Torn Between Two Lovers: A Tragicomic Tale of Second-Novel Rivalry 💔

My first love, a thirteen-year affair, caused a lot of emotion over its long life—excitement, rage, fear, euphoria, satisfaction, frustration. It was both thrilling and exasperating and, truth be told, there were a few breakups, one I thought would be irrevocable. Friends were concerned we wouldn’t make it, calling it my phantom novel. But we went the distance and finally celebrated going public nine months ago. Since then it’s been a party, all champagne and celebration. A victory lap full of hard work, yes, but mostly pure joy.

One of the names I call the object of my affection is The Fourteenth of September. When I’m in a rush, I use its pet name, “A Woman’s Story of Vietnam,” sometimes just a short but sweet “Set in ’69.” We’ve had our moments. Never will a relationship be so volatile, meaningful, or memorable, and it will always be with me.

But I’m ready, as they say, to move on. It’s me, not it. No fault, harm, or foul. It’s just time.

I confess I’ve been flirting for about a year with a tall, dark, and handsome story with a foreign accent—about expats in San Miguel de Allende searching for their last dream. I admit I love rolling my tongue around its working title, “La Querencia,” and intriguing the curious with its definition: “The place in the ring where the bull feels safe.” The intrigue. I want to dance! In March, we slipped away together for a delicious month at the Ragdale Artist’s Retreat where we fantasized about our future in a ninety-page plot plan. It’s fresh, it’s sexy. It could work. But we have to commit.

And yet, The Fourteenth of September won’t let me go. And part of me—and I confess this is a surprise—doesn’t want it to. It’s done well for a debut novel by an unknown, already in a second printing, in fact. But it’s so needy. So many months since launch and it still takes up 75 percent of my time. My juicy next novel beckons, and if I pause for even a moment to look over my shoulder and give it an encouraging wink, promising I’ll come soon, sales of the first just stop. It’s fond of these foot-stomping tantrums for attention. I will not be ignored, Rita!

I admit, sometimes I rather like the rivalry, if I can say that out loud—as I type this and have just moved the stacks of San Miguel research out of view. Each week I have opportunities to talk about the attractions of Lover #1, now fully wrestled to the ground and lovely. We’ve been through so much. I enjoy telling the tale: how my personal experiences became integrated into the story of an important historical time, the characters I both offed and paired off, the “soundtrack” I peppered throughout the action, the journey I renamed from “coming of age” to “coming of conscience.” It may be rough around a few edges, but it was my first love, a dream come true, and I relish sharing it. It still has a long runway, with the 50th anniversary of so many of the events it recounts upon us. And I owe it. I’m a different writer than before we met: better, wiser. Without it, what would I be? I don’t think I can give it up yet.

It’s just not a good time, I keep telling Lover #2, but realistically how long can I ask it to wait? The thought of it is so wonderful when I’m dreaming of how the plot will spin, but exhausting when I buckle down into the daylight of bringing it to life. I remember how much #1 took out of me, and my knees start to wobble. I sweat. Give me at least half your time, #2 demands, or I’m outta here. And, in fact, the details of some of the squishy parts of the plot plan have come to seem insurmountable. We’re no longer dancing. I already miss our early days: the spark, the promise. The certainty that this affair would be so much better, so much smoother, so much more. . . efficient.

Discover & share this You Stole My Life GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.

I’m at a crossroads. My publicist sends intoxicating Friday afternoon emails about major media that have requested review copies of #1, potential placements that are targeted for as long away as December, as far into the future as next spring. How long can I sustain this affair, I wonder? At the same time, book club members and other readers clamor for news of an arrival date for #2, when I’m not even sure how serious we are. My hairdresser tears up when I tell her about the bullring. Can I balance both? Must I walk away from one of them, shutting the door, drawing the line, refusing to answer the plot dreams that visit nightly about #2, or coldly let those unsold copies of #1 sit spurned in storage.

I need couples therapy. To sit them both down and duke it out. Who gets visitation on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and who gets the long, productive weekend mornings? The need for discipline and organization blasts at me through a subconscious voice of authority as I lie on the couch. “I know, I know,” I answer, as it regales me with stories of the unwavering work habits of Ernest Hemingway and Edith Wharton. 

I am weak. I am fickle.  I simply cannot live without them both, for now. A remedy will present itself, a favorite will emerge, I’m certain.

Well, isn’t it pretty to think so?

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LATEST UPDATES & NEWS

When Integrity Trumps Consequences

"Early abuse taught me exactly who I did not want to be...now I am not afraid to stand up for others, even if that means standing alone"

— Coming of Conscience Scholarship Applicant

30 Years After Tiananmen, a Chinese Military Insider Warns: Never Forget

A former People’s Liberation Army journalist defied a political taboo to describe the bloody crackdown in Beijing and urge a national reckoning.

National Indie Excellence Book Awards

13th Annual NIEA Awards Finalist for both categories “New Fiction” and “Book Cover Design: Fiction”

Carl Sandburg Literary Awards Dinner

Featured Author at CPLF’s Carl Sandburg Literary Awards on Oct 10, 2019

16th Annual Louisiana Book Festival

Featured Author at the Louisiana Book Festival on Nov 1, 2019

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Coming of Conscience Scholarship Recipient Announced

Isabel Odom-Flores & Rita Dragonette

As I wrote back in February’s blog post, the Coming of Conscience Scholarship that was created in the spirit of the journey of the main character, Judy Talton, in my novel The Fourteenth of September had attracted a record-breaking 200+ applicants. The scholarship was open to all students (undergrad and graduate) at Northern Illinois University (NIU), the real-life model for the fictional university in the novel. It was designed to encourage meaningful activism and bold personal responsibility. Applicants were asked to write an essay to describe their understanding of Coming of Conscience, to share an example of a Coming of Conscience moment of their own, if possible, and, above all, to indicate their plan for how they will use their degree to help change the world. Essays were evaluated by a faculty committee established by the NIU Foundation, who chose the final recipient.

I’m very pleased to share with you that the scholarship has been awarded to nineteen-year-old sophomore Isabel Odom-Flores, a Communication Disorders major, in the College of Health and Human Services.  

A Generation Committed to Giving Others a Voice

"Coming of Conscience is as simple as 'doing the right thing' and as difficult as realizing 'your whole life depends upon it'"

— Scholarship Applicant

Isabel’s essay was one of so many who told the stories of lives changed by brushes with injustice, tragedy, and violence as well as the day-to-day courage it takes to live a life of integrity. If anyone is worried about how committed the allegedly self-absorbed younger generation is to making a difference in the lives of others, these stories will disavow any concerns. Students wrote, not surprisingly, about bullying of all kinds, cheating, sexism, and drugs, but also about abuse, gun violence, difficulties with trusting the police, and overcoming restrictive cultural norms in first-generation immigrant households. In the main, applicants had faced situations that inspired them to train for careers in law, political science, and advocacy to help address what they feel strongly are injustices and issues that must be overturned. A second majority of those are going into medical school or nursing and teaching to help those who need assistance. The commitment to using the personal fear and rage of what they went through to help others is universal.

Many are unexpected: A young woman who still had to fight to convince her parents to let her go to college. Another who became a nutrition major after the death of a young, obese cousin because of the unhealthy diet of a culture. A Christian aspiring actor and singer who turned down a major role in a play because of skimpy dress, who is now a dance major dedicated to art with modesty. Each is a story of integrity trumping consequences. Some have learned the hard way.

As one student put it. “Do I regret the choice I made that hurt others and eroded their trust and confidence in me? Most definitely. Do I regret the lesson I learned and carry with me each day? Never.”

Isabel’s Coming of Conscience

With Judy Ledgerwood, Acting Dean, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences & Ray Earl-Jackson, Director of Advancement, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences

Coincidentally, as Isabel and I discovered when we met recently, she and the fictional Judy Talton share a struggle to be able to afford to go to college, the life-line of a scholarship that could make all the difference in their futures, and issues of integrity that could cause them to give it up. She’s agreed to allow me to share her story in this post. Read full essay here.

In her essay, Isabel Odom-Flores recounted a painful yet instructive moment of Coming of Conscience. She always knew that college was going to be hard to pay for and was “going to take any help I could get.” As a gifted softball player, her answer came through athletics when she was offered a scholarship to play on a new team at her community college, joining other girls who were excited to play the sport they loved as well as pay for the education they sought.

It soon became obvious the promised funds were to come “later,” according to their coach, and in exchange for serious ongoing harassment. After a year of this, Isabel was faced with a dilemma, turn the coach in and give up her scholarship, putting her future and that of the other team members at risk, or, as her teammates urged, just put up with it for the vital scholarship money—a #METOO moment at the tender age of eighteen.

“I was signed to be on full scholarship for the next school year. I was promised sophomore team captain and a starting position. I had worked hard the last ten years to become a leading student-athlete in college. I knew all of that was at jeopardy if my coach were to lose his job.” But she realized that someone had to put a stop to this. “Harassment in the workplace is wrong. Harassment in schools is wrong. Harassment everywhere is wrong.”

She tried to turn the coach in twice—once as a single, complaining voice that wasn’t believed—and mustered amazing courage to try again, finally and successfully, by convincing the team to join her in a collective complaint. The coach was let go, the integrity of the softball program restored… but the team members each lost their scholarship money. Isabel had already used the money her parents had saved for her education and was struggling to apply for burdensome student loans.

At the same time, the payoff in integrity was character-forming. Isabel now knows her mind, and has found what she calls her “firm voice” and plans to use it. Her plan for her Coming of Conscience scholarship money is to ultimately obtain a master’s in speech-language pathology to help others, literally and philosophically to have a voice.

“I will advocate in my workplace for anyone who is experiencing harassment anywhere. Spreading knowledge on what qualifies as harassment and what does not. Spreading knowledge on how to file a harassment claim under the equal employment opportunity commission. Spreading knowledge will break down the barrier that separates people from staying quiet to finding their voice.”

“I have grown to have a firm voice and use it when there is an injustice. I especially feel compelled to advocate for other women. Equality and harassment in the workplace or anywhere must be taken seriously. I will never again turn a blind eye in any setting.” 

I’m particularly glad to learn that the Coming of Conscience scholarship will more than compensate for the scholarship funds Isabel lost through her decision of valor—a contribution to the voice she will never again question.

A Coming of Conscience Journey

What a surprise, Ruth Sender, Isabel's grandmother met me at the Wheaton Author's Fest to thank me for funding the scholarship.

I had a bit of a push-back on using A Coming of Conscience as the tagline for my novel. But I was convinced that Judy’s story, a metaphor for what the country was going through during the Vietnam years, was beyond a typical Coming of Age. The latter follows a young person on their journey through complications from which they emerge ready and resilient enough to face the world as an adult. Judy goes through this as well. However, her journey is deeper: the issues she weighs are beyond her maturity and experience and will define her character for the rest of her life. Coming of Conscience works better. As Isabel and the other applicants’ essays illustrate—this is a complex world of diversity, 24-hour news, and social media that amplifies everything, where character is being formed at an increasingly younger age. We watch world figures hashing out issues of integrity every day on the news. Children are listening… but as these applicants demonstrate… they are also learning.

We Can STILL Change the World

My intention for the scholarship was to allow young people to take pride in the hard decisions they’ve had to make and use them to become bold and active, never settling for something that they can impact. The world will always need changing for the better. I’m ever so much more confident after reading these stories. I’ll be sharing excerpts with you in future posts.

These brave young people are on the front lines of the future, as we have been. I couldn’t be more proud and confident that history doesn’t have to be a hamster wheel and we won’t need to keep starting over.

Coming of Conscience: A character-defining personal decision or action where integrity trumps consequences.

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Women’s History Month: A Matter of Standing

Standing: status, rank, position, station, level, footing, reputation, estimation, stature, eminence, prominence, prestige, esteem, illustriousness, importance, consequence, influence, distinction, noteworthiness, validity, sway, clout

The women of new congress

Women’s History Month isn’t an anniversary I typically celebrate or to which I pay much attention. Early in my career, in fact, like so many of us, I worked hard not to differentiate. Making an issue of being a woman in the workplace seemed to underline the very differences I was trying to equate. However, as I type this, I admit to feeling ashamed of myself and that—though I’m dying to meet Gloria Steinem in real life—I hope she doesn’t inquire about the details of my feminist record. It’s there, but in my younger years I did work harder for what seemed more immediate, achievable goals, like ending the Vietnam War. I would say I don’t feel tragically ashamed, more like the descendant of a suffragette being admonished by her ancestors: “Do you realize what we went through?” I’ve always been on the right side—but not raging. I wanted my career and achievements to speak for, not themselves, but for me. I had earned that standing, regardless of gender, I felt. Looking back, after learning how hard it was to be heard, even when you did everything right—even way beyond right—I wonder what on earth I was thinking about. Why did I feel I had to prove anything?

