MY YEAR WITHOUT FACEBOOK

When Facebook first started, I was excited to sign up and use the social media platform. I was able to touch base with friends I hadn’t seen in a very long time. It was new and fun. I remember one of my posts at the beginning was something about Facebook reminding me of kindergarten. People were kind to one another, clicking smiley faces on cute posts and giving a thumbs-up to everyone’s comments.

Facebook, over the years, however, turned into something very different from its beginnings. It became a place where bullies would say the most horrendous things to people they called “friends” and to people they didn’t even know. I was abhorred and mortified to see such behavior. People had started using it to ghost others and stalk acquaintances. Facebook had become a battleground for intolerance and divisiveness.

And that is one of the many reasons why I furtively left Facebook for over a year. And you know what? I didn’t miss the medium One. Little. Bit. I did, however, miss some of my good friends and their positive, uplifting and inspiring posts.

During the past year, I have had to care for some of the most special people in my life in a way that they had never needed before…and I was honored to do that…and I still am. In the little time I had left over, I learned some very valuable things during my year without Facebook.

I learned that a sense of peace had settled over me during my year of absence from the social media giant. Life was calmer, more serene. I was present—truly present—in everything I did. No more taking the time to write blurbs and post photos of my making wine, baking bread, having dinner with my precious husband, and camping with great friends. I did all those things, and I took some photos for my personal scrapbook, but I lost the desire to promote and gained the extra time it took to do it...and peace of mind in not having to monitor my account to respond to the people who took their precious time to make comments. And you know what? Most people didn’t even care that I didn’t post (we take our curated online selves too seriously sometimes)!

After a while, I began to think of my dear friend, Henry David Thoreau, who said in Walden, “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” If life were the marrow, I discovered, Facebook was the fat. That “fat” had been, at times, unpalatable and always unnecessary, it seems.

My absence was a year that I grew closer to my husband and family. I stayed in touch with many friends though phone calls, visits, texts, lunches and camping trips. I somehow managed to still find out about important events in the lives of friends and extended family—just like before Facebook ever became Zuckerberg’s entrepreneurial, maniacal, money-making monstrosity that it has become in so many people’s lives. I didn’t miss Mark and his greedy friends spying on my purchases and searches, only to shamelessly promote their advertising sponsors and cagy agendas. I got my information and news from independent sources, just like in the old days.

Last summer we spent time on the Oregon coast.

I lost no friends, no followers, no business, no money, no time, and no sleep. I still edited for other authors. I still wrote, and I lived a very full life, traveling, cooking, quilting, painting, crafting and sewing (and, yes, a tree does make a sound in the woods when it falls and no one is there to hear it, and people do live full, happy lives, even if they are not documented on social media). In short, I lost nothing without Facebook in my life. Facebook became…irrelevant. During that year, I was never ignored, hurt, insulted, gaslighted or excluded. I wasn’t a part of any drama. Harmony and tranquility had been restored in my life.

As in so many cases, however, all good things must come to an end, and my time away from the social media behemoth has, as well. Authors—it seems—need social media (to some degree) in today’s world. I have settled back in to editing a couple of novels that I had finished last year, so I suppose I need to inform my readers about releases and such. This time around, though, I will manage Facebook with boundaries (my new best friend) and on a calculated, scaled-back basis. I will operate with the knowledge that too much of a good thing is surely to become a bad thing, so I will release the unnecessary and will keep all the positive portions of what I have learned during My Year without Facebook.

So, who cares about My Year without Facebook? Perhaps, nobody will, or perhaps what I’ve learned may be beneficial to someone. If it is something that intrigues you, you might consider altering your presence on Facebook, as well. Either way, I wish you well…and peace.

 

 

Relationships Are Bridges

Relationships are bridges. They are two-way passages that make easy the travel over difficult terrain. They are necessary, essential, and in nearly every case, they are the central device that connects people.

