K.O. Morgan Freelance Writer

I get the same email every year at this time, just as Christmas is gearing up for its spending season. A Christian – usually a friend or family member – laments about what has become of Christmas and points out all the infractions now levied against this holiest of holidays.

For example, it makes many Christians mad that school children are no longer allowed to sing Christmas carols in public school, or that the school vacation in December is now called Winter Break instead of Christmas Break. Never mind that every parent – regardless of religion – pays an equal share in taxes that support public school, or that many religions, besides Christianity, celebrate a holiday in December.  

Justification for celebrating Christmas in public schools is often made by pointing out that the founding fathers were Christians and that America was founded on Christian principles; therefore, Christianity should be the law of the land. Many of the founding fathers were Christian, but they were also very clear about separation of church and state. If any Christian wants to send their kids to school where Christmas – and not the holidays in general – is celebrated, they have the choice of private Christian schools. Non Christian children in public school however, also deserve the choice of not being indoctrinated with all things Christmas.

Another thing that gets many Christians riled up is that many cities now call their Christmas trees “holiday trees.” While I agree that this is ridiculous since no Jew or Muslim looks at a decorated evergreen as anything but a Christmas tree, a more appropriate compromise of taxpayer dollars would be to share the Christmas tree with a Menorah and other religious symbols. But it seems that even that gesture infuriates many Christians. Anything that takes away from Christmas – or involves sharing Christmas with other religious holidays – is a sign that Christmas has been diluted and that Christians are being persecuted.

Apparently, many Christians have been seething about these politically correct changes for years, despite the fact that everywhere you go, there is Christmas: stores are decorated in Christmas-oriented decor, Santa is a popular figure at the malls and often has his own display, Christmas songs and carols are played nonstop on the radio, and holiday shows abound on TV. Imagine being Jewish, for example, and having to drag your kid down the street where Christmas and Santa Claus are in your face on every corner and in every shop window along the way. I’ve had Jewish friends tell me that it is a difficult task, but also an opportunity to teach their children about the beauty and mystery of Hanukkah. 

Perhaps the biggest slight for many Christians it seems is the simple wish of “Happy Holidays!” I can’t tell you how many emails I’ve received from fellow Christians promoting the idea that we need to step up, drop the “Happy Holidays,” and say, “Merry Christmas!” to all – regardless of whether or not we offend someone who may not be Christian. One email I received stated that we need to stop worrying about whether or not we are hurting anyone’s feelings, including non Christian children. In other words, it’s time we took our holiday back. This kind of logic goes against the grain of what Christianity is supposed to be about: sensitivity towards others.

Besides, there’s a simple solution here: if you know someone is Christian, then, by all means wish them a very Merry Christmas. But if you aren’t sure what their religion is or what they celebrate, then what is wrong with wishing someone a happy holiday?

This, of course, is an affront to all those Christians who say today Christianity is under attack. I say, if Christians really want to know what it feels like to be truly discriminated against, ask someone who survived a concentration camp,  been judged on the sound of their name or their sexual orientation, or who has been racially profiled.

As for those Christians who cry foul and claim that Christmas is being watered down, well, common sense should tell them that the sheer dollars involved in gift giving guarantee that Christmas isn’t going to go away anytime soon.

And if they truly believe in what the holiday is about, then Christmas isn’t going away ever.

 

Hattie died last night. We were hoping it would happen at home — you know, naturally, in her sleep, without any help on our part. But true to her fighting spirit that had sustained her throughout her life, she fought the cancer and insisted on living. In the end, the pain was too great, and we had to do the right but awful thing and have her euthanized.

What is it about this cat that makes the tears never ending? Right from the get-go, she stole our hearts and we knew that one day she would break them.

We had gone to the shelter to adopt a kitten. Our daughter, Sydney, had never had one, coming into the world to a home that already had two adult cats. When they passed, we adopted Lil Bit, who was almost ten months. This time, we wanted a small bundle that could fit in the palm of your hand.

