There’s a place here in Columbus. Our family considers it Mecca. It is an important place. It is a place of many visits, a place of celebration and of solace.

What is this place, you might ask? Is it a church, or a park, or some other such place of meditation and beauty?

No.

It is an ice cream shop.

It is a small place–one of those outdoor stands with a walk up window (and a drive up, but we ignore that as often as we can). It has tables outside with big umbrellas to keep the sun off. It’s open and clean, and makes its ice cream there on the spot, serving three or four main flavors a day because (I assume) that’s all they can set up for. In short, it is the perfect ice cream place. Sitting with your family at one of those big stone tables on a Saturday in June with the big high sky and white clouds and enveloped by the smells of vanilla and cream is about as close to the apex as life can get.

Unfortunately, since it’s an open stand, the place closes for the winter.

In itself, maybe this is good because it provides for the annual rite of the November rush. Mecca is closing! We must go to Mecca! Mecca is closing soon! We must go to Mecca!

Personally, I begin to use this excuse come about August.

But is also gives rise to that great institution of Opening Day, which is better than baseball’s opening day in my book, though not quite so steeped in tradition.

Yesterday was Opening Day.

I had suggested that we camp out there Sunday night to make sure we were first in line. I think I had Brigid on my side, but Lisa got one of those “You’re so insufferable” looks on her face, and I knew I was doomed to not be first.

Still.

The day dawned. It was cold.

Snow actually fell in the afternoon. My spirits drooped. What if Lisa and Brigid decide they don’t want to go? What if they figure it’s just too cold? We’re out of Mecca shape. It’s Opening Day. What if they decide to postpone due to excessive intelligence?

I stayed later at work than I normally do. It’s that dedication thing biting me again.

What if they think it’s too late? What if they get tired? What if we’re not hungry after dinner?

The phone rang at quarter to six.

“Where are you?” Lisa’s voice was firm and direct at the other end. “Dinner’s ready and it’s Mecca night.”

My heart soared. That’s my girl, I thought. Back in the saddle again.

“I’ll be right there.”

So I dropped everything, hopped in the car, and raced home to scarf down enough food to make it look good but ensure that I would have room left. Can’t be too careful, you know? A quick check of the e-mail, and I was ready to go. (Hey, you’ve got to have priorities, you know? E-mail above all. Ice cream Mecca a close second).

It was dark by the time we left.

Cold.

Still, we made it there. It was open, lights splaying over the open concrete porch, kids in their uniform shirts manning the counter, drive up window doing a great business. “Drive up’s fine with me,” Lisa said. I considered the alternative and quickly agreed. We ordered. Ice cream arrived. I paid. We sat in the car in the parking lot. Yes.

Snow swirled around us in the lights–little silver motes like ice cream fairies dancing on the wind. Cars drove past the drive up. A few teenagers actually went to the window.

We talked. We laughed. We ate ice cream.

I hit bottom first, so I drove home while Lisa and Brigid finished. Occasionally Brigid doesn’t complete her ice cream and I get he leavings. Eating your daughter’s left over ice cream is a tough part of being a dad. But a tougher part is dealing with it when there isn’t any left over. Brigid finished it all as we were nearing home. The saddest sound you’ll ever hear is the sound of plastic spoon on Styrofoam cup. It is the sound of perfection slipping into the past.

Or, perhaps, instead, it is the most satisfying sound of all. Perhaps that sound signifies the end of a perfect moment, and as such comes with that gentle feeling of understanding something too deep to put into words…

I can’t tell which is right. Saddest? Most satisfying?

I guess it’ll take a bit more experimentation.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Ron Collins
All Rights Reserved

Author Bio:

Ron Collins is a prize-winning author of speculative fiction who lives in Columbus, Indiana, with his wife, Lisa, and their daughter, Brigid. You can learn more about Ron by visiting his Web site, Typosphere.

A Trip to Mecca is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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I went out to get the mail in yesterday. For those of you who are really serious about writing, I don’t need to explain the fixation I have for the mailbox. For the rest of you, let me say that the mailbox is Mecca, the sacred totem that must be faced once daily, the bringer of all news foul, yet a comfort beyond all my ability to describe.

So you can see why I was flustered when I discovered that our recent ice storm had temporarily welded the danged thing shut with a sheet of ice as thick as a standard pencil.

I stared at it for a moment, then tried the key anyway.

Why do we do things we already know aren’t going to work? The key butted ineffectually up against the ice.

