'unidentifiable' soldiers of the New York Excelsior Brigade who died at the Battle of Gettysburg. This man who had no country, no family to mourn him, and who died 'unidentifiable' is at peace with his comrades.
I have laid flowers there for John Tommy. For all of them. And I have written this novel, THE SPY LOVER, to memorialize him, and to memorialize another ancestor, Warren Rowan Davenport, who fought for the Confederacy. In the end, I believe I wrote this book to memorialize all the valiant boys of the North and South who perished, many who were too young to shave.
I hold the novel in my hand, and think of an old Chinese proverb:
"War has always been the same. Old men talking, young men dying."
I hope you are moved by THE SPY LOVER. Thank you.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
THE SPY LOVER...AT LAST.
Hello, world.
At last. THE SPY LOVER, my long-awaited U.S. Civil War novel will finally be published! I am happy to announce that it will be available on August 28, on Amazon. Being half Native-Hawaiian and living mostly in the islands, my novels and story collections have always been set in the Pacific, so a novel about the U.S Civil War is a brand new departure for me. Why such a radical change? Because THE SPY LOVER is based on my family history. A story waiting to be told.
My mother, Emma Kealoha Awa'awa Kanoho Houghtailing was a full-blooded Native Hawaiian, while my father, Braxton Bragg Davenport, was a blue-eyed, blonde-haired Anglo-American from Talladega, Alabama. (So I am part-native, part-Southern redneck.) For years my Alabama cousins have urged me to write about our ancestor, Warren Rowan Davenport, a cavalryman who rode for the Confederacy in the Civil War with a famous unit known as the Prattville Dragoons, out of Prattville, Alabama.
They fought and died valiantly in the bloody battles of Shiloh, Chickamauga, Vicksburg and many other battles. Those who survived, including Warren, eventually served under General "Fightin' Joe" Wheeler, the indomitable Confederate cavalry leader who drove his men to many victories, in spite of being wounded repeatedly and having seventeen horses shot out from under him. ( Wheeler was only 5'4" tall, but he was called a giant in the saddle.)
Thus, I began my research on Warren Davenport, which would eventually entail reading over forty books on the Civil War. During this time, my Hawaiian cousins reminded me of our late Chinese uncle, Ayau Kam, Sr., who had often talked about HIS ancestor, John Tommy Kam, who had emigrated from Canton, China, to Hawaii, and finally to the East coast of the United States. In 1861, at the start of the Civil War, he had enlisted at Staten Island, New York, as a fighting soldier with the Union Army, after being promised U.S. citizenship if the North won the War.
I had at my disposal old tattered correspondences and documents from Warren Davenport, but there was nothing in writing from John Tommy (who had dropped "Kam," perhaps to sound more American), only Uncle Ayau's vague stories of his ancestor, handed down through the generations, who had fought with the Union Army. But in the course of researching and writing THE SPY LOVER, I uncovered articles about Chinese soldiers who had fought in our Civil War.
Two of the articles were about John Tommy, from Canton, China, and Hawaii, a brave soldier who hardly spoke English, yet fought valiantly in many battles, including Gettysburg, saved comrades lives, was promoted to corporal, and imprisoned twice by the Confederates. Eventually I uncovered his war records, and the grounds at Gettysburg where he is buried among the 'unknowns' with his comrades of the famous New York Excelsior Brigade. I have even laid flowers there for him.
And so in my novel, his character was resurrected as Johnny Tom, who serves with the Union Army. And my ancestor, Warren Davenport, was resurrected as the Confederate cavalryman, Warren Rowan Petticomb. There is a third and pivotal character in the novel, a woman named Era, born out of my imagination. A beautiful part-Cherokee, part-Chinese woman who searches for her father, Johnny, in the carnage of war. Era is patterned on a nurse who tended Warren Davenport, after he was wounded at the Battle of Shiloh.
In his correspondence,s there were hints that the nurse, whom he fell in love with, had suddenly disappeared from the hospital where she was tending Confederate wounded. It had been rumored that she was a Union spy, and fled for fear of being detected. In the novel the character, Era, lured into spying for the North while searching for her father, becomes torn by her love for Warren Petticomb. Still, she is forced to flee.
Warren Davenport wrote of spending the post-War years searching for this nurse he loved, eventually following her trail across America and up into in the Pacific Northwest Territories where so many Chinese men and women fled to, during the Chinese Massacres of the 1870's and 80's. I do not know the ending of their story. So here, I took authorial license with the novel. I will not spoil it for readers.
Sometimes writers gets so entrenched in a book, so buried in great themes of war and love and loyalties, we lose our way. I did. So I fell back on research, digging and delving, looking for clues and answers. Research is seductive. You read and while away the days, the months, and ignore the half-finished novel palpitating in the dark. Years passed as I delved deeper, discovering aspects of the War that I hoped would fascinate readers. I read about Southern women collecting urine from which to distill niter for making gunpowder. And I read of the planting and harvesting of poppies, the scoring and gathering from poppy pods the sap known as opium. I researched how opium was dried and mixed with chemicals and pressed into powdered tablets for the Confederate wounded when the South ran out of medicine.
Next, I researched books on spy-codes used in the War, what spies were paid, and how they were executed when caught by the enemy. I researched the colloquialisms of the South, the vernacular of the mid-1800s, the language of prostitutes, and fighting men, and dying men. And on, and on. Now you know why THE SPY LOVER took five years to complete. In the end I forgot how to hold conversations, unless they were about the Civil War. I lived and breathed the War, it engulfed my life.
