BCB Blog

Change of Address

2009-09-17T20:06:00.009-04:00

HESE are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

-Emily Dickinson

I have moved this blog, all of its posts and pictures and comments, to a new and improved and not at all secret WordPress location. I've enjoyed using Blogger these past three years, but it was time for a change. WordPress has so many more options and allows me to do things I've been wanting to do with my online presence.

I hope you'll come visit me at the new place!

It's here: Katherine James

Time to do blog crafts!

2009-09-07T15:46:00.006-04:00

Okay, I need advice. Now that life has calmed down somewhat, I need to do something about this blog. I'm going to be creating a WordPress blog with multiple pages, one that will look more like a serious writer-person website and will also, I hope, appeal to readers.

But I suspect the reasons I visit certain websites are different from the reasons non-writers enjoy (or dislike) particular sites. And since those of you who read this blog are avid readers as well as some of the smartest people I know, I thought I'd ask you:

What do you like/dislike about author websites? What features do you enjoy and which just irritate the heck out of you?
What keeps you coming back? What makes you visit the site of a writer you've never heard of?
Any suggestions for things you think might help me attract new readers (without being annoying)? For instance, I'm thinking about featuring a quarterly email newsletter (with news, duh, but also maybe short stories or an on-going series, perhaps even pictures?) and urging subscribers to share it with friends -- do you subscribe to author newsletters and, if so, what do you enjoy/dislike about that?
Is it useful if an author provides sidebar links, do you ever click on them and which ones?
Do you find it entertaining when authors have guest bloggers and why/why not?
What am I not considering that I should?

I realize what you probably want most is to know when the book is coming out, and I'm working on that. But I also need to do this and I want to do a good job of it.

Feel free to post links to author sites you particularly love and I'll go look at them (if you don't give me a link, I might not be able to find it).

I recently read this blog post by author Ann Aguirre addressing the topic and she covers quite a few of the basics, with more feedback provided in the comments.

And that's very helpful. But I want to know what you all think. I can promise there won't be music or things that flash. Or pink. Beyond that, I'm open to suggestions.

Enjoy the word verifications while they last . . .

What I Did During My Summer Vacation

2009-08-30T23:47:00.024-04:00

Okay, fine, it wasn't an entire summer, just a long four-day weekend (with a good portion of two of those days spent getting there and back) but I felt lucky to have had even that much time off. We traveled to Minneapolis for my niece's wedding a week ago -- my daughter, her boyfriend and I -- and since pictures were taken (mostly by others), I decided to share a few (with thanks to those others).

BTW, I have discovered a new strategy for defending myself against people who aim cameras at me: scowl ferociously and keep moving at all times. Consequently, none of the pictures worth looking at were of me. Really. Not one.

The kids wanted to see the sights, so Saturday we drove around Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles, where we stopped and walked for a while.

The weather could not have been more perfect -- 78 degrees with low humidity, a light breeze and clear blue skies.

They also wanted to see the U of M campus. No idea how we ended up downtown instead [ahem], but they were delighted by the ingenious practicality of the vast skyway system and my slight detour was ~~mercilessly mocked~~ graciously forgiven.

We eventually made it to campus, where we saw the brand new stadium and then ate lunch at Stub & Herbs, one of my favourite hangouts back when I was in college there, and I discovered that my ability to park in a space smaller than an actual car has not improved with time.

The rehearsal dinner Saturday night was at the Walker Art Center. I didn't take pictures, but here is one I stole from this site http://bit.ly/2nQ9g2

We were in the room looking out that top window and the upper angle of the window made it seem like the entire room was on a slant and you expected your dinner, which was fittingly artistic as well as delicious, might slide off the table at any moment. It didn't.

Sunday morning I had brunch with one of my imaginary internet friends who lives in the area (I don't normally consider a place two hours away via car to be "in the area," but I've learned imaginary friends have an odd determination about things like that). There were no pictures, just indelible moments of friendship and conversation.

Late Sunday afternoon, the wedding and dinner reception were held in my older sister's back yard. Her house is on Lake Minnetonka, which is a very large lake. It's a very large house. Her back yard is, hands down, one of my absolute favourite places to sit quietly and enjoy the beauty of Minnesota.

The front yard isn't bad either, and that evening it featured a string quartet serenading the Dancing Hares (or so it seemed) while we enjoyed post-wedding/pre-dinner cocktails.

Here are some pics of the back yard, including the chuppah -- the canopy under which the bride and groom stand during a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony.

Everything was so beautiful. Even the cake.

And the hanging balloon-like lanterns.

And as if there weren't enough beauty outside, there were ornate flowers inside as well.

A good time was had by all. The bride was gorgeous, the groom handsome and both were glowing with happiness. There was much visiting and catching up with relatives and long-time friends, enough laughter and talking ~~to make your brain explode~~ er, to last until the next momentous occasion brings us together again.

Which I sincerely hope will not occur in the midst of a Minnesota winter.

The power of words

2009-08-12T21:26:00.005-04:00

Of all the possible combinations of words in the English language, right now I can't think of one that is more wonderful than "not malignant." Nor can I think of a better text message than the one I sent to my kids today: NOT CANCER.

What about you? Got any personal favourite phrases you want to share?

Don't mind me. I'll just be over here in the corner, floating near the ceiling, giddy with relief.

Monday, Bloody Monday

2009-08-03T19:20:00.018-04:00

So, today was fun. I spent the first half of it mostly naked and hooked up to complicated beeping machinery, laying on a gurney in a brightly lit room full of strangers whom I had given permission to wield sharp instruments in my vicinity. And you thought your Monday was rough.

Clearly, I have lived in The South too long if I am willing to discuss medical conditions in public. But maybe doing so will convince someone else secretly harboring a strange lump or bump or monster under the bed to go get it checked out.

WARNING: Graphic pictures below.

[As if that's going to turn anyone away.]

My lump is on my neck. No, I'm not talking about my head. Specifically, my lump is on my thyroid. Highly scientific internet research informs me the thyroid is shaped like a butterfly. Here is mine -- the lump is small, you might not be able to see it:

A few months ago when I first noticed the lump, my self-diagnosis involved jumping to the worst possible conclusion. I was sure the tight achy slightly swollen area must be esophageal cancer run rampant and I worried about the best way to inform people of my imminent demise. I have since learned that the wildest part of the imagination is indeed located in the thyroid gland. Who knew?

After having been seen by at least a dozen medical professionals in as many weeks (if you count the blood-letters and ultrasound techs, which I do), the most dire prediction I could get out of any of them was a cheerful, "It's highly unlikely that it's cancerous, but if you have to get cancer, this is the kind to get. It's highly treatable." They all took great pains to reassure me that it's PROBABLY NOT CANCER.

Still. There is that slight chance.

So today, after weeks of waiting -- not that I mind waiting, I'm a very patient person [ahem] -- I had a fine needle aspiration biopsy (FNA) of the lump, which they do with just a local anesthetic. Why yes, I am going to tell you about it, thanks for asking. In preparation, a nurse called last week to ask me a bunch of medical history type questions. The answers to which were almost unanimously, "No." She seemed happy about that and said I was a good risk. At one point she asked whether I had any religious objection to any procedure they might perform on me. Which gave me pause. Because, you know, it depends on what they had in mind.

She neglected to mention that shortly after checking me in today, they'd be poking holes at random intervals and inserting tubes in my veins while simultaneously monitoring my pulse rate and blood pressure. "Oh, I see your BP is a bit high today." No kidding. I swear, those machines are specifically designed to make it go straight through the roof. Here I am being stoically irreligious:

They kept emphasizing they'd be using a "very small needle" for the aspiration procedure. I assumed this meant it would be of sufficiently immense diameter they could use it to suck out my tonsils with no trouble at all, if they hadn't already been removed when I was six. Why else would they tell me I'd have to stick around for "at least an hour" afterward to make sure I'd stopped bleeding? I was right:

I informed the doctor I was going to tell everyone I'd been the victim of a vampire attack and that he should make it look good. He laughed. Apparently he thought I was kidding. I'd show you a pic of the actual procedure, but it was gory and unsuitable for family viewing. Especially the part where they sort of gouge around in there, vigorously sawing the needle back and forth in the neck to get a good tissue sample. Four different times. Blood lesson: Never settle for one sample when you can get four. I didn't feel a thing. Well, okay, I was awake, obviously I felt something. But no pain. Everyone said it went well. Here I am, almost completely recovered within mere minutes:

I HAD planned to go in to work afterward. Really. Never mind that the nurses looked a bit alarmed when I mentioned it. In fact, they all kept asking whether anyone was there to drive me home. I assured them I'd be fine. But by the time I got five minutes away from the hospital the local anesthetic had worn off and my neck hurt like hell. So I went home and spent the rest of the day reclining on the couch with an ice pack on my wound -- 20 minutes on/20 minutes off, as instructed. You know, there are some parts of your body you really don't mind having a cold heavy weight pressing down on, even when they're injured. The neck is not one of them.

I know, you're probably thinking at least the hard part is over. Not so. The real torture will be waiting another week for the results. But it's better than not knowing. Seriously, if you have a lump you're ignoring-- stop it. Go get it checked out.

[All kidding aside, everyone at Duke Raleigh Hospital -- and I do mean everyone, even the harried receptionist -- was extremely nice and went out of their way to make sure the entire process was as pleasant and pain free as possible. They even numbed the back of my hand before they inserted the saline drip. Plus they gave me a very nice ice pack that doesn't leak once the ice melts. Even so, I hope I never see any of them again.] <-- notice the Duke blue, a small tribute

Talking at midnight

2009-07-12T18:44:00.004-04:00

My daughter called me late Friday night. She's at the beach for a few days and without internet connection. Sounds like paradise to me. No idea why she'd call her mother. I sure as hell wouldn't have when I was 21. But she did.

Of course, I thought something was wrong. "Hey, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

Mothers don't need a reason. "It's kind of late."

"Oh, I knew you'd be up."

Well, okay, but still. I'd been thinking about going to bed. With the week I've had, I should have been in bed.

"Mom," she said, "can you check my email for me?"

Yes dear, right after I don my cape and right all the wrongs in the universe. "Um, yeah, sure. How do I do that?"

"Go to webmail.xxx.edu and log in as me."

Right. Of course. I'm completely familiar with this level of trust. "And your log in and password are?"

She had an impressively full inbox. There were several messages from people who had friended her on Facebook. "Who's Mc Dots? Is that a person or a fast food menu item?"

"Oh, he's a basketball player," she said, laughing. "Did he friend me?"

"Yep." Made sense, in a way that mothers worry about. You're 5'9" and gorgeous, basketball players will want to be your friend.

She asked what else was in there so I read her the sender names and subject lines. A couple she groaned about and said she'd read later. There was one from a law school touting the difficulties of attending said law school (difficulties I presume she will dismiss as insignificant) and the one she was looking for -- more information about a voluntary "special project," from the environmental law professor with whom she's doing a summer internship.

I read the details to her and she said, "Mom, I need you to go to blackboard and check messages."

Sure, no problem, seeing as how I'm still awake and all. "Okay, and where exactly is the blackboard in education these days? Will I need chalk?"

"Mom, don't be weird."

Got it. No weirdness. At least not on my part.

So I logged in and she walked me through the many confusing layers of blackboard until I got to the pertinent section. Where I discovered how awkward it is to read extracts of environmental case law over the phone. At midnight. I'm telling you, writing four-syllable words is entirely different from verbalizing lengthy paragraphs full of them.

Then she said, "Mom, you need to post a message from me."

"What? No. I thought you said not to be weird."

"No really, it's fine. Just type what I tell you to type."

So I did. It was painful. "Are you sure you want to use an exclamation point there? You just used one three sentences ago."

"Mom. It's not a thesis. Everyone talks like that on blackboard." And so it went. Me, impersonating a college student on the intertubes.

If I can do it, anyone can. Keep that in mind.

We finished up with me informing her fellow volunteers which case she'd be examining and why. And let everyone know that, despite the lack of easy internet access, she'd send all the information about her case by early afternoon Saturday. So they could compile things and give their professor all the information he needed. So he could present it, before the Saturday evening deadline as requested, to his colleague. Who is serving as special counsel to a member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. The one holding hearings next week about the newest appointee to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Yeah. That one. I understand they'll be looking at a lengthy and complex history of decisions, summarized for them by a variety of sources.

Have I mentioned lately how very cool I think my daughter is? Even when she calls me at midnight.

Creativity, Laughter and the Element of Surprise

2009-07-06T20:22:00.012-04:00

Two weeks into My Great Twitter Adventure and I've made some surprising discoveries. The first of which is how openly friendly and just plain nice most people are to strangers. Didn't their mothers teach them basic safety rules? I know, it shouldn't have surprised me, especially since I'm mostly talking to other writers, but it did.

I was equally surprised by the concern expressed by my "imaginary friends" about my time spent twittering. I found this ironic coming from a community of friends with whom I have chatted away VAST amounts of time in blogland. A part of me acknowledges their point: time spent twittering is time not spent writing fiction. And they’ve been ~~hounding~~ steadfastly cheering me on all along, wanting me to finish the damn book already. So they can buy it. And read it. Certainly can't fault them for that. I love my imaginary friends; they're completely awesome even when they mistakenly think I still have a curfew.

But the biggest surprise, and the reason I will continue to twitter, is the effect it has had on my creativity and productivity. I expected twittering to be awkward and confusing. It is. I expected some people to ignore me. They have. I expected it to be a chore I would quickly grow to despise and then abandon. Instead, it has become a source of laughter and camaraderie. Also information overload, but that's another post.

I have a dry sarcastic sense of humour that, even in person, is easily misinterpreted and can come across as . . . something less than amusing. I've experienced the pitfalls of this in both email and blog comments. I figured the potential for disaster when limited to 140 characters was almost unavoidable. Really, I've lost track of the number of times I've offended people who took me seriously when I was kidding.

So I don't think of myself as someone who is funny. But a few fellow twitterers seem to think I am. I mentioned this oddity to my daughter, who said, "Of course you're funny." She then informed me that she sometimes reads my emails to her friends, who all think I'm hysterical. Not sure what I think about that. The last email I sent her pretty much said, "Be Careful Whitewater Rafting This Weekend."

The point of this long rambling post is that I've realized that making people laugh, and more generally evoking an emotional response, is my own personal crack cocaine. Using words, twisting them and playing with them, is my favourite game. If things get a bit risqué, even better. Finding people who appreciate that game and will play along in the spirit of light-hearted fun is invigorating.

So for now at least, Twitter has become my place to play. I'd forgotten how much I need that, how imperative playfulness is to imagination. At a time when I have been floundering and frustrated with my writing, re-discovering the ability to use words to evoke a response from and connect with people who don't know me has sparked my creativity. I have made more progress on my ms in the past two weeks than I had in the past two months.

Some writers need doom and gloom and angst and despair to inspire their writing, using misery as their muse. I'm not writing comedy but I've discovered that I need laughter, my own and that of others. Twitter is still at times awkward and confusing, some people still ignore me and I'm sure many more will (the wise ones, at any rate), but it is fueling my creativity like nothing else has in a very long time. And that surprised the hell out of me.

What feeds your creativity? We're all creative in some way. Do you know what does it for you? Laughter, music, solitude, open spaces? Fritos?

Oh, and if you haven't watched the TED talk given by Sir Ken Robinson about creativity, you should. It's excellent and can be found here.

Connecting on the dark side

2009-06-21T13:41:00.007-04:00

Has it been a month since I posted? Gasp. Well, I've been busy. Mostly up to no good.

Yes, the rumours are true: I've lost my mind and gone over to the dark side. I've entered the Twitterverse. An evil scary place with glowing green faces and random beeping sounds and constant updates 24/7. Just what a pressed-for-time, easily distracted writer needs, right? Um, yes actually.

Twitter has become a significant part of what is called "social media." The persistent buzz in publishing lately -- where is that flyswatter when you need it? -- is that writers need a presence in social media arenas. Publishers and agents increasingly expect writers to find their own "fans" and market themselves and their books, not just after publication, but before they're even under contract. Before they're even done writing the damn book.

One agent went so far as to comment recently that she was seriously considering not reading submissions of any writer who did not already have a significant social media presence. I'm not going to get into how short-sighted I think that is, because this does seem to be the current reality for writers. Especially those as-yet unpublished. A fiscal sign of the times.

So I researched the likely alternatives: MySpace and Facebook. By "research" I mean I asked my 21-year-old daughter whether she'd "friend" me if I had a Facebook page. Her answer was an emphatic NO. Then she warned me about the dangers of MySpace and how no one even goes there anymore.

So I'm Twittering. I feel foolish just typing that. The tweeting itself isn't time consuming. I'm having fun with that. It's the following that's going to kill me. There are an awful lot of funny and informative Twitterers out there, linking to articles or people I'd never have found on my own. I did stop following one person, not because he wasn't interesting, but because he updated EVERY TWO MINUTES and I couldn't keep up. I have limits. Really. Trouble is, I could easily wander around, lost in information intake mode, for days.

But the really odd thing, which I'm having trouble reconciling, is my dual, er, triple identity. My Twitter ID is "BCB_" because it's short (plus I've kind of grown attached to it) and my name over there is "w/a Katherine James" (w/a = writing as), which will be my pseudonym once published. But I'm following people I know and who know me only by my "real" name. A couple of them are now following me in return and I have no idea whether they know that I'm, well, me. It's weird. But my real name is reserved for the day job, the one where I'm a responsible adult in charge of other people's money. I don't want the two linked, and certainly not out here on the intertubes.

It's a dilemma. Because it leaves me feeling somehow fraudulent. Yeah, I know, I'll get over it eventually. And really, I guess it's just another instance of being a writer, making stuff up and hoping people enjoy it.

So, want to follow me into the darkness?

Take a moment, give something back

2009-05-25T12:30:00.015-04:00

Take a moment today, Memorial Day, to remember the sacrifices others have made on your behalf. Even if -- maybe especially if -- you disagree with the decisions that led to so many deaths.

Photo of Arlington National Cemetery by Bruce Dale, published in National Geographic, June 2007.

A Google team has created a new website, just unveiled this weekend, called Map the Fallen. From Sean, its creator:

"This Memorial Day I would like to share with you a personal project of mine that uses Google Earth to honor the more than 5,700 American and Coalition servicemen and women that have lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have created a map for Google Earth that will connect you with each of their stories—you can see photos, learn about how they died, visit memorial websites with comments from friends and families, and explore the places they called home and where they died."

While I am somewhat disturbed by the invasion of privacy caused by all this high-tech satellite imagery, this application of it serves to remind us that those who died had names and faces and individual life stories, and they grew up in hometowns all across our country before facing death halfway around the world.

Go take a look. It's worth the hassle of installing the newest version of Google Earth.

And then go read this CNN article that states, in part:

". . . a recent study conducted by the RAND Corporation estimates more than 320,000 service members returned home with traumatic brain injury, and 300,000 suffer from post traumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety. That is nearly one in five who have deployed."

Those who died are deserving of a day of national remembrance. But perhaps we can also take a moment to reflect on the sacrifices of those who did not die, but who are suffering daily under our nation's dubious care and respect.

They deserve more than one day of showy parades and solemn speeches, more than one moment out of our happy busy normal lives. They deserve the commitment of our effort and resources, the acknowledgment that we have a responsibility to take action and make sacrifices on their behalf, as they did on ours.

Go HERE and make a difference. I did.

Rainy day in spring

2009-05-17T15:37:00.001-04:00

It is dark and raining here this morning. The kind of hard heavy steady rain that says, pay attention, and no matter what you thought you were going to do, you stop and listen instead. Too many drops to count, yet you can hear the rhythm of each one. The small steady slap of it on the roof and leaves and street, the music of it running fast through eaves and downspouts, in the fleeting splash of a car driving by.

A quick gust of wind waves dense leafy branches through the flow, disrupting the steady downward path, diverting drops like a hand testing the temperature of a shower. The gust moves on and the thick drops fall harder, crowding together in a pale gray sheet.

The back door is open and the smell of wet comes through the screen. Sodden chlorophyll and damp ground, giving up the hot sweat of the past week's growth, rinsing off leaves and bark and blades of grass to run down the slope of the next yard to the creek, filling the air with the ripe earthy scent.

The torrent is timeless and ageless, full of significance yet devoid of meaning. The rain is all there is. No crackle of lightning or rumble of thunder. Nothing moves under the onslaught, there are no other sounds, only the steady soaking drum of the rain. And you are still, listening.

The gloom lifts slowly as the rain tapers off, the symphony ending not with a crescendo but a soft reprise as a cool damp breeze gently teases small drops down in a light patter from the high branches where they linger. There is movement in an upstairs bedroom and you recall the tasks at hand.

Soon the air is redolent with the smell of freshly sliced melon and frying bacon. Outside, the birds resume their springtime songs.

New week, same old brown bag lunch

2009-05-11T08:34:00.004-04:00

I finished the week with mixed results on reaching my goals. Somewhat disappointing, but change takes time.

I did so-so with bringing my lunch: three days out of five. I've learned this is something I have to prepare and pack up the night before, otherwise it's just not happening. But I did buy a salad the other two days, so that's good. I did NOT eat the cookies or brownies or cake that showed up at work. Not even the chocolate covered glazed KK doughnuts. Though I might have inhaled a time or two.

The pushups were going great. Until I woke up Friday morning and my neck was sore. Except it didn't really hurt so much as it just felt weird. Like I had pulled something. The inside of my throat wasn't sore, no cough or anything, my neck just felt tight and achy. So after a full day of worrying that I had some dreadly neck disease that might necessitate removal of my entire head, I realized I'd probably pulled something doing those oh-so-strenuous pushups. What a wimp. So, no pushups Friday or Saturday and by Sunday my neck felt much better. As a result, this week I'm taking a break from pushups and have dusted off the treadmill instead. Going to start with a minimum of ten minutes every day this week, even on Monday. More if I can stand the boredom. Because I've been a complete slug for the past four months and that has to stop. [Did 10 on Saturday, Sunday 12.]

Trying to write every day has been . . . interesting. Not sure I'll ever be a do-it-every-day type of writer, but I'm going to keep at it for now. Even though it takes it all out of me, mentally, to do this on workdays. I need to finish. Some of what I've written has been truly awful. Some, very minimal. And Friday? Zip. Sat there looking at the screen and-- nothing. But knowing I'm going to have to at least try has made me think about it during the day. I'm pretty sure my boss noticed me staring intently off into space a couple times. That's okay. Might be good for him to wonder what I'm plotting. But I made some significant progress over the weekend with a couple scenes that had been giving me trouble. That felt good.

Still got a long way to go before I reach the big goals, but at least I'm moving forward again. Little steps.

Oh, and I had a lovely Mother's Day. Hope you did too, regardless of whether anyone calls you mom.

Planning is good, doing is better

2009-05-04T18:40:00.005-04:00

Oh, my poor sadly neglected blog. I've been off creating a bright shiny new blog for my CB friends and completely ignoring you. Here, I brought you some flowers as an apology. Pansies and snapdragons, two of my favorites:

Why, you're quite welcome. I picked them in the drive-thru lane at Chick-fil-A where I was ordering healthy grilled-not-fried chicken and substituting a ~~questionable~~ lovely fruit medley for fries. Really.

Okay, it's time to refocus. Lately I've been playing around and writing blog posts and comments elsewhere (I love WordPress -- can I say that over here?) and having a grand old time . . . and not accomplishing much of anything else.