Standing: That Which Is Assumed for Others Often Needs to Be Earned or Proven for Women

Lori Lightfoot (right) and Toni Preckwinkle, run-off candidates for mayor of Chicago

Shame is certainly not the word I apply to this past year. This is a shout-it-from-the-rooftops time. From the speak-up success of #MeToo to the feminism of Congress (I love saying that) to the fact that in my city of Chicago, we are going to have an African-American woman as mayor. She might even be a lesbian. Those aren’t the reasons I’d vote for a mayor, but it’s all pretty cool to see that the field is feminine, so the choice is gender neutral. I’m hoping the campaign will be civil and issues-oriented. The road is rocky ahead, as we can already see from snide comments about these remarkable women. Yet, to be standing tall on this road is significant.

The Issue Is Long-Standing

The extraordinary and hard-earned events of the year aren’t, however, why the standing of women has been on my mind. I launched a novel in the fall, The Fourteenth of September, a woman’s story of Vietnam. I’ve been talking about it across the country and answering continuing questions about why I would write a book about that war from a woman’s point of view: What was my intention? Why would it matter? How could there be a story if women weren’t even in the war? Their lives weren’t on the line, were they? These aren’t judgmental questions, they come from a point of genuine curiosity, and an eventual thrill that there even is a story about women during that war.

The discussions have been like peeling an onion. The first comments are usually from men, sharing their experiences of the Draft Lottery, but then, slowly but surely, the women’s questions begin. They have stories of experiences as well—of impact, not combat. As the queries deepen, so do my answers, and I find myself going back to my childhood where issues of inequity began for so many of us. Mine was a bit unusual, so the disconnect was clearer.

Both my parents were in World War II. My mother actually saw much more action than my father (I’ve always loved saying that). She was a nurse, a first lieutenant, overseas for three years. My father was sent to Panama, out of the war, and came to Europe after D-Day but in time for the Battle of the Bulge. I don’t want to compare their experiences and assess which one had it worse, since that will undermine my whole point, but the details are significant to set up the issue.

Edith Finnemann Hoey, 1st Lt., Army Nurse Corps

My mother had stories (and scrapbooks) that we pried out of her years later that were amazing: in Patton’s army, helping perform meatball surgery in twenty-hour shifts in a tent on the front, dipping her cup into a tub of cold coffee to keep awake before rotating behind the lines for a little rest before it would start all over again; part of a team on VE day that liberated Stalag 11 in Heidenheim, Germany. As the daughter of Danish immigrants she could understand German, and when the captured men smiled and called the Americans names—just like in the movies—she giggled that she could wait for the killer moment, then answer back in their own language, showing she had understood all along, stunning them that this twenty-six-year-old farm girl could smack them back in place. It was cold in Heidenheim, and the prisoners had little clothing. They were huddled in the fetal position to keep warm . . . for years. Her job, as head of triage, was to take their limbs and try to pull them apart to see if there was any range of motion, any hope for life. Just take a moment to imagine what that would be like. But she didn’t want to talk about it. Not, we thought, because most vets didn’t, but because she had found that “no one wanted to hear it.”

When conversations began, she was usually shut down with “but you were just a nurse.” It was my father who was the sanctioned target of a bullet that could kill him, so his stories were the real war stories. My mother didn’t have the necessary standing to be taken as seriously, so she went silent. Eventually she began to agree—maybe what she’d been through hadn’t been that important after all. Maybe her contribution hadn’t been that significant.

Even as a child I remember thinking it so odd that the war experiences of my parents would be assessed and weighed differently. It didn’t make sense. They were equally brave and patriotic. What they went through was equally dangerous and horrific. Why would a scale be applied? Though my mother’s life could also have been lost, it wasn’t technically on the line. She didn’t have standing. Therefore, she didn’t have respect. And yet, though I could imagine my father shooting someone, I couldn’t picture him having the patience and compassion to slowly coax frozen limbs away from bony rib cages and out into the light.

Do We Need Standing for Respect?

When it came to Vietnam, the war of my generation, I was surprised to see similar circumstances happen firsthand. In the antiwar movement, where so many women were involved, despite early feminism it was often very hard to be taken seriously. In the depths of the terror over the Draft Lottery, you could participate, organize, empathize, comfort, but—as you could be told in a snap—you could never really understand what the guys were going through because you would never face a bullet or wonder if you could kill someone. We were often marginalized, just at the point when we felt we were breaking through with our own contributions. We didn’t have the standing to be taken seriously.

The Fourteenth of September is a story of those women. My intention was to pose a female dilemma with the same gravitas and emotional intensity as the decision the men had to make about going to Vietnam to die or to Canada, another kind of death. I call it a Coming of Conscience novel. I wanted to explore how a woman would approach the decision of integrity trumping consequences, how she’d weigh the same factors of duty, security, future, and conscience. It’s as close as I could come. I wanted to give my character Judy the standing she deserved, and, I suppose, however little and late, my mother.

Before my mother died, she talked about how disappointed she was. She’d felt her daughters would fare so much better without the many restrictions of her time. Though there’d been a lot of change, she thought that in her long ninety-year lifetime, we’d have settled this issue of standing.

Standing Tall

My mother has been gone for over a decade but would have been gratified about the achievements of women in this year, celebrated in this Women’s History Month. We’re far from settled, but we are certainly standing taller and perhaps, at some point, we’ll naturally loom so large we won’t have to think of it at all. And someday Women’s History will just be History.

In the interim, I won’t let it pass. I’ve scheduled posts and Facebook ads on the issues I’m writing about, and I’m celebrating. Today, I totally assume standing for my story, for my “record,” and I’m standing up—just like Mom.

My mother, sometime in the 1940’s, standing tall and fearless. I have no doubt she’d pull that trigger.

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Thank You: The Coming of Conscience Scholarship Is Fully Funded with 200+ Applicants to Date

SOCIAL GIVING CAMPAIGN

Coming of Conscience: A character-defining personal decision or action where integrity trumps consequences.

The tag line for my book The Fourteenth of September, which came out this fall, is “A Coming of Conscience Novel,” a designation intended to echo yet distinguish it from the typical coming of age experience. In the story, which takes place during one of the most difficult times in our country’s history—The Vietnam War—the main character, Judy Talton, is plunged into a dangerous journey of self-discovery. She ultimately makes a character-defining decision with huge ramifications for who she is and what she will become. Her dilemma parallels that of America at the time: What are we if we stay in Vietnam? Who are we if we leave?

I call her decision a “Coming of Conscience,” which I define as an issue of character—when integrity trumps consequences. One of the concerns at stake for Judy is the hard-won scholarship that is her ticket to the independent future she desperately desires.

Paying It Forward

In the spirit of Judy’s journey, as part of the launch of The Fourteenth of September, I initiated a social giving program to fund a scholarship at Northern Illinois University, the real-life model for the fictional college in the novel. The scholarship is intended to encourage young people in today’s equally challenging times to engage in meaningful activism and bold personal responsibility. It’s to be awarded to the student who best demonstrates their understanding of what Coming of Conscience means to them, and their plan for how they will use their degree to help change the world in whatever way their beliefs guide them.

When the program was launched, I asked you to help me fund the scholarship either by sharing my posts or a photo of your copy of the novel, or by making a short video to share your own personal Coming of Conscience moment. For each involvement I donated money to the scholarship fund, and some of you also gave direct cash contributions.

I thank you so much for your participation and I’m happy to report that the $10,000 scholarship is fully funded and that there are a record-breaking 200+ applicants.

We Can STILL Change the World

WATERGATE PROSECUTER AND MSNBC CONTRIBUTOR, JILL WINE-BANKS.

Back in Judy’s day, young people spoke out and ended a war. Here in the present, we’re faced with many issues and choices… all of which have consequences, many of which involve integrity. Now more than ever, we need Coming of Conscience moments to define the character of each of us, and of our country.

The essays of the scholarship applicants speak of dreams and plans that are bold and meaningful, and I’ll share some of them in future posts. Meanwhile, thank you for your help in making those thoughts crystallize, the first step in making change happen.

Help grow the Coming of Conscience Scholarship at Northern Illinois University and inspire more talented students toward activism and growth into their personal, social and political maturity. For information on ways to give, please call our toll-free number, 1-877-GIV-2NIU (1‑877-448-2648)

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Thank You: The Fourteenth of September Is Off to a Great Start

The Fourteenth of September debuted this fall and has become a well-reviewed, award-winning and reader success, poised for a second printing as I write this. The three+ month launch period was a whirlwind, with nearly twenty events, parties, salons and speaking engagements, from New York to California, DeKalb IL to Chicago. Click for details on awards, reviews, media coverage and more photos from events and salons.

This wouldn't have been possible without my very valued "village" of salonnieres, event sponsors, bookstores and the incredible interest and support of friends and associates from all aspects of my life — close and extended, past and present. I thank you all. Your support has been overwhelming.

It’s all still going strong into 2019 with an audiobook, speaking/reading events, salons and lots of interest from book clubs, which is very exciting. I've also begun a second novel, set in San Miguel de Allende, where I'm going in February for research, and will dive into seriously in March, when I’ll spend a month at Ragdale, my treasured writer's retreat. I admit to being a bit bleary-eyed at the pace of all of this, with an as-yet-to-be fulfilled resolution to achieve the ever-elusive work/life “balance.” LOL

I appreciate you all being part of my journey. I hope to keep it interesting. Meanwhile, I adore each one of these smiling faces. You’ll be seeing more in future posts.

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December 1, 1969: A Date Which Will Live in Irony

First birth date being selected in the First Vietnam Draft Lottery

Forty-nine years ago tomorrow was the date of the first Vietnam Draft Lottery, the day the phrase “to win the lottery” became, not a prize, but a death sentence. It was also a marker for a generation not unlike December 7, 1941, the date of the Pearl Harbor attack, characterized by then president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, as a “Date Which Will Live in Infamy,” a phrase which itself featured an ironic word referring to the dark side of famous. Perhaps that’s what war does to us? Keeps us mired in subtext, unable to talk straight.

I named my debut novel The Fourteenth of September, the birth date of the Number One lottery “winner” drawn on 12/1/69—straightforward, and crystal clear. All irony upfront and intended.

When Your Birthday Became Your Destiny

CLICK TO SEE VIDEO CLIP OF ACTUAL LOTTERY DRAWING ON 12/1/1969

It was the day a new program was implemented to determine the order of the draft-age men who would go to Vietnam at a time when the life expectancy under fire could be as low as six seconds. Pieces of paper with each of the 365 days of the year were placed into individual plastic capsules, mixed together in a giant container and pulled out, one by one. If your birthday was the first date pulled, you were Number One, and so on. If your number was 100 or under, you were most likely a dead man walking, on your way Vietnam. If your number was 300 or higher, you were considered safe, and could feel free to “live your life as you’d planned,” and also, according to President Nixon, stop protesting the war, which was the whole point. If you were in the 200s, you were in limbo. The new system would be “fair,” they said. And, in fact, the definition of a lottery is “an event with an outcome governed by chance.” And chance is always fair, right? Just like destiny.

But it’s also something you can’t hide or protect yourself from. All you could do was hold your breath and pray as you waited to hear your birthday, a date once so joyous, to be called in fateful order. You’d never think of it the same way again.

A Real-Life Horror Story

Click to read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”

I’d already learned not to trust the word lottery. The first horror story I’d ever read was “The Lottery,” Shirley Jackson’s Twilight Zone-like story of a drawing where the “winner” is stoned to death. It was magnificent and terrifying. I read it in school, as so many of us did. The New Yorker just ran it again for Halloween and I shared it, netting an angry comment from a Facebook friend who’d had the wits scared out of her by being forced to read it in sixth grade by a teacher she still can’t forgive.

That’s how I’ve always felt about the actual Draft Lottery. It scattered our wits to smithereens. And, though people with high numbers felt they were “lucky,” and if pressed you’d had to concede it was “fair,” no one thought it was humane. Even today, it’s still impossible to forgive.

