Month: December 2025

Festival of lights fights back

There’s a scene early in the film Gallipoli when two young Australians learn that the British empire has gone to war with the German empire. They are loyal British subjects who, like too many young men, hunt for glory. They make up their minds to join the army and join the fight. They confide their decision to a man who’s been mining in the Outback for so many years, he barely knows that the outside world exists. The miner can’t comprehend what they’re talking about. He finally says, “I knew a German once. Seemed like a nice bloke.”

I don’t lament the way the news ricochets around the world and knits us together. I lament the way hate leaps the oceans and breaks us apart.

After the shooting at Bondi Beach in Australia, after the people trying to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah were murdered, what could we do in our little corner of the world except light our own candles. But first we went to a public menorah lighting at the mall, sponsored by our local chapter of Chabad. It was odd to hear the ancient Hebrew blessings sung between the food court and the bottles of supplements in the window of the GNC.

But it was good to be part of a crowd. The rabbi reminded us that we light candles in the darkest days of the year not just to commemorate a victory from deep in the past but also for the simplest of reasons: To dispel the darkness. Traffic at the mall can’t stop us. The weather can’t stop us. Misguided men with guns can’t stop us.

When I launched this writing blog, I intended to keep world events out of it, but events happen and then the world demands our attention.

Blessing the Hanukkah dogs. We haven’t had a dog yet who didn’t know to report to the menorah as soon as it was fired up to receive my blessing and an Alpo Snap.

Back to the writing next week. Events permitting.

If my life was a novel, I’d take it back to the library

I’ve been reading Honoré de Balzac. What that man couldn’t do with the character of the miser! Also the suffering, self-sacrificing mother; the young man scheming to catch the attention of a rich married woman; the rich married women who can juggle a husband and a string of lovers while dancing with the king and wearing 10 layers of clothing; the hopeless pensioners and small-time grifters; and, amid all this 19th-century claptrap, the most cynical character I’ve ever met in literature. What a feast.

Balzac (he added the “de” because it was awesome) was probably the first writer to write about life as it was actually lived, which explains his knowledge of and fascination with money: francs, sous, livres, and gold gold gold. Balzac died in 1850, but whatever year he was writing in, in his head it was 1825. This makes him a tough sell for modern readers, given our lack of knowledge of post-Bonaparte France and our low tolerance for an author who loved to intrude with his thoughts on life, love, and morality. When I read his books I want to yell, “Good God, man, get on with your story,” but when I read them they own me.

Lately I’ve been wondering how I could replicate Balzac’s success. The obvious answer is “talent.” Other answers are discipline (Balzac wrote from 1am to 8am) and nutrition (he supposedly drank 50 cups of coffee a day). Zut alors, am I stuck? Like the typical Balzac hero, could I succeed instead by inheriting or marrying wealth?

A quick check with my wife gave me the answer to that question (no), along with the request that I do something about the bathroom fan. But, in my own way, I have been pursuing a shortcut to success. Over the years, I’ve applied for grants (“Here are your gold francs, Monsieur Bieler”), fellowships (you get the gold francs, but you also get an assignment, for example, throwing a ring into a volcano), and residencies.

The closest I’ve come to winning was the year that a judge wrote to me to say how much he enjoyed my writing. His voice was the minority voice on the panel. Also, a grant I missed went instead to a young Sherman Alexie, so I can’t get too upset about that one. I was recently informed that a writing residency I had applied for—and they really regret this, seeing as how I’m such a nice guy—was going instead to someone a little bit nicer. They hope I will think of them next year.

At that point I put down my 42nd cup of coffee and thought, What am I doing? These arts organizations and their donors are generous people. They genuinely want to do the most they can for the most deserving artists they can find.

Why would they want to help someone as old as me?

Balzac would see this clearly. (He would also, of course, burst into the narrative to deliver a lecture on the passage of time and the depths of denial as well as my endless self-regard.) If you had cash to dole out or a room you’re funding at a beach house or a ranch house or a townhouse, whom would you rather help? A writer who could have a 20- or 30-year career if she just caught a break, or an aging white male who has escaped into a comfortable retirement complete with a wife, two dogs, most of his hair, and a bathroom fan that makes too much noise?

No more applications for me.

Merci, Honoré.

You can’t have egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam

There wasn’t much money in writing when I stumbled off the starting block and there’s not much money today. Unless you’re running an email scam. When beginning writers discover that success in the creative arts is elusive and might take years, some start searching for a short cut. That’s what scammers are waiting for. They arrive in your inbox like promises for weight-loss drugs and erection extenders. This problem has become so pervasive that there’s now a site dedicated to sharing data on scammers and fighting them.

Scammers are clever, but they’re also morons. A U.S. lawyer in Tokyo recently published a book about the history of the gold standard. This lawyer’s name is my first name and my middle name. So naturally the scammers latched onto me. Like leeches. They’ve leeched onto me.

The emails I receive about the gold standard book I didn’t write are well-written, because the scammers scooped the text from the book’s jacket copy or from reviews in Kirkus or Publisher’s Weekly.

“In my work with a trusted network of over 10,000 active book clubs, I see a consistent appetite for meticulously researched works that combine academic rigor with compelling narrative,” Evelyn Carter, Book Club Placement Specialist, writes. “Readers in history, economics, and political science-focused clubs, particularly adults aged 30-65 who enjoy thoughtful, discussion-driven texts, will find your book both illuminating and provocative. The way you illustrate how nationalist concerns and imperial ambitions shaped the adoption of the gold standard provides numerous entry points for conversation.”

Ms. Carter doesn’t mention her employer. Her address is from gmail, where there are already 413 other Evelyn Carters. Spam spam spam spam egg sausage and spam.

“If this sounds like an opportunity you would like to explore, simply reply with the word Interested, and I will share the details of how we can connect your book with engaged book club readers. There is no obligation, just a chance to ensure that your work is read, appreciated, and discussed by audiences who will treasure it.”

No mention of money. Guess she doesn’t want any. Her name changes with each email. It’s always Anglo-Saxon. It’s never Carlos Danger.

I’ve decided not to ask Ms. Carter to pretend to promote a book I didn’t write, won’t read, and want to forget.

Another man, whose name is the informal version of mine, Steve Bieler, self-published a science fiction novel a few years ago. Scammers came after me on that one, too. A college friend read the book, which was a big deal for him because he has dyslexia and reading costs him something. You can imagine his aggravation when he found out he had wasted his time.

What are the lessons here? You already know them. Never engage with scammers. If it’s too good to be true, it’s not true. And keep your hopes up! Even if you never make a dime at writing, if you want to write, write.