Rereading The Grapes of Wrath after many years, it hits differently now that I’m older. The novel hits so hard, it could have been published yesterday, eerily relevant to our world in the present.
John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath was originally published in 1939. That is startling given its empathetic allegory about forced immigration and the dangers of unbridled capitalism. This was written long before laypeople had the vocabulary of “late-stage capitalism.” Certain passages are worth reviewing many times.
I was especially taken with how people are transformed into cogs in a machine. When the bank takes their homes, there’s no one to resist. Responsibility falls like a hammer on the most powerless. Evicted from the land they’d worked for generations, the farmers are ground under the weight of an uncaring bureaucracy.
In another passage, car salesmen take advantage of desperate people. The sole focus is money. In pursuit of profit, the salesmen’s contempt for their hapless customers is ferocious. People are dehumanized. The system only serves itself and a select, faceless few. The victims are oppressed, but they don’t understand that which uses and abuses them.
The Grapes of Wrath reflects problems that are easy to see today. You’ve watched the news. The mercilessness of the American health insurance system is evident. A health insurance company denies 32% of claims and becomes startlingly wealthy. It’s an unusual funeral they give their victims, isn’t it? The afflicted are buried in paperwork first, then they die. Kill someone with a gun, and the press goes mad. Kill ill people with paper, and all we get are shrugs of “Well, it’s legal.”
Most frustrating, I still hear media people and pseudo-intellectuals pretend to be mystified when the public shrugs off the assassination of one CEO. They aren’t discussing why people are so fed up they don’t have the spare energy to care. The media isn’t delving into the why of that stance. They aren’t showcasing any of the many cases where people in need are denied tests and treatments they need to survive. Instead, the public’s lack of empathy has become the story. We have twenty-four-hour news channels, but they make no time for the bigger story.
A bunch of pearl-clutching journalists and commentators need to read The Grapes of Wrath. Maybe they’ll glimpse themselves reflected within those pages.Maybe then they’ll better understand our wrath.
I’m happy to be working on a thriller about vigilante justice. The apocalyptic genre has much cooled. This Plague of Days provides many solid tips for doomsday preppers, but fewer readers are inclined to read end-of-the-world stories when they fear they’re about to actually experience them. Citizen Second Class seems closer to where we’re now headed.
President-elect Trump is threatening 25% tariffs on America’s principal trading partners, Canada, China, and Mexico. Every economist is certain that it will increase prices, slow the global economy, and hurt poor people most. Today, I’m hearing several commentators saying he doesn’t mean it. It’s supposedly an opening negotiation tactic, but how can they know? They’re giving him too much credit. Such tactics suggest there’s a strategy and foresight, but Trump’s history is chaotic. He tends to get his opinion from whoever last spoke to him. Destruction of the economy and punishment of the poor is definitely on the table.
While immunologists worry about H1N1 jumping species to humans, RFK wants to freeze immunization research and remove mandates for common vaccines (which is absolutely not how herd immunity works). He thinks the solution to depression is simply to send the afflicted to farms where they have no access to processed food. While Biden wants to get weight-loss drugs covered by insurance, Kennedy wants to ban them. Amid a long-standing epidemic of dangerous obesity and diabetes, RFK says the answer is simply to eat healthy foods. Gee, why didn’t we think of that? For a former heroin addict, he sure doesn’t understand addiction.
Recently, Bill Maher hosted a Stanford-educated doctor who claims med school taught her nothing valuable and that eliminating processed foods is the answer to all metabolic problems. So, “Doctor,” aside from the problematic classism in that stance, you’re telling me that RFK has all the answers, and Trump supporters everywhere will breathe a sigh of relief when you take away all their hamberders?
There was one powerful person who advocated healthy eating, and they condemned her as a communist and a fascist. Remember? Her name was Michelle Obama.
Everything is unprecedented until it’s not.
This post is not a prediction. This is a warning.
