Come on, people…get a grip!

As I write this, it’s a couple hours into “Cyber Monday,” the great on-line shop-a-looza that follows Black Friday and (something new this year!) Black Saturday…you know, your last chance to shave a few bucks off the perfect gifts for your loved ones, office mates, classmates and teachers…whomever among your circle of acquaintances needs “gifting”…until the next last chance to save money on the perfect gifts for the holidays.

Yes, THE HOLIDAYS are officially here, and outside of shopping, you know what that means—spreading love and cheer and goodwill to all. It means activities like baking cookies, participating in gift exchanges and “giving” trees, dropping a few dollars into the red buckets outside stores, and of course pepper-spraying the person ahead of you in line so you can ensure you’ll get your hands on the latest must-have toy, gizmo…whatever.

If you’re reading a touch of cynicism in my words this morning, you’d be right! And it’s not new either. It’s an affliction that strikes me every year about this time, and has ever since I saw a television commercial a few years back that claimed the holidays were “all about giving.” Well, not for me. For me “the holidays” means a four-week period set aside to await the celebration of a child’s birth, a birth that (to me) signifies hope for the world. But that message was long ago coopted by ad agencies and retailers and turned into a reason for people to line up outside of stores in the middle of the night and crush anyone who might impede their path to the sales racks.

Now, believe me, I love a deal as much as everyone else. I clip coupons, I subscribe to savings publications and newsletters, and I shop sales. I love buying gifts for my loved ones too, and I love watching their faces as they unwrap those gifts. But this year seems to be even nuttier than past years, with stores opening before the hours of Thanksgiving had fully ticked down. (Really? Do stores really need to open up so early that their employees have to push themselves off the couch, where they might be relaxing with family and loved ones, to go ring up sales for people who can’t wait for the next day?) I almost wish I could turn that clock ahead to when the feeding frenzy of shopping and “deals” has passed. Almost.

I hesitate because if I skip the craziness of the shopping season, I have to also skip the joy and wonder that is Christmas. I’ll have to skip some of my favorite things to do. Things like putting up decorations that my husband and I have collected over the years, trinkets and mementos of our children’s growing years,  and even a few from our own childhood, instant and treasured memories of friends and family, some of whom are long gone. It would mean missing singing along with favorite Christmas carols on the radio (my voice on full volume and my windows rolled fully up!), and trips to the nursery in search of the perfect Christmas tree.  (Okay, I wouldn’t mind skipping the annual ritual of untangling the lights, but sometimes you have to take the bad with the good!) I’d have to miss out on special parties with friends from work and special worship music at church. And I’d have to miss reading those beloved scripture passages that tell of that baby’s birth.

I know some don’t want to hear or read this. Some want to continue to tell themselves Christmas is all about “giving,” and finding the perfect gift for their children, loved ones and co-workers. After all, didn’t the Wise Men bring gifts to the Christ child? I know too that people who don’t celebrate Christmas enjoy “the holidays” as well, and I’m glad for that. I’m glad that there’s a season where we at least pretend to really care about each other. And I’m glad that the crazy people in the malls are the exception, not the rule.

So my hope for you, and for me, as we’re scouring the on-line deals on this Great Cyber Monday, or out among the throngs pushing their way through the malls, that each of us will catch a glimpse of, and maybe share, the spirit of Christmas. I hope that we can tamp down on our natural impatience as we  wait on hold for the next customer service agent, or fight mall traffic, and maybe even let someone else have that parking space near the door. I hope we can smile at each other as we we’re standing in long lines at the register.  And I hope, as we subconsciously process the commercial messages of these next four weeks, that we can shed the stress of too much shopping, too much baking and too many people on our “must buy for” lists and hang on to that sense of joy and anticipation that the angels sang about more than two thousand years ago.

Happy “holidays,” everyone.

 

Unhappy is as unhappy does?

I once worked for a very wealthy couple who owned and operated their own business. They lived in a mansion in one of the nicest parts of town, both drove big luxury cars, and sent their kids to the best schools in the country. And when their kids graduated college, they either gave them jobs in their firm or purchased them their own companies. (Seriously. And that’s outside of graduation gifts!)