Instead, we met Hattie, a three-legged Calico Tortoiseshell. No one knows how she lost her leg. She had spent months at a shelter where the workers couldn’t bear putting her down when no one adopted her. They sent her instead to the Norfolk SPCA, a no-kill shelter, where she could live out her final days.

I had gone on the Norfolk web site to see which kittens were available, but a photo of Hattie had caught my eye. She looked mean in the picture, but there was a heart posted next to her name. When we walked into the shelter later that day, just for the heck of it, I asked, “Is Hattie still available?” Every head in the place whipped around. Someone was actually interested in Hattie!

A kennel worker brought us to the cattery, where paws stuck out of cages and meows filled the air, all hoping for a chance at a forever home. The worker opened her cage and put Hattie on the floor, explaining that she needed her exercise. She was missing her front right leg and was partially blind, probably the result of whatever accident she had encountered. Still, she limped across to my husband who was sitting cross legged on the floor, and when he picked her up, she began purring. “Oh, we have to adopt her!” Sydney said, and thus, the deal was sealed.

True to the path that ran throughout her life, even Hattie’s adoption wasn’t easy. She had an infection that had to be cleared up first, plus a heart murmur, and the vet had to determine if she was well enough to be adopted. We waited anxiously as tests and blood work were run and the days passed with no word. Finally, a week later, on November 16th, we got the call that we could bring her home.

I think our other cat, Lil Bit, was hoping for a playmate. But when she figured out that Hattie didn’t play, couldn’t run, and wasn’t interested, she would lie in wait and ambush Hattie by batting her on the side of the head. Hattie never took this battle lying down. She’d sit back on her hind legs and nail Lil Bit on the ear with her claws from her one front paw.

Our first year with Hattie was fairly uneventful. Life took on a routine that one later longs for. She had more of a squawk than a meow, and insisted on being served whenever she was hungry. She never took “no” for an answer, instead she would stand on her hind legs and claw at our legs if we didn’t respond immediately to her demands.

She also loved to sleep on the couch. She’d stand on her hind legs and with a one, two, three heave, pull herself up. If the sun was shining, she’d warm herself by pulling herself up on the back of the couch. She quickly learned her way around, sometimes climbing slowly up the stairs and finding a dark place to sleep under Sydney’s bed. The first time I noticed her attempting to go downstairs, I held my breath, sure that she would tumble down. But she knew her abilities better than us, and no stairs or furniture was going to limit her love of exploration and curiosity.

Only two incidents marred our first two years with her. Shortly after we had brought her home, she became constipated and stopped eating and drinking. We took her to our veterinarian who told us that once a cat stops drinking water, it’s difficult to get her started again, so there’s a risk of dehydration. The doctor ran several tests and did a fluid drip, all to the tune of $220. It was no guarantee, but thankfully, the treatment did the trick.

Then in the second year, she started eliminating outside the litter box. We thought she was doing it deliberately and and considered taking her back to the shelter. We knew that once cats stop using a litter box, it can become a habit that’s hard to break. “What’s this?” I’d say, holding her nose close to the poop we’d find on the couch or outside the box. “It’s poop, you idiot!” she probably thought.

I scanned several sites online, and discovered that cats sometimes stop using their litter boxes when they have a urinary tract infection that makes elimination painful. So we brought her to the vet who confirmed our suspicions and put her on antibiotics. We felt so guilty, especially since we had been using the original version of Feline Pine, a natural litter made up of pine pieces that were probably painful to balance on with only three legs. Hattie had probably come to associate the litter box with pain, so she held her pee and then got an infection. After the infection cleared up, we were happy to discover that Feline Pine had developed a new soft scoopable version. The antibiotics and the switch of litter led Hattie back to the box.