I love metaphors because they address multiple learning modalities. They not only target auditory learners, but they also create mental pictures in people’s minds, thereby, targeting visual learners, as well. Therefore, the metaphorical information will more likely be remembered and valued.

So, to demonstrate my metaphor that relationships are bridges, allow me to elaborate. Relationship bridges are not like large public bridges, supported by state and federal taxpayer funds. Instead, they are privately-owned, small bridges, supported and maintained by two people—the two people in the relationship.

Imagine if only one of the two people is tending the bridge, caring for it, maintaining it, painting it, replacing boards and rails, travelling over the bridge, making it relevant, and the other person completely neglects the bridge, never making an attempt to cross it, to spend time on it, maintaining it—essentially not valuing it and ignoring it until the bridge lover makes another attempt at keeping the little bridge that connects the relationship viable. And in some cases, the bridge snubber, even subversively sabotages the delicate bridge, defaming it, throwing little cherry bombs at the bridge or even setting small fires because she has no investment in the little bridge. Eventually, the bridge will be used less and less because the bridge lover will grow tired and weary, unable to convince herself that any of her hard work is appreciated.

 After years of neglect by the inattentive bridge co-owner who doesn’t care, the bridge lover will visit that small, private bridge less and less until the thing that she’d once loved begins to crumble. Eventually, she will realize she is helpless to affect change and to engender love from the person who has disregarded the bridge for years, so, she, too, abandons the bridge that had once been precious to her, and the bridge falls.

So, my friend, I encourage you to tend your bridges. They are too precious to lose and too expensive and difficult to rebuild.

 

 

 

 

Symbolism Is in the Eye of the Beholder

Just like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so follows symbolism. Symbolism adds depth and meaning to works of literature. It causes people to engage in the process of reading, to infer, to contemplate.
I work hard to build symbolism into each novel I write and into each poem I pen.

For years, as a high school English teacher, I taught students how to access symbolism as a literary device to unlock the deeper meanings of literature. The definition of symbolism is “something that stands for something else.” I always began my lesson by pointing to the American flag hanging in my classroom. I would ask, “What does that flag symbolize to you?”

Most students would offer the following words: the fifty states; freedom; America; life liberty and the pursuit of happiness; patriotism; liberty; independence; opportunity, etc. You get the picture. I would then tell them that if this flag were placed in another country, and I asked the same question, I would hear very different responses. Some may say the American flag might symbolize tyranny, injustice, imperialism, death, torture, the CIA, bullying, lies, warmongering, etc.

Symbolism is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder. 

Fast forward to today, and I find that my lesson—the same lesson that has been taught for centuries by philosophers, educators and poets—is being hijacked by the Word Police. Today, I am told that I am not allowed to infer symbolism on my own. Instead, I must adhere to Group Think and accept the symbolism as it is defined FOR me.

Critical thinking is a highly-valued commodity on Bloom’s Taxonomy of Higher-Order Thinking Skills. As a teacher, I tried desperately to encourage and support analysis and evaluation in my classroom. If a student could defend her interpretation of symbolism, even if I disagreed, I rewarded her inferences. I applied those same skills as a graduate student to infer meaning and symbolism in obscure pieces of literature that were not found in literary criticism. Now, the media, political groups, cultural groups and politicians are telling me that I am not free to infer symbolism on my own (for certain things), but I know that when that freedom is breached, there will be no end to the power to control thoughts and freedoms. Those entities prefer that others operate at the bottom of Bloom’s Taxonomy for Higher-Order Thinking Skills. Their demand is for the masses to simply “remember” and “understand,” to simply regurgitate what they wish the public to think.

Those of us who prefer to operate at the top of the taxonomy, analyzing, evaluating and creating on our own are cognizant of rights and freedoms and intellects being subtly assaulted. I have not named specific instances of these assaults because I trust you, my intelligent readers, to apply what I have discussed in this post, not only to literature, but to religious, cultural, political and social institutions. I trust you to extrapolate and infer on your own.

