Time

2011. 

Not a good year for a lot of people.  I know it won't make the record books as one of my favorites, but I learned a lot. 

The hard way.

Of course. 

If I'm going to do something, that's usually the way I go about it. 

Traditionally speaking.

Hard way or not, it was enough to make  me rethink things.  A lot of things.

One of them is Annie.

If you know me, have been here before, have seen me on Twitter, AW, or where ever, you'll have heard most likely of Annie Duvall - my erotic pen name. 

She's dead.

I killed her. 

*Foomp*

Stories of hers that I like will be reworked - they'll keep their sensuality, just lose some of their more graphic details. 

Bye Annie.

Another change is writing time.  Dear Dog, how I've missed it.  So it's been added back into my little planner on my phone.  In purple.  Can't argue with purple.

Another thing I'm changing is the availability of my short stories.  Right  now, I have nothing out there for published stuff.

I've been weighing my options and doing some thinking and I think I have an idea of what I'm going to do about it.  Keep an eye on the COMING SOON! tab for info/links/what have you.

It's a new year.  Time for a new way of thinking, a new way of doing things. 

Time to get out of my own way.

Dear Blog - that sounds terrible - Dear Words to Paper --

Dear WTP,

I haven't forgotten you or thought of deleting you.

Often.

I got on RL's roller coaster back in May and have needed both hands to hang on in order to keep from falling off - this ride had had a lot of hidden dips and sharp curves where you'd least expect them. Or at least where I wasn't expecting them.

But like all roller coasters, it had to coast back down. That's where I am now, in the long glide back to the platform where the characters wait with their stories.

I can't say I'll be here more, after all, I only have so much to say without my characters, but I *hope* this glide is where the craziness ends and isn't just a smooth place before the next drop over an edge unseen.

Lessons Learned from Reading

The day job - it pays a few bills but it ties of most of my day.  Well, usually it does.  Over the last few weeks, work has been slow coming in.  Not sure why.  Lots of guesses from the office of the company I'm contracted with.  Instead of transcribing reports in a mad dash, lately I've been spending a fair amount of my day repeatedly clicking the button to retrieve work.  Not a big deal - working from home, I can theoretically work whenever work is available - but it's frustrating to be tied to a desk to click the same button over and over again without making much, if any, progress on the old invoice.

To keep me from losing my mind - and from jamming up the system with too many retrieve requests clicked all at once in a fit of frustrated madness - I've been working on Spirit and rereading some of my old favorite authors in between harassing the system for work.  Which brings me to the meat of this post.

Things I've learned from reading big name authors... I'm not going to name names and if anyone reading this recognizes these things, please don't mention them here.  **

Never-ending pages of description - the critters are right - it's boring.  Especially when it's "told" instead of "shown."  I just skimmed two pages - two full pages - of told description in a novel by a best selling author.  Most of it seemed to focus on the MC's motivation/thoughts/anxieties that I have to confess morphed from written words to the garbled buzz of adult-speak in Charlie Brown cartoons.  I'm all for being in the MC's head, but as a reader, I really don't want the MC to rationalize every move and I don't need to understand how they came to every single decision they make. 

Lesson Learned - Keep the internal chatter to a minimum.  And if the MC insists on explaining their motives, at least be entertaining and avoid the paragraphs of blah, blah, blahness.

Keeping it Real -  The story has to be realistic and the characters have to, well, stay in character for me to want to read it again or recommend it to a friend.  Example - one of my mother-in-law's favorite big name authors tells a tale I absolutely, completely, thoroughly enjoyed.  Right up until the last chapter, when two of the MCs do things so completely out of character, I had to turn back a few pages and make sure I hadn't missed some major event that changed the way they think and act.  I finished the book, but when my mother-in-law asked if I would like another book by this same author, I told her no thanks.  This author has done something similar in all three of his books that I've read. 

Location and things in the environment have to be real too - for example, a long time favorite of mine has four adults sharing a bottle of wine in one of his stories.  Everyone gets a full glass.  When the glasses are empty, one of the adults pours everyone a second glass from the same bottle.  Again, when the glasses are empty, one of the MC's asks if there's any wine left in that bottle, then passes it around again, finally emptying the bottle after pouring twelve glasses from it.  Granted, it could have been a really big bottle, but most bottles of wine I've encountered pour around four. 

Lesson Learned - Keep it real - both character behavior and the qualities of props and environment - in the writing of the story and keep an objective eye out for breaks in reality when editing.  More than one critter would be a big help.

