WordPress is coming out with a feature whereby the public can know from where, geographically,  you are writing your blog. The blogger may chose to let that be known, or not. There are already a number of Comments listed by those who think it is a great feature and wonderful idea.

What I want to know is, why? What difference does it make where I am located? Are you going to come over to my house and have coffee with me? Or, are you one of those people I need to be afraid of? Why is it then that so many sites make a point of telling you, when you register, that the information you supply will be kept stricly private? As it is, even knowing my e-mail has resulted in my being bombarded by a multitude of entrepeneurs who want to sell me something. I’d like to have a nickel for every time I’ve hit the Delete button up to this point in time.

On the other hand … here I go again, sounding like Zero Mostel … there are a lot of sites in which I participate where my primary purpose is to tell them to go to my website, www.alicerene.com to learn about Becoming Alice. That involves giving away a goodly amount of information abou me. It seems that people want to know about who this person is that wrote this book before they consider buying it. Okay! I’m okay with that.

So, I spend my time doing a bit of a balancing act between being public, but only so far, and being private. This means that I must make a decision each time some one, some site, some other, digs for more information than is already posted publically. It is turning out to be a lot of work. One good thing I have learned along the way is that some of the sites, like Twitter and Facebook will actually shut down some of the predators.

The other good thing is that I have made some connections and found information through these sites that I would otherwise not have had. I especially like getting comments on my WordPress blog, so please keep them coming. Meanwhile, I shall continue to do my balancing act everywhere else.

Let me explain: My book, Becoming Alice, is listed and available for sale on www.amazon.com and if you pull it up you will read about it in detail, its synosis, its reviews, its ranking, etc. Scroll down further on the page and you will see a list of “tags” one of them being “relationships.” I clicked on that tag and found that there are tons of people interested in relationships. Books on the subject are listed according to the number of tags they garnered and there is a discussion group formed where you can ask questions and get answers about your concern.

My book is number 12 on the Products List. Among the books ranked above me are “Dating To Relating,” “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man”, and “Do Gentlemen Really Prefer Blondes?” I thought I’d check out the Discussion Forum and found “Once a Cheater, Always a Cheater,” “Walkaway Spouse Syndrome,” and “Women’s Sex Drive.” WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

My book is full of relationships, good and bad, strong and weak, pleasurable and painful, all different ways which are interesting and which I have spent my life trying to understand. There is the one between mom and dad, mom and my brother, dad and my brother, mom and me, dad and me, my brother and me. They’re all different. Becoming Alice tells it like it was, without cleaning up any of the less than positive aspects of life for the refugee family that still reverberated from the threat of Nazi persecution.

I think amazon needs to separate those who don’t belong in the relationshsips category which caters to dating, sex, divorcing, cheating , etc. and put us  into another place. Luckily I fit very nicely into the communities of WWII, Self-esteem, Adversity, Memoir Historical Non-fiction, Teenage, and Jews.

I’m still doing closets, this time it is my own. I have so many clothes on hangers cluttering my pole that I can hardy get another item hung up.  Most of my wardrobe is made up of pieces that I haven’t worn in years but are still good. That is the trouble with being a Depression baby. I was raised to think that even if we didn’t use some material good, we may eventually need it in the future and where would we ever get the money to buy it. Obviously I have not gotten past that packrat mentality.

Today was the day I set about changing all that. So far, I have filled three large plastic leaf bags full of my outdatedand  out of style, but still good wardrobe. While happily collecting all of this Goodwill donation, I was humming a variety of tunes in my head. One of them came from Fiddler on the Roof.  I pictured Zero Mostel  rubbing his beard and saying, “on the other hand ….”

My mind flashed back to the last blog I posted where I clung to my wonderful memories in my upstairs bedroom. But what about so many memories that aren’t so wonderful? What about the memories that were physically or emotionally painful? What are we to do with them? I pulled another tune out of my memory bank. I comes from The Merry Widow and it goes: “Glucklich ist … wer vergist … was doch nicht zum Endern ist …”

Oh, I forgot that you don’t speak German. If you have read my memoir, Becoming Alice, you’d know why I sometimes still think in German. But I’ll translate: “Happy is he … who can forget what he … after all … cannot change.” I grew up listening to that operetta and that gem of a  philosphy which has stayed with me all my life.

I try very hard to forget about those things, happenings, people, losses, etc.  in the past that have hurt me deeply. I try to get past the pain and get on with the positive things all around me: things that make me happy, the things that are beautiful, people I love.

So when you’re cleaning out your closet and you find a thing that reminds you of a hurt, let go of it, forget it, throw it out.

My house is falling apart. I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s almost thirty-five years old.  I got the first clue about a year ago when the shower pan in our upstairs bathroom gave out. In the process of hvaing it fixed, we learned that termites had been having a field day up chewing up the bathroom cabinet. We had to put in a whole new bathroom.

Things were going along pretty well after that until a few days ago when one of the decorative beams surrounding our house simply split in two and almost dropped onto our heads. It was rotten to the core. We’ll have to get around to taking care of that next week. But in the meantime, the whole rest of the house has gotten my attention.

