I set at goal at the end of last year. I would either win the Writer’s of the Future contest this year or pro out. It’s, I believe the oldest science fiction and Fantasy writing contest. I’ve submitted to the contest sporadically since 2016.
Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash
In 2019 My story Not a Piece of Cake earned an honorable mention. At first I was elated. It was acknowledgement that my writing was getting good. I almost cried when I received the certificate. Pretty quickly my resistance kicked in and I convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal. I eventually posted it on Kindle unlimited as The Zone. You can read it there for free.
I went ahead and reentered the contest and, nothing happened, other than more rejections. Then I quit entering, until December of last year year. I entered for the first quarter of 2024.
I just heard back from them, and another honorable mention for my story Secondhand Speedos and other things you find at the Dump. From what I’ve researched that means I was in the top 10 percent of entries last year quarter. They have several thousand entries every quarter, so while it’s a rejection, it’s also a win. I’m now submitting the same story to other paying publishers.
I’m putting the polishes on my next entry 12 Miles Out, deadline is March 31st.
I was fourteen and we were on our annual trek to Huntsville, Alabama to space camp. Loaded in our two-tone, gray and blue, GMC crew-cab with camper, were my mother, two little sisters, little brother, and best friend Mark. My mom decided we should stop in Henryetta, Oklahoma to visit her aunt Wanda. Henryetta is an unremarkable town, its only claim to fame Troy Aikman, a former Cowboys quarterback. It is a small town of small houses with peeling paint and cracked sidewalks and unmanaged lawns, a town of potholes, of worn-away blacktop and exposed cobblestone roads.
I didn’t want to see my mother’s aunt. I thought that this town offered me nothing. Wanda didn’t have cable or even a VCR so I couldn’t escape into a science fiction movie. What could possibly interest me in the middle of a small Oklahoma town? After all, I was on my way to space camp. I was preparing to go to the Moon, to go to Mars, to enter the Brave New World I had seen in countless science fiction movies or read about in books. There could be nothing in this little town for me. Nothing.
We passed one dreary little street after another as my mother tried to remember where her aunt’s house was: streets named Maple, and Birch, and Elm, and Spruce, ticky-tacky tiny streets that made the truck rumble as we hit the cobblestones.
As we passed yet another street undoubtedly named for a tree, I saw it, my dream, what I’d been waiting my whole life to see: a flying car. The first flying car should not have been in Oklahoma… What could “Oakies” possibly have to do with flying cars? And yet, there it was, in Henryetta. For the rest of the time my mother spent looking for her Aunt’s house, I could talk of nothing else. I knew I had seen the flying car.
Mark confirmed he had seen it. Ever the skeptic, “undoubtedly a gag,” he said. My brother and sisters were asleep, and my mother’s eyes were fixed to road, dodging potholes, so she had missed it.
We found Wanda’s house and my mother, meaning well, but none-the-less Marquis De Sade like, made me sit at the dining room table, politely talking with my relatives. They asked me about soccer and baseball, and school and girls. Who the hell had time for any of these? There was a flying car three blocks away. I answered their questions as politely and quickly as possible, not wanting to strike up a conversation. I had to leave. I had to go see who had invented this, who was building this, who was dreaming, who was the visionary.
After a daylong half hour, my mother finally let Mark and I go. We ran as quickly as possible to the place; the place we had seen the car. It seemed like it took forever, but we were there, and it was beautiful: twelve feet around, like a giant Frisbee, smooth as glass and white as porcelain.
Behind the car was an unassuming building. It could have been a handyman’s shop, or a place where they fix lawn mowers or a junk store, but it was the corporate headquarters for the inventor of the flying car. Stenciled on the front windows of the building were the words “want to know what this is? Come on in and ask.”
We did.
The man inside wasn’t a mad scientist, an engineer, or even a nerd. He had been a diesel mechanic and good at fixing things, and now he was a “dreamer.” His dream was to build the flying car. He couldn’t tell me how it worked, but he said no one could explain how the Frisbee worked either, so that was okay. Knowing that you had a dream, and knowing that you had faith was all that was important in life. Faith was a lever you see, and you could use it to achieve anything.
I was hooked. I had to have one of the cars. I needed to know how much they cost and when they would be ready. He handed me a mimeographed timetable and explanation of cost. Right there in blue ink still smelling of ditto fluid, it said his first prototype would be available in two years, after my sixteenth birthday. The car would only cost seventy-five hundred dollars.
Never mind how a fourteen- year-old was going to come up with seventy-five-hundred dollars, never mind he hadn’t actually built one yet, never mind the flying car in front of his shop was made of plaster and chicken wire… The important thing was, they were finally here.
The flying car was finally here, and it hadn’t taken science or math, or even space camp. The dream was coming to life and all it took was faith. I spent the next two years of my life dreaming of owning the flying car, and planning how to buy it. Buying it would be the easy part.