Eventually, I slogged my way back into the actual writing of the book, and scenes and characters became real, thanks to the research I had done. When I finally reached the end, I was then shackled through twenty-four mind-numbing rewrites of the novel. Every page. Every word. I worked and slept in a metaphorical sweatsuit. I dreamed of Shiloh and Chickamauga and woke in the dark, hearing wounded soldiers crying out. I wept for the women who were raped and slaughtered in that War, and for the brave nurses who perished from soldiers' diseases. And I wept for the wounded soldiers known as 'skins' - redskins, yellowskins, brownskins - who were carried last from the battlefields, then ignored and left to die unattended.
I never planned to write an historical novel, or a love story, or a spy thriller, or a story about how brave Chinese soldiers were used as throw-aways in the Civil War. I simply set out to tell the story of my ancestors, who fought on opposing sides of that War. But as the book grew bigger and deeper (at one point, 1200 pages) I felt less and less confident. I wasn't sure who I was writing for. There were days when I wondered if there would be ANY readers for the book. But there were better days, when I felt that the book would cause the RIGHT readers to materialize. Readers who cared about loyalty and love, moral choices, and redemption.
I even began to believe that THE SPY LOVER might alter the nerves and marrow of readers because of the naked horror of the War, the unfathomable sacrifices, brother slaughtering brother, the rampant racism, and inconceivable grief of women who were left to bury their dead. But mostly I wanted to believe that readers would hold the book to their hearts because the quality of the writing astonished them. Thus do authors live on illusions, believing that the book we are working on is the best thing we have ever written, and that possibly it will change people's lives. Writers are children, eternal dreamers. Dreams are our redemption.
I sincerely hope you enjoy THE SPY LOVER!
Thank you!
At last. THE SPY LOVER, my long-awaited U.S. Civil War novel will finally be published! I am happy to announce that it will be available on August 28, on Amazon. Being half Native-Hawaiian and living mostly in the islands, my novels and story collections have always been set in the Pacific, so a novel about the U.S Civil War is a brand new departure for me. Why such a radical change? Because THE SPY LOVER is based on my family history. A story waiting to be told.
My mother, Emma Kealoha Awa'awa Kanoho Houghtailing was a full-blooded Native Hawaiian, while my father, Braxton Bragg Davenport, was a blue-eyed, blonde-haired Anglo-American from Talladega, Alabama. (So I am part-native, part-Southern redneck.) For years my Alabama cousins have urged me to write about our ancestor, Warren Rowan Davenport, a cavalryman who rode for the Confederacy in the Civil War with a famous unit known as the Prattville Dragoons, out of Prattville, Alabama.
They fought and died valiantly in the bloody battles of Shiloh, Chickamauga, Vicksburg and many other battles. Those who survived, including Warren, eventually served under General "Fightin' Joe" Wheeler, the indomitable Confederate cavalry leader who drove his men to many victories, in spite of being wounded repeatedly and having seventeen horses shot out from under him. ( Wheeler was only 5'4" tall, but he was called a giant in the saddle.)
Thus, I began my research on Warren Davenport, which would eventually entail reading over forty books on the Civil War. During this time, my Hawaiian cousins reminded me of our late Chinese uncle, Ayau Kam, Sr., who had often talked about HIS ancestor, John Tommy Kam, who had emigrated from Canton, China, to Hawaii, and finally to the East coast of the United States. In 1861, at the start of the Civil War, he had enlisted at Staten Island, New York, as a fighting soldier with the Union Army, after being promised U.S. citizenship if the North won the War.
I had at my disposal old tattered correspondences and documents from Warren Davenport, but there was nothing in writing from John Tommy (who had dropped "Kam," perhaps to sound more American), only Uncle Ayau's vague stories of his ancestor, handed down through the generations, who had fought with the Union Army. But in the course of researching and writing THE SPY LOVER, I uncovered articles about Chinese soldiers who had fought in our Civil War.
Two of the articles were about John Tommy, from Canton, China, and Hawaii, a brave soldier who hardly spoke English, yet fought valiantly in many battles, including Gettysburg, saved comrades lives, was promoted to corporal, and imprisoned twice by the Confederates. Eventually I uncovered his war records, and the grounds at Gettysburg where he is buried among the 'unknowns' with his comrades of the famous New York Excelsior Brigade. I have even laid flowers there for him.
And so in my novel, his character was resurrected as Johnny Tom, who serves with the Union Army. And my ancestor, Warren Davenport, was resurrected as the Confederate cavalryman, Warren Rowan Petticomb. There is a third and pivotal character in the novel, a woman named Era, born out of my imagination. A beautiful part-Cherokee, part-Chinese woman who searches for her father, Johnny, in the carnage of war. Era is patterned on a nurse who tended Warren Davenport, after he was wounded at the Battle of Shiloh.
In his correspondence,s there were hints that the nurse, whom he fell in love with, had suddenly disappeared from the hospital where she was tending Confederate wounded. It had been rumored that she was a Union spy, and fled for fear of being detected. In the novel the character, Era, lured into spying for the North while searching for her father, becomes torn by her love for Warren Petticomb. Still, she is forced to flee.
Warren Davenport wrote of spending the post-War years searching for this nurse he loved, eventually following her trail across America and up into in the Pacific Northwest Territories where so many Chinese men and women fled to, during the Chinese Massacres of the 1870's and 80's. I do not know the ending of their story. So here, I took authorial license with the novel. I will not spoil it for readers.
Sometimes writers gets so entrenched in a book, so buried in great themes of war and love and loyalties, we lose our way. I did. So I fell back on research, digging and delving, looking for clues and answers. Research is seductive. You read and while away the days, the months, and ignore the half-finished novel palpitating in the dark. Years passed as I delved deeper, discovering aspects of the War that I hoped would fascinate readers. I read about Southern women collecting urine from which to distill niter for making gunpowder. And I read of the planting and harvesting of poppies, the scoring and gathering from poppy pods the sap known as opium. I researched how opium was dried and mixed with chemicals and pressed into powdered tablets for the Confederate wounded when the South ran out of medicine.