Repeated Themes and Characters - I didn't realize this was even an issue.  Several books by one particular Top-of-the-List author seems to have minor variations of the same few themes.  Some of them even seem to have the same exact character - i.e. a 10 yro girl with a malformed arm, a leg in a metal brace, orphaned (or the remaining parent is grossly negligent), with aspirations to be a writer, and possesses a spunky, offbeat personality that endears her to the heroes of the story while only making her more of target for the villains.  And she talks to herself frequently, in the same exact voice from one book to the other.  This was irritating to read, especially since I inadvertently read one right after the other.  I kept getting the few differences mixed up - "wait, didn't she have a brother?  No, that was the other book..."  

There are others stories with this same problem by this same author - the mysterious victims/ultimately the saviors of mankind creatures are aliens with certain specific physical attributes - the same appearance, the same way of moving, the same darn creatures in fact from one book to another - and the humans they encounter also have the same exact reactions from one book to the other. 

I could go on - especially about the recurring theme of dogs appearing as a borderline Dues ex machina.  Don't get me wrong - I'm a dog person through and through and quite often enjoy my dogs' company as much as I enjoy spending time with my very closest friends.  But they can't save the day in every single book.  Or, if they simply must, give me some clue about it before I read the book that this is another story of "Dog Saves the Day" so I'm less likely to want to pitch the book across the room. 

Yeah - recent back to back reads of "Dog Saves the Day..."

Lesson Learned - Watch the redundant characters/plots/themes.  Not every variation of every MC/theme/etc HAS to be published.    After all, I don't want to be responsible for the FedEx guy accidentally getting a face full of paperback because he happened to be walking by when the book went sailing through the window.

There's another one, or two, but I can't recall them right now.  The whole "Dog Saves the Day" has my head spinning. 

See, Spirit wanted a dog to befriend my MC's family at the climax of the story, and nope, I just can't put him in there.  It's too close to "Dog Saves the Day."

Damnit.

**With a huge amount of luck, maybe one day someone can point out all the places I've wrecked a story, or throw my books across the room in frustration fits at a theme I've repeated or a character who keeps showing up without the benefit of a series, or tell a gift giver, "sure, I loved that book by Laurie Dalzell, it holds up the end of the wobbly coffee table just right."  ;)

"Just Looking"

We're dog people in my house.  Hubs grew up with several of the four-footed furries around and since we've been together, we've always had at least one of them, each of them adopted as a puppy. 

Shadow, our eldest fur-baby, will be fourteen years old this December.  A Cocker Spaniel/Border Collie, Shadow wouldn't even stay in the same room I was in for months after we first brought our Ms. Girl home.   She has always made it clear this was her house, we were merely her people.  Probably simply because she herself lacks thumbs and thus the ability to open cheese wrappers.

Jake was our second fur-baby.  A Golden Retriever/Yellow Lab, Jake was my Valentine's Day present to Hubs in 1999.  He quickly became Shadow's favorite toy and everyone's favorite cuddler.  He and Ms. Girl were inseperable - over half of her pictures, from newborn through elementary school, have a blonde dog grinning at the camera in them. 

Cleo, our third fur-baby, adopted us just a few months before Li'l Dude was born.  She parked herself on our front porch and gazed through the screen door, eye-to-eye with the then toddler Ms. Girl, and refused to go on her way.  Unable to find anyone to take her in and completely unable to send her to the shelter, we took the brown puppy with the big feet in to the vet for a clean bill of health, then brought her home.   With her black-lined eyes and general body build and coloring, she appears to be of German Shepherd descent, but her fluffy coat and black tongue also point to a bit of Chow as well.  

July 11, 2008,  we lost Jake to hemangiosarcoma.   Everyone has missed him - furry people and us tailless ones as well.  The blonde furball who couldn't say no to a tennis ball left an enormous hole in our little world.  We heard a lot of recommendations to get a replacement puppy right away but we didn't.  We couldn't.  We weren't ready. 

Then, a couple weeks ago, my hubs mentioned something about maybe bringing home a puppy around the beginning of the year. 

A couple days later, my Li'l Dude asked if we could look online at Petfinder to see what puppies were needing homes. 

So, it seemed we might be ready for a new fur-baby. 

That afternoon, I watched our 9 yro Cleo try to play with Shadow - poor Shadow is mostly blind and mostly deaf and behaves like she doesn't always remember where she is or what's going on.  Cleo bounced around in front of Shadow, who stood there with a look of  "If I stand very still and very quiet, whatever this bouncy thing is in front of me will just go away."  Cleo did - go away.  Made me sad.  Made me think that, yeah, maybe a puppy...

As it turned out, last weekend Labapalooza was going on not far from us.  All kinds of rescued dogs ready and waiting to be adopted, with games and food and stuff to buy, and dogs and puppies and... yeah, we were so there.

