Smile and the whole world smiles... yeah, okay, got it.

I'm a bit slow to catch on, but I finally figured out how to identify true love.

It's when you're not sure whether to smile or kiss because you want badly to do them both at the same time.

It's Monday, your weekly chance at a new beginning. Wonderful, ain't it?  Have a great week, y'all.

We're Here. Deal With It.

This is one of those odd afternoons. We all have them. I had lunch, three quick glasses of wine, a nap and woke with a poem in my head. And, I 'm not a poet. But, I'll share it anyway.

You are who you are.

You are what you are.

You’re nothing,

You’re everything,

You were,

You are,

You will be.

You are perfect.

You are the human race.

Who will win such a race?

You?

Me?

Us?

We are who we are.

We are what we are.

We will go on.

There's just no telling what this poem might look like with another glass of wine. I think I'll uncork another bottle and find out.

Hugs and love, Y'all.

Don't Call Me Tubby

I’m not a big guy. But, I’m not huge either – a six-footer about fifteen pounds overweight. There’s a case to be made that I’m very close to the American average for a man my age in this era and, of course, I will argue in favor of it.

That said, it’s clear that the Chinese have a skewed notion of the terms “small”, “medium” and “large”. I submit that a Chinaman’s idea of large is somewhere between small and medium by American standards.

In case you think it’s going that way, this not a discussion of obesity in America, although, it does need to be discussed ongoing and addressed the same way.

Instead, I’m writing about an honest opinion difference based on cultural biases. Here’s the rub: If China is to continue a good trading relationship with the U-S and keep on flooding our retail markets with cheap consumer good then, for heaven’s sake, manufacture products meant for Americans built to American standards of size.

Although clothing is the most obvious category that springs to mind for a discussion on size, apparel is not the point of this post. The 2X t-shirt that still is too small for this 1X body is a great example of that problem. I resemble Baby Huey in it. But, I digress.

Specifically, this rant concerns bath tubs. Yep, you read right – bath tubs.

Allow me to explain: Recently my wife and I searched out and purchased another house, the purpose; a place large enough that my aging mother could move in with us and have a private living space to call her own. Long story short; we found it. The only problem is that the only shower in the house is in the bathroom designated as part of Mom’s private space. The bathroom my wife and I share has only a tub which, incidentally, will be rectified as soon as I can find a contractor.

Now, visualize this, if you dare: I’m flat on my back in the tub, shoulders folded inward because I’m too wide to lay flat in the darn thing, toes curled against the end and knees high in the air and my hands working feverishly from the wrists clutching a bar of soap because I can’t get enough arm action involved to move much. Comical, huh? Oh, by the way, when I finally do finish, my body slurps as I break the suction hold on it from the bottom. I’m not even going to explain the whole process of rolling over to stand. That’s another ordeal altogether.

Smile, giggle or laugh out loud, if you must, but, I’ll reserve laughter for a distant future time after our shower has been installed and I can look back on it. Right now I’m in no mood to even crack a smile but, God as my witness, I am clean.

I can say one thing with no hesitation; a wash cloth and a sink of warm water is beginning to look much more appealing.

Also, I am certain the tub was manufactured in China. So, the inclusion of their notion on size, I think, was warranted.

I could go on, but I really need to find that remodeling contractor now. What the heck did I do with the Yellow Pages?

Have a great day, y’all.

Author of
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/mainstream/print & ebook

"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/action-adventure/print & ebook
"Where Are You, Anne Bonny?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/ historical drama/ ebook only

“Trouble”, short story/CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthology, Vol. IX/print only

 “Dancing Away”/ short story/romance/Untreed Reads/ebook only

 “Annie’s World: Jake’s Legacy”/ATTM Press/soft science fiction/print & ebook

“Helping Hand For Ethan/Rogue Phoenix Press/young adult/print & ebook

 “Phobia”/Booktrope/suspense-thriller/print & ebook

 “Defining Family”/Whiskey Creek Press/young adult/print & ebook

 “The Last Radiant Heart” (re-release)/Sage Words Publishing/science fiction/print & ebook

COMING SOON

  “One Day In Lubbock” / Booktrope

Search Daniel Lance Wright on Amazon.com

Life is What Happens

Remember the old cliché, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans”? Well, it has been circling my thoughts lately with increased frequency. This calendar year has thrown a few curves my way. To not bore you, I’ll just say that the word focus has no place in my daily lexicon, and hasn’t had for months. Focused thought is a seemingly simple aspiration that has become profoundly difficult to achieve.

