Since I was very small my father has always instilled a sense of justice in me.  If my two brothers or I did something wrong, he would sit us down and talk it out.  Punishments were usually mild. It was the sense that we’d let him down that was more of a punishment than anything else.  Just one look from my father was enough to make us toe the line.

My father is a Veteran.  It wasn’t until I was much older that he was even willing to discuss his tours with me and even then I could tell it didn’t sit well with him to talk about it.  Regardless of that, he served his country and he was proud of it.  He hung a flag on our front porch for years and usually seemed maudlin around this time every year.  Possibly because his birthday is only a few days away from Veterans day, but I doubt it.  Dad never did care how old he was.

For the past few years, since my departure from college and the rampant use of e-mail has taken over everything, my father has sent out his thoughts on Veterans Day and what it means to him.  I’ve gained his permission to republish what he has to say this year.  It is something that I think everyone needs to read at least once.

The first Veteran’s Day I observed after my military service was in 1972 and the paper of record in my local area printed an essay depicting the battlefield epic of a Revolutionary soldier describing his heroics. I don’t normally think of one single soldier as an individual, including those I served with from 1968-71 in the US Army.

To do so relegates the heroics of the many support personnel, the medics and corpsmen, and the families back home to a secondary status. America has been either at war or at war-alert status since I was old enough to remember. Born in the post-WWII year of 1950 and being the son of Navy vet of Pacific campaign in WWII I have essentially not known a time of total peace in my lifetime considering Korea, the Cuban missile crisis, the Vietnam Conflict, and the subsequent engagements leading up to the Gulf War, which still continues at this moment.

The recent shootings at a Texas military installation, along with the involvement of military veteran in the D.C. sniper-shooting a few years ago, and the numerable and little publicized suicides of veterans should be a reminder to all citizens of this warlike nation that casualties don’t occur only on the battlefield.

The American culture has done its best to support the members of the actively serving, but are still many in America that give little, if any, thought the service of men and women in the military. America does a very good job of distracting itself with music, media, and technology. The various sounds of music notes and subsequent battle-like sounds of a computer game in no way reflect the actual happenings in a live-fire situation. The drug culture and the neighborhoods it thrives in have shootings on a daily basis but none of shooter’s or the death of victims rank in the category of valor and honor to Nation, merely they relegate themselves to addicted and twisted joy-riders killing the innocent during the commission of felonious assault. No one mourns when
gang-bangers die for all the obvious and just reasons.

When all the high-school bands strike up a tune to celebrate the service of Americans on Veteran’s Day, they don’t have in mind the many vets who join organizations or do individual efforts to bring about a dialogue for peace. The young men and women in our schools and universities are taught to respect and honor the veterans for their service, while possibly considering such service for themselves. They are not given equal access to the veterans that have served honorably and converse about the real cost of war in America. Those who served in Vietnam, saw the elephant firsthand, and were wounded as young men and returned home and desire a peace that could be reached if only hands were extended.

The men who determine the fate our youth that go to war are rarely the same men that serve and know war. There are some exceptions, and sadly, a few become tainted with the corruption of political office and disgrace the service of all.

This year 2009, is a longtime past my discharge date. I reflect on the many who have given their lives in the time that has past and those that suffer the ravages of wartime injuries for the rest of their lives. That includes PTSD. Anyone that served understands the return fire, boobie-traps, road-side explosives, in-coming rounds, napalm, Agent Orange, and depleted uranium rounds, as well as a plethora of stealth weapons.

PTSD is a hidden killer. A terrorist in its own right. American men and women who serve in the Reserves or National Guard are subject to the realities of regular duty in this age of perpetual war on terror. Most are not prepared for the ravages of conflict and join the ranks of many who served in the long-ago 10,000 day war who come home to suffer a recurring horror.

He is no one unique. He grew up in Hialeah, Florida and lost his father to an auto accident when he was a young teen. He wanted to be an anthropologist. As a young teen he spent time in the Everglades. He could have gotten a deferment, but chose to serve his country in Vietnam. Several in his unit were killed in action in 1968. He made his way to the end of his commitment and once again joined the civilian ranks.

