The Writing Passion

7:40:41 PM EDT

                                    One of a Kind

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By Harriet May Savitz

 

            Each day, information about the writing business comes in through my e-mail.  Five thousand opportunities to sell a book.  Ten thousand available e-mail addresses.  Fifty ways to become nationally known.  Fool proof.  Risk proof.  Overnight success and overnight fame.  If it worked once for someone else, certainly the letters promise, it will work for me.  But then I think, perhaps I will become like everyone else.  No longer one of a kind.

            As a writer, I need to be one of a kind.  I work to keep that individuality.   I want my work to be recognized, discovered, because it is my style and my voice, not because of the genius of marketing departments or promotional companies.   Do not ask me to study my readers’ personal habits, fetishes and frustrations, so that I can manipulate their buying power and write the books that will please them.  Some of the messages I deliver, might not. Do not ask me to have such little respect for their intelligence that I will be dishonest in what I say and what I write.  They will find me out..  And most of all, do not ask me to become more important than the message I deliver.  Do not tell me I must become a marketable personality while the book remains in the shadows until I succeed in luring the public to my doorstep..

             There are many overnight successes and I probably could be one of them.. But I will tell you what comes quickly overnight, can just as quickly disappear. The reading population is fickle with thousands of books to choose from.  My books might be remembered for a day or a week but seldom forever.  Yet, recently, someone found me after twenty years.  He wanted to know if I had a copy of a poem he had read in grammar school and had not forgotten.  I sent it to him but the gift was mine.  To be remembered by one person. It does not happen often, but when it does, it is equal to a multi-million dollar deal. 

            The shelf life of a book today in bookstores could be less than six months.  With 30,000 books published a year, it is difficult to create a classic, one that will live for years.  Publishers want results in a few weeks.  Better than that, they want an author willing to entice, to shock, to indulge the public.  So that they too might have an overnight success.

            Some of my work might never be recognized or might find its way into the spotlight after I am gone.  Hopefully it will be shared with as many as possible. My job as a writer ends once the words are set on paper.  Do not ask me to be in sales, marketing, or to be an entertainer.  Do not tell me I must talk about the intimate details of my life or share more than I am willing.

            There is no longing in my soul for a guest appearance on national television, or for media coverage of a shocking event I might conjure up to become noticed worldwide.   I know how to gain that attention and could if I so desired.  My hours are not spent daydreaming about my moment of fame or fortune.  Rather they are filled with the excitement of the written word.   Its possibilities.  Its power. .  Even after half a century.  The passion lives within me..

             The road I choose to follow is not easy.  But neither is being one of a kind.      

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9:39:31 AM EDT
Feeling Worried

                          Prevent   Prepare  Prevail

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By Harriet May Savitz

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />412 Park Place Avenue

Bradley Beach, N.J. 07720

hmaysavitz@aol.com

732-775-5628

 

            Before April 16, 2007, I anticipated the day my sixteen year old grandson would attend college. I thrilled at the thought he would obtain a higher education and perhaps go even further than his parents or grandparents.  Before April 16, 2007, it was my only thought.

            But now, the day after the Virginia Tech massacre, I have other thoughts.  My sorrow for each parent and grandparent who must endure this tragedy.  My grief for each young person lost, along with their futures.  But grief is not enough.  I feel the need to act immediately… to prevent, prepare, and prevail.

            Prevent.  A siren that would go off with a sound that meant “Evacuate.”  One sirenthat would alert the entire campus to an emergency at hand.  And they would have drills, as we had fire drills, and drills when the atomic bomb brought daily fears.  And the students would practice. They would not be or feel helpless.

                        A siren with another sound would warn “lock down.”  And students would be taught what “lock down,” meant.  Locking oneself in a room.  Putting up obstacles in front of the door and windows.  And there would be drills for this also. 

            Prepare.  There would be lectures on preparation.  Talking about it.  Educating those who will perhaps be in these circumstances one day.  Just as we educate people in neighborhood watch, in vigilance, in survival techniques in the water and on the land.. This would be one of them.