All those capsules with “winning” birth dates, mixed up really good, chosen, opened, and pinned in order to a bulletin board. Seriously? Regardless of how it worked out in the end, on December 1, 1969, the Draft Lottery presented as a sick game show to determine who would die first—and on television! This was a formal government program being administered as a spectacle. Not quite Wheel of Fortune, but right up there. Hunger Games without the panache. How had this already surreal war come to this? I was astonished at the time, wondering if Jackson would demand royalties for having her concept usurped by the military. The last line of “The Lottery,” sums it up best. “It isn’t fair, it isn’t right.”

The Stories We Still Carry

milo ventimiglia in Vietnam Arc of NBC's This is us

During this fall’s launch of my novel, which coincides with the time frame of the build up to first Draft Lottery, I’ve had many audience members share their lottery numbers, or those of their fathers or other relatives. I get emails with only a number in the subject line: 151…263…319… and from a surprising number of people who were born on September 14. Those of the time still want to share their stories of chance won or lost, survivor guilt, close calls, friendly doctors, fortunate injuries, mixed-up records, turning the upper age limit of 26 just in time, being thankful for once in their lives for being too short, too tall, too fat, too thin. All are touching, surprising, different. Many comments are about the generation gap between patriotic WWII parents and Vietnam-era children, who knew this war was very different but not how to articulate it to be understood by mom and dad. Some are terrible: a friend called his father with his 300+ number and instead of rejoicing was told he should now be a man and enlist. Some are wonderful: a business leader’s father told him later in life that he’d had it all planned that if his son was drafted, the entire family would move with him to Canada.

Those of one generation want to share; those of another have questions. Younger audience members are curious. They want to know the details; they can’t believe the details. They can’t believe no one talks about this. Lots of them saw the lottery episode on The NBC television program This Is Us back in October. The show is in a story arc where a son is seeking to learn about his father’s experiences in Vietnam so he can better understand himself and the dynamics of his own family. That’s it in a nutshell—why it’s important to remember and understand history. It teaches us, if we confront it unafraid, for the lessons it holds. It also shows us we still don’t have the answers we didn’t have back then.

The Stories We Have Yet to Tell

The story I tell in The Fourteenth of September is a rare female point-of-view of that time, specifically of women on college campuses. There, the largest concentration of draft-age men in the country were their classmates—frantic and furious—waiting for their lottery numbers, and for the long war to end before they graduated or flunked out and their numbers would kick in.

Lottery Night from a women's POV, as read by the author 10/4/2018

I spent December 1, 1969 being nudged out of the communal television room in my dorm. The Lottery drawing would be telecast that evening. The room was small with limited seating. No room for the girls who’d gathered there for support. We couldn’t possibly understand what the guys were going through, or so we’d been repeatedly told. That wasn’t fair either.

I vividly remember the day I came up with the idea for the female protagonist of my novel to have the same birthday as the Number One. Read the chapter here. I’d long been seeking a dilemma for my main character that would be as emotionally intense as what the men of the time were going through—a way to exemplify how deeply, and equally, women were involved, not because their lives were on the line like the men, but because their generation was on the line. We were all “in it” together, side by side.

I don’t recall the sequence of events that led to the aha! moment, but I do remember thinking the title idea was good. I had dinner with a friend that night and told her. The shudder that went through her was all I needed to see. That shudder is what I want every reader to feel. That with the flip of the chromosome coin, anyone could be Number One. On December 1, 1969, we were all Number One.

But that’s still only one story of women of the time. At a recent book event I met the daughter of Curtis Tarr, the government official charged with revamping the selective service system which, until it became the Draft Lottery, had been insufficiently random. Tarr had been vilified during the day, the target of many of the people I wrote about in The Fourteenth of September. She remembers suffering through it as a teenager, about it being unfair. There are so many stories we’ve been afraid to tell.

The Fourteen of September is one; perhaps hers will be next.

The Lessons of the Lottery: It’s Time for Another Coming of Conscience

In a famous Star Trek episode, the population of a planet in a future world took pride in the fact that they’d eliminated war. Instead, after times of political conflict when war would be inevitable, it was instead simulated by computer. After, individuals identified as those who would have been casualties had the war been “real”—would get notices to report to extermination centers, where they would obediently submit to painless and efficient deaths. They were so proud they’d come up with such a civilized way to conduct war without damage to their fine cities.

Throw birth dates into a container, draw lots from a box, computerize casualties, create volunteer armies of those with few other opportunities. Civilized? You’d think we’d have figured it out by now.

War may be pointless, as the Ken Burns documentary The Vietnam War illustrated so well, but it’s apparently also irresistible, as evidenced by the rapidly multiplying hot spots around the globe. It’s also ever random. Anyone can be in it. With a blink of an eye, one less chromosome, or an emotional tweet, we—or someone we love—can become a soldier deployed to a war zone, a refugee fleeing civil strife in Syria or gang wars in Honduras, or their mothers facing loss. All of us casualties of chance.

How we choose to confront war/conflict shows who we are—our character, our conscience. Do we unite or separate? Sacrifice our young or disadvantaged, or find a better way? Chance is the lottery of life. As long as someone is in a war, we’re all in it.

The subtitle of The Fourteenth of September is “A Coming of Conscience Novel.” It’s about the development of character. My female protagonist’s journey of self-discovery mirrors what the country was debating at the time. Who are we if we stay in Vietnam? What are we if we leave?

On this anniversary day of the Vietnam Draft Lottery, the country is in another Coming of Conscience moment. We’re again fighting for our character, on many fronts. What do we stand for today? What are we to be relied upon for and by whom? When does integrity trump consequences? We’ve come full circle in the hamster wheel of history. How ironic.

Back on December 1, 1969, I’d never considered what my own number would have been had chance dictated I’d been born a boy. I looked it up as I was considering the title for my novel, hoping it would be a single digit, for optimum dramatic effect. I was born on November 4. I would have been #266…

I would have been in limbo…

With no more control over my life than a Central American mother fleeing certain death for her children, a poor inner city kid who enlisted for college money stationed in the Middle East, or a war orphan in Yemen.

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It’s PUBLICATION DAY for The Fourteenth of September: Let’s Make It Memorable

I have to admit this is an exciting day. This story’s been on a long journey—from actual experiences decades ago, to in my head for what seems even longer, to the drawn-out writing process which took twelve years, and the always bumpy road to publication. This book has gestated long enough to be a monster, and sometimes it’s felt like that. It’s more than time this baby was born. And I can’t wait to share it with you. Please help me make it a success.

So Far So Great

It’s coming out on a high tide after lots of belly-to-belly marketing, as you may have noticed. (I hope you aren’t too sick of my face in that headshot or—egads!—the cover of the book.) I put a lot of irons in the fire early on, not really knowing what would click, and I’ve been gratified by the pre-publication reception to The Fourteenth of September. Pre-orders are strong (thanks to so many of you), reviews have been favorable, media coverage abundant, and the book has even done well in early awards competitions.

“. . . a moving tribute to lives altered by chance.”

— Foreword Clarion Reviews

“Dragonette shows us what we can be, both in our best and our worst.”

— Windy City Times Reviews

The Fourteenth of September (Official Trailer - Short Version) from Rita Dragonette on Vimeo.

Take a 30 second peek

Read or Listen

There’s even more going on now that the book is out in the world. In addition to paperback and ebook formats, the audiobook is now available on Amazon, narrated by actress Marissa DuBois, who had a blast juggling the various character voices in the book’s large cast. Check out what she has to say in her video, and take a listen to a three-minute excerpt via SoundCloud. And, if it really puts you in the spirit, check out the soundtrack, full of the circa 1969-70 tunes that punctuate the action of the story.

The Fourteenth of September – Audio Book Promo from Rita Dragonette on Vimeo.

“This is a book that book clubs can sink their teeth into: It will provoke intense discussion across generations, between mothers and daughters, neighbors on both sides of the political spectrum, men as well as women.”

— Jacquelyn Mitchard

Read Together

Above all, The Fourteenth of September is a discussion book, with a multitude of topics to fuel any interest. And, its appeal is cross audience. Certainly, those of you who were around during the 1969-70 time of the novel will approach it from the vantage point of experience, but as historical fiction, its story of a young woman coming of age and conscience during wartime is appealing to all audiences. Check out the new Official Book Club Guide, including discussion questions by best-selling novelist Jacquelyn Mitchard. Please consider it as a selection for your book club and feel free to refer it to others.

Share What You Think

I thank all of you for your support throughout the process of bringing this book to fruition, and I hope you’ll help me take it over the finish line by sharing and spreading the word. In particular, I’m hoping you’ll be sufficiently intrigued to read the story of Judy Blue Eyes in The Fourteenth of September and, once you do, post a review on Amazon and Goodreads. There’s simply nothing that helps more to give a book momentum.

Help Me Make a Difference

The tag line of The Fourteenth of September is “A Coming of Conscience.” That defines Judy’s journey in the book—when integrity trumps consequences. But it also resonates as a call to action even today.

In that spirit, I am initiating a social-giving campaign as part of the launch of The Fourteenth of September to encourage young people to engage in meaningful activism and bold personal responsibility as they continue their education.

The initial iteration of this program will fund a Coming of Conscience Scholarship for a student at Northern Illinois University, the real-life inspiration for the fictional university in The Fourteenth of September. The scholarship will be awarded to a student who best demonstrates their understanding of what a Coming of Conscience means, and their plan for how they will use whatever degree they choose to help change the world in whatever way their beliefs guide them.

To help fund this up-to $10,000 scholarship, I ask you to either share a post on the program, a photo of your copy of The Fourteenth of September, or a thirty-second video of your personal Coming of Conscience (or one you’d like to see) across your social media channels, using the hashtag #ComingofConscience. Or, all three for triple the exposure and funding. See all program details here.

“Coming of Conscience—a character-defining personal decision or action where integrity trumps consequences.”

Celebrate with Me

I’d love to hear from you—about what you thought of the book, what memories or thoughts it conjures up, what your Coming of Conscience experiences have been, or how you think we can amplify that program. Or, just to say hi and stay in touch. If anyone will be in or visiting Chicago on October 24, please join me at my Book Launch Party at Women and Children First bookstore, at 7 p.m. We can take a photo of ourselves with the book to post on the spot and also make a lasting memory.

I can’t thank you enough for your support and hope we can continue. I have three more books keyed up, and I’m looking forward to to telling you about them.

Lovely Rita

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Fifty Years Ago Today: When the Whole World Finally Started Watching

They always say that Vietnam was the first war we saw in our living rooms as we watched the nightly TV news. I don’t recall those images as much as I should have, but I absolutely remember the night I watched the war at home—as I sat on the ’60s-splashed orange-flowered couch in the living room—when the police jumped out of the paddy wagon and began beating young people. This was happening in my hometown, only an hour from the suburb where I lived. And I was watching it with my mother—a World War II veteran. It was when the generation gap disappeared for us for a brief moment. It was the first time we agreed in months, and the last time we’d agree, for a long, long time. This was inexcusable. This was not America.

Another Golden Anniversary from the Year that Turned the World on Its End

It was fifty years ago today that the Democratic Convention in Chicago was held, finishing off a long reign of the Democratic Party that began with the great hope of John Kennedy and ended in tragedy—with major achievements undermined by an inability to end the Vietnam War. It also shattered the image of Chicago as the City that Worked, super-charged the antiwar effort, and polarized the nation.

Until the violent images appeared on television, I remember that, though the war was heavy on our minds, it was hard to get really engaged around the convention. It seemed the country’s leaders were offstage or running out of gas just when we needed them the most. The two candidates of hope were gone or fading. Bobby Kennedy had just been assassinated, and after that, Gene McCarthy seemed to have lost heart and energy.  We were left with Hubert Humphrey, the VP of a president that by this time was so reviled and exhausted he gave up and didn’t even try running for another term—and Nixon. I was too young to vote, but I knew that whatever happened, it would be my age group the next administration would be putting on the line.

Meanwhile the Vietnam War was Raging

There’s a lot of coverage that will be coming out today, talking about the specifics of what happened here in Chicago during that time, and why. There’s already been pretty heavy examination. The Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern just finished a remarkable series on “The Media Legacy of Chicago ’68,” that reminded us that this is where the phrase “The Whole World Is Watching” began. The convention was also the first instance of politicians claiming what we now call “fake news” and vilifying the media. It was the event that caused police to be trained ever after in crowd control and, significantly, it was the first time raw footage went right to broadcast: No editing, no editorializing—YOU WERE THERE. Twenty seconds of film of cops jumping out of a paddy wagon and clubs doing what they shouldn’t be doing, and more and more after that. We’d see worse soon enough at Kent State. But this was first. This got the attention of the world. This was a police state in Chicago: Vietnam on Michigan Avenue.