Because we had served together he came to visit me in 1973. A long journey to Nebraska from Florida. He brought his wife, the proverbial girl next door. Anecdotally, the boy at the other next door was KC of KC and the Sunshine Band fame. Pat was indicative of all young men who served during Nam. He was bright, aspiring, and a damn-straight-shooter. He returned to Hialeah and stayed until 1983 when the only place he could get counseling at the VA was in Gainesville or Lake City and he moved north.

Pat was not exceptional other than I trusted my life with him, but due to the distance we lost contact over the years. Whether the society failed, the system failed, or Pat failed himself, he took his life in the year 2000. The year Bush and Cheney would bring a new era of war to the warlike nation of America.

Pat was not the kind to let issues pass without comment. He brought to the fore the treatment of blacks in the military during his active service. During the US Army transition to all-volunteer he made brave comments about the second-hand treatment of blacks, both draftee and volunteer.

I don’t know what evils Pat couldn’t conquer in that election year. I do know that as decided to end his life a dramatic change came to America. We became a warlike nation once again after 9-11. The men who decided that were not military men. Our military men were silent and the decision was made by political men. Those of age to serve in Vietnam when Pat did, but never made the grade.

We lose men and women daily now. Most Americans are oblivious. Too wrapped up in their personal Facebook, or Twitter, or who’s hot in Hollywood. Americans seem to want to be distracted. They don’t want to know the horrors of war, in the zone, or back at home, long after the shells have landed.

On Veteran’s Day morning, as I have done for now 38 years, at sunrise I will salute the men who gave their lives for me to have the right to stand before a flag that represents the home of the brave and land of the free. But in my heart of hearts, Pat took away a life that was more valuable than many who stand oblivious to the true sacrifice of the veteran.

America is a warlike nation and yet too many do not understand the sacrifice nor the horror. I fear it never will.

- Denny Cautrell

I am not a veteran, but I am the daughter of one.  And I salute all veterans, past, present and future.  This day is for you.  And I’m including a link to a video that my father sent as well.  I hope you enjoy it. It certainly speaks volumes and with a catchy tune.

\”I Don\’t Wanna Be Your Soldier Anymore\” by The Bombay Sweets

P.S. Thank you, Dad.  You’re the best.

I’ve been terrible about keeping up with this blog. One thing leads to another it would seem and I put it off for another day.  I will eventually get back to my genre dissection.  For now, I’m going to discuss something that happened to me in a bit more detail and attempt to apply it as a writing lesson.

About a month ago I was at home, napping on the couch.  I heard someone knock on the door a time or two, but I ignored it. I’ve had people harassing me for the past year by knocking on my door and fleeing, so I assumed it was more of the same.

As I was up from my nap anyway, I decided to make supper. So I turned on the lights, and started cooking.  While the food was heating, I sat at my desk.  That’s when I noticed some strange noises coming from the window in my bedroom.  At that point in time we had roofers working on our apartments, so at first I assumed it was one of them.  The noise stopped after a moment, so I didn’t investigate.

When the noise returned, followed by the crunch of breaking glass, I felt a sense of dread weigh down my body.  As I carefully approached my bedroom window and opened the blinds I saw first the corner of the window broken through and then saw the perpetrator nonchalantly exiting my back gate.

Fear raced through me giving me a shock as if I’d touched an outlet with a wet finger.  The first thing I did was grab my phone and dial 9-1-1. The second thing I did was grab the heavy duty flashlight that was sitting on my kitchen counter.  After calling the police, who said they’d send someone over, I called the apartment manager and turned on every light in the house.

Trying to calm myself, I sat at my desk to wait for the police.  I couldn’t sit long.  I got up and began pacing and worrying.  It took me a few moments to realize I was having a panic attack.  Once I realized it, however, I was able to calm myself.  To quote one of my favorite books, Dune by Frank Herbert, “Fear is the mind killer.”  I was allowing fear to override my good senses and wandering around aimlessly, which was doing me no good.