Next, I researched books on spy-codes used in the War, what spies were paid, and how they were executed when caught by the enemy. I researched the colloquialisms of the South, the vernacular of the mid-1800s, the language of prostitutes, and fighting men, and dying men. And on, and on. Now you know why THE SPY LOVER took five years to complete. In the end I forgot how to hold conversations, unless they were about the Civil War. I lived and breathed the War, it engulfed my life.
Eventually, I slogged my way back into the actual writing of the book, and scenes and characters became real, thanks to the research I had done. When I finally reached the end, I was then shackled through twenty-four mind-numbing rewrites of the novel. Every page. Every word. I worked and slept in a metaphorical sweatsuit. I dreamed of Shiloh and Chickamauga and woke in the dark, hearing wounded soldiers crying out. I wept for the women who were raped and slaughtered in that War, and for the brave nurses who perished from soldiers' diseases. And I wept for the wounded soldiers known as 'skins' - redskins, yellowskins, brownskins - who were carried last from the battlefields, then ignored and left to die unattended.
I never planned to write an historical novel, or a love story, or a spy thriller, or a story about how brave Chinese soldiers were used as throw-aways in the Civil War. I simply set out to tell the story of my ancestors, who fought on opposing sides of that War. But as the book grew bigger and deeper (at one point, 1200 pages) I felt less and less confident. I wasn't sure who I was writing for. There were days when I wondered if there would be ANY readers for the book. But there were better days, when I felt that the book would cause the RIGHT readers to materialize. Readers who cared about loyalty and love, moral choices, and redemption.
I even began to believe that THE SPY LOVER might alter the nerves and marrow of readers because of the naked horror of the War, the unfathomable sacrifices, brother slaughtering brother, the rampant racism, and inconceivable grief of women who were left to bury their dead. But mostly I wanted to believe that readers would hold the book to their hearts because the quality of the writing astonished them. Thus do authors live on illusions, believing that the book we are working on is the best thing we have ever written, and that possibly it will change people's lives. Writers are children, eternal dreamers. Dreams are our redemption.
I sincerely hope you enjoy THE SPY LOVER!
Thank you!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
DEPRESSION AND WRITERS...
Hello World.
Depression and writers. How true it is. We seem to go hand in hand. We're joined at the sterum, closer than lovers. Whether we're genetically predisposed to depression or not, I think the writing life seems, well...inauthentic, without occasional periods of the deep, deep blues, the Mood Indigos.
We feel morally bound to brood, because that's what 'serious' writers do. We live by our wits, and sometimes live too close to the poverty level. And so we isolate, which deepens the blues. We envy the thriller-writers who rake in big royalties. Sometimes we hate them. We stop feeling attractive and lose our lovers, even our spouses. We become loners because socializing, even conversation, has become an endurance test. Oh, enough.
We chose this life. No one drafted us. Let's jolly up and admit we LOVE this writing-thing. When we are creating, our juices are flowing, our brains are kicked into high gear...don't you feel the rush? It's like a snort of cocaine. Two snorts. Doesn't your heart palpitate, and your very follicles sizzle? Mine do. There is nothing that compares to it. Isn't that worth occasional depression? (I'm not talking about clinical depression. That is more serious and calls for medical supervision.)
Perhaps the next time the 'blues' descend, we might want to sit back, take a breath and compare someone else's life. I guarantee you, afterwards you'll feel extremely blessed. You will feel grateful. I'm talking about the life of Roald Dahl. A genius who wrote thrilling and absurd and fabulous books for children. Remember 'Willy Wonka?' 'James and The Giant Peach?' Or 'The Sound Machine?' (In which a man could hear plants screaming.) Or how about 'The BFG,' the giant who went around at night, blowing dreams through a tube into kid's bedrooms. Dahl was a brilliant storyteller, a magician. His books are still read around the world in many languages.
He made $$millions from his books, and died 20 years ago. Finally, his personal history, his private life, was made public. It was horrendous. Absolutely grisly. His father, as a child, had his arm amputated thanks to a drunk doctor. At three, Dahl's older sister died, and shortly after, his one-armed father died. Several years later, still only a boy, Dahl's nose was completely severed from his face in a car accident. A near-sighted doctor sewed it back on. Slightly off-center.
In WWII Dahl joined the RAF, became a pilot, and crashed on his first official day of flying, in the Libyan Desert. His skull was fractured, spine broken, his face burned, his poor nose driven back into his face. Stoked by the heat, his plane's machine-guns started shooting at him. Miraculously, he managed to survive the crash, was somehow patched-up, fought others battles, and survived the war. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. (Are you still with me?) During treatment, his doctors recommended he have all his teeth pulled. Who knows why? So, he did. Dahl was only twenty-one!
After the war, he began writing stories to ward off depression. Thus began his illustrious and lifelong career. Then he married and had children. His 4 month-old son was hit by a taxi, shattering his skull. The child survived, but damaged. Two years later, Dahl's 7 year-old daughter contracted measles and died of a brain inflammation. Then his 39 year-old wife, the actress Patricia Neal, suffered an aneuryism and fell into a coma for weeks. He coached her through months and years of grueling rehabilitation.
All his life he suffered pain from his war wounds. And all the while, he wrote. He wrote magical and fabulous stories for children, that they still quote from as adults. Of course, Dahl was notoriously impatient and rude to people (can you blame him?) He picked fights at book parties, slugged editors, sold out friends, repeatedly and publicly insulted his still-rehabilitating wife. In the end he proved to be a racist, an anti-semite, an all-around stinker. No one liked him. No one. But he never stopped writing. I think writing was how he had survived his life.