Our ignorance didn’t dampen Hattie’s love and gratefulness. I’d sing her “The Hattie song” I made up, to the tune of “K-k-k-Katie,” and she’d purr and sleep on my chest. The words were: “H-h-h-Hattie, Huggable Hattie, You’re my little cattie dream-come-true! H-h-h-Hattie, Hattie Cattie, Huggable Hattie, we’re in love with you!” When Frank sang the song to her, she’d purr and lick his ear lobe.

During 2007, she again required fluid therapy, and in 2008, she developed another urinary tract infection. On June 30th of that year, she spent most of the day, curled up tightly and sleeping. She barely ate, which was not like her. Frank thought she looked like she was dying. “Kiss her,” he told me and Sydney before bed. “She won’t be here in the morning.”

But she was. Instead of burying her, we took her to the vet for yet another fluid drip. It was determined that she had a stroke, and now was totally blind and partially deaf. During this visit, the vet encouraged us to get her long overdue rabies vaccine, and also gave her a vitamin shot. The vitamin boost seemed to give her energy. As time went on, there were several more trips to the vet for antibiotics and vitamin shots.

In February 2009, I took a nap with Hattie and noticed a brown stain on my shirt after I got up. For the next week, whenever Hattie was sleeping on my chest, my shirt would have a small brown stain. One day, I turned her over on her back and saw that one of her nipples was leaking what looked like brown blood. We thought it was perhaps an infected duct. It seemed to stop leaking shortly after that, although every once in a while, a brown stain still appeared whenever we held her close.

In May, I went to pick her up and felt a tiny lump on her chest. We took her to the vet who confirmed our fears: Hattie had cancer. The doctor told us that we could take Hattie to a cancer specialist, but she doubted Hats could survive the surgery, never mind the chemotherapy. In the back of my mind was a little voice that wondered if the rabies vaccine had given her cancer.

And so we waited for Hattie to die. We waited but the days turned into months, and Hattie continued on as she always had, squawking when she wanted to be fed. The lump grew bigger but a part of us hoped that once again, Hattie Cattie would beat the odds.

At the beginning of September, Hattie seemed ready to die. She slept all day, curled tightly up in a ball, and appeared to be in a coma. We felt selfishly relieved — she would die on her own, without us having to take her into to be euthanized.

The next morning, we heard the squawk. She had come out of her coma-like trance and was hungry. She even insisted on using the litter box, but it was hit or miss in the days that followed until another stroke left her unable to move her back legs. We then alternated moving her between her bed and the couch, placing puppy training pads and a towel under her, and changing them when they got wet or soiled.

On September 23rd, she cried softly all day. We knew she was in pain and that we had to do the most difficult thing a pet lover has to do. She cried all the next day too — not loudly, but a soft murmuring cry, whenever she was awake. Still, that didn’t stop her from chowing down on some chicken from our plates at dinner — it was her most favorite food in all the world.

On Friday, September 25, we wrapped Hats up in a towel and made the drive to Todds Lane Veterinary Hospital, singing the Hattie song all the way there. She purred.

The staff was wonderful at Todd’s Lane. We didn’t have to wait; they knew why we were there and shuffled us quickly into a private room. They let us have as much time as we wanted alone with Hats to say our last goodbyes. We told her how much we loved her and that she was the best cat ever, and had taught us about true courage and unrelenting persistence.

Dr. Ward returned to the room, explaining that Hattie since was so skinny now from the cancer — only 3 pounds — it was impossible to find a vein in her arm. That left one alternative: give her a shot to go to sleep and then put a needle in her heart. The latter was something, the doctor warned us, that we did not want to witness. The first drug was administered, and we held Hattie as she went to sleep. Then she was whisked away for that fatal needle to the heart.

When a vet tech returned Hattie to us, she was wrapped tightly in a blue blanket bound with packing tape. The staff then let us leave out the side door, so we could avoid the waiting room.

Once we got home, my husband unwrapped her and laid her carefully in the small wooden coffin he had made the day before. Shocked at the sight of Hattie not moving, Sydney cried out, “Mommie, Hattie’s dead!”