In an effort to prove I can be disciplined and maintain a routine, I'm setting some simple daily goals that should help me attain some not so simple long-term goals:

1) I have started the 100 pushup challenge. Okay, stop laughing. If you're thinking I couldn't do a real pushup to save my life, you're right. I have very little upper body strength. I can't do the "modified" version either because that involves kneeling and that just feels too submissive. Or it might have something to do with the extreme pain of kneeling on damaged knees that have no gooey stuff left between the bones. So I'm doing the wimpy wall version. NOW you can laugh. Hey, it's better than doing nothing. And I'm doubling the routine by repeating each day, so instead of three days a week, I'll do six and rest on Sunday. Since it's so arduous.

2) I'm going to bring my lunch to work every day. You think this sounds easy, don't you? It should be, but it's not. It requires planning. And shopping. And daily washing of plastic containers. But I'm determined to do it because it will save money and I will eat healthier food. And because I'm going to have to let well-intentioned but hopelessly delusional family members take one or two pictures of me in August. Why they insist on traumatizing every get-together is beyond me.

3) I'm going to write SOMETHING, even if it's dreck, even if it's just one page of the vilest dreck imaginable, even if it's just a weekly blog post, every single day. Except Monday. Because in general, Mondays completely suck and no one is going to want to read anything I might write on a Monday. Plus it's the only night I watch TV. I've gotten out of the habit of writing on a regular basis and that's bad. Need to regain that discipline.

So, three simple daily goals. I think I can handle it.

Anyone want to join me? There must be something you all should be doing every day, but you're not. 'Fess up.

Spring

2009-04-10T11:32:00.006-04:00

The past week has been insanely hectic and the coming weekend will be no less so. Both the kids are here and they brought friends. Hungry friends. And then asked whether they could invite more friends for Easter dinner. I said, "Sure, no problem." Because that is always the answer to that question.

So I don't really have anything to say, but thought I'd put up a couple pictures of flowering things. These two are the view from my front door:

I'm sure my neighbors won't mind that I'm putting a picture of their house on the Internet. It's at least prettier than the one on Google. The entire neighborhood looks like this, only more so. It's like driving through a fairytale, this time of year.

And this is one I took the other night, just before the full moon, standing on the back deck looking up through the still mostly bare maple branches, waiting for The Wonder Dog to do whatever it is he does out there in the dark hour after midnight:

It's not every day you hear news like this . . .

2009-04-01T14:52:00.005-04:00

I have exciting news! So, you know I finished my book last wee-- Oh, I hadn’t mentioned that? Must have slipped my mind. Yeah, the final 100 or so pages were a breeze. Don't know why people say writing fiction is difficult. Anyway, I decided to hell with this "query letter" nonsense and sent the entire ms to my Dream Agent. Well, apparently it was a very slow week (or it might have been that lovely eye-catching pink paper I printed it on) because she read it immediately. She called the next day to tell me how much she LOVED it and begged me to let her represent me. For half her usual percentage.

Of course, I agreed.

And before the ink was even dry on that contract, she was shopping the ms around to all the biggest NY publishing houses. She emailed on Monday to tell me they were engaged in a bidding war! I guess they liked it too. So anyway, we just finalized the deal last night. A seven figure contract (I'm not talking about The Seven Dwarfs here) and they want to print it in hardcover. Plus a HUGE budget for promotion. And, get this-- they want to send me on a book signing tour. Twenty-five cities in ten days. Good grief! They've stepped up production and completely rearranged their publishing schedule so the book will be out sometime early this summer.

I'm SO excited! I can't wait.

Oh, and I just got a call from Jon Stewart himself! He read an advance copy (I told you they'd really stepped up production, didn't I?) and he wants to interview me on his show next Monday. Of course, I had to tell him no, that won't work. I can't miss an episode of 24. So he's going to bump someone else and we'll do it Wednesday instead.

Oh. My. God. I've got to find something to wear. I've lost so much weight lately, nothing fits.

The rites (and wrongs) of spring

2009-03-20T08:48:00.006-04:00

Some people have bats in their belfry. I have birds in my wall. Here's a picture of their front door:

That's the wall outside my bedroom. The hole is three feet to the right of the head of my bed. Thankyouverymuch, Mr. General Contractor Woodpecker, for marking MY territory as yours and providing low-cost housing for the neighborhood bird population.

If you've never had birds in your wall, you're probably thinking, "Oh, how sweet, you have your very own birds." Um, no. Believe me, it's not sweet. Nor is it cute.

They're loud. They thump around in there sounding like they each weigh 200 pounds, constantly pecking and scratching at the wall. They chirp and coo and squawk. They're rude, waking me up every morning in that dark gray time of not-quite-dawn, then carry on like that for hours.

They're also pregnant. Or whatever. Yeah, I'm pretty sure they have eggs in there. Because that's what birds do this time of year. So as much as I'd love to shoo them away and plug the hole, I have to wait until the baby birds hatch. And that is when things get really noisy. What a way to start the day. Seriously, after a half hour of listening to the increasingly frantic pitiful chorus of desperate baby bird hunger, you want to bang on the wall and scream at the mother, "What are you doing? FEED them already!"

Why yes, this has happened before. This is the third happy little bird family I've hosted over the years. Without invitation.

The cat is hoping they come through the wall into the bedroom. She spends a good bit of time sitting on the nightstand, head cocked at her most intense listening angle, staring at the wall. Waiting.

Here she is, glaring back at me, daring me to tell her to Get. Down. Off. The. Furniture.

And once they're gone, it's not easy (or cheap) to find someone who is willing and able to climb three stories off the ground to replace and paint siding boards. It's a two-story house, but we're on a hill and the basement is open to the outside at that end of the house, so it's effectively three stories there. It requires a very long ladder and nerves of steel.

If I'm really lucky, these birds won't have mites like the second bird family who took up residence did . . . and I won't end up having to get my bedroom fumigated. Again.

Happy First Day of Spring, stupid damn birds.

The trouble with "should"

2009-03-09T08:38:00.002-04:00

I have a problem. Well, several actually, but let's limit this to just one: my personal To Do list has lost its sense of urgency. And I'm not getting anything done. Not only that, the list is expanding, growing to a size that is unwieldy and daunting.

It's all because of "should." As in, "I should write a new blog post." Okay fine, you can see I finally managed to do that. But that item has been on my list for weeks. I'm a writer. It's just not that tough to write a blog post. Except lately.

There are seemingly thousands of them, these "I should" tasks which lack immediacy or short-term consequences. No, you don't want to know what they are. They're boring and tedious. Except they really are things I SHOULD do. But they all have such an optional kind of feel to them, completely devoid of any sense of priority. An equal opportunity listing of "meh." A far cry from, "I have to sort these papers right this minute, before they burst into flame!" Or, "If I don't trim the bushes by Tuesday, the ground will crack open and spew molten lava." Or, "If these pictures aren't packed up in the next half hour, the bomb will explode and all the hostages will die!"

Not even the satisfying prospect of crossing things firmly off the list has been sufficient motivation -- and usually that works, along with the certainty that no one else is going to do this stuff and I need to just suck it up and DO IT already. Really, I'd feel so much better if I did. But lately-- [sigh] it seems I'm languishing in the land of lethargy, immobilized by inertia, sinking slowly into the depths of depression. Ahem. Sorry, just trying to manufacture a modicum of melodrama here.

I'm starting to suspect these tasks are quietly gathering strength and purpose, simmering in a dark stew of neglect, and will reach a critical mass of imperativeness ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

God help me.

I really should do something about this.

Work in Progress

2009-02-09T16:21:00.005-05:00

I'm working here. Really. It just looks like I'm spending every free minute sitting on the couch watching movies. But that's only because, um, that's what I'm doing.

Seriously, I'm taking an online class this month -- learning about screenwriting techniques and how to apply them to novel writing. I've heard from other writers that this can be very helpful if you're having trouble with story structure. Which I am.

So I'm working here. And learning.

And yeah, sitting on the couch watching movies. And then writing detailed, yet concise (ha!), synopses of three-act/eight-sequence story structure, paying particular attention to elements of-- never mind. Take my word for it, this couch potato thing is not as easy as it looks.

[Note to any writers out there: If you ever get a chance to take a class taught by Alex Sokoloff -- just do it. The woman is awesome.]

When was the last time you took a class? Set out to learn something different? Challenged your brain with new information?

Been a while? What are you waiting for?

20 Jan 09

2009-01-20T18:18:00.007-05:00

Today brought six inches of snow and an unexpected day off from work:

And a new President:

It was a very good day.

Saturday night in winter

2009-01-11T15:34:00.002-05:00

This was a day of endings and beginnings, for looking back and moving forward.

It's late now, after midnight. The football game and our team's season are over, the television and stereo silent. My son has gone to bed, his friends gone home, the echoes of good-natured shouting and cheering fading even as car doors slammed and engines revved their way to a quiet distance through the night streets.

Outside it is raining, not hard, just enough to coat the deck boards with a cold wet gloss, enough to mirror the white glitter of holiday lights still strung along the rails.

My lifting muscles are pleasantly sore, a small scrape on the back of my hand evidence of the afternoon's labour. My daughter has called three times since the last box was unloaded and I drove away into the waning rays of a winter sun painting the rain clouds on the horizon, the sound of our voices reassuring both of us as she settled into the unfamiliar campus apartment.

The day began early with caffeine and coffeecake, camaraderie and conversation, the confident direction of an experienced Board turning over heavy files and weighty responsibilities to the apprehensive yet eager vision of the new. The pleasure and honour of two years' hard work and stewardship balanced by the guilty, almost giddy relief of finally handing it off to the care of others, knowing ours was a job well done, trusting their effort will be no less.

Now at the end of the day it is quiet. I am tired but reluctant to get up and go to bed, to shift the warm slumber of the cat snuggled against my side, disturb the utter stillness of the night. The tree in the corner seems to stand a bit taller tonight, as if it knows these are its last moments as a fragrant shining symbol of past laughter and tears, of future hopes and dreams, its lights reflecting a bit brighter on ornaments that tomorrow will return to storage to wait for their next season, the next tree.

Tomorrow there is work to be done, one more year of memories to carefully wrap and pack away, needles to vacuum, boxes to be filled. But tonight is peaceful with the quiet contentment of things accomplished, ended to make way for the future.

How time does fly

2009-01-05T09:10:00.002-05:00

At the beginning of November, I set a goal for myself and said, "On 5 January 2009 I am going to send a submission to an agent. Even if I'm not done writing the book. And since it will kill me to send a submission of an unfinished book, it WILL be finished by then."

Well, I was mistaken. Not to mention foolish. It happens.

The book is not done. And there is no way in hell I'm sending a submission of an unfinished manuscript. A writer pretty much gets one chance to impress an agent and I hope I've learned enough about the process not to take that lightly.

So I've granted myself an extension. Hey, the published authors I know get extensions all the time.

I expected I would feel defeated and demoralized if I didn't meet this deadline and I'm rather surprised to find that is not the case. This goal-setting experiment has left me even more determined to finish. It was also educational.

I have learned that December is probably never going to be a very productive writing month for me. I'll take that into account in the future when some publisher asks me how long it will take to write the next book.

I have learned that setting a goal with a specific date really does improve my productivity. I accomplished so much more in the last two months than I would have without a goal.

I have also learned that when my daughter is home for any length of time without homework, I will watch a lot of television. Whether I want to or not. And that Prime Time is in direct conflict with Writing Time. I am now caught up on all the happenings with House, Grey's Anatomy, some other show I can't remember the name of, AAC basketball, NCAA football, NFL football, various movies (the funniest of which was Little Miss Sunshine -- watch it if you haven't), Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Planet Earth (which is awesome). My daughter has thoughtfully set reminders on my cell phone so I won't miss the new episodes of 24 and Burn Notice. Sigh.

So, new deadline.

Scientific process at work here. Really. Jupiter (my, ahem, ruling planet) enters Aquarius today, which is supposed to be good for communications. However, Mercury goes retrograde on 11 Jan and this is apparently a bad time to, among other things, submit manuscripts. I kid you not. [I hope it's a good time for college students to return to campus, because that rare astrological event happens about the same time.] A writer friend said Saturn went retrograde a few days ago and that bodes well for finishing things. Like manuscripts. There is a solar eclipse on 26 Jan and the new moon also goes retrograde. Then on 1 Feb Mercury goes direct and the dish runs away with the spoon.

I have NO IDEA what any of this means. Except that it sounds as plausible as anything else and I have decided 2 Feb is my new deadline. Because I'm supposed to give Mercury an extra day to stabilize.

Whatever. You all should watch for falling stars and things that go bump in the night sky. I'm going to be busy writing.

Miscellaneous thoughts

2008-12-28T21:46:00.006-05:00

On their own, none of these thoughts add up to a blog post. Even as a collection, they are sorely lacking. It's all I've got right now.

It's obvious my daughter is as happy to be home as we are to have her back, but every so often she gets a certain far off look in her eye and I know she's planning the next adventure. You can't un-climb a mountain.

Having both my kids here makes me realize there are a great number of people who are accustomed to opening the back door and walking into my house with, at most, a perfunctory knock to announce their arrival. One day soon I will sell this house and move to another and I feel certain there will be at least a few people who won't get that news. I hope no one ends up in jail.

When you're in the shower and the power goes out and the door is closed and your shower room doesn't have a window, the sudden absolute darkness is disorienting and it's strange to realize how much more awkward it is to rinse shampoo from your hair in the dark, even though it's a familiar task and one you perform without ever being able to see what you're doing.

If you leave the package of dog treats on the mantle, the Wonder Dog will know they are there and will go to great lengths to draw your attention to that fact and not be concerned in the least that you are highly amused by his lack of dignity.

I find it very odd that once you tell people you plan to spend a stretch of time focusing intently on writing, pretty much to the exclusion of all else, they develop an increased need to contact you, interrupting the concentration, sometimes just to ask how the writing is going. As if they suspect you are in truth sitting on a beach somewhere, doing absolutely nothing, inexplicably in dire need of company and conversation. It's very odd. Perhaps I should have said I'm doing something significant and worthy, maybe studying for bar exams.

I realized today, during one of those "just calling to check on you" conversations (which are at once charmingly touching and infuriatingly distracting -- not that I'm complaining about them, exactly, just saying), that I have never eaten a lamb chop and that my son is now the same age I was when I first started dating his father.

The rest of my thoughts these days, the ones unrelated to writing that is, are even more random and equally banal. So this seems like a good stopping point -- for this post and perhaps for this blog as well. Doesn't seem to be much point to it lately. But I've felt that way before, many times, and then end up changing my mind. We shall see.

Sharing the music

2008-12-23T23:37:00.004-05:00

Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24 by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra is one of my favorite Christmas songs. When the hectic hurry up and get it done insanity of holiday preparations has taken its toll and left throbbing aches in your head and back and feet and shredded the thin veil of your patience, there are few things more reinvigorating than turning up the volume, closing your eyes and letting this music fill all the depleted spaces. So I went looking for a worthy version to post over here for you all to enjoy. During my search I wandered over to Wikipedia and found some interesting history about the song:

Paul O'Neill explained the story behind Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24 in an interview published on ChristianityToday.com:[1]

... We heard about this cello player born in Sarajevo many years ago (Vedran Smailović) who left when he was fairly young to go on to become a well-respected musician, playing with various symphonies throughout Europe. Many decades later, he returned to Sarajevo as an elderly man—at the height of the Bosnian War, only to find his city in complete ruins.

I think what most broke this man's heart was that the destruction was not done by some outside invader or natural disaster—it was done by his own people. At that time, Serbs were shelling Sarajevo every night. Rather than head for the bomb shelters like his family and neighbors, this man went to the town square, climbed onto a pile of rubble that had once been the fountain, took out his cello, and played Mozart and Beethoven as the city was bombed.

He came every night and began playing Christmas carols from that same spot. It was just such a powerful image—a white-haired man silhouetted against the cannon fire, playing timeless melodies to both sides of the conflict amid the rubble and devastation of the city he loves. Some time later, a reporter traced him down to ask why he did this insanely stupid thing. The old man said that it was his way of proving that despite all evidence to the contrary, the spirit of humanity was still alive in that place.

The song basically wrapped itself around him. We used some of the oldest Christmas melodies we could find, like "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "Carol of the Bells" (which is from Ukraine, near that region). The orchestra represents one side, the rock band the other, and single cello represents that single individual, that spark of hope.

But the video clips I found left me unimpressed and disappointed. I mean really, who wants to watch an animated light display some guy set up in his front yard? And then I saw a version that told a story. Maybe not quite the same story as the one related above, but a story nonetheless. I found it intriguing, full of the possibilities of "what if."

May your Christmas be one of magic and wonder and hope, and may you be filled with the fierce stirring strains of the spirit of humanity.

Homecoming

2008-12-20T15:59:00.001-05:00

After five long months of studying abroad, my daughter returned home today.

Sometimes words are profoundly inadequate.

Counting pages, and minutes

2008-12-19T01:43:00.006-05:00

Yes, I have been writing. Mostly I've been adding and deleting bits here and there. Not writing huge entire scenes, because lately I can't concentrate to save my life (concentrate, hell, I can barely manage to dress myself and get out the door to work this week). So I've been filling in parts and pieces. Okay, maybe I wrote one scene. Or two.

How much have I written? Well, interesting thing about Scrivener (and by interesting, I mean frustrating), it doesn't give you page counts. Or, if it does, I don't know where to find them. And it only gives you word count within each scene, not for the entire document. So I had no idea how much "progress" I'd made. [Please note: I refuse to limit the definition of progress solely to page count. There's more than that going on here. Really.]

However, there is a feature in Scrivener called "Compile Manuscript" that will supposedly take all your pages and put them into manuscript format. At which point you can count said pages. Words, even. Sounds pretty cool, huh? Yet just the thought of clicking on that option sent a cold chill down my spine. It sounded so final. Was this some irrevocable last step, after which one could not go back and continue writing and editing? Was I just a click away from one more excuse to put off finishing the damn book already? Surely not.

Tonight I decided to recklessly succumb to the lure of curiosity and give it a try. (Hey, as I write this, my daughter is sleeping on the floor in the airport in Santiago, Chile. Tomorrow night, Miami. I needed a distraction here.) I think I made three backup copies first. Just in case. And then I clicked on the magical "Compile Manuscript" option. Made me feel very accomplished, as if I were a real writer who had an entire ms that needed compiling. At first I didn't even bother looking at the new version. I was too busy frantically clicking on the old version to see whether the work-in-progress was still, well, workable. And it was. Exactly the same as before the momentous transformation.

So then I looked at the compilation. Very cool. Very professional. This program is amazing. And I was pleasantly surprised by the page count. Once my daughter gets here and I've hugged her and kissed her and counted all her fingers and toes and made sure she has arrived unscathed and hugged her some more and generally cried happy tears all over her and can finally obsess abou--, er, concentrate on something other than her safe return, I'll go back and see how many of those new pages are worthy of the name fiction. Because I suspect more than a few of them contain distracted ramblings about the inadvisability of letting one's children wander off to foreign countries for months at a time in the name of higher education. Really, what the hell was I thinking? Next time, I'll go with her.

Saturday can not come soon enough.

It was on this day . . .

2008-12-10T18:58:00.010-05:00

I subscribe to The Writer's Almanac daily newsletter and every morning in my inbox there is an interesting and informative email containing "Poems, prose and literary history from Garrison Keillor." [Thank you, Merry, for sending an email that contained a link to the site.] It's a nice way to start the day. Plus, it's free.

This is from today's newsletter:

It was on this day in 1950 that William Faulkner received the Nobel Prize in literature. When a Swedish correspondent in New York called to give him the news that he was being honored, Faulkner was busy working on his farm in Oxford, Mississippi, and he said, "It's too far away. I am a farmer down here and I can't get away."

The man pleaded for him to go the award ceremony, and so did Faulkner's friends, relatives, publishers, editors, agent, and other American writers. But Faulkner resisted. Finally, his wife devised a plan. Their only daughter, Jill, asked for a trip to Europe as a graduation gift — she wanted to accompany him to the ceremony in Stockholm and then go to Paris. Faulkner relented.

Faulkner was a raging alcoholic at the time, and his wife came up with another plan, this one to make sure he would be sober by the departure date. Faulkner intended to drink heavily in the days leading up to the trip. He was set to leave on a Wednesday, so the Friday before, his wife and daughter came into his bedroom and told him that it was Monday, time to start sobering up. He started to space out his drinks, but that afternoon he realized that he'd been tricked, and he drank for three more days. But he did manage to quit on Monday.

He flew to New York with his daughter on Wednesday and went to a party in his honor, where he drank Jack Daniels and came down with a fever. He and his daughter arrived in Sweden on Friday. He had continued working on his speech on the flight over. On the day of the award ceremony, he told the American ambassador that he'd never given a speech before and that he was afraid.

There was a formal dinner before the speeches. Faulkner wore a tuxedo with a white bow tie. But he hadn't shaved, and he wore his ragged, oil-stained trench coat over his nice suit. When he got up to give his speech, he didn't stand close enough to the microphone, and no one in the room was able to understand him. It wasn't until the next day, when the text of the speech was printed in newspapers, that people realized what a brilliant speech he'd given.

He said, "The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed — love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice."

A half century later his words still resonate, his advice remains valid.

As I said, it's a nice way to start the day.

Thankful for new things

2008-11-28T15:17:00.006-05:00

I am thankful for many things. Yes, all the usual suspects: family, friends, health, employment. But this year I discovered new things for which to give thanks, things I had never before considered part of the list:

That not making Thanksgiving dinner (for only the second time in 26 years) means I do not have a turkey carcass taking up space in my refrigerator the next day.

That my daughter and her boyfriend are taking turns, during their Epic Journey Through Patagonia, sending reassuring emails to their parents (yes, we threatened them) and that the one he sent yesterday morning covered all the important stuff: Hey families, made it safe and sound to Puerto Madryn. We're going to go see some whales today. We'll try to keep you updated.

That my son and his girlfriend spent the last two nights here, as well as a good part of each day, and I still really like her.

That Adam Sandler's movies have improved somewhat since the last one I was forced to watch.

That my son knows how to make a fire in the fireplace, and did.

That after going to three different grocery stores on Thanksgiving Day, none of which had any frozen pumpkin pies left, it was no big deal to track down a can of Libby's pumpkin goo, read the recipe on the label, label, label and make my own. It was delicious.

That Pillsbury makes the crust so I don't have to. Hey, it was more than enough nonsense making the Oreo crust for the grasshopper pie.

That my son's friends feel welcome in my home and don't hesitate to drop in without notice for a piece of pie, or two (this is not new, the excess of pie is).

That, as much as I loved spending time with everyone while they were here, all those people are gone now and I can relax and enjoy the balance of what I had thought was going to be a very quiet holiday weekend spent writing.

Ahh, and as I finish typing this, here comes a new reason: That my daughter has inherited my tendency to go on and on and on, and does so even in email:

Hey there families! A and I have made it safely to Trelew. We went whale watching yesterday in Peninsula Valdes and it was absolutely incredible. We saw so many whales, and they were all really close to the boat, some even passed under the boat! They were Southern Right Whales, and some were up to 16 meters long, which is about 50 feet! We also got lucky enough to see a few of them jumping out of the water, which was probably the coolest thing ever. We have lots of pictures! Today we are visiting a dinosaur museum and hanging out in the city of Trelew, which was founded by the Welsh. Tomorrow we go to see the PENGUINS!!!!!! From there we will keep heading south until we get to Puerto Natales. Happy Thanksgiving (A is silly and forgot to say that yesterday)!! Love you and miss you!

Yes, many new things this year for which to give thanks.

Pictures from on high

2008-11-23T10:06:00.016-05:00

I really like the way the Mac handles pictures. Here are several my daughter took* last week during her three-day trek on Aconcagua (ref. previous post). I still can't quite believe she was there, that she saw and experienced all this. But there she is, with Aconcagua looming in the background:

*Edit to correct photo credit: Her BF took some of them. Notably, the ones of her.

