Jory Sherman's Blog

IN THE SYLVAN STILLNESS

2011-10-20T07:35:00.000-07:00

Early morning. It is quiet when I step into the woods. Mist clings to the hollows and gulleys, lingers on the high bluffs like fairy breath. Wisps and tendrils rise from the ravine below me and the pond swirls with smoky plumes and curlicues that seem like steam from a kettle filled with boiling water. Yet the pond is glassy and serene, with pastel greens pulsating off the surface as if the pond was waiting to be released from some magical spell so that it could turn blue as a distant ocean it could only dream in its slumber.

I find my regular perch above the pond and sit down in the hollow bowl of dirt nestled at the foot of an oak tree. A pair of 6X30 binoculars dangle from my neck. I am not ready to bring them to my eyes and adjust the focus. For now, it is enough to sit on the edge of dawn and listen as I gaze downward at the wispy cobwebs of the sleeping pond.

There is a silence.

That silence becomes a hush as I hold my breath and listen for any sounds in the forest around me.

Is there only this silence? Or is this just a temporary hush?

Is there any difference?

Perhaps there is such a thing as a hushed silence. I wonder.

I wonder if there can be silence without such a thing as sound. And is this hush, this deep silence, a sign that nature is holding its breath just as I hold mine?

I realize then that there are different silences, just as there are different sounds.

This forest hush, this sylvan stillness, is just the silent wake I have left behind me when I walked into the woods. I can almost hear its faint ripples as they float across the earth and disappear into the ghosts of lavender shadows. They leave a hush on the borders of my small world, a hush that fills me with a peace beyond measure. I let out a slow stream of breath and cannot hesr it. My breath was swallowed up in the silence, washed away in the riverine hush that flows through me and around me.

I look at the thin smokes rising above the pond and dissipating in the pale glow of the windless morning. They evaporate in some mysterious way and perhaps wend their way skyward to begin their embryonic life as cloudlets, like the vanishing dew that leaves no trace of their jeweled existence on the grasses and bushes and leaves as light begins to measure pathways through the woods and onto the musty emerald hue of the glazed pond.

This, then, is another silence, before anything hearable stirs, before the auditory nerves are tickled by the scratch of a squirrel’s foot on the bark of an oak tree, or the faint whap of a crow’s burnished velvet wing as it takes flight from a nocturnal perch, or the explosion of a bass from that serene pond as a dragonfly skims through the misty columns of foggy structures rising like ghostly snakes from a charmer’s basket.

That is the silence on tiptoe, a silence leaning toward my ears in soundless anticipation. I feel it crouch next to me and then it settles within me until I am stone deaf, with eyes as big as marbles, straining to see what will break that stillness, that profound stillness that occurs before the birth of that first sound.

This is the silence I have waited for, the silence within a silence, the silence that not a hush, but a total absence of all sound. I cannot hear my heart beat, nor my breathing. This is a silence that is like the silence of Eden before Adam stepped into it. This is the silence of the void before the universe exploded into being.

This is the silence I would want to hear when I go into the dark woods on my final journey, the silence that produces the inner peace that is beyond all understanding.

That silence is the first silence and the last silence. It is fleeting, but forever buried in human memory, like these Ozarks woods, like this Eden and that first one, the Edin of Sumer, which blossomed so long ago and so far away.

Note: For more such glimpses into the mystical Ozarks, see my book HILLS OF EDEN, an ebook from www.venturegalleries.com.

WOOD SPRITES

2011-10-12T09:19:00.001-07:00

There was a velvet autumn haze that morning when we left the road and climbed through the fence. The dawn sky was mother-of-pearl streaked with long thin ruby clouds and the woods were solemn and quiet. We walked on amber pine needles that cushioned our footfalls in their bed of springy loam. Bill wore his customary sandals and I had on my hunting boots.

We were hunting, all right, Bill and I. We carried orange mesh sacks that had once held grocery store onions. The sacks were empty, but if you held one close to your nose you could smell the pungent aroma of Sedalia onions. I followed the burly man as he headed for a small ash tree that grew next to a small mound of earth.

Bill stopped and picked up something off the diminutive hillock. He held it up to the pale light and beckoned for me to come close.

“This is the first one,” he said. “A morel.”

I had never heard of a morel before I met Bill Letterman down at Cedar Creek in Missouri. The night before our hunt he had extolled the virtues of the morel in glowing terms. His mouth watered as he talked about them.

“What’s a morel?” I asked him.

“A wild mushroom. Delicious. We’ll get some in the morning. You’ll see.”

The morels grew on mounds near ash trees. We found a great many, but I realized that only Bill could find them. After our foray, I began to think of those morels as wood sprites. Oh, I found a number of toadstools and some poisonous mushrooms, but it took me about 3 years of hunting with Bill to forage and find the elusive morels on my own.

He washed the mushrooms thoroughly, then dipped them in milk and fried or boiled them. I developed a taste for morels and, when I was deer hunting with my .50 caliber muzzleloader Hawken, I often stuffed my camo shirt full of those I found in the woods.

Bill told me that the reason we carried those mesh sacks was so that the spores could escape as we walked around. That would mean more mushrooms the next year. The morels took on a mystical quality for me. Wood sprites, little wood folk who hid in plain sight. Life is astonishing, no matter what form it takes. But, those morels seemed to be sentient. They hid from me until I became adept. I hunted them with other people over the years, but Bill was the most able of the hunters.

He taught me how to tell the different between poisonous and non-poisonous mushrooms and I soon learned to trust myself to pick the benevolent ones. My mouth waters now as I think of those little wood sprites which seemed to have emerged from children’s fairytales I read as a child.

You can’t see the spores, but those morels released their invisible seeds and the wind carried them to the right places. I pictured them in their winter nests, growing underground, until the sun seeped into them and they pushed upward through the earth where they flourished in autumn shade and sunlight beneath those ash trees and on those pine-needled mounds.

I still marvel at the process and, although Bill has since passed on, he left me a valuable legacy. I know where the wood sprites live now. There are colonies of them all through the Ozarks woods. They seem to be waiting for me to return and pluck them from their perches, like living manna sent down from heaven.

Or, perhaps their spores flew through the air from that faraway Eden and landed in these Ozarks hills like parachutists in the night. I could see these tiny moths of spores fall silently to earth and nestle in the lavender shadows of scrub pines and cedars as the dawn stretched its fingers out like the dainty wave of a maiden’s hand.

And my book full of this same wonder, HILLS OF EDEN is now online at www.venturegalleries.com. Only $2.99.

BUK & ME FOREWORD BY NEELI CHERKOVSKI

2011-08-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

Jory Sherman delivers. In a tradition of literary memoir he delivers a clear, informative, and entertaining portrait of his relationship with Charles Bukowski, stretching back to the waning years of the 1950s when both were publishing in the small poetry journals then proliferating over the country. Sherman tells of his own early beginnings, how poetry beguiled him and took hold, and of his first publications in homegrown journals. It was while visiting one of the editors, in a small Florida town, that he became aware of a then largely unknown writer in Los Angeles named Charles Bukowski. Back then, Sherman had no idea that this obscure poet, who spent much of his time at the race track placing bets, was destined to take his place as a world-renowned cult figure along with the likes of Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac.

This memoir is not hero worship, nor is it an attempt to tear down an idol. It is, rather, a mesmerizing document of the literary life of an outsider, a poet who spent decades learning his craft, listening intently to the rhythms of the life around him, avoiding the academic world, and, more importantly, stepping out of the way of literary cliché. The Bukowski emerging out of these pages is ‘the real deal,’ the man who saw in poetry a way to reflect the lives of ordinary people, showing how luminous the sights and sounds of everyday life can be. The reader is fortunate that Sherman is able to offer first-hand accounts, told in vivid, unadorned language, of how Bukowski moved about in his day-by-day world of cheap neighborhoods and low-end jobs, and how he balanced his need for love with the life of a loner.

When Sherman first read Bukowski, the L.A. poet had yet to publish his first book. He only appeared in the “littles,” as

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they were called, journals of forty or so pages that reached two or three hundred readers at most. It was only through the mid 1960s that Bukowski reached a larger audience, and by that time, Jory and “Hank,” as Bukowski was known to his friends, was beginning to reach a wider readership, even in the academic community. By then, Sherman’s own two books of poetry had taken on a legendary status in the underground poetry scene, and he had left his own indelible mark on the Beat scene in San Francisco. Some of this memoir gives us the flavor of the coffee houses of that era, when Sherman, a young poet, was shaping his own voice and defining a path forward.

Bukowski is one of the most widely read, and translated, of American poets. He has been the subject of a few biographies and book-length critical studies. It has taken some time, but now academic papers, and even Ph.D. theses are being written on his poetry and prose. His novels, from Post Office and Ham on Rye, to Factotum and Hollywood, are cult classics. His poetry has entered the canon and exerted a sustaining influence on poets world-wide. In Sherman’s portrait of “the early Bukowski,” we are given a chance to see where so much of ‘the literary gold’ came from, as well as to be entertained by pictures of a bygone era.

PETS: LOVE & INTIMATIONS OF DEATH

2011-07-22T19:35:00.001-07:00

Do our pets know when they are about to die? I think they do. I think many people also know when death is calling to them from out of the mists and those dark caverns of the mind.

I also believe that our pets choose us, that we do not choose them. It seems to me that they want someone to spend their brief lives with and so find ways to come to you, if you are the chosen one.

There are good reasons why these conclusions came to me. It is difficult to sort them out because of their emotional content.

There seems to be a strong bond between humans and animals, especially domestic animals, like dogs or cats. Recently, there have been two deaths that struck my senses with unfathomable grief.

Our dog Bucky, part rat terrier, part Jack Russell, died recently. He had cancer. We took him in for surgery and some of the cancer was excised, but the vet said that it had spread all through him and that noting could be done.

Bucky clung to me in his last days. He could barely walk, but he followed me from home to my office out in back and when he could no longer jump up in my lap or onto my bed, I lifted him up and put an arm across his tortured body so that he could sleep. He was 10 years old when he died one morning in our bedroom. He is buried next to a covered swing in a corner of our property, my “meditation corner.” It is shaded by pines and surrounded by bamboo a neighbor gave me. When I sit out there, the dogs and cats find me and play among the bamboo shoots or jump up on the padded seat of the swing.

My son’s two female cats, Peaches and Piper, gave birth t0 their first litters a month and half ago, 3 kittens each. One of Peaches’ kittens took to me and started following me around. I named her Kiki. She was a darling. She stuck to me wherever I was, on the porch, in my livingroom, in my office. My son also has two pups. One of them played too hard with Kiki and killed her. I was broken-hearted. She was frail and small and could not take the rough stuff. The dog thought she was a toy.

Kiki’s sister has adopted me. I call her Squeaky. She squeaks because her little lungs are congested. She sneezes and coughs. She naps with me, crawls up on my chest and snuggles under my chin or in the hollow of my arm. When I sit on the porch as I do every morning long before dawn, she finds me and crawls up my pantleg and onto my chest.

I am afraid she will not live long and I think she knows this.

Over the years I have been adopted by many pets, and most of these were the runts of their litters. None of them lived a long time. One kitty used to crawl into my desk drawers and play with the pencils and paper clips. My dog Snowball used to crawl through my papers on the bed and watch me type on the Underwood. Snowball was a toy poodle. The cat, still a kitten, died under my covers one morning.

My first story was about a Cocker Spaniel puppy named Doopers. He chased my father’s car and barked at its wheels. One day my dad’s car ran over him and I cried for five days.

All of these creatures who adoped me seemed to have intimations of their looming deaths. They all wanted to give and receive love during their last days on this earth. I believe Squeaky knows that she will not live long. The four other kittens are all growing but Squeaky is a Pater Pan lagging behind.

Love is the fuel that drives the engine of this universe. I can feel it in the love I get from my pets and I am energized by the love I give them. I feel a kinship with them since I have intimations of my own mortality. I have COPD, diabetes, kidney disease, and assorted conditions endemic to aging. So, when I see Squeaky struggling for breath, I empathize with her.

My doctor gave me a timetable for my existence, but I don’t need it. Like my pets, I will know when my hour of departure draws near. In the meantime, all I want to do is to give them my love. I know that this is what they want and need.

So do we all. By all, I mean, all living things in this wonderful universe.

GLEN CAMPBELL, PETER FALK & ALZHEIMER’S

2011-07-13T10:46:00.000-07:00

I did not know Peter Falk. But I admired him as an actor and thought that he created a superb character in Columbo. A day or so after his death from Alzheimer’s disease, I heard that Glen Campbell was suffering from the same affliction.

Glen once owned a theater in Branson, Missouri, and it happened that Branson held their annual Fanfare exhibition in his parking lot one year. I was there with many other celebrities, including my friends, Janet Dailey and Shoji Tabuchi. This was an event much like the one held in Nashville, where the public can meet the performers and pick up their albums or books and shake hands.

That day marked Glen Campbell’s last appearance in Branson. He had sold his theater and was returning to Nashville. My wife Charlotte and I went to the theater and watched this stirring performance. His daughter Debby also sang and the audience was captivated.

After the performance we met with Glen and Debby just off the lobby. I told him about a song that seemed perfect for him at this stage of his career. I also told him that I had been a fan long before he ever sang a note.

When Glen was a studio musician in L.A. performing for many bands on recordings, he also recorded a number of albums featuring him on stunning guitar solos. I had all those recordings and loved them.

A while before I talked to Glen, country music star Tommy Overstreet and I had been talking to singer/musician Jimmy Rodgers at Caravel Studios in Branson, which was built by our friend, Bob Millsap and then called Ironside Studios. Later it was boughtt by a wealthy man and the name changed. Rodney Dillard was managing it when Jimmy was writing songs and doing some recording there.

Jimmy played a song he had written for Frank Sinatra. It was called “Leader of the Band,” and Tommy and I were stunned by the beauty of both melody and lyrics. Tommy offered to give the song to Nancy Sinatra to show to her father. But, nothing ever came of it.

I told Glen about the song and told him he should get in touch with Jimmy, who lived in Forsyth on Bull Shoals Lake. I don’t know if he ever did but I have not heard the song since Jimmy sang it for us in the recording studio.