This is not written to be a self-indulgent blubberfest. It’s meant only to share a bit of self-analysis that might apply to your life and/or situation(s).

In my imaginary perfect world, I would be affording an overwhelming percentage time to the pursuits of writing, woodturning, exercising, cooking, sleeping and, maybe, a bit of socializing and travel thrown into the mix. Truth is, all of these interests are taking a backseat to a myriad of other things that are more necessary but much less interesting. Things that are family related that I’m sure you must deal with, or someday will, in your own personal universes and not worth detailing.

Here’s the more interesting part of this little trip into the inner workings of my head: Why is it that I have time to pursue all of those interests listed above, yet find myself kicking back and waiting for the next big crisis to disrupt something that’s not happening?

It’s almost as if part of me is saying to another part of me, “Stop trying to concentrate on things you want. They’re not important. Besides, you’ll only be interrupted anyhow.”

For heaven sake, the more pragmatic side of me is listening to that crap and following the advice, which means; I do absolutely nothing and become forlorn over it. Yet, I won’t lift a finger to do any of those things I list as desirable pursuits. All I do is sit and wait for the next out-of-my-control crisis to come crashing down. Now, isn’t this state of mind the silliest thing you’ve ever heard of? Unfortunately, that describes me perfectly at this juncture.

It’s truly interesting how the brain works...or doesn’t.

I’d better wrap this rant up. Something will surely interrupt me before I put a final period on this thing if I don’t. I think I’ll sit back, put my feet up and then wait and see what that might be.

Author of
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/mainstream/print & ebook

"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/action-adventure/print & ebook
"Where Are You, Anne Bonny?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/ historical drama/ ebook only

“Trouble”, short story/CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthology, Vol. IX/print only

 “Dancing Away”/ short story/romance/Untreed Reads/ebook only

 “Annie’s World: Jake’s Legacy”/ATTM Press/soft science fiction/print & ebook

“Helping Hand For Ethan/Rogue Phoenix Press/young adult/print & ebook

 “Phobia”/Booktrope/suspense-thriller/print & ebook

 “Defining Family”/Whiskey Creek Press/young adult/print & ebook

 “The Last Radiant Heart” (re-release)/Sage Words Publishing/science fiction/print & ebook

COMING SOON

  “One Day In Lubbock” / Booktrope

Search Daniel Lance Wright on Amazon.com

Just a Small Town Thing

I’ve mentioned small-town living often in this blog. It’s one of those things that’s deeply imbedded in me; to the bone, so to speak. Oh sure, I detoured from it for about thirty years while working in the television industry but in my heart, I was never far from it.


Here’s where I need to be clear on what I’m referring to as “small town”. I’m not talking about a municipality of modest population that butts against a larger city where the only differentiation between the two is the city limit sign or even a bedroom community a few miles out from an urban center. I’m talking about a community that by its distance from those type places must, by necessity, be its own center of commerce. Otherwise, a round trip to the grocery store might be eighty to a hundred miles. You have to admit that when gasoline is around four bucks a gallon, even wealthy folks think more of their money than to spend it so frivolously.

There are things that happen in small towns that might astonish an urbanite but are everyday occurrences to the locals.

Here’s a wonderfully amusing example: I needed to pick up a few things at the grocery, not a neighborhood convenience story, mind you, but a supermarket. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a riding lawn mower taking up a parking space. I figured it was just an employee that had been doing some work and then taking a break for a soda or something.

