Sometimes The World Seems Hard

Sometimes The World Seems Hard                

By John W. Vander Velden

Sometime the world seems hard. Sometimes it is.

Few get through life unmarked. Most of us get some cuts along the way. Those cuts leave scars that remind us that life isn’t always painless. And though nearly everyone has those ragged patches where flesh has bound to flesh we are also cut by invisible blades. Blades of heartless comments, or cruel remarks. Blades of failure. Blades of unfairness. Blades of loss. Those blades leave scars as well, only those marks can not be seen with the eye.

Rarely do we speak of the marks we carry. We do not consider them medals of valor in the battlefield called life. Most often we believe them to be failings or weaknesses, private matters that are no ones business but our own. Yet we might understand others better if we shared those scars. For locked away within us all, are the same kind of wounds others have felt.

Look inside and see your own scars. Look inside and open yourself up to another’s wounds.

In a world that has so much hate and anger, finger pointing, and the, it’s us against them attitudes. In a time when it seems only the loudest shouts are heard, while the cry of a child doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. In a society that is certain that each of us is abused by everyone different than we are. In an age that asks why should we help others because nobody has helped us? Have we become so internal, dwelling so intently upon the differences that divide that we are unable to see the vast magnitude of what we all have in common?

Sometimes the world seems hard, and sometimes it is. But it’s not just hard for you. It’s not just hard for me. And it is true that it might be less hard on some, but it is also true it is a great deal harder on some others. Few get through life unmarked, but it is up to each of us to see the scars, and care…To hear the crying child and to act. To help a wrinkled and bent man through the door.  To share our time with the lonely. To see those the world wishes to hide away and offer a bit of the respect they too deserve. But most of all to forgive!

Sometimes the world is hard, but it’s not you job to make it harder. Few leave this life unmarked…don’t be the invisible blade that slices at the heart and soul of another...

(430 Words) 3-20-2019

What Makes A Writer?

What makes a writer?

By John W. Vander Velden 

I guess I can’t honestly answer that question. I have no way of knowing what drives others to write. But I can speak for myself. What makes John W. Vander Velden a writer? If you have gone to my bio page you will have read the first clue. John is a lifelong storyteller. And I am. I do not know what drove me to create stories, but my imagination has been a powerful force within my mind as long as I can remember. I wrote a series of Blog posts on storytelling and how it has changed even during my lifetime. I may post a few here on some later date. But this is not some ramblings about the changes in storytelling; it is a bit of rambling about me as an author.

Imagination creates scenarios, but storytelling is shaping those rough concepts into something logical enough that others can share that world with you.

Storytelling does not a writer make…on its own. But it helps.

I had difficulty in the mechanics of my language…English.  It was that difficulty that stood in the way of putting my stories down on paper. Memories of high school pages drenched in red ink stood as a wall between me and the page. Those images drove a feeling of inadequacy that held me hostage. But, to my good fortune and perhaps yours as well, things happen in life that changed my perspective. The first was reading a series of books and feeling the story, though long, was incomplete. I began writing a sequel in the late seventies. Each day I wrote page after page in long hand. I filled several spirals with my absolutely awful handwriting. The result more than 1300 pages of mostly drivel. But I learned I could tell a story.

Then a story came to me in the late eighties, “The Second Life of Joshua Smith”. I have not penned a single word from that tale. But it built much like a serial, day after day, the story of a man that much like Job lost everything and the life he build following that disaster. Even as I worked at my regular job, if I happened upon a dull moment, a scene would play out in my mind. It was fortunate at those time I worked alone, for it would have been difficult to explain the tears. That was a new experience, to be emotionally moved by my own story.

Those things and the access to a word processor gave me the courage… to write. It occurred to me that I might not know all the mechanics, but I could hire someone to repair my mistakes. And red ink or not, NO ONE could tell my stories better than me. And so in 1999 or 2000 I began writing my stories and I haven’t stopped yet.