When I heard that he had Alzheimer’s and that Peter Falk had just died, I was reminded of how devastating that disease is. We had lost a dear friend to Alzheimer’s, Edith McCall, a writer who lived in Branson until the disease robbed her of memory. Her daughter Mary came out and took Edie to her home in California. Later, Mary told me that her mother “didn’t even know what a keyboard was.” I wrote an article about Edie which was published by Linda Fisher in her anthology, Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love, after her husband died of the disease. And, still later, I wrote a short story about Edie and Alzheimer’s which was also published, Dark Solitude and is now in my short story collection, Little Journeys. The book is available on my website, www.jorysherman.com.

Recently, my friend Stephen Woodfin published his novel, Sickle’s Compass, (Gallivant Press), which features a man in the throes of that spectre, Alzheimer’s. It is a touching novel of love and war and, of course, Alzheimer’s.

The disease touches us all. As some of us grow older and our memory fails us, we wonder if we are in the early stages of the disease. It comes without warning, though, and robs its victims of not only memory, but of dignity and life. Edie lost her memory of how to write books, but eventually, she forgot to breathe. That is when this dark thief takes the life of its victims.

Glen Campbell, Peter Falk, Ronald Reagan, Edith McCall and many others left us with their creations, creations that were stolen from them, but continue to enrich our lives.

CALL FOR A NEW BREED OF AGENT

2011-06-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

Electronic publishing is moving at an accelerated pace. This is a sure sign that ebooks are the wave of the future. Amazon’s sales figures beat this out, with ebooks selling more than hardcover books and paperbacks combined.

And legacy publishers are no longer promoting either midlist books or their authors. So, the writer must promote and publicize their books in order to compete in today’s highly competitive market.

The ebook revolution has generated an increase in literary publicists, who for fees ranging from $500 to $1500 and more will publicize a writer’s book. This involves some effort on the part of the writer, because most of these publicists will insist that the writer engage in writing blogs designed to promote both writer and book.

The publicist, however, does the difficult work of placing the books with online reviewers and setting up virtual tours for the writer.

These virtual tours mean that the writer will be contacted by several interviewers via email who will offer a series of questions regarding the writer’s book, which will then be posted online for the world to read. Many writers are doing this on their own, which is a daunting and time-consuming task.

Literary agents are becoming obsolete, since the writer can now publish his or her own book or find an ebook publisher who will take him or her on, put out the book on any number of platforms including trade paperback. So, the writer no longer has to pay an agent 15% for selling the writer’s work.

It occurred to me that a new kind of agent is called for in this fast-moving new way of publishing. The new agent would, in fact, set up all the virtual tours, arrange interviews, and post notices on social networks including Facebook, Twitter, and a host of others which have sprung up recently. The agent would of course, be entitled to a percentage of sales just as if he or she had sold the book to a legacy publisher.

But, the writer would no longer haee to hire a literary publicist which would demand and upfront outlay of cash. Having such an agent would also free up the writer to produce more books and stories since the agent would be doing all the online work of setting up interviews and posting notices on the various social networks.

I foresee a shakeup in both camps, with the publicists having to rethink their approach to handling writers and the agents having to shift gears and learn how to promote books that the writer has sold.

It’s coming. But, it can all be worked out. The new entrepreneurs will find a way to streamline the promotion of electronic books and the writers and new agents will benefit from the transition.

Epublishing is a new field and it calls for a new approach to the entire structure of author/agent/editor/publisher relationship and interaction.

Meanwhile, we writers do what we can to publish our books electronically so that they are available worldwide on amazon.com, kindle, nook, ipad, ipod, droid, and other reading devices. The writer’s production will be curtailed, of course, because promotion takes up an enormous amount of time.

That’s why we need a new kind of agent who will free the writer up to write instead of seeking out places to publicize their ebooks.

TALKING POETRY WITH BUKOWSKI

2011-06-08T09:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, Charles Bukowski, the poet, and I discussed poetry in his apartment on Mariposa and the one he had on DeLongpre. But, the conversations were not academic.

There was no talk of iambs, pentameter, tetrameter or hexameter. No discussion of dactyls or caesuras. For all I knew, Hank thought a dactyl was a three-toed prehistoric lizard, and stressed or unstressed syllables or the foot, held no interest for him.

Bukowski wanted blood spilled on the page. He wanted agonized screams from the bars on Western Avenue. He was fascinated with the dog shitting on the lawn outside his window, the whore who lives upstairs, the amber glow of the beer in his hands.

He wanted to use a hammer and a bludgeon to forge the lines in his poems, yet often it was a silversmith’s hammer tapping the delicate crystal of a glass chalice. He loved to talk of Robinson Jeffers and the hawks of Big Sur, the lean prose of Hemingway, and Celine. He did not know of Verlaine, Rimbaud, Neruda, or Lorca, for he was more grounded in the sensory impressions of his own world in the ghetto of West Hollywood where the streets shrieked in blaring red and yellow neon and the beer bottles clinked together on the bar while he eyed a black woman’s short skirt and ebony legs.

The floor of Bukowski’s apartment was strewn with the sheets of typing paper that bore our poems. We read each other’s work and I always marveled at Hank’s ability to capture glimpses of life and paint a vivid picture of the most mundane events and imbue them with larger and deeper meanings. He was sketching from life, while I was delving into my own psyche and winding my way through the human mind and experience.

When I read a poem written by another poet, it is the same feeling I get from listening to the orchestral arrangements of the great composers. It is a journey through the labyrinth of the human mind. In the words of a poem, as in the notes of a great musical composition, I can trace the writer’s or the composer’s thought processes.

Sometimes, it is like entering a huge empty house. No one is there, but you can see the rooms and all the furnishings, the personal items of the inhabitant, and feel a presence there that is palpable. In those deserted rooms, there is the architecture, the wood, the polish on the floor and tables, the scent of flowers and perspiration. The person, the writer, the composer, has left behind a mansion full of wonders and indelible secrets. I feel the pulsebeat of the house and its owner, I hear the heartbeat of the poet in the creak of the frame and flooring. It is a magnificent experience and I never fail to marvel at the intricacy of the human mind, just as I marvel at the complexity of the universe itself.

I go back there, to Mariposa St. or DeLongpre Avenue and sit and talk with Bukowski because I have his poems and his stories on my bookshelf and when I take one down to read, I am transported back to those early days of our friendship and realize how rich I am. I was there, at the very dawn of creation, and was a part of the powerful Chi of life, the dark matter and the dark energy flowing through me and guiding my mind and hand to create something out of nothing, to fashion a universe of my own making, one with rhythms and symbols that form symphonies of language and indelible art.

A collection of my poetry will soon be published. The book is called Reflections and is meant to be a companion to Bukowski & Me, already published by Rebecca J. Vickery and available on Kindle at www.amazon.com, Nook, Lulu, Smashwords, Ipod, Ipad and other electronic reading devices. The poems were published by High Hill Press and the cover is a mountain scene that I painted with acrylics. The cover of the Bukowski book was painted by my son Vic (Jory V. Sherman).

Both books will take you back to those times when Bukowski and I read each other’s poetry long before they were finalized and published.

I hope you see and feel what we saw and felt way back then,
when we talked poetry and heard the music of the spheres.

BUKOWSKI IN THE DISTANCE

2011-06-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

Ever since I finished writing my memoir, Bukowski & Me, (Rebecca J. Vickery, publisher), the poet Charles Bukowski has been an almost ever-present specter in my thoughts. I remember so many moments with him that I did not record. Perhaps it was because there was a distance between us that began to grow long before his death, a distance created by that monster called Fame, a hydra-headed demon that grabbed both of us, but wrapped Hank, as we called him, in its tentacles and surrounded him with sycophants as he glowed with that bright light that Fame drenches us with like some demonic strobe.

In the early days of our friendship, Hank would invite me over to his apartment on Mariposa Street in West Hollywood. I was living in San Bernardino at the time, either tending bar or driving a taxicab and writing poetry whenever I was not working. He was expecting me, so when I knocked on his door, he’d yell from the kitchen: “Come in.” He would be sitting at a small table in the kitchen in front of his upright Underwood. He had a little red radio on, and it was tuned to a classical station in Los Angeles. There would be Berlioz or Beethhoven, or some other composer pouring through the speaker. A poem under construction was in the typewriter. He got up and took the six pack of Miller High Life from me and took out two bottles, put the rest in his horror of a refrigerator. He opened both beers and handed me one as I stared at the sink full of soiled dishes, the counter a shambles of chicken bones on plates, fatty rinds from steaks, bowls of dried chili, half-eaten dinner rolls or biscuits, an ashtray full of cigarette butts. The music played on and I glanced at the poem in the Underwood. The paper was filled with words and sentences marred by ### strikeouts of words or sentences he had eliminated. He swigged from his bottle of Miller’s and lit another cigarette. We walked into the livingroom after he turned down the radio so that it became a soft undertone to our conversation.

We sat. I took a chair, he sunk into his couch. Poetry journals were strewn around the room and there were sheets of paper on the coffee table with his latest poems in disarray, all turkey-tracked with ###s. Smoke from his cigarette scrimmed his scarred and pustule face as he stared at the manila envelope in my lap. I lit a Pall Mall with a Bic lighter and sipped on my bottle of beer.

“What you got there, kid?” he’d ask.

“Some new poems,” I said.

We read each other’s poems and then discussed which poetry journals might publish them.

In those early days of our friendship, Bukowski said he didn’t have any friends and didn’t want any. As I look back at those times, I think Hank was trying to discover who he was. He had a burning desire to write and that consumed him in his off hours from his job at the L.A. Annex Post Office.

His poetry eventually told him who he was and I think mine did the same for me. We each found our voice and the poems gave us a deep spiritual life that obscured the world outside our windows.

Beneath all the writing was the music, and the music changes language in some mysterious way. I just finished listening to Steven Tyler’s wonderful book, “Does the Noise In My Head Bother you?” Tyler has a brilliant gift for language and is a superb musician. And, like Bukowski, he has the soul of a poet.

Bukowski has faded into the distance since his death, but his poetry and stories are close at hand and I draw memories from them that may never be expressed. They are, as the distance stretches and Father Time breathes down my neck, very comforting and real to me. It’s as if I’m sitting with Hank in his apartment on Mariposa Street, smoking and drinking, listening to the music that only we could hear.

Seeking the Seed

2011-02-26T13:55:00.000-08:00

SEEKING THE SEED OF THE STORY

We are all storytellers.
That is our nature, as humans. We tell stories.
But, telling stories orally is not as difficult as writing them down.
When we write a story, we put our souls on display. We create people out of nothingness. We describe scenes that may or may not exist in real life. We tell a story that may have been told a million times over the century, but make it new. We make these stories our own stories.
Some writers say that writing a short story is more difficult than writing a novel. It might not take as long, but a short story shrieks out every mistake, every flaw in a writer’s thinking, every discord and stumbling step a writer may make.
To some, the short story is a daunting challenge. The primary obstacle seems to be a blank piece of paper, or a white screen on a computer monitor. It is sometimes difficult for some writers to know where to start, or even how to start.
Over the years, I have eliminated this and other obstacles. I have distilled my method into three key words. These three words can be summoned and acted upon, each in its turn, and help the writer overcome any and all obstacles.
The three words are: Conceive. Believe. Retrieve.
How do we first conceive a story?
The concept can come into the mind in several ways. For me, as for Charles Dickens, the first step is to write down a title. This title must have meaning for the writer. It helps if you write down several titles. This action seems to release that story that resides in the shadows of the brain. It gives the unknown and untold story a name. By giving the story a name, the story is no longer some nameless entity that strikes fear in the writer’s heart. If you can put a name to that shadow, you no longer need fear it.
Or, the concept can come from a character, a person who springs out of that same shadow and comes to mind. This character might have some trappings, a past, a look on his or her face, a secret she or he may be harboring. Or the character might just be an intriguing name at first glance, someone who might be interesting. For Charles Dickens, he gave great care to naming his characters, and once he had named them, they became real to him.
And, too, the idea for your story might be in the setting, a room, a landscape, a city, a home or even an institution. If you put a name to the setting, you have begun to create a world where your characters might live and perform those actions pertaining to the story.
So, you conceive one or more of these ideas. You name them. Now, you must bring belief to bear. You must believe in those characters and where they live, what they do. Belief is the powerful engine that will drive your storytelling abilities to flesh out your characters, put them in a realistic setting, even if it’s a world of fantasy, sketch and paint your settings and move your story from start to finish.
Once you have conceived the story, and believed in it, you can retrieve it from those shadowy recesses in your mind.
Conceive, believe, and retrieve.
These words can help you find the seed of any story and grow that seed into something people can read and admire and carry with them long after they have put the story down. These three words can carry you through life as well. Whatever you conceive can be created. Whatever you believe can prove true, and you can then retrieve the reward that awaits you with that third step.
It is said that everything in the universe exists. We must only conceive of it, believe it exists, and then retrieve it and make it our own or give it to the world. These are the secrets of mankind’s evolution, the seedlets that have allowed him to evolve from hunter-gatherer to homo sapiens, thinking man, creating man, scientist, explorer, discoverer, pathfinder.
If you follow these steps, your stories will come real. They will have advanced from oral telling to the printed page. It is then, when they are printed in one form or another, that they have the potential to last for as long as mankind will last.
I would add one more word to my trio of seeds. That word is Achieve.
So it is that we have these four words which will help us find the seed of the story: conceive,believe,retrieve, achieve.
Four keys that will open all doors that will lead you to the seeds that will grow into your stories.

Jory Sherman

2010-08-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

DUALITY IN MAN AND NATURE
By Jory Sherman

Many of us were taught that we have a soul. Few of us are taught what a soul really is. So, we grow up believing that there is this nebulous part of ourselves that entered our body at conception and survives after death. The Greeks believed the soul was in the breath. Other civilizations and religions believed in the soul’s existence.

But, what if man had two souls? Is that possible? What if we were only one half of a soul, yearning to join with the other half? And, where is that other half, that twin soul of ours? Could it be in another dimension? Or, perhaps, it exists in another universe.

This thought of a twin soul came to me suddenly, and I rejected it at first. It is difficult enough to handle the conception of a single ethereal soul in our beings without adding another.

Yet, the thought stuck with me and I began to think about the duality of nature, the yin and the yang of Oriental philosophy, and the many instances of duality in nature, and in man. Might we not be, on this earth, like avatars, virtual human beings acting out scenarios instigated by that other soul in another dimension, in another universe?

The thought continued to grow in my mind, and it began to take on relevance. I dreamed about this second soul all night, and when I awoke it did not seem so irrational or far-fetched.

