J M Cornwell

Not a Hero or a Leader

2012-02-15T11:14:00.002-07:00

The flags are flying at half staff and I wanted to know if the President or Vice-President had died. I suppose a hero from Afghanistan or Iraq wars could have died, some young woman or man who saved a battalion or captured an insurgent camp and was wounded could have died and warranted the flag at half staff. No, the flags are flying at half staff because of a drug addict.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed Whitney Houston's performances and her singing, but the woman who died this week was no longer than stunningly beautiful goddess of song and theater but a drug addict. She was a famous drug addict, someone who fought with her husband, Bobby Brown, in public (he was a philandering so-and-so), and was often caught on camera as a ranting mad woman, but she was a drug addict just like the homeless drug addicts doing their business in the street (heeding nature's call and scoring more drugs). She was not a hero and she died because of her addiction to drugs. That is nothing worth celebrating.

Celebrate her life, not her death or her slow decline into drugg addled madness and social and personal suicide. Remember her accomplishments, but there is no need to celebrate her death because she died a drug addict.

I don't think many people get that. She was a drug addict and drug addicts eventually get their wish and they die. All this boo-hooing and national mourning for an entertainer is on one hand admirable and on the other a travesty of what it means to be a hero.

Whitney was born talented and privileged and wasted both in her quest for more drugs, better drugs, and more better drugs. Everything she was and could have been were wasted because she couldn't handle success, or for whatever reason committed slow suicide.

Where were the half-staff flags for John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Guy Williams, and dozens of other actors who fought in the wars and came back to Hollywood to play heroes -- and a few bad guys -- and died as a result of cancer, old age, and myriad other diseases and complications? Where are the half-staff flags for the men and women who died of AIDS before it had a name and was thought to be a plague against homosexuals? Where are the half-staff flags for the thousands of quiet heroes who make a difference every single day to uncounted millions of people? Where are the half-staff flags for mothers and fathers everywhere who worked hard, gave their families the best lives they could, and died?

There are none because those people haven't been valued enough. I can see the half-staff flags to this day when Dr. Martin Luther King died. I remember seeing phots of the flags at half staff when John F. Kennedy died that November day in Dallas. Those men deserved the flags at half staff; Whitney Houston does not.

The world has turned upside down because an entertainer died a drug addict. Yes, she was a wonderful actress and singer and she was a beautiful woman. Too bad she didn't value herself enough to stay away from drugs. Whatever demons drove her to the oblivion of drugs, they should not be honored or celebrated. Remember her life and remember that she died a drug addict, a wasted life that should be honored quietly and with humility, but not with the flags at half staff. The death of a drug addict is the death of hope and life, its ugly tentacles dragging the person down to the depths of despair, lost to the promise of what they could've been.

Mourn Whitney Houston quietly and remember it didn't have to be this way. She could have used her talent and her beauty to go with dignity like Audrey Hepburn, who gave her life and her talents to the children of the world and succumbed to cancer. There was someone worth celebrating.

Knowing When to Get Help

2012-02-10T09:52:00.002-07:00

There was no help for it.

It has been nearly a year since I published Among Women and the sequel needs to be told. First, it has to be written. Ideas have been plaguing me for days -- since I realize how much time I had left if I was to publish the sequel a year from the first novel -- and I couldn't resist any longer.

I do have two other books to finish, but this seems more important, more time sensitive, and so it goes. I began writing the sequel this morning -- a few moment ago, actually. The bet part is that it feels good and the writing is going moderately well. I should have a chapter or two done today before I have to start my day job. That has to be counted as a plus.

That's the thing about writing. Time lines and such are for people who work best under those kinds of guidelines. I'm not one of them. I write what speaks to me at the time, putting aside other works to get the words down on paper while they're still burning their way through my dreams and waking thoughts. I know I'll work on the other books, too, but this one seems more important, has first priority right now. After all the time it has taken me to get as far as I have on the other projects, a few weeks won't make a difference.

It's not exactly what I should do, but writing isn't always about what you should do -- outside of proper grammar, good sentence structure, 3-dimensional characters, and a solid plot. Those are essential no matter what else goes into the mix. I just don't have the knack -- or the desire -- to hamper the work. I write and devil take the hindmost.

Outlines don't work for me. I begin with good intentions, but along the way the muse, or creativity, or some perversity inside me takes the outline for a ride, usually into the bush or some other wild territory and ending up somewhere near the proposed ending, but often somewhere completely different.

