The Man Who Knew Too Much

I loved school when I was growing up. I was hungry for knowledge and soaked in all I could get. Now I surf the Internet looking for topics I know nothing about and then learn enough to feel I could carry on a conversation about that subject. It's fun.

It's possible, however, to know TOO much. For example, my husband and I went to see the movie Avatar last night. Before we went, we read some reviews of it -- one by an astrophysicist who said he had a hard time suspending his disbelief and enjoying the movie because they broke almost every known law of physics. Personally, I enjoyed the floating mountains, the crazy creatures, and the floating jellyfish critters that seemed to drift down on the auditorium, thanks to the effects of 3D. The reviewer knew too much, and so he couldn't relax and enjoy the movie.

I'm like that myself. It used to be fun to pick up a novel and settle in for a good, slow read. I'd put myself in the shoes of every character and, much like a 3D movie, try to turn in all directions to see the action as they saw it. But that was before I wrote my first novel. Before I spent years studying the craft of writing, read umpteen books on writing, and joined a writers critique group (where we pull apart each others' words to make them better.) I can't just read a book anymore.

I read one this week on my Kindle that involved a terrorist cell that set off some bombs in Washington, D.C., and then vanished. Of course, the main plot was the efforts of the agents trying to catch the bad guys. But the subplot was the interactions between the three remaining terrorists. I was fine until it hit me that I was actually pulling for one of the terrorists. I was instantly yanked out of the plot of the book by the part of my mind that had to analyze and study how the author had done that. "Why do I feel compassion for this guy? He's a killer! What scenes changed my opinion? How could I use that in my own writing?"

It's an occupational hazard for a writer -- no writing is safe from scrutiny, no matter how wonderful. In fact, the more wonderful it is (such as novels by Charles Martin!) the more I have to slow down, go back over it, and dissect it looking for clues and craft-markers. In a way, it would be nice to go back to the blissful ignorance of my pre-writing days and just indulge in the flow and excitement of a novel.

Then again, anybody can do that.

I know somebody.

It used to be, when you were stumped how to solve a household problem, you went around asking your friends for advice. If you were lucky, one of them had the answer. If they didn't, sometimes they had friends who knew the answer. If not, you were out of luck.

Now we're in the age of the internet. 24 hours a day, we're plugged in to people who know stuff. They can fix things from printers to garbage disposals. They understand things like why glue sticks and what to feed a turtle coming out of hibernation. They have tips and tricks for just about anything -- and they're more than willing to share what they know.

My husband spilled some of his favorite sugar-free drink on the carpet. Of course, it is red and the carpet is beige. He tried his best to get it out without telling me what had happened, but that made it worse. We ran the nifty carpet cleaning machine we have on it. It was better, but still very visible. Put-a-footstool-over-it visible.

I turned to my best friend, Google. I typed in "red stain on carpet" and up came links to 1,380,000 hits. Clearly, this is a serious, world-wide problem. There must be veritable seas of red-dyed juice on acres of carpet on every continent on the planet. Who knew?

After paging through several suggestions, I found one I wanted to try, if only to prove it didn't work. I really couldn't make the situation worse, so I had nothing to lose except floor space when I permanently nailed the footstool to that inconvenient spot. To my delight and amazement, the spot disappeared almost completely. Just to further test it, I repeated the process on a similar stain that has been in the carpet (with a throw-rug over it) for over a month. That one is gone, too.

It's a great feeling to say, "I know somebody who can help with that!" With the internet, I know 1,380,000 people who can help in this case. If you're looking for one of my know-it-all friends, read below. Happy un-staining!

---------------------------------------------

THE PROCESS:

Yeah, you should test this in an innocuous place, and I take no responsibility for the results. CYA.

1. Pour a cup or two of water mixed with a small amount of dish detergent all over the stain. Really saturate it.
2. Take a white terry dish towel and wet it thoroughly (so wet you wring it out, and then only wring out enough so you don't drip while carrying it to the area with the stain.)
3. Lay the wet towel over the wet, stained carpet.
4. Plug in a regular steam iron and set it to Steam. When it is hot, set it on the towel over the stain. You'll hear it hiss and fizzle. This is good. (It must be 100% on the towel, to avoid harming the carpet.)
5. As the noise dies down, or every 3-4 minutes, move the iron to another part of the towel to continue the process. Don't let it completely dry the towel or it will scorch it. Lift a corner to check progress from time to time. You'll see the stain magically transferred to the TOP of the towel, and the side near the stain will be clean. (Nice party trick if you need one.)