Perhaps its best to forget the man, and remember the genius. But when we writers are feeling depressed, unloved, unpraised, it might be worth another look at Dahl's horrendous, nearly inconceivable life of tragedy. By comparison, I think most of us are lucky.
So let's gather our inspirations and energies - our mitochondria, and centrioles, and genomes, all those marvelous ecosystems that contain and define each of us - say a little mantra of thanks for what we have, and then get back to work.
Happy Writing and Imua! (Press On, no matter what.)
Thanks!
Depression and writers. How true it is. We seem to go hand in hand. We're joined at the sterum, closer than lovers. Whether we're genetically predisposed to depression or not, I think the writing life seems, well...inauthentic, without occasional periods of the deep, deep blues, the Mood Indigos.
We feel morally bound to brood, because that's what 'serious' writers do. We live by our wits, and sometimes live too close to the poverty level. And so we isolate, which deepens the blues. We envy the thriller-writers who rake in big royalties. Sometimes we hate them. We stop feeling attractive and lose our lovers, even our spouses. We become loners because socializing, even conversation, has become an endurance test. Oh, enough.
We chose this life. No one drafted us. Let's jolly up and admit we LOVE this writing-thing. When we are creating, our juices are flowing, our brains are kicked into high gear...don't you feel the rush? It's like a snort of cocaine. Two snorts. Doesn't your heart palpitate, and your very follicles sizzle? Mine do. There is nothing that compares to it. Isn't that worth occasional depression? (I'm not talking about clinical depression. That is more serious and calls for medical supervision.)
Perhaps the next time the 'blues' descend, we might want to sit back, take a breath and compare someone else's life. I guarantee you, afterwards you'll feel extremely blessed. You will feel grateful. I'm talking about the life of Roald Dahl. A genius who wrote thrilling and absurd and fabulous books for children. Remember 'Willy Wonka?' 'James and The Giant Peach?' Or 'The Sound Machine?' (In which a man could hear plants screaming.) Or how about 'The BFG,' the giant who went around at night, blowing dreams through a tube into kid's bedrooms. Dahl was a brilliant storyteller, a magician. His books are still read around the world in many languages.
He made $$millions from his books, and died 20 years ago. Finally, his personal history, his private life, was made public. It was horrendous. Absolutely grisly. His father, as a child, had his arm amputated thanks to a drunk doctor. At three, Dahl's older sister died, and shortly after, his one-armed father died. Several years later, still only a boy, Dahl's nose was completely severed from his face in a car accident. A near-sighted doctor sewed it back on. Slightly off-center.
In WWII Dahl joined the RAF, became a pilot, and crashed on his first official day of flying, in the Libyan Desert. His skull was fractured, spine broken, his face burned, his poor nose driven back into his face. Stoked by the heat, his plane's machine-guns started shooting at him. Miraculously, he managed to survive the crash, was somehow patched-up, fought others battles, and survived the war. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. (Are you still with me?) During treatment, his doctors recommended he have all his teeth pulled. Who knows why? So, he did. Dahl was only twenty-one!
After the war, he began writing stories to ward off depression. Thus began his illustrious and lifelong career. Then he married and had children. His 4 month-old son was hit by a taxi, shattering his skull. The child survived, but damaged. Two years later, Dahl's 7 year-old daughter contracted measles and died of a brain inflammation. Then his 39 year-old wife, the actress Patricia Neal, suffered an aneuryism and fell into a coma for weeks. He coached her through months and years of grueling rehabilitation.
All his life he suffered pain from his war wounds. And all the while, he wrote. He wrote magical and fabulous stories for children, that they still quote from as adults. Of course, Dahl was notoriously impatient and rude to people (can you blame him?) He picked fights at book parties, slugged editors, sold out friends, repeatedly and publicly insulted his still-rehabilitating wife. In the end he proved to be a racist, an anti-semite, an all-around stinker. No one liked him. No one. But he never stopped writing. I think writing was how he had survived his life.
Perhaps its best to forget the man, and remember the genius. But when we writers are feeling depressed, unloved, unpraised, it might be worth another look at Dahl's horrendous, nearly inconceivable life of tragedy. By comparison, I think most of us are lucky.
So let's gather our inspirations and energies - our mitochondria, and centrioles, and genomes, all those marvelous ecosystems that contain and define each of us - say a little mantra of thanks for what we have, and then get back to work.
Happy Writing and Imua! (Press On, no matter what.)
Thanks!
Monday, July 23, 2012
BESTSELLERS! .99 SALE.
Hello, World.
It's that time of year. Mid-summer, when book sales generally take a dive. To weather the market doldrums, I'm offering my three Bestselling Pacific Story Collections on sale for .99 each on Kindle!
HOUSE OF SKIN, PRIZE-WINNING STORIES... Volume I. Stories of love, lust, obsession, runaway girls, drug addiction, family bonds, racism, and much more. The stories are set across the Pacific islands in Hawaii, Papua New Guinea, Nauru, and Vanuatu.
CANNIBAL NIGHTS, PACIFIC STORIES, VOLUME II... Stories of terrorism, al Queda, adultery, murder, rape, slavery, kidnapping, Paul Gauguin, the French Foreign Legion, Australian Aborigines, foetal alcohol syndrome, and how the love of family saves us. The stories are set in Hawaii, Tonga, Easter island, the Marquesas, Tahiti, and Australia.
OPIUM DREAMS, PACIFIC STORIES, VOLUME III... Stories of marriage, adultery, vengeance, opium addiction, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, soldiers in combat, prostitution, murder, cancer, AIDS, and more. The stories and one novella are set in Western Samoa, Kohala (Hawaii), Aotearoa, New Zealand, Honolulu ( Hawaii), and Georgia.
I hope you will enjoy reading them, and learning about the fascinating traditions and people of the vast Pacific Islands. Alohas from Hawaii!