We yearn for something all our lives. We yearn, often, for something intangible, something just out of reach of our minds. As a writer, I have long been aware of the questions a man should ask himself, the questions that are inherent in every work of art. These are immortal questions and the seeker of truth should ask these questions of himself or herself throughout life. The writer should ask these questions of his protagonist. We should ask these questions of ourselves.

The three questions are these: Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

Homer asked these questions of Odysseus, and of many of the heroes he wrote about in his epic poems. So, too, did Virgil and all the other writers of note who followed these ancient scribes.

For a long time, I believed that man was searching for his true father, the Father-of-All, God, and this was his quest throughout life. This seemed rational and was profound enough to satisfy me for many years.

But, what if we were really searching for our other soul, that soul that resides on another planet, or in another universe? That soul that sent us here to learn more about life and ourselves until the moment of death when we would return to that other dimension and rejoin our original Self.

In this life, we are motivated to join with another person. We wish to marry or find a life partner. Could this be a deep yearning to join with a twin soul? Is this the answer to all three questions?

There is this eternal yearning in all us, for something beyond ourselves, love, friendship, marriage. This may be why we become so attached to our pets. They may, in some deep-seated way, represent that unknown being with whom we can only communicate with through love and affection. There is a language barrier there between us and our beloved pets, but the love between us is almost palpable. And, we who are writers, perhaps write in order to reach someone or something beyond ourselves, beyond the visible world. Perhaps we are writing love letters to an imaginary lover, an unrequited love who may or may not ever read our words. There is surely something beyond ourselves that we are missing. It may be God, or that other soul, from whom we are separated during our lifetimes on this earth.

To me, this life makes more sense if we truly have a dual existence. A single soul is such a slippery and vaporous entity that it is difficult to grasp the concept of a disembodied spirit that is part of our personality. But, if we have a twin, another soul in waiting, a soul that perhaps guides us through this life on this earth, then this makes more sense to me. It not only helps me answer those three questions, but it fits the very nature of the universe with all its mysteries. And, if, as many scientists now say, there are many other universes, perhaps an infinite number of universes, then having at least two souls makes more scientific and spiritual sense than having but one soul.

I began to consider the many instances of duality in nature and in the universe, the plus and minus of mathematics, matter and anti-matter, gravity and anti-gravity. The notion of duality began to swell and grow in my mind as I realized that the idea of two souls instead of just one might make perfect sense. Such a notion might explain our intimations of Fate and Destiny, even give purpose to our lives.

Might not that other soul explain why Fate guides us on our path through life, even drives us to take one path instead of another? Might not this search for fulfillment and completeness be a connection between twin souls? Perhaps this one soul, the one living on earth, was seeking its Destiny so that one day it would rejoin its absent twin and thus complete the circle, the eternal circle that is also a part of ancient beliefs and visible in our galaxy and all the others.

It would be intellectually and spiritually comforting to me to know that I had a twin soul waiting for me in another life. It would seem more fulfilling to rejoin that other soul than to join a host of souls all clamoring for my attention on the other side. If there is another side.

So, the idea of an identical twin soul, or even an unidentical twin soul, does not seem so ridiculous or far-fetched as I would have imagined. That other soul might explain the spiritual guidance I’ve had in life, the many twists of Fate that put me on my present course.

If each of us does have a twin soul residing in another dimension, this might explain where we got our ideas of the Muses, Federico Garcia Lorca’s Duende, inspiration and even a guardian angel. If a twin soul is guiding us mentally, then this might explain how important the subconscious mind is in the process of artistic creation. And, it also might explain the vivid dreams, largely symbolic, that seem too real to the dreamer and sometimes explain themselves in the conscious world of wakefulness. My subconscious gives me many of the answers I need to conceive, plot and write my books. Through meditation and during sleep, my subconscious works fulltime to give me the answers I need, the direction I must take in my work.

I intend to explore this concept of a twin soul further. Perhaps others have had the same thought and written something down that I might read.

What I do know is that the idea of having two souls instead of just one is growing in me and I believe, for that reason, that the idea has substance and is worth examining in further detail.

For now, I am open-minded, eager to explore this unknown. I suspect that if I have a twin soul, it is that soul which planted the idea in my conscious mind and led me to write this essay.

The idea came from somewhere.

It just might be that it came from my other soul, the twin that has guided me to this point in my human existence.

Of course there is no proof that there are other dimensions or other universes. And, there is no proof that humans possess a soul. There is no proof of one soul, much less two. But if there is such a thing as a soul, then why can that soul not have a twin, a twin that exists in another dimension unknown to us; another universe not yet detected by man and his finite mind.

Jory Sherman

2010-04-01T02:19:00.000-07:00

PAINTING & POETRY

The painting is in the poem. The poem is in the painting.

Is it the vision or the imagination that draws me into painting with words and into painting the sensations, the feelings and emotions that painting seems to capture, in oils, watercolors or acrylics?

The same compulsion seems to be at work whether I’m writing or painting. There is the desire to paint vivid pictures in prose and to capture the beauty of a landscape in a single composition.

There, in the painting, there is that one special moment that is bursting with energy and vitality, the sensation of being present at one moment in the vast and incomprehensible universe, a singularity that stops all movement and focuses on a small portrait of a scene on earth.

Before I begin writing a poem or in my quest for a landscape to paint in my own style, I seek and find one of the emotional memories stored in my brain. This is important because an emotional memory is what the artist takes to the task at hand. It is this which gives both the painting and the poem its energy and passion that will remain on the canvas or paper for the life of its existence.

These emotional memories are what Frank Sinatra used to give his songs that special phrasing and depth of meaning that made him such a unique singer. He talked of this many times with his friend, singer Vic Damone (nee’ Vito Farinola) when they both were appearing on stage in Las Vegas. Damone spoke of these conversations recently when he hosted a program on Siriux/Xm satellite radio’s Siriously Sinatra channel.

Sinatra’s approach to a song is the same approach I use when writing poetry or when painting. Each of us has so many of these emotional memories and this seems, also, to have been useful to the French Impressionist painters who were at least 20 years ahead of their time. They were looking for the sensation, that single moment when they could imbue the painting with their emotions.

So it is with me when I compose a poem or paint a sky. There is at least one emotional memory at the heart of every poem and in the dazzling sunset or blush of dawn when brushing in the acrylic tones. I am looking for that special light, that eternal glow, the feeling of wind in the grasses that can only come with some emotional memory.

If you listen carefully to the vocals of both Sinatra and Damone, you will hear the careful phrasing, the shading, and the coloring of their voices as they plumb the depths of emotional memories to imbue the lyrics and the music with feelings that go deep into the human heart. When we listen to these singers, we come away with our own emotional memories. These songs become part of our heritage, our memories and the Great American Songbook. Like good poems or good paintings, these songs never die.

Many years ago, an art Critic taught me a great deal about painting. His name was Sam Cherry. He was married to an artist, Clare, who taught me to paint with a palette knife. His daughter, Lynn Tanya, was a painter, as well, and his son, Neeli, was a young poet. Sam died a few weeks ago. He was in his 90s. What he taught me about a good painting was that you could take any part of it, as if you were dissecting a holographic image, and that, too, was a painting. He told me and showed me how the art blended the colors and used something akin to reflections within the painting to impart the sensation and the emotion of a painting.

So it is that I love to paint mountains and lakes, rivers and streams, oceans and ponds. I look for paintings where I can find reflections. In a reflection I find that emotion that the snowcapped mountain gives me, the faint music of an autumn tree with its brilliant colors reflected in a still pond.

There is where I find the music, in a poem or a painting, that phrasing and feeling that language can convey just as the colors on a canvas seem to murmur their own special music so soft you can just barely hear it. But, it’s there, it’s always there, in the poem or in the painting, the flow and lyricism of emotional memory, the subtle reminder of all human experience, the tenderness and the fury, the anger and the compassion, the loves and the lovers, the singer and the song.

There is not only a strong connection between paintings and poetry, there is a connection between life and all forms of art. It is that connection I seek in all my work. My reward is finding and portraying the host of emotional memories garnered by quiet moments when I just sit and listen. That is when I discover the magic and the emotion in my work.

And, behind each poem and each painting, there remains the mystery.

It is the mystery that calls me to continue on the path of emotional memory and the discovery of that indefinable and unfathomable essence that exists in all things not only here on earth, but in the universe itself.

J.S.

2010-01-26T12:28:00.000-08:00

A MEMOIR, AT LAST

For some years now, many people have urged me to write my autobiography. These include editors, agents, friends, and my wife. I resisted these urgings because I felt that I was incapable of writing a non-fiction account of my life. I believed that I could write about myself in fictional terms.

Two recent events helped to change my mind, caused a sea-change in my thinking. And, perhaps there were other factors that induced me to write at least a memoir of one part of my life. I think that my listening to autobiographies and biographies were instrumental in my decision to try, at least, to write a memoir.

A couple of months ago, a friend, Skip Hughes, a poet held a reading at the Art & Espresso in Winnsboro, Texas. He invited me to read my poetry. I have not read my poetry in public for many years, but agreed to attend. Charlotte typed up a few of my poems in very large print, so I read those to a small audience.

The reading brought back many memories of my San Francisco days, when I read at the Bread & Wine Mission, after an invitation by Pierre de Lattre, the Coffee Gallery, The Fox & The Hound, the Spaghetti Factory in North Beach. And, I reminisced about other public readings I gave with poets Tracy Thompson and Diane Wakoski. This was Tracy’s idea to take our poetry out of San Francisco and read in coffee houses throughout the Bay Area. We called ourselves “The Troubadors,” and our readings were very successful.

The other stimulus to write a memoir came from fellow writer Bill Brooks, who has been asking me to write an autobiography for some time. Recently, he reiterated that request and his words pushed me over the edge.

I have begun writing of my 20-year friendship with the late poet Charles Bukowski. It is difficult to write because I am leaving out large chunks of my own life in order to concentrate on Bukowski during our early days of writing and publishing in the literary journals before either of us was well known. In fact, neither of us was known at all.

I had written about this friendship before at the urging of the editor and publisher of Blue Horse, a literary magazine. This was after my friendship with Bukowski had disintegrated. Blue Horse published a small volume entitled FRIENDSHIP, FAME, AND BESTIAL MYTH, which went through several printings. There was an introduction by NOLA Press, pictures of me and Bukowski, of Neeli Cherkovski, and some of Bukowski’s poetry and articles.

This slight book served as a launching pad for both Neeli Cherkovski’s HANK, first published by Random House, a biography of Charles Bukowski, and British writer Howard Sounes’ bio, published by Grove Press, some years after Neeli’s book appeared.

I have begun writing about those early years as Bukowski’s friend when we were both starting to publish our poetry. The title of my book is BUKOWSKI & ME. The subtitle is The Beast & The Bastard, a memoir. Bukowski called himself “the Beast” and my parents never married.

I am writing the book entirely on speculation. I cannot find the photos I have of Bukowski and me, so I got in touch with Neeli Cherkovski through Faceboook. He has no photos either, but I was surprised to learn that he is writing his memoirs. Neeli is 62 now, and I’ve known him since he was 15 years old, and will be, of course, in my memoirs. He has also agreed to write an introduction for my book should it be published.

My memoir is a fascinating look at two very different poets and the literary climate of the 1950s through the 1980s, an odyssey that began in Florida and continued on to San Francisco’s North Beach, Hollywood, Los Angeles, San Bernardino, Colton, Mexico and beyond.

For me, this is a journey of memory and discovery, a look back down the long corridors of time into a world of intense creativity and learning. It was a wonderful time, the best years of my life and I hope to capture much of it in the only memoir I will probably ever write.

Jory Sherman

2009-09-29T17:46:00.000-07:00

DARK MATTER; DARK ENERGY

There are places in the mind where a person might go to find peace and solitude. There are also places where one might ask questions and even a corner where one can receive answers.

I go to these places every day, early in the morning, at night after I’ve gone to bed. These places are a writer’s refuge, and include a confessional, an examination room, an altar, an imaginary paradise that may not be entirely imaginary.

It was in one of these dark and peaceful places where I began pondering the question concerning a pair of cosmic puzzles, two mysteries of the universe that have garnered my attention for some years.

In my reading, which is actually listening to audio books, I came across the striking fact that our universe is largely empty. Even though, in our own galaxy, the Milky Way, we can see billions of stars and nearby planets, and knowing there are billions of galaxies, many trillions of stars and countless other objects floating through space, 96 percent of the visible universe is just empty space. Yet, further listening gave me the information that most of the known universe is composed of Dark Matter, and another portion is equally invisible Dark Energy.

No scientist has yet measured or seen either dark matter or dark energy. Yet it is believed that these exist.

To me, these two puzzles provide answers to mysteries long dwelling in my own mind, and make perfect sense.

For I believe that the perfection of the universe with its slow process of creation, destruction and rebirth, is powerful evidence of a mind greater than any human’s, individually or collectively.

Gravity is puzzling enough, but Dark Energy? What is it? What purpose does it serve? As for Dark Matter, it is so vast, yet so invisible, it looms as something gigantically enormous that it must have a vital purpose, a purpose well beyond our finite minds.

In that dark corner of my meditative mind, I puzzled over these questions and came to some simple and very human resolutions. Or, perhaps, I should say probabilities.

I have long believed that there is but one Great Mind in this universe, this visible and measurable universe, and that we all draw from it. It is through this mind that we express our wishes, ask our questions, and draw some conclusions. We each draw from this mind what we need at the moment. I have used this mind, or its concept, to write stories and books, articles, poetry, essays, and the paintings I paint. I have found knowledge there that I never gleaned from reading or listening to any book. I have found evidence of it in my subconscious and ways to bring it into consciousness. And, consciousness itself, I believe, is part of that single Great Mind, and exists outside of our brains and bodies. Consciousness is, perhaps, eternal and has no beginning nor end. And, if there is such a thing as an afterlife, I believe that it is our consciousness that survives, for it is part of that Great Mind that we all use, some wisely, some diabolically.

So, we come to Dark Matter.

What is it?

From that small meditation room in a small corner of my mind, I have concluded that Dark Matter is that one Great Mind that creates all that is in existence. And Dark Energy? To me, that energy is used by Dark Matter to create, to grant human wishes, to provide solutions to enigmas. That energy is what powers gravity and thought, makes thoughts into things.