We Were Already Pretty Spooked

By the time of the convention, we were in the eighth month of a year that every quarter had brought us a new horror—from the Tet Offensive to two assassinations. We weren’t numb yet; your faith that regular life would—had to—prevail was still pretty strong. You felt like if you just kept your head down... you could duck until it all settled back into rationality.

I’d just graduated from high school and made a bargain with myself to get the thing I most wanted—the future promised by a college education—but from the military, the entity that was involved in what was to become the greatest tragedy of my generation. A year later, the "deal" seemed almost Faustian to my teenaged self. But at the time I was trying to make it work. My induction ceremony had taken place only a few weeks earlier.

My mother had encouraged/pushed the move (it’s what she’d done), and she wasn’t broaching any second thoughts. Both my parents were vets from “The Good War” and couldn’t really see that you couldn’t say that about this war... until we saw the paddy wagon pull up.

I remember my mother covered her mouth with her hand and held it there, long after the clip played—this woman who had weathered twenty-hour surgery shifts in field hospitals on the front and the liberation of a prison camp.  We were both stunned, both grasping for a comment that would encompass the horror of the moment. When her hand came down, she couldn’t look at me—her gaze was still fixed on the screen. There was just a deep, long sigh. I joined her. We sighed and nodded. Words wouldn’t bridge the gap, but this did.

My Coming of Age

I think it happened in that moment, quick and profound. I spent the rest of the summer winnowing the piles of what I was planning to bring to my new dorm, from clothes to record albums. I fixated on those, for some reason. I knew the Beatles had to come with me, but I was going to college, maybe I should listen to more grown-up music—maybe it was time to give up childish things.

I chose a Johnny Mathis album, one of Sinatra’s, and gave The Association Greatest Hits to my ten-year-old brother.

Nothing actually changed between my mother and me, but when we argued in the future we were both aware we knew better. We were aware that way down deep we agreed at least on this one fact—“my” war was nothing like “her” war.

Eventually, I gave up my military scholarship and took back my Association album. My brother called me an Indian-giver, and I bought him a new one. We both still have them.

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First Look: Premiering My New Book Trailer

It’s time to take a break from marking all these important—but sad—anniversaries of events that happened around the time frame of my novel and share some fun stuff as I move toward the fall publication of The Fourteenth of September.

Grab Your Popcorn

Sylvia Perez Productions, the namesake company led by the multi-talented television news anchor, video producer and long-time friend, has assembled a powerful trailer that capsulizes my complicated story, sets it firmly in its historical time frame and underlines why it’s important. Take a look.

Chew Fast—It’s Only Two Minutes

Discover & share this Reactions GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.

Share Your "Review"

Let me know what you think. 👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼

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The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy: Three Strikes and the Early Hope of a Generation Is Out

This year has presented a lot of where-were-you-when moments that are impossible to keep from reflecting upon. And, if you miss one, just catch the CNN special on 1968: The Year That Changed America and you’ll be immediately transported.

Today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. Unlike that of his brother, five years earlier, I don’t remember exactly where I was when I heard—but I do vividly recall the next day. I was in study hall, supposedly getting ready for what would be the last finals of high school. I was wearing a green skirt. I remember because I kept staring protectively into my lap, away from my books and the tense eyes of others, darting back and forth across the aisles of desks, anxious to commiserate. I couldn’t keep my mind focused and resented that I had to. How could we be expected to study, I screamed in my head? Or even take finals, or even be in school with all this going on? Another Kennedy dead, two months after King. This is happening here, in our country, not some remote third-word place I couldn’t picture. I was terrified. We were terrified.

It Was Supposed to Be the Best of Times…

Senior photo 1968

I was a senior and it felt good to be a high school top dog, finally. Years of tension for me and my family about being able to afford college had been wiped away a few months earlier when I hit the jackpot with a full-ride, four-year scholarship. Whew!

All the exciting senior events had been such fun, and portended early skills and success: the mini-musical I’d written for the annual Variety Show had been a hit, the Moby Dick float I’d designed for Homecoming had won the best-of-parade prize. I’d made my own dress for Prom. I was in choir and Madrigals and we preformed like mad and medaled at state contests. I ran the hot dog concessions at the football games and got an early taste of what it was like to be in charge. There were home teams to support, dances to attend, my first Hike for the Hungry. It was the last burst of childhood, the thrill of college awaited and I wanted to enjoy every minute.

…And Had Become the Worst of Times

But over it all was a pall—a growing drumbeat of dread. I received the letter informing me of my scholarship in February, a few weeks after the Tet Offensive—one step forward, two steps back. We didn’t really understand the rapidly changing details, but suddenly Vietnam was everywhere you turned. Tense, generation-gap dinner table conversations about the war and civil rights went dead silent after King was assassinated, with fear we wouldn’t be able to respect each other if the wrong thing was said out loud. Lyndon Johnson had abdicated the Presidency… Wow. At school, we talked about the racial “situation” in social studies, our choir director wrote a beautiful song, A Prayer for Peace, and we performed it at a special assembly, anxious for healing. The tension continued to crank—classmates were turning eighteen and would be eligible for the draft.

But there was new hope around peace candidates and those who could calm race relations: Gene McCarthy and especially, Bobby Kennedy.

I Admit I Chugged the Kennedy Kool-Aid

My mother was a Kennedy fool and it rubbed off on me. She read everything printed about them, often in publications that resembled movie magazines or today’s People, and relentlessly followed their exploits on television. We were surrounded by Jackie’s fashion choices and conspiracy theories about Jack’s assassination. They were fresh, tragic and irresistible. We felt proprietary and protective about them. I was already tremendously excited about this new world I was about to enter as an adult, filled with space exploration and the British Invasion. When Bobby decided to run for President I transferred this enthusiasm onto him, regardless of the fact that at seventeen, of course I couldn't vote myself. 

Our high school held a mock convention that spring. Students with acting chops took over the roles of candidates including George Wallace and Richard Nixon. McCarthy was the preferred candidate among most kids my age and supporters showed it off, parading around the upper levels of the gym with banners and chanting. But I was “loyal” and stuck it out, lonely on the main floor, with my Kennedy ’68 sign and button. I wore a one-piece, culotte outfit in turquoise, with matching tights. I was hot… and hot for the hope represented by Kennedy.

I loved the words on a poster that eventually ended up on the wall in my college dorm room: “I dream of things that never were and say why not.” Yes, I thought. Yes! Yes! That was how we’ll go forward into the world.

And then Sirhan, Sirhan turned that Yes into No. It was devastating.

 

Abraham, Martin and John... and Now Bobby

The videotape of the assassination was frighteningly close to what we’d seen before—another Kennedy, another head wound. Our memories still retained images of Lee Oswald being gunned down by Jack Ruby, the shot on the balcony in Memphis. People being murdered on TV! The Bobby blow was horrible, but it was the pattern that shook us: three assassinations, here, in the United States. Who would be next? Certainly, Ted Kennedy if he decided to run some day: Don’t Do It!  The environment was not unlike how we feel about today’s relentlessly repeating school shootings. Disturbed people could surface out of nowhere, with crazy logic, for a cause that made sense to only them. It could happen anytime, anywhere. The Democratic Convention was coming to Chicago in the summer, my city, my home. Leaders ripe for the pickings. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when, for the next one. Brace yourself.

The last 45 RPM record I ever bought was Abraham, Martin and John. It was recorded by Dion, of Runaround Sue fame—that had always been one of my favorite songs, and now so was this very different tune.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Bobby,
Can you tell me where he's gone?
I thought I saw him walkin' up over the hill
With Abraham, Martin and John.

Take a listen here to Abraham, Martin and John. Have a tissue handy.

A Generation Bookended by Tragedy

I’ve never forgotten that June day in Study Hall. It was the week before graduation and I was about to launch out into a world that had been so enticing, and now was so terrifying. I’ve thought about it over the years and feel that third assassination was the moment that finally scoured off all feelings of childhood safety. I think we, as a generation, were gut punched at our most formative moment. After, there was a tremendous rage and energy to use all the upheaval to change to world. Yes, much of it was necessary and ultimately positive—and I participated enthusiastically—but a lot of it was born in the violence of three symbolic murders. By the time the Vietnam War finally sputtered to a pointless end, many of us were disillusioned with our inability to make enough of an impact. We moved into the Me Generation. Let’s focus on something we can control—ourselves and the lives of those we hold close. It became a time of Nixon and there were no politicians to trust as we trusted Bobby.

I feel that for those of us who came to adulthood in that fateful time there has always been a pull to return to the optimistic work of changing the world. I’ll come back to it some day, we think, when my career is set, my children on their way, when those things under my control are settled. That’s when I’ll regroup and see how I can make that difference after all. Then came 9/11 and the world is a scary place again. The assassinations and the missing World Trade Center—the violent bookends of our generation, as I see it from my armchair.

I reject the notion that we’re whiny boomers, that we blew it and we’re done. There’s no doubt we’ve upended every status quo with every decade we’ve passed through. And, there’s still a lot of world to change, and energy to do it. But there's nothing like that feeling of limitless hope and possibility, of first love. Ours was cut short, in June of 1968.

Like with any tragic figure cut off too soon, there’s been a lot of speculation over the years. If Bobby had lived and become president, would he have gotten us out of Vietnam sooner? Would he have eased the path to civil rights? Would the world have been different? Would our lives have been different?

Isn’t it pretty to think so.

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Remember Kent State, May 4, 1970: An Iconic Moment for a Generation... A Coming of Conscience for a Country

The Iconic Kent State Photo

Recently, while promoting the fall publication of my novel, The Fourteenth of September, which takes place during the pivotal 1969-1970 years of the Vietnam War, I was asked if—of the many iconic moments in American history that happened during that time period— one had impacted me more than any other.

I paused to consider the word iconic... icon—a symbol. No question. It was the Kent State Massacre, a symbol at the time of the total chasm between the government and the youth it was supposed to be protecting: the bridge too far that blew away most of the remaining support for the war, though it’s death throes dragged on another five years.

48 Years and We Still Remember

Every May fourth since 1970 there has been media coverage of the shootings, always featuring the Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of fourteen-year-old Mary Ann Vecchio with arms outstretched in agony and disbelief, kneeling above the body of twenty-year-old Jeffrey Miller. An iconic image of how we felt. Agony and disbelief. This is America? How had it come to this?

We know the facts: The National Guard fired into a crowd of students protesting the war’s expansion into Cambodia. Sixty-seven rounds over thirteen seconds killing four, wounding nine, permanently paralyzing one. The massive national student strike after. A turning point in how the country viewed the war. It was just too much to kill kids.

Early Alternative Facts

It all began with a lie—and it was bald-faced. Nixon was elected because he said he'd end the war—something his predecessor, Johnson, hadn't been able to do. His Administration said we were winding down. Hard as it may be to believe from the vantage point of today, media was limited. We only heard one side and assumed what we were told was true—though obviously that was disavowed later on many levels, most recently in the Ken Burns documentary The Vietnam War.

But, suddenly, on April 30, 1970 it's announced we just bombed Cambodia. It was earth-shattering. The war was being accelerated, not contained. Of course, there were protests; of course they were full of anger; of course those protests would be on campus where the populations of draft-age men were among the largest. We had just been through the roulette of the Draft Lottery and the news about My Lai. Nerves were raw, rage was high.  Above all, trust was waning, and this Cambodia lie just wiped it out. How could we believe anything the government told us ever again?

And then, to top it off, unbelievably, students were shot dead at one of those protests. It was the very definition of a word we were just beginning to use to describe what we thought were mind-expanding experiences: surreal.

Where Were You When You Heard?

The Memorial to Jeffrey Miller, Bordering Where He Fell, on the Kent State Campus

I think many people of my generation can tell you where they were and what they were doing when they first heard about Kent State, just like all the assassinations that punctuated that time—King, the two Kennedys. I remember walking into the Student Union with a few others and being shocked to hear my friend, Tommy Aubry, screaming from the top of the stairs, “They’re Shooting Us! They’re Shooting Us!” We didn’t know what he was talking about. He pointed to the only television set in the Union and ran past us to shout the news to others.

We didn’t believe it at first. Who would? They must have shot over their heads. It had to be an accident. Surely no one was actually dead. It was too fantastic to comprehend... until we had to. The truth of it was horrible. It wasn’t enough that we could be sent to Vietnam to die; we could die here.

They Could Shoot Us, Too!

I came across a quote by the survivor, Gerald Casale, that summed up a student’s point of view. “It completely and utterly changed my life. I was a white hippie boy and then I saw exit wounds from M1 rifles out of the backs of people I knew...”