Her eyes were slightly open, so I carefully closed them with my finger. “Close your eyes, Hattie. Go to sleep,” I said. Then we buried her under the dogwood tree, in the back corner of the yard. Someday, we’ll have a gravestone engraved with the words “Hattie the Brave.”

For now, we feel the emptiness of a cat who touched our lives like no other. She taught us about love, courage and determination more than most human beings we’ve known. We feel the silence of no squawk to greet us in the morning, and no adoration from someone who was so grateful that we took a chance on a three-legged cat.

We still have Lil Bit, a black beauty who is special in her own right, a neat freak who was a real champ on the long ride and in the hotel when we moved here in 2003. She never seemed to care much for Hattie but she’’s been real quiet since the day we brought Hattie home and let her sniff Hattie’s lifeless body.

And so, we wander through the house, expecting to see Hats in her different favorite places. Sometimes we think we hear her squawk, but it’s only our imagination. Othertimes, I find myself humming the Hattie song.

We know that there will be other cats, future cats we’ve yet to meet. But no matter who comes after, no matter how unique, I don’t think we’ll ever quite get over losing Hattie.

She had every right to be angry at the many curveballs life had thrown her way. But she wasn’t. She wanted love and love is what she gave, and she never gave up on people.

Goodbye, Hattie the Brave. I believe we’ll miss you forever.

I didn’t know Ted Kennedy, not personally anyway. But I felt like I did. He was the voice for millions like me — middle class, blue collar background, sometimes uninsured.

Much has been written about Ted Kennedy as the symbol of liberalism. He certainly stood for those who have no one to speak for them. He went to bat for the underdog.

When the GOP made the word “liberal” something dirty and shameful, and when many Democrats did everything they could to prove that they weren’t liberal in the least, Teddy stood proud for all that liberal really means: fairness, open-mindedness and accepting. He said, “If by a liberal, they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind … someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights … then I am proud to say I am a liberal.”

When life threw him curve balls and unfathomable grief, he met his feelings straight on but then moved on. He knew that many people deal with similar challenges on a daily basis, without the financial cushion and supportive connections he was blessed with.  He once said he had to live his life anyway, so he might as well live it doing something worthwhile and meaningful.

In the early days of his political career, he was in the shadows of his charismatic brothers, John and Bobby. He was considered a lightweight, not to be taken seriously, but as time has proven, he was underestimated. After both brothers were murdered, he became the one person his family could lean on and count on always. In the political arena, he was the Senator who actually listened to the people.

In the end, perhaps Ted more than any other Kennedy is the one who made the most difference.

“If by a liberal, they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind … someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights … then I am proud to say I am a liberal.” ~ Sen. Edward M. Kennedy

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind!”  ~ Neil Armstrong

A woman I went to college with works at a PR firm that promotes organic foods. She’s a successful cheerleader for the benefits of healthy eating and the importance of keeping chemicals out of our food source.

“Going green,” in fact, has become today’s catch phrase for living healthier and stemming the tide of global warming. Today, organic foods and other green products can be found at all the major supermarkets and household stores, and whole industries have sprung up under the banner of greener living. Even at Wal-mart, one can find organic foods among the mainstream items, although the chain is not always consistent on what it sells. One week, one can find organic fruits and vegetables, cookies, sugar and more; the next week, an organic food choice might be missing. Wal-mart, after all, buys in bulk, so if there’s not a profit to be made there’s no point in selling it. Still, the food giant is probably keenly aware that going green is good for business these days, as consumers demand more environmentally-friendly choices.

Those choices go beyond food: we are encouraged to buy fluorescent bulbs that use less electricity by lasting longer, purchase slow-flow shower nozzles and toilets that use less water, invest in solar energy instead of electric or gas, buy cars that get better gas mileage or are electric, use cloth shopping bags instead of plastic or paper, and do whatever is possible to lessen our need and use of fossil fuels that are contribute to global warming.