With the intention of "just looking" or "maybe we'll be able decide on one breed over another or maybe just get some information on someone who might be ready to be adopted in a few months" we piled into my hub's Mustang, joined the masses clogging the highway Saturday morning, and headed for Labapalooza.  "Just looking."

Yeah, right. 

"Just looking" got to its feet and headed for the window when we saw the most sweet little black Lab puppy quietly sitting in a kennel with another puppy about the same size.

"Just looking" opened the window and put its foot on the sill when Vicki, a rescue volunteer, offered to let "Bear" out of his kennel so we could hold him.

"Just looking" flew right out the window and never looked back when "Bear" snuggled up under my hub's chin and whimpered and wriggled and gave puppy kisses all over my hub's neck.

"We're sold" I said to Vicki when "Bear" gave the same treatment to Li'l Dude, who burst into giggles and fell over.

Paper work filled out, adoption fees paid, promises made to let Vicki know how "Bear" was doing, and we were off, back into the car.  During the ride back home, "Bear" dozed off in my lap, leaving us to oooo and ahhh over his cute puppiness and to wonder at his story...

Some time around the middle of summer, a completely jet black Lab puppy, about three weeks old, was found in a paper bag in a Dumpster.  Alive.  Taken in and tended to by WAGS, "Bear" was bottle fed until he was able to eat solid food.

I have no idea how he was seen inside a paper bag, in a Dumpster - a tiny black puppy tossed out with the garbage - but I sure am glad someone else "just looked" when they did and started "Bear," now named Max, on his way to us.

Test Drive, A Week Later

30k.

That elusive number on the word counter.

Hit it.

:)

 

Test Drive, Day Two

So, my last writing time plans fell through, but I haven't given up the idea.  Yeah, I'm stubborn about some things. 

Pay no attention to the man laughing behind me, my hubs often collapses into fits of laughter when I mention the few things I'm stubborn about.

So, the writing time.

With school starting in a mere couple of weeks, hubs and I decided our week night TV viewing - marathons of our favorite shows streamed in via Netflix and Hulu - had to be cut down.  Or, why not shut down altogether after the kids go to bed?  We both have projects that need our attention and our shows will still be there on the weekend, right? 

I say that, and now watch, Medium will suddenly vanish from my Netflix que.

Anyway, the New and Improved Evening Writing Time is now on day two of its official test drive.

I've found the end of Spirit's never-ending chapter four - okay, so I broke the chapter and called the broken end chapter five.  Word count is down by four words compared to when I started, leaving it at 29,299 tonight.  I don't think this story wants to break the anticipated half-way point of 30k.  I've gotten close, and then find a whole slew of garbage and - bang! - back again it goes.

When it does hit 30k, I'll probably jump up and dance.

For the sake of anyone around me, let's hope this evening writing time thing works out and the only one to see will be my hubs and my dogs - all of whom have seen me dance and have lived to learn to hide their eyes - and their toes and tails - should I start to thrash around.

;)

Hang On, Nevermind, Scratch That

All right, so, about a week ago, I said something about finding an hour or so of writing time, just waiting for the words, at the end of the day.

Oh, dear dog...

Hang on while I laugh myself out of this chair.

13 - A Wedding Story

At this time, thirteen years ago today, June 13, I married my Sweetie.

Well, actually, at this time, thirteen years ago, I was realizing that I was zipped into my dress and properly petticoated so the skirt stood out just so, but I'd forgotten to put on my stockings and my shoes were still in their box.  Oh, and I hadn't put on my makeup.  Did I mention it was raining and my wedding was semi-outdoors?

To start at the beginning of this story - one that I've said for years I'd have to write down - we actually have to go back to Labor Day weekend, 1996.

My Sweetie, who was already living here, in Tulsa, flew to Vermont, and ring in hand, asked me to marry him.

Of course I said yes, which made a little girl playing nearby, I think she was collecting acorns, laugh.

After my Sweetie flew back to Tulsa, I went to work. 

My dress was easy.  I had a picture of what I wanted in my head.  All I had to do was find it.  My mother and I went to Needleman's Bridal Shop in St. Albans, added our shoes to the collection at the head of the stairs that led down, where wedding dresses were waiting to be tried on.  While the saleswoman talked to my mother about how she was sure we wanted an ivory dress, that white never looked right on redheads, I saw my dress go by on a short, little blonde.  It was beautiful.  And it looked just like I wanted it to once I tried it on, too.  In white. 

Dress - check.

Next was the place.   And I knew exactly where. 

