Don't Sell Yourself Short.

A '77 Chevette. For illustration purposes only. (Public Domain, Wiki.)

A few years ago; the Bank of Nova Scotia’s TV commercial went something like this:

“If you’re forty years old and make forty grand a year; and if you want to retire with the same lifestyle that you presently enjoy, you’ll have to save something like $660,000 for retirement.”

This was actually pretty good advice, because it was accurate. It was a perfectly sensible projection of mathematical principles of interest and compounding, in addition to a planned program of further contributions and taking into account all known tax incentives.

At the time, I felt a sense of dread. Forty years old, on welfare, with unpaid student loans, and no real employment prospects due to three compression-fractured vertebra from an industrial accident, what would I be able to do about it? My case is certainly not typical.

But how the heck could you save that kind of money in twenty-five years at a rate of pay of $40,000 per annum? Well, they were projecting some kind of growth in your income, for their target audience was nothing if not ambitious, and craved all the perks and benefits, the visible ones, of what we presently deem a ‘successful life.’

I knew darned well I couldn’t do it, but I also wondered who could?

Who could? This was at a time when I knew damned well my own life hadn’t been all that successful, and that was about the time I started working my ass off to do something about it.

All these years later, I sure am glad I did, and yes, I kind of wish I had started sooner.

You live and you learn. What the hell. Shit happens and we all face challenges.

Back to the point.

You would have to save something like eighty or ninety percent of your after-tax income, or your investments would have to generate some crazy wild interest, or be compounded on a minute-by-minute basis. You must find $26,400 a year for your retirement, after all, after taxes and all other obligations such as food, shelter, clothing, and transportation back and forth to that lovely job of yours, all filled with glittering opportunities for future advancement or even just pay raises, right?

Right, ladies and gentlemen?

Now, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who found this commercial a bummer. In fact, now the Bank of Nova Scotia’s slogan is, “You’re richer than you think.”

That’s been their slogan ever since, ladies and gentlemen!

It’s a much better message. It tells the consumer what they want to hear. At my bank, they have a picture of a big green leather chair, where banking is, ‘comfortable.’ Yeah, that’s great. Recently my new credit card arrived in the mail. I was reluctant to activate it, but my fifteen year-old car blew up and it was going to cost $469.97 to redeem it from my mechanic, who’s at the top of my speed-dial list.

I had little choice but to call in and activate it.

The lady on the phone asked if I had any questions.

“I’m not too happy with the 19.75 percent interest rate,” I said.

“Well, on that, ‘green’ card, there’s not much I can do. We have another card, with a lower interest rate, but it doesn’t have all the advantages your card does. However, you are pre-approved for a raise in your credit limit if you renew it before March first. You’re pre-approved for $21,000.”

Twenty-one thousand dollars!

(Why aren’t I in Panama right now?)

I’m glad the bank’s fundamentals are intact and they’re not engaging in any high-risk lending strategies. It gives a real sense of security, knowing I can borrow $20,000 at barely twenty-percent in an emergency. (I’ve been thinking of emigrating!)

I’ve been on disability for seventeen years. My income is about $12,700 a year. My credit rating must be like encrusted in cubic zirconiums. So that’s the benefit of owning a junk-box of a car.

As a debt slave, I’m worth my body weight in something real expensive.

Canadian households spent over $71,000 in 2009, or about four years ago, on average, and the average Canadian family was carrying about $96,000 in debt.

Look on the bright side.

You’re worth more than you think.

Anyway, the good news coming out of the government is that the banks are doing real well.

(Good shot, man. – ed.)

Hell, even the economy is improving. The rich are getting richer and that’s good news for all concerned, right?

Right.

As for myself, I retired at age 33 to do whatever the hell I want, although there are certain restrictions.

If I live to be about 92, I will definitely get my $660,000 worth. It’s just spread over a retirement time-period roughly double that of what some other Canadian might reasonably expect.

I get to do whatever the hell I want a lot longer than some other guy.

And the best revenge is in knowing it—and in living it, ladies and gentlemen.

All I have to do is keep my head screwed on straight and stay out of trouble, avoid unfortunate marriages, write my books, have some fun with it and all that sort of thing.