At the time I was hired, the contrast with my own life was stark. My husband had just lost his job, we had to sell our home, and worse, had to give our dog away because she was too big for apartment life. My kids had to move into a tiny bedroom together that was barely big enough for one person, much less two growing boys. It’s not an exaggeration to say they hated us both. It was a difficult period for all of us, and I couldn’t help giving in to more than a little envy when I looked at all my employers had. It wasn’t like they hid their wealth, after all. In fact, the level of their material worth was practically thrown in my face daily.

So it was with some shock that I realized, not long after I settled into the job, that these were not happy campers. These people were miserable most of the time, and they didn’t hide that either. From where I sat, just outside the wife’s office at one end of the big, long building, I could hear her conversations with her husband, whose office was at the other end of the building. (Before you think I was eavesdropping, I wasn’t. They often communicated by intercom, and often their conversations would echo down the corridor!) In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for them to conduct heated “discussions” via the intercom. This couple made it no secret that they had embraced unhappiness.

I worked for them for a full year before finding a different job, and despite the difficult and stressful work environment, I’m grateful to them for teaching me one of the greatest lessons of my life: It’s true–money does not buy happiness.

So while I thought about what to write about this week, Thanksgiving week, and about my many blessings, I thought what better topic could there be than to express thanks for those intangibles in life that bring us joy but cannot be purchased, can only be freely given, and freely received.

So here’s my “I’m grateful for” list for Thanksgiving 2011. . .

First, for God, for creating a world of such beauty, and for filling it with sights and sounds and tastes for our pleasure. He gave us food for sustenance, animals for unconditional love, and friends for helping us enjoy the good times and endure the bad.

Second, that I was somehow (through fate maybe?) born in a country that cherishes individual rights and personal freedoms. I can go to my church and worship without fear of persecution. I can travel freely. I can spend my time with whom and how I want. I’m free to pursue my dreams, or not. I’m free to succeed, and I’m free to fail and start over. Now those are blessings.

Third, I’m grateful for those who are reading this blog, and for those whose support and words of encouragement have meant so much to me over the past couple years as I’ve pursued my writing journey.

Lastly (but never least), I’m thankful for my mother. She’s no longer with us, but she taught me and my sister that the greatest, most important “thing” in the world is love. She not only preached those words, but she lived by them every day. So I thank Mom for opening my eyes to the gift of love, in all its forms, and I thank the many who have come into my life and shared their love with me.

Where would I be today without my big sister who’s been watching out for me for so many years? (I’ll reserve the whole throwing-me-off-her-rocking-horse episode for another day. <grin>)  Where would I be without my husband who cheers me on and nourishes my dreams and cares for me in so many ways? Or my children who make me so proud, not just for their accomplishments, but for the men they’re growing to be? I’m thankful for my new-found sister whose strength and courage are an inspiration to me. I’m thankful too for my extended family and friends who make me smile just to hear their voices, my “sisters” and “brothers” borne not of the same blood, but through years of shared joys and sorrows.

Both Mom and those former employers taught me that all the “stuff” in the world is meaningless without the love of family and friends, and a heart open to love. So this Thanksgiving, I wish all across the country (and around the world) a safe and joyous day. I wish you freedom to practice your faith and courage to pursue your dreams. I hope that, above all, you too will be rich as I am in the love of family and friends.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Fathers matter

This is a story for you fathers out there, a sad story about a man whose name I’ll say is Stan. I  used to know him when I was a very young girl, but we lost touch at some point, and as the years passed, he gave up trying and I gave up hoping. Stan was one of those men who married, over and over…sometimes the same woman multiple times. He didn’t stay with one wife for too long—a couple years with this one, a couple with that one—leaving his progeny (three daughters and a son) several thousand miles apart.

That type of behavior might seem odd for many of us, but for Stan it was normal. It might seem uncaring too, if one were to view the situation from the perspective of the deserted child. But if one looks from the perspective of the deserting parent, things change, and we begin to understand that Stan never understood that his presence, his existence here on earth, mattered to those who loved him. We see that, somehow, Stan thought he wasn’t missed.