When I was seven my father had bought a brand new 1977 Fiat Spider turbo convertible. I was in love. The day we drove it home from the dealer I asked if I could have the Fiat when I turned sixteen. He laughed, and assured me that we wouldn’t still have it then, but even though he thought everyone should earn their own car, if by chance the car was still around when I turned sixteen, I could have it.
At seven, I became a maintenance obsessive, continually reminding my dad to have his oil changed, to check the fluids when we gassed, and on almost every sunny day I washed and waxed the car.
Now that I was approaching sixteen, “by chance” we still had the car. On my birthday my father would give me the keys to my “seven year-old” dream and I knew I would sell this old dream for my new one. I would give up my convertible for my flying car.
The flying car of Henryetta, Oklahoma, never got off the ground; well at least it never flew into production or off the assembly line. And when I turned sixteen, there was no flying car for me to buy.
That didn’t discourage me though. I enjoyed driving my little blue convertible, but even more, I enjoyed dreaming of my flying car. I enjoyed dreaming of letting my earthbound tires fall away, and of escaping another day, flying over roads, over roads and fields, effortlessly, freely away from Oklahoma, away from people, away from any place at all.
I think we get comfortable very easily, at least I do. It’s not just me though. Culture likes to be in a steady state, and equilibrium of sorts, where everything runs smoothly. It’s human nature, it’s nature’s nature, everything moving the way it always has. We assume the way it always will be.
I know that was true with my health. Years of eating garbage, because it tasted good— it was comfort food. Ultimately that life style would have killed me quickly. Change, that change came because I hit a level of discomfort, literally. Back pain, not all the big goals, got me to start yoga, and a new steady state started.
There are other areas of life besides health. Discomfort there also causes movement. I’m comfortable with my income, but I’ve set goals that far exceeded it. Being comfortable means my goals are out of reach, because I won’t do the extra things needed to reach those goals. I’ll stay in the steady state even though I want more.
I’m feeling discomfort now, things are getting tighter. Maybe not really, but they feel that way. That discomfort is pushing me to a different steady state, the push to get back to comfort. For that I am grateful.
I’m finding myself dealing with uncertainty. My temporary job feels like it’s wrapping up. I don’t know if I’ll be kept as they reduce staff. I might be I do my job exceptionally well, but I can’t know that for sure. With the uncertainty comes the anxiety. The second glueing questions, the not knowing.
It presents me with a great stoic exercise. There are aspects of this I can control, do the best job I can. I can’t control if that let’s me keep the job, or if my best is the best — maybe someone is better than me, more useful. I can’t control that, so I shouldn’t try. In this case I should follow my Tao enter the stream, and go with the flow.
As I’m researching my options, moving forward, there are things I can know. Things like are there similar positions available. Can I duplicate the pay scale? I am actively researching these, and should, because I can know the answers. Knowing the answers reduces they uncertainty. It decreases the anxiety. The questions I can’t know th answers to like what happens next, I shouldn’t fret about. I can’t know those answers and that’s where I should enter the stream/go with the flow.
This could be an exercise of any philosophy, I guess, even in the post I’ve mixed Taoism and Stoicism. With the being said I think Epictetus said it better than I could.
“Some things are in our control and others not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our actions. The things in our control are by nature free, unrestrained, unhindered; but those not in our control are weak, slavish, restrained, belonging to others. Remember, then, that if you suppose that things which are slavish by nature are also free, and that what belongs to others is your own, then you will be hindered. You will lament, you will be disturbed, and you will find fault both with gods and men. But if you suppose that only to be your own which is your own, and what belongs to others such as it really is, then no one will ever compel you or restrain you. Further, you will find fault with no one or accuse no one. You will do nothing against your will. No one will hurt you, you will have no enemies, and you not be harmed.”
I’m beginning to wonder if anger isn’t simply internal, not just anger but, maybe, all emotions, have a life of their own. Maybe, they are just energy— like waves— crashing across a shore, and we are the shore. Maybe they have a life of their own moving from host to host — like an inter dimensional virus simply looking for a way to replicate themselves.
Either way what if I’m right? What if emotions aren’t internal, a mere biochemical creation? What if they exist out side of us and we are merely receivers?
That would mean when we experience a negative emotional state either our immunity was down and we were infected by it, or we chose to let it in.
Maybe we could choose to stop spreading the virus or choose to diffuse the wave before we let it continue on.
Lots of people are having to cook at home right now. People who normally didn’t. Between supporting a family of five on a teacher’s salary and being grad students for the last few years, we haven’t had the luxury of eating out much. Truthfully, that’s been a good thing.
I’ve always cooked. I mean, like, since I was in grade school. I enjoy it, and having been on a tight budget for decades, it has saved us a lot of money.
There’s also a cultural angle. My great-grandfather on my dad’s side came to the United States from Sicily. I’m very proud of that heritage, and cooking has always been a way for me to stay in touch with it. Italians and Sicilians have this amazing way of taking almost nothing and turning it into a feast, as do lots of historically poor cultures. If you think of your favorite Italian dish that you pay way too much for at a restaurant, it probably started as poverty food— made with leftovers or with the least expensive ingredients known to man.