I started by doing a house search. It began in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I dared to open a closet door and was faced with a carload of stuff … all kinds of … stuff. The largest item was a fold up bed that was used for overnight guests our kids had growing up. I did a flash back to the many nights we spent hearing laughter and squeals until all hours. I smiled, remembering running up the stairs, trying to get the kids to turn the lights out and call it a night. I usually failed miserably.

Next to the fold-up bed were stacks of toys, games, inflatable pool toys and childrens books. They were bought for my granddaughter, born a generation later, a guest and  infrequesnt visitor in my house. Memories raced through my mind. I pulled out a coloring book filled to capacity by Emma, who must have been four or five years old at the time. She is eleven now and spends time on a little computer or listening to Brittany Spears.  Back in the closet, a plastic cookstop caught my eye.  As I pulled it out the oven door opened and  bright red and yellow plates tumbled out onto the floor. Picking up one of the cups, I could almost hear Emma say, ”Want some coffee, Gami?”

“Sure, honey,” I’d answered, pretending to take a sip. I didn’t move for a time, bouncing memories back and forth, memories from a time when that bedroom upstairs was home to my kids and hotel to my grandchildren. I didn’t want to let go of them. When I came back to my senses I picked up a big plastic bag and shoved all those toys into it, got onto my feet, walked the bag downstairs and into the trunk of my car. It was time for some other five year old child to pick those toys up from the Goodwill Store and create memories of their own for their family, just as Emma and my kids had done for me. But those memories from my upstairs bedroom are still with me and always will be, regardless of where the little plastic stove is.

I have been told that in order to keep up with the twenty-first century I must be active on today’s social networking sites. That fact was reinforced by almost every TV program I watch, particularly the news program CNN. I cannot tell you how many times I heard that if I wanted to know more about any subject the anchorman talked about, I must go to their URL on Twitter and/or Facebook and/or My Space. Often the programs end with: “Follow me on Twitter, or Facebook, etc. etc.”

Since I am not quite ready for the rocking chair just yet, I joined three of these sites, namely Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn which I was told was a bit more “prfessional.” It’s been an interesting experience. On Twitter I read tweets about people putting their kids to bed, baking a birthday cake for a husband, and needing to buy a suit for an interview. I tried to be a bit more discriminating by following people with whom I had a little more in common. That’s when I read a bunch of tweets from people who were trying to sell me their services, such as editing, publishing, ghost writing, etc. I decided to spend more time on Facebook.

After registering on that site, I was excited to find a few friends who posted bits about their social calendar, including pictures. Nice. I like pictures. But then, BINGO! My grandchildren are on Facebook.  I learned who they are dating, even saw pictures of their girl friends. There were pictures of them at parties. I started worrying about how much time they were spending away from their studies, not to mention how much they were drinking. I now go to Facebook in order to keep up with my friends and family, while being careful not to disclose too much about myself.

Yesterday, while I was catching up on all my e-mails, I came across an article written by Pew Internet and American Life Project that really struck home with me, especially the line that called most of the tweets on Twitter “pointless babble.” They talked about the statistics that had been gathered in regards to all these sites, which I found most interesting. I’ll share: “One in five Americans use Twitter or a similar service.” “Only 8% of businesses thought Twitter was useful for marketing.” “The median age of a Twitter user is 31 years, My Space is 26 years, Facebook is 33 years, and the clear winner is LinkedIn at 39 years.”

Since you already know that I have young adult grandchildren, you must also know that I am a bit lost on all these sites. The exception is LinkedIn which in fact is more “professional” and where I have learned quite a bit and made some excellent connections. That also goes for some other sites that are more closely aligned with my purpose, namely marketing Becoming Alice, and writing the my next work. Those sites are Goodreads, Shelfari, Librarything, SheWrites, and, of course, WordPress. As a matter of fact if these sites and writing blogs didn’t keep me so busy, perhaps I could find the time to start my next work.

Hallowe’en is coming up in a couple of days and it got me thinking, besides wondering which kind of candy I should buy for my trick-or-treaters, about scaring kids and fear. What is so funny about being scared out of your mind, making your hair stand on end and your skin feel like it was crawling with ants? What I don’t understand is that the kids are not frightened by witches with blood-curdling laughs, owls in the night, or black cats that run across their paths. They know they won’t be hurt and they can laugh at the merriment with impunity. They are having fun!

It was not like that for me when I was growing up. A couple of days ago, I was invited to speak to a local book club about my memoir, Becoming Alice. Almost everyone had read my book and came to the meeting armed with questions. One of them asked, “Why was it that you had so many problems even though you were already safe in America?”

The answer is simple. The depth of fear and the duration of time that passed in which my family had to endure constant panic was so long, that none of us, including me, could bounce back to normal as if we’d just gotten over the flu. The seeds of fear that had taken root so deeply at such an early time in my life that it effected my entire childhood and adolescence. I reminded them of the parts in my book in which I described my difficulties in learning how to swim, to watch a Frankenstein movie, or go to Sunday School by myself.  I was terrified to go to elementary school and barely overcame that hurdle.