After picking up the items I went in for, I stepped into the checkout line behind a spry old gentleman that quite obviously had cataracts on his eyes and vision problems. I’d guess his age to be mid-eighties. He was bantering with the cashier. “Now get a move on, Missy. You’re taking time away from my stories.”

“Stories?” she asked. “Are you talking about the afternoon soap operas on television?”

He reared his head in astonishment that she’d need to ask. “Of course. Now hurry it along. It’ll take me a while to get home on that damned ol’ mower.”

This is the point I became very interested. “So, you’re the one driving that riding mower parked next to me out there.”

“Yep. They yanked my driver’s license. They told me my vision didn’t measure up. But, I see well enough. So, damn ‘em. I’ll do what I gotta do to get around.”

I smiled and nodded. “Then I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“You damn sure will, boy... you damn sure will.”

Since that day, I’ve seen him many times driving down the shoulder of the main highway that splits our little town at a blistering three or four miles per hour. It’s a rather busy thoroughfare. Each time I do, I stick my arm out the window and offer a big wave. He never waves back. I assume he can’t see that far. I do wonder just how far he can see since he crosses that highway frequently. I don’t know, but I won’t be standing in front of him if he’s coming in my direction.

I hope that when the time comes, I can be so inventive. I'm not exactly young anymore. Maybe I should be pricing riding mowers.

Ah, small town, America. Can ya dig it?

How To Kill A Good Idea

Since I took the plunge and had new hardware installed in my aging knee joint, I’ve taken to walking, a lot. One day I’ll lap the southern end of our small town and the next I’ll circle the northern residential end. Both routes take about an hour. But, neither the walk nor the aftermarket knee parts are the subject of this blog, only the means by which this line of thinking was born.


The human body is such an amazing machine. All it takes is a few minutes of physical exertion and fresh blood is pumped to the brain, thinking becomes clearer, ideas circle, even swarm the now receptive mind. Spoiler alert – I learned an important lesson yesterday on how not to treat good ideas; now, for a real time account of that walk:

Pain seems to be subsiding and the warm-up complete. I pick up the pace a little, the heart beats faster, breathing becomes heavier and after twenty minutes it seems that long-held secrets of the universe might be revealed with just a bit more exertion. Reaching for those answers adds yet more speed as the stride lengthens for the next twenty minutes. Breathing soon becomes labored and the heart is pounding, not only in my chest, but also in my ears. My hour is finally done.

Time has come to reel in grandiose aspirations. Universal secrets will remain just that... for now. I must be happy to have come up with a fresh outlook on old ideas and slightly improved notions on working concepts. I’ll again reach for the bigger revelations another day. Recharging and rest are needed. The spring in my step has abandoned me and I trudge to the front porch. The rocking chair beckons. It is already slowly moving to and fro in the breeze. My head remains flush with better directions for plot and flow. I am arrogantly comfortable the novel in progress will become a world-class literary work. I just need to rest a while. In fact, a glass of wine would be nice.

As I sip the nectar, I ponder my newly formed ideas and begin to mentally put them into a coherent and useable form. It’s coming together nicely in my head. I’ll go to the keyboard shortly and spin them into gold.

I take another sip, and then another. I watch the strong breeze seem to push a squirrel up a tree as the hair on its tail reverses. Interesting how it appears. A blue jay chases a mockingbird from its perch in a nearby pecan tree. What makes the jay so overbearing in the bird world? It leaves the perch and swoops down to peck a cat on the ear. The feline retaliates but can’t reach the faster blue jay – fascinating.

I lift my wine glass to see that the supply of sips has exhausted. I must get to work anyhow. I think back a few minutes, before the squirrel, before the birds, before the comical cat, only to realize the wonderful direction I’d set for my novel has escaped me. Now, the thoughts are disjointed and have no cogent flow. Oh well, I’ll have another glass of wine and write a blog entry.

Have a world class day, y’all and, by all means, treat your good ideas with more respect than I did.