The money’s not that great, but my life is a hell of a lot more successful than it was.

Anyway, my advice to young people today is to stay in school as long as you possibly can because it's a hell of a lot more fun than the real world, ah, don't smoke crack, know who your friends are and be nice to everybody, (although there might be certain restrictions on that last one. - ed.)

Shit, I almost forgot: Don't sell yourself short.

The world is your freakin' oyster.

END

Here is a link to Blessed Are the Humble, the latest in the Maintenon Mystery Series. You're certainly welcome to take a look at that if you are so inclined. Thanks for reading.

Under Your Skin.

Lipofsky Basketballphoto.com (Wiki.)

Paul threw the virtual ball aside in disgust. It bounced and then disappeared into a holographic display of tennis rackets artfully disarrayed, interspersed with cans of fluorescent balls and wrist-bands, head-bands, and other accessories. Extraneous thoughts went through Reggie’s head as he patiently awaited the outcome.

“I don’t know.”

Reg was the sporting goods manager. He shrugged in sympathy. In his grey cavalry-twill pants, and his white, short-sleeved shirt with the tie stuffed inside about the level of the third button, he was always up for a game of virtual one-on-one, twenty-one, or just shooting hoops for a buck each. He had a preppie look, with the patented Michael J. Fox runners. In a pinch, he could be relied on to set up a putting competition at the annual summer picnic, and was known to party pretty hearty at the conventions which department managers attended once or twice a year.

If he was smart, he would lose this game by a hair and upgrade, up-sell and up-smart Mister Pauly, as he called him privately. Paul’s parents had died in a plane crash, leaving their precious one a half a mil or so in trust, with a big monthly cheque from the annuity fund. Lately he was insufferable around the store. Now that he was all over the grief part.

“Yeah. Maybe we should try another one.”

The tournament was three days away and Paul, who worked the stockroom, didn’t really need the best equipment, but he wanted something half decent. He was floating around inside of these shoes. Nice shoes and everything, they made a statement of conscious self-worth and aspiration, but they just weren’t him.

It was one of those office things. His pop, a lack-luster nonentity by all accounts, had warned him about office politics, which extended to the adult industrial leagues which dotted this fair land. They had their allure, and their dangers for well-meaning and cautiously-ambitious entry-level management trainees who otherwise didn’t have much going for them.

“Shaq isn’t for you,” admitted Reg, standing with hand on hip, the hip flung out like a florist sensing the kill as he looked at their options. “Ah! An old standby. We’ll try the Dennis Rodman…no?”

He trailed off at Paul’s vehement head-shake.

“I have to be able to sleep at night, and look myself in the eye when I shave.”

Reg grinned amiably, although he didn’t think Rodman was so bad.

“Ah, let’s see here…”

“What about a real old classic?”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to try the Wilt Chamberlain.”

Reggie’s eyebrows lifted in an encouraging display of objectivity. He wasn’t ruling it out just yet.

“All right, then.” He went back into the warehouse and grabbed another product off the shelf.

***

That one was no good either, and the pair of them went through a few more options. Paul was on lunch and they were having a slow day anyhow. While spring usually brought in a surge of wannabe instant athletes, all looking for the very latest in high-tech, professional sporting goods at the lowest possible discount store prices, today was sunny and warm and business was slow. Reg had always marvelled at how Paul took the slightest and most trivial challenge so deadly seriously when he was such a useless cunt at the best of times.

Reggie was the tolerant sort. He didn’t have to hang with Paul in his off-hours, thankfully.

If you looked up ‘self-absorbed’ in the dictionary, Paul’s picture would be there. He was always talking about mountain climbing. It was one of those things that was always in the planning stages. So far, quite a few expedition prospects had dropped out on one pretext or another. It didn’t take too much time or much listening to see what you were dealing with here.

They finally settled on the Larry Bird, although in Reggie’s opinion Paul was just too short to make it work. He struggled with the fasteners. With a little luck, he might still have time to grab a sandwich, if Pauly didn’t obsess too much.