To Stan it might have come as a shock to learn that his comings and goings affected those he left behind. He seemed to think he lived his life in a void where others felt no pain, no disappointment and no sense of loss when he disappeared for months, or years, at a time. He apparently didn’t comprehend that his daughters, and probably his birth family, yearned for a visit from him, or even a call or a letter. He assumed those connections came with the obligation of financial support. And money? Well, that he didn’t have. Or maybe he just didn’t care to share what he had. And he was right, he did have a financial obligation to his children, but what he didn’t realize is that they loved him with or without cash in hand. So he turned his back. He walked away. And he rarely looked back.

When he did surface from time to time, it was always with assurances of love, and his daughters believed him, at least at first. They held out hope with each call, each letter, that it might be the rekindling of a relationship. And each time they were disappointed. Oh, he always had the right words ready, but he didn’t seem to understand that the words “I love you,” even when spoken in a vacuum, are powerful. They’re words that children hope to trust in, and long to return, in person.

I can only think that Stan must have believed himself so terribly unlovable that it was right to keep himself from the very people who cared about him the most, and in doing so, he deprived his children of a father. Despite the cartoonish depiction of some fathers in today’s media, I believe that strong, loving fathers are vital to the health of a family. Little boys need their fathers to teach them right from wrong, to show them how to be men, to make the tough choices that living a righteous and honorable life call for. Little girls need their fathers too, to teach them to respect and value themselves, to not let others, especially boys or men, take advantage, to look those boys/men in the eye and convey to them to tread carefully where those daughters are concerned. But I don’t believe Stan understood how important he was to his children. I don’t believe he ever grasped the value he could bring to their lives. Because he stayed away.

See, I told you it was a sad story, but what’s even sadder is that Stan projected that un-need for family contact to his daughters. Somehow he assumed that they, like him, were happy going it alone and staying out of touch with the others. He must have assumed that they not only accepted his absences, but that they had no need to know each other or his birth family—his parents, his six brothers and sisters, assorted aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces. So he kept them apart in what seems almost a deliberate effort to keep the various “fruits” of his various paternal “branches” from touching, each other or the larger family.

Fortunately, there’s a silver lining to Stan’s sad story, at least in part. As much as Stan tried to keep his children apart, tried to spread that “they don’t love me/they don’t need me” attitude that he must have carried, at least his daughters—separated by distance, years, environment and circumstances—inherited some of his cunning. They thought about each other over the years, stared at surnames in the phone book, longing for the guts to start calling and asking if they were in any way related. They put names in search fields of the various social media sites in hopes of getting a hit, and from time to time left cookie trails for the others to find.

Finally, a few weeks ago, one of the trails was discovered, and the two branches, who’ve been separated for more than 40 years, were able to connect, were able to speak via the wonders of modern telecommunications technology, were able to hear each other’s voices for the first time, to share memories of their mutual father and how his life has affected them.

I can’t help but find it ironic that the biggest clue that led them to find one another was Stan’s obituary. So today, at least one daughter is left wondering if he’s somewhere in the spirit world shaking his fist at the gods of technology for allowing this to happen. Or maybe his perspective has changed. Maybe he can now see how very wrong he was all those years to keep himself apart from them, and them from each other. Maybe now he can see that family mattered—he mattered—and maybe he can be happy for those he left behind.

I hope you’re at peace, Stan. I’ve never really known you, but maybe, just maybe, I can now begin to learn about you and your parents, your brothers and sisters, and your other children. Maybe I can begin to understand the thought processes that made you the person you were and that made you act as you did. I pray that now, finally, you can begin to feel the  love that somehow escaped you here on earth. I pray that now, maybe, I can begin to forgive.

Indie publishing: The real reason I did it

It’s only Monday morning and I’m already exhausted–not a good sign when the work-week is stretching before me like the first mile of a marathon. The worst part? There’s no particular reason for my fatigue. No big weekend behind me, causing me to run from one activity to another. No special events that spent my emotional stamina. I didn’t even attempt to tackle the dust bunnies running rampant through my house. No, I spent the weekend working on writing stuff, most notably working on promo events for the novella I released last week.

I had my work cut out for me too and started with a long to-do list. Send newsletter announcement: check. (Okay it was a week late, but it’s out.) Post headline ad on one of the romance sites: check. Update web site: check….I think. (Note to self: check web site.) Tweet about the launch, post on Facebook, check out that whole ISBN business, submit to review sites: two full checks, one half-check and one non-check….Oh well, there’s always next weekend. On the plus side, I did manage to spend a couple hours Sunday afternoon actually working on a story.

