Scot’s Blog

It’s getting really scary out there. With as much as Americans find to disagree with each other on these days, I think we can all agree on that. Scary.

Gas prices still rising. Stocks torpedoing. Bailouts on the news and capitulation in the wind. Nobody trusts us. Iran hates us (wait in line). China owns us. We are witnessing the death of investment banking as we know it and we really don’t want to know any more. Depending on who you talk to, we’re in a recession or a depression and it’s not good and it’s not going to get better anytime soon.

Clients are cutting back, retrenching, reducing inventory…trying to keep the big bad wolf from huffing, and puffing and…you get the idea. Kinda feels like the end of the world, don’t it?

Well, it ain’t. A financial client of mine says that while there is this understandable tendency to think that what we are experiencing now is particularly, horribly unique…worse than it has ever been before – the truth is, it’s probably not. It’s not essentially different from what has gone before. And the bottom line here is that “We’ll be Back.”

Still, the universal hue and cry is registering as “What do I do now?” Well, I don’t have all the answers, but I do know that the short term solution is not to nuke your advertising or marketing or promotional budget (or even to reduce it, necessarily).

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Hey. How’s that new cell phone law working for you? Not so well for me.
Wasn’t it supposed to eliminate delays and accidents and road rage caused by can’t-walk-and-chew-gum-behind-the-wheel dysfunctionals and cell phone abusers? Got news for you…it’s not working.

I know. It’s early. Hasn’t even been a year, yet. But the reality is I’m still getting stuck behind start-stop-weave-start-stop drivers on a regular basis. I’m talking both hands off the wheel, wildly gesticulating, talking non-stop into their head set (eyes on the head set frequently) as if the person they are talking to is right there with them — and as if there is no one else on the road beside, behind or in front of them.

And, for the record, I still see plenty of drivers holding cell phones to their ear in flagrant violation of the newly established regulations. The only difference is now they’re paying less attention to the road because they are constantly searching in all directions, wild eyed and alert for the police officer that should be busting them. That is criminal.

Glad we got it taken care of.

And moving in a completely unrelated yet equally disturbing direction…
Somebody want to tell me when we lost control of Halloween? Used to be one night of the year, you put on a sheet with holes in it…or made a black cape out of crepe paper and a pointy hat from some cardboard you found in the garage…or put on your dads old torn up work clothes and rubbed some coffee grounds on your face… or turned a TV carton into a silver-painted robot body and you were good to go for one good night of serious candy predation.

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I’m back. It’s me…me but not me. Maybe the real me at last. Most definitely a lighter version – lost 60 lbs. Certainly leaner – dropped four waist sizes. Meaner? Probably. See, I liked eating…still do. Liked eating all that bad stuff – from Chicken Fried Steak to Meatball Subs to Cheeseburgers (In-n-Out a particular favorite) to Chocolate Shakes to Key Lime Pie and Peach Melba. I liked mayonnaise, salad dressing, bread, pasta, red meat, cheese and grease in all it’s many wonderful incarnations. I mean I really liked them.

But so far, there are things I like more. I like being on the plus side of all those lab test printouts you start accumulating after the age of 50. The ones that list all the three letter acronyms for doom: LDL, BMI, BP/HR, LF, BFR, et. al.. You know the drill…or you soon will. I like wearing clothes that I thought I would never wear again. I like not huffing and puffing up the stairs and not limping because my sheer girth is weighing on my horribly arthritic knee (college trampoline accident). Admittedly, I like the attention, and looking in the mirror, and looking good in a bathing suit. Speedos, no less. I like pulling 60 less pounds through the water when I work out. Old swimmers never die – they just lose buoyancy.

And in the newly buoyant spirit brought on by dramatic weight loss I can optimistically say there’s another way to look at this. I’m not giving up the things I liked to eat as much as I’m discovering new things I like to eat.

OK. That was a little slick… erase, erase, erase.

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I got back in the water today.

I’ve been a swimmer all my life. A real one – you know, back and forth in a cement pool with timers and judges and a bunch of guys trying to beat you to the finish. That kind of swimmer…since I was 10. I strayed for awhile, but I’m back.