St. Anne's Shrine of Isle La Motte, Vermont.  On the shores of Lake Champlain, this place has always been one of my favorites.  And it worked out really well that it's a church.  The Shrine's priest, Fr. Boucher, agreed to perform the ceremony and yes, the date we requested, the date that my Sweetie had chosen at my request, was indeed available. 

Place - check.

Except for the reception.  While the Shrine did indeed have a suitable building, where we ended up having our rehearsal lunch, no alcohol could be served on the premises.   The hunt for a reception place was on.  I dragged my mother all over Northeastern Vermont, touring restaurants and bed & breakfasts until we finally found the place.  The North Hero House.  They'd just opened after an extensive remodling and would be happy to accommodate us. 

Second place - check.

The wedding party was chosen and dresses and suits were picked out.  Talented friends were called on for decorating the church, the baking of the cake, music - both for the ceremony and for the reception, even someone to make my veil, garter, and pillow for the rings by hand.  All was in order. 

Secure in this knowledge, I packed up my stuff and, almost a year to the day before the wedding, I moved to Oklahoma.  Dresses and suits were measured for and ordered.  I grumbled and nagged at my Sweetie, an aircraft mechanic,  to scrub his nails nightly so they'd be nice and clean.  All was going according to my master plan.  On schedule, about a week before the wedding, my Sweetie and I, with bags bulging for the trip to Vermont and for our week-long honeymoon in Florida, flew back.

But...

Fr. Boucher was called away for a personal emergency and wouldn't be able to be there for our wedding, but they were looking for a replacement.  Not to worry.

To rent a limo was going to cost a fortune because of the distance involved.  Quick on his feet, my Sweetie came up with an excellent solution.  We'd rent a car.  One of the local car rentals even had one of his favorites - a Mustang.  A nice, shiny red convertible one.  Not to worry.

The Shrine called.  They couldn't find a replacement priest - everyone local was busy at that day and time.  We couldn't change either date or time - with people coming in from out of state, including us, it was way, way too late to change.  They were checking the parishes in Upstate New York.  Not to worry.

Rehearsal Day arrived - and it was cold.  Well, 60's - cold to me anyway.  : P   A priest had at last been found - he was retired, but would be happy to help us out and would be coming in from New York later, but in time for the wedding.  Not to worry.  

The clouds overhead were sure to blow over by the next afternoon.  Not to worry.

My Sweetie and his friends - all in from out of state - were in the care of my maid of honor's boyfriend, someone I'd known since high school, and were sent off for my Sweetie's last night as a single guy.  My friend's boyfriend promised me with a smile that they'd not go to Montreal.  Not to worry. 

So, my two friends and I went to a few places in honor of my last night as a single girl - and lo and behold, who's that over there?  Why, it's our group of guys we'd just sent off!  To the not-quite-concealed grins of the waitstaff, we sent pitchers of water with slices of citrus fruits floating amidst the ice cubes to the guys, who promptly had it sent back.  At the time, we thought we were a riot.

In the wee hours of the next morning I fell into my bed.  Only for the alarm to go off a few hours later.  My maid of honor, a hair stylist, came over to the house to do my hair.  The flowers arrived and were just right.  My dress and all its accoutrements were safely packed in the back of my parent's van.  Everyone coming in from out of state was in Vermont.   In my parent's driveway,  my Sweetie gave the Mustang a wash and a shine.  My hair done, a pretty bit of twists and curls, decorated with bits of baby's breath, my maid of honor left to get ready herself and would meet us at the Shrine with her boyfriend while my bridesmaid and I headed off to the Shrine.  Not to worry.

But I couldn't help but notice the clouds hadn't blown over, but were in fact thicker.  And rather heavy looking...

Halfway to the Shrine, it started to rain.   Not to worry, the Shrine had canvas curtains that could be unrolled to make walls to keep the guests in the pews dry.  But no one mentioned that they were spotted wtih mold.  But my guests would surely understand this wasn't part of my plan.   Not to worry.

My girls and I were tucked into a small building where one of the caretakers of the Shrine lived and we started to get dressed - enter the bit from the start of this post - and then, after a careful balancing act and help from my girls, I was stocking'd and shoe'd, and made up a bit. 

Then came the next bit. 

Getting to the entrance of the church. 

See, it was still raining - a steady light rain - and the building my girls and I were in was well away from the entrance to the church.  We'd be soaked by the time we'd made it to the entrance of the church.  So, we packed into my parent's van, my girls and I, and my father drove us around to the entrance.

Where my maid of honor slipped in the wet and fell out of the van, getting grease from the door on the skirt of her ice pink dress.  But she was okay.  And, as the skirt was long and moved a bit when she walked and was behind her anyway, you couldn't really see the streak of not-quite black against the very pale pink. 

