by Jackie Houchin
I know this is an unusual post, but in this time of lock-down, I’ve not been able to focus on writing anything new. So I’m presenting this Ballad I wrote for a Creative Writing class at Glendale Community College. I’ve tried to publish it, but no one will take this many stanzas (27), although one of the lines is only ONE word. Can you find it? And it’s less than 600 words.
This ballad is based on a real person I knew, a man who had Grand Mal epilepsy.
“A Cruel Blessing”
In olden days, the ancient Land
Of Ararat became
The birthplace of a first born son—
So beautiful, but lame.
The lameness was inside of him,
A sleeping fiend, unseen,
That would attack and seize him fast
Once he became a teen.
But now, the babe lay peacefully
Against his mother’s breast,
And drank her nectar, white and rich,
And safely took his rest.
They double blessed and named the boy
Vartan and Victory.
Then sprinkled him with holy oil
To seal his destiny.
A close-knit tribe, his kin instilled
Within their growing child,
A pride of place, and heritage,
A name kept undefiled.
The father taught Vartan to war,
Retaliate, defend,
And laid in Victory the love
Of truth, and God and friend.
The mother gave him nourishment
To make him strong of limb.
Likewise, the food for soul and mind
She gently forced within.
Then on their son they placed this grave
Responsibility,
“The future of this clan does rest
On your integrity.”
Relentlessly the clock of months
Ticked thirteen times around.
Vartan approached his manhood proud,
A prince as yet uncrowned.
But on his honored day there struck
A death – so fresh, so raw.
The gruesome end of one most dear
Was what young Vartan saw.
Then deep within the boy-man’s frame
An aura and a flash
Preceded tremors, shakes and quakes,
A weakness, then a crash.
Like frozen forms the family
Around the crumpled lad
Took in with shock and fright the sight,
And wailed, “Our son is mad!”
They mourned the loss of hopes and dreams,
(As well, the one so dear),
And wake became a vigil grim;
A sick bed and a bier.
Vartan lay still as death that night;
The other’s corpse quite close.
At dawn they lowered bones below,
But Victory arose!
A celebration wild with joy
Then met the rising son.
They dared to hope that only once
The dreadful foe had won.
Forgotten soon the grievous curse
As manly, Vartan grew.
A wanton woman caught his eye,
Then taught him all she knew.
But in the rush of ecstasy
The pleasures turned to pains.
He screamed, convulsed, then toppled down
Amidst a dozen stains.
In shame they found the fallen oak
And slowly hauled him home.
Beside the hearth, he warmed and woke
With kin, but all alone.
A disciplined and structured life
He thought would bring release.
Vartan desired glory bright,
But Victory sought peace.
So in the frozen, northern wastes
A soldier he became.
And hardship burned the dross from him;
A cruel and thorough flame.
But still, in light-less days he fell
A victim to his plight.
And so there came to dwell in him
A darkness more than night.
A disciplined and structured life—
This time, a different kind;
In solitude and quietness
Release he’d surely find.
So to the Church, went Victory.
He knelt, and prayed and read.
Now sixty months of sanity
Have eased his tortured head.
A Holy Man, a Prophet true
Is what he’s meant to be.
For holy oil had marked him thus,
And sealed his destiny.
Now from the monastery, he
Speaks out the Truth he’s learned,
And prays forgiveness from his kin
For hopes and dreams he’s spurned.
For from Vartan no seed will flow
To populate the clan,
And to defend the name and place
There’s no one who will stand.
But, praise! The sleeping fiend has fled—
It dared not seize a priest!
So God and Church held Vartan in…
And Victory released.




- * * * * *



After I joined Sisters-in-Crime/Los Angeles, I was asked to join the board. I started out as Speakers Bureau Director. I set up writers’ panels all over the area. I first went through the roster of members, located websites for those members with one, learned what they wrote, and got an idea what types of panels I could offer local libraries based on the types of books these folks wrote. I did cozy panels, Noir, mysteries with a travel theme. 80 panels later, I pretty well know who wrote what.

Marc Jedel writes humorous murder mysteries. He credits his years of marketing leadership positions in Silicon Valley for honing his writing skills. While his high-tech marketing roles involved crafting plenty of fiction, these were just called emails, ads, and marketing collateral.