If you follow this blog, you know I rarely write about writing, or my books, or any of that stuff. I started this blog (and titled it “A Voice from Silence”) because I needed a dumping ground for all the extraneous angst floating around in my head. I figure if something bugs me, it probably bugs someone else too, and maybe those someone “elses” might want to read about whatever it is bothering me, and might even find comfort in knowing they’re not alone.

But writing doesn’t bother me. Writing is my outlet, my passion, my joy. At times it comes as naturally to me as breathing. Other times it’s a struggle, like pretty much any time I have to do anything on the business end. And when you’re following an independent path to publication, as I did with this novella, you are the business. So I find myself, a week after the launch of that novella, looking back on my decision, wondering if I knew what I was getting into.

I knew the promo would be up to me, but that’s the case too with my 2010 novel which was released by a romance publisher. True, aside from the actual production, the publisher distributed the book and sent it out to review sites, but that’s pretty much it from a promo standpoint. The marketing team is good about letting us know about opportunities, but whether or not I snap up one of those opportunities is my call, and it’s my time and/or money spent to participate.

But an indie author not only has to spend the time or money, he/she first has to mine the far-reaching fields of book promotion sites/companies/groups to identify the opportunities. Certain promo things are fun. I love anything that has me interacting with readers, whether they read my books or not. It’s a chance to meet new people, find out what they like and don’t like, and I always have a great time.

Then there are things like putting myself out there on the various social media sites, asking to guest blog, or asking (begging) for a review. These are much more difficult for me. I really dislike being the center of attention, and it feels more than a little narcissistic to be asking people to look at and talk about, maybe even read my work. I’m confused by the etiquette of the various social media sites too. If someone follows me on Twitter, should I reciprocate? Will I hurt that person’s feelings if I don’t? Realistically, I don’t know how anyone can possibly follow dozens (hundreds?) of tweets multiplied by hundreds (thousands?) of people. I know I can’t, and I can only hope that they have so many followers, the addition or omission of my little name won’t matter. Or do they sit there comparing their “following” lists against their “followers” lists and figure out who might have ignored the handshake they’ve offered.

My mind races in circles with this stuff!

If that wasn’t enough, then there are the real business considerations: Do I buy my own ISBN, which platforms do I want to be on, and the biggie, how much to charge for the fruits of months of labor that someone will read in a couple hours? Now I’m really out of my element. (I have about zero amount of business knowledge or acumen.) I spent hours agonizing over the price issue alone–reading blogs and polls and otherwise soliciting readers’ and writers’ opinions–and I’m still not certain I made the right decision.

So, like I said, here I am, a week later, wondering if I made the right call. And then I got to thinking about why I put it out there at all. It wasn’t to make a million dollars, or to be one of those super-lucky souls whose books shoot from anonymity to the zenith of the publishing world (you know, in the top 100 on amazon). (Okay, that is a nice day dream, but it’s hardly an expectation.) No, the reason I published it independently (instead of sticking with the contract I had) is because for months my little group of followers have been asking me when the next book was coming out. It killed me to admit it was going to be a full year. I mean, how lame is that to be able to get only one novella out in a two-year period? (And that’s not even counting the twenty or more years this story has been been sitting in my file cabinet, germinating and waiting for life.)

Before you start thinking what an obnoxious, arrogant soul I’ve become, let me say I’m completely and unabashedly humbled by the support I’ve received from so many. And believe me, I don’t carry any illusions that the presence or absence of my work will make anyone’s life any better, or worse. But you can be sure that I know how blessed I am to have people asking me when the next book is coming out.

So I suppose in retrospect, regardless of sales rank or royalties, I’m glad I chose an independent path to publication. I’m glad I chose to make public a story I’ve loved for a long time. And I can only hope that if any choose to purchase it, the story will entertain them, prompt them to think about something in a slightly different perspective, or maybe just help them escape into a different world for a couple hours. That’s my goal as a writer, and if I can accomplish that, I’ll be happy, and I’ll know that the months of work, and resulting fatigue of “birthing” the book, were well spent.