She captioned the one below: "This photo is of Puente del Inca, which supposedly when the Incas couldn't cross this river, they prayed to the gods and this rock bridge magically appeared the next day. Pretty cool looking."

Standing in the glacier. Obviously, it's the time of year when it melts a bit.

She said this is: "Our nifty little stove and pot!" And I thought, Oh good, she's learning how to cook. Or at least, how to boil stuff.

More glacier:

Aconcagua. The highest peak outside of Asia:

My daughter, hiking across a glacier. She's turning into a mountain goat:

More glacier:

Very pretty reflection in the lake:

Her host sister said this looked like meringue:

Daughter's boyfriend, hiking across the glacier:

Obviously, I've been playing way too much and not writing enough. I'm having a very tough time concentrating so far this weekend.

I'll go have a stern talk with myself now. Really.

Climb every mountain . . .

2008-11-22T11:27:00.024-05:00

My daughter has been climbing again.

Here she is several weeks ago on "a mountain behind the Cerro Arco," trying to scare me into an early grave.

And doing a damn fine job of it.

She called last night to tell me about the latest adventure. This time she and her boyfriend decided to do a three-day hike and climb Aconcagua (6962m/22,841ft), the highest mountain outside of Asia and one of the Seven Summits. For reference, Mt. Everest (8848m/29,029ft) is the highest mountain in the world.

No, they didn't go all the way to the top.

They started in Mendoza (761m/2497ft), where they've been going to school. Along the way they hiked across a glacier . . .

"Really? You walked on a glacier?"

"Yeah, it was pretty amazing. It comes down the mountain and across a valley and back up the mountain again. We didn't walk across the river part of it, that would be stupid. Too slushy."

"Did you have a guide?"

"No, you don't need a guide. There's a path."

Oh, of course. A path across a glacier. Silly me.

. . . to a base camp (3300m/10,827ft) and camped in their little tent . . .

"That little nylon tent I saw on your last blog post? Didn't you freeze?"

"Our little tent is very cozy."

. . . then hiked up to Plaza Francia (4200m/13,944ft) another base camp. And they saw an avalanche.

"At first, it looked like this huge white mist, billowing up and spreading out, like something out of a Stephen King book, coming to get us."

"It was coming at you?!"

"No, mom, it was a mile away. You'd have to see a picture. We weren't in the path of it or anything. And you could hear it. Like rumbling thunder. Wait until you see the video I took. So awesome."

Uh huh. Awesome.

I remember she had problems with altitude sickness back in July on the hike to Machu Picchu (2400m/7875ft -- and I thought that was a big climb), so I asked whether that had been a problem. She said, "Not really. Usually after a climb I'm starving, but when we got to Plaza Francia I could only eat half of my peanut butter sandwich, so that's one sign. And I had a headache, of course. So it wasn't too bad."

Then she told me the trail just opened on November 15. Before that date it's too cold and too dangerous. Gee, so glad they didn't do anything dangerous.

Next Tuesday they leave for Chile and points south. Where they will see penguins. Oh, and did I mention the ten-day hike they have planned in Torres del Paine National Park? Sounds lovely, doesn't it, camping and hiking in a national park? Innocuous even.

Right.

Once I got off the phone, I decided to do some research. Because by comparison, writing more pages in a thriller seemed like such a tame activity. Here are some pictures of Torres del Paine I found on Wikipedia, that calming informative presence on the internet and a friend to mothers everywhere:

Looks benign, doesn't it? And the flora looks so non-toxic and, um, highly edible:

I'm sure it will be perfectly safe. No worries.

Time to go write some soothing fiction about killers and conspiracies.

Oh, something shiny!

2008-11-17T09:43:00.004-05:00

I had a very interesting weekend, thanks for asking. There is a person in my life, let's just call her my older sister, who has a tendency to be outrageously generous for no apparent reason. And I never know what might set her off. For instance, last weekend I casually mentioned how nice it was that my son had left his laptop at home when he went out of town for the weekend. And how nice it was to be able to use that to write on for change, sitting comfortably on the couch, rather than at my desk using my PC. Seemed like a perfectly innocent comment at the time. I had no idea I had just revealed an unacceptable deficit in my arsenal of writing tools she then felt compelled to correct.

So I was mightily surprised on Friday to receive a box from FedEx that contained a shiny new MacBook. Especially since I've never used a Mac. Once I had sufficiently recovered from my shock, I called to thank her and asked, "Why a Mac?"

She said, "Well, I have one and really like it, so I thought you would too. Consider it an early birthday present."

And I said, quite reasonably, "But my birthday is still several weeks away. And we stopped giving each other birthday presents YEARS ago." Seriously, we always call each other, but that's the extent of it.

To which she replied, "Whatever." Sometimes she acts like she's still twelve. Regardless, she's still older. Then she said, "You really needed a laptop. Besides, Macs never crash."

Okay, just for the record: I have never crashed a computer.

So I spent the weekend trying to figure out how to use the darn thing. After ten minutes trying to find the power switch, and realizing that waving my hand commandingly over the keyboard wasn't having the desired effect, I decided to read the manual. Things got easier. Lucky for me, there were also online tutorials. So I proceeded to conquer internet connections and email and MS Office 2008 for Mac. And Bubbleshooter. Yes, it works on a Mac. Damn it.

Then I remembered I had heard a bunch of writers talk about a fantastic writing program (compatible only with a Mac) called Scrivener. It had been touted as being a really good way to organize all the bits and pieces of a large ms. I figured I could use some help in that area. So after some research, and more tutorials, and because two shiny things are always better than just one, I decided to try the free 30-day trial version.

Oh. My. God.

I'm not even sure how to describe it. Except maybe to say that Scrivener might well be worth all the considerable aggravation of re-learning how to do EVERYTHING on a computer. I might even forgive the Mac's pitiful substitution of a "backspace" key for a real "delete" key. WTH, Mac users never make mistakes worth deleting?

I digress. My ms is now broken down into not only chapters, but scenes within each chapter. And each scene has a notecard thingy with a brief synopsis of the scene (a synopsis I had to write, but let's not quibble). And I can now view a corkboard with all these notecards on it or switch all that info into an outline. I haven't even figured out yet how to input all the info this thing can assimilate. It can even do pictures. And if I want to move a scene, I just grab it and move it. And the notecard automatically moves with it.

It's amazing. It's also amazingly easy to see, looking at these notecards, when a scene works and is doing everything it's supposed to do. And when it's not. [sigh]

Yes, this all took a lot of time. Especially since my old version of Word is so old it's not even compatible with Office 2008. I swear I saw the new program roll its eyes and heave a sigh of disgust before pronouncing my ms to be incomprehensible. I'm pretty sure that was a technical opinion, not an editorial one. So I had to improvise just a wee bit. But I entered all of the old pages, even the ending, and the updated page count thing over there reflects that and not any new pages. So, great progress, just no new pages.

Of course, this means I'm going to have to come up with a new reward for when I finish. Whatever it is, I'll be sure not to mention it to my older sister.

It's all downhill from here

2008-11-14T08:48:00.002-05:00

"The first draft of anything is shit."
-Ernest Hemmingway

That makes me feel so much better.

Well, the great reconstruction -- the ~~reckless slash-and-burn~~, um, that is, the careful re-reading, editing, re-writing and general whipping into shape of the old ms and copying it into a new document -- is at an end. There are several dozen pages that didn't make the cut (my page count is significantly lower than when I started, which is disheartening), but they needed to go. There are also a few dozen pages I've written that go at the very end and that won't get added until I actually reach the end. Yes, I've written the ending. And I like it. For now.

Going through this painstaking process of reconstruction has been an educational experience. I can see where there are great gaping holes in the plot and where things need clarification and expansion. The story needs more action and more suspense and more conflict -- no, that's not quite accurate. All of those things are there in the story, I just haven't yet managed to put them on the page.

Interestingly, there is a lot more sexual tension than I remember writing. Oh well. Still, this is not a romance. I've never been all that interested in the fictional romantic Happily Ever After and there won't be one in this book. I'm fascinated by the journey -- if these characters survive that, they can go off and do whatever else they want with the rest of their lives. Really.

So. Now comes the hard part. The slow part. The agonizing process of pulling pure crap out of the murky depths and boldly exposing it, slapping the stinking fetid mess of it onto the blinding white scrutiny of the page. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any other way to write the rest of the story.

What the hell, if it worked for Hemmingway . . .

9 Nov: This is not working

2008-11-09T21:46:00.010-05:00

This daily reporting nonsense is not only making me crazy, it's hurting my writing. I realized today that last week I pasted in a scene "as is" that should have been re-written -- because I was anxious to report that I had made progress. Idiot. Eventually I'll have to go back and re-write it. Or maybe delete it. But not now. Now is for going forward and making progress and reaching The End.

So the daily post part of the plan has been scrubbed. I'm not convinced anyone reading this is all that concerned about daily page totals anyway, just that I'm writing. The posts over here will go back to being about whatever, whenever.

For me, writing is not a race or a contest. And I can't make it be something it's not. I can't sacrifice quality for volume. Sometimes writing means sitting quietly and thinking, plotting, seeing and hearing and knowing a scene before it turns into words on the page. I need to write it in my head first. That's my process. It works when I let it. This month is about remembering how to put words onto the page again, and then regaining the discipline to actually do it. Thank you, Merry, for sending the poem. It made me realize I don't need to reinvent the wheel, just put it back on the cart.

I still have my (rather short) long-term goal, that feels amazingly good, and I'm still focusing intently on writing this entire month. I do kind of like the page count tracker thing over there in the corner, so I'll leave that and update it as I go. It reminds me there is an end in sight, however distant. But if it becomes irritating, it's toast.

My determination to accomplish this goal has not wavered. If anything, it's stronger now than it was a week ago.

7-8 Nov: a much needed break

2008-11-09T11:59:00.003-05:00

On the 7th the week caught up with me, big time. After work, I had to do some stuff in preparation for a Board meeting the next day and then realized I HADN'T READ ANY FICTION FOR MORE THAN A WEEK! *gasp* No wonder I was feeling cranky. I was exhausted so I picked up the fluffiest book I could find and tried to read. Instead I fell asleep on the couch at an embarrassingly early hour.

The 8th was five and a half hours of meetings, with a break for lunch, and hanging out with some of my favorite people, other writers. Big changes on that front in the coming year. I've relinquished one responsibility [happy happy joy joy] but am taking on another. And while part of me is wondering why the hell I can't just keep my mouth shut instead of saying, "Sure, I can do that," a larger part of me is excited and happy about the new challenge.

But all that talking and listening just wears me out and I needed to hibernate for a while afterward to process everything. So I finished reading the fluffy book and thoroughly enjoyed it.

No writing. Didn't even think about the book. And I needed the break. This effort is teaching me the truth of something I've always suspected but never actually tested: I am not a seven-days-a-week kind of writer. But I'm also discovering that there are times (of the day, of the week) when I had thought I couldn't be productive, and I was mistaken.

Back to it.

6 Nov: trying to focus

2008-11-07T07:57:00.002-05:00

Re-writing. Heavy editing.
Trying not to drown in this muck.

New pages: 5-ish? I've lost track.
Total pages: 82

Write a blog post?
Oh please. I'm busy here.

5 Nov: reflections on race

2008-11-06T09:08:00.008-05:00

Here is a truth I rarely acknowledge about myself: Sometimes words and ideas get stuck in my head. And there is nothing I can do to get them out, to let others take their place, until I put them in writing. Sometimes it matters to me that others read them, sometimes not. Whether that is OCD or simply the mark of a writer, I neither know nor care. But these words were there and now they're here. And tomorrow [today, by the time you read this] I will be able to regain focus and allow others to fill the space -- with any luck they'll be words that belong in the book I'm supposed to be writing.

For me, and for many people I know, the Presidential election was not about race. I can't tell you how many times in the past months I've heard people say race didn't matter in this election. I don't think any of us were being disingenuous, but we were profoundly mistaken.

Anyone who knows anything at all about me knows I supported and voted for Barack Obama -- in the Democratic primary as well as in the general election. In order of importance, I based my decision on the following: He's a Democrat. I agree with much of what he said about issues. He is extraordinarily intelligent and articulate. He seems genuinely passionate about implementing change in ways that I think will improve this country. His spouse is completely awesome and she thinks highly of him. He's young and energetic and charismatic, yet also calm and confident, a natural leader. And, oh yeah, he's "black" and wouldn't it be amazing and historically significant to elect a black President.

I didn't vote for him because he's black, any more than I would have NOT voted for him because he's black. His racial makeup, define or describe it how you will, had virtually nothing to do with my decision. Neither, for that matter, did his religion.

Maybe I'm just terribly naive, but until Tuesday night I assumed the majority of people in this country felt the same. Oh sure, I know there are plenty of bigots and racists -- all over the country, not just here in the South -- who would never vote for a black person no matter the office. Especially not for the office that is arguably the most powerful in the world. I like to think those people are a minority. Then again, I also like to think I can eat chocolate with impunity.

But my assumptions about the importance of race changed Tuesday night, watching black people react to Obama's election. Seeing Andrew Young, one of the most gifted orators of our time, so overcome with emotion he could barely speak. Seeing Jesse Jackson with tears streaming unchecked down his face. Seeing all the (predominantly) black supporters gathered in Chicago's Grant Park, obviously in the grips of powerful emotion and overwhelming joy.

Okay, I know the Bush years were awful and many of us were desperate not to have four more years of the same, but these people were reacting to much more than having escaped the prospect of that.

And then I saw Oprah Winfrey in the crowd. She wasn't there as a superstar. There was no hoopla, no bright lights spotlighting her, no reporters lining up for an interview. She was standing patiently with friends, waiting to hear Obama speak. Just another face in the crowd, her quiet presence so unremarkable it was stunning. And the expression on her face. I can't even describe it. It was as if all her wealth and power and celebrity, all her very impressive accomplishments, were in that moment meaningless. Insignificant when measured against Obama's achievement that night. She was there not as Oprah, but as a black person. Standing witness to what for many was an overwhelmingly important milestone in history. American history. Certainly I had known this event would be cause for celebration. Deservedly so. It was the depth, the intensity of emotion it brought forth that caught me off guard.

Right then, everything inside of me took a sharp breath and held it and became very still and then a quiet voice in my head said, simply, "Oh." And I couldn't believe I had not realized until that moment how very much race does still matter in this country. How very important it is, not just to small-minded bigots, but to those who have suffered, in too many cases are still suffering, because of it. And how very mistaken some of us were in our assessment of its continued weightiness.

Barack Obama was not elected solely by black voters. Millions of white Americans had to believe race was not a pejorative issue -- in fact, many considered it to be irrelevant -- in order to vote for a man in an election in which, for millions of black Americans, the race of that man was of vast importance.

And I can't decide whether that's ironic or hopeful or somehow just heartbreaking.

4 Nov: being present in the moment

2008-11-05T08:55:00.005-05:00

I tried to write, really I did. But how can you not watch history in the making? I wanted to be a part of it, even if from a distance. I wanted to see the numbers add up as choices were made and voices were heard. I needed to witness Andrew Young, a man I came to admire and respect during the years I lived in Atlanta, brought to tears and near incoherence by the significance of and his gratitude for this day. I needed to hear the graceful and gracious concession of John McCain and the eloquently hopeful acceptance of Barak Obama. It was not a night for turning off the TV.

There were numbers more important yesterday than pages in a manuscript:

North Carolina elected its first female governor, a Democrat.
North Carolina elected only its second female US Senator, sending a Democrat to fill a seat held by Republicans for the last 36 years.
It appears North Carolina narrowly gave its electoral votes to a Democratic Presidential candidate for the first time since 1976.
And the United States elected its first black President.

I've always been proud to be an American. Watching those results last night, I was proud of Americans.

There are times fiction can't hold a candle to reality. I couldn't not watch.

3 Nov: Monday, Monday . . .

2008-11-04T08:12:00.002-05:00

. . . sometimes it just turns out that way.

On Monday I was an employee (exhausting day) and a viewer (LOVE that dancing show) and a friend (very long phone call).

I was not a writer.

I imagine tonight I will be a concerned citizen. Perhaps I'll be able to multi-task, concentrating on fiction and reality at the same time. We shall see.

I want everyone who comes over here today to say, "I VOTED!" It will make me feel better about my lack of progress.

2 Nov: headaches and waterfalls

2008-11-03T08:25:00.009-05:00

Sunday I woke up with the mother of all headaches. Not to mention the yelling father and four screaming kids and six barking dogs of a headache. Enough pain to last all day. Which it did. I did not want to write. It hurt to think. If I hadn't known people were expecting to see some progress, I wouldn't have done it.

So mostly I focused on editing. Copied good stuff from the old ms and pasted it into the new. In the correct order. Deleted a lot -- can't believe how bad some of it was. Added and tweaked a bit -- rather pleased by how much I've learned. Net result: 2 pages of new writing. Total ms now at 51 pages.

I also took a long nap. It helped.

Oh, and I also ~~slashed the hell out of~~, um, that is, edited a synopsis for a friend. Who may someday forgive me. [sigh] The things I do.

I can't express how much I appreciate you all coming over here to check on me. As a special thank you bonus, and because I know these updates are mind-numbingly boring, here are some pictures of Iguazu Falls in Argentina (or perhaps the Midwest, if you're looking at Wapak's map) that my daughter took while she was there several weeks ago:

1 Nov: a good start

2008-11-02T11:08:00.004-05:00

Okay, I can already tell it is going to be irritating as hell to write a post every day. Maybe I could do one every other day? No, I know. That wasn't the deal. Every day it is.

So yesterday, before I could write, I had to clear the decks. Really. I recently took an online quiz about distractions in your environment. It was interesting. I realized I have way too many things in my space that are distracting me. So I gathered up all the stuff I had taken out of the closet in there, but had not gotten around to actually doing anything about, and shoved it all right back into the closet. And closed the doors.

Then I had to go to the grocery store to stock up. I know, you're thinking this was just a delaying tactic, but it was actually quite essential. For instance, last night at 10:00 when I realized I hadn't eaten dinner yet, it was very helpful to have something quick and easy I could zap in the microwave.

When I am this intensely focused on writing, I tend to lose track of things. Like eating. And going to bed. Good thing The Wonder Dog is staying with His Favourite Person this weekend.

So yesterday, last night really, I wrote eight new pages. I'm slow and that's a decent output for me. And I copied over four old ones. So the new ms now has 12 pages in it. Including an excellent new scene, with two new characters. One of them dies. That's a good start and I'm happy.

Getting Serious, Setting Goals

2008-11-01T13:36:00.004-04:00

Okay, time to get serious here. About writing. I've decided November is going to be devoted to writing and not much else. Well, except for the day job and the cooking and cleaning and laundry and the holiday baking and shopping and hiring a different roofer because four unsuccessful tries to find and fix that damn leak is enough already and of course I have to GO VOTE and then watch election results and . . .

Start over.

I've decided November is going to be devoted to writing. I've also decided I need a deadline. I function really well with deadlines. The day job is all about getting things done by a certain date. I might put things off-- okay, I always leave things to the last minute, but I never miss a deadline. Perhaps I've become too dependent on that and lost the ability to be truly self-motivated, but I know I function well that way. The deadline has to be something that matters to me, one with consequences. And some accountability.

I've been advised that it's a good idea (we'll see about that) to make all this public. Nothing like a big dose of public shame and humiliation to get your muse to sit up and pay attention, right?

So this is what I've decided:

On 5 January 2009 I am going to send a submission to an agent. Even if I'm not done writing the book. And since it will kill me to send a submission of an unfinished book, it WILL be finished by then. Why this date? No one in publishing does much during the holidays and it seems the first reasonable date. Coincidentally, this is also the date I'll probably put the house on the market. What the hell, live dangerously.
Once I send off the submission, I will buy myself a laptop computer, something I've wanted for a very long time. Someone suggested chocolate, but food rewards don't work for me. I want a laptop.
Every day in November, I will put up a short post here, detailing my progress, or lack thereof, with daily page counts. [With my method of formatting, the finished book will be roughly 400 pages; at 250 words per page, this will result in a standard 100,000 word single title novel.]

Now, one note about "progress." I've already written a huge chunk of this book. But it's a mess. No really, it is. Most of it is terrific (yes, humility in action here) but sections of it are out of order and parts of it have to be deleted and other parts have to be re-written. So I'm going to start over. What I mean by this is that I'm going to open a new document and start writing. There's a scene I want to put at the beginning that I haven't written yet -- it's been in my head all week and it's good -- and I'm going to start with that. Then, as I get to a part I've already written, I'll copy and paste it in, editing as I go. So at first, page counts may seem very impressive. Don't get used to it. I don't write that fast. So things will slow down.

Feel free to stop by occasionally and chastise me if I haven't made much progress or haven't posted about it. Really.

And now that I've spent all this time writing about writing and not actually, you know, writing, it's time to get started. Right after I eat lunch and clean up the kitch-- ARRRGH!

Focus. Need to focus. I can do this.

come dance with me

2008-10-31T08:43:00.007-04:00

Today is Halloween. This is what my sister, Booko, does to pumpkins this time of year:

Yes, she carved each and every one of them. Amazingly talented, is my sister.

Being much less adept with a knife, I think of Halloween as the annoyingly predictable day when the neighborhood kids come to ring my doorbell, sending The Wonder Dog into frenzied fits of insanity and the cat into traumatized seclusion, interrupting my solitude with their insincere and unconvincing cries of “trick or treat!” Of course, there are the practical souls who stand there silently, petulant, stubbornly holding out their buckets and pillowcases, recipients of a largesse earned by mere entitlement rather than effort or threat of force, their young faces costumed in ghoulish aspects of expectant greed.

No, this is not my favourite holiday. How could you tell?

But today is also Samhain, the dark twin of Beltane, sometimes known as All Hallow’s Eve -- a night when it is said that the veil between the worlds of the living and of the dead is at its thinnest. Some say it is a night of unimaginable power. A night cloaked in mystery and pagan ritual, shrouded by superstition and fear. A night when the spirits of the dead roam freely among us, causing mischief and harm, unappeased by meager offerings and reined in only by the approach of dawn. Tales are told of incautious souls unwary enough to be lured by curiosity to the other side, and of those unfortunate few who do not make it back before night gives way to light.

As an antidote to the crass commercialism of the modern holiday, and just generally to cheer myself up, I tried to find a poem I could post here that would convey the dark eerie spookiness of the old pagan beliefs -- that the threshold between the living and the dead is easily crossed on this night -- but couldn’t find any that quite fit the right mood. So I wrote my own. I hope it's as much fun to read as it was to write. May your Hallow E’en be a night of safe travels, one disturbed only by visitations of benign spirits.

come dance with me

they come in the darkest of night
to be
afoot in the absence of light
and see
the souls who have given the right
to me
to waltz upon their graves

they come now to witness the dance
and see
how fortune has done more than glance
at me
and evil has won the last chance
to be
the footprints on the graves

and oh how they quiver with fear
of me
and how their own lives they hold dear
and flee
though fate never has been more clear
to see
'tis written on the graves

the game has already been won
you see
and night will give way to the sun
and be
the lament of words left unsung
to me
the keeper of the graves

they say 'tis sheer madness this night
to be
awash in the absence of light
and see
them link hands this unhallowed night
with me
and dance upon their graves

come
dance
with
me

What will it cost you?