I applaud these healthier choices – in fact, our family eats organic whenever possible, we recycle on a regular basis, turn off lights when leaving the room, pick up after our dog, and try to do what we can to lessen our carbon footprint. On the other hand, we depend on our computers for our livelihood, and each member of our family has one. We also drive a car that gets pretty good mileage but is dependent on gas to run.

The truth is, it can be damn expensive to go green — and that’s what my PR friend and environmental groups don’t get. If being environmentally friendly was more affordable and prices more competitive,  most people would be more receptive to living green.

Take organic farming, for instance: Environmentalists and organic advocates point out that only three percent of farm land is organic, which leaves a 97 percent  opportunity on our hands. Many state that if more consumers bought organic and green foods, then prices would come down. But you can’t tell people to eat organic if it’s out of their budget — particularly in this economy. And you can’t wait until there’s more acreage and then say the price will come down: it has to happen the other way around.

You also can’t force large farm conglomerates to farm organically when it costs more and is therefore less profitable. And you can’t tell small organic farmers to charge less for their organic crops when they have to compete with the big guys just to stay alive. 

What you can do is make it more enticing to grow organic foods by offering low interest government loans and huge tax breaks to those who grow organically. This would make organic farming more attractive to large and small farmers alike, and make food prices more competitive. This in turn would make organic foods more enticing to today’s frugal consumer.

Some organic food advocates point out that Americans spend a smaller percentage of their income on food than most countries, thereby justifying the price of organic and locally grown foods. They state that a value shift is needed on the part of the consumer to make buying fresher, more nutritious and organic foods a priority over the purchase of available cheaper foods.

It’s a viable concept, but that’s not the real world most people live in. It also puts the blame on the consumer. True, the costs of conventional foods are externalized; that is, we pay more for them in the long run due to the wastes associated with mainstream farming, which many consumers aren’t aware of when they buy cheaper, non organic products. But most Americans aren’t considering the long term effects of their buying actions — especially not in today’s poor economy when many are making less, or barely hanging on to their jobs. When the choice is between an organic food that costs twice as much as non organic, guess which gets bought? Sometimes, for many, it comes down to getting more food for their bucks, at a time when many folks are struggling just to put food on the table. 

In addition, if green products, such as green lawn mowers and electric or hybrid cars, were cheaper, more people would buy these products. If going solar was more affordable, then perhaps more people would transform their homes. And if “green” light bulbs were the same price as regular ones, more people would stock up on those too.

It’s nice in theory to talk about how much better it is to buy healthier foods and goods, but talk is cheap and green products are not. If those advocating green living want to get everyone on board, they need to make it financially worthwhile for all concerned. Tax breaks and low interest loans for organic farmers and green companies are one way. Low prices to spur consumption is another.

Otherwise, green living will remain out of reach for many. That’s the reality over the ideal.

When I was an Air Force Brat, my father told us that we were all part of the “mission.” And that mission was to keep the world safe. It gave purpose to our constant moving; it gave meaning to our lives.

It was the Cold War and the time of the Berlin Wall, a symbol that we found terrifying and horrific and hard to comprehend. I was only seven when my father first told me about the wall, but I quickly grasped what it meant for those imprisoned by it, and how it made our “jobs” as ambassadors of freedom that much more poignant.

I remember the day he told me. It was 1964 and a rare warm day in England. We sat outside of our house on the grass, and he carefully explained how oppressive some governments could be. The idea of children telling on their parents, or that people could be caged within a city or a country left me feeling claustrophobic and fearful. It also gave urgency to my father’s position as a U.S. soldier, and our part as his supportive family.

This was a time when many English people welcomed Americans, a friendship spawned by a mutual respect and admiration born in World War II. Our three tours in England were before the gas crunch of 1974, so Americans still drove huge cars that took up both sides of the narrow, winding English roads.  Sometimes my dad stopped for a pint on the way home. He left us in car, since only dogs and not children were allowed inside the pubs. He’d bring us out bags of potato chips, called “crisps,” that had little packets of salt inside the bag that you sprinkled on yourself. Often, an English man or two would stop and admire our large American car while we waited for our father. “Ask your dad how much would he take for the automobile!” they’d say.