Abraham and Isaac Sculpture in Commemoration of the KENT STATE Shootings, at Princeton University

In an era of embryonic diversity awareness, it was astounding that supposedly the most cherished of us all were now being killed just outside a quiet Midwestern town. Anything could happen next. Casale founded the band Devo, creating music and a movement as a result of his experience.

I have a chapter in my book you can read here that’s based on what happened at the campus I was on. It was not something I had to research. I still remember every second.

Within days after the shootings, the National Guard actually did arrive on my campus, and we thought we were also going to be killed—another chapter, another iconic situation. We were still teenagers and most of us had been pretty sheltered, but now we understood what it must be like for those fighting for civil rights in the south, for anyone living day in and day out in any country at war. It was a sobering lesson. We were truly in what we called "the war at home."

According to the final report on the Kent State Massacre by the President’s Commission on Campus Unrest: “It was unnecessary, unwarranted, inexcusable”—an iconic symbol of the war that caused it.

 

A Coming of Conscience Moment. America Said No!

The subtitle of my novel is “A Coming of Conscience,” because it was a time when we weren’t just growing up and Coming of Age. In addition—by the way we chose or were forced to cope with the situations presented by the Vietnam War—we were each defining our own character. We were each faced with decisions where integrity could—or should—trump consequences (pun intended). Would I go to Vietnam or to Canada?  If I join ROTC (Reserve Officers' Training Corps) am I being realistic or complicit? If I put my head in the sand and try to ignore it all am I being apathetic, cowardly or just understandably self-preserving?

We’re in a period now where we’re questioning our leadership and taking our positions to the streets with massive marches more than ever before. It’s our right and our privilege, and they don't fire on us—we feel safe. One reason is that on May 4, 1970, the country looked aghast at the bodies of those dead children and decided that this was not who we were. This was not our character. It was a coming-of-conscience moment for the country.

It all reminds me of watching Apocalypse Now, a brilliant film that I admired greatly but could never see a second time. Viewing it made me feel I’d personally been through the war. It told the Heart-of-Darkness story of Colonel Kurtz, who embodied "the horror," as he put it, of how we would actually have to behave to win such a war. In the movie, the government has sent an assassin to eliminate him, because as a people we couldn’t accept that Krutz is what we’d have to become to do what Washington considered so essential—continue as the country that had never lost a war.

With Kent State, the horror rang through every level of America. Is this what it’s come to? We answered, “No.”

 May 4, 2020, will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the massacre. Over the coming years, let’s remember and honor what happened at Kent State. And, in this current moment of dubious facts, incredible re-interpretations of truth and Never Again, let’s think of what else is on the conscience of the country to which we should also be saying, “No, that’s not who we are.”

Publication Date: September 18, 2018

Now available for pre-order.

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Cover Reveal: First Peek at the Final Book, Counting Down to September 18 Pub Date

I’m quite excited to introduce the cover design for The Fourteenth of September, the novel I’ve worked on for so many years. I have to admit, it’s pretty thrilling to see it come to life, and I AM palpitating more than a bit…

I must say, the journey to this final cover has been a surprisingly challenging process. I probably should have known this, coming out of over 25 years in marketing. Looking back, when the cover is done it seems so obvious, like the title. However, after years of wrestling this complex story into a narrative, and naming it (thank you, Gary Wilson), and now again having to digest it all into a single image with the power to instantly engage the reader who would most love, enjoy, and relate to it? Well, that clearly required a specific eye and expertise far different from anything I’d done before. 

I knew the cover design would belong in the bailiwick of the publisher. And yet, I kept trying to envision it. I pestered early readers and designer friends about what they thought. I was both excited and full of trepidation as I handed over this book, my baby, with a leap of faith that the publisher would find the perfect image. I soon found myself, irony of ironies after all those agency years, as …the CLIENT… of those who knew far more than I about the type and images that are most alluring, that will still pop in thumbprint size in Amazon. In short, who knew way more than I could imagine. I was happy to defer. My publisher, She Writes Press, began work in November.

BACKGROUND ONLY. THEN: AUTHOR, GET OUT OF THE WAY

Fortunately, rather than have to figure it out myself, I was asked only to share my thoughts and any preliminary ideas I may have had. Fun as this was, it also underlined how formidable the task. I soon realized that, just like with the manuscript, it would be so easy to tip the balance and make this look like fan fiction for a Peter Fonda movie or, worse, a full-out Full Metal Jacket/Apocalypse Now story of men at war in-country, instead of a woman’s story, on campus. The cover needed the gravitas and familiarity of recognizable Vietnam imagery, but not the male combat or psychedelic ’60s assumption.

I was worried about the crowded field of iconography: helicopters, soldiers in a jungle with rifles. All very masculine and, to tell the truth, overdone. I struggled to make a list of what to eliminate for consideration: imagery that was hackneyed (a peace sign? please), just as I wrestled in the manuscript with dialogue for my characters. I couldn’t have everyone say “Hey, man,” even though in real life they actually did. And not everyone could have a musical name, like my protagonist, “Judy Blue Eyes,” but some could. Above all, we had to steer clear of the ’60s flower-power, fat Peter Max lettering. The war was not a “happening.” Balance was key, or there was danger the cover could send a completely wrong message about the actual subject of the book.

An Idea in Vogue

In December, based upon the roughest hint of a thought from me about flowers in a National Guard gun, the crack design team at She Writes Press was inspired by, of all things, a 1945 issue of Vogue magazine that ran on V-E Day with a beautiful, impressionistic illustration of pastel flowers seeming to grow out of the bayonet of a rifle. I was immediately taken by the surprisingly feminine image of war and felt it perfectly depicted the woman's point-of-view message of my story.

They added the period-specific typography used on a draft card circa the 1969 timing of the novel, and creatively stacked the words “September,” “Fourteenth,” and “Dragonette,” all with virtually the same number of letters, as if I’d chosen them intentionally for that purpose. There was some concern that the “feel” was too ’40s, and we experimented through January and early February with more era-specific images, but the impressionistic illustration won out. Women have always been a vital part of any war. This cover would work. The design was approved and final art was underway. I had a terrific story idea to pitch to Vogue lined up, merchandising ideas identified, and, significantly, we had time to spare in the publishing cycle.

Love and Ruin

GREG samata, eighth-grade boyfriend

I was totally in love with my cover. But then, to show that the road to great ideas is rocky, indeed, though the image was on a site offering it as available for licensing, it required an unanticipated “extra” layer of approval from the estate of the original artist. Though that illustration had been commissioned originally by a newsstand magazine, the estate felt that its use on the cover of a book for sale, was too “commercial.” (I can't even show it here). At the eleventh hour, permission was denied and we were back to square one, but worse…by now it was March, and we were facing an immediate deadline to get advanced review copies published in time to ensure critical reviews and long-lead publicity.

A collaboration began where both She Writes and I scrambled to tap our resources. Though my luck was running badly, my life remained charmed in at least one key area. My eighth-grade boyfriend (true story), Greg Samata, is a world-class graphic designer. When I went to him for advice, over tomato soup at Beatrix, he vaporized my stress and told me (as he did with my website) that he would handle it, not to worry. The publisher agreed.

PAUL sahre, illustrator

Greg called his friend, renowned illustrator Paul Sahre, to render the original idea into a ’60s-specific depiction and add his genius. The She Writes design team then took over to incorporate it beautifully into their original, elegant design and add mysterious but wonderful finishing touches to ensure optimum reproduction in any medium, as well as made room to include a wonderful blurb from best-selling author Jacquelyn Mitchard. Finally, She Writes held the presses, and we were able to include quotes from late-breaking Kirkus and Foreword Clarion reviews, along with additional blurbs from authors Peter Golden and Barbara Shoup, to polish off the back cover. Within two weeks we were back in business and on deadline, if under the wire. My great thanks to the entire expanded team. My nerves have yet to completely settle, but I’m in love again.

Better Than Vogue

Despite my affection for the original illustration, I must say the final cover is better. It’s a beautiful and provocative image of the feminine flowers of peace growing out of the hard metal of war, the conflict of Judy’s coming-of-conscience decision that will define her for the rest of her life. I’ll be curious to hear what you think.

Available Now for Pre-Order

The novel is now available for pre-order on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, and Apple iBooks for delivery on the publication date of September 18.

To celebrate the launch of the book, there will be a series of events in Chicago and New York. If you’re in either of these cities, save-the-date invitations are forthcoming, and I hope you’ll join me in person and get the book at one of the parties so I can sign it for you. Or, pre-order and bring it with you. I’d love to celebrate with you live.

If you’re elsewhere, I’d encourage you to order as early as possible. All pre-orders will be recorded on the drop date of September 18, and the more I have, the higher my “best of" numbers will be on the various sites—and the greater will be the interest in publishing my next book (yes, there is one, more on that later.) This way you’ll all be both enjoying the book (fingers crossed) and supporting my new writing career.

Thanks for being with me on this journey. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.

Lovely, Rita*

*Even better than Judy Blue Eyes

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Hell No, Never Again. We Are All In The Shot Together.

Watching the news on Valentine’s Day about the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, my mind raced back ten years—Valentine’s Day 2008. That year, too, broadcasts broke a story of horror mid-day, shattering a holiday celebrating love. A young man with a shotgun and two pistols had killed five students, injured seventeen and shot himself at my alma mater, Northern Illinois University, in a lecture hall where a few decades earlier I had taken many classes. More than one student in my preferred section of seating didn’t make it. At any random stroke of time one of those casualties could have been me, could have been one of my friends, could have been my second cousin who was a senior at NIU at the time. I wasn’t there, but I was. I was in the shot. It goes without saying the 2008 shooter was mentally unstable. You don’t kill kids if you’re fine. But nine years after Columbine, all I could think of was how did he GET THOSE GUNS? Why did we in a modern society HAVE THOSE GUNS?  From then on I voted with my anger. A pro-gun stance by a candidate was no longer just “on the list,” it was enough to reprioritize a lot of other issues. As an adult, I had standing—the power of a vote. I’d waited a long time for that standing, thought it was enough. Thought, as we said back in the day, the system would work if we were just part of it. Alas…

Hell No, We Won’t Go

Back in 2018, I put down the remote, and my mind raced again, back farther to a time when I didn’t have that power, to a time when, like the Florida kids, I didn’t have standing. Those issues of that era propel the characters in my novel, The Fourteenth of September. The details were different, but the essence was the same—a complex issue standing in the way of life for children. In the time of the Vietnam War, another generation were teenagers. The average age of draftees was nineteen; voting age was twenty-one. Life expectancy under fire was measured in seconds. We were being killed, and those who should have protected us—our government, our institution—were mired in what ifs and, as we said, were “part of the problem, not the solution.” Our WWII-era parents were upset but not so much that they were mobilizing to successfully vote out the hawks. At Kent State, legal guns were turned on us. No, not the same as mass school shootings, but we knew what dead kids dropping around us felt like. We knew how the endless series of more and more dead bodies terrified us, whether in a jungle far away or in a school demonstration gone bad. Yep. Got that. It could be me. Or, you right next to me. We were in the shot. Remember?

THIS IS BS! … but in good way

Emma Gonzalez: presidential potential some day?

Today, Emma Gonzalez and David Hogg, and a generation of other young people are also without standing and very much in the shot. Gonzalez, a wonderfully outspoken girl from Marjory Stoneman Douglas called it like she saw it, and she’s right. She cuts through the crap of all the “why not” reasons—"The Domino Theories” of gun control—and gets to the core of how it should be seen—as bullshit!—and I finally feel that real change has a chance. The response of these amazing, angry kids from Florida is so tragically familiar, and wondrously hopeful. 

For the first time in a long time, all the ingredients for real action are in place.

Fear—they’re targets and they’re being killed. Anger—they aren’t being protected by the government and institutions that are there FOR THAT REASON. Disappointment—many parents are trying to vote out the gun guys, but the lobbies are strong and multi-issue voting hasn’t worked. Outrage—those of us with influence have had enough time and sufficient opportunities to do something, and we haven’t. Lack of power—they don’t have the vote. And, it’s personal. They are in the shot.

Abbie Hoffman & david hogg: too good at this? must be Professional instigators or actors really?

These are the factors that in my day stopped a war. These are the factors that ended racist Jim Crow laws in the South. Today, these are the same factors that can stop guns. These kids are making us understand, with fury and social media, and more than a few tricks from our day. I smiled in solidarity as they walked out on March 14th, and plan to do it again every 14th, just like our Moratoriums Against the War.