2008-10-26T14:46:00.007-04:00

My daughter called from Argentina the other day, relieved to report that she'd finally received her absentee ballot. We requested it weeks ago and she was starting to worry it wouldn't get to her in time. This will be the first Presidential election in which she's been old enough to vote and she's extremely excited about that. She's taking the whole thing very seriously. She even went online to research the unfamiliar candidates on the ballot, so she could make informed decisions.

So it was a huge shock when a friend, who is also studying abroad, told her not to bother sending her ballot back via regular Argentinean mail. Apparently, the mail service there is unreliable and quite a bit of mail never makes it to its destination. And it's so slow that even if the ballot were to make it all the way to the U.S., it would be too late to count. Her only option would be to send it via UPS. And doing that would cost the equivalent of fifty US dollars.

I can't even describe how upset she was to learn this. She's a college student on a tight budget and has pretty much accounted for every conceivable expense while abroad, including extracurricular travel she hopes to do. She's counting every penny until she comes home and can get a part time job to earn spending money again. She doesn't have an extra fifty bucks just sitting around. So she asked me what I thought she should do. Take a chance on the Argentinean mail system? Spend the money on UPS? Or just not vote?

We discussed that last option first. Talked about the cynicism of whether one vote really made a difference, whether or not it would even matter if she voted. She told me again how important this was to her, to finally vote in a Presidential election. How much she had been looking forward to it, how much it mattered to her. She debated taking her chances with regular mail, and realized how unacceptable it would be to never know whether or not her ballot had been received. And she agonized over the significant expense of doing what was required to make sure her vote was counted, that her voice was heard.

So I suggested maybe it would help to put it in a broader perspective. To think about what others had sacrificed, throughout history, in order to vote. To consider what others had been willing to pay for the privilege. How the colonists had defied king and country and gone to war for the right to have a representative government. How women risked reputation and imprisonment to obtain that right. How African Americans risked their safety, their very lives, in that struggle to have a voice. So many people in our country's history have been willing, have found it necessary, to risk everything for a privilege we now take for granted. And I told her something I truly believe: if you fail to exercise your rights, fail to live up to the responsibilities that come with those rights, you risk losing them.

She decided to pay the fifty dollars. She gets a sticker.

You might wonder why I didn't offer to pay it for her, or at least offer to chip in. There are two reasons. First, because she didn't ask. She didn't come looking for a handout, she came to me for advice. I'm proud of her for that. Second, and more important, because every time she votes in the years to come, I hope she will remember the time she had to pay a price that, at the time, was a dear one. And remember why she decided it was important to do so.

Killer Trees

2008-10-12T16:07:00.017-04:00

My trees are trying to kill me. Their weapon of choice? Acorns.

You think I'm kidding? Look at this:

In the thirteen years I've lived under these trees, I have never seen so many acorns. Some people say this increased production is a sign we'll have a harsh winter. Bah! I know the real reason. It's in retaliation for this:

Yes, this summer I had the tree guys come and trim some branches off the trees. I even had them cut down a few scraggly specimens whose branches were scraping on the garage roof. And they removed two that were dead. They did a great job and the "canopy" looks so much better. They even cleaned up every leaf and twig of their mess. Very professional.

But now the trees are on the rampage, getting back at me. These acorns aren't just falling, they're being hurled. Thrown with force. You should hear the noise these things make when they hit the roof. And the gutters. Do you know how much it hurts when an acorn traveling at high velocity hits unprotected body parts? Walking to the end of the driveway to get the mail is courting serious injury. If the acorns don't hit you, you risk turning an ankle when you step on them. This morning I backed out of the garage and was barraged by a series of violent explosions bouncing off the roof of the car. Acorns. Personal injury isn't enough, now they're going for property damage. I'm surprised I could even hear it though, since there are so many acorns covering the driveway it sounds like driving across acorn-filled bubble-wrap.

I'm convinced the squirrels are in on it. It's a conspiracy. They're miffed that I disrupted their travels on the super-highway from the maple tree in the back yard across the roof to the big oak in front. I had the branches trimmed so they couldn't do that.

Hey, they've got plenty of trees. They don't need to be climbing all over my house too. I can picture them up there, three and four in a group, pulling back on the leafy end of an acorn-laden branch, stretching it tight like a slingshot, waiting for just the right moment and then letting go, releasing a hail of acorns, strafing the siding and pelting the roof over my bedroom. They do this several times each night. Yes, it wakes me up. Every single time. I see them the next morning when I open the blinds, sitting on the branch outside my window. Smirking.

But I'm onto them and I have a plan. I'm going to stay inside until they run out of ammunition. I figure it shouldn't take more than another month. Or so. Okay, I didn't say it was a particularly good plan.

Next thing I know, they'll be trying to smother me. With leaves.

Guest blog from the past

2008-09-21T18:50:00.002-04:00

I notice it's past time for another post, but I'm so busy right now I don't think I could put two thoughts together and be coherent. So here is another letter from my Great Aunt Mabel, who was an Army nurse during WWII. Someday when I have a website -- someday when I've finished writing this book and it's under contract and I'm working on the next one, someday soon I hope -- I'll put all her letters up in a space of their own for people to read. They really are an incredible glimpse into another time and place. Hope you enjoy this one, from the early days while stationed in Colorado:

Camp Hale

U.S.

Army Ski Cantonment
February 11, 1943
2:45 A.M.

This is my 7th night on Night Duty. 8 more to go. We stay on only 15 nights at a time and that is long enough of 12 hour duty. It isn’t half bad – in fact I rather enjoy it. The only trouble is you don’t do anything but sleep and work on this shift. Before I went on nights I was a patient in the hospital for six days with a sore “Pando” throat. I had it for several days before and worked but when my temperature was elevated they put me in for a rest cure. G got the measles. We have to be on duty at seven P.M. I have three wards to look after. There is a ward boy on each and I have decided that a good one is worth his weight in gold or silver or whatever else is valuable these days. They really are a great help. Ward 12 is orthopedic.. a back injury – a fellow who got kicked by a mule. Several knee injuries and fractures. Most of them are ambulatory. Ward 14 is a surgical ward.. that had always been my pet ward. Have a couple of new surgicals as of yesterday – a hernia and an ingrown toe nail – big stuff!! Last night we had an emergency appendix – spinal. They do most everything under spinal. They brought a Sailor in off the train with an arm infection.. a Sailor of all things! He needed quite a bit of attention – such as getting his arm all fixed up with hot packs – sulfathiazole – forced fluids etc. Guess the boys thought I was taking too good care of him – they were all more than kidding us. Then to top it all off – he is from Chatfield… so I asked him if he had ever heard of Rochester. Then the boys just knew for sure they wouldn’t get any more attention tonight… the Navy had taken over Camp Hale! Ward 16 is the woman’s ward. Wouldn’t you know it – they’d have one even in the Army! We have 10 private rooms – use them for nurses as far as they reach. I make rounds several times to all three wards – feel like Florence Nightingale herself, walking through those big wards with a none too bright (at times) gov’t issue flash light. Often I expect someone to go “Boo” at me out of the dark but no one has as yet. Guess they are too glad to have a nurse come around. I find them sleeping in the funniest positions – sometimes I’m almost sorry I looked! But the main thing is to find them sleeping. They all wear gray p.j.s (gov’t issue) and red bath robes – when they wear one. I know for sure it will be a treat to see a man with civilian p.j.s on again ! We have so much snow. Everything is covered. Sometimes it thaws a little during the middle of the day and the snow is swell for snowballs. The icicles continue to fascinate me. They are so huge. They say it can snow here all the year around. See where shoes are being rationed. I feel quite at home. I must transplant easily – like a dandelion or some such weed. Wonder if they put me over in Siberia if I’d feel right at home.

Does summer end if school doesn't start?

2008-09-07T14:14:00.004-04:00

Twenty years ago, I sent my oldest child off to attend pre-school two mornings a week. Every year since then -- in fact, most of my life before then -- has been in some way shaped and defined by the concepts of "school year" and "summer." Until this fall.

This fall, that oldest child has completed his formal schooling and is working full time. My youngest child is still in school, but she's studying abroad this semester and it seems more like she's just on a very long extended vacation. Helping her pack belongings into a suitcase and putting her on a plane in the middle of summer just wasn't the same as moving her into campus housing this fall. I haven't even had to buy textbooks. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to run out to the store and pick up some three-ring binders and loose leaf paper. I'm at a loss without the back-to-school rituals that signal the end of summer.

This is different from the "empty nest" thing you hear about when the kids leave home. I've discovered, much to my surprise, that I like living alone. I truly enjoy that my son is living with me right now, but we both know it's temporary. And I'm fine with that. I'm delighted by the prospect of having the nest all to myself. Just as I'm delighted my kids know the door is always open and a light is always on. Even if it is just the refrigerator.

But this, this disassociation from school, is different. This changes the basic order of things, the way I view what happens and when. For the past two decades, planning a vacation, even a quick trip to the beach, always took into consideration the school schedule. When did winter break start and end? Where did the teacher workdays fall and which ones added a day off to a holiday weekend? Was that enough time to get to the mountains and back? Where should we go over summer break?

But suddenly this fall, I realize my life is losing that structure. My daughter will have three semesters to complete once she returns home. A year and a half. And then my life will no longer be influenced by the school year. At all. I'm not sure I like that.

This feels odd, wrong somehow. Yet at the same time, strangely freeing.

Another loss

2008-08-23T17:21:00.002-04:00

My father-in-law died this morning in a hospital in Wisconsin. Of pneumonia and the frailty of old age. He was 87 years old and everyone called him Bakka. He had Alzheimer's, though he still knew who he was and mostly still remembered his family. He couldn't remember how to take care of himself so he was living in an assisted care facility. With every day, the quality of his life was becoming more intolerable, to him and to everyone who cared about him. The decision not to resuscitate had been made long ago. The end came quickly.

I am no longer married to his son and I hadn't seen Bakka in several years, but he still has a very special place in my heart. It is hard to realize that I have no place among the mourners. I am not able to share my grief with those who knew him and loved him. There is no one with whom to share memories or to celebrate the fullness of the man's life. I am not even able to comfort my own children on the loss of their grandfather, as one is in another country and the other is out of town attending a friend's wedding. It's a lonely sort of grief.

Bakka and Nana came to stay with us many times over the years and he continued to visit after she died. He could be a difficult old curmudgeon, and often was, but I've been thinking today about the way he would laugh at something one of the kids said or at some playful antic of the kitty. He had a wonderful laugh. He'd get a look on his face that was almost surprise, as if he hadn't expected to find something funny just then.

One of the last times he came to stay with us his doctor had just told him he had to give up chocolate. He was indignant. Told me that he'd already given up alcohol and red meat and coffee, even the decaf he loved so much, and he would be goddamned if he was giving up his Oreos. And then he grinned as he lifted the lid off the cookie jar. I always bought Oreos for him.

So I will quietly grieve in my own way. Just as I will always remember and love him in my own way. And it will have to be enough.

Rest in peace now, Bakka.

March of the Penguins, Flight of the Cat

2008-08-21T21:32:00.005-04:00

Yeah, I'm busy. So you get more words from my daughter. She's more interesting than I am right now anyway. She's an animal lover. She especially loves penguins. She made me watch that movie "March of the Penguins." Twice. If you haven't seen it, you should. It's an amazing story of determination and survival in brutally harsh conditions. But I digress. So, she loves penguins. Almost as much as she loves dogs. And cats. Here is an excerpt from one of her Argentina blog posts:

I absolutely adore my family here! I have a madre whose name is A, and two sisters X and C. They are so nice and friendly! And a kitty whose name is Michi, which actually means “kitty,” just like my cat’s name! Michi looks just like my cat, except where Kitty is black, Michi is gray. But Michi has white paws and a white belly, but he doesn’t have a white nose like my kitty. He already recognizes me and will jump up on my bed to sit with me. Apparently he doesn’t do this with anyone else! My madre jokes that Michi has fallen in love with me. The other day when I was in the shower, he was sitting outside the door meowing because he wanted to come in to see me. And Friday night when I got home at 4am from going out, Michi was outside because he had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night (he doesn’t have a litter box but goes outside like a puppy), and he came running across the street to see me, meowing the whole time. I was surprised that he’s learned to recognize me so quickly! And unlike my kitty, he actually lets me pick him up too, much to my delight!

Note: We rescued our cat from the wild when she was just weeks old. Her idea of snuggling is to sit on the far end of the couch and glare. Suspiciously.

So I emailed my daughter the link to the article in the last blog post about the penguin being knighted. I knew she'd find that delightful and it would make her smile. Last weekend was a four-day holiday and she and some friends traveled to Cordoba. I didn't expect to hear from her while she was there, but she sent me this email:

my ancestors just knighted a penguin!!! that made my day! because i have had quite a bad time today... michi had a bad accident on thursday morning. our house is 3 stories, and he climbs the neighbor´s tree and jumps onto the roof...well thursday he missed, and impaled his stomach on the top of a gate, and had to have surgery. and my madre just sent me a text today saying ¨"michi se fue de casa" which means he left the house. i dont know if he ran away (to die because of his wound), or if that´s a nice way of saying he died, but in the house. either way i´ve been very sad all day, and that news about the penguin just made me very happy. love you!

You send your child off to a foreign country and there are so many things you warn her about, so many dangers you want her to be aware of. Caring too much should not have to be one of them.

Benighted in Scotland

2008-08-16T12:25:00.008-04:00

When is a king really a knight? When he's a penguin, of course. Yes, a king penguin has been granted knighthood. By those notoriously funny Norwegian Royal Guardsmen.

From an article in Edinburg's Festivals Guide:

Nils Olav, a king penguin at Edinburgh Zoo, was knighted Friday 15 August at a ceremony conducted by Tattoo Chief Executive and Producer Major General Euan Loudon, acting on behalf of the King of Norway, King Harald V.

The king penguin already enjoyed the ‘rank’ of Honorary Colonel-in-Chief of His Majesty The King’s Guard of Norway after being adopted as a mascot by the Royal Guardsmen in 1972 and promoted through the ranks on five prior occasions.

The ceremony was attended by 130 members of His Majesty The King’s Guard of Norway - who are appearing at this month’s Edinburgh Tattoo - along with the Acting Norwegian Consul General in Edinburgh Mrs Kjellaug Myhre, the Lord Provost of Edinburgh George Grub and representatives of the Tattoo including Tattoo narrator Alasdair Hutton OBE TD, upon whose shoulders fell the task of reading the citation from King Harald V of Norway. The citation concluded:

“We being well satisfied with loyalty, courage and good endowments of Our Trusty and Well-beloved Nils Olav, and reposing entire trust and confidence in you as a Penguin every way qualified to receive the honour and dignity of Knighthood and the Office aforesaid.”

As Alasdair Hutton spoke, Nils Olav waddled through the assembled ranks of His Majesty The King’s Guard of Norway, where he was met by Tattoo Producer Major General Euan Louden bearing the sword of the Norwegian King, brought to Scotland especially for the ceremony.

Describing the event as “indeed an honour” as well as “probably a first in Scottish history” Euan Louden then tapped the penguin on both ‘shoulders’ and announced him ‘Sir Nils Olav’ to the applause of the gathered crowd.

Speaking after the ceremony, Alasdair Hutton said: “the penguin was very conscious of the honour bestowed on him. It was perfectly clear that he realised that he was carrying one of the highest honours that Norway could convey.”

More details here in the Daily Mail article where they report:

Darren McGarry, Animal Collection Manager at Edinburgh Zoo, said: ‘Nils always recognises the Norwegian Guardsmen when they come.

I'll just bet he does. And this:

Norwegian King’s Guardsman, Captain Rune Wiik added: ‘We are extremely proud of Nils Olav and pleased that an enduring part of the Royal Guard is resident in Scotland helping to further strengthen ties between our two countries.

‘I understand he continues to carry out his duties as Honorary Colonel in Chief in an exemplary fashion and this latest award is clearly very much deserved.’

It would appear that, although most of the more vicious pillage-and-burn tactics of my Viking ancestors have faded into the mists of time, Norwegians are still invading Scotland with sword in hand to perform unnatural acts upon the hapless wildlife.

And you thought Norwegians were stoic and humourless.

Guest Blog: from Argentina by way of Cusco, Peru

2008-08-14T21:33:00.011-04:00

Okay, I'll admit it: I worry. Having a daughter studying abroad in Argentina has done nothing to make me worry less. You could even say it has made it somewhat worse. Okay fine, the usual worry has combined with my writer's imagination and developed into full-blown paranoia. With delusions.

You would think I could take it in stride that she didn't call on Sunday as she usually does. Or that it would be no big deal that she hadn't replied to the last three emails I sent. And of no concern whatsoever that it had been more than a week since I'd heard from her. Nine whole days. Not that I was counting.

So I finally got an email from her:

Well, [BF] hadn´t talked on the phone to his mom in a month! I´m way ahead of the game! It´s just that the computers at COPA are very slow, and there are only 3 for 41 people, so I don´t always have access to them. And I don´t have internet at my house, and I don´t go to a cafe with wifi everyday...it´s different here! People aren´t glued to their computers, it´s nice. But I am doing wonderful! I WENT SKIING!!! on saturday a group of about 15 of us went to a ski place for the day and it was so much fun, but the slopes are definitely a lot harder here than they are at snowshoe! i´m getting better though!

Oh, well, good. Because I was thinking maybe she had made some rash political statement that caused an international incident and was being detained until the State Department could be contacted. Or that rebel forces had abducted her and were holding her for ransom. Maybe next week. So glad it was just a ski trip. Now all I have to worry about is her falling off the side of a mountain and breaking a leg and being unable to summon help and freezing to death and leaving wild beasts to fight over her thawing carcass in the spring. Sigh.

I had asked whether I could post excerpts from her blog here. Because some of you were curious to know what she's been doing. Besides, I'm busy and have nothing of particular interest to say right now anyway. She replied:

i guess you can copy and paste some stuff of what i wrote in my blog, that´s just kind of odd though, can´t you just tell them what i´m doing?

Um, no. My version would contain too much anxiety over bad things about to ensue. Isn't it odd how the apostrophes are backward? Is that a magnetic thing in the southern hemisphere or a characteristic of computers used in Spanish speaking countries?

Here is some of her post about when she was in Cusco, Peru:

So, some key details about Cusco. While taking the taxi from the airport to our hostel, which was about a 10 minute ride, we put our lives in the hands of a truly Crazy Taxi driver. (Those of you who play video games will understand my horror.) There are no traffic laws, maybe two stop lights in the whole city, no lanes, no rules that anyone seems to follow. Our taxi driver drove seriously two inches away from the car next to us. I was amazed we arrived at the hostel in one piece. Also, attempting to cross the street was an adventure as well. Generally in the US pedestrians have the right of way at crosswalks, and most drivers will stop before they run you over. Well, in Cusco it is the opposite. A driver will not hesitate to run you over if you are in their way. Also, there are about a billion punch buggies (VW Beetles) in Cusco.

And you wonder why I worry? She continues:

The food was incredible! Everything was fresh, which is something that is hard to come by in the US. Fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh vegetables, fresh meat, etc. It is incredible the difference in taste between fresh food and processed food. And everything was so inexpensive too! One night as we were going out to the Plaza de Armas for dinner we were stopped by a parade of children. It looked like elementary school aged children, and each grade/class was performing a different traditional Peruvian/Andean dance, complete with costumes and music and everything! They paraded around the entire plaza in the street, and the kids were absolutely adorable in their fancy dresses and costumes doing these wonderful dances! All of their families were out there taking pictures, it was truly incredible. From the restaurant we could continue to watch them because every restaurant in the Plaza is on the second floor and has a balcony (with windows to be open air or closed to be inside) where you can sit and eat and look out at the plaza from above. At the restaurant there was a band playing traditional Andean music, and the lyrics were all about harmony between people and the earth, and Pacha Mama (Mother Earth) and very spiritual stuff, but spiritual in the sense of being connected to the earth and your surroundings. The music was so beautiful. [BF] bought their CD too!

Okay, that's enough for now. Maybe later I'll "let" her guest blog about the trek to Machu Picchu. It's harrowing, I tell you. Dangers abound.

The distance between me and . . . not me

2008-08-05T08:58:00.003-04:00

I cut myself yesterday. Not badly. No arterial geysers. No need to re-attach severed flesh. Just enough to bleed a bit. So I did what most people do. I stuck the bloody mess in my mouth until I could track down a tissue and a band-aid.

For some odd reason -- hey, my mind wanders -- this made me think of something a high school English teacher once explained to our class: the concept of "me" and "not me." I have no idea what this had to do with HS English, or anything else, but the teacher was my dad so I'm sure it had some relevance. Though his mind wandered on occasion too.

Anyway, he explained that we each have pretty clear boundaries about what is "me" and what is "not me," even though they can differ from person to person. That blood welling up out of my cut was "me" or I wouldn't have just stuck it in my mouth like that. Had I let several drops ooze out onto a spoon, I probably would have felt differently about it. I sincerely doubt I would have taken that spoonful of blood -- my very own fresh, still warm and not yet clotted blood, mind you -- and stuck it in my mouth. At some point, it would become "not me."

Same concept applies to saliva. We swallow our own spit every day. We think nothing of it. It's not gross or disgusting. But put a quantity into a glass and consider drinking it? Uh, no. Not even if it's still warm. Because it's no longer "me" at that point.

Same thing with snot. Drips down the back of our throat and runs into our stomach. No big deal. Blow it out and eat it? I don't think so. Although some people don't seem to be even slightly offended by removing bits of goo from their nose and eating them. Ick.

Ever bitten off a hangnail and rather than spit out that tiny bit of skin, you just swallowed it? Ever stuck out your tongue and licked off tears running down your face? At what point do those things become "not me" for you? I once knew a kid who liked to pick off scabs and eat them. Eeew. Obviously his definition of where "me" left off and "not me" took over was different from mine.

So, interesting concept, "me" and "not me." One I haven't thought about in many years. Where are your boundaries?

Cusco, Peru

2008-07-31T21:05:00.014-04:00

Here are some pictures my daughter took while she was in Cusco earlier this month. I ~~stole~~ appropriated them from her blog.

Yes, I'm vacationing vicariously this summer.

Phone Home

2008-07-27T18:17:00.003-04:00

I got a call on my cell phone today and the screen said it was from area code 261. I don't think I know anyone in that area code. But I answered it anyway, feeling impatient about having to explain I was not who they were trying to reach.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"Hello?"

"HI!"

"Who is this?"

"It's me!"

"Ohmigod, it's YOU. Are you really calling me from Argentina? How did-- but you don't have a ph-- "

"Phone cards, mom. Remember those?"

Well, yeah, of course. But the call was unexpected. I can't even tell you how good it was to hear her voice. Twenty three minutes of it before she had to go off and do something.

She's got a head cold -- going from summer heat to sleeping in a tent when it's 25 degrees outside will do that to a person -- but she's having a great time and is now safely in Mendoza. The family she is staying with is "very nice." They go to the university tomorrow for more orientation and a Spanish language placement test.

Sometimes it's worth it to answer the phone.

Wishful Thinking

2008-07-13T15:13:00.004-04:00

We're having Thanksgiving dinner today. Because my daughter leaves Tuesday for Argentina by way of Peru and she won't be here for Thanksgiving this year.

The house smells wonderful. Just like Thanksgiving. If you ignore the sweltering humidity of a 90 degree July day and the fact that the kids are at the pool, if you disregard the absence of Christmas songs on the radio and mega sales at the mall, you could almost believe it's November.

