Why I Like To Be Criticized

I look forward to the first and third Monday of the month when I get my bi-weekly fix of critical remarks. Remarks that sometimes sting and leave a mark but, they are always helpful. I mean who knew the hero wouldn’t say or do something in that situation? Readers in my critique knew. And who knew the villain wouldn’t do that? Again, my fellow writers knew. Sometimes the author stands in the middle of the forest and can’t find the trees–figuratively speaking.

Nobody wants their work taken apart, but it is a process best done by friends–not agents, editors, or a wider audience. And criticism is a dish best served cold by those who know you best. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the “best served cold.”) Criticism delivered with love because others care is sometimes difficult but always helpful.

So, now my hero has become less of a clutz, is more attentive to his wife, but still has a problem communicating critical information to his cop buddy. He isn’t perfect, but he’s better. And the villain? Well, I’m working on him. He needs to act more like a person with an ego problem. Maybe it’ll all come together as revision piles upon revision.

One thing’s for sure–my friends in my writer’s group will not let the project rest until justice is served, the hero shines, and the villain is dealt with appropriately.

The Boys of ’65

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a poem entitled “The Boys of ’65.” But so far inspiration has fallen short of perspiration, and the title languishes somewhere in the depths of my mind.

This sudden need to revisit the years 1961 – 1965 has been fueled by plans to attend my college class’ (VMI 1965) 50th reunion next year. Of course I have memories of those years, all of them made pleasant, or at least tolerable, with the passage of time. Those memories start with a pleasant day in September, 1961 where I became one of the crowd “pressing up the hill.” And that pleasant day quickly turned to chaos when I entered the barracks and became a member of the rat class.

I remember bitterly cold winters, slogging through calculus (twice), going to the boards, professors with charming nick names (Spider, Do Do, Tap Tap), hops (dances), reciting useless facts for upperclassmen, marching (and marching, and marching. . .), pay phones, inspections (and more inspections), stoops, running the block, and other stuff (some of it not printable). And I really remember being told “it” (it being anything physically, spiritually, or psychologically unpleasant) “builds character.” A lot of us graduated with character to spare.

But mostly I remember thinking one day that if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere (apologies, New York, but you’re second fiddle here). I think that epiphany came one day after a three mile jog carrying an M1 rifle.

Poll any member of the Class of ’65, and you’ll find everyone has both unique and shared memories. Every day of four years was the same and different, and the boys of ’65 wouldn’t trade those days for anything. And, yes, we are still boys at heart.

My One Daylily

Sometimes I get lazy. Like today. Little came to mind as I pondered the white space before me, so you get. . . a poem! (I knew you’d be excited.)

MY ONE DAYLILY

There is one yellow daylily
that has chosen to survive
last year’s neglect
and this year’s drought.

It blooms proudly,
the only bright spot amidst
faded pine straw, weeds,
and tangled crepe myrtle roots.

Some people are like that,
choosing to shine in the dark
and ignore all the clutter
and chaos in their life.

Would I could be one of those,
a beacon shining for all to see
and know how in all things
I’ve chosen to see the positive.

So I admire that one daylily,
fighting the odds, tilting the windmills
and showing me all need not be lost
even if all around me is.