I’m certainly not 10 anymore, but I got back in the water this morning — speedo and all — and swam a warmup, short set and cool down…almost like the old days. As Hemingway would say…”It was good.”

I’ll always be a swimmer.

Because it was always more than just conditioning for me…more than just competition, too. I used to love to stay after evening workouts when everybody else had hit the showers. I was in the pool alone, the mist coming in and covering up the far end. There was a mystery and a solitude and a meditative rightness to it all. It was the same in the early mornings before school — peace, calm, clarity.

Of course there is something about swimming…the immersion in and movement through a liquid, flowing medium– even when working out. It draws the mind inward on itself, compels introspection and brings a focus (I believe) not achievable in any other experience. It has always (paradoxically) stimulated and calmed me at the same time. For me, swimming is and always has been essentially spiritual — a zen kind of thing.

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I used to make exhaustive lists of stories I could write…and then not write them.

List upon list upon list – scribbled illegibly on grease-slicked napkins, scraps of paper torn from magazines, journals, my hand. What’s worse, I used to talk endlessly about them at the least provocation.

“Oh yeah, I’m working on lots of things…developing ideas for novels that will, of course, be turned into screenplays…lots of “works in progress.” Let me tell you about this idea I had…it’s about a group of people (the lost children of Atlantis) that live under the Sargasso Sea…and they’re the reason for the Bermuda Triangle – yeah. I know. Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.

I defended my list courageously…

“After all, that’s really the hardest part…the idea is the art. Anyone can write it.

I stalled expertly…

“I’ll get back to these later. Gosh, how am I going to pick just one? Which of these great marketable, bankable, cast-able, serialize-able ideas should I start with? I’ll have to think about that. I’m going to make a list of all the things to think about to prepare me for making the best choice from my list. Yeah.”

I fantasized endlessly…

“All I really need is a partner…one who can, you know, write down all my ideas. Maybe I could just do ideas…someone in Hollywood is looking for good ideas to write about, yeah. I’m going to write down some more.”

I essentially signed on for anything to keep me from doing the one thing that gets a story, or novel, or screenplay written – WRITING IT.

Stop talking about your great story ideas to anyone but yourself (and maybe a little to your mother).

Stop making lists. They only become intimidating after a very short while.

Stop making excuses. Nobody cares.

Start writing. Here. Today. NOW.

Let me know how that works for you.

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I always thought of myself as a “genius-behind-the-scenes” kind of guy. Twenty years as a corporate writer did a lot to reinforce this introspective view of what I did. It kept me in my safe, secure, predictable little corporate office, churning out package content and trade ads and press releases and brochures and whatever else the vice-presidents of marketing and sales and operations and human resources and product development could come up with at any given meeting to throw at me. In my less appreciative moments, I refer to roughly the last few years of this existence as my “corporate coma.”

It was fine. I was in my comfort zone. I was good at it. Very good. I was an integral part of every sales campaign, every new product launch, and every new marketing push. I was the guy called upon to fire the first product-to-the-world volley on every project. I shaped perception, “spun” image, persuaded the doubtful, sparked sales…but I did it from the back row (sometimes the back room, sometimes the back forty).

My face, my voice, my appearance, my social savvy were never part of the equation. I was a beloved (read “consistent,” “reliable,” “productive”) corporate bubble boy with a magic pen.

Until I decided to go out on my own.

Now I’m outside the box. I own, operate, and manage my own business. I’m an entrepreneur. I know…everyone’s dream. Be your own boss. Make your own way. Blaze a trail to greatness. Well, all that is at least partially or potentially true, but the bottom line is always there…

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“We won’t never be as young as we is tonight.”
— Rant Casey

Hello again out there. I’m reading Rant by Chuck Palahniuk, and I gotta say…this guy is really something else. Going to stick with my original impulse/insight on this (the seed of which was planted after reading Palahniuk’s Lullabye) and throw out the opinion that Chuck (I feel as if I want to know him.) is the heir apparent to the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. May he rest in peace.

Spare me the outrage, fellow Vonnegut-ophiles. This is not to say that there ever could or should be a fit successor to the man who gave us Slaughterhouse Five – or “Schlacthaus Funf “as I was forced to refer to it in Frau Rubicek’s German 3 class way back when in high school.