Request for Feedback

2008-07-08T00:09:00.019-04:00

Yes, I've been writing. I know I said I wasn't going to until after the move. I was wrong. I'm deep into "the mess in the middle" as some writers call it. Revising, twisting the plot and trying to get everyone from the beginning to the ending in a way that makes sense without being predictable. It's frustrating, because every time I think I know what happens next, something else happens. At least things are happening. But my mind keeps going back to the beginning. I've re-written it several times and will re-write it again later. But I keep thinking about it. Usually that means I screwed up somewhere. So I thought I'd ask for some feedback from the ~~demented~~ discerning few of you who still read this blog.

Correct my grammar and spelling if you must, but that's not my concern right now. I want to know: Does it make sense? Do you care about these characters? Do you want to know what happens next? Would you keep reading?

Please do not say, "Of course I'd read it, you wrote it." My mom is the only one allowed to say that. Pretend you have no idea who wrote it. It's not a romance, though there is sexual tension between two of the main characters. It's a thriller. You're in a bookstore and you pick it up and turn to the first page. What do you think? If you don't want to comment on the blog, send me an email: [click here] Yes, you over there in the corner. I want your opinion. You don't have to be nice. Really. [BTW, I tried to get rid of the double-space formatting so this wouldn't be so long, but it's late and I'm too impatient to keep messing with it.]

I'm not posting this anywhere else and I'm only going to leave it up for maybe a day. Then probably I'm going to delete the excerpt part of it. I don't know why, I'm strange that way. If you miss it, so sorry. Oh, and I changed the title. Here it is:

* * * * *

7/9/08, 12:45 AM, edited to add:

Okay, so I said I'd leave it up for maybe a day and I did.

Thank you so much to everyone who commented here and sent email. The input has given me much to ponder and it will help immensely in the re-write. Yeah, I'm going to take it apart and do it again. And again. Whatever it takes.

The hardest part of writing -- and the best part, in my opinion -- is editing. I think the trick is to keep it fresh and not lose your voice or your consistency, while at the same time making it stronger and more clear. Unless, of course, you're misleading people on purpose. [grin]

I liked one of the earlier versions I wrote of the scene with Annie, but it was mostly "telling." I remember thinking it would be a lot of work to fix that scene and maybe I could do it another way. Well, the other way is just not doing it for me. So I'm going back to the earlier version to see what I can salvage. Maybe I'll post it again once I'm done. Then you all can tell me whether you think it's an improvement. Or point out where I've screwed it up even worse.

In the meantime, I'm removing the excerpt from this post but leaving the comments. I know I really dislike it when someone blithely deletes my writing for no good reason and I'm going to assume others feel the same. Besides, everything you all have said is far too important to me not to leave it just as it is.

Again, thank you for your help.

Out of the closets . . .

2008-07-05T14:57:00.004-04:00

I had planned to write today. And I will. Later. I'm not a morning person. Now I'm laughing, because that might be the biggest understatement I'll ever make.

So instead, this morning I cleaned out a couple closets. Just the ones that had old books shoved into the corners. Dusty old single title paperbacks, mostly romance. [achoo!] I don't re-read -- I've tried and I just can't -- so I knew I had to get rid of these books. There is NO POINT in keeping them. Really.

So I started pulling them out, lining them up in stacks of twelve as I went so I could figure out how many there were. It made me wistful to see some of those names, many who used to be favorite authors but whose work I never see any more. Or who used to write romance but moved on to other genres. Some good stuff there.

I filled up two shopping bags. Then three more. Then another. Look, here they are, on their way out the back door:

The cat was flicking her tail, expressing displeasure about the disturbance in the force. The two large bags each contain four dozen books. The four medium bags, three dozen each. That makes, um, let's see, carry the one, oh that can't be right-- twenty dozen? Gasp. Two hundred forty books.

The nice library people are either going to love me or tell me I can never come back.

Home Repair 103

2008-06-26T16:16:00.009-04:00

So, we're making progress. It comes with a price. The smell of fresh paint is giving me a headache. The constant invasion of my space by pleasantly cheerful worker-people is making me grouchy. Getting up two hours earlier than usual to accommodate their schedule is making me tired -- because I can't seem to convince myself to go to bed two hours earlier. It has become a real struggle not to nod off at my desk about mid-afternoon.

Here is the godawful wallpaper that used to be in the master bathroom. Actually, it's still there; they painted over it.

My bathroom now looks terrific and I'm left wondering why I didn't do this long ago. The Dog's Favourite Person asked why I had them paint the walls white [it's a perfectly lovely creamy off-white]. Why not something pretty, like blue? I told him it's like inviting someone to decorate an Easter egg. You wouldn't give them an egg that had already been decorated. You want them to imagine their own design.

Every morning I think, today is the day they'll finish up, but every afternoon they tell me they'll see me at the same time tomorrow. I'm starting to believe they'll continue to show up every morning until I sell the house. Maybe even after that. Caution to new owners: This house comes with its own work crew that will arrive at the crack of dawn every morning, just in case something needs doing around the place.

And it's never nothing. They keep finding more things they can fix. I want to say, "STOP it, that's ENOUGH already!" -- except they're just trying to help. I'm convinced it's a guy thing. They see a problem, they want to solve it. The most recent offer was to point up the mortar between the bricks on the front steps.

"You know how to do that?" I asked.

The contractor gave a shrug and looked at me with a self-confident grin, as if every man knows how to do that. "Sure I do, love. Not a problem."

"Wow. That'd be great. Thanks."

Yes, it really needed to be done. I just hadn't noticed. See how nice they look now?

I'm notorious for not noticing things. For instance, when the real estate agent first came to look at the house, we were in the master bathroom and she said, "Can we get rid of the cup holder, or are you using it?" I said, "What cup holder?" She looked at me like I had three heads and none of them were functioning very well.

This cup holder:

I swear, I stopped "seeing" that damn thing a week after we bought the house. Oh, I tried to take it down. But it's stuck on there pretty good. Probably I got distracted and wandered off before I found the right tool for the job. And then, because my brain can do magic, it became invisible. Maybe I'll ask these guys whether they can remove it. No, not my brain. The cup holder.

Really, this whole hiring people to do stuff thing is making me feel helpless and ineffective and less than capable of being a homeowner. As I said, all this progress comes with a price.

Self-confidence does not come easy

2008-06-15T23:16:00.007-04:00

I had a chat with a writer friend today about self-confidence. Or the lack thereof. I had written an article for my chapter's newsletter (under duress, but that's another story) and I sent it to her to read. She said one sentence in the introduction negated not only me as a writer but also the reader. She was right. I had added the sentence as an afterthought because I didn't feel confident I had anything of particular merit to say to other writers.

So I've deleted that sentence and am re-printing the article here. Because I can. I retain copyright, even though the article was published elsewhere. At least that's what it says in the fine print. It was published under my "real" name, but somehow I just don't see me suing myself for plagiarism.

So here it is. I may not know enough to give actual writing advice to others, but I believe my experiences have led to a certain amount of knowledge and that there are some things of value I can share with others. This is one of them.

The Camaraderie of a Solitary Journey
By BCB

We have added many new members in the past year and I thought I'd share with them my perspective on the benefits of being a member of this chapter.

Writing a novel, the process of learning to do so, is not unlike stumbling through a forest in the pitch black of night. You venture into the thick undergrowth and, blind from the darkness, almost immediately run into a hard rough surface. A sympathetic voice comes out of the night, "Whoa, that's a tree trunk, try not to run into those."

"Oh. Okay, thanks," you say and keep going -- and promptly trip and fall to the ground, skinning your knees and palms. You stand back up, wiping blood and dirt on the back of your pants, and someone else calls out, “That's a tree root, be careful to step over those.”

"Right, got it," you say and continue walking. Only to be slapped abruptly in the face.

"Watch out for those low hanging branches," someone advises as you struggle to regain your balance.

You make your way a bit more slowly now, feet probing cautiously, arms extended protectively in front of you. Someone comes along and hands you a small flashlight. It's not very bright, but suddenly you can see not only the trunks and roots and branches, but also colors and textures. You continue on with increased awareness, inhaling the verdant life of the place.

You cross paths with someone who offers you a compass and shows you how to travel in a straight line instead of just wandering in circles.

After a while, you come upon someone sitting contentedly on the ground who gives you a torn corner of a map of the forest. You're pleasantly surprised to see how far you've come, yet daunted by what's still ahead of you.

You look around and realize there are many others wandering through the forest with you -- all going in different directions and at varying paces, some hesitantly and some with great confidence.

It occurs to you to ask, "Where are we supposed to be going, anyway?"

The reply carries on a mingled laugh and sigh of experience, "Our destinations are as different as they are unimportant. The journey is everything."

You finally find your way to a narrow path that takes you out of the forest and you stand in the sunlight -- face turned up to the sky, arms spread wide -- and experience a moment of pure triumph and overwhelming joy. Until you realize that you loved being in the forest and, in spite of the scrapes and bruises, the confused lonely wandering, you can think of no other place you'd rather be. Just as you realize there is no other group of travelers with whom you'd rather make the journey.

So you turn around and eagerly head back, looking for another path, another story to tell. Only this time, you'll be on the lookout for someone who might be in need of a flashlight or a slightly used map.

Is it just mine, or have all phones become defective?

2008-06-08T20:47:00.002-04:00

I've been answering my home phone lately. As an experiment. Just to see who calls and why. So far, the results lead me to believe I should disconnect the thing. Everyone who legitimately needs to speak to me knows to call my cell phone. Well, okay, there was the very helpful reminder about the appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Other than that? Nothing I’ll ever regret missing.

I got a call today from a woman who claimed to work for my mortgage company. I'm pretty sure she said there was no problem (it was hard to tell -- I don't think English was her first language), and that she was calling about my mortgage payment. Usually this means someone wants me to re-finance. So I'm ready to hang up. Except she said she worked for MY mortgage company.

So I asked, "What about my mortgage payment?"

"Yes, thank you ma'am. I wish to inform you that this call will be recorded to ensure customer satisfaction."

"Fine." I'm already dissatisfied. Recording the call isn’t going to change anything there.

"Yes, thank you ma'am. First, would you please give me your address so I can verify the information?"

Right. And next she'll want my bank account and SS numbers? "No, I won't give you that. You called me."

"Yes, thank you ma'am. That's fine. I want to verify that your address is (she reads off my address)."

"Yes, that's correct."

"Yes, thank you ma'am. And your phone number is (she reads off my phone number).

"Yes." And stop thanking me. That's just irritating.

"Yes, thank you ma'am." Or not. "And is there another phone number you'd like to add to this information?"

I think the one you have is one too many. "No. There isn't."

"Yes, thank you ma-- "

"Excuse me. Why are you calling?" Because I'm not sure this isn't a scam and I'm fast losing patience here.

"Yes, thank you ma'am. We want to ask whether you plan to make your next mortgage payment."

What the hell? "Yes, I plan to make my next mortgage payment." When have I ever not made my mortgage payment?

"Yes, thank you ma'am. I see here that you usually make your payment on or before the XXth?"

Okay, so maybe she is with my mortgage company. "Yes. That's when it's due."

"Yes, ma'am. I see that. And you make this payment online?"

"Yes, I do." I've never even paid it late.

"Yes, ma'am." Why has she stopped thanking me? "Is that what you plan to do this month?"

No, I thought just for the hell of it I'd do something completely different this month. Maybe send it by carrier pigeon. "Yes. Is there a problem with that?"

"No, thank you ma'am. I just need to document the information. And do you plan to pay the full amount of $xx?"

No, actually, now that you mention it, I thought I'd only pay half this month, just to see what happens. "Yes, of course I'm going to pay the full amount."

"Yes, thank you ma'am. And what about the next month's payment? Will it be the same thing for next month?"

Oh, well, you got me there. Because NEXT month, that's the one I was planning to skip. "Yes, of course. Are you telling me that's a problem?"

"No, ma'am. Not a problem once I document the information."

Document the information? I'm starting to feel like an illegal immigrant here. "But there is no problem with my mortgage."

"No, thank you ma'am. I have all the information I need."

"Great." That makes one of us.

"If you have any questions, please contact our customer service department at 1-800-xxx-xxxx." Right, since I enjoyed this conversation so much. "Thank you ma'am and have a nice day."

And then she hung up.

Okay, I know that people are defaulting on their mortgages at an astronomical rate, but this call did not leave me feeling all warm and fuzzy about the financial health and well-being of my mortgage company. Something is very rotten in Denmark if this is the call they're making to customers who pay in full and on time every month. For thirteen years. Maybe I should call and ask them a few pointed questions. See whether I can get them to thank me some more.

Either way, I think my phone answering experiment is almost complete.

Home Repair 102

2008-06-01T20:58:00.004-04:00

I'm still in the estimate gathering phase. One of the ironies of procrastination is that things just never move as fast as you want them to once you decide it's time to get something done already.

In the past three days I've met with three different contractor/repair type people and talked with two others on the phone. And I've realized what it is I truly dislike about this process. Other than the whole call people, leave a message, wait for them to call you back, miss their call, call them back, leave a message and wait again thing. Because of course that doesn't irritate me. Much.

It's not that these guys aren't nice or that they don't know what they're doing or that they're condescending while I explain what I want done. On the contrary. The thing that bugs me is that apparently I'm not supposed to believe a word they say. I'm supposed to be distrustful and suspicious. I'm supposed to get more than one estimate, in case they're trying to rob me blind. I'm supposed to get references, in case they're lying about their ability and experience. If they tell me they have insurance, I'm supposed to ask to see proof.

The hell with that. I like assuming that people are being straight with me. I like being naive and trusting. It makes me feel good. I want to believe these guys are hardworking and honest and doing their best to make a decent living so they can feed their families. I want to believe that if someone has been in business for 25 years it means he's doing something right and that at least some of that longevity has to do with competence and trustworthiness.

I don't want to expect the worst and hope for the best. If we end up having a problem, we'll deal with it then. I am entirely confident that any problem will be resolved. To my satisfaction. Really.

So work will begin soon. I hope. The next thing, after the yard work, is to fix the seal on a plumbing vent pipe that leaked and caused water damage in an upstairs bathroom. And by the way, ma'am, you need to replace all the ridge cap shingles. [sigh] I was going to take a picture of the ceiling stain but it's so ugly. No one wants to look at that. You've seen one stained popcorn ceiling, you've seen them all. Here, use your imagination:

Of course, then the ceiling needs to be repaired and painted. And since I'll have people here who know how to do that sort of thing, they're going to repair the ceiling stain in the back entry from when the washing machine died. And the one in the kitchen from when-- um, never mind. They're going to fix that one too. And then the out-dated wallpaper in the upstairs bathrooms has to be removed and those walls painted. Along with the walls in the front foyer and stairway and upstairs hall.

And yes, I could do much of that work myself. I've stripped wallpaper and painted walls before. But this all needs to happen sometime in the current decade. And I'm busy. So I'm getting estimates. And trying to maintain my faith in humanity.

Letters to Remember

2008-05-26T16:54:00.004-04:00

My Great Aunt Mabel was a nurse in the Army Nursing Corps during World War II. She wrote dozens of letters home to her family and a few years ago my mom gave me copies of them. The locations from which she sent them tell a story of their own: Camp Hale, Colorado; Charleston, SC; San Francisco, CA; Somewhere on the West Coast; Somewhere on the Pacific; Australia; New Guinea; Hollandia, Dutch New Guinea; In a Hospital Ship on the High Seas; Manila, PI; Clark Field, Luzon. Her letters are a fascinating glimpse of a woman I don't remember meeting -- of that time in her life, as well as that period in our nation's history. In fact, they were the inspiration for a central character in the book I'm currently (re-)writing. It seemed appropriate to post excerpts from a couple of them today, Memorial Day. So we don't forget.

This is the beginning of the first one she wrote:

Camp Hale, Colorado
Jan. 12th, 1943

This is the army sure enough and it is everything they said and more. So far we have gotten a tremendous kick out of it all – certainly is different. The place is so new it isn’t completed by a long ways. They are beginning to get more and more supplies now so expect the worst is over. The first nurses came about Nov. 26th and there wasn’t a thing they say. They really started from scratch! All they had was aspirin. They were so happy when they finally got some sulfathiazole.

[Note: Sulfathiazole is a sulfa drug once widely used to treat bacterial infections. In a letter dated Nov. 1944, from the 247th General Hospital in New Guinea, she wrote: Sir Fleming was here not so awfully long ago. That penicillin is wonderful.]

Here's another one from when she was still stateside:

Stark General Hospital
Charleston, S.C.
Nov. 6th, 1943

Over last week end we got orders to evacuate all or as many as we could of our patients to other general hospitals. This place seemingly will be a debarkation hospital and we were to get ready for a convoy… hospital ship full of casualties from overseas. So Monday A.M. early we took about 200 patients to Lawson General near Atlanta on a hospital train. Those ward cars are quite completely and conveniently arranged and had some unusual incident occurred enroute I’m sure we could have mastered the situation. I had charge of the litter patients. The road bed between here and there is horribly rough and we were well shaken up – everyone was hungry constantly it seemed. I did so well walking up and down the aisle that maybe after the duration I’ll get myself a job as a conductor on a train. My uniform skirt seat is shiny now so I’ll continue to wear it. A conductor isn’t complete and proper unless he wears a shiny threadbare suit I feel. We didn’t arrive there until almost midnight and that according to authorities is too late to unload – so we sidetracked about half a mile out and we all stayed on the train for the night. Early in the A.M. we reluctantly gave up our dear boys – sent them over to Lawson in ambulances. We didn’t even get to see the place. They fed us our breakfast on the train and we even had fried potatoes. From then on they restricted us to the Post so we would all be within shouting distance should the Convoy come. Yesterday was a big day in the history of Stark General. There will no doubt be many more days like it as these ships come in and give us these patients for us to have for a few days – re-classify and then send out to the various hospitals elsewhere. We were all so impressed by the whole thing. This was the first time most of us have seen a group fresh off the boat. It is hard for anybody to explain just how you do feel when you see 790 of them brought in in all shape and conditions. Most of them were speechless – they were so tickled to be back. You never saw more smiling faces anywhere – and many it would seem have very little to smile about. When we finally had them checked in and they knew it wasn’t just a dream their first and foremost concern seemed to be “when do we eat?” “can we really have milk?” “do they have more hamburgers?” etc. etc. No one complained and I don’t suppose they ever will again.

Home Repair 101

2008-05-17T17:51:00.010-04:00

Most of you reading this know that I'm getting ready to put my house on the market. Because it's time. I met with the real estate agent last week and she had a few repair-type suggestions. I knew she would. Most of them I expected. A few were things I hadn't thought of.

So I have a very long list of things to do. And I absolutely HATE doing this kind of stuff. But it looks as if this is going to command my full attention for the next little while. I thought maybe if I wrote about it over here and shared it with you all, it might not be so bad. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm already in agony just thinking about it. At least this way I'm not suffering alone. Maybe I'll take some before and after pictures so everyone can be horrified by my appalling photography and housekeeping skills all at the same time.

My agent suggested I start with the yard work, so any "wounds" would have time to heal before we list the house. I found it rather amusing when she said you can't really see the house from the street. Because I thought, yeah, I kind of like it that way. But I guess any potential buyer might want to actually see the place. So I'm getting estimates for machete-wielding deforestation-type activity.

In the meantime, there are several things I can do myself. Hooray. Here is what my kitchen bay window looked like this morning.

Those curtains were perhaps charming 20 or so years ago. If you like that kind of thing. I've always hated them. Certain family members claimed to love them. So I left them up, even after those family members were no longer living here. Why? I have no idea.

This is what my kitchen bay window looks like now. I can not even describe how good it felt to get rid of those things.

The cross-hatch window bars are removable; they're attached with little plastic fasteners on the sides. My agent suggested I remove them from these windows (and several others in the house) as they break up the view into several tiny panes instead of one large window. I see her point. In fact, I took those cross bars out of the window over the kitchen sink years ago. But these windows look awfully bare to me right now -- though in a good way. I'm just uncertain about making them look even more naked. Any opinions from the gallery?

NEXT UP: I have no idea. The list goes from bad to worse. You'll just have to wait and see. It's entirely possible I'm already tired of this topic.

Graduation

2008-05-11T19:46:00.013-04:00

Wow. It has been a long time. The last post I wrote on this blog was about a day of doing nothing. I haven't had a quiet moment since. Yet none of the stuff keeping me busy has been particularly interesting [except for the stuff I wrote about on another blog; that was great fun] and none of it has inspired me to write about it. Until now.

I celebrated Mother's Day early this year. My son graduated from college on Saturday with a Bachelor of Science in Economics from East Carolina University.

I don't talk about my son much on this blog -- not because there isn't anything to say (far from it) but because I'm pretty sure he'd be horrified to know I was talking about him here. Now that I've decided to devote a blog post to him and his accomplishments, I can't find words adequate to the task. I've written and deleted this post so many times, I'm no longer sure what I wanted to say. But I've pretty much decided I can't say it without becoming overly sentimental. So I guess I'll start by just describing the events.

There was a ceremony Friday night in a small (indoor) auditorium for the Economics majors, about 40 or so graduates. It was nice to hear my son's name called out and see him walk across the stage and shake hands with the Dean. Very nice. If that's not an understatement, I don't know what is.

The next day was the main graduation, held in the football stadium. If you've ever been to a graduation, it was exactly like that. Here is a picture, in case you've never been to one and wondered what they look like. Sitting in the two groups of chairs on the field are the graduates receiving doctoral and masters degrees. The couple thousand other graduates are sitting up in the stands. We all sat and stood and then sat again for about two and a half hours. It was sunny and hot. I was very grateful my daughter had thought to bring sunblock. And glad I remembered to bring kleenex.

There were so many proud moments this weekend, I'm not sure I can bring them all together and express them as one coherent thing. At one point in the weekend, I think it was Friday night when we all went out after the first ceremony, I was sitting there watching my son and daughter and listening to them talk and laugh and it occurred to me that beyond the fact that I love them, I like them. I like who they are and I like their friends. I like how they act and why they laugh and what they have to say. And I like the fact that they genuinely like each other. They're good people.

In the car on the way home yesterday, my daughter asked, "So, mom, what do you want to do tomorrow for Mother's Day?"

And I said, "I just did it."

A day full of nothing has value of its own

2008-03-22T11:30:00.003-04:00

I had the day off from work yesterday. I did nothing.

Well, yes, I did something. But it felt like nothing. I didn't accomplish anything. At all.

I swept sticks off the deck. I sat outside and listened to the birds sing their springtime songs. I saw three bluebirds. That made me happy. I took two naps. Not on purpose, it just sort of happened that way.

I watched parts of a basketball game, but I wasn't really paying attention. I read a few pages in a book, but I don't remember what I read.

I answered some email. Made a couple phone calls. Talked to my kids about what they want for Easter dinner. I ate a couple meals. And a few jelly beans. Fed and watered the cat and the Wonder Dog.

And that's about it.

It's not that there wasn't anything I could have or should have been doing. Just that I didn't do any of it.

I guess we all need a day like that once in a while.

Of course, I'll need to do that much more today to make up for it. But that's okay. For a change, I'm feeling well rested.

Why fast food is hazardous to your health

2008-03-13T08:55:00.002-04:00

I was in a car accident yesterday. That is, my car had a close encounter with another vehicle and it was accidental.

Okay, I'll start at the beginning. I went out to get some lunch. Because I didn't bring my lunch to work. Which was sort of deliberate because it was a beautiful day and I wanted an excuse to get out in it. I went to a fast food place where I could buy a delicious and nutritious grilled chicken sandwich with lettuce and tomato on a whole wheat bun. And an unsweetened iced tea. Practically health food. We just won't talk about the cheese and bacon.

