Shouts From Down Under

Are you a night owl type of author, or don't give two hoots?

Today I had a hard time keeping up my confidence. And it all has to do with caring.

I'm a support worker. I'm a sort of "carer" for people who don't have the functional ability to do some things themselves, for whatever reason.
We had a good day, it was a good shift, and I left the person in a happy frame of mind. I'd even bought them lunch. Sounds ok, doesn't it?

Well, no. For an illogical reason, the person wasn't happy, and let my boss know by telephone that I "wouldn't do so and so", a job not within my shift hours. Not my fault at all, and my boss was ok, but I'm now off that shift. Not happy, out of pocket, and wondering what I did wrong, what I should have done, and how I'll earn some money to cover that lost work.

This set me thinking on how much we care, especially when things don't go the way we plan, there is opposition against us, and even though we felt we did all we could, did every single thing required of us, and even went the extra mile, it wasn't enough and we feel a failure. We feel the spectre of suspicion that we did something hidden, something malignant, something wrong that will never be proved, but will sneak into the minds of others. "That bloke didn't do his job and just wanted money- he didn't care".

I was researching a little earlier about the problems that are surfacing (pun not intended) of radiation increases in Norway, a direct effect of Chernobyl.

http://sciencenordic.com/surprisingly-high-levels-radioactivity-norwegian-reinde...

This environmental change for the worse was predicted by the Ukrainian motorcyclist, Elena Filatova, who some claimed was a hoax, and yet things she said, back @ 2003 and later, on her website www.elenafilatova.com are now coming back to bite everyone on the backside.

She pointed out that the radioactive fallout from Chernobyl, at first, was one particular isotope, but after 25-30(?) years, it would break down, or decay, into a different isotope, emitting a much more harmful wavelength of radiation. The problem would be made worse, Elena proposed, because this residue would have sunken further into the soil to a depth making it much more difficult, read impossible, to remove manually. In other words, Europe, particularly Belorusia and places north of Ukraine, would be facing problems far into the future.

That is one set of issues that I have no answer for, and don't want to get bogged down on cheerless information of which we seem to have little control over.

But one thing that pulled me up with a jerk, like a reckless handbrakey in a car full of exuberant, partying teenagers, was something Elena said in her Chernobyl Journal number 1.

http://www.angelfire.com/extreme4/kiddofspeed/journal/articles.html

Two type of authors

There are basically two type of authors who write about Chernobyl; and they are separated by their motivations. Some write to keep the memory of Chernobyl alive, but far too many others write in an effort to make a living off of Chernobyl.

One is market by the steady, sober and quiet pace of a permanent record. And the other proceeds at the full gallop of sensationalism, as each author attempts to shout louder then the other, because the level of noise they make corresponds dirrectly to the amount of money they accrue from a national tragedy. But as hoopla they create echoes into the fading distance, they are nowhere to be found, because they have already dashed off to another sensation that they can process into a nice, fat paycheck.

And because their writings are carefully worded to avoid thereatening the system, and stepping on any big toes of nuclear monster, the media eagerly trumpets their works, either they pro or anti nuclear, they are not dangerous, their action is always based on motive, and, therefore, fragmentary and fleeting.

The names of authors involved in the slow and methodical research of Chernobyl- and for non monetary motives- goes unsung. And part of the reason for that is because their detail and permanency poses a danger to the powerful men who caused it. One sterling example of this is the documentary "Suicidal mission to Chernobyl"- a movie that many people have been hunting for since 1991. Where did it vanish to, and why? I also treasure the works of the Chernobyl writer Irene Zabytko, and the photographs of Igor Kostin.

There are probably others, but there is no way to know for sure, because all of the really important works are being concealed from the public. And in their place are only silly popular distractions like "The Da Vincii Code"

What sort of author do I want to be? What sort of writer AM I? Do I have ETHICS? What is my purpose in writing a book? And the biggest poke in the eye...what is my purpose in writing a book about CHERNOBYL?