Things are already starting to turn. There’s even talk of moving the voting age to sixteen. As Laurence Steinberg said in the New York Times on March 2, “The proposal to lower the voting age is motivated by today’s outrage that those most vulnerable to school shootings have no say in how such atrocities are best prevented.” Sound familiar?

 

 

Wild in the Streets or Protesting at the Polls? Our Choice

In 1968 a popular movie  came out called Wild in the Streets. Kids took over. The new President was only twenty-five. People who hit thirty were dosed with LSD, draped in white togas and left to wander through the forest. It was a cautionary tale. Things can get pretty outrageous when you aren’t being listened to. No BS.

I don’t think we should get rid of everyone over thirty, nor am I ready to say the voting age should be sixteen without a lot more thought. But I am here to say that we—the anti-war generation—knows how to do this, and we can help by marching with and voting for these kids, in their place, on their behalf and in every sense of the word.

We Can Still Change the World

This all means we can STILL change the world. That rallying call was the obligation of my generation—our noblesse oblige, if you will, for being the first generation living in enough freedom to follow our passion. We knew how to do it—we stopped a war. We lowered the voting age to eighteen. We didn’t think we could do it, but we did.

These kids can stop the mass shooting war raging around them. But without standing, they need our help. This is a time for marching and voting.

Be their proxy. This week and beyond vote for candidates who know where guns belong—and where they don’t. Join the students in the streets on March 24th. Join them anytime on social media. With all of us standing for and beside them, even the NRA can stand down. And the world will change.

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Rita's POV on Art vs Artist: Should We Judge a Person's Work Through the Lens of Their Character Flaws and Bad Behavior?

I've been getting a lot of questions about my position on the subject of Jim Morris's guest post sent out last week and that's fair. I didn't want to include it until I heard from you all and it was a lively series of comments indeed. In thinking this through, I got a little carried away given the complexity of the Art vs Artist debate. I hope you'll find it provocative as we all struggle with this tricky issue. Let me know what you think.

Many of you have asked my “stand” on this fraught issue. So here I am weighing in and wanting, really wanting, to purely say that the Art should be above the behavior of the Artist. But is that an absolute? I find censorship anathema and have always felt that people who reject the pleasure of Wagner’s music (or Cate Blanchett’s sublime performance in Blue Jasmine — it's worth it, Frank) are being way too rigid in a world that requires more flexibility. But then, does that very flexibility give permission beyond what our viewing or listening, or overall enjoying of the art, intends? Are we, God forbid, enabling?

I don’t believe this going backwards in history. We don’t have the ability, as Jim indicates, to résumé check those from the past against the norms of the present. While not necessarily “excusing” past behavior, there’s no question that some things considered beyond the pale today had a different moral ranking in the past, and it’s asking a great deal for otherwise notable people to have had the insight and courage to have behaved above their era. History is something to learn from and build upon. To reject it is like ISIS blowing up the incredible monuments of their own heritage for a short-lived (hopefully) religiously un-PC moment.

The current case under the biggest microscope appears to be the nine lives of Woody Allen, who may be finally facing his moral comeuppance. Is it a cop out for me to say that he’s never been a fav (not being from NYC, Jewish or in therapy, his humor often escapes me), so it’s easy to turn against him? I think so. Though I shudder at the prospect of re-watching Manhattan, which, though it had a subplot creepy even at the time, I remember thinking was one of his best. It’s a puzzle, but I can I really choose with a clear conscience?

I also must say I have a tremendous sympathy for collateral damage. As soon as Kevin Spacey was booted from House of Cards, I immediately thought of Robin Wright, poised at last for her character’s blow-out year (and I’m thrilled that she’s going to get it.) And, I really feel for Allen’s actors, out of which he’s brought remarkable performances, seeing them struggle to make amends within the shifting sands of acceptability.

So if I hate censorship and equally abhor harassment where am I? In the end I’m with Jim, and Sandy, with an extra “layer,” I’d say. I’d love the Venus de Milo if it were sculpted by Vlad the Impaler. But today, for the first time, I’d be curious about the model and if she posed willingly. I won’t give up the pleasure of Shakespeare in Love because it was produced by a pig. But on next viewing, I hope I won’t wonder at what point in production Harvey Weinstein tried to assault Gwyneth Paltrow. Will this backstage knowledge ruin my appreciation moving forward? I really hope not.

That said, in this seminal #MeToo moment we know there will be casualties and we’ll go too far (Franken?) before we swing back, so we need to agree on fundamentals, yet make sure we don’t end up with some sort of litmus test a genius needs to pass to be appreciated.

So, I guess I say, let’s not throw the art out with the bathwater of what’s been done to date. As Jim says, we don’t know enough of the backstory to be fair. Let’s continue to enjoy, laugh, listen and view. Let’s let all of it enrich our lives. Moving forward, let’s use this moment to “upgrade” the broad-strokes of what we consider acceptable behavior for humans so that producer, process and product are equally admirable. Brilliant ideas are vital. Art is joy. May we never cut them out of our lives.

And now, this very prickly ball is back in your court. What do you think?

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Art vs Artist: Should We Judge a Person’s Work Through the Lens of Their Character Flaws and Bad Behavior?

By Jim Morris

This month I’ve invited my first Guest Blogger, advertising veteran Jim Morris aka Tagline Jim (whose brilliant tagline for his own business is “long story, short”) to share his POV on a difficult subject. Jim is a radical thought leader in his industry, per his bio below. As an engaging and opinionated author, speaker, teacher and blogger, he often branches out into topics with ramifications for us all. His recent white paper on “Art Versus Artist” caught my eye as a subject that’s been around as long as Hitler and Wagner, and is as blazingly current as the behavior of Woody’s Allen’s actors. It’s a tough issue. Please read and weigh in, even if the answer remains “It depends.”

JIM MORRIS

The question of whether we can separate the art from the artist has been much discussed for centuries. This current sexual harassment brouhaha that seems to preoccupy our news media compels us to visit, (or, for some of you, revisit) this question. Of course, character flaws and bad behavior extend far beyond sexual predation. They include, among other things, bigotry, various addictions and compulsions, non-sexual violent behavior like assault, mental torment and murder, as well as a host of other bad acts from embezzlement and thievery to bribery, plagiarism and combinations of deplorable behavior of which, one could argue, Hemingway and Picasso are prime examples.

HEMINGWAY PICASSO

There is a long list of elected officials, up to and including U.S. presidents and prime ministers, who were philanderers, bigots, misogynists, anti-Semites, homophobes, and on and on. Jefferson, Jackson, both Johnsons, Buchanan, Monroe, Polk, Wilson, Coolidge, FDR, Eisenhower, LBJ, Nixon, Bush, (the younger)—all of these presidents committed heinous acts during their terms in office. Many of our other most celebrated leaders and statesmen were guilty of these attitudes and behaviors. So, should we stop crediting such people for their accomplishments? Or at least reduce the amount of credit we give them? Should we delete mentions of these people and their contributions from our consciousnesses and history books because they were flawed in some of the ways I’ve just mentioned?

Similarly, there are many, many great artists in all corners of the creative arts world who were/are guilty of such bad behaviors and beliefs. T.S. Eliot, Edith Wharton, Richard Wagner, Roald Dahl, Renoir and Degas are just a few on a long list of anti-Semitic artists. Dr. Seuss was quite the bigot. If you widen the aperture to famous anti-Semitic people who made great contributions, the list includes Winston Churchill, Charles Lindbergh, Henry Ford and Walt Disney. And if you widen the aperture further, to include misogynists, racists, sexual predators and other deviants, well, forget about it.

churchill

The thing about rattling off a litany of bad people who have done great things is that, surely, this is just the tiny tip of a colossal iceberg much, or most, of which we will never glimpse. I have this argument often enough, usually triggered by the case of Mel Gibson. The consensus is that he’s anti-Semitic. I’ve never had this conversation with a Jewish person who didn’t express a commitment to boycotting his work. My point to them is that it seems a little disingenuous to advocate boycotting Mel Gibson movies, while unqualifiedly embracing the art produced by countless other people, some, (many), of whom are no doubt raging bigots or anti-Semitic or wife beaters, just because we don’t have specific knowledge about these flaws. If we’re not going to separate the art from the artist, doesn’t it then behoove us to devote ourselves to determining the moral character of every artist or politician before we can justifiably judge, or even just experience, their work? And in the absence of such knowledge, aren’t we obliged to withhold any judgment about their work?

GIBSON

Call me misanthropic, but I’m going to wager a guess that most people possess some degree of one of these character flaws, or have displayed the kind of bad behavior we’re talking about, somewhere on the bigotry continuum or the anti-Semitic continuum or the misogynistic continuum or some other bad behavior continuum. Am I obliged to cease enjoying art, or appreciating the achievements of politicians, business people, scientists and other accomplished public figures, simply because there could be a good chance that they are bigots or in some other way have behaved very badly toward others?

FRANKEN

Take Roy Moore versus Al Franken. Assuming all of the accusations against these two men are true, does the fact that they’ve committed these acts, ranging from naughty to unconscionable, preclude them from serving effectively in the Senate, from authoring or at least supporting legislation that makes our country better? Does this question exist on a continuum? Perhaps, because Al Franken is funny, and we might like his politics, and his sins are less egregious than Roy Moore’s, we give ourselves permission to go a little easier on him than on Moore, who is apparently a pedophile, not merely a butt-grabber, and whose views and political positions are repugnant to us, regardless of his bad sexual behavior.

Or consider a more complicated situation than that of Roy Moore. Woody Allen has been recognized as one of the great writers and filmmakers of the last half century, right up until the controversy about his relationship with Dylan Farrow arose. Now much of the world assumes he’s a child molester. He categorically denies it. Dylan Farrow seems credible. Meanwhile, the list grows of those who are publicly distancing themselves from Allen, expressing guilt and regret about working on his films. I find it curious that many of these people are just now speaking up, since the controversy over Woody Allen’s relationships is not new, but that’s another issue. The most recent of these celebrities to speak up is young Timothee Chalamet, who says he’ll donate to some appropriate organizations, his pay from an upcoming Woody Allen movie, A Rainy Day in New York. He claims he doesn’t want to profit from that film. Of course, a cynic might think this is disingenuous since Timothee has already profited in less directly monetary ways from his work on the film. And one can’t help but wonder whether no one in his life mentioned Woody Allen’s presumed sordid past to Timothee before he accepted the role. But, again, that’s another discussion.

Allen

Not that you asked, but for me, a work of art is great or not, the political achievement or technological innovation or scientific discovery is great or not, entirely separate of whether it was produced by a saint, a despicable human being, a robot or a hippo. I don’t need to know anything about the creator of the work to be affected by that work and make my own judgment of its value or worth.

Going down the other path either immerses you in hypocrisy or impoverishes the world you allow yourself to experience. Or does it? To those of you who boycott Woody Allen and Mel Gibson movies, or refuse to listen to Wagner, laugh at Cosby, buy a Ford, or exclude from your life the work of some other person whose views or actions you despise, can you make a compelling argument for judging the talents’ work, whatever their field, through the lens of their character flaw, be it anti-Semitism, racial bigotry, misogyny, homophobia, whatever? 

Jim Morris, Tagline Jim, speaks truth to power, burning bridges at will as he delivers his radical message to advertising’s insiders and consumers: it’s time to lay waste to the intellectual laziness, wrongheadedness and addiction to shiny objects that plague the business, and create advertising that’s more credible, more likable and more like humans talking to humans. During his 37 years in advertising, at dozens of ad agencies from DDB and FCB on down, he’s been a Copywriter, Creative Director, Purveyor of The Good, CCO, Screen (and, occasionally, Adweek/Brandweek) columnist and Columbia College instructor. He’s authored dozens of potent taglines, including We are Flintstones Kids, Ten Million Strong and Growing, the cornerstone of one of the longest-running ad campaigns of the last half century. Jim maintains an active blog on his website, speaks at colleges and universities, marketing agencies and MENSA conferences, while shopping his next book, "Agents of Stupidity: Why Advertising is Even Stupider Than You Think, if That’s Even Possible."

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From ‘60s Civil Rights Activist To Today’s Boardrooms, Sheila Talton Champions Diversity To Power Progress

This is the third blog post in the series #Re-Radicalized, spotlighting inspiring individuals who are newly recharged by the current political environment to change the world.

memories clear, if photos faded

So here’s the famous story. Sheila Talton hired my public relations firm back in the early ’90s to represent her technology company. One day, she took me to lunch at Chicago’s famed University Club. There, in the glow of the glorious two-story, stained-glass windows gracing the sumptuous corporate dining room, a shared history was revealed.