(475 Words)  3-15-2019

Thirty Years

Thirty Years

 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

There are mileposts in our lives. Things that stand out. Some we recognize in the distance and gladly await, feeling certain of the changes that will come. Becoming a teenager, perhaps, or the day we leave out teen years behind. Some stand out as an award on their own. A powerful statement of accomplishment. Surely none of us will forget our graduation(s) and what we thought that mile marker meant. There are other things that come upon us, some happy others not so much, but they are significant moments in our lives. Some revealed as public celebrations others marks of private sorrow. In truth we share those as well; it is just parts of life.

For me there is a mile marker that comes each year. In the hectic-ness of my days I can appreciate the significance of the marker that picks up a bit of value with each passing. On Monday I meet that signpost for the thirtieth time, and find myself bit surprised. Not by the fact that Jackie and I are still married, but rather that somehow thirty years have passed since that snowy afternoon I committed my life to hers. Or more accurately we committed our lives to each other.

Thirty years. In a world when we witness too many throwaway relationships, somehow Jackie and I have ridden out the storms and become stronger in the process. I have no secret to share. We move forward…together. I guess that says it all. It seems to me that love is an intangible. You can’t measure it with a ruler, or measuring cup, or weigh it on a balance. You can’t reach out and pluck it out of the air and hold it. It isn’t like that…it’s so much more. Those that experience love, real love, are fortunate. But love is more than just the intangible force that can sweep a person away…it is a commitment. It is deciding to love someone, to give each day not expecting anything in return. That is real love. And to find someone that feels the same way about you, someone that has decided to love you in that same way, without keeping score, just loving, is the most wonderful thing that can happen to any of us.

So thirty years is a mark I will savor. I will not wonder about the number of years that lay before us, for I did not begin this shared journey as a young man. But I will take a bit of time and look back at a frightened couple that stood before their family and friends, that stood before God Almighty, daring to pledge themselves to each other…forever…no matter what, and how I feared myself insufficient for the task.

You see, I never doubted Jackie, I doubted myself.

They were not thirty years of only butterflies and rainbows. They were thirty years of life, of highs and lows, of laughter and tears, of joys and pains. Together we have grown, and growing we have learned, and learning we became a bit wiser, and through that small touch of wisdom we understood each other better, and with that understanding we became bound in ways I could never have imagined.

It is love. More than infatuation, more than romance, though romance is necessary, it is more than passion, even though passion is an important ingredient. Love is all those things and so much more. It is reaching the place where you cannot imagine your life without your soul mate.

That is love, and that is where I find myself now after thirty years 

 

(602 Words) 3-15-2019

 

 

Word After Word After Word

Word After Word After Word

By John W. Vander Velden

I have been asked how I write a book...the process required. Perhaps I gave that person a simplistic answer when I told him you just have to put one word after another. You see I believe there is a difference between coming up with a story and writing a book. Don’t get me wrong, writing a book, especially fiction, requires story telling skills. Skills for developing a plot, and all the rest that is needed to fill that plot, description of setting, and character as well. However turning those concepts, that live only in my mind, into words on the page that transmit what I’m thinking in a way my reader accepts is another matter entirely.

I love writing first drafts. I love writing word after word after word and seeing where those words lead me. I seldom know the ending before I get there. But no matter how I might love my original draft, “it is a long way to Tipperary”, and being publishing ready. There is revisions, and sending revised draft off to my editor. Hi Kristina. And the revisions to follow. But in the end it is writing word after word after word.

When I look at the mountain of work writing a book requires, I ask myself, “why?” Why go to all the trouble to complete a task that probably won’t pay for its cost, let alone reward me for my effort? The truth, the absolute truth is. I write because I must. Because the stories come as un-thieves, break into my mind and leave their treasures behind. Those non-burglars demand I do my best to fill in the blanks...word after word after word.

It is my only hope that when I am finally through stringing words, like beads on a thread, that the result is good enough, that I do not fail the quiet voice within me that gives me a story...word after word after word. (324 Words) 3-2-2019

Thirty

Thirty      

By John W. Vander Velden 

As Alex lies in the predawn dimness he considers.  To others thirty years is a long time but as he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of the blankets beside him; it seems only a few blinks.  He listens to the symphony of quiet breaths and wonders how he reached this place.  The memories come -- memories of walks on quiet pathways -- memories of their first kiss -- memories of the time she revealed she loved him.  Alex draws a breath, closes his eyes and goes to those times, relives thousands of special moments.  He sees his beloved, dressed in white, coming -- coming to him.  He sees the trembling lip beneath the vail, and remembers that he was afraid as well.  That Saturday he doubted himself – knew he was unworthy – and yet…  The remainder of that day a blur, but it was the beginning – and yet not.