Repeat process if it's a stubborn stain, but it should come out. If not, call my friend Google. It knows 1,379,999 more people with ideas....

The Blush of Unsuccess

I don't know who started the now-ubiquitous practice of giving a plaque to someone whenever they speak, when they win an award, when they just show up sometimes. I hope whoever it was gets a royalty on every plaque created, but I doubt it. How could he or she possibly know it would catch on so thoroughly?

I have plaques in my home office that I like to hang up. One is a company award that patted me on the back for years of hard work. I earned every chiseled letter of that plaque, and was gratified and pleased to get it.

Then there are the ones in the closet that never see the light of day. (OK, I reused one of them as the base for a cool cat toy, but I don't think that counts.) These are plaques given for things I either did not do, honors I did not merit, or that make much of something that was nothing to me. I'm embarrassed by them. I call it my "plaques-a-lot" stash. I got them, said, "Thanks a lot," and buried them in the closet.

I'd rather receive no award at all than one that is unmerited, or that leaves me scratching my head wondering why they gave it to me. Especially if there were other people I considered far more worthy of the award. I duck my head when they are mentioned. I don't put them on my resume. I don't even want to make cat toys out of them.

This morning I woke to the news our President has won the Nobel Peace Prize for 2009. As clearly as if I had been there, I could picture an aid awakening the President with the news, and his forehead wrinkling in consternation and confusion. "I did? Why?" might have slipped out before he had time to process the news.

I wonder if he'll look at it in coming years and want to put it in the back of the closet. He doesn't have a cat.

Uncivil Obedience

When I was a child, my mother drilled into me that a thank you note was required for every gift, and taught me how to respond politely to friends and strangers alike. Though I dreaded the, "Have you written your thank you note yet?" question, her advice was well-founded and has helped me be a more civil person.

Apparently, people today are not raised the same way. Perhaps it's the advent of "e-gifts" and non-presents in the form of gift cards that have taken the charm out of the process, and turned the thank you process into a quick email or phone call. We're addicted to speed, captured by the idea of buying what we want instead of receiving what someone carefully purchased for us -- whether we like it or not. "Regifting" will soon appear in the dictionary, if it hasn't already, turning a previously shocking practice into common usage.

The death of civility shows its face most clearly in internet posts, many in response to news stories. If you don't scroll down past the end of the story these days, you miss a lot. The Comment sections give people the opportunity to respond to the news. Unfortunately, while a few may have thoughtful comments, most comment lists quickly degenerate from commenting on the news to commenting on those commenting on the news. A free-for-all then ensues, complete with character assassination and foul language hidden behind "special characters" or dashes.

Gone is true public discourse, reasoned opinions, rational ideas, counter suggestions. Today belongs to the poster who shouts loudest and says the most inflammatory thing to stir the pot.

Does "Debate Club" even exist in schools any more?

I really miss honest discussion and civil discourse. Challenge my brain, not my integrity, upbringing, or heritage, OK?

Dipping My Toes in the Blog Current

I'm not sure why I resist certain technological advances. I didn't move from Windows 98 to XP until my tax software said it would no longer support 98. It takes me days to work up the nerve to install a new program, even if it's one I've been waiting to arrive in the mail. Blogging is my latest hurdle.

Or, perhaps, the entire Net 2.0 reality is what I've been fighting. Sitting at my desk, scrolling through the online world, I am in control. I choose what sites to visit. I decide when I want to post to a site or send an email. But blogging and sites like Face Book suddenly take away that unilateral control. People pop into my inbox requesting I be their "friend" -- and I feel antisocial if I don't. Keeping my toes firmly on the one-way bank has felt comfortable.

Too comfortable. It's time to jump off the bank and immerse myself in the riptide of the interactive world with all its exhilaration and uncertainty. I hope you don't mind if I occasionally cling to you like a bit of driftwood until I get my bearings. I have a feeling you've been in the water a lot longer than me.

I'm looking forward to pruned fingers!