In the meantime, the temperature is fifteen degrees, and I’m standing there in my leather jacket, a pair of galoshes over my slippers, and no hat fer cryin’ out loud. My cheeks are beginning to sting, and I’m sticking an inch-long key up against a glacial sheet of ice, pretending that it’ll somehow pierce its way into the heart of the mailbox and help me fish out the stack of rejections that must surely be behind that wall.

So I did what any self-respecting male of the species would do. I made a fist and hit the mailbox.

A small piece of the ice shattered, but did not fall away.

So I hit it again.

It gave me satisfaction, I’ll admit, but it became obvious that it would be nearly as quick to let the ice melt as it would be for me to pound the stuff away with my fist.

By now my ears hurt and I’m having flashbacks to when my dad read me Jack London’s “To Build a Fire”, a short story – probably a Novella – about a man in the Yukon who freezes to death. (Let’s not spend, much time thinking about why an adult would read a story to an eight-year-old about a man freezing to death in the Yukon, okay?).

Despite the cold, though, I felt another tickle up my spine. The mailbox stood there mocking me – you know – “Wassa matter, Ron?” it whispered. “You gonna let a little ice keep you from seeing what’s behind the box that Carol Wayne is standing beside?” (Let’s also not spend any time wondering why the mailbox is talking like a truly psychedelic combination of Richard Prior and Monty Hall, okay? We’ll just blame it on the ice crystals that were forming in my brain and leave it at that.)

At this point, it’s gotten personal. I would sooner be carried into the hospital stiff as a board than return to the house empty handed.

So I trudged stiff-legged back to the garage, grabbed the hammer and a heavy screwdriver, lashed the dogs to the sled, and set off on my own version of the Iditarod. A minute later, I stood before the mailbox, chipping at ice like an arctic Michelangelo.

Cars crunched by, their drivers grinning at me and shaking their heads like I was insane. I ignored them, though. After all, if they couldn’t see the damned gremlins sitting on the hood of their cars, who was I to flag them down, eh?

Ice flew through the air like ocean froth against the bow of Ahab’s ship. Tears in my eyes froze against my corneas, blurring my vision. If I had a beard, frost would have formed in it from my exhalations. But I was not to be swayed. I was winning, you see. The mailbox was yielding.

Finally, I could slide the key into the slot. A moment later, the rest of the ice was gone.

I was victorious. All of Rome was mine.

The fact that I could no longer feel my ears did nothing to dampen my soaring spirit.

So I turned the key, and opened the box.

Inside was a single letter, envelope neatly sealed and addressed to me.

. . .

If anyone wants a special rate Visa Card, let me know.

Copyright (c) 1999-2008 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
No parts of this essay may be reprinted
without the expressed written consent of the author.

Author Bio:

Ron Collins lives in Columbus, Indiana with his wife and their daughter. He is an engineer by daylight and a writer of Science Fiction and Fantasy at night. He has published several short stories, including work in Dragon Magazine, the original anthology Return of the Dinosaurs, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s FANTASY Magazine (for which he was awarded a Cauldron Award for being a readers’ favorite author), and Adventures of Sword and Sorcery. Ron Collins’ writing has also appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, Dragon, and several other magazines and anthologies. His writing has received a Writers of the Future prize, and a CompuServe HOMer Award. You can find out much more about him at his award-winning web site, –> TYPOSPHERE <–.

Ron and the Mailbox is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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In the fall, I spend Saturday afternoons sitting on an aluminum seat, watching my beloved Louisville Cardinals play something that passes for football. The general process of watching these games goes something like this:

• Arrive at the parking lot two or three hours before kickoff.
• Drink a beer (or whatever) while scarfing down a bratwurst.
• Wander around and talk to old college buddies and pretend like we’re still the kids we were fifteen years ago.
• Soak up the sunshine and have a great time (unless it’s raining, then you bitch and complain and have a great time).
• Throw a small football around and generally act like you should be on the field sometime in the next hour.
• Enter the gate and watch the Cards find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
• Complain about the coaching and generally act like we know what he’s doing wrong.

COMPLAIN about the coaching and generally ACT like we know what he’s doing wrong.

On my way home from the last game, I was suddenly struck by how much this last bit reminded me of several conversations I’ve had with various people who call themselves writers.

You know who I’m talking about.

It’s that person who’s always hanging around the on-line chat area that adamantly voices the “rules” of the trade, but never has anything on the market. It’s that individual who knows what Gardner Dozois is buying this month, but hasn’t sold a story in the past three years. It’s . . . well . . . I could go on forever.