And thanks! Kiana
It's that time of year. Mid-summer, when book sales generally take a dive. To weather the market doldrums, I'm offering my three Bestselling Pacific Story Collections on sale for .99 each on Kindle!
HOUSE OF SKIN, PRIZE-WINNING STORIES... Volume I. Stories of love, lust, obsession, runaway girls, drug addiction, family bonds, racism, and much more. The stories are set across the Pacific islands in Hawaii, Papua New Guinea, Nauru, and Vanuatu.
CANNIBAL NIGHTS, PACIFIC STORIES, VOLUME II... Stories of terrorism, al Queda, adultery, murder, rape, slavery, kidnapping, Paul Gauguin, the French Foreign Legion, Australian Aborigines, foetal alcohol syndrome, and how the love of family saves us. The stories are set in Hawaii, Tonga, Easter island, the Marquesas, Tahiti, and Australia.
OPIUM DREAMS, PACIFIC STORIES, VOLUME III... Stories of marriage, adultery, vengeance, opium addiction, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, soldiers in combat, prostitution, murder, cancer, AIDS, and more. The stories and one novella are set in Western Samoa, Kohala (Hawaii), Aotearoa, New Zealand, Honolulu ( Hawaii), and Georgia.
I hope you will enjoy reading them, and learning about the fascinating traditions and people of the vast Pacific Islands. Alohas from Hawaii!
And thanks! Kiana
Thursday, July 19, 2012
ADULTERY AND OPIUM DREAMS...
Hello World.
A heartfelt mahalo! (thank you) to readers who have purchased my new ebook collection, OPIUM DREAMS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume III, a sequel to my previous collections HOUSE OF SKIN PRIZE-WINNING STORIES, and CANNIBAL NIGHTS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume II.
First off, Huge Olas! and Kudos to Kathleen Valentine, of Valentine Designs, for the extraordinary cover. The author's voice is still the most important part of a book, but a beautiful book cover is what first draws readers. (If you're wondering why the peacock feather, you have to read the title story.)
Like my earlier collections, OPIUM DREAMS comprises tales set in islands across the Pacific ocean, portraits of men and women struggling with the same universal issues as people around the globe: Survival, dignity, identity. This volume speaks more of love in all its dark, tragic and even hilarious manifestations. Three of the stories deal with adultery.
Ah, ADULTERY... How many of us marrieds or have-beens have feared it, confronted it, even indulged in it? It can turn betrayed wives into salivating she-jackals, or calm, cold-eyed killers. Still, betrayed husbands seem to fare much worse. An adulterous husband is usually only temporarily reverting to the 'pack,' scatter-shooting his seed, and whooping it up. (80% of them come home, begging for forgiveness.)
But an adulterous wife suggests the blunt force of a loose cannon, an uncontrollable entity, her hormones and pheromones running amuck. And worse, it suggests an impotent husband, a man who can't please his wife, can't get it up, or keep it up. Women are erotic forces of nature. We embody sex all over - eyes, lips, breasts, butts, vaginas - whereas male sexuality seems tied up in that one organ...and here is precisely where a wife's adultery hits men. Their sense of masculinity is shattered.
(Call me crazy, but that kind of vulnerability should make us love them even more.) In the end, sex is always trouble. We are lost in the collision. Logic and conscience evaporate. That's why sex often gets a bad rap. It's too pleasurable, too powerful. And so we seek love, that milder form of lust. It steers us away from our genitals. We ascend to a more spiritual level, and give our baser drives a break.
A few words about love and lust in my collection, OPIUM DREAMS:
In the story "Night of the Worm," set in Western Samoa, a philandering husband who annually trysts with white women tourists, is suddenly threatened when his ungainly wife attracts the attentions of an Englishman, who falls in love, teaches her to waltz, and endows her with a 'majesty.' Only with the threat of permanently losing her, does the husband finally see her beauty and her worth. ***(A few years ago, I lived at the Vaisala Hotel in Western Samoa, and watched a similar story unfold.)
"Opium Dreams," a semi-novella, is set in an earlier century in Hawaii, and is a meditation on father-daughter love, or the lack of it, and how an unloved daughter plunges into opium addiction and suicide. It is also a glimpse into the 19th century opium-dens of Chinatown in Honolulu, how immigrants fleeing starvation in China ended up as addicts whose bones were used for fodder in the canefields.
A parallel story is that of a paniolo, a Hawaiian cowboy who has killed his beautiful wife for committing adultery, not understanding that polygamy was part of her Cowichan culture. His life is reduced to years of grief and guilt, until he is redeemed by the love of a boy, and a stranger.
"Maoritanga" is set in Aotearoa (Maori word for New Zealand). The portrait of a Maori woman mired in grief for her brother who dies in combat in the Gulf War, and how that grief drags her into years of drift, prostitution, even murder. Only the love of her clan resurrects her, and restores in her a sense of 'Maoritanga," Maori pride.
***(For several months while visiting Maori friends, I lived at a hotel in Auckland, New Zealand, patterned after Manners in the story. It was a haunt for young prostitutes from Asia and the Pacific Islands who had run away from home. The story is based on events that occured while I was living there: A Maori friend who lost a brother in the Gulf War, the murder of a pimp, the suicide of a young girl, and a playful shark that kept reappearing near the town of Te Kaha.)
"Bullets Over Hollywood" is another story of adultery. A mix-blood Hawaiian discovers her husband's mistress, tries to burn down her home, shoots up her teenage children's beds, and flees back to the islands, where she hides out with a friend who dwells on her own ex-husband's adultery. This is not just a story of betrayal. It is also a tale of a woman who has lost her identity through marriage and motherhood. Only a tragedy - a horror every woman dreads - saves her marriage, and helps her rediscover herself, and her ambitions. ***(Based on a true story, and the life of a dear friend.)