When the police finally arrived it was to approach my back door first to inspect the damage.  I was out of the bedroom, however, so my first thought, when I heard someone walking around back there, was that the burglar was back. Flashlight in hand, I looked into my room to see a policeman standing there.  He made a calming motion, then stepped toward my back door. Fear still gripping me, I didn’t move until he stepped back in front of the window and motioned for me to open the door.

At first I was fairly shrill with worry as I spoke to him, but  once I started talking I almost burst into tears.  Reality had finally hit me.  Someone had tried to break into my home. My home.  The policeman was very professional, but kind, even when he told me not to get upset.  He did what he could, drove around, took my statement, gave me information. And then he suggested something I wouldn’t have thought of; to brace the window that was broken with something.  For some reason the unused shower rod in my closet and one of my giant tiger poster frames came to mind after only a moment’s thought. I usually am terrible at remember things.

And so once the officer left, I called my brother and then my father. I searched around on the net, looking for some place local that sells pepper spray.  I eventually found a place, drove there and spent the entire time in the store staring wide-eyed around me and wondering just how I could ever trust any strangers ever again.

I almost slept with all of the lights on in the house that night. I didn’t, because I find I sleep poorly if the lights are on, but it was a near thing. And truly I don’t think anyone could blame me if I had for just that night.

The reaction of my apartment management was less than concerned when I called the next day. “Oh you need a window fixed because someone tried to break in? We’ll get someone over there when we have time.”  Apparently they hadn’t received the message I left with them the night before.  Nor did they know of the request when I stopped by after work that day. (Almost a month later they still haven’t fixed the security light outside of my front door.)

Obviously this situation was mild compared to what could have happened.  I was lucky that the man trying to break in was a chicken in the end and didn’t want to get caught.  I’ve heard stories of a few people who weren’t so lucky.

The reason I bring all of this up and attempt to describe how it felt, is because I’m going to attempt to use those emotions that I had when I work on my novels.  Can a person truly write fear if they don’t experience it?  I don’t think so.  And while I’ve never felt terror, I can certainly guess at how it might feel now that I’ve had this experience.

I wanted to take something positive away from the experience because so often I take away only negative things. I’ve asked myself recently how I can possibly continue to call myself a writer if I allow things to stop me from writing.  My answer was, I can’t.  Which then led to me questioning why I’m allowing anything to stop me from doing something that I truly love to do. The answer was fear, just not the kind that makes your knees lock and your gut fill with moths.

If I can talk myself down from intense fear and anxiety, then I should be able to talk myself down from the fear of failing as a writer.  And so, that is exactly what I’m doing by entering NaNoWriMo in November.

I also realized that pressure from an outside, impersonal source, to write works to keep me motivated.  The 3-Day Novel Contest worked wonders for my productivity.  Hopefully NaNoWriMo will as well.

And now I leave you with a poem that I wrote when I was in High School titled No More Fear.  I’ve always been a fan of rainstorms, but I found the title and theme of the poem to be appropriate for this post.  Enjoy.

No More Fear
by Heidi Cautrell

The blazing light of the red sun shows,
Autumn leaves swirling gently in the breeze,
And tree branches dancing in the wind.
Rain suddenly lashes out at the world.

The sky is pierced by nothing.
Darkness is absolute.
Then thunder booms and roars.
Lightening cracks like a whip.

Rain beats upon roof tops.
Trees bow and beg for mercy.
Tall grasses bend and break,
Under the mighty power of the storm.

The rain gives into the world.
Water gently trickles down the glass pane.
Wind sighs gently through the grass.
Trees groan as they raise their heavy branches.

A slight piercing of the stars in the sky.
The silver moon, a circular cloud of mist.
The once angry black clouds, turned gray, float away.
A child sighs and has no more fear.

Heart of Louisiana Logo

Though I started this blog after I joined Heartla, in my livejournal blog I did a write up of Heartla’s Reader’s Luncheon after I attended in October 2008.  At the time, I was simply another reader and I enjoyed the food, the table conversation and the speakers at the luncheon.