My father warned me about telling anyone anything about ourselves, lest that information would be used against us. So, I rarely spoke and made no friends. I thought I didn’t look like any of the other kids (I didn’t in those awful European-style clothes) and was sure my classmates were laughing at me behind my back. I remained isolated, fearing that some unknown danger would  happen to me.

I was in an unacceptable quagmire and knew that I had to do something. In late adolescent I decided to run away from it all by  leave Portland, Oregon and coming to California. I didn’t realize that I would be taking all my fears with me.

At another speaking engagement at a local library, a young girl perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, asked me, “How did you change from being the anxious, insecure teenager that you were, to being the woman you are today? I ask because I have those same problems.” My answer to her was that I made some decisions for myself; they are described late in my book. Those decisions would be different for every person, depending on their circumstances, and their inner strengths. But those steps need to be taken in order to conquer your personal fear. Luckily the kind of fear that comes with Hallowe’en is a lot different; it is the fun kind of fear.

I returned from a ten day trip a few days ago and had a chance to read a couple of books on the long five to six hour flights back and forth between Los Angeles and New York.  They were “People of the Book” by Geraldine Brooks which I found interesting mainly because it is based on a true story. I like true stories. The other is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy which I picked at the airport mainly because it had a tag stating “Now  Major Motion Picture.” I know why it is/was being made into a movie; however I found myself skim-reading a great portion of the book. It did do something for me though: it provided the subject matter for this blog.

“The Road” is about a father and very young child who have survived a major catastrophe on earth that has destroyed life as we know it. In their travels they meet other survivors and the boy keeps asking his father, “Are they good guys or are they bad guys?”

Having come from my husband’s medical school class reunion, I had met a group of people that would most certainly have fit into the good guys category. They were people whose orientation was to give and not to take. They were people who contributed to the welfare of their fellow men. They were people who contributed to their communities. And the most gratifying lesson I learned was that the medical school was still teaching that approach to life  to the future doctors, nurses, and ancillary professionals.

I’m back at my computer now catching up on all my e-mails and connections with others as I market my memoir, Becoming Alice. I have become computer friends with fellow authors who are in cyberspace doing the exact same thing I am doing. And rather than competing with me in what you would think would be a dog-eat-dog situation, they have been completely supportive and helpful.  Almost daily, I receive congratulations for anything positive that may happen, like placing in a literary contest. I receive answers to any questions I may have how things work out here on the internet. Most amazing of all is that they make suggestions for actions I should take to help my marketing efforts along.

The father in that book, “The Road,” would say, “ Writers and authors are “good guys.”

Check it out: http:www.flickr.com/photos/alicerene

Announcement re Becoming Alice,A Memoir by Alice Rene:
Award-winning Finalist in the Young Adult Non-Fiction category of the National Best Books 2009 Awards, sponsored by USA Book News. http://www.usabooknews.com/2009bestbooksawards.html

I was at a buffet lunch at my husband’s medical school class reunion recently, attended by about forty of his classmates and their spouses. I was so impressed by how they all had cared about the well-being of their patients and had not chosen their profession on the basis of its financial rewards. Now mostly past retirement age, many were still teaching and mentoring a new generation of doctors or consulting in research programs.

My admiration for this group included the wives of these doctors, one of whom has her water color paintings displayed at a local gallery; another is an accomplished photographer who judges competitions; others chose to better their communities with fund raising and volunteerism.

Eventually someone asked me what I do. I skipped over my lesser interests, large though they may be to me, and answered, “I am a writer.” Of course, the next question led me to tell them about Becoming Alice, my memoir. The news spread through the group as if it was gossip flying through a party telephone line and before long I was doing a presentation about my book like I do to local groups in my community.

Why am I telling you all this? It is because I have not yet been able to digest a comment made in one of my social networking groups by a gentleman who claims that no one has the right to call themselves a writer, or an author, unless that person has been published by a “traditional” publishing house, most likely located in New York. He did receive a multitude of comments in response, mine among them.

At the luncheon I was asked what my book was about and why did I decide to write my memoir, Becoming Alice, how long have I been writing, how long did it take, where can they buy my book, and what will I write about next.

I told them I’d been writing for quite a number of years now, that I’d initially taken writing courses and joined writer workshops, that I’d attended writer conferences and lectures, and that I read everything on the art and craft of writing that I could get my hands on. It is what I did for so many waking hours of my life. I considered myself a writer, which has nothing to do with whether or not my stuff was any good. That was for my readers to decide.

I told them that I was encouraged by the response my work received in my writing workshops. The pages of Becoming Alice took the shape of a book. It was published a little over two years ago, available in several local bookstores and online at amazon.com, barnesand noble.com, iuniverse.com, etc. where next to the cover of my book my name appeared as the author.

I told them that since then, I have been marketing my book by speaking at book clubs, libraries, temples, community centers, book festivals, etc. and that I also have a presence online. They can google my name, check out my website www.alicerene.com, and read my blod http://alicerene.wordpress.com.  I think they consider me a writer, and an author.