"The Speed of Light" takes place, not in the Pacific, but in the state of Georgia. A handsome mix-blood Hawaiian enters a small, bigotted Southern town and, forced to live on charity, infuses people's lives with poetry and magic. As he begins to die, people come to understand who, and what, he is. In that realization, they learn tolerance and acceptance. And a particularly bigotted and homophobic redneck learns what love is. ***(This story is based on the life of my beloved cousin, Will.)
It is easy to write about love. And very hard. We search, and find it, and lose it, and search again. The human comedy. Cliches abound. Still, our stories are important, and unique. Because love, the search for it, the failure of it, and especially the loss of it, is how we progress and mature, how we attain an inner nobility. An aristocracy of the heart.
As Elton John says in his new memoir: "Love Is The Cure."
I hope you enjoy OPIUM DREAMS!
Thank you!
A heartfelt mahalo! (thank you) to readers who have purchased my new ebook collection, OPIUM DREAMS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume III, a sequel to my previous collections HOUSE OF SKIN PRIZE-WINNING STORIES, and CANNIBAL NIGHTS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume II.
First off, Huge Olas! and Kudos to Kathleen Valentine, of Valentine Designs, for the extraordinary cover. The author's voice is still the most important part of a book, but a beautiful book cover is what first draws readers. (If you're wondering why the peacock feather, you have to read the title story.)
Like my earlier collections, OPIUM DREAMS comprises tales set in islands across the Pacific ocean, portraits of men and women struggling with the same universal issues as people around the globe: Survival, dignity, identity. This volume speaks more of love in all its dark, tragic and even hilarious manifestations. Three of the stories deal with adultery.
Ah, ADULTERY... How many of us marrieds or have-beens have feared it, confronted it, even indulged in it? It can turn betrayed wives into salivating she-jackals, or calm, cold-eyed killers. Still, betrayed husbands seem to fare much worse. An adulterous husband is usually only temporarily reverting to the 'pack,' scatter-shooting his seed, and whooping it up. (80% of them come home, begging for forgiveness.)
But an adulterous wife suggests the blunt force of a loose cannon, an uncontrollable entity, her hormones and pheromones running amuck. And worse, it suggests an impotent husband, a man who can't please his wife, can't get it up, or keep it up. Women are erotic forces of nature. We embody sex all over - eyes, lips, breasts, butts, vaginas - whereas male sexuality seems tied up in that one organ...and here is precisely where a wife's adultery hits men. Their sense of masculinity is shattered.
(Call me crazy, but that kind of vulnerability should make us love them even more.) In the end, sex is always trouble. We are lost in the collision. Logic and conscience evaporate. That's why sex often gets a bad rap. It's too pleasurable, too powerful. And so we seek love, that milder form of lust. It steers us away from our genitals. We ascend to a more spiritual level, and give our baser drives a break.
A few words about love and lust in my collection, OPIUM DREAMS:
In the story "Night of the Worm," set in Western Samoa, a philandering husband who annually trysts with white women tourists, is suddenly threatened when his ungainly wife attracts the attentions of an Englishman, who falls in love, teaches her to waltz, and endows her with a 'majesty.' Only with the threat of permanently losing her, does the husband finally see her beauty and her worth. ***(A few years ago, I lived at the Vaisala Hotel in Western Samoa, and watched a similar story unfold.)
"Opium Dreams," a semi-novella, is set in an earlier century in Hawaii, and is a meditation on father-daughter love, or the lack of it, and how an unloved daughter plunges into opium addiction and suicide. It is also a glimpse into the 19th century opium-dens of Chinatown in Honolulu, how immigrants fleeing starvation in China ended up as addicts whose bones were used for fodder in the canefields.
A parallel story is that of a paniolo, a Hawaiian cowboy who has killed his beautiful wife for committing adultery, not understanding that polygamy was part of her Cowichan culture. His life is reduced to years of grief and guilt, until he is redeemed by the love of a boy, and a stranger.
"Maoritanga" is set in Aotearoa (Maori word for New Zealand). The portrait of a Maori woman mired in grief for her brother who dies in combat in the Gulf War, and how that grief drags her into years of drift, prostitution, even murder. Only the love of her clan resurrects her, and restores in her a sense of 'Maoritanga," Maori pride.
***(For several months while visiting Maori friends, I lived at a hotel in Auckland, New Zealand, patterned after Manners in the story. It was a haunt for young prostitutes from Asia and the Pacific Islands who had run away from home. The story is based on events that occured while I was living there: A Maori friend who lost a brother in the Gulf War, the murder of a pimp, the suicide of a young girl, and a playful shark that kept reappearing near the town of Te Kaha.)
"Bullets Over Hollywood" is another story of adultery. A mix-blood Hawaiian discovers her husband's mistress, tries to burn down her home, shoots up her teenage children's beds, and flees back to the islands, where she hides out with a friend who dwells on her own ex-husband's adultery. This is not just a story of betrayal. It is also a tale of a woman who has lost her identity through marriage and motherhood. Only a tragedy - a horror every woman dreads - saves her marriage, and helps her rediscover herself, and her ambitions. ***(Based on a true story, and the life of a dear friend.)
"The Speed of Light" takes place, not in the Pacific, but in the state of Georgia. A handsome mix-blood Hawaiian enters a small, bigotted Southern town and, forced to live on charity, infuses people's lives with poetry and magic. As he begins to die, people come to understand who, and what, he is. In that realization, they learn tolerance and acceptance. And a particularly bigotted and homophobic redneck learns what love is. ***(This story is based on the life of my beloved cousin, Will.)
It is easy to write about love. And very hard. We search, and find it, and lose it, and search again. The human comedy. Cliches abound. Still, our stories are important, and unique. Because love, the search for it, the failure of it, and especially the loss of it, is how we progress and mature, how we attain an inner nobility. An aristocracy of the heart.