            Prevail.  There is no sure thing about life.  And no way to guard everyone everywhere.   But college administrations have got to deal with the reality of today’s world.  A free campus does not necessarily have to mean a vulnerable one. College Administrations might worry less about bringing top students to their campuses and more about protecting them.  So that the true goals of education would remain strong and prevail.

             

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11:06:14 AM EST
Feeling Anxious

Seventeen-year-old Lou walks into his bedroom one day and decides he doesn't want to leave.  With four years of college looming ahead, a world out of control, and his mom about to sell SeaView, the boarding house they own and live in, he wants to avoid life.  In short, everything that is outside of his room is now the enemy.

Lou shuts off his computer, unplugs his television, and puts his iPod in the attic.  With nothing to listen to but an old radio from his grandmother, he stays locked in his room for weeks, refusing to see anyone, even his girlfriend Betty Jo.  One evening, Lou calls a radio talk show hosted by Big John and introduces himself as Sidney - and his alter ego is born.

Soon, ending "Sidney's" self-isolation becomes Big John's quest.  The radio station hosts a contest to find the best idea to lure Sidney out of his room;  the winner gets a trip to Hawaii.  As the radio audience becomes more familiar with Sidney's crusade, some cheer and others jeer.  But even though Sidney tries to keep life out of his room, it manages to sneak in at the most unexpected moments.

 www.iuniverse.com  - Editor's Choice Award 

 

 

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3:42:20 PM EST
Feeling Hopeful

Harriet May Savitz

Bradley Beach, N.J. 07720

732-775-5628

Excerpted (with editing) from Wheelchair Champions

A History of Wheelchair Sports By Harriet May Savitz

Reissued by AuthorsGuild/iUniverse.com (2006)

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                                    The Dream that Wouldn’t Die

 

By Harriet May Savitz

                       

            Rosalie Hixson came from a farm in Crystal Springs, Pennsylvania.  There her days had been filled with feeding the chickens, milking the cows, helping with the plowing.  Her parents raised beef cattle.  The Hixson family lived in an old farmhouse high atop a hill overlooking the valley.

            Rosie had her own private corner of that farm.   It was where she tended her vegetable garden, and it was where she dared to dream of becoming an Olympic star – a broad jumper on an Olympic team, traveling across the ocean, throughout the world. 

            In between driving the tractor, loading the hay, Rosie practiced for her dream.  She’d use the time coming home from school, running, jumping fences, doing anything to strengthen her legs and increase her speed.  She did all the things she thought broad jumpers must do in order to become the best.

            It was on Halloween when Rosie was just turning fifteen that she was struck down by polio and became a paraplegic.  During the year in the hospital, Rosie began to experience those moments of depression familiar to the newly disabled.  She missed her freedom.  She missed the farm and the Olympic dream she had carried for so long.

            Part of Rosie’s adjustment to the reality that she would never walk again was at the Johnstown (Pennsylvania) Rehabilitation Center. There she met Lou Neishloss, a recreation instructor, who introduced her to wheelchair sports.  In three days he taught Rosie to swim.  It was during those swimming sessions that Rosie felt her life was being given back to her.  Lou encouraged her to join the wheelchair sports team at the center.  The days that followed were strenuous ones for Rosie, working out six and eight hours a day, with special diets, weight training, exercises.

            Rosie took out her dream again.  She heard of the International Paralympics (so named because all the participants were paraplegics).  She learned of the great wheelchair athletes traveling around the world to compete.  She determined to be one of them.  The five-foot nine-inch athlete kept returning from the Nationals and Paralympics loaded down with medals.  In one year’s competition alone, she won seventeen first places, nine seconds, and three thirds.  She was named outstanding athlete of the first Pan American Games in Winnipeg, Canada with a 63-point contribution to the United States total.  She earned nine gold medals, including three in swimming.

            In Tokyo, the girl who came from the farm in Crystal Springs, Pennsylvania, captured first place and topped the American field with six gold and two silver medals.  She won first place in the javelin, discus, club throws, shot put, the freestyle and backstroke swimming events, establishing herself as the greatest woman athlete ever to compete in the Paralympics at that time.  Rosie Hixson, first woman to  complete the physical fitness swim of fifty miles, held the audiences spellbound with her versatility.