For me, as a writer, I create new, original works all the time—some contain religious symbolism that some publishers fear and some readers abhor because my novels are based on Christian concepts. Nevertheless, I write what God places in my heart. I have recently written a pro-life novel that is heavily laden with veiled Christian symbolism. Though I face censorship of thought and creation in the publication process, I will not capitulate. In fact, the censorship has done the opposite. It has fueled my full and unbridled pursuit of intellectual freedoms.

Think, people, think!

That is all.

Eyes in the Back of My Head

If you ask twenty different authors about from where his greatest strength as a writer comes, you may get twenty different answers. And most, if not all answers, would probably come from a place that you’d least expect.

I can, for example, tell you that you may be surprised to learn mine. At first, if you looked at my curriculum vitae, you might guess that my gift may have come from my education. I have a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in English education. I even have a year’s work on a PhD. During my courses of study, I took many classes in literature, writing, poetry, linguistics, and the list goes on from there. I did learn many useful things in those classes that continue to help me write today, but you’d be incorrect to believe that my education was my greatest strength.

My training as a writer continued when I sought out writing organizations and groups. I spent many years going to conferences, seminars and workshops, and I bought and poured over many books on the craft of writing. I met a number of award-winning authors and became friends with some. Their rises to the New York Times Bestsellers Lists and the USA Today Bestsellers Lists were impressive, and they shared their tips and secrets about their climbs with me. I sat in a number of critique groups with them and learned from them…but even all that would not be where my greatest strength as a writer lies.

Well, you might question, did it come from my employment as a managing editor at a publishing house? Even though I poured over many hundreds of manuscripts and ushered many through the publication process—from submission, to acquisition, through a three-pass editing process, to copy-editing, to proofreading, through creating back cover blurbs and managing the cover process and ultimately the book’s publication and marketing—you would be wrong if you guessed that my position as managing editor informed my writing the most.

Ah, you say, is it that my strength comes from my love of literature and, therefore, my love of reading? Nope. Though I love literature—especially Southern literature—and I can be a voracious reader at times—that is not from where my greatest strength comes. Maybe you would go back a little further to when my grandfather ignited my love of story when he told me countless tales on his front porch as a little girl…or maybe it began when I started writing poetry and stories when I was in elementary school because of my grandfather’s tales. Nope and nope.

My greatest strength comes from my having been a teacher. I not only learned how to captivate an audience, but I learned how to effectively convey information through inspiration. It was in that profession that I learned about people, and I applied that knowledge to writing characters.

You see, when you are a teacher, you develop eyes in the back of your head. I didn’t understand this concept at first. When I was student teaching, I didn’t have that talent. But I recognized it the first time I saw it in a colleague when I was paired with him to do “Lunch Duty.” Ken Boleman was a consummate professional. We stood together for a week in the outdoors of Summerville Intermediate High School at our station. As we talked, and he showed me the ropes, he interrupted our conversations again and again by strolling over to different groups of students. I was confused each time he left, but he had seen something that I had not. He would come back with confiscated cigarettes or other contraband. He stopped multiple instances of PDA (and more). I was amazed at his intuitive assessment of each situation—situations about which I was ignorant. I realized then that he had those mysterious “eyes in the back of his head.” He had honed his ability to read situations, behaviors and people. I wanted that skill!

It took a couple of years, but eventually I grew the same eyes in the back of my head. After watching thousands upon thousands of students try the same types of tricks, teachers learn the subtleties of behaviors. I learned to watch for the “watching of the teacher” and then the averted eyes. I learned about both sincere excuses and apologies…and the insincere ones. I learned character…and character traits. I watched as students wanted to learn from me…and I watched those who tried to play me.

I saw the characteristics in students that propelled them to go on to be doctors and lawyers and ministers and teachers, and I saw the characteristics in some students that turned them into murders, rapists, thieves and pedophiles.  

Throughout my years, as I was developing my eyes in the back of my head, I still stayed positive, looking for goodness. I always hoped for the best in each student and gave each a chance. Though we weren’t allowed to openly express our religious beliefs to our students, I always lived my Christian beliefs in front of them, extending the hand of kindness and understanding, even through their issues. Many of my greatest rewards were with those students. 