At five-foot four, even in his uplift shoes, with that pasty skin and pudgy face, the beady little eyes and the buck teeth, the fading hairline (at 26,) and the receding chin, which was not a function of age, he would always be an insignificant little man trying desperately hard to play basketball while wearing another man’s skin. The name on the box, the picture on the front, meant everything to Pauly, never mind the fact that he looked like he was running around inside of a potato sack…

He wouldn’t be a bad player if he wasn’t so busy trying to be somebody else. The only other thing they had was a rather shop-worn Jeremy Lin display model, and Pauly had baulked at Rodman. There simply wasn’t time enough to order anything and get it here on time.

Reggie wondered if deep down inside Paul hated himself, but the man’s entire family tree probably didn’t have that much grace.

Someday the NBA would breed a short, clumsy, pudgy-faced white superstar, and then maybe they could find a Sports Skin to really suit someone like Pauly.

Most likely, it would never happen. You never know, though. It was a nice thought.

The real problem with Pauly was that one way or another, regardless of cost or utility, he was going to buy something today.

That much was a given. He would never be satisfied with it. Not in a million years.

It went with the territory.

END

Waiting for God.

The Oval Office.

“Morning, Mister President.”

“Morning, Wiener.”

Wiener Capsberger settled into a seat, hitching up the knees of his trousers in unconscious tribute to the gods of fashion, who had dictated that tight pants should return.

L.L. William ‘Chill-Will’ Blaine regarded the Secretary of State in bored fashion as they waited for the Attorney General, Hope Fargill, a tall, quadraplegic, French-speaking Haitian Lesbian girl and graduate of Vasser.

She and a tripartisan delegation were expected momentarily. In some Clancy-esque secret political gambit they had agreed to keep mum and their respective parties in check on this one special issue without actually knowing what it was even about ahead of time. All of this had taken some doing, but the President and his advisors were patient people and they swung the heavy hammer of federal patronage with some experience after three years in office.

The senators had been assured that this would be an important session and well worth their time.

Hope, nuclear wheelchair buzzing and steaming, ushered in the three senior statesmen, Zeke Beaudoin of the Dems, Nally Parduck of the G.O.P. and Emerson Smielbmork, the lone Independent.

Some said Smielbmork held the true balance of power in the Senate, which wasn’t too far at variance with the truth although Chill-Will liked to think he had something to do with policy himself from time to time. 

Smielbmork had won election in his district, partially bourgeois working-class with elements of Hispanic NeoPlatonism, and one or two socialists too boot, 64,921 against, with 64,922 for. Of those who voted against, the split was so near 50/50 as made no difference. Everyone in Brogenville figured old lady Thickleforp was the real power in the land, but she’d been sweet on him since grade four and his debut as Jack Sprat in the class play, performed at assembly on or about October ninth, 1967. They thought she must be the one that tipped the balance."

“My dear.” Zeke nodded at Hope and settled into a chair beside Wiener and the others sorted themselves out.

She hated the term and that’s probably why he did it.

“So, Mister President.” Right on cue, Smielbmork tried to make it all about him. “What’s this all about?”

He had an air of someone who was expecting a big time-waster.

“I want you to hear something.” But first he pushed a button and the door opened again and the chiefs of the CIA, the NSA, the DUI and the IUD quietly filed in and took seats in the second row, empty up until now.

Heads craned to get a good look.

Eyebrows lifted all across the political spectrum as the President shoved his chair back, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on one corner of the desk.

His assistant, Barney Dibble, glanced at his watch. He stepped forward with his ingratiating toadying-ness.

“Coffee, tea perhaps?” His eyes rolled towards the ceiling. “We’ve still got a couple minutes.”

***

The clock ticked inexorably onwards and the President kept looking at his watch.

The President was looking nervous. It was ten-oh-three by this time.

“He’s never been late before. But I promise you, this is worth it.”

Barney looked like he was about to say something, and Beaudoin was into the second syllable of something hopefully not too fatuous when it came. The one thing they apparently could not do was to sit patiently in silence and wait.

“Bill! Chill-Will!”

Even the President twitched at the deep, rumbling voice that seemed to come from all places at once. The uninitiated threw their hands up to their ears and almost leapt out of their seats, looking all over the place, trying to locate the source of the sound.

Hope grinned, looking down at her hands and Dibble nodded seriously.