Author of
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/mainstream/print & ebook
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/action-adventure/print & ebook
"Where Are You, Anne Bonny?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/ historical drama/ ebook only
“Trouble”, short story/CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthology, Vol. IX/print only
“Dancing Away”/ short story/romance/Untreed Reads/ebook only
“Annie’s World: Jake’s Legacy”/ATTM Press/soft science fiction/print & ebook
“Helping Hand For Ethan/Rogue Phoenix Press/young adult/print & ebook
“Phobia”/Booktrope/suspense-thriller/print & ebook
“Defining Family”/Whiskey Creek Press/young adult/print & ebook
“The Last Radiant Heart” (re-release)/Sage Words Publishing/science fiction/print & ebook
COMING SOON
“One Day In Lubbock” / Booktrope



Search Daniel Lance Wright on Amazon.com

Gulls

It's starting out as one of those days that I seem to be overthinking everything and worrying incessantly. I don't want to bore anyone with the array of family health issues I suddenly find myself thinking about. But, it did serve to catapult my mind into a philosophical mode. It happens. I can't avoid it. Watching an early morning newscast thinking about the sick and ailing people in my life, I remembered a piece I wrote some years back for a creative non-fiction writing contest. I found the file and read it again. I thought I'd share it here. Enjoy:


GULLS


Where do profound thoughts come from? Why are they random and infrequent? If we ever have even one then, clearly, we have the capacity for more. So, how do we make them happen and keep them coming?

These are certainly tough questions, and to my way of thinking, no ready answers; maybe even unanswerable altogether. What is it about an otherwise run-of-the-mill brainstorm that elevates it to such status? Could it be life’s upheavals; or, simply one of those rare occasions when over-thinking suddenly, and inexplicably, takes a backseat to universal wisdom? Why is it that we must wait like a drooling Homer Simpson for electrical blips in the brain to jump synaptic ends in some particular order?

These questions I'll leave for others to ponder for now. But, there are a few things I’ve learned along the way worth sharing. Enlightenment can begin with an event no more complicated than watching seagulls, or, so I’ve come to believe.

Before we get to the gulls, there have been two occasions when seemingly benign comments created circumstances sending my outlook on life sailing off in new directions, like a pinball hitting that hundred-point bumper and lighting up the machine.

Through my teens and twenties, life was a rather steep uphill battle. At the time, a serious concern was on the order of wondering whether my last ten dollars, three days before payday, would buy gasoline, groceries, or split between the two. Those were the good old days. At the time, I was ecstatic to have that ten-dollar-bill so there was a choice to be made.

When the thirties came along, income increased and money worries leveled out, even disappeared to a great extent. Life was good.

It’s easy to see in retrospect. We spend our young lives climbing ladders of success but once there and step off onto a plateau of accomplishment, it is only comfortable as long as no one pushes us from it – funny thing about plateaus, no down escalator, only lethal drops.

Working in the television business in a small Texas market in the seventies and early eighties was a joy. But, a day came that the station sold and management changed. Suddenly, I didn’t fit. Fear of losing an investment of many years pressed my Chicken Little button. Everyday, it seemed calamity lurked just out of sight. Twice the time and thrice the effort were spent to simply remain employed. No matter. Goals had been raised to unreasonable limits, support systems removed. They wanted me gone.

Sitting at the kitchen table one Saturday when my parents had come for a weekend visit, the oh-woe-is-me poured out like self-indulgent vomit. Mother tried to be supportive but eventually tired of hearing it. “Nothing lasts forever,” she said abruptly, “Stop worrying about it.”

Comments don’t get more basic, benign or non-threatening than that. But, for me, at that time, it was a life-altering revelation – a bullet between the eyes exploding a sacred myth that that job should be till death do us part. What the heck was I thinking?