Being a teacher taught me how to understand one of the most important trinity concepts in writing—goal, motivation and conflict. I saw how these concepts were worked out in my students’ lives. I learned to read subtle signs of need, greatness, disrespect, compassion and corruption… I learned…people, and I responded with empathy.

From those years as a teacher that I spent understanding people, I understood what goes into characterization. I learned to write the subtleties of three-dimensional characters—their needs, their issues and how those things manifested themselves in characters’ daily lives, and how to resolve those conflicts on the page.

So, ultimately, though you may not have guessed at first, my greatest strength as a writer comes from my teaching experiences, where I grew the eyes in the back of my head.

Shakespeare Is Southern!

I’d like to nominate William Shakespeare as an honorary Southerner. He is already unquestionably one of the most quoted, prolific poets and playwrights of all time. Unfortunately, many people think him inaccessible; however, I differ. In fact, his universality is at the very core of his popularity. He grasps the myriad personalities that create social strata across cultural divides. His abilities to create real characters and expose internal conflict is particularly exciting, and if his dialect were delivered with a Southern drawl, the world would say that he belongs to the South!

Will has created words and phrases that have gone mainstream in the Southern dialect. He gave us, “Neither here nor there" for us to dismiss extraneous comments. He gave us “Salad days” to help us remember our youthful, more inexperienced times. He gave us “Send him packing” to colorfully show how we get rid of carpetbaggers and other useless people.

Will told us that “Mum’s the word” so that we can pretend we don’t gossip about our neighbors, and he taught us how to live “With bated breath” when we anxiously wait for Northerner neighbors to understand our Southern way of life, which may never come.

Particularly in the South, I have seen the “Green-eyed monster” rear its ugly head when one family thinks its heritage is grander than another’s. I have seen people’s hopes “Vanish into thin air” as their dreams don’t materialize. And in almost every tale told in the South, I have heard said tale turn with the phrase “All of a sudden.”

Personally, I have been on a “Wild goose chase,” trying to find a decent man to date, and I’ve been “Eaten out of house and home” by hungry party guests. I’ve been “Up in arms” over people who do not know how to appreciate my Southern hospitality, and I’ve have seen “The devil incarnate” in the form of fake friends. I’ve been told that someone has “A heart of gold” at my church, and I’ve been told that “All that glitters is not gold” by my mother.  I’ve also been told that many times something that I would like to affect a change has already been declared a “Forgone conclusion.”

I could go on and on, but you’d eventually tell me “Good riddance,” so I’ll move on so I don’t get myself in “A pickle.”

William’s plays and poems hit at the very heart of the human condition, and that fact is the very detail that makes Will so Southern. Romeo and Juliet features families that feud over social status (such a Southern theme). Julius Ceasar shows how even the common man cannot handle power, and how war is always at hand. Hamlet teaches us how crazy and underhanded even honorable families can become. Macbeth is the epitome of envy and social climbing. Hello, these themes (and more) are at the core of Southern society.

Southerners have adopted so much of what William Shakespeare wrote in the 1600’s, even though all may not even understand from where it came. Though you may say “It’s Greek to me,” I will continue to advance the theory that Shakespeare is essentially Southern all the “livelong day.”



*All phrases in quotations are from the bard!

Authentic Southern Writers

What does it mean to write Southern? Well, it’s not about writing in a location. You may not even be a Southern writer if you were born in the South, though being born and raised in the South will give you a huge advantage.


As a student and connoisseur of Southern literature, being brought up on Flannery O'Conner, Truman Capote, Eudora Welty and Mark Twain, I have learned to distinguish between the nuances of true Southern writers and those who—bless their hearts—wish to be. The differences are sometimes subtle but stand out like a carpetbagger at a pig pickin' to natives.