What other explanation is there for something so enormous and mysterious and widespread that is unmeasureable and invisible?

Those of us who embrace the universal Law of Attraction, who believe that if one directs thought to the universe, the universe changes, just as one atom shot into the void causes change, and even observing any object changes it. For thoughts are powerful energies, invisible and unmeasureable.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. That’s a well-known axiom in physics. Energy can only be transformed. So, when we inject our thoughts into the universe, the universe responds in kind. Dark Matter and Dark Energy.

Who is to say that I am wrong? Not the scientists, not the great thinkers of the world.

For if there is Dark Matter and Dark Energy, they exist for a reason and a purpose, just like everything else in the universe and on this small planet. And, everything is connected. Everything.

So far, I am dealing merely with philosophy, and that philosophy is my own.

But might not these things we call Dark Matter and Dark Energy, just be part of what we call God?

It would seem so, and perhaps we should rename these two invisible concepts. After all, down through history, God has had many names: Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, and, with some Native American Tribes, the Great Spirit. In light of what I suspect about the nature of God, the latter name seems most appropriate. As for Dark Matter and Dark Energy, it may be time to put a different label on them.

What should we call them?

I offer this, humbly: Divine Matter. Divine Energy.

This terminology takes away the darkness, but does not lessen the great mystery.

Who are we? Where did we come from? Where are we going?

My answer is that we came from Divine Matter and Divine Energy. We came from that place of darkness and invisibility (to the human eye, at least), and it is to that dark region we will one day return. Each of us and all of us.

Then, and only then, may we understand some or all the mysteries of this universe and of life itself.

Jory Sherman

2008-06-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

FEAR OF WRITING

Over the years, I have discovered that a great many people have a desire to take up writing.

They all have stories to tell.

For each of us is a born storyteller. That's what humans do. They "tell" stories.

But, many do not write these stories down so that others might read and learn something of life. Many of these people tell me that someday they want to write about their adventures in life.

What's holding them back?

They are afraid.

They are all afraid to sit down and start writing.

So, to these people, and you, I say, do not be afraid to sit down and start writing. In fact, if you do just that, you are a writer, and you will write. Without fear.

Part of the lessons I give on my CD, THE MAGIC OF WRITING, deals with this fear right off the bat. It is the single biggest obstacle to any beginning writer.

The CD is designed to remove this obstacle and all others, from your path to writing success. My course has proven itself over the years. I have helped many to become writers, and for those who already are writers, remove so-called "writer's block" for the rest of their lives.

The lessons are easy to follow, and if you do as instructed you will be writing in minutes and you will never lack for stories to tell and ways to tell them.

This is truly a remarkable CD and I urge all fearful beginners, and teachers of any grade in school, to try my methods and see for yourselves the immediate and positive results.

For a limited time, I am offering the complete set of lessons on THE MAGIC OF WRITING CD for a very low price. The price will go up, after this introductory offer, so please take advantage of it at this low, low price.

In case you missed the announcement on my website, here is an ad that will provide the necessary information. And, you can view the Introduction on my website, FREE OF CHARGE.

Just click on the CD to play the presentation.

Anyone can learn to write. With my method, you will discover the magic of writing and produce stories, novels, essays, articles and poems for the rest of your life.

I guarantee it.

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Order now and be writing your story or novel, your memoir, essay, or article in minutes! Hurry while this offer lasts!

J.S.

2008-05-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

HYPNOTIC WRITING

I have been studying the works of several writers, searching for clues to the trance-like state readers experience while absorbed in a book, story or poem. This has led me to believe that certain writers are able to induce this trance-like state through the use of repetition and the use of synonymous terms in a single portion of narrative or poetry.

Edgar Allen Poe was able to entrance readers with his prose and his poetry. The poem, THE RAVEN, is one such example of a poem that has the power to hypnotize the reader. THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH is a prose example that produces much the same effect.

Walt Whitman, through the use of repetition and “cataloguing” used the enormous power of language to lull the reader into a state much like that of a hypnotized subject. So, too, Allen Ginsberg, in his poem HOWL, and there are many other such examples.

Earnest Hemingway had his gift, as well, and he achieved the trance effect through the use of repetition, short declarative sentences and descriptions that used the painter’s techniques of perspective, light and shadow. Some of his descriptive passages are like impressionistic paintings and the colors produce shimmering colors that work magic on the human mind. His use of adjectives in his sentences increases the hypnotic effect. And, like Shakespeare, he uses odd combinations of words that have a mesmerizing effect on the reader.

I see other examples throughout literature, but the absolute master, or mistress, of this technique has to be Agatha Christie, whose books sold in the many millions, whose play, THE MOUSETRAP, may still be running, and whose appeals is still as strong as it ever was. Readers of Christie enter into that trance-like state which evokes sensations of pleasure in the brain, probably releasing endorphins into the bloodstream, so that her readers will return to read certain books because they derive so much pleasure from reading them. She used repetition and synonymous words to produce the desired effect in her readers. Her language, simple though it may seem on the surface, had the power to induce pleasure and plunge the reader into a trance that compelled them not only to finish the book at hand, but to buy others by the same author.

Those who study literature have a name for this kind of hypnotic writing.

They call it neuro-linguistic programming.

I have noticed this same process in some of my own writing and continue to strive to write at this same level, both in my short stories and in my novels.

Neuro-linguistic programming is an art, and it probably came naturally to such writers as Agatha Chrisie, Earest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Walt Whitman and others. In some instances, the technique came naturally to me, and I believe it has to do with the way I write scenes, especially those in which I wish to create a certain atmosphere. By using both repetition and synonymously connected words, I do seem to achieve that effect on the reader. And, I suspect that it also affects me during the writing of certain descriptive passages. Certain poets seem adept at creating trance states in the reader, and this is evident when one reads the poetry aloud. The meter is important, too, crucial in both poetry and prose. When the reader detects, either consciously or subconsciously, a rhythm to the writing, he or she falls easily into a trance. That trance translates into control of a reader’s mind, drawing the subject back again and again to the author’s works.

While much of this may be conjecture, I know that I can now recognize neuro-linguistic patterns in a writer’s work, including my own. My studies may not be scientific, but they are intriguing and certainly seem to elevate the quality of writing. Language is a powerful tool, and these studies of neuro-linguistic programming may be on the tip of the iceberg in understanding what readers want and need from a writer.

If one can hypnotize a reader with the power of language, and we know this is possible, having been used by propaganda writers since the invention of the printing press, then the quality of writing should improve to the point where readers are made, not born, and the storyteller is the one-eyed being in the land of the blind.

It’s all about language.

And language is what I care about when I write and speak.

Language is the only immortal thing on this earth. It survives in its many forms through wars and catastrophes. It may survive in pictographs, the spoken word, in paintings, sculptures, music and mathematics. But, it survives, some way or another, and for that, we do have proof.

We read the works of writers who give us pleasure, whether we realize it or not.

The good writers are most often good readers.

And we all still have much to learn.

J.S.

2007-11-07T06:50:00.000-08:00

THE AGING WRITER

Is there age discrimination in the publishing industry toward mature writers?

I don’t know. I hope not, because this type of discrimination is both insidious and unfair. Age, as well as weight, looks, skin color, religious preferences, or politics, should never be a consideration when it comes to a writer’s work. The work is what counts, and if it’s good enough, then a writer’s age should be of no consequence.

But, perhaps age discrimination, if it exists in the publishing world, is not a matter of the quality of the work, but only a question of whether the writer will live long enough to complete the work. This would be very difficult to assess because there are no actuarial tables for writers. One can only guess, and perhaps editors and publishers do not like the odds in some cases.

Let’s take my case.

I am in good health. I have regular checkups at my VA clinic and the VA hospital. I am in better health now than I ever was because I follow my doctor’s advice. I eat what my nutritionist recommends. I exercise every day. My blood pressure is normal, and so are my cholesterol levels, both HDL and the other one.

If health is an issue because of my age, I’m way ahead of the curve.

As for my writing, I keep raising the bar as I have for 50 years in the business. So, the writing keeps getting better with each story and each book. As for production, I can still keep up with the young there. I write a new short story every month, many of which are posted on http://www.amazon.com/ in the Amazon Shorts section. My last novel was 309 manuscript pages and I wrote it in 21 days. And, it’s one of the best I’ve ever written. I am working on a major series right now wherein each novel will run 1000 to 1200 pages. And, I plan to write 8 of them. This is a fantasy series I’m calling THE GATES OF DESTINY. I also want to write a Young Adult fantasy novel called THE EDEN TREE. And, I have a number of other projects I’m passionate about, including a mainstream novel about a single divorced mom who raises an autistic son, and a private eye mystery series set in Branson. And, so on.

I have time and energy to write all of these books. But, I have no agent at present and I’m wondering if my age, 75 this past October, might be holding me back.

Inside, I am any age I wish to be. My mind is ageless. The body ages, but the mind matures. Gauge me on my mind and my will, not my chronological age. That’s all I ask. I am passionate about every writing task I tackle and my energy is boundless. I don’t have sick days, unlike many of those working in offices who pass judgment on my ability to stay the course, and I don’t take vacations. I’m at my desk every day and I get younger in thought and deed while time plays its game on the rest of me.

I hope there is no age discrimination in this business that I love so much.

Why do I suspect that there might be some discrimination against me because of my age?

A few weeks ago I called an editor friend to ask if he would take a look at two proposals. The first words out of his mouth were: “How’s your health?”

I assured him I was in good health. Excellent health.

Then, later, he told me a story about a mutual writer friend of ours whose agent was pressing him for a larger advance. The editor did not offer more money because he knew the writer was in poor health (although young) from drinking too much. The editor told me: “As soon as the money was banked, he died.”

So, perhaps age and health should be considered when negotiating contracts. I have no quarrel with that. But, I do not want to be judged on the past performance of others, nor discriminated against because I fall into a certain age bracket or might become suddenly ill. As someone once said, “You could slip on a banana peel tomorrow and break your neck. Just live in the moment.” And, that is what I do. And, each moment seems better than the last.

Right now, I’m not taking sides. In fact, I am giving those who might read my proposals the benefit of the doubt.

All I can say on my behalf, as I sail these current doldrums, is that I’m only as good as my next book.

Just let me prove it.

Jory Sherman

2007-03-13T23:50:00.000-07:00

BREAKING GROUND

Many beginning writers have trouble starting a story, novel, essay, article, or poem. One of the principles I teach in my workshops and seminars is how to overcome this initial obstacle. In fact, this first step is so important that I usually begin my workshops with this simple task.

Everything has a name. A name takes much of the fear out of the unknown. In the first flush of creation, a writer may not know where he or she is going, or where or how the story will end. But, the beauty of naming a work is that you are laying the cornerstone for your idea.

So, I suggest that you open your mind and start writing down titles that might trigger the beginning of a story or suggest a plot, an idea, a situation that will interest you. Don’t censor yourself, but write down every title that occurs to you. Write them all on separate lines, all caps, if you wish, and think of each one as a title for your project.

Then, pick a title that is most interesting or intriguing to you.

For the purposes of this blog, let’s use the story as an example. But, the same "rules" apply to all forms of writing. I don't like to call them rules because they are not iron-clad mechanical formulas for writing. They are merely, at this point, suggestions that might help the writer overcome that first self-created obstacle to writing. At the very least, these suggestions will eliminate the fearful curse of the blank page.

Once you have a title, it should be easy to write a first line. If you have a short story in mind, then write the opening scene. Or, as some writers do, write the ending of a novel. Or, if you like, write a crucial scene that could become a pivotal point in your story. Or you may just wish to write of some incident in a character’s life that gives the reader an insight into that character. I have used all of these methods or techniques, and many more.

Once you have a title and that first scene, the story acts as a magnet. That scene and title set up the mechanism in the universe that is called "the law of attraction."

The process is much like breaking ground for a building project. If you can imagine that someone, or a corporation, buys a vacant lot. Next, someone puts up a sign proclaiming something "Future Site of Gizmo Corporation." Next, some folks appear with shovels in hand. In a symbolic gesture, these people stick their shovels into the earth and turn over dirt as the flashbulbs pop. The next thing you know, construction men arrive and lay the foundation. Before long, there is a tall building, or a store, or a house, perhaps, on that once-vacant lot.

The vacant lot is that first blank screen, or sheet of typing paper. The title is the sign proclaiming "the future home of..." And writing the opening scene is breaking ground.

The building happens because someone imagined a building sitting on that vacant lot.

You are going to imagine your story taking shape.

From that moment on, you are exercising the Law of Attraction.

Everything you need for that story, you will attract. You will draw into your conscious mind all of the characters, the storyline, the settings, the conflicts, the very essences that give shape and substance to your story.

Your building goes up and commerce begins.

It's just that simple. If you practice this law of attraction, you will never experience writer's block, nor be unable to finish a book, story, poem, essay, or article. Each line you write demands another and that next line demands the following line and so on. Each line you write acts as a magnetic force that pulls the following line onto your page.

It's almost like magic, and I continually wonder and marvel at the process.

But, the truth is, once you break ground, the building will go up. And, "once you build it, they will come," as Kevin Costner learned in the movie that made that line famous.

This is how I am able to write so many novels and offer a new story every month to subscribers to my Story A Month (www.help4writers.com).

And, this was how I was able to write this blog in just five or ten minutes.

2007-01-04T00:21:00.000-08:00

THE SECRET-PART TWO

The "Secret" of course, as mentioned in my previous Blog is The Law of Attraction. There are some components to it that I promised to mention at a later time.

Now is that time.

When you wish to attract something into your life, whether it be wealth, power, property, success, well-being, happiness, anything at all, you must first form a picture of what you want most. In other words, visualize your dream. Form a picture of your desire in your mind. Then, you might wish to write it down on a piece of paper, or type it out on your computer and print a copy. Look at that piece of paper at least twice a day. You don't have to worry about how big the dream is, or how you will attain it. You have already set the forces of the universe in motion. You are creating the object you desire, and the universe must comply with your wish.

Secondly, you must believe that you already possess what you visualized. Feel it in your hands, touch it in your mind, walk through it, embrace it, whether it be a car, a house, money, or a partner. Your wish will be granted.

The other part is gratitude. Or, as the wise men in this field often say: develop an attitude of gratitude. You have asked, and you will be given when you asked for. Then, you must give thanks. I give thanks every day for the abundance in my life. I know where it comes from.