But I do get that same sense of giggling outrage creeping along my spine when I read about Rant Casey’s less than savory take on garbage cleanup, his unique Easter experiences, an account of his mother’s cooking, and his send up of The Tooth Fairy (to name but a few). And you’ll never feel the same way about rabies (or time travel), again. Mr. P challenges our world view like Mr. V. did. He pulls truth out of the outrageous, sparks the question “What the F*%k?”at least once every chapter, he makes us laugh and he makes us contemplate the at-least-occasional absurdity of our own lives.

I love this guy. Give him a chance…and if you did give him a chance but ended up throwing down the book in disgust and/or bewilderment, give him another chance.

He grows on you.

Hi Ho.

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My friends and I were on our way home after school. Today the bombing was far away and we decided to walk over to a nearby store to buy some cigarettes (their habit, not mine). We walked into the store to find the owner under the counter.
“
”What are you idiots doing? Don’t you know there are snipers out there!” Get down!

Then I ran. The next time it happened (and it did happen again), I ran again…like everybody else.

This story was told to me last night by Vic, a forty year old man who had grown up in Beirut. His wife, Christina, was from Lebanon as well. They told stories like this all night… recounting horror after horror, each one worse than the next – bombings, rocket fire, exploding buildings, bodies in the street, people literally blown to pieces before their eyes and everywhere the chaotic, routine sounds of gunfire, sirens, human misery.

All this over bow-tie pasta, Ahi Tuna and Chinese Chicken Salad at the local Claim Jumper.

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This post is likely to provide zero helpful information for those of you in search of all things writing or written, but I need to write it. For various and sundry reasons, last year (2007) was one of the most significant in my entire life..and I can’t let it go by without “gushing” a little. Please allow me this brief moment of self-indulgence.

2008. I’ve successfully outlived most of the time settings in the science fiction I read as a kid — 1984, 2001, etc. No resolutions. Well, one — to grow and achieve and succeed at least as much as I have this past year. That’s going to be a tall order. It was a breakthrough (dare I say,monumental) year for Mrs. Simmons’ boy, Scot. I am doing things and accomplishing things that I had resigned myself to never doing or accomplishing in a million years.

I have a successful business (The Simmons Group), a blog (Scots Blog), and a newsletter (Connections).

I am working on the second draft of a potentially “award-winning” novella/screenplay and will self-publish a book of poetry this year.

I have built an impressive listing of clients, supporters and resource people in the last year…and I wanted to thank as many as I can.

Thank you, Hutt. I’m writing the acceptance speech this week.

Thank you, Kristyn and Rad — my “group.” You are so important to me, so instrumental to my success and you’ve helped even more than you know. You’re the best.

Thank you Roger for being there. In hoc.

Thank you Alan and Moglett for your artistic support — early and ongoing.

Thank you FDP — my first clients and still the best.

Thank you Maria and Jeff for being my students…and clients.

Thank you Rob, Deborah, Aviel, Dan, Janene, Margaret, Fred, Maria, Ed, Bob, Susan, Whit, Bill, Lidia, Mark, Steve for your support and friendship.

Thank you, Tim for your story.

Thank you Big John M. for founding and fostering The GRRRRRRRRRRRoup.

Thank you William Stuart. You are the perfect client.

Thank you Vinh (of the Wisconsin Buis) for growing with me.

Thank you Cindy for your love and support.

Thank you Caitlin for your pep talks and your confidence.

Thank you Marineland…for moving away.

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So I had this idea for a newsletter – a (welcome) departure from all those “canned” ready-mades you see every day.

And not like those corporate things that talk about the new company products that everybody in the company already knows about. Not the kind that talks about family vacations at Atlantis and who’s on maternity leave and who’s joining “the team” and what the theme for the Holiday Party is. I wrote those. Been there, done that. Not that there’s anything wrong with company newsletters. I wrote some arguably great ones. Really. True story.

I just wanted to do something different.