            One of Rosie’s favorite memories was the time, with bronze and silver medals hanging around her neck in Heidelberg Germany, she watched a fireworks display put on by the town.  There in the sky, brilliant in color, were the Parlympics wheels lighting the night.  Looking up and seeing those wheels in the sky was just part of the magic that wheelchair sports had brought to Rosie.  The rest of the magic had come from Rosie herself and a dream that wouldn’t die.   

             

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3:51:14 PM EST
Feeling Frustrated

                                     Another War

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By Harriet May Savitz

www.harrietmaysavitz.com

 

            War has been declared against sugar. And one of the casualties is the cookie.  I don’t know where it began.  When the cookies became the foe.  Along with the can of soda.  The chocolate bar.  I don’t know who decided that sugar was the villain and that for its own good and ours, it must be banned from our tables and our schools.  I don’t know why it suddenly became the job of those who believe they are in command to introduce this new way of thinking.  That for our own good and because we cannot do it for ourselves, we must be told to give up sugar whenever we can. 

            Yes, I know what sugar can do to the teeth, to the blood level, and when it misbehaves, I realize it can cause havoc.  With the body and the mind.  But most things can when used to an extreme.  And certainly none of us want to do that to ourselves.

            There are substitutes for sugar.  Many jars have their names written on the labels beside the information “Sugar Free.”  Of course no one is certain about the side effects of such substitutes and anyone who has thrived on a good cookie, knows something is missing.   A cookie eating expert can taste the difference.

            How can one speak about sugar, without including the innocent cookies that are being attacked?    Also under attack is our right to decide for ourselves what we would like to ingest and digest.  We have been given certain freedoms in our Democracy.  What we should eat.  How we should live.  What we can enjoy.  What irritates us and what delights us.  We speak out.  We think independently.  And each of us enjoys the right to pick our cookies, or not.

            Many schools are removing cookies and cans of soda from items once on sale.  It is true that the students can fill up elsewhere.  At home after school.  With their friends.  For now, the cookie invasion has not reached the manufacturers, but that might be next.  To tell them how to make the cookies.  What can go into them.  And what cannot.

            So I am fighting for the rights of cookies.  I grew up on the chocolate chip cookie.  It was waiting for me when I returned from school.  With a glass of milk.  And a dunking.  We didn’t have much money then, but we had enough for a cookie. Eating those chocolate chip cookies made me feel rich.  As rich as anyone else.  As if I didn’t need anything more.  It was the cookie that got me by.  That smoothed life around the edges.  Maybe the day didn’t go as I expected.  Maybe life had thrown me a few curves that were beyond my coping powers.  It didn’t matter.  If there was a box of cookies somewhere.    Nobody in government then was thinking about my ability to decide what I felt good about eating, as a youngster or as a mother.  My parents did.  My own conscience did.  But pity the outside forces who took away our cookies.

            I have enlisted in the battle to preserve the cookie and my right to choose my menu and my diet.   I know it will take some sacrifice on my part.  I might be frowned upon when I serve my grandchildren cookies.  They are part of a generation that will be monitored and discouraged from eating them.  There will be alternatives offered.  Lectures given.  Even punishment distributed.  Guilt will be thrust upon anyone caught eating too many cookies.  Perhaps one day, even one cookie will be too many.

            Next could be ice cream or apple pie.  Little by little we might be convinced that we cannot make decisions for ourselves.  That reason and education are not enough.  That we must be told what we can eat and only those foods might be available.   Our society would lose the right to decide for itself.  It would shrink in creativity.

             Sugar could be just the beginning.  .       

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11:36:06 AM EST

                                    Do Not Despair

                                                               

By Harriet May Savitz

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            My parents could not afford to send me to a good college.  In fact, they could not afford to send me to any.  Even though the tuition was meager compared to today, there were no funds set aside for such a privilege.  And very few federal grants.  

            Recently, someone from my high school class was planning a reunion.  We glanced back over the years.  He was a retired engineer who had been put in college preparatory high school classes.