This year I had an entirely different perspective.  Though I didn’t participate in much of the planning, I helped pack goodie bags for attendees and was present when the all the myriad of things needed were discussed at our monthly Heartla Meetings.  This year’s meeting was even more wonderful in terms of speakers because both speakers were true romance novelists.  Not that the speakers last year weren’t wonderful, but this year Cynthia Eden (Hello sexy books about hot-blooded demons!) and Kelley St. John (Hello smart, sexy writing!) were spot on speakers for this Reader’s Luncheon.

Ms. Eden spoke about her favorite books (she even brought her first romance ever along!) and how one book set her on track to be a romance lover to this day.  She picked up her first romance in 1990 (I was about a year behind Cythia, so ha!) and she was hooked.  I think all readers of all genres can relate to that.  I was hooked when I read the hobbit and again when I read my first Harlequin (sadly, I cannot remember the name, though I remember the story clear as day.)  Ms. Eden’s speech was fun and uplifting.  As a writer of sci-fi, fantasy and romance, I tend to feel torn on my passion for all three subjects.  Romance is usually frowned upon by all genres.  But, as Ms. Eden pointed out, it’s also the largest book market today.  And boy are we romance lovers loyal.

Mrs. St. John (I know she’s a Mrs. because I met her husband!), was a wonderful speaker as well.  Her speech had quite a bit of humor and some tear jerking moments as well.  She spoke of the readers and how authors, any authors, would not be where they are without their readers.  Never, ever say you are just a reader.  You are a reader and the reason that so many people write.

And that’s what this Luncheon is about, the Reader.  We writers would be nothing without you.  Now I may never be published, but I will always be thankful to anyone who reads my work; regardless of whether you actually enjoyed it or not!

The turn out for the Luncheon was wonderful and though things didn’t go as smoothly as some would like, Heartla received positive comments from all quarters, authors and readers alike.  And, of course, this wouldn’t have gone off without the help of the Luncheon committee who put in a great deal of effort and I’m sure where quite exhausted once everything was said and done.

It was fun to be on the other side of the event and still get to participate as if I were just a reader too.  I even won a raffle basket!  It contained all the goodies any aspiring writer needs and believe you me, I’ll be using those tools to their fullest when I begin working on my novel for NaNoWriMo in November.  Along with the gifts, I was given a certificate for Silken Sand’s Writer Conference, which is put on by the Gulf Coast Chapter of RWA.  And I was offered a 50 page critique by Cynthia Eden.  Needless to say, I was one giddy writer.  But now I find myself torn on what I should send to Cynthia.  I believe I’ll work on my fantasy story, which has the greatest balance of romance and fantasy of any of my other stories.

And so I proclaim, with only a small amount of bias, the Heartla Reader’s Luncheon of 2009 a success.  Thank you, once again Ladies, for doing an outstanding job.  You all deserve a round of applause and chocolate.

I think it’s appropriate to start this blog off by detailing why I chose the name that I did.

Passages in Black is the name of a poem my oldest brother, Dion Cautrell, wrote for me for my high school graduation.  I’ll be posting it here so that whomever reads this can enjoy the poem as much as I have.

Passages in Black

–For Heidi Allison, Sister of Mine

Let streaming moments of molten life,
fluid, black like so much ink,
follow you always–over the threshold

into open space,
through the door of lightness of mind.
Be sure in yourself,

in those tatters of time.
Be sure in your passages,
your passionate voice.

Carry them always
those streaming moments of molten life.

Copyright © 1997 by Dion Cautrell

I chose this for my beginning entry because this poem has always heartened me whenever I’ve thought of giving up because my writing just wasn’t flowing the way I wanted it to.  Each time I read this poem I feel a lightness of mind and spirit.

If there’s one thing my brother is good at, it’s writing and inspiring others with his words.  He’s a professor of English at the University of Nebraska in Kearney.  He’s a dedicated teacher and he’s passionate about what he does.  And though we’ve not always saw eye to eye (imagine that from siblings!), I’ve always admired and respected my brother and what he does.

I’m not always witty, nor humorous, though I do have my moments.  You won’t always find amazing things on this blog, but you will find my honest thoughts and questions as I explore what I can do with my writing.  Perhaps I’ll be published, perhaps not.  Regardless, I’ll be sharing my journey here, with whomever happens to land here.  By accident or design, I hope you enjoy your stay here.