“Whoa!” They were unanimous in that.

“Hi, God.”

“Bill. Lookin’ good, bro.”

“How’s it going up there?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Both paused, Chill-Will to let it sink in and God because it was His way.

There was disbelief and a kind of consternation in the room. They would need some convincing.

“Ah—ah. What the hell is going on, Mister President?” Beaudoin was incensed.

They were all talking and gasping and angry, sure it was some nutty trick or demonstration the president was pulling on them.

“What in the hell is this?” Smielbmork stood up, red in the face. He was pointing an accusing finger at the president when a force he could neither comprehend nor resist enveloped him from head to toe and shoved him back down into his seat.

“Shut up, senator.” God seemed friendly enough.

Firm but fair.

The senator gulped and looked at the president. Staring wildly around, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and around his mouth.

“I’m sorry. We thought of warning you, or trying to kind of describe it.” Barney was speaking for the president, which he often did.

“Yes.” The President eyed them all up, one at a time. “Sorry about that. God?”

“Yes?”

“Some of these folks might like to say hello.”

“Hello.” Hope was at last week’s meeting, being introduced to God for the first time.

“Hi, Hope. How’s the daughter?”

“Fine, fine. She’s graduating Summa Cum Laude in the spring.”

“Ah, wonderful.”

They chatted back and forth. God asked about each and every one of them, seemingly knowing some personal tid-bit, some little thing about each of them. He had really been doing His homework.

Smielbmork just said ‘Hi.’ He had no real questions.

Hope had some sympathy for Smielbmork. It was a devastating experience to be manhandled by God like that. It was embarrassing enough that on their first meeting, she had demanded that God bring her a shot of Scotch and then having it materialize right in front of her eyes.

Grabbing it out of mid-air, she downed it in a single heartfelt snort.

She felt ashamed later, of course.

Smielbmork was shaking his head emphatically, the other members taking his unspoken word for it initially.

“Mister President. I have a question.”

“Yes?” God answered, the low frequency sound waves shaking the books on the shelves and the single vase on a side table, with a white rose in it for some reason, distinctly rattled, then steadied as if an invisible hand had rescued it from certain destruction.

God had a really deep voice.

“Why? I mean why are you talking to us and not the Russians or something?”

Chill-Will smiled inscrutably, eyes suitably downcast and humble. That was one of his first questions.

“Well, Senator Parduck, that’s a very long story.”

And it was, too. They listened intently to His reasoning. They weren’t all that amenable, with Beaudoin for one convinced that God probably was talking to the Russians, and the Chinese, and anybody else who would listen.

He wouldn’t put it past Him! For obvious political reasons, he kept those observations to himself.

In the end, while not wholly convinced, they agreed to think on it. It was almost an hour later, when God went back to His more regular duties. There was quite a bit more discussion, but in the end, they came to an agreement which would have been insulting to all concerned if it had been written up and signed as an aide-memoire.

Suffice it to say the tri-partisan committee members agreed to keep it a secret that the United States of America was talking to God on a weekly basis, and that they were getting some quite good information from Him on subjects as diverse as economics, governance, sociology, public policy, psychology, moral issues, legal issues, the relationships of man with his brothers and sisters all over the world, and all sorts of good things, really.

It was also agreed to form a subcommittee under the umbrella of the department of defence in order to study the nation’s new relationship with God and to assess any potential threats, as they were all duty-bound and constituted to do. The field of international diplomacy was well-known, but this was charting new waters and there was no book of Creator/Man Relations to go by.

Any sort of case law was a couple of thousand years old, according to the Attorney General.

In the meantime, the President and his advisers were promising all that the still-stunned gentlemen had asked, which was to be kept in the loop while they consulted amongst themselves and considered what their attitude towards this interesting new development ought to be.

It was one of the sweatiest sessions any of them could remember in all of their long careers.

That sweat, the very uncertainty of what was happening and why, was a measure of its importance, as they all understood on some intuitive level.

END

*Editor's Note: either one of the two major parties did not field a candidate or Louis has lumped Party A and Party B together and ignored the possibility of a close, three-way split in the voting--in which case old lady What's-'er-name may still hold the balance of power with a single vote.

Writing a Mystery Series, Themes.