            “I didn’t belong there,” he said.  “Because there were no plans to send me to college.  There just was no money.” 

            I admitted I too did not have a college education.  I was put in a business course where I sat wondering how I could get to college with what I was learning.  Of course there was no chance of that possibility, and I knew it.  But I was filled with dreams.   And yet this classmate and I had attained our goals.  We had obtained a higher education.  I took night courses at a local college whenever I could.  He also studied further.   We found a way to learn more.  Nothing could stop us from being more than we were. 

            I see parents today choosing colleges that are expensive, that will cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, well beyond their means.  I see them going into debt.    Their expectations are high for their children.  To have a good time and a good education. No matter what the sacrifice. Some of the colleges today have tuitions of $40,000 a year.  My father would have laughed and said, “They’re crazy.”  And I would have done the same

            When my own children came to this decision, they had to work for what they wanted.  We did not have enough funds to send them away to college..  It wasn’t even an option. We gave what we could and they contributed the rest..  They worked for their education..  Part-time.  My son washing windows and painting houses.  My daughter selling jewelry and shoes as a sales clerk at the Mall.  Part of the education they obtained was by working for it..  By wanting it.  By appreciating the value of what they were to receive

            Where can one find a higher education that is affordable?  In community colleges, and in state colleges..  Professors stand in every classroom ready to turn information into wisdom.  Courses are available everywhere, even on the internet.  Knowledge can be found wherever one searches for it. 

             To those who do not have the money to go to the most prestigious colleges, to live away from home, do not despair.  Look around you at what is close by.  Bring a determination to read, to listen, to understand, and a willingness to be inspired.  Think of what you can do for the world with what you have, with whatever you are learning wherever you are.  Find a way to take those courses, to elevate your mind, to enter college on whatever level you can for a higher education.   

             What you bring to it will make the difference.  

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6:54:04 PM EDT
Feeling Hopeful

Fiction/young adult-adult

Novel – <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Sidney! Sidney! Sidney!     For  Immediate Release

Editor’s Choice Award<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Contact:

www.iuniverse.com

www.harrietmaysavitz.com

hmaysavitz@aol.com

Order: 1-800-288-4677

 

                                    Sidney! Sidney! Sidney!

By Harriet May Savitz 

 

Seventeen-year-old Lou walks into his bedroom one day and decides he doesn’t want to leave.  With four years of college looming ahead, a world out of control, and his mom about to sell SeaView, the boarding house they own and live in, he wants to avoid life.  In short, everything that is outside of his room is now the enemy.

 

Lou shuts off his computer, unplugs his television, and puts his iPod in the attic.  With nothing to listen to but an old radio from his grandmother, he stays locked in  his room for weeks, refusing to see anyone, even his girlfriend, Betty Jo.  One evening, Lou calls a radio talk show hosted by Big John, and introduces himself as Sidney-and his alter ego is born.

 

Soon, ending “Sidney’s” self-isolation becomes Big John’s quest.  The radio station holds a contest to find the best idea to lure Sidney out of his room; the winner gets a trip to Hawaii.  As the radio audience becomes more familiar with Sidney’s crusade, some cheer and others jeer.  But even though Sidney tries to keep life out of his room, it manages to sneak in at the most unexpected moments.

 

 

About the Author 

Harriet May Savitz has over 24 books published by major publishers.  She is a contributor to over one dozen Chicken Soup for the Soul books and newspapers around the country.  Savitz’s book, Run, Don’t Walk, was made into an ABC Afterschool Special produced by Henry Winkler.  Her book, Fly, Wheels, Fly was nominated for the Dorothy Canfield Fisher Award and of her young adult novel, “The Lionhearted,” Kirkus Review said, “We cheer a major victory…  The Lionhearted stirs an awareness of wheelchair occupants’ problems and of the wider implications of the word handicapped.”  The Lionhearted (now reissued by Authors Guild/iUniverse) was listed as one of the most popular books in The University of Iowa’s Books for Young Adults.  Pennsylvania School Library Association Award-1981

 

Paper  -  90 Pages  $9.95

 

 

 

 

 

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9:16:07 AM EDT

                           The Other Me

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By Harriet May Savitz

www.harrietmaysavitz.com

 

 

            When I write, I get the chance to visit with the other me.  It is always an adventure.  I never know what the other me will create, or what she is thinking.  It is always a surprise.  Often I do not even know what I will write about.  But the other me does.