The music started  - Pachelbel's Canon D with violin and guitar played by friends under a gazebo between the chapel itself and the pews - and down the aisle went our party... My flower girl/junior bridesmaid and the ring bearer - both small people I used to babysit before I'd moved to Florida - looking very cute in their miniature wedding clothes... My cousin and my maid of honor's boyfriend - my cousin, whose birthday it was, was simply beautiful - the burgundy of her dress looked so nice with her shiny red hair, a vivid contrast to the dark coloring of my friend's boyfriend, who looked very nice in his suit and black vest.  Black vest?  Black!  It was supposed to be burgundy!  To match my cousin's dress!  The best man was supposed to have black!  A quick glance showed my Sweetie's friend, usher to my bridesmaid, looking terrific in his burgundy vest and black suit, already starting down the aisle with my friend.  And waiting to walk with my maid of honor was the best man.  In a burgundy vest.  Crap.  There was no way to fix it - their sizes were too different to simply trade vests, too different to even pretend they fit for pictures.  

I stifled my useless fretting, slapped a smile on my face, and marched down the aisle on my father's arm, where my Sweetie waited at the first pew, out of the rain.  Which was now a slightly heavier version of a light soaking rain.  Prepared to get drenched, I stepped out from the shelter of the high roof over the pews toward the chapel where the rest of our party waited.  But no cold drops fell on me. 

From out of nowhere it seemed to me, my Sweetie's best man appeared at my side with a golf umbrella, stripped red and blue, and held it over my head for me as I crossed the open space between pews and chapel.  At this point, he became "our best man."

The mass began and everything was fine.  I told myself "Not to worry."

But I could feel that handmade garter starting to slip.

The rain had tapered down to a mere trickle when my Sweetie's mother and mine crossed from their seats to the chapel to light the unity candle.  That wouldn't light.  It seemed forever, but finally, the wicks caught and with smiles victorious, our mothers went back to their seats.  I felt like we owed them a round of applause.

One reading followed another with only a small timing hiccup, which was met with good humor and chuckles from the pews.  Not to worry.

But that garter...

My not so little ring bearer was attacked by his allergies.

Outside, the rain picked back up a little, then quieted down while the mass went on. 

And on.

And at last the priest said, "And now that Laurie and her Sweetie have said their vows--" and the altar boy interrupted him with a whisper we couldn't hear  "-- oh, my goodness!  No, they haven't said their vows yet!  It's been so long since I've done a wedding!"

But vows were said, rings were passed.  Not to worry.

But that garter slipped some more...

If you're not at all familiar with a Catholic mass, there comes a time when one shakes hands with those nearby while murmuring "peace be with you."  Well, it seemed appropriate to bestow this gesture to our entire wedding party, which - you can kind of sort of see in the umbrella pic - half were seated opposite my Sweetie, maid of honor, best man, and I on the other side of the chapel.  So, we crossed the chapel and shook hands.

If you look verrah, verrah closely at my left foot, just peeping out from under my skirt there, you will see something of very pale blue, of ruffles instead of a shiny white satin shoe.

That'd be that garter. 

The darn thing slipped off and I knew I'd lost it and was doing my best not to laugh, because by now I'd come to a certain point of realization - something that I still stick by - laugh or cry.  And laughing is way more fun.

Two steps after the picture above was snapped, that garter flew, and I do mean FAA-LLEW! - across the chapel, from one side clear across to the other, where those of us who'd traipsed across the chapel were now wandering back to.
I was laughing so hard, trying so hard to get it at least partway under control, I can only rely on pictures and video - video that bumps and tilts at odd angles at times (our videographer was a friend of my Sweetie's who'd gone out with the guys the night before and was a wee bit hung over.  Actually, he was rather green.) - for the details of the rest of the wedding.

At some point we were announced as a couple and turned loose on the world.  Pictures were taken.  All the fuss I'd made over the condition of my Sweetie's fingernails revisited me - in all the Not to Worry'ing that I'd been doing before the wedding, I'd completely forgotten to have my nails done and they were an uneven mess.  The photographer had a solution.  "Just hold your fingers so," like this, he said.  "Not to worry."

The rather damp train of my dress was pinned up on secret little hooks hidden under the lace in back.  My Sweetie and I hopped in the Mustang and roared off to the reception, top down in true "Just Married" style.

Except not quite.

My dress didn't exactly fit in the front seat so well.  I ended up peering through a pile of satin and lace and fluffy layers of whatever the petticoat was made of, unable to get the seat belt to go around it at all, and with the road as wet as it was, my Sweetie crept down the road that followed the lake down to the North Hero House for the reception.  Top up. 