I do appreciate those who love the South and have tried to assimilate into our culture so that they've taken it upon themselves to document our truth with words in novels and poetry. It's just that many who genuinely know and love Southern literature are authentic Southerners themselves, and when they read those authors who straddle the Mason-Dixon Line with words and details—well, let's just say, they can tell (and it pulls them out of a story).


Southerners use particular dialects, colorful phrases and unusual sentence structures that are unique to an area…and a culture. I could be writing about a party with lots of characters and have numerous Southern dialects, phraseologies and structures in one scene. Writers who don’t understand the South won’t be able to differentiate the linguistic nuances well enough to fool Southern readers; however, they do a good enough job so that they get by with the masses—and the New York editors who’ve never once been to an oyster roast or a camp meeting.


Southerners, however, can identify an imposter from the first page…and from the very first paragraph, they can identify a native who writes humidity and hospitality into every sentence. Normal Southerners don’t prepare meals, they “fix” them. Their meals must be more than the ubiquitous fried chicken, but it won’t include a barbecue with hamburgers and hotdogs. Southern women are affiliated with church and life-long girlfriends, and Southern men know hunting and college football. Though an outsider can toss a few of these facts into a manuscript, a Southern writer can weave these facts into the fabric of the novel effectively and effortlessly.


For many years, my reading list was filled with novels from authentic Southern authors—writers who lived the South, breathed the pluff mud, and ate its fare. Pat Conroy, Ann Rivers Siddons and Dorothea Benton Frank were my favorites and never disappointed on any page. They sat me down and told tales like I’d been told by my grandparents—tales filled with family, heart, disappointment and food. Each had a lesson—a lesson best learned in the South. These days, my heart beats more sadly because each of my favorite Southern writers have ended their stories—two in the last year…and the world of Southern literature is poorer for the losses.


I strive to write that which is authentic, true and realistic for the actual South in which I live—not the one outsiders see or wish it to be. As I weave a tale with an insider’s heart, I attempt to anchor the region as a character in my books. This stretch of Southern coast we call The Lowcountry is my South, my home, my world, and I write about it as though I have been anointed to write a book for a Southern Bible.

Reflections of a Pensive Poet

Every year when my thoughts turn to fall, I recall a favorite poem I wrote in the early '90s when I was a graduate student at The Citadel, examining voice in an advanced poetry class.

Reflections of a Pensive Poet

By Vicki Wilkerson

Had my mother not fallen on society’s stage, acting in Someone’s play,
Designed to inspire fantastic and frightening images and phrases in an infant son,
And had my father not found refuge and freedom in escape,
Would I have heard and written the word “nevermore,”
Now forevermore chained and stored in the catacombs of men’s minds?

Had I received the grace-granted love given to all children, 

And had I not begged a false father for his despondent attentions—
Attentions that he could not even give his wife, my make-shift mother—
Would others have read how my pen and heart bled
For cold maids and un-dead maidens
Whose love was as temporary and temperate?
Could I have ever told of the tens of thousands of tortures which tormented me
When I could not feed my devoted aunt-mother and dying cousin-wife?
What unnamed fiends found my mind and made a home
Where cold and solitude were my only companions?
My mind was ravened, black and stark,
Scattered with words ushered there by Deprivation and Devastation.
I wonder had I been prosperity’s son,
Would I have heard the haunting, dark verses

Which left my fissured mind weak and unstable, 

Or would I have heard some chirp-word from some blue bird,

Never to be heard from or remembered again?
I can’t remember now if the alcohol was my favored, fancied friend,
Or if it was a necessary nurse to help mend my menaced memories.
My heart told me unspeakable tales others’ hearts could not bear to hear.
My pen pictured devils and Death, Pits and predicaments, Bugs and bitter birds.
It chronicled Mysteries and Masques, Murders and Morgues and beasts and burials.
Was my grief worth the token gold?
Was my piece of fame worth my loss of peace?
Did I as a child belong to the black bird before I ever heard the words
Pick and peck at my head until the vowels were vented
And the consonants were consecrated onto the page?