            I will sit down to write an essay.  I think I know what I will say.  But the other me has different ideas.  She shouts from inside my head, “Don’t go there.  Go here.  Use this word.  Not that one.  This idea is better.  Can’t you hear me?  Your middle of the essay is in the wrong place.  It belongs in the beginning and where is the punch, the satisfaction, the relief at the end?  Dig deeper.  Use that third eye.  Listen to your own messages even if they make you uncomfortable.  And for goodness sakes, stop wasting words.  Only use what you need.”

            And so I listen.  And when I write that essay, it is with the other me.

            It is not easy to listen to that other voice.  Sometimes it tells me what I do not want to hear.  It often makes it more difficult for me to write, to create.  “Why don’t you just leave me alone,” I tell the messenger.  “Be still.  I am doing just fine by myself.”

            But I am not.   Especially when I am working on a story.  One day, I was working on a book.  I thought I knew where I was going.  After all, I had created  the plot and the characters. .There was much to think about.  What would my characters  say?.  What would they do?  How would they behave?.  And what would be the outcome?  It was my job to provide the answers.  To lead them in the right direction.  I put in the background, description, dialogue, viewpoint, all of the things a story should have.  But something was wrong. The book was not coming to life.  The characters remained on the page, lifeless.  And then I heard the other me.  “Rewrite, you fool. And keep rewriting.  Make them move.  Give them passion.  Anger.  Sadness.  Not one dimension but several.  Make them human.  What does it matter if everything is in the right place.  Make the reader feel.”   The other me took over, kidnapped the characters, moved them in a direction I did not think possible.  And to an end I did not imagine.

            “How do you write all those books?” someone asks

            “The other me helps,” I want to respond.

            How could I possibly do it alone?  Of course I am the one to sit down at the computer or take the pen and writing pad in hand.  And yes, I am the one to carefully place each word in sentences that form paragraphs that form pages.  And I am the one who has the idea.  The big idea.  The great idea.  The idea that will race through the essay and the books.  I feel quite important about my idea.

            Until I realize, without the other me, it remains just an idea.  There is no life to it.  No depth.  No movement.  No resolution.  No hope. And then I hear it. 

            “I’m always here, you know.”   It is the other me.  “You just have to dig deeper and you’ll find me.  You just have to think wider, be honest, be uncomfortable, let me in.  I will give you everything you need.”

             The other me fires questions, one after the other.  “What do you really want to say?  What is important to you?  Why must you say it?  How will it help your piece move along?.  How will it touch the readers?  What do you want from these words?  What do you hope to accomplish?”

            And then the advice.  “Make the words work for you.  Make them yours.  Say it like no one else has or could.”

            Throughout my many writing years, the other me has earned my gratitude.  After completing each writing project, I always say, “Thank you.“

                        . 

           

            .

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7:19:34 PM EDT

                                                 Too Much

By Harriet May Savitz

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            It  happened to ten little girls <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Monday, October 2, 2006 at the West Nickel Mines Amish School in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.  But it also happened to all of those children in the West Nickel Mines Amish School.  And it happened as well to children all over the world.   They were innocent; they were helpless to fight back.  They were the most loved, the most needed, the most valued.  They were the future.\

            There is not a parent anywhere, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a grandparent, who does not look upon this tragedy as if it were their own and they think, “Too much. This is too much.

            There is not a person who has wronged, who has lied, who has hurt another, who has committed a crime, who does not think, “Too much.  This is too much.”

            There is not one of us who loves, who hates, who needs, who wants, who does not think, “Too much.  This is too much.”

            There is not a flower, a bud, a growing thing, a leaf stirring in the wind, a bird flying overhead, who does not look upon us and know.  “Too much.  This is too much.”

            We felt the bullets, we felt the tears, we felt the death, we felt the injustice, and we knew, “Too much.  This is too much.”