* * * *

(Okay, okay, I suppose I have to add this….)
Adrienne’s Ghost tells the story of the discovery of the body of agent recruit Adrienne Garza in the basement of FBIHQ, and of the relationship that develops between the investigating agent and paranormal psychologist who hunt for the killer…and encounter Adrienne’s ghost along the way. Complete details, including an excerpt, can be found on my web site.

Thank you, New Jersey

New Jersey gets a bad rap. I know that because I spent most of my growing and adult years in the state named for its gardens but known for its highways. It’s the state where I raised my children, the state where I learned to drive, learned to cook (well, sort of), and learned the love of writing. So it’s fitting, to me, that it’s the state where I was reminded, this past weekend, of the special power in the love of friends.

I just returned from my first-ever conference devoted to romance writing. Sponsored by the New Jersey chapter of Romance Writers of America, the annual conference brings together writers as distant as Canada and the Virgin Islands to meet and attend workshops led by those who have experiences and skills to share. So for three days every October, the conference hotel is overrun by (mostly) women carrying bags of each other’s freebies, chatting about and sharing what they learned and what they dream, discussing the industry and where it’s headed, and, most importantly (to me), renewing friendships and making new friends.

Seeing the lobby full of women hanging out and catching up got me thinking about friendship, about how lucky I’ve been throughout my life to have made supportive and loving friends who have shared my fears and joys and enriched my life in so many ways. I’ve been blessed over and over with treasured relationships that are so much a part of me, their names and faces are rarely far from my mind. Some are in Florida, some in Texas and the Midwest, and some right there in Jersey where we lived until about four years ago.

When my husband and I moved from Jersey, I knew it would be hard, but I counted on our ability to keep in touch through the wonders of e-mail, Facebook and video chats. And we have, but it’s not the same. We all know that. As wonderful as the new technology is, it can’t take the place of those face-to-face meetings, the long walks in the morning or late at night, the family barbeques and New Year’s Eve parties, and the shared cups of coffee after church. And that’s what I miss most. So I used the Jersey writers’ conference as a chance to fill my depleting cup of “friend time” back to the brim.

Armed with a few extra days off from work, I planned time with those Jersey friends, and I’m so glad I did. It was wonderful seeing again the people who have helped me and my husband through some of the toughest days of our marriage and who have shared some of our greatest joys. But it wasn’t enough, and now here I am, after the long weekend, back in Virginia, reminded once again of all that I left behind when we packed up our belongings and headed south on I-95.

Oh, I joke on Facebook about missing real bread and pizza, about missing people who pronounce “ricotta” as ri-got—and the ability to find decent ri-got in the stores. Sometimes I tire of southern drivers’ patience on the roadways and wish they could find just a little bit of New Jerseyans’ fill-the-gap impatience. (There are times I have to contain the screams in my head for the southern driver in front of me who will neither keep up to traffic nor move out of my way.  But that’s whole other blog topic.)

But if I could turn back the clock, I’d think a little bit harder about what it would mean to leave those friends I’ve made in the state. How it would feel to know that finances dictate when and where I can see them, and that I’d have to use the excuse of a writers’ conference to make that trip. (On another side note, I’m now researching must-attend conferences in Florida and Texas.)  I would probably still choose to move—another decision dictated by finances—but maybe I’d have been a little more prepared for how hard it would be to live without those day-to-day contacts that, to me, form the meaning of life.

So thank you, New Jersey (and NJRW), for reminding me of the value of fellowship within a community. Thank you for reminding me of the importance of stretching our imaginations and reaching for our dreams. But thank you, most of all, for giving me the opportunity to recharge my friend “battery.” I needed it.

Competition is for the Competitive

By now anyone who follows motor sports knows that IndyCar driver Dan Wheldon was killed yesterday (October 16) in the 12th lap of the Izod IndyCar season finale at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway. The two-time Indy 500 winner (and reigning Indy 500 champ) started at the back of the pack, and was racing toward a $5 million bonus if he could make it to the front, with another $1.5 million promised to some lucky fan.