The dining room was beautiful - all sparkly and decorated with the white, pink, and burgundy of my wedding colors.  Our guests were smiling and snacking on hor dourves and chatting amongst themselves.  Granted, they'd seated themselves in little groups of people they already knew, instead of the mingled groups that'd we'd intended, but that was okay.  That was small potatoes compared to a flying garter halfway through a Catholic wedding mass.

While I'm chatting and mingling, the family friend who'd sung during the cermony and had made the wedding cake tapped me on the elbow and whispered in my ear.  "I need to talk to you."  So we scurried away to a quieter corner. 

"It's about the cake.  I brought the wrong pillars and these don't match the bases the layers are on.  You'll have to be very careful when you cut it and not bump it or the table it's on too much or it'll fall down." 

I could see it happening.  The whole thing toppling and my Sweetie instinctively trying to catch it and ending up covered in white, pink, and burgundy frosting.

But I smiled and promised we'd be careful.

And laughed to myself as I went back to my mingling until we were called to sit down for toasts by the groomsmen and for dinner.

Dinner went well - no catastrophies and we'd planned a buffet style with enough meat options for our diet restricted and picky-eater guests.  My cousin bridesmaid was pleasantly surprised by her birthday cake, which we had brought out by the head waiter, complete with lit birthday candles.

While we having cake, the buffet in the attached greenhouse was packed up and the floor cleared for dancing. 

That's when we found out how wet I'd have gotten had it not been for our best man with the umbrella. 

The skirt and train of my dress, which were rained on while we made that trip from the pews to the chapel, were dragged around behind me during the wedding, and were shaken out several times by the photographer during pictures, had been shortened three inches by a clever seamstress the year before.  However, the weight of the damp/wet satin, lace, and beads had stretcched those stitches just enough that now, when we danced our new couple dance, one that we'd even taken lessons for - I have no dancing talent or skills whatsoever - I kept getting my heels caught in the trailing edge of the skirt.  The beads, caught between my high heels and the terra cotta tile floor, became deadly things, out for my neck.  We laughed our way through the dance. 

My wedding party, my Sweetie and I were the last to leave our wedding reception in the wee hours of Sunday, the 14th. 

Maybe another time I'll tell you about our honeymoon - about getting stuck for six hours in the Miami Airport, about the car trunk that wouldn't open - with our luggage trapped inside, and about the cowboy boots...  Maybe...

Anyway, after we were back home with our puppy, Shadow, several packages arrived from Vermont, mostly gifts.  But one was from an address I didn't recognize immediately.  It was from St. Albans.  The letter inside explained.  The people at Needleman's Bridal Shop had found something in the pocket of the coat my Sweetie had worn and thought we'd like it back.

That darn garter.

Happy Anniversary, to my Sweetie. 

Something I Avoid

Politics.

I avoid it when I can. 

Don't get me wrong - I vote. 

But I don't "belong" to a particular party and there isn't a single politician I've heard about or read about or heard speak who's ever made me want to whistle and applaud wildly for the simple reason that politics is a slimy business and the people in it, well, they have their own motivation for slicking themselves down in the stuff. 

When it comes to a candidate who wants my vote, I tend to give it to the guy/girl who exhibits the most common sense on a consistent basis with the fewest instances of contradiction - of either themselves or of the facts.  An articulate, well educated individual who will likely do a fair job representing my country and is the least likely to  make me wish he/she'd stayed home that morning instead of putting his/her foot in their mouth for all the world to hear.  And other things, but as far as this post goes, that's all you need to know about my political leanings.   ;)

Which brings me to the meat of this and how I ran off on this tangent with this subject that I usually avoid like potholes and traffic jams.

Paul Revere.

I have always loved New England history.  Always, always, always.  Maybe because that's where I grew up, not far from where the adventures of Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys took place.  Maybe because, like the map of Lake Champlain that hung in my 7th grade social studies classroom, the history caught my imagination.  Whatever the reason, Longfellow's The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere always makes my breath quicken and my heart pound in my chest while goose bumps run riot over my arms.

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.
 

Ah, chills! 

 

(Granted, the poem is a storified version of the historical facts)

 

So, naturally, when I came across this headline on my CNN homepage this morning, I had to click it.

 

Palin and the Truth About Paul Revere

 

Now, I already have my opinion of Palin but this... this dropped my jaw...

 

"He who warned the British that they weren't going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and making sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free."

Holy cow.

What?

I can't even get that to make sense, with or without thinking about the history.  As a sentence, for it is one great, big, run-on sentence, it doesn't convey much of a coherent thought.