Another commentator suggests that all the stuff about tariffs will prove a distraction from Trump’s real goals. Namely, to persecute minorities, transgender people, and the undocumented. Rather than deport undocumented immigrants, the real money may be in the for-profit prison industry as these people, and the unhoused, are put in camps.Trump even plans to eliminate birthright citizenship. A lot of potential for collateral damage there, even among many of those who voted for the Trump presidency.If he goes through with his stated intentions, expect a rise in crime, stress, chaos, and a recession. A lot of people will definitely get hurt. I can’t say how many will be killed due to malice and recklessness.
I write novels. It’s fiction, but I extrapolate from the state of the world.Citizen Second Class, for instance, relied heavily on the premise that the ultra-rich elite would imprison, disenfranchise, and exploit lower classes. In a new society based on classism, racism, and sexism, the over-privileged Illuminati would enter fortified conclaves to keep the starving masses outside their walls. It was supposed to entertain and provoke thought. It wasn’t supposed to be a prediction or prescription.
So, what’s next?
I’ve never heard leftists speak the way some did after Kamala Harris failed to win the White House. I ran across a vocal minority on social media who had become more interested in self-defense, namely arming up. Others sound like the preppers and doomers I’ve written about in This Plague of Days. At the very least, those who could are stocking up on foodstuffs in anticipation of a rise in the cost of living.
I suspect many people will withdraw from political action if they have that privilege. Some people who were politically active will find solace in sports, music, and whatever else soothes them. Maybe more people will read again, much like they did during the height of the pandemic. Others will be spurred to reorganize to meet the moment when the mid-terms and the next presidential election arrive.
It is silly to say, “He didn’t do it last time, so he won’t this time.” Last time, he had a few people holding him back. Last time, the Supreme Court didn’t make him a king who could do no wrong. This time, he’s surrounded by hateful, sycophantic nuts.
Another favorite: “I like him because he says what he means. Now let me bend your ear on why he doesn’t really mean the bad stuff.” Trump’s stated intentions for changes in tax policy, immigration, deportation, foreign policy, and tariffs comprise a perfect storm of humanitarian and economic disaster.
Petulance is not a policy. It’s the basis for recrimination for his grievances, and it won’t help his constituency. He’s not even interested in serving all Americans.I don’t have to extrapolate into the future to say that. We need only look at his history.
If you are happy Donald Trump was elected, no worries for you. No one listens to my warnings, anyway. What’s making some of his supporters nervous are the voices of liberals saying, “Okay, you won. Now we’ll see if you’ll enjoy what you voted for. You assumed he’d only come for us. Wait. We’ll see how you feel when the melon felon affects you.”
I take no pleasure in this. I prefer disasters described in fiction. It seems that if you want real positive, progressive change, it’s up to the accelerationists now.
My coffeemaker died this morning. Usually, this would be an earth-shaking event. Looking for reviews of new hot bean juice dispensers, I went down a rabbit hole and found myself in a hilarious corner of Internet Shopping Hell.
While scanning for Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals, I indulged the whim of searching “Best Retirement Gifts for Men.” I’m not retiring. Writers never retire. We just keep typing until we expire. First thing that pops up? Memorial wind chimes.
MEMORIAL WIND CHIMES?! Really, Amazon? Ah, yes, every time the breeze blows, the gentle tinkling reminds me of dead Papa! He haunts the back patio, demanding entrance to the house. And at night, the demons come.
That’s the gift you want the moment you retire, right? Now that you’ve opted out of producing for capitalism, please die quickly. We will remember you fondly, Gary! (The guy in the memorial wind chime photo looks like a Gary. The other guy looks like a Eugene. Both tragic.)
And then there’s this bullshit.
Wear that anywhere, sure! However, you won’t be able to sit down and rest for a single moment. You’ll be too busy running from jeering children. Women will spit. Men will weep. Grandmas will beat you with umbrellas. Even the village idiot will look away, embarrassed for you. Clergy will throw rocks, urging you on, forever fleeing, banished to wretched solitude in dark, cursed forests. Only there will you be able to finally sit on your contraption to a cold repast of earthworns, pine cones, and regret.