Well, it wasn’t luck that propelled Dan from the final spot on the track to number 24 out of 34 cars at the time of the accident━it was skill. But it had to be the worst luck in the world that had Dan positioned just behind two cars involved in a collision that quickly sucked 13 of the others into its maelstrom, sending several cartwheeling over each other and bursting into flames. One of those was Dan’s, and he was the only driver who didn’t make it out alive.

Dan Wheldon was 33 years old, and among the loved ones he left behind are a wife and two children. My heart aches for his family. My prayers go out to them that, over time, only the good times, the big wins and successes, will come to mind when they think of Dan, but more importantly, that they will hold close the memories of the private Dan whom they loved and supported.

I don’t know what it takes to love someone who’s involved in a dangerous sport like auto racing. I don’t know that I’d have the grace to face each race day knowing it could be my loved one’s last, knowing that it could take no more than a brief touching of two competitors’ wheels at speeds exceeding 200 MPH to change my family’s life forever. I don’t have that competitive streak in me that some, like Dan Wheldon, do. I do understand the drive, the need to be the best that I can, but I don’t understand the need to get to the number one position.

I’m not sure if that difference translates to a lack of confidence, or just a missing gene in my psyche’s make-up. But put me in a competition, any sort of competition, and you’ll find me either heading for the exit, or fretting my way through the event. Team sports are the worst. It’s bad enough if I let myself down, but letting my team down is my greatest fear, competition-wise. In case you were wondering, I speak from experience.

Some of my earliest competitive memories are of scooter relay races in gym class. You remember scooters, don’t you? Those foot-square boards on wheels that double as instruments of torture in phys ed classes all over the US? (Or at least they did when I went to school.) As a chubby child, I barely fit on the stupid little squares, so propelling myself across the high-veneer surface of the school gym always took time, and a huge amount of effort. By the time I’d gather any speed, the kids from the other teams had usually already lapped me, and my teammates (already consigned to last place by the sheer fact that I was on their team) would have to push like crazy to make up the time and distance. The day I left phys ed class and scooters behind me was one of my happiest.

So imagine my horror when I found myself sucked into a relay race during a sort of “field day” that was held by a former employer. All sorts of games had been planned, and I was happy to participate in anything that that pitted me against “the machine,” whatever it was. I’ll toss a football through a hula hoop, or add my weight to a tug-of war team. But ask me to participate in a relay race? No thank you. Unfortunately, someone from my work group spotted me when they were putting together a team for the balloon race. They were desperate for a fourth in the game that required contestants to race from Point A to Point B with a balloon pressed between their legs. If the balloon fell or popped, you (and your team) were disqualified. Somehow I allowed myself to be dragged onto the team.

Now, if you were to think about the worst position to be in during a relay race, you might think it would be with your team trailing, and you, the anchor, having to work like crazy to make up the difference. Well, I had the opposite. I was the anchor position on my team, but thanks to the nimble feet, speed and grace of my three teammates, we were leagues ahead of the others, probably a full lap. I was in a position where I couldn’t lose…unless I dropped or popped that blasted balloon, or just stopped and walked away. As the number three person on our team passed me the balloon, and I captured it between my legs, trying to apply enough pressure to keep it there but not break it, all I could think was, Don’t let it fall…don’t pop it…don’t let it fall…don’t pop it. I was so focused on not blowing the team’s lead that I tuned out everything around me━things like the bystanders laughing and urging me forward, screaming at me to Hurry up!!! I saw and heard them in some other part of my brain as I lumbered by but never realized that’s what they were saying, until something crashed into me from behind, and I saw a blur of something dark whiz by and cross the finish line about a step ahead of me. It was one of the young kids from the company, and he’d raced like crazy to beat me, and my team.

Talk about the agony of defeat.

It was gym class all over again, and the only thing I could think was that the kid was a jerk, that his need to win was so great that he had to go crashing into me and literally push me out of the way to win. I think I even voiced a couple bad words to several people who were standing there, a very uncharacteristic thing for me to do. (Usually the heavy cursing is a habit my characters might indulge in, but not me, especially at work.) I don’t think I even realized what I said until I saw the shock on their faces. My teammates weren’t angry with me for losing, but I hadn’t impressed anyone with my lack of grace in my moment of humiliation.

So no, I don’t have, nor do I understand,  the competitive spirit, that need to be number one. But I do understand the need to be the best I can be, and I was far from my best that day. Somehow competition brought out the worst in me, and I decided then and there to not let myself get sucked in ever again.

