Writing - grace grits and gardening

Economic Collapse. Seven Years from Now…

September 3, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

September 2020

It seems ridiculous to lock the door and arm the security system, but old habits persist even coated with an unlikely chance of returning. Shutting the door on Dallas, we head toward Arkansas before daybreak, the safest time to travel.

We take only what we can cram into our vehicle–mainly clothes, photos of the kids, and a few family heirlooms that won’t mean much to anyone else. I stuff my purse with a six-month supply of prescription medication, worthless cash to make me feel better, and important documents. Birth certificates are now needed to cross state lines. I check three times to make sure I still have them.

Along the bottom of the floorboard, John stacks quilts, canned food and water bottles. Jewelry is hidden underneath the rear compartment where the spare tire is stored. We may need it later.

Lucy rides in my lap, motionless. She sleeps most of the time, yet is still in good health considering her advanced dog age. Annabelle, warm against my thighs, curls next to her, unaware.

There were signs.

There are always signs.

For years everyone pointed fingers and slung accusations, everyone from Washington’s self-important talking heads to the regular Joe-Facebook complainer. George Bush is to blame. Bill Clinton started the whole mess promising homes to everyone. Obama armed the Syrian rebels seven years ago, leading to the destruction of Israel.

I don’t blame any one person or group. I blame everyone. I blame myself.

As other countries collapsed—Greece, Egypt, Syria, Portugal, Lebanon—the U.S. government continued handing down policy, keeping interest rates at rock bottom. Only the shrinking speculative market cheered. Individual states and cities went bankrupt, yet Congress debated stances with no real bearing on citizens. Natural disasters afflicted the planet, and America sent aid she didn’t have.

Bernanke pumped money into the system, and the stock market soared. With merely a whisper of Wall Street negativity, the market plummeted. Violent swings continued for years as Summers, the new Federal Reserve Chief continued Bernanke’s strategy of printing Monopoly money. When the market plunged twenty-five percent, people panicked, selling low. The next day stocks spiraled another thirty percent. People swarmed the streets, demanding answers, pulling money from banks to stuff beneath mattresses. Not that anyone saved money anymore. It had been decades since people really saved.

President Clinton, nearing the end of her first term, did little to calm the nation. The nation was too far gone. Unemployment soared. No one bought anything. Businesses folded.

When the Federal Reserve collapsed under the weight of its own debt, Clinton addressed the nation reporting that last year ninety-three percent of tax revenues went to Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security and interest on U. S. debt.

Did we really think we could deficit spend our way to profitability?

Is anyone surprised?

A dark cloud now sits over the nation, thick and stifling like Panhandle dusters during The Great Depression. The world watches as Americans demand answers, steal to survive, loot to release tension. The National Guard attempts to keep order.

My family is thankful to still have the farm, the land. Things may be no better in Arkansas, but we will feel more secure among friends and family.I check my purse again for the birth certificates. Barring no problems on the road, we’ll be home in seven hours.

Mississippi County, Arkansas

talya

Nothing mattered except states of mind, chiefly our own. –John Maynard Keynes

This was written for the Write Tribe Festival of Words Blogging Event.

the dark side of writing

August 16, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party. Just me and my faithful schnauzers.

And potato chips.

What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile?

writer's block grace grits and gardening

It was ugly.

And it all started because I let someone get under my skin.

A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.

Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.

I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.

And then it began to rain.

In Dallas.

In August.

A steady soaking rain.

From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.

I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.

And I remembered why I write.

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood

“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon

The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Rejected. Again.

July 30, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

Over the last year, I’ve begun receiving rejections. Not that I had an oh-look-at-me-I-had-everything-I-ever-wanted kind of life, but more like I took-the-safe-path-by-not-putting-myself-out-there kind of life.

Well, I’m out there now.

Some rejections come in the form of complete pin-dropping silence and total non-responsiveness to my carefully crafted query letter.

Other publishers regret to inform me they will not be accepting my work for publication, but wish me much success in finding the right publisher.

I realize writing takes perseverance, and I have it.

I know I do.

I write because I can’t not write. I write even if no one ever publishes my work.

Yesterday I was rejected by Baylor Press, the press for my college alma mater.

It stung.

We have a long-standing relationship, a thirty-year relationship built on fond memories and late-night study sessions, culminating with a liberal arts degree I’m willing to pretend helped get me to this point. I hoped Baylor would be proud of her own enough to consider publication, maybe even claiming an inkling of credit.

But no.

In a response one step from blanket blogger spam, Baylor thanked me for my submission yet felt my farm novella wasn’t a good fit for its list… Baylor publishes history and cultural works—my book is about cotton farming—not historical nor cultural enough…

I knew this submission was likely a stretch, as many college presses only publish ‘scholarly’ works (plus biblical for Baylor). My tale of 1970’s cotton farming includes a mixture of childhood shenanigans, Schlitz beer, spin-the-bottle and other real-life adventures likely frowned upon by such conservative folks. Even so, I thought as an alumna I’d give Baylor first shot, dance with the one who brung you as the old Texas saying goes.

Que sera.

talya

And P.S. to Baylor—you can stop phoning every night and sending letters requesting money for scholarships and the massive football stadium fund. As a struggling writer, donations aren’t a good fit for me at this time. But I wish you much success in finding the right donors…