Elena points out that some want the money, and others want to keep the memory of Chernobyl alive. I would guess she means, not the disaster and grief, so much as the identity of the place and the people who lived there. Because any disaster is magnified if all trace of the people disappears- their history, their ancestry, their culture, their dreams, their fears, their joys, their misery, their importance, their humanity.

So this was a searching bunch of thoughts for me. Let's be honest. Surely, most of us, if not all, have a desire somewhere in our minds, of money. We do want to be paid for our time and effort, and we do want to at least cover costs, if not get filthy rich / rake in wads of cash. But was this my reason behind putting 7+ years so far, of effort, into penning an exciting adventure / thriller story that is heavily influenced by the events of Chernobyl? Do I really want to suck that disaster dry of all it will give in drama and tear wrenching horror and loss, for the sake of a fat pay check, as Elena proposes?

I haven't noticed many people getting paid these so called riches, and really, is that our aim while spending many lonely night hours fretting over plot and substance?

There was a time when that was exactly my aim. We all want riches, don't we? At least enough to pay our bills and eat, and perhaps live in comfort, put our children through college, care for our ailing parents and grandparents. We'd like to worry less on where the next tank of petrol will come from for the car. And the idea of being hungry is sometimes a sobering reality in our house. Don't misunderstand me. I wouldn't have it any other way. We have to live our own lives, not cry poor, regardless of the circumstances. We'll get by, and are far better off than many. I am so thankful for what we do have.

STATIC

Chernobyl Lonely Heart's Club by Sparky  (13+) The progeny of a brooding parent in meltdown; what hope remains for these children? #1939910 by Sparky

STATIC

The Garden of Pripyat  (13+) This poem is dedicated to Lyubov Sirota & Pripyat. Click the links to learn why. #1899777 by Sparky

Time has passed since I thought that way, and money seems less important now, than leaving some sort of legacy to my fellow humans. Am I really in such a benevolent frame of mind? Well, some days I am.
Now, I feel that my purpose for writing this novel, and perhaps underneath my enthusiastic desires for dosh, I always felt this way, my purpose and aim is to create an enjoyable thriller that young people and old will read.

They wont read dry factual boring lists of stuff about disasters like this, unless it takes a form of something entertaining. Am I right or wrong in this logical path?

Whatever my reasons, regardless of what Elena feels about it, I'll keep pushing on with it, get the editing done, and get it out there. For me, the novel is more about the relationship between a father and his son, and the issues of force versus choice.

What better theatre to feature these ideals than Ukraine? This is one hot spot, or frontier, of these two very different ways of thinking. Regardless of where people stand in all of this, one thing is for certain. Russian, Ukrainian, Israeli, Palestinian, Jewish, Gentile, whatever, we are all humans, striving to live.

Perhaps that is the drive behind whatever people write. Living. We cry out to live.

And we cry this out aloud, in the words of our books.

The following is a fascinating writer's website, and his blog about just such dilemmas. Enjoy his rhyme too, if you have a mind, and the time.


http://cliffhays.weebly.com/blog/trolley-problem

Untitled Poem by Cliff Hays

wonderfully torn
mistaken, forlorn


old past and new future
both presently scorned


all graciousness pondered
vivaciousness, squandered


would asking a question
be too much to ask?


though I haven’t any
so alters the task

now do bask as one
in the seas of the many
but relinquish your mask

I think the shape of our purpose as writers is a vital subject, but shouldn't deter us from writing. Perhaps this motivating factor reflects what is inside our hearts. That deeper purpose for getting up in the morning.

Some "authors" make their point by practical means, and this Ukrainian couple will do just that over the next 25,000 kilometres from Kiev to Sydney.



At the end of an exhausting, thankless day, or night, what IS our purpose in writing what we write?

As long as we can live with it, and sleep like babies, we should be ok, right?

Sparky