If you're religious, you can substitute any word you wish for Universe, God, Jehovah, Allah, the Great Spirit, Almighty Father. It is all the same thing. And, the law of attraction is absolute. Every wish must be granted, so be sure you concentrate on what you really desire and do not allow negative thoughts to disrupt the flow of energy. The Secret has been passed down through the ages and you can learn more about it by clicking on this link: www.thesecret.tv. I have used the law of attraction for much of my life, for my father believed in it and passed its immense power on to me.

Of course there is much more to The Secret than I've mentioned here or in my previous blog. But, if you open this door, even a crack, you will find your way as I have found mine. I have studied the work of Jerry and Esther Hicks (The Teachings of Abraham, The Law of Attraction), as well as delved into the canons of Bob Procter and Jack Canfield, all proponents of the Law of Attraction.

Here is what I convey to my students in writing workshops, seminars, retreats and at every opportunity. At the heart of it is: "Ask and ye shall receive."

You were born to create.

You are also a born storyteller. Telling stories is as natural to you as breathing itself.

Each time you talk to someone and relate an incident in your day, in your life, you are telling a story.

Now, it is time to recognize and use this God-given gift. Now is the time to focus on how to use the awesome power you possess to write and publish your stories, to give joy and satisfaction to others through something you created.

You will use the following tools to accomplish your goals: Visualization and Realization.

Sit down, or lie down. Visualize what you want to do. See the first scene of a story. See the main character. See the first words a character speaks. See the first act a character does. See your words weave a spell.

Realize, throughout this calm and energizing process, that you have already written the story. You see it in print with your name on it. See the story in your hands and in the hands of others.

You are planting seeds in your subconscious, seeds that will grow and become what you envisioned with your eyes closed. The subconscious comprises 5/6ths of our brain power. The other 1/6th is our conscious mind. The subconscious will germinate all your seeds and allow them to flower in your conscious mind. The ideas will bubble up in an ever-flowing stream.

Do not censor your thoughts. Do not concentrate on rules, on grammar, syntax, form, verb tenses or anything else connected to the mechanics of writing. Just see the story, let it unfold.

When you begin to write, you may not know where you are going, but your inner force knows. The subconscious knows. Follow your vision. Let the words flow out of you and onto the page. You will find excitement and joy as you feel your creativity flow through you. The process is virtually effortless. And, it is exciting.

You are attracting good ideas to you. And, those ideas will lead to other ideas. Take the time to nurture your creativity. Take the time to read short stories and let the stories of others sink into your subconscious and inspire you to write your own.

Writing seems like magic to some of us.

In a way, it is. Because you are creating something from nothing, or so it appears, the result can feel magical. If it does, then you are doing what you were born to do.

While creating a story may seem like magic, the fact is that the story has already been created for you. It was just waiting for you to see it, grab it, accept it, and make it happen, make it a reality.

When you know this, deep in your heart, deep in the hidden recesses of your mind, you will never know fear again. You will have no obstacles in your path. Writing will be as easy and natural to you as any other habit you now have.

Put yourself where you want to be. Believe that you are already there.

Write your story. Give your story to the world. Bask in the glow of creation.

You are a writer.

You always were. You always will be.

2006-11-28T23:32:00.000-08:00

The Secret

The universe holds a great secret.

I have known the secret for many years.

And, I have used the secret many times in my life. I still use it, every day.

The secret is very simple.

It works even if you don't know that it is law and that it works all the time.

I don't mind revealing the secret because, although it has been kept hidden down through the centuries, it has also been revealed many times.

The secret, as I said, is a law.

The law of attraction.

The universe follows this law. It is the giant genie in the bottle which grants every wish once it is released into your consciousness.

You can have whatever you wish for. The universe will grant that wish, no questions asked. All you have to do is form a vision of your desire in your mind and the universe starts to move that object, whatever it may be, in your direction. You must be ready for it. You must be specific when you ask. And, you must be prepared to act in accordance with your wish.

As I said, I have used this secret, the law of attraction, which is immutable and powerful, many times over the years. I got my first glimmer of this secret when I was very young and my father read from Napoleon Hill's book, Think and Grow Rich. That was my first inkling that there was a power in the universe that could move mountains, build pyramids, create wealth, happiness and a better life.

Simply put, Hill interviewed the leading industrial giants of his day, Henry Ford, Andrew Carnegie, and others. He discovered that they all believed that when they had an idea and sat down at the conference table with men and women to work out the details, something was created in that room. Hill called it a "Mastermind." That mastermind was, of course, the universe, responding to a request to create something valuable from just a thought.

The thought is important.

Thoughts become things.

Whatever you can imagine, the universe can create for you.

Anything.

I'll give you a couple of examples, among many, of what happened to me when I tapped into the universe and used its power on my behalf.

I had been thinking about money. We lived in California, in Rialto, some 60 odd miles from Los Angeles where I had an office on Hollywood and Vine. I woke up and told Charlotte that I was going to get $10,000 by the end of the day. She brushed this off as impossible.

I told her that my father told me that it was easier to get $10,000 than $1,000. You merely had to ask and form a vision in your mind that you already had the money in your hands.

I drove to L.A., to my office and called a man I knew, a wealthy man with whom I had been working on an anti-drug program for young people. I had created a series of audio dramas which I wrote, produced, directed and narrated. I had good actors and terrific sound effects. This man wanted to use the programs as part of his efforts to bring peer pressure to bear on young people who were tempted or using drugs. I asked the man for the $10,000 and he wrote me out a check. I went on to produce a series of dramas that were focused on alcohol abuse.

Another time, in Arkansas, we were broke and our cars were shot, not running. Charlotte was staying in Harrison and worked at the Boone County Hospital as an accountant. She could walk to work. But, I was staying on our 80 acres in Osage, some distance away. I knew we needed transportation, but I had no money. None at all. I got a ride into Harrison and was dropped off at a used car dealer. I knew I would get a car.

I explained to the owner that I was broke, but that I was a writer and would receive royalties sometime in the future and could then pay cash for a car. He understood. The law of attraction was in effect. He let me "buy" two cars. Charlotte was amazed. She was always amazed in those years, but she is no longer surprised when I tell her what I’m going to do.

Now, there is a remarkable DVD available that reveals the secret. It is a well-produced film from Australia that reveals the secret through the appearances on camera of men and women of accomplishment who used the secret to obtain wealth, prestige, happiness, and health.

My son Frank told me about the DVD and said that it contained information that I had told him about over the years. I went to the website and bought the DVD. You can also stream it onto your computer for $4.95. The DVD cost $30.00.

Charlotte and I watched the movie and I wanted to send one to my sister in California. A few days after I got the DVD I ordered, another one came in the mail. I sent it to my sister and asked that she watch it with her children and my son. I told my other children about the movie and they bought it and watched it. They all remarked that I had told them about the secret over the years when they were growing up and when they were out on their own.

The biggest benefit the law of attraction has given me is my writing. I have never had writer's block. I have never gone blank, nor struggled to write. Whatever I have needed has been given to me. I never lack for ideas because I attract ideas like a magnet. Ideas bubble up from my subconscious every day. I spend many minutes a day just opening up my mind to receive what I need from the universe. In fact, I have long believed, and many scientists believe as I do, that consciousness is not limited to the brain. Much of it may come from an external source, i.e. the dark energy that exists in the universe. Or, some say, from the soul itself. And, long ago, I started thinking that there was only one great mind in the universe, that of our Creator, and that we are to use it according to our wishes and needs.

The universe consists of only 4 percent atoms. The rest is dark matter and dark energy. Powerful forces available to all. My entire life is geared around this concept. The universe, like the subconscious, does not weigh truth against fiction. It acts on what you ask of it, just as the subconscious does. I feed ideas and questions into my conscious mind, let them settle into my subconscious. This is why I never get stuck on a writing project. After sleep, after a nap, in quiet moments where I connect to the universe, the answers always come, no matter how complex.

That is another wonder of The Secret.

Here is a list of some of the people you will see and hear on the DVD:

Jack Canfield, Author
Joe Vitale, MSC.D, Metaphysician
Bob Proctor, Philosopher
John Asaraf, Entrepreneur
Dr. Michael Beckwith, D.D., Visionary
Bob Doyle, Author
Mike Dooley, Writer
Esther HIcks, Teacher (Abraham)
Bill Harris, Therapist
John Hagelin, PhD, Quantum Physicist
Dr. John DeMartini, D.C., Bsc, Philosopher
Fred Alan Wolf, PhD, Quantum Physicist
Dr. Denis Waitley, Ph.D., Psychologist
Dr. Ben Johnson, M.D., Physician
James Arthur Ray, Philosopher
David Schermer, Investment Trainer
Marci Shimoff, MBA, Author
John Gray, PhD, Psychologist
Lee Brower, Teacher
Loral Langemeier, Financial Strategist
Marie Diamond, Feng Shui Consultant
Lisa Nichols, Author
Hale Dworkin, Author

You can learn more about The Secret by going to the following website: www.thesecret.tv.

Recently, Larry King has had some of these people on his program which airs on CNN.

You can attract whatever you want by following the principles outlined on The Secret.

It works, and it works all the time, whether you want it to or not. In future blogs, I'll expand on this concept.

For now, you know enough to forge ahead in your own life and learn The Secret, put it into practice right away.

JS

2006-09-18T11:08:00.001-07:00

SCENE & STORY

This will be my underlying theme for the writer's workshop I'll be conducting at the Oaklea Mansion Writer's Retreat, Jan. 19th and 20th, 2007.

Here are my reasons:

A novel consists of scenes. These are the basic building blocks for any novel. The scene is also at the heart of a short story, which may be a single scene, or a series of scenes.

The short story itself can be a novel in miniature. In fact, I have turned many of my short stories into novels over the course of my writing life. So, too, many memorable motion pictures have evolved from the short story form. Movies such as THE KILLERS, HIGH NOON, MILLION DOLLAR BABY, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, and many others, come to mind. Some of James Warner Bellah's short stories, published in the Saturday Evening Post, originally, were turned into motion pictures.

I take a "no fear" approach to my workshops. I see that most courses, or books on writing, focus on rules, and most use a technical terminology, that present barriers to creativity. What I give my students is a methodology that eliminates all obstacles to writing. The biggest obstacle that many beginning writers encounter is the blank page. Most do not know how to start a scene or a story. I will show them how, and we will all prove my points by actually writing a scene that can be developed into a short story or a novel.

I will not tell you how I do this here, but my methods involve a philosophy about writing that anyone wishing to write can tap into and use all the time, for as long as one lives and writes. This philosophy has enabled me to write and publish poetry, essays, articles, short stories and novels for nearly 50 years. And, I've never experienced what is called "Writer's Block." In fact, I don't believe in such a condition. If there is such a thing, it is just one of those obstacles that are easily eliminated by using my techniques.

There is more to writing than this, of course, and I will cover those elements which lessen the power of prose. So, there will be some succinct focus on language, how to avoid weak writing and lazy writing. We will cover imagery and the use of methapor and simile. But, don't be frightened by these terms. I will show my students how to elevate the quality of their writing and employ techniques that will separate their work from the pedestrian prose encountered in many many a manuscript.

The retreat is a day-long affair, but it will not be a grueling experience for anyone. Oaklea Mansion is an idyllic place and we will make use of the lovely grounds and facilities there. It is a place where we can all dream and create, and find our true centers, break the bonds of obstacles to writing and emerge with something beautiful and saleable.

That is my hope, and, if past experiences are any indication, this is what will happen. Those attending the retreat will come away with lifelong tools that will carry them to success.

I believe this retreat, short as it is, and with limited space for overnighters and one-day attendees, will continue for many years, perhaps with different instructors. I conduct this one by myself, because I have been involved in all aspects of publishing, but I'm sure future retreats may employ a small staff which will include a writer, an editor, an agent, and perhaps, even a publisher. And, perhaps, such a retreat will last for several days.

For now, this is a dream come true for me. I wanted a beautiful setting, a comfortable setting, for writers to gather and learn something new and exciting. I believe Oaklea Mansion in Winnsboro, Texas, fulfills that desire and dream.

I know it will be a memorable experience for all who attend. And, that's what we writers use most often, memories.

So, I offer you a memorable venue for this retreat, and memories, the very DNA of storytelling.

J.S.

2006-08-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

BUKOWSKI

Charles Bukowski has been on my mind the past couple of days. Why, I don't know. He is often on my mind because we were friends for over 20 years, the hard years. And, August is a month of significant birthdays for me. My mother was born on August, 3rd, my first wife, Remy Montes, was born on August 13th, and Hank Bukowski was born on August 16th, I think, in Andernach, Germany.

I'm not going to rehash Bukowski's life here. I covered some aspects of our friendship in a chapbook published by Blue Horse, FRIENDSHIP, FAME, AND BESTIAL MYTH, and there have been two significant biographies written about him by my friend Neeli Cherkovski, and London-based writer Howard Soames.

I have been thinking about those times before he became famous when we talked about poetry and life in his apartment on Mariposa Street, in Los Angeles. He lived a solitary life, so when he asked me to come over, I knew he was in some kind of pain, mental pain. He was usually in the kitchen when I got to his place, the little radio on, playing Borodin, or Berlioz, Mozart or Beethoven. The sink was full of dirty dishes, the counter littered with empty beer bottles, clothes lying everywhere. There would be a sheet of paper in his old upright typewriter, a Remington, I believe, with the latest poem, the strikeovers made with the # key, some finished poems on the small table. He'd tell me to get a beer and we'd go in the cluttered living room. There was a small dining room, but as far as I know he never ate in there. He did have his mock postal bin there, along with cards bearing zip codes. He worked at the Annex, a postal worker, and every so often he would have to throw "the schemes" as he called them. They tested workers with these cards, checking for speed and accuracy. Hank was good at it and sailed through every scheme.

He'd show me the latest poetry journals and I read his published poems. We talked about these and about poetry in general. We talked about the literary magazines, certain poets we knew or read, which little magazines we liked, which ones postured, who the academic poets were, and who were outlaws, like ourselves, who bucked the mainstream, ventured far from pedantic iambic pentameter. Sometimes we talked about Dylan Thomas or Gerard Manley Hopkins because of the kind of poetry I was writing, making consonants jump through hoops, using oblique rhymes and unusual orthography. We discussed his hero, Robinson Jeffers, a lot, and I often talked of Federico Garcia Lorca, one of my heroes, some of whose poems I had translated and published, after getting permission from Lorca's brother, Francisco Garcia Lorca, who was then teaching at Columbia University.