I don’t know if I’m in the minority on the whole competition thing, but I do praise those who enjoy pitting themselves against each other for our entertainment, who have that drive to be number one. And I pray that they will find those to love who can support them and be by their sides, no matter what.

Rest in peace, Dan Wheldon. If heaven is anything like I imagine, there won’t be any fiery crashes ahead of you to keep you from your number one spot.

Greed ~ Enough is Enough!

As chaos overtakes Wall Street and cities around the country, and people rail in the streets against “the machine” in all its forms (corporate, financial, governmental), we in the St. James household have tried to maintain a sense of balance. We’ve tried to look at both sides, tried to understand each side’s perspective, and I think we’ve been successful. (As a writer, I need to be able to see both sides of a story after all.) But everything changed this past weekend. The protesters’ message has hit home in a big way. The FX network, long promising to begin airing Season 4 of its hit show Sons of Anarchy via streaming video, posted a message yesterday that the show’s new episodes would not be made available to its faithful on-line viewers.

Oh, I can get the episodes on line, via amazon or iTunes, but I have to pay either a per-episode or season’s fee. This wouldn’t bother me if the show aired on a premium channel, like HBO or Showtime. It wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t already pay my cable company a monthly fee to access the network. And it might not bother me if I hadn’t already paid to watch all of Season 3 (because it wasn’t yet available on FX, and I wanted to catch up before the start of the new season, and the show airs too late for me to watch real time). But this bothers me.

Now, I’m not a “political” person. By that I mean I have my personal beliefs, and some of them are quite strong, but I usually choose to keep those views to myself, to my family and close friends. Outside of that group of people, I don’t engage in discussions (live or on-line) about a particular party or movement. It’s not that I don’t care and care deeply, I just don’t care to share. Sometimes, though, things get to a point that I’m compelled to jump into the fray. And this is one of those cases. Enough is enough.

My first reaction to the change in policy is that I just don’t get it. I understand that FX doesn’t want to give the show away for free. So slap some commercials on the suckers and post them already. What’s the problem? Are they telling us they can’t get advertisers? I doubt that. I imagine it’s more a case that they can’t get advertisers to pay enough. They have a hot commodity with this show, and they’re going to seize the opportunity. They’re going to squeeze every blasted cent from it that they can.

It reminds me of an expression my husband’s grandmother used to say. (She was a tough old German lady with a heart of gold…and don’t let anyone mess with her family!) In referring to someone of a more frugal nature, she’d say, “He’ll squeeze a nickel ‘till the buffalo (poops) in his hand and sings the Star Spangled Banner to boot!” Grandma had a way with words. But her point is well taken in this case.

I cannot think of any reason for the network’s change in policy other than greed: plain, simple greed. And apparently having squeezed every penny they can from the cable companies and from advertisers, the show’s decision-makers are now turning to their faithful viewers for more, the same viewers who helped to put them in the position of power they think they hold.

Well, I’ve got news for you, FX. I’m not paying more for your show. Yes, of course I want to learn what happens to the “boys” after they’re released from prison. I want to know whether Jax and Tara have a boy or girl, and whether they decide to raise that baby in their lifestyle. I want to know how powerful the rival gangs have become in the interim and how the new law enforcement in Charming is handling it all. But enough is enough. There are plenty of other shows I haven’t yet seen, shows that will intrigue me with their characters. Shows that show the best and worst of life, and make me laugh and cry at once. I’ve drawn my line in the sand. I’m not paying for more episodes.

And as frivolous as this whole discussion of television shows is, it makes me angry to think I have to make that choice. It makes me angry to think about greed. Whether it starts with the network, the show’s producers or creative staff (including actors), or maybe somebody’s wife or husband who wasn’t content with only three vacation homes, someone wanted more. And once it starts, greed snowballs. Greed is tough to contain, even (especially?) our own.

Maybe, just maybe, the only way to reverse greed is to squelch our own. So I won’t be buying those new episodes. I won’t be using my hard-earned cash to see what happens to Jax and Tara. I won’t be feeding the network’s greed with my own.

(Hey, anybody out there know any good shows?)