I just don't get it.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no genius and am by far not the sharpest crayon in the box.  But then, I'm not running around the country confusing bits of history and trying to make them fit my political scheme, whatever the heck that may actually be.

Not Writing and What Happened

I've read a bunch of posts, articles, blurbs, whatever, about what different writers have learned about writing - things they've learned about themselves, about life in general.  Rather profound stuff in general most of the time, stuff that made me look for what writing has taught me. 

And I came up with empty hands.

So, what did that mean? 

I thought about it a bit here and there, but never really came up with an answer.   And I was okay with that.  Who said I had to necessarily learn anything from my writing anyway?  I was having fun just stringing my words together and, even if my characters didn't have anything to teach me, they entertained me.  : P

And then I hit the rolling sidewalk that's been under my feet lately and have had no time to write. 

And then I opened my inbox at the beginning of May and found a rejection.

And another one five days later.

And another one the next day.

Oh, they were nice enough - the stuff of 'good but not what we're looking for' - stuff I'd normally take heart of some kind in.  But in the dark, when the house was quiet and the clock was slowly working its way toward morning, my doubts found me.  They gathered like a malignant tide and pulled me under.  Their many voices mingled, whispering a chorus in my ear, waking me up.

"You're wasting your time."

"You have too much to juggle to finish anything worth publishing."

"What good is a computer full of stories if no one wants to read them except the friends you foist them on?"

"Look how much you've been able to accomplish at the so-called day job lately, even around the crazy schedules.  How much could you have accomplished if you hadn't been playing with words all this time?"

"Just who do you think you are anyway?"

My head was not a happy place.

Usually, a writing marathon quiets the babble.  Sometimes, time spent in my usual threads on AW picks my spirits back up.  But lately, there's been no time.  Any posting I've done anywhere lately has been done through my phone.  (In fact, to post this, I first had to unearth my laptop from under my 8 year old's dinosaur diorama, its accompanying Triceratops report, papers regarding school re-enrollment, a Dr. Seuss book waiting for loose pages to be taped back in, and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1 on DVD.) 

Cut off from my words, there seemed to be no way out.  My head had become a warren of one-way streets, each leading to darker and drearier parts. 

But eventually, my characters had enough.

One night last week, they followed the trail of destruction left by the onslaught of my doubts, but instead of waking me up, they filled my head with a dream...

It seemed everyone was there.  One of the twins from a dusty big WIP, sat brooding under a willow tree on the lazy bend of a river with the vampire from my butterfly story.  Her identical sister sat on the opposite shore, fishing with Spirit's mother and her daughters and Gerald, a  character from one of my unpublished short stories.  The lovers from another short story I subbed a query out for last week drifted by in an old unpainted rowboat, one laughing at something the other said. 

So, it would seem that despite the negativity floating around in my head, all the "you don't have what it takes to be published" carp, I have writing to do.

I'd better get going.

Why Do I Write Dark Fiction?

I covered the "How of it" but not the "Why of it" until author R.A. Evans asked me to write a guest post for his blog.

Want to see what I said?

Want to know if I ramble on other people's blogs the way I do here?

Pop on over to R. A. Evan's blog, R. A. Evans Writes,  and find out.

Come on, click the linky...

You know you want to. 

No, go on!  Really.

I'll wait for you.

:)

Of Benadryl and Backspace

My last post, I congratulated myself on a job well done.  The taming of wilds of the "big backyard" had seen progress and I had done it.  Me. 

As it turns out, the "big backyard" is as wild and unruly as ever. 

You see, I hadn't had the last word.

The "big backyard" had sneaky trick up its sleeve.  One I could have seen if I were paying attention, looking for such sneaky underhanded methods of attack.

Poison ivy.

Two days after my attack with the lopping shears, the first blisters appeared.  By the time a week had passed, my right arm to the elbow was sporting a sleeve of them, my left and both legs each had a generous sprinkling as well.  Now, nearly two weeks later, I look like I went a few rounds with a ring full of angry cats with barbed wire for claws.

Thank heaven for Benadryl.

Writing-wise, I made huge progress with the novella I've been working on for Effie's contest but I don't believe I'll have it ready to be submitted by the May 7 deadline.  There are easily another 4 or 5K words it'll need to wrap itself up, words I was hoping to write this past week.  Words I already had in my head.  Until my secondary character planted his heels and insisted he be a main character (MC).  After a certain point, every word I wrote was from his perspective.  I liked what he had to say, so I went with it.  But now, he's quiet.  He said his piece and is waiting patiently for me to direct the next bit.  Which would normally be when my initial MC would pick up the thread and manipulate it into the weave and warp of the story.  But she's not.  She hasn't spoken to me all week except to say "No, I wouldn't say that.  Take it out." 