Wearing sweatpants in public used to signal that you’d given up. Welcome to the new sweatpants.
This morning I was up early, brewed some coffee, and sat on my front step. Listening to news of the latest mayhem, I started spiraling down into despair. I titled one of my apocalyptic books All Empires Fall because, well, they do.
The death of Elijah McClain broke me. This was George Floyd all over again. Mr. McClain was a slight, 23-year-old massage therapist choked out twice by three police officers and administered a sedative by a paramedic after he was subdued. It was murder, no doubt. If you have any doubt, search up Mr. McClain’s last words. This was a gentle spirit and agents of the State murdered him.* Colorado officials have no plans to take any responsibility. The DA on the case refused to prosecute, in part because the victim “was not injured.” You know…except for the part about him being dead.
*Note: Don’t ‘No angel’ victims of police brutality. Even if he wasn’t a gentle soul, the authorities should still bear responsibility for such callous mistreatment and the unnecessary deathof anyone in their custody.
Then I spiraled down further
The more I listened to stories of violent, selfish, and greedy people who don’t believe in science, people who don’t know what empathy is… Let’s just say my empathy drained away, too. I know a minority is ruining everything, but that is a powerful minority and they’re in charge. A racist is president and a lot of people voted for him. A lot of people will still vote for him! The insane are running the asylum.
Hearing all this grim news I thought, it’s not just that America has become a failed state. It is that we are a failed species. Things are so far off the rails, I don’t know when that train will run again. The poor are not protected. They’re vilified and criminalized. The helpless remain helpless. God damn it, people can be mean.
I flirted with a grim conclusion: There’s a lot of evil and stupid out there. Maybe, as a species, we don’t deserve success. We could have created a utopia, but we fucked it up. Maybe New Zealand or Iceland has a shot at getting things right but sometimes it feels like we’re too far gone. Maybe Vonnegut was right. The species is suicidal.
Then I turned to Facebook
I came across a post that swung back the pendulum. It was a series of pictures with brief captions telling of random acts of kindness:
A guy on a subway playing on his phone shared a game with a kid.
A woman in a wheelchair couldn’t get down to the shore to place a rose in the water where her husband’s ashes had been scattered. Someone took care of it for her.
Dropping off a passenger at an amusement park, a cabbie mentioned he had never had the experience. His passenger invited the cabbie to join him for the day and paid for his entry.
A teacher visited his ill student every day in hospital to make sure he kept up with his homework.
Story after story, I saw short, simple tales about everyday people being kind to each other. And I wept again. Big, ugly cry, too. It was a great relief to be pulled from the brink, back from the cold chasm of despair to the thin ledge of hope.
I don’t believe God’s coming to save us. We’re going to save ourselves or depend on a rescue mission from benevolent aliens. Or maybe, you, reading this, have a part to play in being kind and acting to find solutions. What if it’s you?
Whoever can turn things around, I want to send up the same signal flare.
Know this:
We are worth saving.
We are. I know it doesn’t feel that way sometimes, but we are worth saving.
I suffer insomnia. And I do mean suffer. This is a list of some my thoughts from last night’s fugue. It could be a flow chart that loops back on itself.
Bedtime! Got to bed early! Great!
Not sleepy.
Not sleepy. Sigh.
Patience. The trick to falling asleep is to neither try nor not try. Do or do not, there is no try. Thanks, Yoda, you little green fuck.
Calm. Patience. You’re an expert in relaxation, Rob. You can do this.
In “Jenny from the Block,” why does she sing, “I used to have a little, now I have a lot”? If she’d sung, “I used to have a little, now I got a lot,” that would be better. “Got a lot.” Rolls off the tongue and pleases the brain. I mean, why? Her artistic choice, sure, but why?
I need help. Hypnosis app. I go through a sequence. The free hypnotic sequence was better than the one I paid for. Grr.