In this post, author Jonathan Gunson talks about why series are more successful than single stand-alone titles.

One point the writer makes is that the protagonist and the antagonist must somehow keep meeting up in each subsequent book in order to be successful with readers. That may be true in some genres. The writer goes on to give examples, and in the comments some exceptions may be noted.

It holds true for writing a mystery series in the sense that Thomas Harris’s cannibalistic serial killer Hannibal Lecter character came back over the course of more than one book and the Clarice Starling character was in at least two of them. Those books are more in the crime thriller genre because we generally know who the bad guy is. Interestingly, Hannibal flip-flops ‘morally,’ during the course of the series. He goes from antagonist to protagonist, (hopefully I’ve got that right) and there are of course contradictions because he’s still a serial killer.

The character adapts, the moral themes are completely opposite!

A mystery is a tighter genre in that the readers have some expectations, one of which is that they don’t know who committed the crime, from page one, all through the book. They want a mystery, a puzzle to solve. A whole lot of moral ambiguities might not be what they’re looking for.

In a series of murder mysteries, its standard practice to bring back the much-loved detective, whether it’s P.D. James’ Adam Dalgleish character, or Agatha Christie’s  Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.

It’s difficult for me to see how the antagonist could return for book after book unless our protagonist is the worst detective in the world and the bad guy keeps getting away with murder.

Anything we do that is formulaic in any established genre could be said to be derivative.

"It's all derivative, my good Doctor Watson."

In the case of murder mysteries, a series of them, the place of a recurring antagonist might be taken by recurring themes. Good versus evil is a no-brainer, right?

Murder is evil, and living peacefully with your fellow humans is good. We are all individuals, and we all cope with varying levels of success within the social setting. Not all situations and all reactions are the same.

When someone murders someone, something in the ‘social system’ has gone terribly wrong. The individual book, as well as the overall series can be described as speaking about right versus wrong, within the social system of France, in the twenties and thirties. And yet certain moral truths are believed to hold true over long periods of time.

Obviously our detective hero symbolizes right, and the killer symbolizes wrong. A thousand years from now, this will still be some kind of moral truth.

Writing a mystery series offers some opportunities. The overall theme of the series is one thing, and it can be a real mixed bag of many themes, fairly complex to describe. The number of themes will grow with each new book or story.

But each individual title will almost inevitably exhibit themes that are separate and distinct from the books that go before and after.

The theme of The Handbag’s Tale, my first crime novella, was respectability.

The theme of Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery was the cycle of failure and redemption.

The theme of The Art of Murder would be simple greed.

The theme of my new mystery, Blessed Are the Humble is just exactly that. Blessed are the humble—a nice theme if you can carry it off with some panache.

Over the course of the series there will be recurring themes, of love and loss, anger and pity, contempt and respect, all the basic contradictions of the human soul will be presented faithfully and authentically. At least as far the author is capable, in some detail, and there is plenty of scope for all kinds of statements within the overall work of art that a series is, or can be.

The writer can talk about the culture of France in the twenties and thirties, he can make reference to the thoughts and attitudes of the day, comment on social, economic and political issues and events, and hopefully, in some coherent manner make sense of the whole, make it entertaining, and make some kind of a credible moral statement.

One of the contradictions of the murder mystery genre is that we write about it for fun, and the readers read it for fun. But that is part of the human condition, that is to say contradiction is everywhere, and no more so than inside us, each and every one of us. See—another darned theme has just reared its ugly head.

There are contradictions within my own life, and my own make-up. I have no doubt that writing such a series would be a wonderful growth experience for any writer—for it forces us to define our terms, something philosophers talk about quite a bit.

Here’s a wonderful theme: crime doesn’t pay.

Here’s a contradiction: writing about crime might actually pay pretty well. And it’s all nice and legal, too.

And there’s really only one way to find out, which would be a recurring theme in my work if you’ve been following along for any length of time.

The really great thing about writing a mystery series is that it’s all experimental. This is one of the great privileges of art as opposed to mere industry.

I guess you could that I plan on having a little fun with it—which ain’t exactly humble, but then humble people don’t write too many books.

END

Comments are always welcome. Thanks for stopping by.