We lived in a lot of houses during the 20 years my father served, but my mother always managed to turn each place into our home. When we lived in England, we always lived “on the economy” instead of on base. My father said that there was no point in living in a foreign country if we weren’t going to experience what it was like to live among the people.

Whenever we were stateside, there was a feeling of “us and them,” them being civilians. We couldn’t imagine being stuck in one town all of our lives like them, and they didn’t understand our nomadic lifestyle. But for us, some of the sweetest words we’d hear from our father was, “Kids, we’re moving again!”

The only time we felt an emptiness about our lives as military dependents was the year my father went to South Korea. We spent that year in upstate New York around my mother’s relatives. We made friends, but we were biding our time. No one around us was in any way connected to the Air Force, and none could relate to our lifestyle or the empty feeling of waiting for our father to come home.

When my dad retired in 1973, our family grieved for the way of life we were forced to leave behind. Years later, someone made the remark to me that only losers join the military; that it was a job for those who have nothing else going on. It was a statement made in ignorance of an adventurous way of living that only a fellow brat could understand.

These are tough times we live in; that’s obvious. But some of the organizations and agencies that are crying “poor me” have only themselves to blame.

Take for example, colleges and universities who are tightening their belts while raising tuition: there are more kids than ever on their way to college these days, thanks to the baby boom of the boomers, yet the price of a college degree is astronomical. Higher education isn’t wanting for a shortage of students; colleges and universities can have their pick. So how come the out-of-reach-for-many tuition costs? If space is a problem, then a lower price tage might reap more students — which could mean more money in the pot for expansion.

The arts and entertainment world is also complaining about how attendance to their events has gone down. Well, hello? When the cost of a movie ticket is $10 a pop, and popcorn, candy and drinks are ridiculously priced and ridiculously sized, it can cost some families $50 or more just to see a flick! It makes more sense in these tough economic times to rent a movie for a fraction of the cost. And when the price for a concert ticket is in the double and triple digits for aging rockers who once professed love, peace and non-materialism, who wants to go and see a bunch of old fogies prancing around in tights left over from their younger days?

Another area hard hit are animal shelters who have seen an increase in pets turned over due to people losing their homes. They’re crying about having to euthanize many of these poor animals when the simple solution would be to come down on the adoption fees. For example, down in south Florida where I moved from, the current rate to adopt a shelter dog or cat is around $50-$70 dollars. That’s doable, considering you get a rabies and distemper vaccination, check-up and sterilization for that price — services that would cost you three times that amount at the vet. But when we recently adopted our beagle from the SPCA in Newport News, Virginia, it cost us $150! Worse yet, our dog was already spaded and the fee didn’t even include a rabies shot! Seeing as rabies is an epidemic here in Virginia — and nationwide — you’d think the SPCA would want to combat that problem. And while I understand that many shelters are barely breaking even, it also makes sense to me that if the adoption fee was lower, you’d get more people taking these unwanted animals home!

Yes, times are tough for almost everyone. But some cries of poverty are a little hard to swallow. Personally, I think that some organizations and institutions don’t want to give up the goods, even if it means making less money or losing business. That’s what you call thinking in the short-term.

Can anybody be a writer? Is it a talent you are born with or one that’s learned?

These are age-old questions that can apply to just about any artistic field. And the answer to both is … yes and no.

The truth is, some folks are born with writing talent — it’s in their charts, as they say in astrology. I was born with writing talent, but it was nurtured along the way. I’ve also met folks who had never considered being a writer, and then burst forth with a more productive amount of work than those born with the so-called talent.