Sometimes, during the latter years of our friendship, Hank bought a tape recorder and would turn it on when we talked. I don't know what he did with the tapes. He may have burned them or pissed on them for all I know. To me, the tape recorder was a distraction and I hated it.

The point is that we talked about things he could not talk about at the post office, or in the bars, or at the race track. Things I could not discuss with my wife, Felicia, or anyone else in what passed for our social circle. I've had many such conversations with other writers over the years, and I treasure them, am always starved for them after long days of writing in a virtual vacuum.

We may not have solved all the issues of the day regarding poetry, but we also discussed music, the women in his life, the horses he bet on, how well he did at the track that week, or the week before, the drunks he had gone on, why he had been reprimanded and warned about his job at the post office. We covered a lot of ground and I still remember many snatches of our long conversations that often lasted into the wee small hours of the morning.

The radio was always turned off after my arrival at Mariposa Street. But, it was always on when I went to see Hank and we'd often wait until the composition was finished and then talk about the composer. We never had any awkward silences; never ran out of things to say to each other.

It was always difficult for me to write about those years when Bukowski and I were friends. I did not want to write the chapbook for Blue Horse, in fact. I later learned, from Michael Montfort, a photographer who documented some of Bukowski's life in his remaining years, that Hank did not disparage the small book. He did not ever mind what people said about him in print, nor did he ever defend himself against false accusations or decry those who attacked his poetry. In fact, I think he exulted in all the negative criticism, because he knew who he was and he never claimed to be anything or anyone else.

Bukowski had great courage and determination. He was never daunted by what the critics said about his poetry or his short stories. He gave of himself and his work without flinching and he didn't give a damn that he was laying himself open like an animal in an abbatoir. All of the boils and scars and wounds showed in his work, and few saw the tenderness that was in the man, or sensed his humanity. His world was populated by pimps, whores and drunks, the very dregs of L.A. society, yet he had a quiet dignity about himself and those few of that group who read his poetry, thought he nailed them just right and were proud of him.

Bukowski's radio is silent now, the old upright with its pocked platen, long gone. But, I still have those long conversations playing back in my mind. Like Hemingway, Hank was always looking for the one true line. I think he wrote many of them, over the years and none of us will ever know how he did it.

I think his life and work was the one true line.

Happy Birthday, Hank, and say hello to Jeffers for me, will you?

J.S.

2006-06-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

STORYTELLERS

It is my firm belief that every person is a storyteller. Everyone might not know this, but I do, and I recognize this ability all the time. Not every person is a great storyteller, and I certainly don't count myself in that number. But, everyone has the innate ability to tell a story.

Storytelling is, in fact, the oldest profession. Not the other one that is usually touted. Most everything we now know of past and lost civilizations has come down to us from storytellers. Much of what we know about Sumer (S'inar) and the Sumerians was written down in cuneiform about the demigod, Gilgamesh, along with other documents concerning Creation, the Great Flood, and many other events now deemed to be mythical.

Storytellers probably did much to allay mankind's fears by writing about great events and catastrophes in story form, thus generating myths. Freud and Jung, of course, used such myths, primarily from the Greek writers, to explore the human mind. The storyteller has always been in the vanguard of civilization's progress, and those rulers who did not read or listen to their storytellers, often brought destruction down upon themselves and their cultures.

My father, Keith, told me once that books were the only way we could encounter the great minds of history. He never went past the sixth grade, yet he read books. When he wanted to know about a business or an industry, he sent me to the library and had me check out books on lumbering, the pyramids, physics, chemistry, mathematics, and the like. In so doing, he opened a world of knowledge to me, and I used my library card as if it were a key to all the great minds, the great writers. I read voraciously, and our homes were always filled with books. And, my father read to us. He read novels written by Owen Wister and Zane Grey and his aunt, B.M. Bower, his mother's sister. Aunt Bert wrote under that name because she wrote western novels and men wouldn't accept a woman writing about ranches and rough cowhands, cattle and gun fights. He opened worlds to us with his reading, and his reading told us stories by great storytellers. He read the works of many great writers, including T.E. Lawrence's The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Napoleon Hills', Think and Grow Rich, along with Shakespeare, Plato, Confucius, Aristotle, Socrates and the King James version of The Bible.

If all that existed here on earth were to vanish, if all the people were to die in a flood or be consumed by fire, all that would remain would be the stories told by storytellers. Indeed, this is what has happened throughout history. Atlantis is gone, so is Pompeii, Sumer, the Babylonians and the Akkadians, the Etruscans, the Mayas, the Aztecs, the Olmecs, Toltecs and many other ancient and prehistoric civiilizations.

Why is any of this important? Because, say the sages, by studying the stories, legends, myths and histories of past civilizations and peoples, we can better understand our own lives and our own civilization. While it appears that man has not learned from the past, that we continue to make war and murder and destroy other countries and peoples, the stories give us that little glimmer of hope that helps us keep on keeping on. And, in time, we may learn from the past.

If all on this earth disappears and our cities fall to rubble under the onslaught of a meteor, an earthquake, a gigantic tsunami or from an atomic bomb, life, in some form, will return. And, if some of that life is human, there will be records of us left for that new crop of humans to read and study. When all that we know is gone, the stories will remain. Before there was writing, the stories were told, passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. In those days, the storyteller was the patriarch or matriarch of all succeeding generations. Later, when writing came to be, scribes wrote down those stories.

This is our treasure and our key to knowledge, those stories, tales, histories.

And, even if the storyteller fades into oblivion, we can still hear his or her voice. Stories are living things, passed down from grandparents to children. Stories live forever, even if all the books perish in flame or flood.

Storytelling is not a lost art. It is the very DNA of literature, forever dwelling in man's consciousness like a flower-god that has no beginning and no end, but has lived forever and will forever live on.

And, we, the storytellers of today, are very grateful to those storytellers who came before us and taught us all that we know.

J.S.

2006-05-14T23:54:00.000-07:00

CRITIQUE GROUPS

A few years ago, some writer friends asked me if I'd be interesting in starting a small critique group. That's where writers read what they're working on to each other so that the members can comment on the writing, make suggestions, find flaws, render comments in general and in particular.

"We'd like you to chair the group," one said. "Would you?"

I said I didn't think such groups worked.

"Why not?"

"In most cases," I said, "the ones I've seen, it's a matter of the blind leading the blind."

"What do you mean?"

"Unless the group has some professionals in it, you have people giving advice about something they know nothing about. Like writing. Editing."

"Which is why we want you to lead our group."

Reluctantly, I agreed to start a small critique group, but said that I would not stay long. I'd help them get started, attend a few sessions, and then they were on their own.

And, that's what we did.

There were only a few rules. Readings were limited to 15 minutes or so each. Criticisms had to be constructive.

My wife, Charlotte, stayed with the group. I attended the first three or four and then went back to writing books. Once in a while I would drop in, and, when I did, I saw that some were reading entire chapters. The sessions had grown longer and longer, taking up an entire afternoon, sometimes running into the evening hours. One writer was reading the same chapter at each session, having modified it in the previous week.

The group did limit its membership and a slot could be filled only when a member dropped out. Eventually, the group disbanded. Some started their own critique groups and these lasted for a while, then expired like deflated parade balloons when the air valve was opened.

Over the years, I've sat in on a number of such critique groups. Most of them were conducted with diplomacy, and constructively. However, I noticed that some individuals took constructive criticism very badly. I heard a lot of bad advice given in many of these groups. In some groups, none of the members were professional writers. That is none of the group had ever sold any of their writing for money.

So I have grown wary of critique groups. I have been paid to critique chapters, articles, and stories, by professional writers. I've also been paid to rewrite and edit work by many of our top writers. It is only when I critique the work of unpublished or inexperienced writers that I run into difficulties. Many writers have come to me with material that has also been critiqued in groups. I find that these writers are very hostile to professional criticism.

I have come to the conclusion that most of the writers who attend critique groups are not looking for criticism. They're looking for praise. My feelings about this are that the writers who are looking for praise not constructive criticism will never learn. Instead, they will continue to go to a critique groups where the blind are often leading the blind.

This is why I no longer attend critique groups. Now I do conduct a critique service on my help4writers website. I charge a fee for such critiques. My advice to those who would avail themselves of this service is to be prepared for a genuine critique not a pat on the back. Of course I will give praise where praise is due but a critique is meant to point out problems with the writer's work.

If you are genuinely interested in becoming a better writer then study good writing. And if you want to elevate your writing to a professional level then, by all means, seek the advice of a professional writer. If you do this, be prepared to have your work gone over thoroughly and ripped apart.

If you just want praise from other amateur writers then by all means attend a weekly critique group. Unless at least one of these is a professional writer and is willing to help you with your prose then you are probably not going to go very far as a writer.

So, beware of critique groups unless it is peopled by published writers who genuinely know their craft.

And good luck, in any case.

J.S.

2006-03-23T09:33:00.000-08:00

AMAZON SHORTS

Imagination is a wonderful gift and a marvelous tool for the writer. Recently, I conducted a short story workshop for the Northeast Texas Writers Organization (http://www.netwo.org/) at the Northeast Texas Community College's new extension building in Pittsburg. The room had 20 brand new computers and some of us brought our laptops. There were 24 participants, no, make that 25, for I was one of those.

Our mission was to start and complete a short story from scratch in the 4 weeks allotted, with each session lasting 2 hours on a Saturday morning. I started my story the same way I advised the enrollees to start theirs. We began by using free association to create a list of titles which might stimulate our imaginations.

I began just as they did, with nothing but a blank screen. The titles served to stimulate our imaginations. I looked at every title and most of them inspired me to begin a short story. In a few minutes everyone in the room had plunged themselves into a story inspired by one of the titles.

I wrote 2 stories during the course of the workshop.

This workshop rekindled my interest in the short story and in the next two weeks following the conclusion of the course, I wrote two more stories and I have begun still another in the past week.

Following this period, I learned of a new feature on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/) called Amazon Shorts. Furthermore, the editor was Dan Slater, who was my editor at NAL/Signet. I asked him if he would look at a short story and he told me to email him one. I sent the second story I wrote during the workshop.

Now, Amazon Shorts offers short stories, essays, plays and articles that are short for 49 cents each. It's simple. You see a story or a piece you wish to read and the download is almost immediate following the transaction. I downloaded several stories written by writers I knew, Terry Bisson James Lee Burke, and Thomas Sullivan, a one-act play by Bisson, and a piece about writing written by Bruce Holland Rogers.

Dan didn't want the story I sent because it was not a western. He said there would be time for me to experiment and stretch myself into other genres later on. In the meantime, he wanted a "western" story.

I wrote Dan that he was sending me up a dead end street, that my story was neither a stretch nor experimental. I pointed out that I had sold over 500 short stories over the past 50 years of my writing career. But, I sent him a story I wrote following his email called UTE MOUNTAIN. He took the story and it should be posted as an Amazon Short this week. It will be the first "western" story on Amazon Shorts and, so far, is the only "western" short story available there. He kept the other story; the first one I sent him. For later consideration, I assume.

He asked me to do more, so I wrote another "western" short story and sent him that, along with the first story I wrote in my workshop.

In the meantime, I can't get the short story out of my mind. I have been reading stories downloaded from the web. I read several of Bruce Holland Rogers' stories that were posted on other sites and were free downloads.

Bruce has a subscription service for the stories he writes. You can learn more about this writer and his work, his offerings by going to his website, http://www.shortshortshort.com/. I subscribed to his service. For $5.00, he will send you three new stories each month for a year. That works out, he says, to about 14 cents a story. He writes a new one every 10 days or so. Most are short shorts and each one I've read is fascinating, absorbing, well-written. I told him I'd like to offer a similar service from my website http://www.help4writers.com/, only mine would not be short shorts but full-blown stories of 2500-5000 words. He answered my questions and gave me some good advice. As far as I know, he is the only one doing this on the web.

I've been to several websites which publish short stories and, frankly, the quality is poor. Rogers is a master storyteller. He does some other things on his website, too, which I won't go into at this time. But, he's a fascinating writer and I enjoy reading anything he writes.

My stories will be offered for the same price, $5.00 a year, but the subscribers will get a story a month. But, my stories will take as long to read as 3 short shorts, so it's still a bargain.

Norman Mailer, in a talk shown on Book Talk, C-Span2 television this past week, said that for this country to be great, it must elevate the language. He said the Irish became a great country because of this, and it all springs from the work of James Joyce. James Joyce was the writer who kindled my deepest yearnings to be a writer and invoked a love of language that continues to this day. I believe the short story, and certainly Joyce's were wonderful examples, such as those in DUBLINERS, helps to elevate the language and nurture the imagination. I also believe that, because of writers like Bruce Holland Rogers, there will be a renaissance in short story writing and reading. Many of the best markets for stories no longer exist. This is a shame in my estimation. The short story is just the thing for busy people who love to read, who love the English language, and who haven't time to devote to reading a novel. Rogers has subscribers all over the world. In a sense, he may be the spearhead for this rejuvenation of the short story, especially the short short, which is an even more difficult medium than the longer stories which I write.

So, look for my stories on Amazon and take a look at the stories I will write over the coming years by subscribing to my subscription service. I think your imagination will be stimulated and you may even take to writing your own stories.

I take notice that all of these events, the workshop, Amazon Shorts, my discovery of Bruce Holland Rogers, and my renewed love of writing and the short story all coincided with the publication of my Ozarks short story collected, THE SADNESS OF AUTUMN, by http://www.awoc.com/ this past month.

I believe the short story Renaissance is at hand.

Jory Sherman

PUBLISHERS VS. READERS

2006-01-06T16:38:00.000-08:00

How long will publishers continue to wade in the red ink of their Western programs before they realize that's blood in the water? Their editors have become little more than production mechanics, holding to the straight and narrow path, never giving thought to the product nor to the consumer. It seems a simple enough formula. Publish books that sell to readers.

The equation the publishers seem to be using is this: fill the quota required by the wholesaler, cut the amount of advances, cut the losses and continue headlong through that sea of bloody ink. Blind to the treasures they either overlook or feed into the paper shredder.

There is nothing new about this brainless trend. Publishers seem to have long ago forgotten the old adage: "nothing ventured, nothing gained." Instead, they listen to the bean counters and the bored sales folk who know virtually nothing about the western novel, and even less about readers who might buy a western if someone on the staff actually tried to reach them with an intriguing sales pitch.