Anyway, it was one of those setups where as you wait in the drive-thru line -- why, yes, I was feeling too lazy to park and go inside -- you are also in the middle of the freakin' parking lot. So I was sitting there indolently minding my own business when I suddenly felt a large confusing thud. Confusing because I looked at the car in front of me and there was quite a space between us, and then looked in the rear view mirror and no one was behind me. Then I noticed a very large extended cab pickup truck in my peripheral vision and it was . . . well, it was a bit too close for comfort. In fact, it appeared to be attached to the left rear panel of my car.

So the driver of the truck pulled forward, back into his parking space, and I thought, Damn it, I do not need this today. I really do not want to have to rip someone's effing head off. Because, with the mood I'm in, if I get started I might not stop. Have I mentioned work has been stressful lately?

I got out of my car and the other driver got out of his truck and even as I said, with more exasperation than anger, because I'm really trying to stay calm, "I can't believe you just did that," he was already saying, "Oh God, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I was talking to someone and I just-- oh God, I'm so sorry."

A lady rushed over who apparently belonged to the car parked next to the truck and she was saying, "Oh, no, it's all my fault. I was so busy talking to him and I distracted him and-- oh, I'm so sorry."

Okay fine, I thought, everyone is sorry. Terrific. Meantime, I was looking at my car, trying to determine what damage had been done. Because it was a really big thud and it shook the entire car and I had visions of hundreds of dollars worth of repair work dancing in my head.

Except there was no damage. The guy and the lady and I all stood there staring at my car and THERE WAS NO DAMAGE. Well, there was a tiny little door ding paint transfer thing that had been there for a while and the guy ran his fingers across it and said, "Well, at least it's not too bad." And I said, "No, that's been there for a while." And we both looked at each other with matching WTF expressions and he said, "I hit you pretty hard." And I said, "Yeah, I know." And then we looked back at my car. Which had nothing wrong with it.

And then he said, "Oh, here it is," and pointed to my rear tire. Which had a scuff mark on it. No damage, just a fresh scuff mark. You could barely even see it. And I looked at my tire and I looked at the very impressive rear bumper of his very large truck. And the two did not line up. At all. Not even close. But it was plain as day that the rear bumper of his truck had scuffed up my rear tire. When all the laws of physics and aerodynamics and geometry and nuclear fusion said it should have instead plowed a giant hole through the rear panel of my car. Right there by the gas cap.

He threw his arms out wide in a gesture of relief and we both started laughing and I said, "I don't know about you, but I think I need a hug." So he hugged me, hard, and I hugged him back and it was very nice and we all were laughing and saying our different versions of "so sorry" and "thank god" and "have a nice day" and then we all got back in our cars and they drove off and I ordered lunch. Hold the pickle.

But I was very careful driving back to work, indeed was very careful the entire rest of the day, because I'm pretty sure my guardian angel used up all her powers in that parking lot. Probably I should stay inside for a week or two until she gets her strength back.

For those who are weary of winter

2008-03-09T13:20:00.008-04:00

This is the view today from my dining room window. It's a second-story window and those are trees in bloom, not bushes. The one on the left just starting to get some white flowers is a Bradford pear. No idea what the pink one is, other than gorgeous. There is a tree off to the right that will get deep pink flowers in another week or so. The contrasts are amazing.

This happens every year about this time, so it's expected. Yet I am always awed and a bit surprised by the delicate colorful explosion of beauty.

Not many places are prettier than North Carolina in the springtime. Or more unpredictable. We could get ice or sleet or snow anytime in the next few weeks that would kill all the flowers and snap off overloaded branches.

That's why, this time of year, we also have the explosive beauty of the ACC basketball tournament.

Confusion or Collusion?

2008-03-05T20:38:00.004-05:00

Some of you reading this know I love a good conspiracy. I love to imagine "what if" and at the same time imagine "what if all is not as it seems." I find that kind of speculation to be fascinating. But do I really believe in conspiracies or that people are actively engaging in perpetrating conspiracies? In general, no. Most people don't have enough time or energy or deviousness in their character to create and carry out a good conspiracy. I just think it's entertaining to speculate.

However. You knew that was coming, didn't you? I've been getting these weird emails for a while now and something about them pokes at the part of my imagination that loves a good conspiracy. And I've been wondering "what if." On the face of it, they all are a vehicle for selling something -- usually "enhancements" of an extremely personal nature. They're junk mail. But they all contain an incomprehensible message at the end that has nothing to do with the product being sold. And that makes me wonder. Are they just a really bad example of non-English-speaking persons trying to communicate? Or is something else going on here?

Here are a few examples that I've received just in the past week, copied verbatim with no changes made:

Example 1:

To destruction. All these, when the end of the eat the shashtika
paddy mixed with milk. By so her in yourself, macleod, said
that properly constituted had thought to for a time the
tempter left her, called adhyudha.302 the son born of a
maiden in followed by every believer, and prepared to spend
sakra himself,thus addressed, govinda greeted for i longed
so to throw my arms about you before or wandering about
the housealways within call. Crowned with ascetic success,
and gifted with with great might and wellpractised in all
weapons. Be regarded as better than the (other) classes,
having been warned by jack mount that they considered is
prince's shaft.... We go round here behind having said this,
the fairhipped krishna with.

Example 2:

Speech oh, well. I hope everything'll go all right. Of the
plague, that the cultivation of a country, the floating
capital is absorbed in the provinces nest. Only the sun,
majestic in power, shining commission men which it is their
business to look in the jungle, that no money in the world
would madelon! He held out his hands towards her like isolated
here all his receptive years have i found the doctor, that
no girl is worth anything till after what had happened.
but she looked straight men which may appear. It is a thousand
pities brazil. A. Henry savagelandor. Savoy hotel, london.
big as a charger, and set an edge about it as intently.
obrien went on: you will have heard tell.' she gave a quick
glance over her shoulder..

Example 3:

Florida, dakota, iowa, wyoming, minnesota, and made his way
to the his reception was immediate had much chance, with
the girl at him all the she states that as she left the
room mrs. Fortescue a good turnthat ^ if you are interested
in racing. Of it, and they have to i saw a good many flaws
when he came there. That was now several years hand, to
fetch, no doubt, more of the chosen to does no good. One
can't foresee. Reconstruction think you are right. So, then,
why was the screen involved to hope any immediate rescue
from them. But then, of course, the railway gui& might have
longing of the people and as chairman of the committee time.
and then there were a hundred and one little not to be,
at least in anstruther and the subject.

So, you tell me. Spam email full of nonsense? Or coded messages as part of a conspiracy?

Dreaming Cats and Dogs

2008-03-01T11:39:00.006-05:00

I had a very strange dream this morning just before I woke up. I have strange dreams all the time, but I felt compelled to write this one down. And share it. I have no idea why. I should apologize now and get it over with: I am so sorry.

It seemed to go on forever, as dreams do, but this is part of it:

It was daytime and I was in a long narrow room crowded with too many beds in it and the covers were all disheveled with pillows and bunched up comforters all over the place but no one was sleeping in any of the beds as far as I could tell and my computer was way over in a far corner sitting on a rickety little nightstand and I wanted to check my email but I had to step over things to get there and it took a long time but finally I did and I sat on a tiny little chair and had to pull out the drawer to rest the keyboard on it but the drawer kept falling out because it didn't fit the opening very well and so I balanced the drawer and the keyboard on my knees but then I saw that the computer wasn't even plugged in and there was no outlet. [Perhaps I'm conflicted about my new lurker status in blogland?]

And then my youngest sister was sitting cross-legged on the bed closest to me, excitedly telling me about a bunch of people who were moving into some previously dying inner city [no idea which city or why my sister would find this exciting] and how fantastic it was with all the wonderful new development and how interesting that these people were almost without exception Mongolian and then she said, "It's such a fascinating culture. Did you know that if a woman has an affair with a married man, she will lie to the wife about it but be completely honest with her family?" [I have no idea whether this is true about Mongolian culture; it was a DREAM.] And all I could think was, Whose family? The wife's or her own? What kind of sentence structure is that? But she didn't answer me because I didn't actually speak and then she was gone.

And then I was across the room and looking at a dark shape moving in another corner sort of under and behind a half-opened door and at first I wasn't sure it was a spider but thought if it was I should probably get rid of it and when I looked closer it was HUGE and thick like a tarantula and no way was I going to do anything with that and I looked around for someone, anyone, who could help get it out of there before it bit someone and they died but there was no one and yet I kept thinking someone was going to die or at least get very sick if that thing bit them but the room was empty and I thought I should keep an eye on it until someone could help me and then there were all sorts of other nasty looking bugs around the spider and then a frog that jumped on the spider and they wrestled a bit before both lost interest and the frog wandered off a ways and sat and stared at me and then as I watched the floor started to turn to soft white sand and all the bugs and the spider and the frog were sinking into the sand until some disappeared and I could barely see the others and I thought, Great, now someone will step on these things and not realize until it's too late.

I heard someone give a contented just waking up kind of sigh and looked around again to see who was in the room so I could warn them because it looked like some of the bugs were moving away under the sand and again it was my youngest sister in one of the beds, a different bed, and she was yawning and stretching and I heard her say, "What a great night's sleep I just had; my back feels so much better," and then I was standing over there and I could see her and she was lying on her back with her shoulders angled off the edge of the bed and her head was resting in the open top drawer of the nightstand, a different nightstand, and I said, "Do you realize your head is in a drawer?" and she replied, "Yes, I put it there," and she had the sweetest smile on her face and she truly did look rested and happy. [I need to call her later.]

And then I was over looking for the spider again and the floor had changed back into a floor with just a bit of sand like it had been tracked inside at a beach house and someone, I think it was The Dog's Favorite Person, came in and saw the spider and said, "This little thing? You're worried about this little thing?" only it had gotten even bigger and he reached down and brushed it out of the corner with his bare hand and right out in front of my bare feet and then laughed and made a fist and smashed the spider, several times, until it was dead. [This is completely out of character for TDFP, who would in real life find a way to put the stupid thing safely outside.] It was a huge mess with spider parts all over the place and there was a ton of clear thick liquid oozing out from what was left of the body, way more than even a big spider could contain, and it kept spreading like it had a life of its own and TDFP was laughing but I was horrified and I had nothing to clean it up with and we followed it out the door and I was trying not to step in it because I was barefoot and then we were in the hallway of my mom's house and the floor was linoleum like it used to be when I was little and the goo was still spreading and I realized it looked just like the stuff I've been putting on the wonder dog's food to improve his joints and I thought, What a waste, that stuff is expensive, and my mom was there with a paper towel and trying to wipe up the mess and TDFP was helping her and they were both laughing which was odd because I'm pretty sure my mom would not be laughing about something like that but they wouldn't give me a paper towel because there were only two and even those had already lost any absorptive qualities and they were just spreading the goo farther along as they tried to wipe it up and then the cat and the wonder dog were there and I thought, How did they get all the way to Minnesota? and they were sniffing the goo and licking at it and then acting very strangely about it.

And then I woke up and the cat was walking up the length of my right arm like it was a balance beam and it didn't feel good [actually it hurt like hell] but I didn't move because she's never done that before and I was waiting to see what she'd do next and she walked right up to my shoulder where she did a graceful little dismount and then came and stuck her nose in my eye and I realized the wonder dog was also standing there on the bed staring at me and sort of quivering eagerly like he was more than ready to go outside and then he shook. Goo.

I looked at the clock and it was seven minutes past the time I usually get up. So I got up. So much for sleeping in on the weekend. And really, with dreams like that, who needs sleep?

Ask me no questions, I'll try not to make stuff up

2008-02-17T22:28:00.002-05:00

Well, that was interesting. I just got off the phone with DD20. She has a doctor's appointment Tuesday (nothing serious) and had to fill out a Medical History and she wanted my help. It was tedious. She really only has one symptom: leg pains. She couldn't figure out why they would ask whether she has bleeding gums. "Bleeding gums? What kind of thing is that to ask?" I said, "It's a general questionnaire. I guess some people have that, or they wouldn't ask."

So we slogged our way through a very long list of questions beginning, "Have you ever had . . ." To which most of the answers were, "No." Thank God. But we were bored. So, predictably, it then became ridiculous.

Q: List any major surgeries. A: Appendectomy.

Q: List reason for surgery. A: It was about to explode!

"I think probably appendectomy is self-explanatory."

"Hey, they asked for a reason."

Q: How many people in your household?

"What, like in my room or the whole dorm? I'm going to put 2/500."

I think this is where I started to laugh. No doubt this was a mistake on my part.

Q: Who does the majority of the housework? A: No one.

Q: Who does the majority of the shopping? A: No one.

"They're going to think you're living in filth and starving to death."

"I am."

Q: Who does the majority of the yard work? A: The UNC grounds crew.

"Did you really write that as an answer?"

"Yes. Judging by these questions, this doctor sees a lot of really messed up people and needs something to laugh about."

Q: Do you wake up feeling rested? A: Of course not. I'm a college student.

Q: What activity gives you the most trouble? A: Homework.

"I don't think that's what they meant."

"Then they should have been more specific."

Q: Do you have to climb stairs? How many? A: Yes, a lot. About a billion every day.

"A billion?"

"What, they expect me to count them? Yes, a billion."

And so it went. I'm still wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. I hope her sense of humour prevails when she is old and less fit and the answers to these questions will most likely not all be "No."

I won't be surprised if I get a call Tuesday afternoon, informing me my daughter has been admitted for psychiatric evaluation due to her Inability to Take Things Seriously. I'll be sure to tell them that kind of thing runs in the family. They just forgot to ask.

IN WHICH We Rediscover the Joy and Terror of Writing

2008-02-10T17:47:00.000-05:00

I wrote yesterday.

Sitting on the couch next to my sick daughter who was writing a paper about environmental something-or-other between bouts of coughing up a lung, I wrote. It was a quiet time, in spite of the respiratory sound effects, and productive. Yes, in that way too.

But I can't quite believe how hard it was to start, after all this time has passed not writing. How much sheer nerve and determination it took to put my fingers on the keyboard and touch the letters that would make the words of that first sentence. And then the next. The uncertainty was awful.

So when I had done as much as I dared, which was quite a bit, I stopped and said, "I just wrote a scene."

"Okay."

"In my book. I wrote a scene."

"Good. That's good."

"I haven't written in months. Since maybe October."

"Mom!" Ah. Now I had her attention. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded.

No one does indignant disbelief quite like an idealistic college student.

"I took a break from it. I had to re-think some things in the plot and then there were the holidays and then work has been crazy . . ." I know, it sounded pretty weak.

"Well, geez, would you hurry up already?"

"I'm trying. But I just don't think it's any good. No one is going to want to read this crap."

"It's not crap," she said. "And I want to read it. Other people will, too."

"But I'm afraid it's boring. Boring and ordinary and stupid."

"Mom, it can't possibly be as boring as bio-technology."

Point taken.

"Can I quote you on that? Maybe use it as a cover blurb?"

Now she's laughing, too. "Sure, mom. Whatever. Just finish it, okay?"

So, I wrote yesterday. It was scary. And distressingly unfamiliar. Probably I'm going to have to delete much of it and do some heavy editing of what's left.

But still, it felt good.

I'm going to try it again, tonight.

Flu Food and the Blahs

2008-02-09T16:32:00.000-05:00

The title of this post sounds like the name of a woefully misguided rock band. Try saying it three times fast. Or not. It was the best I could come up with.

The past few days have been exhausting. My DD20 is home with the flu and she has been sicker than I remember her ever being. The flu is nasty stuff. I took a vacation day yesterday to get some things done, but spent most of the day being Dr. Mom. Cancelled everything on my schedule today, as well.

I feel like I'm "coming down with something," only it hasn't quite happened yet. I'm hoping that flu shot I had last fall is busy doing its thing. Whatever that is. I woke up in the wee hours last night feeling feverish and achy, took some Tylenol and went back to sleep. Not feeling feverish anymore, but I ache all through my neck, shoulders and back. And I'm unaccountably tired. Maybe I have Flu-Lite.

We've been eating flu food. All the bland, essentially colorless and pretty much tasteless stuff. It's all DD wants to eat -- well, mostly she doesn't want to eat anything -- and it just seems easier for us to eat the same thing. Because I'm tired, that's why. Eggs, toast, ramen noodles, chicken, apple juice, more eggs, bagels, homemade chicken soup ["With just dumplings, mom, carrots would be gross."], cantaloupe, tea with honey, mac and cheese, pretzels, and of course more eggs.

I got her to eat a few strawberries yesterday, but I could tell it was just too much color. Maybe tonight we'll try some mashed potatoes.

If it's true we are what we eat, it's no wonder we're both feeling blah.

A week is seven days -- unless it's 10,080 minutes

2008-02-02T08:48:00.000-05:00

You ever have one of those weeks? One of those wonderful, magical weeks you look back on fondly, remembering how easy it all was? How everyone you work with was cheerful and efficient and the work seemed to almost have wings? How every person you encountered while out and about each day had a friendly smile and a ready compliment? How pleasant it was to accomplish the mundane and menial chores, how conquering even the most difficult tasks seemed effortless? How your workload was light and you left the office early each day, walking out to your car in the light of day, a spring in your step and the glint of a smile in your eyes? How once you got home your energy seemed boundless and you cooked and cleaned and did amazingly creative and productive things well into the night? How you slept well and soundly, how you woke up the next morning eager to do it all again?

You ever have one of those? I know I have. Last week was not one of them.

THE LIAR'S DIARY Blog Day

2008-01-29T08:22:00.000-05:00

Writing is a solitary and lonely endeavour. A writer has to be comfortable with that, with long hours spent alone, with having only the voices and the words for company. That is, until the book is complete and about to be published -- then a writer has to do a complete 180 degree turn-around in personality and promote the hell out of themselves and the book. Most writers manage to do this, some more enthusiastically and with less pain than others, but most of them suck it up and get the job done. Because at that point, it is a job.

Sometimes, however, a writer is unable to participate in promotion. At this time, Patry Francis is one of those writers. She has a book called THE LIAR'S DIARY (originally released in hardcover, spring 2007) coming out in paperback today. She also has cancer and the depleted reserves accompanying that battle.

Some of Patry's friends have decided to help with promotion by blogging about her book, all on the same day. Today. And they have solicited help. I heard about Patry from a friend of a friend of hers. Now some of you -- those of you who know I lost a dear friend to cancer last fall -- will understand immediately why this situation strikes a chord in my heart. Even so, I don't do this lightly.

I have a tough time promoting a book I have not yet read, written by a person I do not know and whose work is unfamiliar to me. But I spent a good bit of time reading Patry's blog this past weekend. I was extremely impressed by her intelligence and tone and writing style. If THE LIAR'S DIARY is even remotely of the same quality as her blog posts, it will be a worthy read.

I plan to buy a copy. Probably two. Because gifts are good. I hope you will do the same. If you go here you can read more about Patry, her book and this valiant effort on her behalf, as well as find links to buy the book online. There's even a coupon. Coupons are good. If you have a blog, give Patry and THE LIAR'S DIARY a mention, would you? Or post a link to this blog or any of the many others that will be talking about her today.

One of the best things about being a writer is knowing your words have touched other people. One of the second best things is when you emerge from the dark creative depths of your cave, bleary eyed and weary and sick to death of your own company, to the realization that you are not alone, that other writers support you. Patry Francis has touched a hell of a lot of people and today a large number of us are standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the edges of her solitude. I'm hoping there are many more words in her future, and many more people who will be touched by them.

A day of some importance

2008-01-27T19:29:00.000-05:00

Twenty years ago today, I gave birth to a daughter. She was born almost exactly two and a half years after her brother. I have always thought there was a certain symmetry or connectivity in their birth dates and times. His birthday is the 28th; hers the 27th -- she came a day early, as if knowing the coincidence otherwise would have been just too much. Male born in the heat of July; female born in the cool of January. He was born in the daytime at 1:24 PM; she in the nighttime at 3:46 AM. If you add 2 to each number of his time, you get hers.

What is the significance of all this? There isn't any. Probably these are things only a mother could find fascinating.

Yesterday I made a cake for that daughter. Her favorite. Today I brought it to her and we went shopping and ate an early dinner and it was sunny and warm and we walked and talked and laughed and hugged and it was good.

And then I came home and changed the cat litter.

Life resumes.

Happy birthday, baby girl! I love you.

The Wonder Dog Goes to Rehab

2008-01-15T19:51:00.000-05:00

It all started innocently enough. Just a couple beers to unwind after a long harrowing day spent napping in the heavily wooded fenced back yard, chasing the occasional squirrel. Then he started hanging out with the wrong crowd, snorting biscuit crumbs and-- No wait. Sorry. Not that kind of rehab. We're talking physical therapy here.

It all started last summer, with surgery to repair a torn cruciate ligament in Quincy's knee. And he was recovering quite nicely, thank you very much. Until last fall when, in an enthusiastic attempt to live up to his nickname, he did something to re-injure himself. No idea what, it could have been anything. I'm sure there are highly technical terms for all this, but basically he screwed up his knee and stopped using his back right leg. He is incredibly strong and losing the use of one leg didn't slow him down all that much.

Quincy the Wonder Dog seemed indifferent about the disability but we humans thought it was unacceptable, not to mention heart-wrenchingly awful, and took him back to the vet. The vet said a ligament was "loose," causing the kneecap to dislocate periodically, and recommended more surgery. Surgery that involved slicing off a chunk of bone, moving it over and reattaching it elsewhere for a tighter muscle fit. I suggested maybe strengthening (i.e., tightening) that muscle would be a more logical first step. I have bad knees and both have dislocated many times. I know about knees. The vet disagreed and said surgery was the only option. I said something short and pithy and rude, but only to myself. Because I'm nice that way. After much hemming and hawing and gnashing of teeth, The Dog's Favorite Person finally agreed with me. And Quincy the Wonder Dog entered rehab.

Here is the plan as I understood it: QtWD would go to rehab three days a week (M-W-F) for several weeks and stay all day. They'd start him off walking on an underwater treadmill, where they could adjust weight bearing by changing the water level, as well as resistance by using underwater Jacuzzi-type jets. It's an amazing and bizarre-looking contraption -- basically a treadmill enclosed in a large clear plastic tank hooked up to water and electricity. A Houdini stunt without the straight jacket. After that, he would progress to a regular treadmill, just like the ones people use. And then he would move on to walking between and around traffic cones, to restore his maneuverability. They said it was a matter of strengthening muscles, along with having him re-learn how to walk properly, and that when he wasn't in rehab we had to keep him quiet and doing as little walking as possible. The more time he spent walking "incorrectly" (on three legs), the longer it would take for him to adjust back to using all four.

Uh huh. Right. Once I stopped laughing, I realized they were completely serious. And I thought, Bless their hearts, they really think they can do this.

They sent us home with four different medications -- the first known case of rehab resulting in increased drug use -- and said they'd see us bright and early Monday morning. That was almost four weeks ago.

Okay, let me explain a few things about QtWD. First of all, he is incredibly strong. I believe I might have mentioned that. Second, he is exuberant as hell. Translation: This is one crazy-ass, out-of-control maniac of a black lab dog. He understands the concepts of "sit" and "stay" and will even do so on occasion -- but mostly he considers all that to be optional. Third, putting a leash on this dog is his cue to Take Off. You do not take QtWD for a walk. You grab hold of the leash and hang on for dear life and you either learn to run or are dragged face down along vast unforgiving stretches of sidewalk, dislocated arm flopping uselessly in your wake. God help you if he sees a bird. Or a squirrel. Or a dog. Or a car. I do not walk QtWD. Ever. Before The Injury, exercise consisted of throwing the ball for him in the back yard. He loves that. And I don't get hurt.

I could not imagine him being well-behaved enough to do ANY of the things they had talked about. I was sure he was going to be the first dog ever kicked out of rehab. Oh, the shame.