It occurred to me that the fact that the internet gives us access to virtually anything, doesn’t mean we can always find what we’re looking for. Actually, in many respects, the internet gives us too many choices – a reality that often contributes to an outcome of nada, zip, zilch. Even when we have more choices, millions of choices, a whole world of choices…we still must deal with the issue of trust.

Who can you really trust to 1) know what he or she is actually talking about 2) provide you with the kind of answers – simple, complex or somewhere in between — you seek 3) know what he or she is actually talking about 4) deal with you honestly and legitimately and 5) know what he or she is actually talking about.

I think you get the point.
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Raise your hand if you know who Steve McQueen was.

I’m very much aware of the fact that there may be a generational thing at work here that could blunt the impact of this retrospective ride, but I won’t make a big deal about it if you won’t.

For you untutored (and hey, it’s no sin to be young) Steve McQueen was an actor/action hero/movie idol/cinematic icon — circa 1960-1980 – who imprinted himself in the adolescent psyches of boys and girls and men and women before Arnold or Harrison or Bruce or Jet or Harry arrived on the scene. He was a star…all the boys wanted to be him and all the girls wanted to be with him. He was cool. He was tough. He was magnetic. He road a horse, a motorcycle and a Mustang GT the way every guy dreamed of riding them.

Emerging into prominence with the screenings of The Magnificent Seven, Bullitt, The Thomas Crown Affair, The Sand Pebbles and, of course, The Great Escape, Steve was THE MAN of my generation, regardless of the fact that the generations that have come after know him primarily as “that guy on the motorcycle in that big prison break movie.”

But that’s all in the nature of an introduction to what I really want to talk about and that is ghosts…and writers being haunted by them…and feelings that come from that occasional (?) yet troubling certainty that there are forces at work in this world that fall completely outside the realm of our understanding.

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People need writers. Really. All kinds of people…smart people, not-so-smart people, “arty” people, artistically challenged people, Type A people and Type BCDEF people, emotional basket cases and e-conscious business professionals need writers.

A good writer can make sense out of nonsense – organizing, nuancing, building upon, and bettering even the most imaginative person’s raw outpouring of metaphoric magic. No matter how good the unpolished data or 1st draft or fresh look is, a good writer can, more often than not, make it better…more concise, more evocative, more structured, more empowering, or just plain more.

A good writer can do all this more quickly, more efficiently, more cost-effectively, too, because writing is what a writer does and has been doing and will continue to do. Just like any doctor, lawyer, plumber, etc.

And like that plumber you call after you’ve tried to fix the pipe and ended up taking out a chunk of plaster and a ceiling fixture in your bathroom, a writer can do the job faster, better, and with much less wasted effort and frustration simply because he or she has the right tools. Or should I say “The Write Tools.”

I know. Too clever by half. You pays your money, you takes your chances.

A good writer is a necessary resource for any business professional or corporate entity that must communicate clearly, carefully, and persuasively to an audience or potential client or targeted demographic group or employee. That is to say, all business professionals and corporate entities.

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Hey! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD. As for the rest of you out there, how was your Halloween? Sorry to say, I’m now of that ilk (yes, it’s a word) whose Halloween Rooteen amounts to turning off the lights and watching an old Hammer film. Simple pleasures.

Well, on the subject of writing and writers…Halloween or not, we all steal from each other. You know what I mean. But there are those grey areas that can’t really be classified as theft – even if you want to be brutal (and God knows, we all have our brutal moments). I’m talking about those items that fall into the “good-to-know-(and share)-even-if-you- didn’t-write-it” category.

Case in point (Did that sound like Rod Serling?): this little gem from Daily Writing Tips. It’s a great post demonstrating what happens when proofreaders go bad…or not at all. It’s all in the interest of underscoring the folly of depending on your SpellCheck.

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“I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.”

Anyone?

T.S. Eliot “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

Easier one (?)…

”So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Last line of The Great Gatsby.

Last one…pretty tough (although I may be paraphrasing. After all, this is only a blog, right?) Okay, here goes…

“You’ve met my daughter?”

“Yeah…she tried to sit in my lap while I was standing up.”

Bogart. “The Big Sleep”

Okay. Real easy –

“Call me Ishmael.”

Yeah. Opening line from Moby Dick.

So stay with me on this one. I’m not trying