As Elton John says in his new memoir: "Love Is The Cure."
I hope you enjoy OPIUM DREAMS!
Thank you!
Saturday, June 30, 2012
CALL ME HUN
Hello, World.
I've been thinking how for years book reviewers called Stephen King's novels 'trash.' King has described facing those critics: "I publish a book and I feel like a trapper caught by the Iroquois. They line up with tomahawks and I run the gamut while they whack me in my head, my back, my balls." Of course, by now most critics have acknowledged King as 'ahead of his time, something of a genius.' Still, I expect those tomahawk scars remain.
Is THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION trash? THE GREEN MILE? They are magnificent works, classics now, about the heart and soul of man, his eternal quest for truth and freedom. Each time I read them, I have wept. If they are 'trash,' then so is MOBY DICK, my favorite darling of all novels. Yet when MOBY DICK was first published, book reviewers called it a "depressing over-long tale about misfit sailors and a fish." Oh, my.
In their early years of writing, Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov, were ghettoized as writers of 'sci-fi trash' by book reviewers. Ditto, Eric Ambler, a 'writer of thriller trash,'who is now considered the founding father of brilliant espionage novels. Yet in their later years, each writer was inundated with literary accolades, declaring them geniuses. The wisdom of hindsight? Well, what about foresight? Who is to say what 'trash' and what is 'literature'?
Here is a brilliant description of book reviewers. "They are the ones who approach the battlefield in full body-armor, then stand on the side lines. And when the battle is over, they walk around shooting all the wounded." Lovely. For, how many book reviewers have labored for years over a novel? How many have lived below the poverty line while trying to convey the achings of their minds, their hearts, their souls? Not many. In fairness, sometimes reviewers change their minds. Ten years later they might deign to take a second look at a novel, see it with 'fresh eyes' and give it a semi-rave review. Of course by then, the author has died stark raving mad, after eating his children.
In the past, I have respected certain book reviewers. They gave us guidelines, they were the sentries at the gates, warding off 'mediocre works of low culture,' and of 'trash.' Alas! I see them now as an endangered species, fading into yesteryear along with so much of the traditional publishing industry. Why? Because book reviewers now have a very short shelf life. Their prestigious newspapers and magazines have a short shelf life. Compare that to the chatter about a book on the Internet.
Millions of readers now browse digitally delivered reader-reviews on Amazon and other venues, where uber-clusters of conversation sizzle back and forth between readers and readers, and between authors and their readers. This global digital populace is radically transforming the reviewing of fiction, and simultaneously the recommendations of other books, and promoting the purchasing of those books. In short, they have effected a whole new revolution in book marketing. To use an already hackneyed phrase...the playing field has been leveled. Book readers are now the arbiters of taste.
Readers are omnivores. We are now adept at switch-hitting with the push of a button from 'high lit' to 'low lit' from ebook to audio to print. What we look for in a book is what other readers look for: some kind of primal narrative engagement that makes us feel less alone, some little truth or assurance that characters in novels are as lonely, as insecure, as we are. We want to pick up a book that does not insult us, that makes us grow a little, and maybe end up a little wiser, a little kinder. And we want to express our appreciation(or condemnation) in our OWN online reviews.
Perhaps what we read is not a perfect book, but we give it a 3 or 4 star review because it speaks to us, and because we want to encourage the author, give him or her more time to grow and hone their talent. Reading, like writing, is a leap into the unknown, which makes it terribly exciting. Of course, not all books are great. Some are less than good. But I believe any book written with the naked drive of the writer's heart and soul deserves a chance.
Life is messy, so why should books not be messy and a little awkward? And as for reader reviews, some are amateur, even embarrassing, but like writers themselves, I believe that the more readers review books, the more accomplished they will become at judging what is good and what is mediocre, and how better to express that.
One could call this the Democratization of reading, writing, and reviewing. I call it a REVOLUTION in book marketing. I call it a long overdue recognition of the intelligence and taste of our READERS.
For the old-line critics and book reviewers, the 'keepers of the literary flame,' it must seem a scary time. Vulgarians are destroying their Ivory Towers. The Huns are storming the gates. As an author, and avid reader, and online book-reviewer, how do I feel about this shattering of old-time 'ethics,' this revolutionary and brave new world?
Call me Hun.
Is THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION trash? THE GREEN MILE? They are magnificent works, classics now, about the heart and soul of man, his eternal quest for truth and freedom. Each time I read them, I have wept. If they are 'trash,' then so is MOBY DICK, my favorite darling of all novels. Yet when MOBY DICK was first published, book reviewers called it a "depressing over-long tale about misfit sailors and a fish." Oh, my.
In their early years of writing, Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov, were ghettoized as writers of 'sci-fi trash' by book reviewers. Ditto, Eric Ambler, a 'writer of thriller trash,'who is now considered the founding father of brilliant espionage novels. Yet in their later years, each writer was inundated with literary accolades, declaring them geniuses. The wisdom of hindsight? Well, what about foresight? Who is to say what 'trash' and what is 'literature'?
Here is a brilliant description of book reviewers. "They are the ones who approach the battlefield in full body-armor, then stand on the side lines. And when the battle is over, they walk around shooting all the wounded." Lovely. For, how many book reviewers have labored for years over a novel? How many have lived below the poverty line while trying to convey the achings of their minds, their hearts, their souls? Not many. In fairness, sometimes reviewers change their minds. Ten years later they might deign to take a second look at a novel, see it with 'fresh eyes' and give it a semi-rave review. Of course by then, the author has died stark raving mad, after eating his children.