Then came profundity number two. Near the end of that situation, dealing with inevitability wasn’t exactly second nature but manageable.Years of honing a craft of selling television advertising could not be lightly set aside. It was still an obligation to find suitable promotional vehicles for my clients. Admittedly, some of that was to impress superiors, to show them what they would be missing when the ax finally fell.

Agonizing over a proposal and worrying aloud about it distracted a coworker sitting at a nearby desk. He said, “It’s just fucking television, not brain surgery. Not a single life will be lost if it doesn’t work. Stop worrying about it.”

I discovered lightning could strike twice, and did. That comment, made in passing, and in jest, scars my psyche to this day. It’s an amusing little blemish. Its one of those guiding forces referred to often, substituting the word “television” with the problem of the month. The profanity never changes. It fits all situations nicely. I had become a lightning rod, arms fanned wide looking to the skies waiting for the next bolt of wisdom from the blue. Incidentally, that former coworker holds a special place in my memory. He’ll likely never know that he provided a springboard for a life’s change. All he wanted was a laugh, and that he did, ad nauseam.

Both pivotal episodes shined a harsh light on a simple truth; profound statements are not necessarily profoundly substantive.When the mind is open, wisdom flows in. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not. It only changes the focus on the same question. Where do profound thoughts come from and what is it that makes them so?

So, now the query is: How does one go about opening a mind? It’s certainly not like flipping a light switch. Answers have to be as varied as personalities.

The sixties brought on various chemical hallucinogens. Part of the hippy movement was an effort to tap cosmic intelligence to garner secrets of the universe. The Dalai Llama and his followers believe meditation is the key, while indigenous Americans felt that chanting mantras while sapped of energy and sleep deprived to be the portal to universal secrets. All good and, maybe, true. But, sometime, a simple summer vacation and a day at the beach can do the trick.

It was daybreak. With a steaming coffee mug in one hand and a folding chair in the other, I walked to the beach, no other plan in mind than to greet the day while listening to the music that was surf crashing on the beach, ready to get a vacation underway.

After settling in, the rhythmic sound of surf and the stiff steady breeze worked its magic. Troubles drained away – ah, sweet peace of mind. It felt good. Nothing to think about and no problems to solve, just let sounds of relentless crashing waves have their rapturous way.

And then an odd sight; a number of seagulls gathered at the water’s edge, all looking into the rising sun, unmoving, even against the stiff breeze blowing parallel to the pulsing water coming up to cover their feet, threatening to blow them over. Strong gusts pushed the birds sideways, but they seemed to be refusing to relinquish the rigid stance. It was as if those birds saw something worth holding their place on the beach for.

It was reminiscent of a movie where angels gathered on a beach, all facing east into the rising sun, just as these birds were doing. Is it possible the director of that movie was influenced by the same sight, seagulls watching a sunrise?

As a reason was sought for the phenomenon, a cloud drifted across the still-rising sun, shooting streamers of God’s light in all directions.

The gulls stood against the wind, virtually motionless though feathers ruffled. How easy it would have been, at any other time, to pass lightly over the sight and dismiss what those creatures must have seen as reverent. In their way, they appeared to be giving thanks for surviving long enough to see another sunrise?

The squeal of a small child startled me.

In the opposite direction, some distance away, stood a child that seemed to demand attention. So excited by the view of the waves, he refused to contain pent up enthusiasm any longer.

People began coming out to enjoy this tiny slice of what the world has to offer. In both directions, as far as could be seen, people walked to the beach, as if the hand of the director of that movie had cued them to do so at the same time.

The gulls, the eternal pounding of the surf, and all those people electrified my then receptive mind. The temporal nature of life coupled with the roll and crash of waves served as a strong reminder. A hundred years from that snapshot in time no one on the beach would likely be alive, very few on the entire planet, yet the gulls would still greet each new day and the surf would still pound the beach, just as it was doing at that very moment.

I shuddered.

When life’s drudgery drags us down, and it will, someone close will certainly crack wise, “In a hundred years from now, who’s going to care?”

Now, that’s wisdom, and profound, too.

Enjoy this day. Life’s short.