Some publishers do try, but it's not a concerted effort by all concerned. The writer is almost never consulted about covers, ideas, markets, sales approaches. One example in my portfolio is Walker & Co., who once published western novels in hardcover. They did not care about readers in mass market. They focused on libraries and sold exactly 777 western genre books, just enough to break even.

I wrote WINTER OF THE WOLF for Walker. The editor liked the book, bless her heart, and asked for a sequel. So, I wrote HORNE'S LAW. The dust jacket was a travesty. It had a man and a woman in modern dress, with the man carrying a metal tube on a wood stock that was supposed to be a rifle. The girl wore a T-shirt. The horse's bridle had no top strap, so wouldn't have stayed on with the first tug of the reins. It was a horrible cover that revolted nearly everyone connected to western publishing, writers, editors, other publishers.

In another case, I was writing a book about the Lakota, and the publisher used a stock painting for the mass market cover that depicted Apaches on the warpath.

I wish Howard Stern would have me on his new satellite program on Sirius radio, so that I could speak freely about these issues, use more colorful language than is probably permitted on the World Wide Web. Stern, at least, is intelligent, and would recognize stupidity when he saw it.

In many cases, the writer is not allowed to venture off the beaten path. The western continues with formulaic writing despite the brilliant short story by Annie Proulx, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN. This is exquisite writing on a touchy, but believable subject, homosexuality. The movie probably will not lure readers to the western, and even if it did, the reader would not find anything resembling such controversial subject matter.

Editors are strapping us down with further restrictions these days. The latest edict? "No Indians." And, as well: "No military. No soldiers, No cavalry." What do they want? "Gunfights." They seem locked in a High Noon mentality. Gunfights were a rarity in the Old West, but, no matter. I ask where these restrictions come from and the answer is always, "the sales force." The sales force? These people are totally out of touch with readers. Indians and soldiers are relegated to minor, unimportant roles in the new politically correct, scrubbed down western novels populated only by hardcases in saloons and white hat guys blowing them to pulp with a Colt .44.

An editor recently bought a series proposal from me, but he warned me about using Indians and soldiers. Furthermore, he started talking about my main character in terms of a movie he once saw. Luckily, I had not seen the movie, but if writers are basing their characters on movies, a cry of alarm should go up all over the publishing industry. This would be like putting cardboard on top of cardboard to create a character. Yes, folks, it's that bad. And, it's getting worse.

When LONGARM debuted at Playboy Press, Louis L'Amour saw the sales figures and wanted to write adult westerns. His publisher, Bantam, would not hear of it. Louis saw a chance to venture beyond the formula western and put some meat on it. Then, JAKE LOGAN came along and profits rose still higher. I wrote the GUNN series for Zebra, because I saw that readers of adult westerns were drawn to traditional westerns. GUNN did very well, but the writing was not as raw as in the LONGARM and JAKE LOGAN books.

Western novels today, even the bold ones, the ones written with heart and feeling, are just objects put on an assembly line. The publishers print a small number of copies to fill their quota, the books go on the stands and die there. Royalties are a thing of the past. Advances are low. Readership is dropping off faster than feathers on a moulting bird.

There may be intelligent life out there. Those of us on the bottom rung of the publishing ladder are still looking for it.

Readers, are you listening?

Publishers, are you stone deaf?

Hello? Anybody there?

Listen to the vast silence. It's like being trapped in a deserted landscape painted by Max Ernst.

Disturbing, isn't it?

2005-10-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

LIBRACIDE: KILLING OFF THE WESTERN

Marc Jaffe, the legendary editor who discovered Louis L'Amour, walked over to the table where I was sitting with my agent, Nat Sobel, and sat down. Marc had flown in from New York the night before to talk with Nat and me about the future of western publishing. Nat, unknown to me at the time, was intent on setting up a publishing company devoted exclusively to publishing Western fiction.

Nat was sounding us both out, I believe, to see if we could mesh on such a venture. Nat told me only that Marc had flown out just to see me. I thought he came out because he was nostalgic about Western Writers of America, since he had not attended a convention in many years.

"Jory," Marc said, after he sat down at our table, "I've been in the publishing business for 30 years and there's not a morning when I don't wake up and say to myself about your Rivers West series: 'I wish I'd thought of that.'"

We were in San Angelo for the annual Western Writers of America convention. The evening before, Nat had taken me, my wife Charlotte, Marc and Dale Walker, who was, at the time, editor of Texas Western Press at the University of Texas, El Paso, to a wonderful barbecue restaurant on the outskirts of the city. We spent the evening talking about a number of things, including Marc's adventures with Louis L'Amour during the early days of Louis' career.

L'Amour's stint at Bantam Books was guided by Stuart Applebaum, a wizard at promotion and publicity. Now, Louis was aging, and several publishers were looking around for a successor, hoping to duplicate L'Amour's success as a western writer.

Nat wanted to create a publishing company just for the Western novel, much the same way that he created Mysterious Press for Otto Penzler over at Ballantine. That was an $800,000 deal that Nat put together. Otto owned Mysterious Books, a bookstore, in New York. Nat wanted me to head up the company with Marc Jaffe. He wanted me to come to New York right away. At the time, I didn't know Marc was involved, or I might have accepted Nat's offer. He was very angry with me when I turned him down, but it wasn't until years later that I knew of Jaffe's involvement.

It was a missed opportunity, but I didn't want to leave Branson, Missouri and live in New York. Period.

Louis died, of course, and the scramble for someone to take his place was on. Over at Bantam, editor Greg Tobin had been grooming a young writer who lived in a small town near Knoxville, Tennessee, Cameron Judd, to step into L'Amour's shoes. Cameron wrote for two years before Bantam began releasing his novels, one every other month. The tactic failed. Nobody ever stepped into Louis L'Amour's shoes.

Meanwhile, Stuart Applebaum's brother, Irwyn, who had been Louis' editor at Bantam before he left to take over as President and Publisher at Pocket Books, returned to Bantam, after it was purchased by the German corporation, Bertlesmann, and took over as Publisher at Bantam, Doubleday, Dell. One of his tasks, dictated by Bertlesmann, was to phase out Bantam's Western publishing program.

In short succession, many writers fell under the knife, including Don Coldsmith, Elmer Kelton, Robert Conley, and others. Rivers West, Bantam's most successful historical series, which I created, fell to the same fate. Suddenly, it was all over. As creator of Rivers West, I hired the writers, which included Don Coldsmith, Richard S. Wheeler, Win Blevins, Fred Bean, Gary McCarthy, and Frank Roderus.

Over the years, the Western novel has suffered severe setbacks as other publishers followed Bantam's lead. During this time, Tom Doherty, founder of Tor Books, under Nat Sobel's urging, created a separate imprint from his Tor Books, and with my Grass Kingdom being the first under the new imprint, Forge, began to publish Frontier Fiction.

Forge is still the leader in Western publishing, and other publishers have begun to gradually fatten their Western lists. But, the movement is slow and the pay is low and slow, with a number of excellent writers feeling the pinch.

Pocket Books opened a Western publishing program and started writing contracts for some of us. It was a short-lived venture. I wrote two books on a 3-book contract, for a series I called THE OWLHOOT TRAIL. The first was published, the second delivered, and Pocket bought off the other two, closed down the program. Slammed the door shut.

It looked as if the publishing industry failed to create a writer-hero like Louis L'Amour, with his charisma and ability to reach the masses. In fact, they didn't really try. Greg Tobin left Bantam to head Book-of-the-Month Club, then retired to write novels at home. Gradually, the Western editors either left for other fields or plowed on without much support, financial or otherwise, and the western racks continued to shrink as bookstores moved the western section to the back of the store, where it was dark and little traffic came that way.

Now, I see some small signs of life, but the publishing industry continues its blind slaughter of the genre, a veritable libracide using the tactics of small print orders, no publicity, no nurturing of new writers and the gradual genocide of the older ones.

Some writers are dropping out, having seen the bold handwriting on the wall, and turning to the Mystery novel, the Christian, or other markets. The Western, which has made great strides as our exclusive American literature, is being ignored by the publishing industry, the distributors, wholesalers, book sellers, and the reading public.

It's not dead yet. It will probably never die, because of the power of its mythical backbone. We are the only country in the world which has the Old West, and we have the brave writers who continue to explore its oceanic depths, its big sky heights.

But, we're dying out, too, along with our books which are being killed off, one by one, by the insidious indifference of all concerned.

The real loser here, is, of course, the Reader, who never saw the blips on the radar and if they ever did, never cared. They missed a lot, and that's a crying shame.

We wrote the books, and they were good books. They were rivers of the West, and they flowed to an angry, churning sea, where they drowned, victims of libracide.

I mourn the loss.

Jory Sherman
Pittsburg, Texas

2005-09-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

Don Lee, please e-mail me via the contact form on my website at:

http://jorysherman.com/contact.html.

I'll be in E.S. next month and want to
help point you in the right direction.

You didn't leave your e-mail address, but I appreciated your comment.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Jory

2005-08-30T01:15:00.000-07:00

FORMS

In my dream this morning, I was teaching a writing class. In the dream, there were some well-known writers there and I planned to quote from their books. I read a passage from one of the books, then asked the class to think about the words, the language, the thought. Then, I handed the open book to my wife and asked her to conduct the class. In the dream, she was a tall, young beautiful woman with long dark hair. She was wearing a white toga that might have been made in Rome during the time of Plato and Socrates.

I strolled onto the marble courtyard, with its Ionian columns, stone benches, floral explosions in loamy beds, thinking of an object mentioned in the passage. The object then began to take on many forms in my mind as I was mentally explaining to the class that we must look beyond an image to see its many manifestations. The image began as a single ruby in a silver setting, but it became a small loaf of dark bread, and then water, changing into music, then into language, and finally, into pure energy.

I thought of the mysterious dark matter of this universe and the ancient phrase referring to the "music of the spheres," referring to the planets in our solar system. The energy became manifest as harmonics, the subject of a book I've been planning for some time, but so complex it took on daunting proportions, and the basic research lies in several file folders in my office cabinet.

As I swam upward through layers of sleep back to consciousness, I thought of this blog. I had intended to write on the subject of meditation, but the title FORMS intruded, and then became FORMLESSNESS. I realized, in the dream, that FORM AND FORMLESSNESS was the true subject of the dream, and that we begin writing a story, an article, an essay, a novel, a poem, from that basic stepping stone in the ancient courtyard.

The idea takes its own form. Like a fetus in the womb, it may go through many transformations. If one were able to view the entire process from the moment the swarm of sperm swim up the channel to to the ovum, and but a single one penetrating the egg, to the final day of gestation, we would see every form of living creature in the process, from a tadpole to a fish, to a bird, to a primate. The emergence of a human being, to be held and loved and named and nurtured would be the sum of a miraculous creation, a human baby.

All things are created in the mind before they are made manifest. In the beginning was the thought. The word came later, for we must name those things we create from thought. During the process of creation, the idea may take many forms. Forms beget other forms, and somewhere along the way, there is an assemblage, a coming together of thought and forms, until there is something concrete, something tangible that we can hold in our hands and call by name and present to the universe.

So it is with story. Somewhere in our minds, in that part of the mind we come in contact with when we meditate, when we sleep and dream, there is the very DNA of storytelling, that substance that is transformed from truth and experience into myth. And that myth is the seed that continues and assumes many forms through countless lifetimes, perhaps through countless reincarnations of a human soul. Whatever form that seed takes, it is always there, reachable through meditation and thought, always waiting, as sourdough bread or water and sugar. In my dream, the loaf of bread became a tray of Jello, the color of that single ruby in its silver setting.

As the dream evaporated in my conscious mind, all of the forms disappeared. But, their images lingered as tattered remnants of vivid objects, dulled by wakefulness, but shining and brilliant within the context of the dream. And, I question myself as a writer, wondering which was more real to me, the dreamscape with its odd, but realistic world, or my waking state when I am surrounded by objects already created by others.

The stories, their forms, spring from just such formlessess, that Void which was always there, that inexplicable dark matter of space, which may well be a form of music, audible to only a very few on a conscious level, but heard subliminally by all creatures, all forms of life, be they made of stone or wood or flesh. We see what we wish to see. We create what we think. We live in several worlds, it seems, and one of these worlds is what we call a dream. But, to the artist, the dream world is every bit as real as the waking, and when we write, when we put into form what was only imagination and thought, we bring the various worlds together. We create myth that lives on in the collective unconscious. We add another rung to the ladder of DNA, we connect the interstices and send the messages of creation along their various and varied paths.

That is the wonder of life for us humans with our finite minds. That we can find form out of formlessness, that we can deduce patterns and shapes in all things and come to realize that this is, indeed, the image we were given: that of creator. Walt Whitman certainly saw that connection. In Leaves of Grass, he was all things. He was everyman, and he was every woman, too. He was the world and he was the universe.

And, so, too, are we. Forms that change from moment to moment, from lifetime to lifetime.

Yes, it's an awesome concept.

But, in the dream state, it all makes perfect sense.

Jory Sherman

2005-07-18T15:05:00.000-07:00

ACROBATIC EYES

I'm amazed at the athletic ability of human eyes in the hands of so many contemporary writers. Eyes may soon have to don capes and sport a logo on the front of their T-shirts, such as, perhaps, the letters SE embroidered within a golden triangle. The SE would stand for SUPER EYES.

I first noticed the athleticism of eyes during the first blush of the romance novel bloom when publishers were snapping up writers so fast Rosemary Rogers' hair stood on end. In these novels, we had such scenes as this one: "In her upstairs bedroom, he took her in his arms and clasped her tight. Her eyes went over his shoulder, out the window and across the lawn into the distant trees."

In others, there were such phrases as: "Her eyes followed him across the dance floor, lingered on his lithe body, caressed each muscle that rippled under his tight trousers."

There were optical orbs that performed such feats as this one: "He undressed her with his eyes."

Lately, the eyes in our literature must be taking steroids because they are appearing in the novels of writers I much admire. I read: "His eyes traveled around the room." And, "his eyes flew to the door."

These are writers whose literary gifts are admirable, writers who know and love the English language. Yet, they have committed an odd kind of pathetic fallacy, one that does not attribute speech and thought to animals or inanimate objects, but endows eyes with superb athletic ability, eyes that can "soar to the sky," or that have "roamed over every item in the briefcase."