Not sleepy. The walls are alive. When I see my sleep specialist in a week, will he review all the health dangers of poor sleep? Will he go over all the sleep hygiene shit I’m already doing? I ruminate about how my brain is, at that moment, shrinking.
Deep breathing…progressive muscle relaxation.
Random thought intrudes: How many cast members of MASH are still alive? I remember the street I was on and the angle of the sunlight on the morning a kid in my class mentioned the name of the show on our way to school. I asked, “Is it a TV show about potatoes?”
Let it go…let it go. And now I’ve got a Disney song in my head. It’s a good song, but not now, Queen Elsa.
Elsa. Else. Elsewhere. Elsewhen. I want to be elsewhere and elsewhen.
An editorial question is revisited. The editorial question bounces back and forth in my brain in a hypothetical argument that will never happen. Resolution = zero.
Second hypnosis app. Nothing.
They say Adderall can be a recreational drug, but isn’t it more a work drug? I mean, if I got Adderall, would I finally clean up my office? That would make my wife love me more. The smart drug from Limitless doesn’t exist but, hey! Where can I get some Adderall for which I do not technically qualify except, look at me right now! Gee-Zuzz!
Is there a podcast called Limitless? Good pod name. I should look that up. Maybe they have some good ideas. I wish I had a podcast called Limitless. However, I am feeling extraordinarily limited and sorry for myself.
Self-pity is not attractive. Add that to my list of things I dislike about Rob.
How much time has elapsed? Is it 3 or 4 a.m.? It’s 1:46. What? Really? Only 1:46 a.m.? Shit!
I should put socks on. Body temperature/sleep theory says that might help. Sigh. I lie there, thinking about it.
Eons pass. Mountains erode. Seas evaporate. The sun explodes. The heat death of the universe ensues. The universe contracts back to the size of a softball again and another Big Bang shatters the void. I see all of Time as a heartbeat and every single Big Bang is the pulse of all existence. An endless, meaningless existence in which Time is a flat circle on infinite repeat.
Was Nietzsche fun at parties? I bet he wasn’t.
But then there’s the whole multiverse thing. Don’t even think about that, Rob. You know how you get.
Will they really make the Spider-Man movie where Toby Maguire and Andrew Garfield come back to play Spider-Men from alternate universes teaming up with Tom Holland? That would be sweet.
Eons did not pass. It’s only 2:06 a.m. Deep breathing…nope, nope, nope. Did I eat something today that makes me this way? Why am I like this? I’m pissed. Is this mania? Not clinically, but it feels like I’m on the same continuum.
I should put socks on, but then I’d have to turn on the light and that can trigger a wake cycle and I’m trying to get into the sleep cycle aaaand…now I have to pee.
I don’t wanna get up, but it’s not like lying here is working, anyway.
Get up, pee, get socks, back to bed. Wait.
Is the pillow a thousand degrees? It feels like it’s a thousand degrees. Turn pillow to the cool side. Still hot. How am I going to get any work done tomorrow?
Toss. Turn. Patience wanes. Fuck Adderall. I need to be knocked out. Where can I get those darts they use to tranquilize rhinos? Where’s the nearest zoo that has rhinos and how good is their security?
Give up. Facebook. Twitter. Email.
No one’s emailing me in the dead of night because they’re all asleep. How I hate and envy them.
Fall into an Instagram rabbit hole of Karens harassing people just minding their own business. View of humanity plummets.
Back to Twitter. News. View of humanity plummets further. I have the Iron Man fantasy again where I get the armor and fuck up some people who desperately deserve it.
If I were in a different state of mind, I could actually get up and use this time to write dozens of books. It doesn’t work like that, though. In this state, I’m simultaneously overstimulated but my head feels foggy, as if I’ve been bingeing a five-day marathon of golf tournaments. I fucking hate golf.
Golf. Remember that time that guy cornered me at a wedding reception and asked if I was interested in golf and I said, “Fuck, no,” and he told me his golf story, anyway? Review how to kill with the stem of a broken wine glass.
Sleep is needed. I should try again (and yet, somehow, not try.)