After the first week of rehab, they said QtWD initially had "a bit of an attention problem." Gosh and golly gee whiz. No kidding? But they were still cheerful and optimistic and absolutely confident. At the end of the second week, even I could see signs of improvement. QtWD was actually using that fourth leg on occasion.

At the end of the third week, he was looking and moving better than he has in years. And he's only seven and a half years old, so that's really saying something. Time flies. Honestly, it has been like watching a miracle in progress.

Ah, but now we have progressed to homework. On the days he is not in rehab, we're supposed to walk him twice a day. At first it was ten minutes at 1.5 miles per hour. This is very slow. It's hard to walk this slowly. Then 15 minutes at 1.7 MPH. Not sure how we were supposed to gauge the difference. I explained about not being able to walk him without incurring grievous bodily harm. They smiled and nodded understandingly. Yes, some of the female techs were having trouble controlling him too. Just do your best, they said. Not once did I catch any of them smirking. Really, these people are amazing.

So The Dog's Favorite Person now has walking duties four days a week. He returned QtWD after the first walk session, shook his head and with a combination of awe and disbelief said, "They taught him to heel. He walked slowly. Unbelievable."

Yesterday we got instructions to walk him twice a day for 15 minutes at 1.8 MPH -- we're talking real progress here -- and one of those times should be with bells attached to his back legs. Yes, bells. Dark green reindeer bells attached to a Velcro strap that wraps around his leg. For some mystical unknown reason, the bells cause the dog to lift his legs higher. Which in turn strengthens muscles and increases range of motion. Giddy-up jingle horse, pick up your feet. And you thought it was just a silly lyric.

Here is The Wonder Dog's drug stash and his jingle bells:

They also told me that he had progressed to working with the cones. But here's the catch: we now have to construct a traffic cone and PVC pipe contraption of our own. No, they absolutely do not believe in that saying about not trying this at home. In fact, they threa-- um, promised that when I pick him up on Wednesday, they are going to show me how to get QtWD to use the treadmill. So I can "take him for a walk" without hurting myself. They've been right about everything else, but this I gotta see to believe.

I guess this will be my new excuse for not exercising. "Uh, no, actually I did not walk on the treadmill today. The dog was using it."

I'm hoping they plan to give me the secret incantation and magic fairy dust that will make all this possible and not cause Quincy the Wonder Dog to fly off the back of the treadmill and land in a tangled heap of partially rehabilitated limbs.

We'll see which one of us ends up wearing the ankle bells.

Making Time

2008-01-01T11:36:00.000-05:00

There’s a song by Little River Band called Cool Change and this is part of the lyric:

If there's one thing in my life that's missing
It's the time that I spend alone
Sailing on the cool and bright clear waters
It's kind of a special feeling
When you're out on the sea alone
Staring at the full moon like a lover

I love that song. It expresses a sentiment that resonates with me right now. The past few weeks have been wildly hectic and stressful, with the demands of work doing battle with the joy of time spent with family. But there have been some quiet moments. With the holidays backed up to weekends and a sick day thrown in, I have had more than the usual number of non-work days recently. And a couple times I've found myself unexpectedly alone in a quiet house. With time to think.

I made a conscious decision about three months ago to stop writing. To take a break. I had been beating myself up over not having the time or concentration to write. Every second or third thought seemed to be, I should be writing. But I was too busy and the holidays were coming and there was too much clutter in my head. I wasn’t accomplishing anything with the ms. I got to the point where the work I knew it needed loomed as large and daunting as The Twelve Labours of Hercules. The re-write seemed too substantial and difficult and beyond my abilities. I felt overwhelmed and inadequate. So I decided to just stop trying. For a time. While it was a scary feeling -- because, oh god, what if I never wrote again -- it was also liberating.

But I think things have been percolating. Swirling around up there in the gray matter and biding their time. Waiting. Because now when I have a quiet moment alone, the story floods my brain. This is significant to me because it hasn't happened in months. Yeah, I've endured more than a few bleak moments of self-doubt and despair.

The other day I woke up to a dark overcast morning sky and the sound of a heavy steady rain on the roof and in the street. The dog and cat were still snoring at the far end of the bed so I just lay there for a while, thinking. Not doing anything, not focusing on the next task or the schedule of the coming day. Not worrying about anything, damn it. Just thinking. Letting words come as they may. And they were all story.

I think I’m almost ready to tackle this beast again and wrestle it to the ground once and for all. To make all the words and sentences and paragraphs line up and form the story that wants out of my head. It’s a good story and I need to tell it. And I will.

The only thing missing is the time that I spend alone. Just me and the voices.

And that’s as close as I’m going to get to a New Year’s resolution. My thoughts on that nonsense have not changed much since I wrote about this holiday a year ago.

Merry Christmas to all . . .

2007-12-23T12:27:00.000-05:00

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who were dear to us
Will be near to us once more

Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

. . . and to all a good night.

The trouble with books

2007-12-16T16:03:00.000-05:00

I can't read. Maybe I should rephrase that. Lately, I can't seem to finish reading an entire book. I'm lucky if I can get halfway through. It makes me feel like I can't read. Right now I have 15 hardcover books checked out of the library. I've read the beginning, some more some less, of nine of them. I'm also partway into reading at least seven paperbacks.

Normally, I'm reading at least three or four books at the same time. I like variety. I do that all the time. But I finish them. And then start others. It is not normal for me to have started reading more than a dozen books, yet not finish ANY OF THEM. As my kids would say, that's just messed up.

I have become very familiar with the library's online renewal system. Sometimes the system tells me I can't renew a book, so I take that one back. And bring home three more. As if I'm stocking up, hoarding what I can against a long dark winter where books will become scarce and dear.

I've run out of bookmarks and started using Kleenex. Quincy the Wonder Dog tears off and eats the bits that stick out along the top and sides. Sometimes he pulls the entire thing out of the book. Doesn't matter if I can't find my place again since lately, once I put a bookmark into a book and set it aside, I'm not likely to go back to it.

There is nothing wrong with these books. I'm sure they're all interesting and well-written and wonderful. Many of the authors are those whose books I've read and thoroughly enjoyed in the past and there is no reason to think any of them, let alone all of them, have suddenly lost the ability to write a compelling and entertaining story. No, the problem is with me and it seems to be getting worse.

I'm sure it's very unfair of me to keep these books stacked all over the place when other people could be reading them. Poor things, sitting there partially read and cast aside like inedible half-baked lumps of dough taken from the oven just as they started to heat and rise. But I keep thinking I'll finish reading them. Soon. Right after I see whether the next one is perhaps more captivating.

I have finished reading exactly one book in the past month. Maybe two months. I checked it out because of the author's name: Per Petterson. You have to be at least curious about the writing of someone named Per. And also because he's from Norway and wrote the book in Norwegian and this was the English translation. I grew up listening to Norwegian men tell stories, I was curious to see how this compared.

The name of the book is OUT STEALING HORSES. It is unlike anything I have ever read. The writing is beautiful and spare. The first person narrative is all over the place but the words flow so smoothly you don't care. You know there won't be a happy ending but you don't care about that either. The writing is pure and wonderful and you just want more so you keep turning pages. The ending comes abruptly like a slap to the heart and you draw a great shaky breath and hold it while you decide whether to cry and somewhere deep inside you know-- you will never forget those words. If any of my Norwegian uncles had given a similar small glimpse of emotional vulnerability in the stories they told, they might have sounded like this book. But they didn't, so I'm not sure about that.

OUT STEALING HORSES is a book you can't not finish reading. Even if you can't read.

After the Fall

2007-12-09T17:32:00.000-05:00

We had beautiful weather here today: 72 degrees and hazy sunshine. This is not usual. Average temps are roughly 20 degrees less than that this time of year. Since I'm fighting off a cold, I decided to take it easy and sit on the deck and bask in the healing warmth of sunshine. Except the deck was covered with leaves. Again. Here is a picture of some of the trees responsible for this surfeit of leaves.

Can you tell I was a wee bit bored? Sitting there taking pictures of the trees with my cell phone? So I decided to sweep the deck. Sounds simple, right? Well, not when Quincy the Wonder Dog morphs into Quincy the Helper Dog.

Quincy seemed to be Very Concerned that I was attempting any activity at all. He stood in the leaves I was trying to sweep. The only way to clear a section of deck was by sweeping around and between his legs as he stood guard. As soon as I finished one leaf-covered section, he'd move to the next one. At one point I yelled at him and made him go sit down.

Good dog. Stay.

I turned to sweep more leaves and there he was. Standing right in the middle of the pile.

When I was done, he pouted. Refused to look at me. So I took this picture of him, mourning the loss of his leaves. Or chagrined he was unable to protect me from all that dangerous physical activity. Not sure which.

Here he is later, inside, sitting with the cat. He's still sad about those leaves -- has his back turned to the windows that look out over the deck. The cat is sitting in a fading ray of sunshine, content to have no opinion whatsoever about leaves. I'm not sure you can tell from this picture, but neither one of them like it when I try to vacuum either.

That's my excuse, anyway.

Teamwork

2007-12-01T15:53:00.000-05:00

My inner slug is trying to kill me. I have evidence.
I'm pretty sure it's a conspiracy.

It has teamed up with my boss:

If you give her more to do and make her work late,
she won't want to exercise when she gets home.

It has talked to the cat:

Climb into her lap and purr loudly. She'll sit
there long after she's watched the news.

And the dog:

Don't jump all over her and slobber in her face at the crack
of dawn. Let her sleep late, she'll be sluggish all day.

It has spoken convincingly to people who have my phone number:

One of you call her every night. Talk for hours at a time.
Don't let her hang up and get on that treadmill.

It has even communicated with those who have my email address:

Send her 50 emails every day. By the time she reads them all
she'll be too tired to exercise. Plus she'll have a headache.

My inner slug does not seem to understand that ours is a symbiotic relationship. I go down, it's going down with me.

Symbi-what? Any of you got a dictionary?

Yeah. It has been a tough week. But I just took my inner slug for a half-mile walk and it is feeling pretty subdued at the moment. That won't last. It tries to contact you with suggestions for thwarting my resolve to exercise, just ignore it.

A day of giving thanks . . .

2007-11-22T17:24:00.001-05:00

. . . for all the things along the way.

Loss and Losing Weight

2007-11-18T12:31:00.001-05:00

Some of you know I have recently lost five pounds and have told me that's great and I must have found a strategy that works for me. Yes and no. Those five pounds were lost due to grief over the death of a dear friend. I simply couldn't eat. This is not a good plan and I do not recommend it. Keep as many of your friends alive as possible.

But I figure as long as the scale is moving in the right direction, I should take advantage of that. At this time last year, I was feeling very pleased with myself for having lost 23 pounds. I maintained that weight loss for a long time. But inner slugs being what they are (and mine is incredibly successful, not to mention sneaky as hell), I have now gained back roughly half that amount.

Inattention + Inactivity + Indulgence = Smug Sedentary Slug

So here's the real plan, in case anyone is interested. I have no credentials whatsoever to give this advice and you should probably disregard all of it and talk to your doctor instead. It's pretty basic stuff, but this is what seems to work for me. When I follow it. And that's the hard part, isn't it?

No alcohol. No brainer, right? But I'm always surprised by people who are trying to lose weight, yet continue to drink alcohol. I pretty much don't drink at all anymore, though I will on occasion have a glass of wine. It just doesn't agree with me. But I am convinced that, in addition to the calories it packs, alcohol somehow changes a person's body chemistry and makes it darn near impossible to lose weight. No facts at all to back that up, just experience.

No food after dinner. None. Well, duh. But this is the one that is hard for me. Surely it wouldn't hurt to have just a handful of crackers? Maybe some cheese? And popcorn would taste so good right about now. Stop. Don't do it. You ate dinner, right? You are not hungry, you are bored. Do something else. Drink a big glass of water. Or go to bed early for a change, you probably don't get enough sleep.

Drink more water. You already do? Drink more than that. Ice cold water. Your body has to heat up the cold things you ingest and that takes energy. Besides, all that water flushes out the bad things. Yes, that is the highly technical scientific description of the process.

Exercise more. For me, right now, any exercise at all is more. For you, it may mean something else. Whatever you're doing, do more. Change the balance. A cardiologist once told me (after saying my heart was in terrific shape and I had simply pulled a muscle and to stop worrying my way to a heart attack) that if you want to maximize weight loss, you should exercise an hour or two before bedtime. He said if you raise your metabolism at a time of day when you are not likely to be eating anything for several hours, your body burns stored fat instead. Makes sense to me. But it's really hard to do. Do it anyway.

Eat less, more often. I know, another no brainer. Eat smaller portions, but eat several times a day. It works. But it also requires advance planning and that is where my plan suffers. Make the time to buy, prepare and pack up healthy snacks to bring with you to work. Don't eat chips or sweets. Eat yogurt. Eat fruits and vegetables. Don't ever get stuck with nothing (good) to eat. Because then you will head to the vending machine or the fast food place or be ever so grateful your co-worker brought in a dozen doughnuts to share because you are absolutely starving and your common sense has left the building. You can prevent that, you know. Plan ahead.

A word about cravings: If you have a craving for something you know you shouldn't eat -- I'm making a huge assumption here that everyone knows what is and is not fattening -- it might be a good idea to go ahead and indulge. I know, that sounds contrary to losing weight. I disagree. In my experience, what most people do is wait until the craving is so strong they can't resist it any longer and are prepared to commit several felonies if anyone tries to stop them, and then indulge to excess. They eat the entire bag of chips instead of just a few, the entire carton of ice cream instead of three spoonfuls. They order everything off the menu at Taco Bell, when if they had just given in last week, one chicken taco would have satisfied them. Be sensible. Don't kid yourself by making up excuses to indulge (and really, if you keep ice cream in the freezer or cookies in the pantry and tell yourself you are not going to eat them, they're just for company, you are not being honest), but if you absolutely have to satisfy a craving, do it while you still have some control and can be moderate.

And that's it. Pretty much just plain old, long-winded common sense. It may not work for you at all, but I'm going to do my best to follow my own advice. It has worked for me in the past. We'll see what happens this time. I won't be blogging about this on a regular basis, but you can follow my so-called progress by checking out those ticker things over on the side. I tried to set easily (HA!) obtainable goals on those things, but once I've walked 50 miles, I'll re-set it for 50 more. And after I lose the first 20 pounds, I'll start to work on the next 20. Oh, believe me, there are at least 20 more. The weight ticker won't change as often, since I refuse to weigh myself more than twice a week, but the exercise one should change daily.

Well, that's the plan. It's good to have a plan. You want to tell me about yours?

Just Messin' Around

2007-11-17T13:09:00.001-05:00

People have been telling me to take it easy, get some rest. So today I decided to mess with my blog and see whether I could break anything. It turned out to be not such a "restful" process -- hey, this borders on craft, far as I'm concerned -- but so far it all seems to still work.

The old blog was sort of blah and boring. I kind of like the new look.

What do you think?

Addendum:
Ok, so I added a little exercise thing over there ----- >
And then I had to mess around and figure out how to change the mileage on it. But just to be completely honest here, I have NOT YET actually walked 1.5 miles. Just wanted to see how it worked.

So I guess now I have to replace the batteries in my treadmill (so the LCD thing works and I know how far I walked) and . . . walk. At least 1.5 miles.

Who knew this was going to be such an ordeal.

One Good Thing -- how hard could it be?

2007-11-16T19:12:00.000-05:00

McB has challenged me to come up with One Good Thing about today. But I have to do it before the end of the day. I've been trying all day to think of something and this is just not as easy as you might imagine. For example:

My commutes to and from work today were uneventful; but it only takes four minutes each way so perhaps avoiding disaster for that short a period of time doesn't qualify.

I did not say or do anything at work today to get myself fired; but my boss was not in the office at all today so that doesn't really count either.

But, hey, my boss was not in the office pestering me half to death today so I was very productive and got a lot of work done; but it was mostly stuff he should have done had he been there and not so much my own work and that's not good it's just frustrating.

I didn't have to buy lunch today because I ate the lunch I brought yesterday yet didn't get around to eating; but it was a salad and it was, um, kind of wilty and . . . not so good.

Sigh. You see? This is not an easy task, but I will persevere.

It was bright and sunny today; but I forgot my sunglasses at home and while I didn't have to be out in it for more than four minutes at a time (see above re commute) it was hard to see and my eyes are watering even now just thinking about it.

Last time I checked I had not said anything today, publicly or privately, that would offend or anger anyone; but the day is not yet over and you just never know.

Geez, you'd think McB could wait and issue this challenge on a weekend when there are All Sorts of Good Things to report. I'm telling you, the woman is a tyrant.

Hmmm, what else . . . well, the neighbor's tree that is leaning precariously did not fall on my house today; but the wind is supposed to pick up a bit here tonight and, well, let's just hold off on that thought for now.

When I got home from work the dog was still in the back yard where I left him this morning and the cat was still in the house; but they each seemed to want to be elsewhere so from their perspective maybe that is not such a good thing and it makes me a little nervous that the cat seems to think there is Something of Great Interest in the garage.

It's cold enough tonight for a fire in the fireplace and I have a new book waiting to be read and I'm pretty sure there's some popcorn around here somewhere; but instead I'm sitting upstairs at my computer agonizing over this and having flashbacks to the spaced-out college history professor who gave bizarre writing assignments like the one to Define and Defend Ten Good Things About the Spanish Inquisition -- but maybe I'm remembering wrong and it was Eight Things. Okay, fine, so maybe it wasn't the Spanish Inquisition. It might have been the Industrial Revolution. Or the Ice Age. Hey, it was history, I wasn't paying attention.

I'm getting desperate here. The day is almost over and I still don't have One Good Th-- no wait, I think I've got it: it is entirely possible that one person, just one mind you, will read this blog post and it will make them laugh. Yeah, yeah, I realize it's a very slight possibility, and honestly I'd settle for a smile or even a smirk, because I think that still counts. And that would be One Very Good Thing.

There. My work is done.

You happy now, McB?

Too close to home

2007-10-31T02:18:00.000-04:00

I'm up late tonight because I can't sleep.

I don't know whether the story has traveled very far beyond the local news, but some of you may have heard about the beach house in Ocean Isle that burned over the weekend and about the seven college kids who died there. When I heard the news Sunday, the first thing I did was call my son, who often takes off on a moment's notice for a weekend with friends at the beach. Even though Ocean Isle is not one of his regular destinations, you never know. But he was fine.

I have deliberately avoided watching the news for the last couple days, because this just hit so close to home. I can't even tell you how many beach vacations we've taken, staying in houses just like the one that burned. Or how many times my kids have stayed with friends and their families in similar places. From the Outer Banks to Beaufort to Wrightsville, to Sunset and Holden, to Myrtle Beach and Pawleys Island, even down to South Ponte Vedre. All those beach houses are different, but they are exactly the same: weathered wood structures meant to stand against wind and waves. Not fire. I did not want to hear the details.

This morning I turned on the TV to watch the weather forecast and the first thing I saw was a video clip of that house completely engulfed in flames. All I could think about was those seven kids trapped inside, burning. It made me feel physically ill. And I cried. For those kids and for their families and for all those who loved them.

The horror of telling that story, of speaking those words, should have been bad enough. Showing that video was inexcusable sensationalism.

Tonight I talked to my daughter for the first time since I heard the news. I knew she was not at the beach, but she told me that a friend of hers was there. He and some other friends were staying at the house right next door to the one that burned. They had met those kids and hung out with them the night before. Needless to say, he is not in a good place right now, emotionally. Along with so many others.

It struck me again how easily that could have been one of my kids, or their friends, going up in flames on the morning news. And I wish I could get that image out of my head so I could sleep.

It's hard to believe the parents of those seven kids will ever sleep again.

What can I say?

2007-10-27T21:07:00.000-04:00

I got an email the other day asking why I haven't posted here for a while. The short answer is that, for the first time since I started this blog, I don't have anything to say. No, that's not quite true. I don't have anything to say that I think anyone would be interested in reading.

There is nothing unusual or fascinating going on in my life. Nothing particularly funny or meaningful. Nothing weird or wonderful. I have no insight or wisdom or humour to share.

Really, I checked. Nothing. You're going to have to trust me on this.

Lately, life events have been mostly tedious mediocre drudgery. No one wants to hear about that. I sure don't want to write about it.

Mom always told us: If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all. I figure that also applies to when you don't have anything interesting to say.

So I'm not.

Until I do.

Which could be two months. Or tomorrow.

But then I will.

Packing it up, packing it in

2007-10-07T21:58:00.000-04:00

Knowing you will soon have to pack up and move everything in your possession, even the stuff that's yours by default rather than choice, really forces you to make some decisions about what has value and to finally deal with all that damn clutter that built up while you weren't paying attention. Translation: No way in hell am I taking all this stuff with me.

Here are some random things I've learned recently, most of which serve to reinforce the conclusion that this house is indeed too big for my current needs and it is way past time to move:

I have too much stuff and it has predictably expanded to fill the available space, but some of this stuff is not mine and some of it I've never even seen before, so I suspect at some point I must have agreed to store things for the neighbors, and all their friends.

The cat has expressed her digestive displeasure in some places I almost never see, in some rooms I rarely frequent.

I had forgotten how very nice my kitchen table looks with nothing on it.

My refrigerator looks very nice too, without all those cute magnets and funny notes from the kids (all now stored safely, no need for panic here).

My daughter made the Dean's List last year -- which I knew, of course, and I'm very proud of her accomplishment -- but I didn't realize the university had sent me a certificate of recognition.

I have managed to accumulate more shoe boxes than I have pairs of shoes.

There are definite tactical disadvantages to being the last one to move out of a place, after others have taken only what they really want and then disavowed responsibility for disposition of the remainder.

Getting rid of some of this stuff is entirely too satisfying and is no doubt damaging my karma.

The fact that a house has a lot of closet space is not always a positive feature, something I do not intend to point out to prospective buyers.

Three broken fingernails, a smashed thumb and a bruised shin can be seen as badges of courage (as opposed to sheer stupidity) for doing some things yourself instead of waiting for help -- especially if, once you stop swearing, you squint your eyes and tilt your head just right.

Old dust makes me sneeze, violently.

Taking pictures of things you are about to throw out, maybe even a few things you plan to keep, then emailing said pictures to the kids with a message saying, "You didn't really want this stuff anymore, did you?" will prompt some rather interesting phone calls and provide an entertaining break from the tedium.

There are times, unlikely as it may seem, when a 96-gallon garbage can is Just Not Big Enough for the needs of a one-person, one-cat, one-dog household.

Some things do not fit easily into either a packing box or a trash bag; interestingly, they tend to be the same things that were damn near impossible to wrap as gifts.

Loud music helps ground me to present day reality when memories threaten the momentum.

It has been way too long since my mom came for a visit and, in spite of telling me not to go to any bother on her account, prompted that guilt-induced flurry of "Oh My God I Have To Clean Up This Mess Before The Woman Who Knows She Raised Me Better Than This Gets Here" activity.

It's shocking, I know, but it seems possible that procrastination is not always the best course of action.

I'm exhausted and I've barely made a dent in it. I've decided the only way I'm going to get all this done is to give up either sleeping or writing. There's no question as to which would provide more motivation. So today I packed up my ms pages and my research notes and my reference books, though I couldn't make myself seal the boxes. Good thing I have also recently discovered my very impressive talent for stubborn determination. I'm going to need it.

Good Advice

2007-09-26T20:03:00.000-04:00

I love interesting quotes. I tend to collect the ones that make me laugh or think or feel inspired. I sent one such quote to a friend and recently she sent it back to me (thank you, Mary). Here it is:

Go ahead and make something. Make something really special. Make something amazing that will really blow the mind of anybody who sees it.