It turns out we’d both been at the same school (Northern Illinois University), at the same time, and in the same massive student protest—she in one faction as a civil rights protestor yelling “Black Power,” and me in the other as a member of the Student Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam, shouting “Bring the Troops Home Now.” I’m sure you recognize the era. 

We cracked up, sitting there in our big-shouldered, power outfits, thinking about what the gray-suited, male Masters of the Universe around us would think if they knew about our past. Undaunted, Sheila proudly claimed our ground: “Former radicals make great entrepreneurs.” And so began a professional, soon personal relationship that has endured to this day.

Given the times, we worked initially to credential Sheila as a business leader who happened to be a woman, and an African-American. Today, it’s apparent that an important reason she’s such an accomplished leader is that she is an African-American woman, and the louder she touts that, the more she empowers change in the world, by reflecting it.

Maneuvering the Labyrinth to Success

Sheila was always amazingly strategic about how she built her career—as a minority “two-fer,” she knew she had to be.  She went for the gaps where she felt there would be opportunity, focusing on business in college because that’s where women were underrepresented. With her degree in hand she set her sights on the booming technology industry, knowing that in such a new, uncharted field there would be a shortage of talent and therefore more options for African-Americans.

She parlayed that strategy to watch for where the action moved in the marketplace, from hardware to software to services, and from traditional to emerging markets. As a result, after running her own company for ten years, she jumped to leadership positions at Ernst & Young, EDS and Cisco, where she gained global experience and developed a reputation as an early and generous networker, as interested in helping others as benefitting from their counsel. As she rose, however, she ran into more than a few glass ceilings as well as closed diversity doors that she could see would box her in.

Undeterred and unwilling to tread water until times changed, she returned to the entrepreneurial world where, like so many women and minorities, she could create her own destiny. She is now on her third start-up, Gray Matter Analytics, which has roared to success based both on realizing yet another market advance—that data would be driving the world—and a huge network of connections eager to help her succeed.  

But this is only part of the story.

Building a Career with a Conscience

Sheila has always had a strong sense of personal responsibility. “If you’re fortunate enough to be in a position of power, use it to help others who aren’t.” She learned this early.

We cleaned up well for our corporate careers

Though she’s now regularly cited in lists of business leaders, she knows how easily she could have become a different kind of statistic. And, how important it is as a role model to share her personal story of rising from poverty, getting the opportunity to go to college and then blowing it—flunking out of her freshman year (protests and partying), a not un-familiar path for minorities. She knows she was fortunate that as she languished in a nowhere job in the secretarial pool at Allis-Chalmers, a “white guy” sales representative saw her potential, encouraged her to apply for junior college, take the hardest courses and get back into Northern. That “white guy’s” name, by the way, was Greg Stewart. One of Sheila’s 2018 New Year’s resolutions is to find him…and thank him…for what he did to change her life.

She did not waste this second chance and has since dedicated herself to offering the same helping hand to others, whether through her involvement with The Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind, or her many contributions to help those in the poverty-stricken areas of Chicago’s Lawndale neighborhood. She’s ratcheted up those efforts, as her resources and influence increased, into more social and political involvement, such as serving on the Board of the Chicago Urban League and as a bundler for Barack Obama’s elections.

With Achievement Comes the Power for Change

At the time of the last election Sheila’s career was going great, but her conscience and comfort in where the country was heading were not. As progressive policies that fostered openness and acceptance of diversity were overturned or threatened, and the discourse grew in rage and volume as it descended in tolerance, her latent activist stirred.

Her new path has two prongs. First, to use her position to continue to ensure that the strides made in diversity over the past years continue to advance. Her own companies have always reflected how she feels the world needs to look: a United Nations, with men and women of varied races, preferences and ages, with growth opportunities awarded to expertise and elbow grease, period.

She’s also built an extensive parallel career serving on major corporate boards—from Sysco Foods, to John Deere, OGE Energy and Wintrust—benefitting from the heightened interest in gender and racial representation, those very factors that were hurdles early on, to have influence at the highest levels of the business world. Her message is that growth is contingent upon expanding into areas where we aren’t in the majority and we need to become part of, not impose on, other cultures. At the same time, to fuel that growth, the workforce needs to expand to include everyone, and we need to be creative and relentless in bringing in those not yet adequately educated or trained.

It's not all work

The second prong was inspired by her one-and-a-half-year-old grandson, Jayden. One day he picked up his father’s briefcase and declared that he was going to work. This adorable story was a revelation to Sheila. Minority children, particularly boys and young men, need role models of parents who work regularly to provide a vision to their offspring of what that “looks like” and how their lives could be as a result. To make a difference in a Black Lives world, she’s now dedicated herself to taking half of what she earns from her current entrepreneurial endeavor to fund partnerships to provide role models, training and jobs for young African-American and other minority males. It’s a huge undertaking. Details to come.

Sheila is one of the few of my contemporaries who isn’t interested in changing course at this time in her life (she loves what she does), but is interested in using what she’s learned to deepen her impact. She reminds me of what author Walter Mosley says about responsibility. Don’t try to take on everything that’s wrong in the world. Pick something and focus.

Sheila’s made her pick—to doggedly foster diversity in our global world and dig in to help a hugely important demographic take a step up the ladder toward a more equal life.

I’d say Sheila is not Re-Radicalized, because she’s remained radicalized. Her continuing activist spirit even inspired the name of the main character in my upcoming novel. Judy Talton shares some of Sheila’s traits. When I asked Sheila if she minded my borrowing her last name she said, “of course, whatever you need.”

I said she was generous.

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It’s Official! My Novel is to be Published September 18

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Though it’s been in the works since April, I’m very excited to be able to officially announce that my debut novel, The Fourteenth of September, will be published by She Writes Press on September 18, 2018—the closest date possible to the actual title of the book.  Sometimes the stars align!*********

For those of you who haven’t heard the story by now, it’s about a female recruit, in college on a military scholarship during the Vietnam War, who begins to have doubts. She goes underground into the counterculture, and risks family and future, as she’s forced to make a choice as fateful as that of any Lottery draftee. The story is ever so loosely based on a character-defining personal experience of my own that happened during that critical time frame between the first Draft Lottery and Kent State, one that I’ve always felt defined our generation and cried out to be examined from a woman’s point of view.

Early on, as I worked on the novel, there were a lot of obstacles—mostly questions about the relevance of the Vietnam conflict to Millennials, to anyone. Fortunately, the recent Ken Burns documentary Vietnam has returned the subject to the zeitgeist with a vengeance. Unfortunately, current events have underscored that the past is our best teacher, but we really do have to listen. Bottom line, the timing of release of this novel has worked out for the best.
 

Judy Blue Eyes or Lovely Rita?

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All that said, this is a small, personal story of a young woman’s Coming of Conscience, at a time that is one of the most exciting and devastating times in her life, and the history of the country. There’s much more about it on my web site www.ritadragonette.com, including new chapters and the play list of songs that pepper the narrative, as they did the times. It’s not all tough stuff, there’s nostalgia and humor, and if you’ve ever been nineteen, you’ll empathize with my main character—Judy Blue Eyes (I just couldn’t use Lovely Rita, though I was tempted). And, now that I’m on the subject, I must admit I did shamelessly steal aspects of real people I knew then—a gesture, a way of speaking, a suggestion, even a claim to have written the phrase Let It Be before the Beatles. They may recognize themselves, but it’s all done with affection, if also irony.
 

She Writes … So I can

I’m very excited about She Writes Press an award-winning, independent publishing company that supports SheWrites.com, the largest global community of women writers, but appeals to ALL readers. I’m psyched about their mission, their distribution, and their philosophy of partnership with their writers.
 

Early Accolades

I’m also very excited about the support I’ve received so far, including a wonderful cover blurb from the insanely successful, best-selling author Jacquelyn Mitchard.

Jacquelyn Mitchard

“It’s been said that in the anti-war movement of the 1970s, the men stormed the barricades and the women made the coffee. Rita Dragonette has written a strong-hearted and authentic novel about a naive young girl and her struggle to reconcile the dissonance between the world she sees and the world she was raised to believe in. Judy is truly a quiet hero; you won’t forget her.”

–– Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean and Two if By Sea
www.jacquelynmitchard.com

I’ll keep you informed, through this blog, about progress on the publication, marketing, and availability of my novel. 

I appreciate the support I’ve received from so many of you over the very long gestation of this novel and look forward to celebrating publication. For now, please put The Fourteenth of September on your reading list or book club schedule for September. I’m up for events of all kinds. I’ve been waiting over forty years to talk about this story. I’ll be anxious to share.

How I'm feeling about Publication

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Poets are Different from You and Me; They Hear Life and Experience it Through Sound

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOFF SHELL

This “borrowing” from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous quote about the rich kept working its way through my head as I listened to award-winning poet Christina Pugh talk about her work and her process at my recent Literary Salon.  Though his comment was disparaging, mine is meant with all admiration and, as one Salon guest put it, “awe.”

I’d met Christina in 2013 at what we both can only describe as a “celestial” experience at Ragdale, an artist’s retreat I’ve mentioned before in these posts. I’d been tremendously moved hearing her read her gorgeous words, delivered with a voice that invited us into a truly uncommon experience, and wanted to share. When she told me she had a new book out, Perception, we set a Salon date.  However, of the nine Salons I’ve held over the past eight years, only one had featured a poet, and it was a bit of a hard sell to get my avid fiction readers to come out for it. That Salon, featuring the wonderful Parneshia Jones introducing her book Vessel, was a tremendous success for those who attended.  I wanted an expanded audience to drop whatever “perceptions” about poetry might be holding them back and get re-excited about the literary form.

 

“I’m in Love With the Sound of Language”

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I asked Christina to provide a frame for the audience to set the scene for her work by talking about Why Poetry? And how she’d come to it. It was at that point I realized why my early classroom attempts had been so miserable and that I’d made the best choice to stick to prose. I don’t have the ear.

“I’ve always heard the inflection of language on a street corner and it seemed natural to me to want to make something out of sound, that wasn’t exactly story telling.” Rather, Christina explained, her “something” was to be “less about story and more about diving deep into a moment and the perception of sound.”

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She spoke of her verbal fascination with words and our strong responses to them, as well as her love of the process. “Poetry forces you to write in lines versus paragraphs, to establish a push and pull that uses voice and pauses to direct a reader through a sentence or a phrase.”

To illustrate, she began by sharing “Rotary,” an elegy to the phones we grew up with in this age of touch screens. She then read select other works as she moved to Perception’s more experimental Versa poems, where the pieces have both a back and a front, like a tapestry—one side showing the external face, the other on the flip page, the knots behind.

 

The Roaring Crowd

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I was wrong about my audience. Never have those who couldn’t make it been so regretful. And, we had the biggest crowd yet, the best post-reading discussion. As one of the guests said, “we just want more.” As you will, too, when you listen to these videos.

I will be posting additional videos on my website and in my Facebook author page. More is just a click away. Perception, and all of Christina’s four books of poetry, are available on Amazon. As you read, imagine Christina’s voice and just…hear the incredible sound of language.

Perception

Perception consists of short poems rooted in observed objects. Using metaphoric description as well as association, the poems inhabit the objects or entities that they contemplate—ranging from paintings and shop signs to wallpaper and flower species. These poems are seeking to enact a tenor of attention—the power of singular focus—that is too easily lost in our multitasking age.

“Christina Pugh’s Perception transports us, from its opening starburst of phrases, through ravishing particulars. . . .”

— Phillis Levin

“. . . I already find myself returning often to these beautiful, intricate meditations, grateful for what they release, grateful for what they restore.”

— Mary Szybist

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When Writer’s Retreats are Hard: There's More Than One Way to Skin a Muse

The main Writer's House at Ragdale

Process is not for the faint of heart. I’ve emerged from my latest residency without coherent pages in my hand—nothing tangible, nothing new to read on my last day where we shared what we’d been working on. My time there was all about process, and I feel scattered. Does thinking count? Did I waste three precious weeks or take a big step? It’s been making me ponder this question: how do you judge your own “productivity” when it comes to the creative arts? Is it the thickness of the manuscript in your hand, or the heaviness in your heart from the wrestling you’ve done to get it there?