I’ve helped hundreds of people battling insomnia but I can’t help myself. I don’t make enough money. I don’t do a lot of things I should. I could do a lot of those things if I could just get a good night’s sleep!
Self-recrimination isn’t helping. You knew it wouldn’t, Rob, you moron! Let’s review every mean thing anyone has ever said to you or about you. (I have an eidetic memory for that.)
I want potato chips. And chocolate ice cream. Maybe find a way to combine the two that isn’t gross. But that would require intravenous injection.
If I get COVID-19, I have to get a block of plywood by the hospital bed so I can knock on it to ward off the disease. That’s unquestionably the stupidest of my superstitions, and yet…
One and a half nanoseconds later: What if, instead of piling food on a fork or spoon, we put each food category in a line on a long plate, as if we’re doing cocaine, but with snow peas?
Editorial question revisited on a loop. Pointless. Nobody listens to Rob. If I were thinner and taller and not named after a felony, people would listen.
“Got a lot!” I mean, the rhyme is right there, J.Lo! Jesus! This aggression will not stand!
Watch an interview with a new Black Panther in which the reporter seems well-versed in the organization’s history, but totally focuses on whether to carry weapons to a protest instead of even nodding to their noble work in community activism to feed and care for people who were otherwise forgotten.
3:30 a.m. The bed is lava. Despite the fan, I am magma.
Give up, get out of bed, and move to my backup bed in the basement where it’s cooler.
Toss. Turn. I am a turbine. Hook me up and I will power the planet.
I should be sleepy by now and yet I have the nervous system of a squirrel.
I make a mental note that I should write these thoughts down in a blog post so I don’t have to think them again. That’s how I’ll let it go.
Shit. Disney’s back.
Nah, don’t bother writing it down. I’ll probably forget half of it by tomorrow. (I did forget half, and yet, here we are.)
5-something, I think. Finally sleepy. At some point tomorrow, I will easily fall into a sweet and delicious nap that will not be denied. I’m not supposed to sleep during the day, but it’s nap or die.
Sleep is finally creeping in at dawn, a turtle in a race that all the happy rabbits finished long ago when the night was young.
Eyelids like heavy weights. Good…good…let the hate flow through you.
And here she comes, on a loop as my brain cranks up again. “Got a lot! Got a lot!” GODDAMN IT, J.LO!
The coffee shop (AKA the coffice) is no longer an option, of course. Freedom awaits, but relief shall not come until at least two full weeks after that longed-for goal: Vaccination Day!
I’m writing fiction and working on audiobooks in the blanket bunker. If you can manage it, I highly recommend a similar retreat. Failing that, pull blankets over your head and breathe through a hose. Crawl under the bed to cry. Hide under a friendly dog and whisper your deepest sins into his big floppy ears.
Then? Wait.
Then wait some more.
Patience.
Don’t binge on bad news all the time. Stay sane. Perform a kindness. Poke your head out a window and curse the distant, uncaring stars. Have a cookie. Have another cookie. Exercise by pounding a pillow and cursing. Works for me.
Today’s message is:
You will feel fear. You will feel grief. As the pandemic rages on, anger may grip you. I hope we live to feel gratitude for being spared.
I’ve been using Scrivener to write and format my books for years. I remember, before the dawn of time, having to format my first book manually. The challenge of constructing a working Table of Contents was a real chore when I used chisel and stone. Then Scrivener came along and life got easier. With the release of Scrivener 3.0, things have become harder again, at least for me.
Let’s be clear: I love Scrivener as a word processor
Microsoft Word was developed for composing business documents, not killer thrillers. With Scrivener, writing is so much easier. I can bop all around a manuscript and find what I need to make edits in a flash. As a formatting device, Scrivener has a learning curve that can be pretty steep at first. When I first dove in, I remember spending many hours trying to get a print book design just right. As I published more books I cut my formatting time down. The summer I published a weekly serial to Amazon, I got so good at it that I couldn’t remember what my initial mental blocks had been. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Life was glorious.