His mind filled with images of so many moments.  In the flood of the past Alex pushes aside the times of heartache.  He understands that everyone faces dark times and hurtful words.  They are but stepping stones to better places and need to be crossed but once.  In the grand scale, those insignificant, for the good outweigh them many times over. He swallows and wonders why.  Why would the woman bind herself to him?  What did she see that he could not? 

Watching as the morning light grows stronger he smiles.  With a gentle touch she would awaken, share this special time – another special instant.  But Alex does not wake his beloved, no, he knows himself fortunate.  For he shares his life with his bestest of bestest friends – his hero – his confidant – the one that saved him – the only one that could.  When the world’s craziness came and it had come often, her arms returned the stability to the chaos.  In her words hope could be found.  Together they faced storms.  Together they raised three enthusiastic boys.  Together they faced loss – together…

And today it would be thirty years – and it was only the beginning!

(343 Words)         1-11-2015

  

 

Where DO The Words Come From?

Where DO the Words Come From?           

By John W. Vander Velden

 

A few of us met last night for coffee at the end of our writer’s meeting. We do so most months. To the outside eye it might seem, we are just three people from different backgrounds, talking about movies, books and other stuff, but we understand the common thread. We are writers...

The fact that each of us has been published is not the basis for the definition...writer. In my view anyone that takes the time to stitch words together to create something out of language deserves the title of writer. Simply...we do and so we are.

The conversation rambled about as it always does, but a question arose...where DO the words come from?

Those that do not engage in the pursuit, might not see the value of the question. Surely the author brings his knowledge and selects his choice words in the way he pleases. But the question is deeper than word choice...it is about the form those words take and how they generate the image a reader builds in his or her mind.

I know I have had times, many times, when I complete a scene and looking back wonder where on earth that scene was born. Surely I am unable to create something of that magnitude, on my own. Where did the sentences, the paragraphs, or the chapter that now fills the page that lies before me come from. I tell myself I do not have that kind of talent.

I believe that the best that I have written...and likely the best I will ever write, comes from places of which I have no control. Period!

Deep inside me there is a seed planted before my birth. Whether you agree with me on this point of not is your choice, but does not change the truth I feel. For I believe...strongly...that GOD has carefully placed that tiny spark in my soul. That he expected me to cultivate that seed and help it grow. That time and time again I would tap into that seedling and find something unexpected...something with power...something I should share.

That seed remains there. Year after year, it continues to feed new growth. It continues to provide many things, and among them the words these clumsy fingers tap out onto the page. So on days like this one...days when I read a line I have written that takes me by total surprise...I know where the words come from.  They sprout out of...life, its joys and pains. They grow out of...self-examination, carefully looking at my achievements and failures. But most of all they come from a small seed planted deep within me by GOD.  That is where the words DO come from...

(459 Words) 2-8-2019

Pale Light

Pale Light

By John W. Vander Velden

                  

 

The cold night air stings nose and lungs as I walk over the rolling snow covered field.  Only the brightest stars, those that dare confront the brilliance of the full moon, dot the dark overhead.  The land lays painted beneath the pale light, the moon illuminating the snowy landscape, reflecting various shades of gray, in the pristine night.  The way I chose leads across the rolling land made more so by ocean like waves, drifts piled and driven firm by winds past, my steps at times labored.  Now air calm, my breath’s steam hanging before me, freezing ice drops in my moustache, carries no sound other than my own.  With eyes sweeping the frozen world, enjoying a different beauty of light and shadow of open spaces shared by none.  Here alone beneath the stars and moon…here alone as I trudge through knee deep drifts…here alone in a world illuminated by pale light…I find myself once more.  As I pause, as I study the night world lit by pale light, as I look in each compass point, seeing no other, a place most solitary I have found.  Yet even here, I know…I am not truly alone…not here in the mid of open land…not here, far from home and hearth, far from those wiser within warm walls.  No, the stars and moon remind me with their pale light…I am never alone!!!