Writing as an innate talent is writing in its rawest form. But if that writing isn’t shaped, refined and grown along the way, it remains just that: raw but not necessarily good. Writing as a learned occupation, on the other hand, is sometimes a little more difficult to achieve. It takes dedication (as does those with a born talent), a fine ear to the sound of words, and a willingness to devote the time and sometimes the frustration needed to get the word down on the page.

For example, when I got to college I thought I was a pretty damn hot writer. Hadn’t I been told that in elementary school, and then again in junior high and in high school? Didn’t I have a creative writing teacher, Glenn Heyward, who asked me in my senior year if I had ever considered being a writer? And didn’t this question set me down the path of realization that I was a writer in my very soul?

Then along came Penelope Carroll, my first semester English Composition I teacher at Columbia College in Columbia, Missouri. She didn’t think I was so hot and proved it by marking up every piece I wrote with her little red pen. I hated Penelope and that smug look she’d get when she handed me back my composition book with a big fat red F on it. I hated her red penned remarks on every page. I swore that I’d show her who had talent. But, while Glenn Heyward is the teacher who inspired my writing talents, Penelope Carroll whipped them into shape. Today, I credit her with making me get serious about my writing and realizing that I had so very much to learn about writing.

What if didn’t have a natural born talent? Could I still be a good writer? I liken it to playing the guitar: I didn’t have natural talent — at least not on the level of some musicians I know — but I had an ear. What I didn’t have was dedication. I learned the basics but I never progressed. I could have been a pretty decent guitar player, I believe, but I wasn’t willing or able to put in the time. Writing works the same way: talent makes it easier, but the business of writing is not easy. It takes an understanding of how grammatical rules apply, but it also takes the ability to hear words as music and how those words play against each other.

It also takes a deep belief that it is what you are meant to do. I had a guidance counselor in college who advised me to double major in English and Business. I wasn’t interested in a Business degree, although I’m sure it could have helped me with the business side of being a writer. But writing (and art) was all I ever cared about, and I immersed myself in every writing class I could take.

Today, 28 years later, I am still learning. That’s the thing about artistic talent … there’s always something new to learn. And the most important thing I’ve learned along the way — more than honing my talent — is that ideas are more important than skill. While it’s true that most editors won’t look twice at a manuscript, article or other writing that’s filled with grammatical mistakes, they will take a chance on an idea that’s salable, even if the writing is just so-so.

Case in point: J.K. Rowling. Many literature scholars and other academia agree that she’s not the most literary tool in the shed. But she had an idea that lit the fire of people’s imaginations. And that idea has brought her fame and fortune.

One problem that many writers, secretaries and others chained to their desks encounter is something that used to be called “secretary spread”; that is, so much time is spent in a chair as opposed to physical work, that one’s bum begins to widen or “spread.”

Of course, no one should neglect a daily workout or eating a healthy diet, but there are some “exercises” you can do when at your desk that may help to keep those muscles toned. Here they are:

1. Keep a set of barbells under the side of your desk, and every once in a while take them out and do several reps of different flexes. Make sure these weights are only about 2-6 lbs. You could get injured or injure anyone walking by with any barbell that is larger or heavier.

2. Pinch your cheeks — no not the ones on your face. We’re talking squeezing your gluteus maximus, i.e. your butt muscles. Several sets of these can keep the ol’ bum tight. But try not to move too much when doing it or you could have your co-workers worried or wondering what’s going on over at your desk.

3. Take your shoes off (unless of course your feet tend to sweat and could cause co-workers to faint at the smell). Lift your toes ten times, then lift the front parts of your feet as if keeping time to a tune within your head. It’s a great way to tone the calves.

4. Cross your feet at the ankles, press them together and notice how your thigh muscles tighten. Do sets of eight, tightening the muscles, then relaxing. If you’re ambitious, tighten your butt again and ignore the strange looks from fellow employees.

None of these exercises will make you fit, but they can help you to use time spent sitting as a chance to tone. Just ignore the laughs from co-workers or the puzzled look from the boss.