Take this for what it’s worth, and realize that I’m perhaps a bit cranky after being sleep-deprived for the past week or more, but these “writers” are starting to really bother me.

Seriously.

Mike Resnick once told me that you’re not a writer until you’ve sold a story to a professional market. Unfortunately, he made the “mistake” of telling that to a scad of new writers at the same time. For this sin, he paid the price of being unmercifully flamed by a bunch of people who started getting the dictionary out to support their argument. (Ever notice how people who grab a dictionary to argue a point generally don’t get it?) Never mind that Mike is among the most decorated and well-off science fiction writers in the field, he had intruded upon egos and was to be put in his place. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

At the time, I didn’t consider myself a writer, despite having written seriously for over two years. I sided with Mike. You can call it sucking up if you want, I really don’t mind because I know what it was. (It wasn’t.) And now that Mike knows me a bit better, he understands what it was, too. So think what you will.

Now that I’ve sold a dozen stories professionally, I can only say the feeling is even stronger.

Writing well enough to sell in the professional market is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It takes talent. And it takes luck. And it takes guts. And it takes wanting it more than you want other things.

Ever notice how on-line lurkers never have enough time to write, but always have enough time to chat?

I’m talking priorities here. I’m talking taking control of your life and setting goals. People who are writers are among the most goal-oriented people I know. Note, one does not have to be organized to be goal-oriented! And when push comes to shove, they have developed a vital talent–that ultimately selfish act of giving their writing priority over almost everything in their life.

If you’re not writing because you don’t have enough time, then you’re not a writer. If you’re not writing because you haven’t quite fleshed out the last bits of that great idea you have, then you’re not a writer. If you’re not writing because . . . then you’re not a writer.

And likewise, selling.

It’s a whole package.

If you’re not writing (for whatever reason), you’re not a writer. If you’re not selling work professionally, you’re not a writer.

Get over it.

Don’t get caught up in the details, folks. I’m talking profession here, not rudimentary activity.

I play basketball every fall, yet I am not a basketball player. Michael Jordan is a basketball player. As is Alex Sanders (U of L center), who is receiving something–an education worth several thousand dollars–in return for his services. For the purposes of discussion of the point, I’m even willing to believe at least some high school players fit the category if they are being actively courted by a college. I’m not here to pick nits.

There’s nothing terribly ignoble about not being a writer. And being told you’re not a writer is not meant to be an insult.

I’ve been working at it since 1991 and I barely qualify.

So, why the rant now, you might ask?

Well, to be honest, I’m ashamed of myself.

Driving home from this week’s Louisville game (we won, by the way) I realized that as I stand around swapping stories with my college friends, talking about the bonehead calls the coaching staff made, or the pass the defensive back should have intercepted, I’m doing the same thing that those writers who don’t are doing when they talk about the profession. I’m pretending I know something that I don’t. Just because I played Little League football doesn’t mean I know anything about coaching the sport. Just because I have an opinion doesn’t mean I’m qualified to voice it. Yes, I’m free, to do so–if you’ve read this far, this little rant is enough to prove that. But I’m not qualified to tell Ron Cooper how to coach.

I can certainly judge the quality of the end product, and just like I can choose whether to buy the next Orson Scott Card series by the quality I perceive of his previous series, I can choose whether to purchase a ticket to the game.

But Ron Cooper is a better football coach than I am. I’m not qualified to tell him what to do. And he’s justified in getting angry at me (and those people like me) who get on his case. Just like I’m justified in being a bit put off by writers who don’t write telling me how I should comport myself in this business.

I’m taking a vow today.

No more questioning the calls. No more complaining when a running back misses a hole, or a linebacker misses a tackle.

At least not until I’ve walked in their shoes.

Copyright © 1997-2008 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
This article may not be republished, in any medium, without the prior written consent of the author.

Author bio:
“Ron Collins lives in Columbus, Indiana with his wife and their daughter. He is an engineer by daylight and a writer of Science Fiction and Fantasy at night. He has published short stories, including work in Dragon Magazine, the original anthology Return of the Dinosaurs, and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s FANTASY Magazine (for which he was awarded a Cauldron Award for being a readers’ favorite author), and in Adventures of Sword and Sorcery. Ron Collins’ work has also appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, Dragon, and several other magazines and anthologies. His writing has received a Writers of the Future prize, and a CompuServe HOMer Award. He holds a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Louisville, and has worked developing avionics systems, electronics, and information technology. You can find out much more about him at his award-winning web site, Typosphere.”

Writers Who Don’t is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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