And, we are all familiar with the phrase "every eye was glued on her and she stepped to the footlights."

Well, eyes can't do any of these things. They can't roam, travel outside their sockets, or fly or soar or wend their way into female hearts.

The late Francis Fugate, a very perceptive writer who lived in El Paso, first drew my attention to "acrobatic eyes," with a piece he wrote for The Roundup, the official magazine of Western Writers of America, years ago. Since then, I've become very sensitive to what eyes can do in literature. Before, such eyeball activity was limited to comic books and cartoons. Eyes could elongate, grow larger than a head, spin colored spirals, and a host of other Plastic Man-like contortions.

So, I try not to make my characters employ athletic eyes. Instead, my fictional characters tend to gaze, to glance, and, well, just to see. My eyes are incapable of leaving their sockets in order to glide across expansive lawns, caress bodies, or become glued to anything, animate or inanimate.

Eyes can see, they can look, they can gaze, they can scan. They can do a great many things as long as they remain in their sockets.

Beware of athletic eyes. They can make your writing look as ridiculous as Jim Carrey's eyes in "The Mask."

Now, if you're drawing animated cartoons…hey, go for it.

2005-06-17T10:13:00.000-07:00

MAGIC

Last week CBS aired an interview with Bob Dylan. Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes asked Dylan a crucial question after informing us that Dylan has been nominated for a Nobel Prize for his songwriting. Bradley asked Dylan: "Where did it all come from?"

Dylan replied that he didn't know. He indicated that it might have been magic. He sang some lines from one of his songs and said he could not create lyrics like those today. And, perhaps he was right.

I knew what Bob Dylan was talking about. And, such creative forces are difficult to explain. And, in hindsight, even for an artist such as Dlyan, it does seem like magic. But, there is a source, a source I believe in, and I discovered it much in the same way Dylan probably discovered he had all those brilliant lyrics pouring into his mind. He shakes his head now. He probably shook his head back then when he wrote songs down in as little as 10 minutes.

I believe there is just one great Mind in this universe, and we all use it. And, each of us uses it according to our needs and our desires. It is like a giant pool, and we can tap into any part of it and draw from it. It seems, in the beginning, as if it comes from some unknown source. You write something down and say to yourself "now how did I know that?"

When I began writing, the words poured in on me in the form of poetry. It was raw material, without form, but I knew it was magical. I knew that I had tapped into some great Source, and I began to study structure and form and I learned to harness the energy. Dylan had the musical scale and he knew what to do with the words. Once you have a vessel, the words can be arranged, they can form patterns and become substance. In the beginning was the Void and we, as creators, begin to fill that Void.

No, Dylan probably could not write the kinds of lyrics now that he wrote then, but the Source remains there. He has created a different kind of reality since those early times when his vision took him to such wonderful heights. But, if he wished to tap in to the Source, he could.

Consciousness is not something confined to the brain. It exists outside the body. Thought taps into that consciousness and draws from it, paints pictures, writes songs, poems, stories, novels, sculpts statues and objects in a new dimension, our dimension.

There was a time, when I needed money for my recording studio in San Bernardino. I was writing, directing and producing a series of audio dramas on Youth and Drugs and Alcohol and Drugs. To finance the project, since no agency or company would fund me, I wrote short stories for fast money. I wrote 3 short stories a day and sold them all, and they were all published, not once, but several times. In fact, after I moved to Mexico, I lived off those stories for 7 years.

I could not do this today, because I have put too many obstacles in my path. My reality has changed. But, recently, some editors and publishers asked me to write short stories for their anthologies. I opened the tap, and the stories poured forth. One after another, the stories came, and I began to neglect the work on my novel. So, I had to shut off the tap. But, the pool is still there. I can go back. I can tap into it again.

When someone sees a marvelous invention and is ignorant of its workings, it seems to that person that something akin to magic is involved. I have always thought that about writing. Even though I have my theories, I am still amazed at some of the things I write. And, it still seems like magic to me.

I hope I never lose that feeling, that wonder, that awe.

For, even though I may know where it all comes from, I am still amazed. And this is what keeps me going back to the Source each day, what keeps me at the computer writing novels and stories and poetry. And, I believe, you can go home again, and always find what you need.

You need only sit and listen. The music will come.

Jory Sherman

2005-05-15T23:13:00.000-07:00

VOCABULARY

At the root of every human language, there is a basic vocabulary of around 800 words. With such a vocabulary, man was able to make himself understood through speech. Language is such a living thing, however, that it tends to grow as new discoveries in science, biology, nature, technology, etc. are made. As language spread among peoples, it constantly took on new words. Most of the major languages of today have grown well beyond the basic vocabulary. A language grows according to its exposure to other languages. Conquerors, in the past, affected the language of the conquered. The Roman Empire, for instance, influenced the language of a great number of conquered peoples, leading to the creation of other languages.

From the already dead language of Latin, which was never spoken; it was always a written language, rich in syntax. The Vulgate, was the language of the common people. This became the Italian language. And, Italian, through conquest begat other languages. We know these languages today as Romanian, Portugese, Spanish, and French.

English is the richest language in the world. From its Anglo-Saxon roots, it too into its fold, not only the Romance languages mentioned above, but those of Teutonic origin, Greek, Turkish, and a host of other tongues. It continues to grow today, unlike Chinese, which is also a dead language, like Latin, that does not take on new words. Other languages have become enriched by taking on English words.

Language is power. A large vocabulary allows for precision of speech, a wider range of expression for complex subjects. As technology develops with such rapidity, so, too, does the language, not only of science, but of everyday speech.

For a writer, a large vocabulary is invaluable. Just as a painter has progressed well beyond the primary colors into infinite variation and shadings, so, too, the writer of today is able to draw much richer images with language.

Yet there are those who would limit the vocabulary of writers, shorten the scope of the creative mind. Dictionaries are still published, but few readers use them. If they come upon a word that they do not understand, they tend to skip over it and miss the meaning. Books are classified into age groups among young readers. To me, this seriously limits the growth of young people who may grow up with a limited vocabulary. I think this has led to a stunting of young minds, perhaps the eventual death of language itself. I'd like to see books for young people designed to send the readers to the dictionary in order to improve their vocabulary.

The western novel of today is bound to the vocabulary of yesterday, except, say, in the case of Cormac McCarthy. This is a shame, and denies many readers the opportunity to grow intellectually. I think it also relegates the genre to relic status, burying the category in a language graveyard. But, it's not only the western novel that is being held back by a limited vocabulary. Other genres are suffering the same fate. The human mind is not being fed and it's in danger of atrophying from lack of vocabulary.

Here is an example of the alarming trend among publishers as outlined by Dean Koontz. I read the piece in Michael Cader's Publisher's Lunch, which he garnered from the Wall Street Journal, and present it here as vital food for thought.

4 May 2005

Koontz's View

Dean Koontz is reported to sell about 17 million copies of his books annually around the world, and he gets over 30,000 fan letters a year. The WSJ interviews him about the marketing of books. Koontz says:

"I would say the biggest problem is underestimating the reading audience. I've always written cross-genre books: a suspense novel with a love story inside and some comedy. But publishers resisted this strenuously. Everything has to be labeled, and sold that way. If you're writing a series, there is pressure to keep things narrow and not break out. Books like Herman Wouk's "The Winds of War" and James Clavell's "Shogun" have largely disappeared from the bestseller list. The common wisdom is that readers don't have the patience they once did. But underestimating the reading public is a very big mistake. If there was more trust in the public, it would pay off. An editor once told me that if I didn't keep my vocabulary to 500 words I'd never make the best-seller list."

He praises the web as "a low-cost way of generating a connection between writers and their audience" and says he will write more pieces for his own site.

WSJ interview

As a working writer, I do not subscribe to any basic vocabulary. I doubt that my work will ever achieve popular acceptance for that very reason. However, I refuse to be hampered by any basic vocabulary. To me, having the use of the richest language in the world, English, means that I can paint with a rich palette. I can use colors that are well beyond the rainbow.

I'm well aware that western readers are a dying breed. I'm probably one of the contributors to that death of a breed. I don't use a dictionary, by the way. I like to trace the cathexis of a word back to its origins. I want to now the meaning of words and how they got into our language. I want to reveal the powerful mystery of a word through its use in a living, growing language. I want to make the colors dance and merge and flow like a river, teeming with life, in the deepest recesses of the human mind.

And, so far, I've been lucky. I still have my own limited vocabulary.

And, so far, nobody's tried to take it away from me.

Write on, then, and fearlessly use that wonderful vocabulary our language has given you.

Jory

2005-05-02T14:48:00.000-07:00

A GNASHING OF TEETH...

We get few visitors up here on the ward.

Those who do come here, always point to me, and ask: "What's he in here for?"

The reply is always the same: "Oh, he's a western writer. Been here a long time."

"Picked the wrong genre, did he?"

"Yes. He could have been a 'contenda', according to Tennessee Williams."

The visitors shake their heads and go away, knowing that I am a victim of that febrile OC madness that afflicts so many, westernwriteritis.

I often wonder why I persist in writing westerns. Is it merely Obsessive-Compulsive behavior? Some years ago, I asked my editor at Forge, Bob Gleason, Editor-in-Chief, if he didn't want me to write in another genre since the westerns had dipped so sharply in sales. He said no, that they were working on better distribution. I asked him the same questions over several years, and always got the same answer. So, I'm still writing western novels. And, it appears, these novels are finding few readers.

I am convinced that my long-ago suggestions that the publishers educate the wholesalers, distributors, booksellers, and the public, about the riches they were missing by neglecting the westerns. I even suggested that they stop calling these novels "Westerns," and, instead, call them "Americans," because they are truly American novels and deserve better standing among readers.

But, of course, no one did that, and publishers continue the habit of adorning these novels with covers that shriek "Western." And, book buyers continue to pass them by, leaving them to languish on the racks and be pushed off into the shredder as new titles come out.

I feel that the Western novel has little chance of reaching the general public, attracting female readers, or attaining mainstream, or even mid-list status unless the publishers take positive steps to educate all those concerned with distributing, selling and reading novels. The writers of the today's Westerns are fighting massive waves in hip-deep waters armed only with wooden swords. And, the waves are getting higher, attaining Tsunami status.

It's enough to drive some of us to the bug house, babbling to ourselves.

It's madness.

And, that's why I've been consigned to my own rubber room.

But, someday, mark my words, I'm going to escape and never darken the doors of those few Western readers left.

I'm mad as hell and not going to take it much longer.

Do you hear that sound?

It's me, gnashing my teeth. I've already fought the tidal waves of public opinion.

And, I have lost that battle.

Jory

2005-04-19T00:30:00.000-07:00

I'm the new guy on the blog.

Don't like puns? Someone once said that the pun was the lowest form of wit, and I agree. But, they're pun to do sometimes.

I am new to blogging, after attempting one on my website (www.jorysherman.com) and realizing I was somewhat out of my element, since I'm primarily a writer of fiction. It's tough to bare your thoughts to complete strangers. Who are these strangers? Well, readers of course.

But I should not be so sensitive about this, since I bare my thoughts to strangers all the time in my novels.

I realized, after writing that first attempt at a weblog, that my blog offered very little to the average reader of these fascinating glimpses into a person's life and mind. In that first blog, which should probably be called a blogette, not only for its small size, but for its small scope, that I lack reportorial skills to a high degree. My little blog contained more meaningless pap than substance.

In short, there was no elegant diatribe in it. No passionate discourse on the state of publishing in general and western publishing in particular.

And that was where my heart was at the time I wrote that first blog.

So, let's start over.

Let's attack something.

Or someone.

Let's use words as weapons of mass destruction, instead of using them as a creative force to suspend disbelief.

Um, whom should we attack first?

Maybe I should lay some groundwork, rather than just arm myself with the slings and arrows of misfortune.

All right. Here goes.

I have, for many years, championed the western as our native-grown, exclusive, form of literature. But, I have also called the western novel, publishing's bastard child. I have called upon publishers to get behind this literature and educate wholesalers, distributors, booksellers, and the public, about the value of the western in American literature.

All to no avail.

The western is the most neglected form of American literature, yet the writers are among the most gifted among present day scribes. For proof, look in the bookstores, read the review sections of newspapers, look at royalty reports.

The western racks in bookstores have shrunk. They have been moved to the farthest reaches and into the darkest corners of the chain bookstores.

Reviews of western novels are seldom seen in major newspapers, or even in trade magazines, such as Publisher's Weekly.

The average life of a paperback on the stands is about 12 days. After that time, a title disappears and, like morning dew, evaporates into the atmosphere. The bright and shiny new western novel vanishes into the Void, never to be seen again, except in used bookstores. There, of course, the western still thrives without publisher or author royalties. Still, that is better than death.

In the used bookstore, the western novel still has life and meaning. Like oral history, the words are passed along, the writer is read, the story lives on.

Here is a statement that I hear often:

"I went to the bookstore, but didn't see any of your books."

Well, sure. The book buyer needs further education. Before the emergence of the dreaded chain stores, readers were used to walking into a bookstore and finding their favorite authors. They could talk to the clerks and the owner about books and authors. The books were almost always there, and they stayed there for a long time, sometimes years.

Not now.

I tell these people who say they do not see my books in Barnes & Noble, Waldenbooks, B. Dalton, et al, that today one must ask for the book. Sometimes the clerk will actually go to the computer and look up the name of a western author for a customer. Sometimes, these same clerks will actually order a copy to be sent from the warehouse.

But, if you don't ask, the book will sit in a distant warehouse, and eventually, be sent back from whence it came. And, then, oh horrors, that book will probably be consigned the shredder, or remaindered for pennies on the dollar.

This is discouraging to the writer of westerns.

And I have been discouraged and disheartened for a long time.

Not only have I not seen any improvement in the marketplace, I have seen a decline in virtually every aspect of marketing. Giant distributors have bought out the small independents, which were the lifeblood of western distribution. Editors, who know nothing about the west and care nothing about the west, are put in charge of the western lines. Publishers have dropped the western line because of poor sales. Yet, none examined the cause of such a drastic drop in sales of westerns.

It's all bottom line now.

And, the western is below the bottom line.

When it should be way above the top line.

Think about it.

And, I'll be back, with more on this and other burning issues that deal with the state of western literature.

Thanks for hearing me out.

Jory Sherman