In the past, I have respected certain book reviewers. They gave us guidelines, they were the sentries at the gates, warding off 'mediocre works of low culture,' and of 'trash.' Alas! I see them now as an endangered species, fading into yesteryear along with so much of the traditional publishing industry. Why? Because book reviewers now have a very short shelf life. Their prestigious newspapers and magazines have a short shelf life. Compare that to the chatter about a book on the Internet.
Millions of readers now browse digitally delivered reader-reviews on Amazon and other venues, where uber-clusters of conversation sizzle back and forth between readers and readers, and between authors and their readers. This global digital populace is radically transforming the reviewing of fiction, and simultaneously the recommendations of other books, and promoting the purchasing of those books. In short, they have effected a whole new revolution in book marketing. To use an already hackneyed phrase...the playing field has been leveled. Book readers are now the arbiters of taste.
Readers are omnivores. We are now adept at switch-hitting with the push of a button from 'high lit' to 'low lit' from ebook to audio to print. What we look for in a book is what other readers look for: some kind of primal narrative engagement that makes us feel less alone, some little truth or assurance that characters in novels are as lonely, as insecure, as we are. We want to pick up a book that does not insult us, that makes us grow a little, and maybe end up a little wiser, a little kinder. And we want to express our appreciation(or condemnation) in our OWN online reviews.
Perhaps what we read is not a perfect book, but we give it a 3 or 4 star review because it speaks to us, and because we want to encourage the author, give him or her more time to grow and hone their talent. Reading, like writing, is a leap into the unknown, which makes it terribly exciting. Of course, not all books are great. Some are less than good. But I believe any book written with the naked drive of the writer's heart and soul deserves a chance.
Life is messy, so why should books not be messy and a little awkward? And as for reader reviews, some are amateur, even embarrassing, but like writers themselves, I believe that the more readers review books, the more accomplished they will become at judging what is good and what is mediocre, and how better to express that.
One could call this the Democratization of reading, writing, and reviewing. I call it a REVOLUTION in book marketing. I call it a long overdue recognition of the intelligence and taste of our READERS.
For the old-line critics and book reviewers, the 'keepers of the literary flame,' it must seem a scary time. Vulgarians are destroying their Ivory Towers. The Huns are storming the gates. As an author, and avid reader, and online book-reviewer, how do I feel about this shattering of old-time 'ethics,' this revolutionary and brave new world?
Call me Hun.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
RAY BRADBURY, GENIUS
Hello, World.
Ray Bradbury, our Poet Laureate of space quest, died on June 6. He was 91 years old. On June 5, here in Hawaii we had a ringside seat to the Transit of Venus across the sun. I like to think that little dot I saw thru the telescope, dallying across the face of the sun, was Bradbury's soul. While his body slowly declined here on earth, his higher being was already voyaging into the galaxy.
He was a genius, a poet, a lightning-rod for writers, scientists, anyone who believed we humans were put here on earth to be witnesses and dreamers. That it was in our DNA to strive for the next dimension, the next star. He believed that the universe required this of us. "The Stars are Our Destiny," he said. And he was the beacon who guided us there.
When the Apollo astronauts were preparing for the first landing on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the man they asked to meet. And when they landed on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the one man Walter Kronkite asked to interview. He consented to the interview, and across the air waves and the ethers, the world listened as Bradbury wept. His dreams, his forecasts, had come true.
Novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, poet, he gave us works of genius: The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and hundreds of stories that changed our way of thinking about man's future in this galaxy, this universe. He predicted personal computers, Banking ATMs, earbuds, Bluetooth headsets, and most importantly, the concept of Artificial Intelligence.
He reshaped our minds, our culture, and expanded our world. He was the Godfather of science-fiction, the wizard who inspired Speilberg, Star Wars and every book, movie or comic book that followed.
"What are we doing on earth?" he asked. "We are here to be the audience to the magnificent. We are the witnesses to the miracle of the universe. We were put here by creation, by God, by the cosmos, whatever name you choose. But we are here. And, we too, are a miracle."
He said it was our duty to question, and to dream. To make the impossible, possible. Make each moment a Eureka moment. It was our job to celebrate. And to create.
Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. Fly Safe, O Genius...
Ray Bradbury, our Poet Laureate of space quest, died on June 6. He was 91 years old. On June 5, here in Hawaii we had a ringside seat to the Transit of Venus across the sun. I like to think that little dot I saw thru the telescope, dallying across the face of the sun, was Bradbury's soul. While his body slowly declined here on earth, his higher being was already voyaging into the galaxy.
He was a genius, a poet, a lightning-rod for writers, scientists, anyone who believed we humans were put here on earth to be witnesses and dreamers. That it was in our DNA to strive for the next dimension, the next star. He believed that the universe required this of us. "The Stars are Our Destiny," he said. And he was the beacon who guided us there.
When the Apollo astronauts were preparing for the first landing on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the man they asked to meet. And when they landed on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the one man Walter Kronkite asked to interview. He consented to the interview, and across the air waves and the ethers, the world listened as Bradbury wept. His dreams, his forecasts, had come true.
Novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, poet, he gave us works of genius: The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and hundreds of stories that changed our way of thinking about man's future in this galaxy, this universe. He predicted personal computers, Banking ATMs, earbuds, Bluetooth headsets, and most importantly, the concept of Artificial Intelligence.
He reshaped our minds, our culture, and expanded our world. He was the Godfather of science-fiction, the wizard who inspired Speilberg, Star Wars and every book, movie or comic book that followed.
"What are we doing on earth?" he asked. "We are here to be the audience to the magnificent. We are the witnesses to the miracle of the universe. We were put here by creation, by God, by the cosmos, whatever name you choose. But we are here. And, we too, are a miracle."
He said it was our duty to question, and to dream. To make the impossible, possible. Make each moment a Eureka moment. It was our job to celebrate. And to create.
Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. Fly Safe, O Genius...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)