I could always write at Ragdale

We often talk about “writer’s block” (I believe that comes just before The Crack-Up), and I’ve certainly had it in spades, but never at a residency. On the contrary, I’ve been to a variety of writer’s retreats over the past twelve years, primarily at the wonderful Ragdale in Lake Forest, Illinois. And it’s always been a great experience, miraculous actually. Ragdale is where I’ve written about 90% of my novel, The Fourteenth of September, most of the time in a delightful nook with a sloped ceiling and French doors named after one of the historic building’s original inhabitants, my “lucky” Sarah’s Room.

My "Lucky" Sarah's Room

I learned a lot about process at Ragdale. I came to my first residency having just made the decision to turn a series of linked stories into a novel. I’d been focused on a modest but formidable goal—write the first chapter. I knew I wrote best early—could ONLY write early. I got up the first day at 5:30 am, pounded out a rough draft by noon and then wondered what to do. For the rest of my two-week sojourn, I “taught” myself about how to write when you’re not in the mood, when you have no idea where to go next, when you’re just filling up the hour before dinner, even when you’re frustrated waiting for the ancient toaster oven to do its job on your breakfast before the ideas you woke up with have left your head. It’s a story I tell a lot.

The well-worn rug

Over the years, however, I’d become increasingly hard on myself while working on the novel. I started the book and a business simultaneously and felt the little time I had for writing had to be so highly focused I wouldn’t let myself work on anything else until the novel was effectively out of my hands. At a residency, I usually hit the computer like a bat out of hell churning out page after page—the objective being the latest draft. It’s often been tough, with circles worn threadbare into the rug of Sarah’s Room as I paced when I was stuck, circles other writers before and after me no doubt walked as well. There were many anxious calls to brainstorm with my editor. But I’d reliably return home each time with a great fat stack of paper, covered in type. It was a satisfying ritual and I became addicted to the pileup of pages, and perhaps more than a bit superstitious.

I could only write at Ragdale

This time, with that novel finished and a publisher interested, I looked forward to a new experience. I had a list of projects and a lot of advice.  I brought folders of research for a new novel about expats in Mexico and background for another set during WWII. I had two essays in development, blog posts to stockpile.

The Chaos of Week Two

As writers, we idealize process. We use words like “flow.” My favorite is to get to the point where a draft “sings.” As I packed, I did romanticize it all, imagining how it would be to just let my mood and creative juices take me wherever they wanted. If I got stuck, I figured I’d bounce from project to project, rather than obsess. I was confident I’d enter that delicious “zone” where it seems people talk in dialogue, book titles spring from everywhere and you get incredible ideas walking from the desk to the shower, not to mention lounging on the porch, or strolling in the beautiful prairie. I wanted to let my relentless bat out of its cage, and for the first time just enjoy it in flight.

At the very least I was confident that, like every other residency, I’d rise with the birds before 6 am, make strong coffee and run to the computer, inspiration rising with the sun. I’d “create” until 3 pm, then dash off to use my short-term pass at the health club or take a long walk before getting ready for dinner. There, in the only daily gathering with other residents, I’d talk about my journey of the day and learn about what other fascinating people were doing, sharing ideas and motivation, making lifelong friends with other artists.

I’d also just closed my business, so I approached this latest residency with massive expectations. Not only would I get three months of work done in three weeks as usual, but I would break through and become, as author Christine Sneed wrote, “a writer, not someone who occasionally writes.”

I was so psyched.

Until I wasn’t.

Oh dear, I can’t write at Ragdale

The first day I read three books, enjoying my cozy room. That was okay, a warm up, I told myself. Don’t worry that you’re not actually writing. You’re reading like a writer. This what we do. Just chill.

And then it rained, and rained. Usually that’s great writing weather, but it made my head throb with migraine and the prairie too muddy for walking. I found myself waking at 3 am--a sound from a forest animal, a need for more Advil, or the deep sigh of the century-old house as it settled another quarter-inch into its bones. I was up so early… but in no condition to write, or work out, or socialize at dinner.

The second week it let up a bit, some sun, but my internal clock had reset to its annoying new rhythm. Up again at 3…always 3…was this some type of crazy writing menopause? I’d toss and turn, as characters and phrases gnawed at me and I’d finally have to get up and dash off a paragraph or a few lines. And then, each time I’d get back under the covers I’d have to jump back up to capture another phrase. I finally gave in. This was what I was here for after all, right? But why does it have to be in the middle of the night? I wondered, so irritated. I’m an early-rise windup, not a late-night wind down girl.

Grrr... I’d grumble to myself, playing around at my keyboard until the birds began to sing around 5 am, and then try to get an hour or so of shut-eye before the doors start banging on their old frames or someone talked in the kitchen just below my room and I was up again, exhausted. I just wanted a good night’s sleep and a non-throbbing head. If so, I was sure I’d welcome all this. I was wasting valuable time.

Should I Embrace Chaos as Part of Creativity? Or Am I Just Talking to Myself?

Week Three with its piles of paper

I worked in fragments: messy notes spread out over spiral-bound notebooks and yellow legal pads. While trying to focus on one project, others crept in, demanding attention. Is this what I asked for? I could neither shut it off, nor turn it on in any predictable way. My story about Germany during WWII was infecting my expats in Mexico, even my own backstory I was trying to plumb in my essays. With my first novel it had been logical, scene by scene. I’d had more control. This was an avalanche of scattered ideas—from character descriptions, to plot points, to dialogue (lots of it—they were talking like crazy!). One day, wardrobe even appeared--one character would arrive in a linen suit, another a cornflower blue tunic. Wait, this was too soon for these details. I was mixing everything up in the same notebook. How would I ever sort it out? The circles I was following were no longer just on the rug. They were on the back of my eyelids, rotating to the rhythm of the monkey noise in my head. This wasn’t “flow” it was chaos.

But then, late one afternoon, something happened. I’d just ripped another page out of a notebook and cut it into pieces, putting each into its appropriate subject pile on the floor. This was ridiculous, I told myself out loud. Just let it go, it was winning anyway. After that, I wrote stream of consciousness, sketching possible characters and plot ideas for the Mexico novel. I started and gave up on an outline, it was just coming here and there anyway. I wanted to stay with it, but after a hot shower to soothe my still aching head, up popped an idea for the WWII novel --a different setting, unity of time, place, and action. Yes, a better way to tell the story. I mentioned my dilemma briefly at dinner (I didn’t want to share too much of my bad juju) and someone suggested the shower might be my muse—if only. But I did try it again that night and after that I doubled down. Write any which way, hot water on the head, repeat. It was flow, after all.

The Upshot

So, after three weeks the Mexico novel has a voice, the draft of a promising opening scene, key settings, a really great plot twist late in the book and characters that make me cry. I know this because I remember writing it all down—somewhere. I also sent my researcher off to check out a potential new setting  for the WWII novel. I'm certain that in all this paper, there are insanely rough three-quarter drafts of two essays, a completed blog post and notes on two others. I think I got my money’s worth out of this time off the grid, just nothing I can carry home to show for it. As I packed, I filled my suitcase with random pages along with the dirty laundry.

The suitcase "unpacked"

Before I left, I took a last look at Sarah’s Room and wondered if I should buy Ragdale a new carpet…and maybe a toaster. Better karma for the next time?

Back in my home office the folders and notes from what I felt was a "rough" residency remain stacked on the table where I unpacked. The piles are fat and thick. Now, a few months later, as I've begun to organize them, I've also reassessed my interpretation of the residency. It was only “rough,” if my definition remains rigid. It wasn’t a block, or a crack-up. It was simply an alternate experience, perhaps just a blip, or maybe a new creative process going forward. Will I be more open if it happens again?  All I'm sure about is that I now know, there’s more than one way to skin a muse.

Process is a heavy thing—it can fill up so much more than a suitcase.

 

What a Mini-Skirted Watergate Prosecutor Represents about Relevance

This is the second blog post in the series #Re-Radicalized, spotlighting inspiring individuals who are newly recharged by the current political environment to change the world.

The Re-Invention of Jill Wine-Banks

The Mini-Skirted Prosecutor

When I first met Jill Wine-Banks about five years ago we were both writing books about topics we’d been told repeatedly were no longer of interest—me about the Vietnam War and she about the Nixon White House. We both felt we might have missed our windows, but I was much more skeptical that hers was ready to be put out to pasture. After all, she was the one who interrogated Rosemary Woods, the White House secretary responsible for the notorious missing 18½ minutes of the Watergate tapes. I felt Watergate was right up there with the Nazis in terms of perpetual interest—the creative gift that keeps on giving.  How could she doubt herself?

Let me back up. First of all, to meet Jill you need to do a double and triple take and think, no way could this woman have been around and in her prime back in the early 1970’s Watergate days. She looks way too young and still so striking that it’s easy to imagine her in the mini-skirt she got so much flack for back in the day. (She was dubbed the "mini-skirted prosecutor,” and eventually auctioned the garment off for charity it had become so famous).

I certainly hadn’t realized, as the Watergate hearings played on television in the background of my waning college hippie years, that there was a young woman in such a spotlight. It was still relatively early in the feminist movement and many were suspicious of her appointment as simply a coy legal strategy—bring in a woman to question a woman, rather than a big bad guy. And here was this very young woman, with blond hair and (apparently) really great legs, please!

Boy, she showed them.

I’m reminded of the words of a former client, the late great Jewel LaFontant, the former head of Refugee Affairs for Bush 41 and often both the lone woman as well as person of color on the 17 corporate boards on which she served-- a “two-fer, not a token,” as she called herself. “I have never NOT walked through a door that’s been opened to me. But once you take that step it’s all you.”

Going to Court

With Watergate Jill (then Wine Volner) burst through that door with a bang that resounds through today. The steps she took were giant, as she parlayed her success into an incredible list of achievements: first woman General Counsel of the Army, Illinois' first Solicitor General and first female Deputy Attorney General of the state, first woman EVP/COO of The American Bar Association, Executive at Motorola and Maytag. After an equally impressive list of not for profit/social advocate positions she has championed causes in education and social services, most recently serving on the US Department of Defense Subcommittee investigating sexual assault in the military.

Jill never stopped fighting, particularly as an outspoken critic of sexism. An early iteration of her book was as a memoir contrasting what it was like to be at the pinnacle of success and attention, yet still facing sexist attitudes and practices in both professional and personal circumstances.

The book was to be her point of view on Watergate and its legacy, a perfect coda to her impressive career.

And Then Came Trump

Today, legacy is no longer the issue – Jill's mission is to prevent history from repeating itself, and she is driven.

As aspects of the new Administration’s political situation grew progressively more familiar, Jill knew she had the credentials and a unique voice.  She honed her messaging by participating in the Op-Ed Project which encourages new voices on world issues. The resulting editorial, “Comey’s Firing is as Bad as The Saturday Night Massacre,” was published with dazzling speed within days by The Chicago Tribune, and Jill has spent the months since fielding media calls and making regular appearances on MSNBC, CNN, ABC, Politico, The Huffington Post, Canadian and Australian television and more. And it’s only the beginning. On July 5 she made her debut as an official MSNBC contributor. As she puts it, she's been "re-invented by Donald Trump."

She also has a new working title for her revised book: From Watergate to Trumpgate.

With Justice Breyer and Bob Woodward

Jill’s message is clear: We learned lessons back then. We know better now. It can’t be allowed to happen again. She, along with the others on the prosecuting team, had felt that Watergate was a perfect storm of circumstances, an anomaly that could never recur, even as they watched as the laws that passed to protect us from another Watergate, including the Special Prosecutor law and campaign finance reforms, were undone by The Supreme Court or left to expire

She’s appalled yet clear eyed about the parallels between Nixon and Trump in terms of what we were unaware of then, and must be aware of now. Others may point out the differences, but her role is to point out the similarities. As she said of a recent, and remarkable, ABC 20/20 special in which she appears, Truth and Lies: Watergate “substitute the word ‘Trump’ every time they mention ‘Nixon’ and you’ll be astonished.”

Nothing is Irrelevant

The Authors

What I say is that Jill will never be irrelevant. An early feminist pioneer, today she's a leader who understands the obligation we have to learn from the painful lessons of history to keep from repeating the mistakes of the past. That’s the only way to  move forward and change the world.

I asked Jill several years ago if she ever considered running for office. “I’m too thin-skinned,” she said.  My response? “Please!” I asked again recently, given her new profile. She thinks maybe local government. In her seventies, it’s not a start… it’s not even a re-invention for a lifelong fighter...it’s a renaissance. Bravo, Jill.

PS. My favorite part of Truth and Lies: Watergate is learning that the burglars were caught because their lookout was watching television—the program was “The Attack of the Puppet People.”

Need I say more?

I hope YOU will. Please engage and comment.