            The sound of violence was heard around the world.  By those who believed in a higher power, by those who visited places of worship, by those who shared what they had and gave to those who did not, by those who believed in goodness, by those who offered healing wherever it was needed, and they cried.  “Too much.  This is too much.”

            And then there were those who thought human beings evil, angry, greedy, selfish, violent, incapable of making a success of our world, that humanity had failed, but even they shouted, “Too much.  This is too much.”

            If we do not change, if we do not learn, if we do not listen, if we do not see, if we do not understand, if we do not become better, if we do not protect our young, if we do not teach them gentleness, we will be accepting what happened to those little girls in the schoolhouse in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

            We each can make a difference today.  We can reach out to someone with hope, we can become involved, we can look to our left and to our right at our neighbors, we can befriend, we can soothe, we can touch another human being and change their life for the better, we can volunteer, we can use our hours for the good of mankind, we can turn away from violence everywhere, on the television, in the video games, in the movies.  We can believe there is more to life than guns and bombs and killing.  We can teach others, spread the word, do what we can, with every breath.  We can say to ourselves each day it will not happen again.  And we can do all that is possible to see that it doesn’t.  We can remember.  We can go about our lives but always remember. And in tribute to those children who suffered, we can turn around our own lives to mean more.

            We can ask the questions.  Why?  How?  What for? 

            But there is only one answer. 

            Too much.  It is too much.    

 

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6:26:10 PM EDT
Feeling Hopeful

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For Grandson Ryan,

             And Grandchildren Ben, Jake, and Jenny  when you reach your age of decision.

                                                Age of Decision

 

By Harriet May Savitz

 

            I never had the opportunity to go to college. Though I hungered for more education.  And so I sought it myself whenever possible.  In books.  In conversation.  Always wondering what I might have learned if I had been able to obtain a college education. 

            But you, Ryan, have the opportunity to go to college where knowledge eagerly awaits your arrival.   It must be both frightening and incredibly exciting to be 16, as you are, and thinking about what you want to do with the rest of your life.  So that you may enroll in a college that will best serve your needs.

            I did not know what I wanted to do or to be at 16.  I could not have told anyone what was in my heart because I did not know myself.  But my friends were going to college.  And they were making all kinds of decisions.  Was this college too big or too small?  Too far away from home or too close?  With too many students or not enough?  And then there were the finances.  How much could one afford for a higher education.  In my family, we could afford nothing.

            But now, at this older age of 73, if anyone asked me what I would  like to gain from college, I would have many answers.  For knowledge is the greatest weapon against ignorance and bigotry and violence.  If someone said to me today, “What would you like college to give you?” I would have the answers.”

            I would want to learn about food, the growing of it, the packaging of it, the delivering of it.  I would want to help make the food chain safer.  I would want to help others learn about the food they eat and what their bodies need to survive.  I would want to learn how to cook it, and how to preserve it.  And if it was possible, I would want to have the knowledge that would enable the hungry to be hungry no longer.

            I would also like to study the environment.  This air I breathe.  This water I drink.  These necessities in my life.  I am using them all the time and I am also abusing them.  My car and my garbage do not give them consideration.  I would want to learn how to respect the environment.  How I might give it what it needs to survive

            Knowledge might give me the wisdom to be a diplomat. To have that noble ability to talk to others of different beliefs.  To give them the power to settle their problems without violence.   If I studied enough in college, I might learn this also.

            Government of the people, by the people and for the people would be another interest I would pursue.  This democracy I have spent my life enjoying.  I would study its history so that I might help shape its future.  Help preserve its existence.    

            I would listen very carefully to the voices coming from inside.  Even after 73 years of living, they still speak to me.  They tell me what I must do to be content, happy, fulfilled, and valuable to the world around me.  They tell me when I am wrong and they tell me when I am right.  I must always take the time to hear their messages for these voices are my own truth.

            Whatever I learned at college, I would share  with others.  Wherever I might be.  At work.  In my home. .  In other countries.  I would offer what I have learned so that this universe could benefit from my existence.

            And I would know that whatever college I choose, large or small, prestigious or not,  knowledge will be waiting.

            With open arms.  

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