I’m a tad less than enthusiastic now.
How things went off the rails
Last week, I finished revisions to The Night Man. The manuscript was finally ready for the editor. I hit compile to get a Word doc to send to Google Docs. Simple, right? The evening was young. Hit share and hit the gym. That was the plan. Then the tooth grinding began.
It seemed that no matter what I did when I hit compile, I got wonky formatting. I tried many variables. Either the resulting document was all underlined, or all in italic or I lost all italics. I could create a pdf file but I couldn’t use that for my editor. Frustration mounted. I’d used Scrivener for years. How different could the new version be? Quite, as it turned out.
I broke down and went back to the manual. My search words were of no help. I watched YouTube instructional videos and hunted through forums. Since it’s a new update, much of what is out there on YouTube is out of date. In the forums, I found threads where some power users scolded those of us with less technical expertise.*
Finally, I found a note that hit on the problem.
There’s apparently a bug between Scrivener and .docx files. This doesn’t appear to be an especially new bug but it persists. Switching to .rtf fixed the problem. I did not get to the gym. It was about midnight when I finished. All this to compile one Word document?
Looking around, I’m not the only one who has struggled with the compile feature. I get it, though. Scrivener can do so many great things that it has to be complex to carry its heavy load. When one piece of software can create ebooks, print books, film scripts and proof copies etc, it’s bound to be complex. It’s also valuable. I still like Scrivener as writing software.
People tell me that, mostly, Scrivener is still great. However, for formatting and book design, I’m not up to climbing that learning curve again. I use Vellum for book design now. It’s awesome and easy. Some of Vellum’s interfaces are reminiscent of earlier versions of Scrivener.
Vellum is not inexpensive. An unlimited license will set you back $250. If you’ve got plenty of books to create for yourself or others, the investment makes sense.
Here’s what I’d humbly suggest:
1. For software developers: I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just a novelist. You’re way smarter than me in the ways of the tech force. Please recognize that and make the user experience more intuitive. More intuitive to mere mortals, I mean, not your fellow tech geniuses and power users.
2. For software developers: Please bring in a focus group of idiots like me before you revamp your software so much. Digging through the instructions, I felt like I had to hire Sherpas to climb that learning curve.
3. For software developers: Fix the bug if it’s on your end. My understanding is that this .docx bug is not actually Scrivener’s problem. The fault, if it must be assigned, lies elsewhere. However, it is a problem for Scrivener users.
4. For software developers: Try to make sure users are alerted if there is a bug even if it’s not on your end. I figured out the problem but it took a lot of digging while my blood pressure went up and my spirits went down.
5. If you’re a writer: Buy Scrivener. I’m still a fan. It is wonderful and wondrous as a word processor. If you only have one or two books in you, take the time to learn how to use all the miracles it has to offer. I took the time to learn the earlier versions and I’m very grateful Scrivener came along to rescue us from building TOCs manually. Copy special to create a Table of Contents with a click? That was a huge time saver.
6. If you write a lot of books and the expense is in your budget, write in Scrivener but format your ebooks and paperbacks using Vellum. It’s as user-friendly as can be.
*The title for this article (Scrivener: Just a Word Processor Now?) was inspired by an unknown user in a forum. She was trying to figure out Scrivener. That question was her lament. The replies she got were insistent that no, she was just being silly and obtuse. Well, no, she didn’t understand the new version of the software. Neither do I so I sympathize.
(The standard license for Scrivener is $45 though deals do seem to come along frequently. For all it can do, that price is very reasonable.)
~ Hi! I’m Robert Chazz Chute. Thanks for reading this far down! You’re a keener, aren’t you? I like that! Maybe you’re willing to go a little farther and meet me in Zihuatanejo, Red?
About me: I escaped the 9 – 5 for the 24/7/365. I construct apocalyptic epics and suspenseful crime fiction. My next killer thriller, The Night Man, will be released soon. Please subscribe to be alerted when Easy’s adventure in darkness becomes available. Thanks!
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