Meatballs and parmigianas were essentially little bits of meats or eggplant mixed with stale bread, spices, and a few eggs. Pasta is just flour, water, eggs, and oil mixed together and dried.
Nothing in Southern Italian/Sicilian is expensive, and nothing goes to waste. Why? Simple – because most people in those parts of Italy have been poor since the Roman Empire. So, we’re not Sicilian peasants, but between the shelter-in-place orders and the empty store shelves, we could learn a lesson from them— not to mention, we’d all use some comfort food right about now.
I’m not going to make my pasta from scratch. Well, at least not anytime soon, but I’m going to continue making my sauce from scratch. Last time I was at the store I chuckled a little seeing that all of the jarred pasta sauces were gone, but seeing the produce aisle was filled with fresh produce.
Real sauce is very simple to make. At its most basic you need water, tomatoes, garlic, and oil, traditionally olive oil,but any oil will do. Everything else that can go in sauce is optional.
To make a very basic sauce, place a tablespoon of oil in a saucepan and add one clove of garlic. On a medium heat, sauté the garlic until it starts to turn golden. At that point, add two to four Roma tomatoes that you have diced. You could use canned tomatoes or another variety of fresh tomato, but Romas are one of the best and cheapest you can easily find at the store. Once the tomatoes are in the saucepan, cover them fully with water and bring to a boil. After they start to boil, turn the burner back down to a medium heat and simmer for twenty minutes, stirring occasionally.
After your sauce has started to simmer, start your pasta water boiling. The pasta should finish cooking at about the same time as your sauce. That’s it: an easy, healthy, cheap Italian dinner using almost nothing.
That’s the basic sauce. Of course, every Italian family has their own variation, but that’s really all you need. I use oregano and basil in my sauce for spicing. Some of my cousins think that’s heresy. They swear by just garlic, tomatoes, oil, and a pinch of sugar.
I also like to add vegetables to my sauce. I’ll sauté a little onion with the garlic, and sometimes peppers. I’ll also, if I have it on hand, add spinach or mushrooms to the tomatoes when I add the water. Sometimes I’ll add white or Lima beans, like my grandmother did.
You can add whatever you want, or whatever you happen to have on hand. While the older generation of Italians wouldn’t be forgiving if you deviate too much from the basics, the sauce will. Make the sauce your own based on what you have on hand, what you think is healthy, and most importantly, what you think tastes good.
I know everyone is thinking about the Coronavirus, as they should be, but it shouldn’t be all doom and gloom. Don’t get me wrong, we should be worried; the world is changing, but things are never as bad as they seem. We tend to think of the world in binary terms— day and night, love and hate, black and white.It’s probably an evolutionary adaptation. It’s easier to simplify things so that we can make quick decisions. Can you imagine a primitive hunter and gatherer stopping to play all the possible angles when they heard a branch break behind them? By the time they figured out how to respond the tiger would have had dinner.
We simplified things because we had to to survive. We see the world as either dystopia or utopia. Either it’s Planet of the Apes, or it’s Star Trek. Don’t get me wrong, I love both of those stories/worlds, but in reality we don’t ever get dystopia or utopia. We live in fluxtopia. That state of being in the middle — in flux.
The world is different now. We are aware that pandemics aren’t just things that did happen. They are things that can happen. That realization alone has changed the world. While you can’t easily find toilet paper or flour right now, and the economy is looking bleak, that doesn’t mean the world is ending. It’s changing. It’s in flux.
I could list about a hundred horrible things that might happen, some that probably will, but you can get that on just about any other site. Instead, I want to talk about the good things that are happening.
I know that seems Polly Anna, but my observation is we are seeing the world differently. We’re worried about our friends and families. We are talking with them more. We are checking in, instead of checking out. We are becoming more concerned about other people. When things start to return to a new normal we can continue that—as long as we remember.
If you’ve been to a grocery store recently, you’ve probably seen the empty shelves. It looks pretty freaky. Unless you’re pushing 100 you’ve never seen scarcity in the industrialized world. We’re used to being able to run to the store whenever we want— buy whatever we want/need/can afford or put on our credit cards. With the stores being out of things we’re still surviving. In fact, I think we’re serving better. I’ve finally convinced my kids not to waste food. We’re having real talk about the importance of being responsible with food choices, not eating so much junk. They’ve seen the stores. They know the crap cereal they prefer, the fruit snacks, the chips aren’t as easy to get now, so they are self-rationing when they eat them. I suspect a lot of people are doing the same thing. In the long run, this will make us healthier. Once everything settles down we can continue eating healthier— if we remember.
I think that’s the key to staying sane in fluxtopia: look for the positives. Look for the things you see that are making the world better, and remember them when everything settles down. Adapt to the bad things, make smart decisions about your health and income. But don’t dwell on them. Dwell on the positives and when this all settles down — remember.
