HOPE, for Readers, Writers, and Publishers . . .

Today is Thanksgiving in the United States, though there are related thanksgiving celebrations in other countries.

I must say my greatest Thanks today is that I still have Hope…

Much of my Reading helps sustain my hope.

I wouldn’t still be Writing if I hadn’t regained my hope.

My Publishing is intended to generate hope.

The etymology of hope shows that it’s “of unknown origin” but might be related to “leaping in expectation”.

I used the Visual Thesaurus to generate this map of hope:

Emily Dickinson, my favorite poet, has this to say about hope:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I've heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.

Being a writer has been a wild ride, since most of the mistakes I’ve made in life—pain and suffering bringers—were experiences that plowed, deeply, the soil of my soul and let me enter my most authentic inner spaces…

Having lived through harrowing times gives me hope.

For many people, the hardest thing to have any hope about is the death of a loved one.

For some, even the death of those personally unknown is a great test of hope.

The other day, my best friend and I sat with a woman and spoke with her about the ongoing bombardment of her city.

She was in Gaza.

My best friend was in Australia.

I’m in the United States of America.

We met in the virtual world Second Life, in a beach house—a calm space for a woman wide awake, seeking comfort as she remained vigilant—husband and children sleeping from exhaustion…

My friend and I could hear the rockets and bombs, along with the remarkably calm voice of our friend in Gaza.

What hope do people in these situations have as their neighbors die?

What hope for peace when so many crave killing?

One wonders if the dead have no need of hope…

One wonders if the spirits of the dead seek to bolster our hopes as we slog through such a cruel world.

One last offering in this hopeful post:

A story from J.G.C. Wise on Curator, One Short Sleep Past.

If you fear death, for yourself or others, please read that story; and, if it gives you Hope, do try to come back here and share your feelings in our Comments…
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In Memorium, for Jamie…

I’m deep into my grief for the loss, on earth, of my friend, Jamie…

Gone in a flash in a car accident…

Consummate poet…

Good friend…

This video is a tribute to her Spirit…

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The Fictional Dream Invades My Personal Life…

In the previous post, The Dreams of The Writer Lead To The Dreams of The Reader…, I began an exploration of what’s called the Fictional Dream, a state of mind writers and readers enter when either creating or consuming a good story.

I urge you to read that post, as well as its comments, before continuing. I was going to incorporate those comments in this post but life has made physical reality take on the garb of fiction…

I spend much time in the virtual world, Second Life, and I’d become friends with a remarkable woman. She had become mute at the age of 14 yet had written many poems between then and the age she’d attained when I met her. I’d encouraged her to host one of the Happy Hours on Book Island and share her poetry. Due to her being mute, she could only use the texting feature which puts words above one’s head in a little bubble. I offered to read her poems and she would lead a discussion after each was read.

She was already a good friend of mine when the readings began and those who attended quickly fell in love with her and her work.

Yesterday, I received word that she had died…

Her attorney had emailed me and the hours following created many emails and a lengthy phone call.

The attorney was having extreme difficulty getting details of the supposed car crash and the coroner would not release the purported body.

I say “supposed” and “purported” because, until the attorney has taken possession of the body or seen her in a morgue, Jamie will not be dead. It’s still a fiction–a gripping story with drama, mystery, political incompetence, and conspiracy theories centered on a lovely, talented women cruelly cut-down in her 27th year of life…

I’m in too much shock to draw-out all the similarities between my experience of this story and the fictional dream of the writer/reader. I’m in the story…

If she is proved to be dead, I will still face the fiction of grief’s denial.

Some of you may feel that comments on this post might be in bad taste, but I encourage anyone to make any comment that comes to mind. I’m very much alone, inside a story that threatens to be glaringly true; and, realizing my current state, as I struggle with the lack of precise and confirming information, I quiver to think the story is true and need as much companionship as this venue can provide………
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Another Wicked Curve Ball…

I had intended to continue exploring the idea from yesterday’s post on the fictional dream…

Alas, it appears a good friend of mine has passed away…

I’m in shock and trying to confirm the little information I have…

Hopefully, I’ll be able to continue tomorrow……………………………………………………………..