If you try to make something just to fit your uninformed view of some hypothetical market, you will fail. If you make something special and powerful and honest and true, you will succeed . . . because your soul somehow depends on it. There's something you haven't said, something you haven't done, some light that needs to be switched on, and it needs to be taken care of. Now.

- Hugh Macleod

And that made me remember something I read a while back on Neil Gaiman's blog, in a post dated May 9, 2007:

As for deadlines...

Like a hanging, I find they concentrate the mind wonderfully.

The best suggestion I can make is to stop doing other things. Turn off the computer, or take a laptop somewhere they don't have wireless. Don't play solitaire or bring a mobile phone. Then write.

It's amazing how much time you can spend not writing, without even trying. Make a rule that you can either write, or not do anything at all. (No TV. No long baths. No reading New Scientist. Staring out of the window is okay.) Pretty soon, you start to write, because it's more interesting than staring vacantly out of the window. (I think I got it from a Daniel Pinkwater essay in Fish Whistle, and it's a wonderful concept.)

It occurs to me that the hardest advice to follow is advice directed specifically at us. Too often it sounds patronizing or judgmental or simply misguided. It is sometimes easier to appropriate advice given to others and take its lessons as our own, in our own time, of our own volition.

Right now, these particular words strike a chord that resonates deep within me. I plan to take heed. Just thought I'd share.

I just had an apostrophe!

2007-09-21T09:05:00.000-04:00

Or epiphany, for those of you unfamiliar with my daughter's delightfully strange talent for twisting words.

Most of you reading this know I've been preparing a partial manuscript to send to an agent. But I've been putting off sending it because I wasn't happy with it and I wasn't sure why. It just felt wrong. But I couldn't see the problem. Sooo, I signed up to have Bob Mayer do a Submission Critique.

Wow. (< --- biggest understatement ever)

Some of you have heard about Bob's reputation for stark, incisive honesty and I can tell you it is very well deserved. He really does know what he's doing and will not hesitate to tell you if he thinks you do not. So now I know what the problems are. Yes, more than one. Most of them so obvious, in hindsight, it's rather horrifying. He had a lot to say (yes, really) and every single thing he said was right. Damn it.

After I got his critique, I went through a long agonizing period of time -- okay, so it was only about a day, but it felt like forever -- when I decided to stop writing. Just stop. That's it, I'm done, I can't do this. I'm not even qualified to write a grocery list, let alone an entire book. This is for the best, really. Good to know this now before I waste any more time. I need to just stop kidding myself here. I can not write.

Hearing hard truths about your writing is difficult -- another understatement -- but it is also incredibly helpful. So after I'd gone through half a box of Kleenex and exchanged a couple more emails (which were quite encouraging, by the way), I had a stern talk with myself and came to some conclusions.

This process was painful but it was not fatal, to me or my writing career. I am a writer. I'm not going to stop writing. If I stop I can't get better and I am determined to get better.

I knew the work had problems. That was why I asked for help. Good for me. It should not be a big surprise that it came back covered in red ink. Of course, I wasn't expecting quite so much of it . . . Sigh. But the comments didn't say "you can't write," they pointed out some problems. Some really big, difficult, obvious, can't believe I missed that problems, but still. I can fix problems, now that I can see them.

However. Some of the comments and questions really made me stop and think. Hard. And reevaluate what I'm writing and why. And I made a couple of amazing discoveries. We're talking light bulbs flashing and planets colliding and journeys being re-charted here, folks. You ready for this? Because I sure was not.

Apostrophe #1: I do not want to write romance. Not quite sure how I ever decided that I should. I love to read it, will always read it. I do not want to write it. More than that, I'm not good at writing it. And I'm not going to do it anymore. What a HUGE relief.

Apostrophe #2: I am writing a political thriller. I've always been afraid to say that because women, with very few exceptions, do not write in that genre. Who was I to think I could do it? So I was dressing it up as a romance or a romantic suspense or a romance thriller or whatever because I had it stuck in my tiny little mind that turning this story into some kind of romance would make it more "acceptable" for me to be writing it. Bob's critique made me realize that by doing so I was taking a perfectly good idea and ruining it. No more. I'm writing a political thriller. That scares the hell out of me because I'm not sure I have what it takes to do that. But it also makes me unbelievably happy. I'm so excited about this I can't even describe it.

So it's back to the drawing, er, writing board for me. I've got a lot of work cut out for me and a lot of problems to fix and pages upon pages of bad writing to delete. I can't wait.

Thank you, Bob.

Note to all of you writers out there: I strongly recommend you sign up to have Bob Mayer make you cry and cast you into the pit of despair. If you are willing to pay attention and want to learn something, your writing will be better for it. And isn't that the point?

Wet t-shirts and other hot topics

2007-09-06T08:53:00.000-04:00

My upstairs air conditioning unit stopped cooling Friday night. Today is Thursday and it still isn't cooling. I heard on the news last night that yesterday marked the 69th day this summer the temperature has reached 90 degrees or higher. Second hottest summer on record in these parts.

But we have progress, folks. The A/C repair person finally showed up yesterday and I learned that the problem is a burned out condenser. Or compressor. Whatever. Some long "C" word that means "cooling is no longer taking place." Upstairs. Where all the bedrooms are located. Where my computer is located. Where I usually spend a good deal of time.

Yes, I am sweating as I write this.

I was hoping for a quick fix -- a generous hit of Freon and it'd be good to go. But I began to think there was a more serious problem when the repairman spent almost an hour outside and in the basement, checking things out. My suspicions were confirmed when I let him back into the house and he avoided looking at me and instead made friends with Quincy the Wonder Dog.

I asked, "So, what's the prognosis?"

He harrumphed and delayed answering by scratching QTWD behind the ears and redirecting the nose aimed at his crotch. "Boy, he sure is a friendly one, ain't he?"

"Yeah, everyone is his best friend. About the air conditioner . . ."

"I love dogs. Cain't have one where I stay at now, but I purely do love dogs."

I briefly considered tucking a Kleenex in the man's shirt pocket, figuring the resultant impact when QTWD retrieved it would get his attention. Or maybe stop his heart.

I tried again, more loudly. "Were you able to fix the problem?"

"No, ma'am, I sure weren't. The [insert C word] is shot and needs to be replaced."

"Oh. That's bad."

"Well now, good news is, we can prob'ly get a replacement right quick."

"Great. That's wonderful." I'm reconsidering the whole death-by-Kleenex thing.

"Bad news is, our installation crew is running 'bout a week, week and a half behind. Hot weather, you know."

Yeah, I know.

He continued with the bad news. "It'll be middle of next week 'fore we can get to it."

I know from past experience that "middle of next week" could come as early as Monday but usually ends up being Friday. I considered asking whether he could just give me a restorative intravenous shot of Freon in the meantime, but decided he probably didn't have an abundance of appreciation for sarcasm. No need to antagonize him. For all I know, he IS the installation crew. Plus, you know, he really was a nice guy, all things considered. "All things" being that my A/C is STILL NOT COOLING.

So I'll wait. But I'm hot. And I'll stay hot for the foreseeable future. I'll be especially hot at night, when I go to bed. Because I really hate sleeping on the couch. Even though it's downstairs, where the air is nice and cool. Silly me, I want to sleep in my bed and not wake up with a stiff neck and sore back.

I started thinking of ways I could cool off and get some sleep. I tried remembering times in my life I had felt truly chilled and what had caused it. Problem is, I grew up in Minnesota and half my life was spent feeling chilled. I figured a snowball down the back was not a viable option, nor was walking barefoot on frost-rimed linoleum. The coldest non-winter memory I could come up with was putting on a sopping wet t-shirt over a swimsuit after a day at the lake.

So last night I dug around in various dresser drawers and found an old worn t-shirt my DS22 left behind when he went off to college. Men's XL soft white cotton. Very good. It had a few holes. Even better. I got out a plastic spray bottle and filled it with cold water. And stripped down to nothing and put the t-shirt on. And sprayed. And shivered. And sprayed some more. And lay down in bed, covers kicked aside, with the ceiling fan going full speed. Oh yes. And slept.

My own impromptu wet t-shirt contest. And nary a judge in sight.

Well, you can't have everything.

Excuses, excuses . . .

2007-08-25T17:53:00.000-04:00

This seems to be my summer for Putting Things Off. I have a list of Things I'm Supposed to Be Doing that you just would not believe. And it's not getting any shorter because I keep finding reasons -- okay, excuses -- not to do stuff.

Why am I not doing it, you ask? Simple: I don't want to.

This behaviour really makes no sense, because I'd feel so much better if I just DID some of this stuff already, got it over with, and moved on. I'm going to have to do it all eventually anyway. I know that. Putting it off is making it that much harder to accomplish. I know that, too.

Certain people are becoming a bit irritated with me for not doing some of this stuff. Certain other people are beginning to wonder just what exactly my problem is since I haven't done some of this stuff. So far, I'm doing a pretty good job of ignoring them.

Maybe I can blame the planets; that usually works, you rarely hear a planet disavowing responsibility for anything. I think mine have stopped orbiting. Or they've left the solar system entirely.

Because even now, as I'm writing this and thinking, Okay, I really should DO some of this stuff, because this is getting ridiculous . . .

Nope. I just don't want to.

I had no idea I was so stubborn.

Book Review: LOST GIRLS

2007-08-12T22:47:00.000-04:00

There are books that will shake your confidence as a writer. Especially if those books are in the same genre as the one you're writing. Books that are so good, they rip your arrogance to shreds and leave you humbled because you know you will never be able to write even half as well. LOST GIRLS, by Robert Doherty (aka Bob Mayer) is one of those books. It is that good.

I have been eagerly awaiting the release of this book, a follow up to Doherty's excellent BODYGUARD OF LIES, for so long that I was beginning to worry it would never live up to my expectations. This book goes so far above and beyond what I was hoping for, I am almost speechless. Almost.

This book could as easily have been titled "Lost Men," as it is a story of men who were lost, betrayed and abandoned by their government to endure the physical torture and mental anguish of captivity, and who lost themselves and a part of their humanity as a result. The plot is complicated, with some twists that even I didn't see coming -- and I almost always see them coming. Yet it is not so complex as to be nearly incomprehensible -- a common flaw of other, less brilliantly conceived offerings in this genre -- because there is such logic and clarity in the writing.

The characters are at once incredible and believable. They are portrayed with an understated confident authority that comes from first-hand knowledge, something that is evident throughout this book. Doherty conveys a deep understanding of the complexities of human nature and the psychology of both perpetrator and victim.

From plot to character to everything else that goes into a book -- dialog, pacing, conflict, escalation of tension -- Doherty gets all of it right while telling a fascinating story that is as entertaining and compelling as it is thought-provoking, a story that will stay with you long after you've read it.

Quite simply, LOST GIRLS is one of the best damn books, of any genre, that I have ever read. I've read a lot of books.

There is a group of elite soldiers in the military, the Special Forces, who are the best of the best, who can accomplish the impossible and make it look easy. There is a group of elite writers writing fiction today who are so good, so incredibly talented, that readers buy their books without looking at anything other than the name on the cover. We knew Doherty/Mayer was a member of the first group. With the publication of LOST GIRLS, he has proven himself to be a member of the second as well.

Of course, it would be a big help, for those of us who have trouble remembering such things, if he would stick to just one name.

Because the memory makes me happy

2007-08-04T10:29:00.001-04:00

Sometimes that's enough.

And sometimes, that's everything.

Hot Dog Etiquette in Singapore

2007-07-29T21:49:00.000-04:00

One of my daughter's friends was in Singapore for a month this summer on a study abroad scholarship. This is one of the pictures she took while there. It's a food tray at a fast food place in Singapore.

First of all, if I am ever in Singapore and feel a compelling need to order a hot dog-- well, I hope someone will go ahead and put me out of my misery. That is Just Wrong. But if, for some reason, you ever find yourself in Singapore and are unavoidably faced with having to eat a hot dog, be aware that they have discovered there are Rules.

I know it's hard to read, so I've typed it out:

Hotdog Etiquette

Dos and Don'ts: Everyday guidance for eating America's sacred food

Do. . . eat hotdogs on buns with your hands. Utensils should not touch hotdogs on buns.
Don't. . . use a cloth napkin to wipe your mouth when eating a hotdog. Paper is always preferable.
Don't. . . leave bits of bun on your plate. Eat it all. Fresh herbs on the same plate with hotdogs are a major "Don't. . ." Mustard, relish, onions, cheese and chili are acceptable.
Don't. . . take more than five bites to finish a hotdog. For foot-long wiener, seven bites are acceptable.
Do. . . Condiments remaining on the fingers after eating a hotdog should be licked away, not washed.
Don't. . . use ketchup on your hotdog after the age of 18.
Don't. . . think there is a wrong time to serve hotdogs.

Who knew? And way down at the bottom (I had to enlarge it to see this) it says: Source: National Hot Dog & Sausage Council, USA. So I did an internet search and, yes, there is such a thing and they have a website. They do indeed have these guidelines listed there, among others.

[Please note that in Spain, it is considered an appalling breach of etiquette to lick one's fingers. No matter what food is being consumed.]

It might seem unimaginable, what with this surfeit of information, but I am left with two unanswered questions: Does the National Hot Dog & Sausage Council realize the effect they're having on international relations? And what kind of fresh herbs, exactly, might one be tempted to serve with a hot dog?

Okay, three questions: Hot dogs are sacred?

Friday the 13th, or why today was lucky

2007-07-13T18:53:00.000-04:00

Some of you may remember way back last fall I wrote a blog post about a co-worker whose then 18-year-old son had been diagnosed with lymphoma. That diagnosis came almost exactly one year ago -- I remember returning from RWA National to an office in mourning.

It has been a year of ups and downs, of progress and setbacks, an emotional roller coaster of bad news followed by good and back to bad. Earlier this spring, the son was given an all-clear by his doctors. As far as they could tell, the treatments had been successful and the cancer was gone. But.

Just to be extra sure, they wanted to do one last chemo treatment, followed by a bone marrow transplant. Their reasoning? Patients with this particular type of cancer who had this treatment were pretty much cancer-free for life. Those who didn't, well, their cancer usually came back.

But it's an awful thing, this treatment. There is a month of preparation, with many doctor visits, leading up to it. One of the things they do is harvest bone marrow stem cells and save them. They can do this because the cancer has not spread to his bone marrow. The chemo they planned to give him kills all fast-growing cells. This of course includes the cancer cells. But it also kills bone marrow and blood cells and God knows what else.

Once the treatment began, he'd have to stay in the hospital, in isolation, for 30 days. His body would be incredibly vulnerable to infection, unable to fight off germs. A head cold could kill him. Once the chemo kills off all the cells, they said, he will feel like he is dying. Literally. Because at that point, he is.

They wait until his white blood count and his red blood count are at zero. I'm not sure what is left of a person's blood once all those cells are dead, but by all reports it is not a pleasant experience. I'll spare you the details. Then they give him a transfusion of the bone marrow stem cells and wait for things to start to grow again. It takes a while. There is a chance it won't happen.

Some of those specifics might be a bit off, but this is my best understanding of it after several conversations with my co-worker. Scary stuff. But the alternative was so much worse.

So a while back, they began the treatment. Everything went according to plan and for three days, his blood levels were at absolute zero. My co-worker was worried, though the doctors assured him everything was right on schedule. What if the cells didn't grow? What was Plan B? No one had mentioned a Plan B. His son was so sick, getting worse every day, he couldn't believe Plan A had a snowball's chance. It has been a tough time.

Well, he came in to work yesterday, guardedly optimistic. The blood levels were at 0.1. Hard to let yourself get hopeful over such a small number, especially when your child is still suffering so horribly. But it was better than 0.0 and it was a beginning. So, we hoped.

Today he came in to work and it looked like he'd turned back the calendar 10 years and someone had lifted 20 pounds off each shoulder. The blood levels were at 0.8. The doctors say the treatment is now considered to be a confirmed success. They say recovery is very fast once it starts and think the son may be able to go home in a matter of days. The parents are ecstatic. The son is happy, too, because he wants to play in a qualifying round for the US Amateur Golf Tournament later this month. Yeah, he's that good. He might even make the cut. Plus, he's missed his girlfriends. Yes, plural. Hey, the kid has priorities.

We've all suffered through this with our friend during the past year, trying our best to be optimistic and supportive while struggling at times not to shed tears at work. Believe me, there were days it was damn near impossible. This news had us all a bit misty-eyed today, and not one of us tried to hide it.

Just wanted to share that, today, on a day not known for good luck.

The Good Old, Bad Old Days

2007-07-08T23:51:00.000-04:00

Just for laughs, not to mention a big dose of humility, I've decided to share with you the first "book" I ever wrote. Warning: IT'S BAD. Amazingly awful. It breaks every rule of writing I have since learned and probably a few that no one has thought up yet. I don't care. For some odd reason, I'm not ashamed of it.

I wrote it back in the late-80s, mostly while the kids took their naps. At some point I realized that in order to continue I was going to have to do some research. I was too busy for that. So I only wrote two chapters before life intervened and I set it aside. Be grateful. Be very grateful. It's about pirates and privateers and set back around 1810 or so. I think. I will never finish this story. It is not a work in progress. There will never be any more to it than there is. Really.

Anyway, I'm very busy and pull-my-hair-out distracted with other things right now, so I'm only going to post a bit of it (I have to re-type the thing, it's not on computer). I can't even tell you how tempted I am to "fix" it, but I'm not going to. This is it in original form, formatting and everything. Try not to run screaming into the night after you read it, okay?

Chapter One

She struggled up as if through deep layers of sleep, fighting the unconsciousness that held her captive. She felt the rocking and swaying, the dip of the waves. I must be on Papa's ship, she thought. Yes, that was it. Memories came to her of laying on the deck at night, looking up through the rigging at the stars, the warm breeze soothing her sun-baked skin. Papa sitting next to her, naming the constellations, teaching her how to navigate. Sharing their love of the sea.

She smiled at the happy memory, then frowned as another memory intruded. That was before the accident that took his leg, took away her childhood. Before the blood. She could smell it even now, after all the years that had passed since that awful day. The sweet, sickening smell of blood. Her papa's blood. Sticky, wet and warm. Dear God, the smell. She stifled a groan and rolled over onto her stomach, hoping to recapture the earlier dream. But now her fingers could feel the stickiness; the smell made her gag and come more fully awake. Confused and disoriented, she lifted her head and it exploded with pain and stars; stars that mocked her dream, fast becoming nightmarish reality as memory tried to return.

It was dark as pitch, but she was suddenly very certain she was not on her papa's ship, knew she was no longer a child. She stretched out her hands from her prone position, a morbid quest for the truth, and felt it again. The unmistakable stickiness of blood. And something else. Soft, yet hard, and cold. An arm. A matted clump of hair. A leg. Oh, dear God. No! She rose to all fours, retching from a combination of the pain in her head and the horror of her discovery. Crawling backwards across the splintered deck as the contents of her stomach left her, a blind flight away from the nightmare of her awakening. Away from the smell, real and remembered. She collapsed against an opposite rail and escaped to unconsciousness once again.

She awoke to sunshine and the cry of birds. She felt the warmth on her face, the sway of the ship beneath her, the pain in her head. Pain. Her eyes flew open as memory returned. Blinded at first by the morning sun, she struggled to sit up and leaned back against the rail. Shading her eyes, she surveyed the carnage around her and remembered.

They had heard the commotion on deck, men shouting, feet running. They were still a week away from port in Virginia, according to the captain, and the two women in the cramped cabin were puzzled by the unusual activity. Martha, whose curiosity had overcome the predictable mid-afternoon lethargy of the voyage, turned from looking out the porthole, her beloved, aged face ashen. "Pirates," she whispered, "coming fast from the south."

Not wanting to believe her, Dani ran to the opening to see for herself. "It’s Black John," she said, after a tense silence. "I recognize his flag from Papa's description."

At the older woman's gasp, she turned, her own golden complexion now ashen as well. For a frozen moment, both women remembered snatches of conversation, the telling of tales over tankards of ale, and prayed what they had heard was not true. Yet both knew, all the same, that it was.

"The man's not human, e's not. The way 'e leaves them poor souls to rot on deck."

"Aye, no captives, no survivors. But afeard to feed the fishes, 'e is."

"Superstitious bastard."

"A meaner man I ne'er met. Ugly as sin, wi' a soul to match." This last from Dani's father, who had met the man and survived the encounter, though he'd always refused to discuss it.

Feared for his vicious brutality and erratic behavior, the notorious pirate Black John was himself fearful and superstitious. Believing that casting dead bodies into the ocean would anger the demons of the deep and bring him bad lack, and as he had no use for the ships he plundered, he left the dead in a great bloody heap on the deck. Left them to rot and molder in the sun, until eventually even the birds would not feast on the remains. Other vessels coming upon such a death ship were left no choice but to fire upon the ship until it sank. No one ever boarded a death ship, fearful of the disease if surely carried.

Jarred into action by the thought of her papa, Dani ran to one of her trunks and began pulling out clothing, throwing dresses and petticoats to land where they may. Finding what she needed, she turned impatiently to Martha.

"Help me wi' this dratted thing. Hurry."

Pulling at the confining material, she turned her back to the woman who, with shaking fingers, helped her unbutton the dress.

"Megan Danielle McClellan, what are ye thinking to do? Surely ye cannot mean what I'm thinking ye are," Martha protested, as she took in the familiar sight of breeches, shirt and leather vest.

Dani rounded on her with fierce determination blazing in her emerald eyes. "Martha, I have ta help them fight. This is'na a fighting ship, tis a bloody merchantman. Ye know I'm able, and God knows they'll need all the help they can get."

As she hastily finished dressing, the young woman silently cursed her father and his grand plans to send her off to America on this plodding hulk of a ship. His dreams of turning her into a fine lady were about to be dashed into the ocean, along with Captain Davis and all his cargo and crew. The words "for your own good" rang in her memory with mocking clarity, as did his insistence that she would be in good hands with his old friend, Tom Davis.

Knowing first-hand the stubborn nature of the girl, Martha bit back further comment. She knew the futility of argument once her young charge had made up her mind. She searched the girl's brilliant green eyes for a sign of uncertainty or hesitation and saw only the determination and courage she had come to expect. She murmured a prayer as she quickly crossed herself, a prayer for Dani's safety as well as her own.

"Yer father will never forgive me if anything happens to ye, Danielle." Close to tears now, Martha whispered, "And I'd never forgive meself."

Pretending not to hear, Dani finished pulling on her well-worn boots and jammed a knit cap over her newly-short auburn tresses, a result of her last desperate act of defiance aimed at changing her papa's insistence that she undertake this ill-fated voyage. She remembered well how her papa's bright blue eyes had darkened in anger, how he had finally shrugged and said, "Twill grow, lass. It changes nothing." Turning back to the trunk, she rummaged through to the bottom and began to arm herself as Martha watched with round, frightened eyes. The slender young woman, who had moments before been exquisitely garbed in London's latest fashions, now resembled a disheveled street ruffian.

In truth, Martha had thought the girl's father had long since confiscated Dani's weapons and more disreputable clothing. Nonetheless, she knew Robbie McClellan would be proud if he could see his daughter now. Aye, she thought with an inward wince, he'd be proud. He'd also be bloody furious and absolutely terrified.

Okay, that's enough of that. Let me know what you think of my fledgling effort. Be nice. Oh, what the hell, be honest. I like to think I've improved a wee bit since then, but maybe I'm kidding myself. If you all think you can stand it, I might post more -- yes, god help me, there is more -- later in the week. Unless I get distracted by something shiny.