Yes, this is The Writers in Residence blog. And what am I posting about here today? Writers in residence.
So most often these days, I assume we’re writers in residence. We all have homes–houses, apartments, condos or whatever–although maybe there are some homeless people out there who write, too. In any case, we reside somewhere. And write.
Oh, and by the way, I was very impressed by our last Writers in Residence blog, written by Rosemary Lord–focusing on independent bookstores near us in Southern California. It’s a great idea to buy books from them, probably online and either have them shipped or pick them up outside the store. And it’s not only the independents doing that now. I’ve picked up several books from outside my nearby Bookstar, which is part of Barnes & Noble. I want that store, and the entire company, to survive, and the indies, too!

As writers and readers, one of our easiest ways to help can be to support the small businesses that are straining to survive while closed to foot-traffic. Especially the small bookshops, that have been struggling desperately in the new world of online literature. These small bookshops welcome writers, help us launch our new books, promote our work with book-signings and author events. I found a few where we have a chance to give a little something back. (I have been buying a book or two, including my own books, online from them.) Let us know if you have ‘hidden gems’ in the bookstore world that we can also help.
The most famous small bookshop in Hollywood is 

In Pasadena, one of the landmarks is
In West Hollywood,
Over in Hancock Park,
But a very specialized small bookstore on the west side in Culver City is
Turned out I had grabbed a paperback I’d bought second-hand years ago and never got around to reading, Irving Wallace’s “The Writing of One Novel.’ It relates the all-absorbing 16 years he spent researching, traveling for settings, and finally writing his bestseller, “The Prize.” In meticulous detail Wallace describes his exhausting, frustrating, and determined journey into the background of the Nobel Prize. He interviewed dozens of judges, winners, losers, and journalists who covered the event. He kept daily journals and diaries of his efforts to get behind the politics, drama, and the decisions, all of which resulted in “The Prize” being almost non-fiction. Wallace discovered facts, regarded as explosive and titillating at the time, about all those involved over the years. Most of the characters were a combination of the real person and the author’s creativity but they were so obvious that the country of origin of the Nobel Prize, Sweden, refused to publish or distribute the book.
That aside, the tattered paperback I was reading, yellowed with age – it was published in 1951 – was the most honest and revealing of any author’s how-I-wrote-it book I have come across. It is more than a fascinating peek into Wallace’s writing process and method of research. He lays bare the heart, mind, and soul of a writer’s inner workings. Would reading this book turn off a new writer? It’s a daunting task that Wallace set for himself because he wanted to know everything, and as he dove deeper and deeper into the history of the Nobel Prize he uncovered real data that he could not resist including in his novel. Luckily today we are armchair researchers, although I find that visiting locales can’t be beat for sniffing the atmosphere.
Interestingly, Wallace’s “The Writing of One Novel” mentioned another author who wrote a tell-all of his writing process. I immediately downloaded Thomas Wolfe’s “The Story of a Novel.”
“Look Homeward, Angel.” Wolfe dredged up so many childhood and young adult personal experiences that the novel is considered practically autobiographical. His first draft was over one million words! Happily, Scribner’s genius editor, Max Perkins, sorted it all out and gave us Thomas Wolfe in all his glory. Perkins probably also heavily edited “The Story of a Novel” because Wolf admits at one point that all he did when writing it was jot down a few random notes.
Both memoirs put me in mind of Graham Greene’s despondent “The End of the Affair,” another heart-breaker that makes one wonder how much of the author’s life it reveals. Faulkner called the book “true and moving.”
My post today is more of an exclamation point to recent excellent posts by fellow authors here, and elsewhere. Ideas were suggested/promoted by other authors that started me thinking—as they hoped they would do—kudos all. Also,
and expectedly, with our stay-at-home circumstances, I’ve been reading a lot, sometimes at the expense of writing(smile.) Consequently, given several of these mentioned recent posts, and my plethora of recently read books, I’ve been thinking anew about point of view.
In taking the perspective of what I like to read—not genre, but style–indeed, in our book club, we read lots of books, most by famous authors, and selected based on the preferences of our members, whose tastes are luckily quiet eclectic, which is why I like book club so much. Many, many, books I’ve enjoyed reading, especially since I know I wouldn’t have read if it wasn’t the selection of the month. So, I’ve had many chances to evaluate and critique many styles of writing. And since most are quite famous and big time, my critiques are worthless analysis

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