*backspace, backspace, backspace....*

A Sunday Spent

When I was a kid, Sundays were "family days" - no friends over, no shopping.  If we went anywhere besides Church, it was to visit my grandparents.  And so Sunday's were spent.

This Sunday, I made up for a week's worth of neglect and spent it visiting.

Like most of these visits, it was physical.  Very.  By the time I said my farewells, I was exhausted.  Long tendrils of hair had been yanked from the braid I'd pulled it back in.  I was dirty and exhausted.  I'd been slapped in the face not once, but several times. 

At first, I tried to fend off the whip-like smacks with my arms, but even that began to hurt after the first few.  This morning I have scratches up and down my arms from these attempts at self preservation.   Nothing unusual, this.  It's rather typical for these visits actually.  But this time, I reacted differently. 

This time, I fought back. 

By the time it was over, I was able to add a couple of jabs to my ribs, a stab that went through the sole of my sneaker and into my heel, and several more dozen scratches, including a long one down the back of my shoulder blade.

But I'd inflicted my own injuries. 

So many in fact, I had to drag the kids into my visit, just to pile the limbs for burning.  Of course, we can't burn them now, we're under a burn ban.  But eventually, the winds will die down and it'll rain and the ban will be lifted and boy, oh boy, will we have a fire then!

Next week, when I visit, it should be much less physical.   I can't say I'm looking forward to my  visit next week, but I'm dreading it just a little less.

Oh, I'm sure the wind will have blown more dead branches from the bigger trees to be picked up and added to the burn pile.  But the smaller stuff, particularly those nasty young Hawthorns with their one to two inch thorns - don't ever, ever step on a downed Hawthorn branch - and the lilacs and crab apples, won't be able to slap at me when I drive the mower close to them.

But my next visit to the big backyard isn't planned until next week. 

Until then, I can sit here on my back patio and watch the birds have their breakfasts and hope this will be a good year for lilac blossoms.

The Conversion of a Book Smeller

Ebooks.  What's your take? 

Are you one of those readers who loves the feel of the paper in your hands, the smell of a paper book when you hold it to your nose and close your eyes?

I am. 

I love that smell - paper and glue and ink.  It's the best aromatherapy around.

But over the past year or so, I've also become a reader of ebooks. 

I blame Adam Slade.

A friend of mine I met through a writer's forum, his novella "A Reaper's Tale: The Undecided" was published through Lyrical Press and made available through Amazon for Kindle. 

But...

There was no print version to be had.

My poor paper-addicted self was having fits.  What to do?  I knew his book would be great and even if it wasn't great, he's a friend a mine - I had to have a copy of his story.  (The Undecided is a great read, btw.  Absolutely loved it and didn't want it to end.)

But an ebook?  Me?  Really? 

I didn't have a Kindle.  Which only made things worse.  Being a pinch penny, the thought of dropping over $100 for a device just to enable me to buy a book that I couldn't smell was nigh unthinkable.

And then my Sweetie found an app for my iPhone.  A free Kindle download.

Free.

One of my truly favorite words.

I couldn't resist.

I downloaded the Kindle app and followed all the set-up steps.  I don't remember now what they were, but there were rather self-explanatory.   A little tab in the top right of my iPhone's screen proclaimed itself to be the link to the Kindle store.  With a tap, I was there with hundreds, no thousands of books at my fingertips without even starting the car, let alone driving to the store.  Finding Adam's story was easy.  Buying it was just as easy.  And there it was.  Downloaded to my phone for my happy reading in just a couple of minutes.

"I won't like this format.  I know I won't. There are no pages to feel.  There's nothing to hear turning.  There's no book smell."

And, no, there isn't. 

But I found some things about ebooks/Kindle books that I do like.  Very much.

I take my phone with me everywhere - I confess to being thoroughly dependent on the thing - which means I have books with me everywhere.  Not just one book.  Books, plural.  This saves all kinds things - time spent finding a book to take, packing space when traveling, one less thing to forget in Sweetie's car... I could go on, but you get the idea.

It's lit.  And not in a horrifically blinding way either.  Reading in the dark is so much easier.  No more precarious balancing of a flashlight against the pillow and my shoulder.  No more searching for more double A batteries in the middle of the night.

The print size is adjustable, as is the color of the print and the page - something I'd never thought to do with a paper book, but I absolutely love.

It saves your place automatically.  Anyone who's ever scrounged for a bookmark gets the significance of that one.

So, yes.  I have indeed been converted. 

But...

As much as I love it and as convenient as it is, my house will always have more paper books than shelves to hold them. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see if Adam's latest release, "Strand," is up yet on Amazon.