Preplanned and written chapter-by-chapter synopses make me feel constrained and strangled. I throw them out, keeping a copy in case I want to refer back to something that I think might work.

And don't get me started on schedules. The only schedules I've been able to keep are the ones they set for me at work. The threat of poverty and homelessness keep me toeing that line no matter what, thrashing, kicking, and struggling until I'm back in the saddle, pull up the reins, and get it done so I can get back to my less structured life where things happen more organically -- meaning when the mood strikes me.

The mood strikes me often to read, eat, and write, and I write quite a bit, most of which does not end up online or in a book. I enjoy writing . . . letters, journal posts, blogging, and books. Without those, even when the going is hard, I would shrivel up and be a shell of a person tramping through the rut of life never seeing the sun or being able to breathe deeply and dream. Without dreams, I wouldn't want to think.

And so I began a new book with two books already more than halfway finished, because it's time to get the rest of Pearl Caldwell's story out. Maybe it was getting a perfectly formatted for Kindle copy of Among Women and realizing that I can delegate a bit more of the self-publishing task to someone who knows more than I do. Don't get me wrong, lots of people know more than I do, but I know when to delegate and when to keep the tasks for myself.

For instance, I am a fairly good artist, but I'd be an idiot if I didn't recognize the talent that Michael Reighn exhibited when he designed the covers for Among Women, Whitechapel Hearts, and the 3 short stories I published. He did -- and does -- a much better job than I.

I'm also smart enough to know that no matter how good an editor I am, I am not a good editor when it comes to my own work. Myopia is the problem. In laymen's terms, I'm too close to the project to be objective or see what a neutral eye could easily pick out. For that, I have an excellent editor in Mary Ann Peden-Coviello. She is ruthless with the virtual red pencil and points out tics that I have missed or cannot see. I do the same for her.

Now, there's Rik Hall, who formatted Among Women for me, and gave me a template so I can make it easier on him the next time around. Yes, I'll hire him again. His prices are reasonable and the turnaround time is very fast. He even throws in fixing typos if they're found.

All of this means, I now have staff. I even have an extra artist's hand in Aubrey Ayala Boneau, another really wonderful artist, who helped with a couple of the covers for Among Women, and designed 2 beautiful covers that I've used on other versions of the novel. I think I have it covered, at least until I can afford someone to do the PR, something else at which I know my considerable limitations.

Although I prefer to go with the flow when the muse is leading the way, I have enough common and business sense to get help when I need it. I've sent the first few pages to Mary Ann and have alerted Michael that a new cover will be needed by May 2012. In the meantime, now that the business end is in place and working -- or ready to be put to work -- I can concentrate on what I do best -- write -- knowing that I can write without the usual hassles and problems that crop up along the way. All of that kind of planning makes what I do so much easier since I'm not gnawing myself out of the mood and into some serious writer's block. After all, if I've nothing written, there's no need to have staff, and I like having staff. It feels almost like I've arrived.

Oh, and the title of the sequel? Among Men.

Filling the Page

2012-02-08T10:57:00.003-07:00

I'm nearly to the end of the current journal I'm keeping and already I'm excited by the prospect of the first blank pages of a new journal. All those possibilities and space and I feel anxious about starting something new with pages and pages of space waiting for me to put words to the paper, cover it in inky words and sketches.

Why isn't it that way with the blank computer screen waiting for words -- or for me to continue where I left off? I don't know.

There is something more daunting about a blank computer screen, cursor blinking, waiting for something, anything to fill up the space, preferably words that form sentences and paragraphs and end in stories. The computer screen, even what you can see, feels endless. A journal is finite, so many pages bound and waiting.

Writing in my journals is fairly easy and few days over the past several decades have gone by without me writing something. There are times when I am pressed to fill a whole page and other when fifty pages is not enough, yet there is always something for me to write. It's often incoherent to the casual observer because I use a kind of shorthand when writing, a combination of short cuts I use for the day job and shorthand symbols I remember from years ago. It's my way for my hand to keep up with the churning thoughts that spill onto the page. There are blots and words crossed out when my mind went too fast for the pen, but mostly it's legible, and a handwriting expert, or anyone who knows me well, can tell my mood by the slant of the letters and how neat they are. When I'm on a roll and the words are flowing, the letters are uniform and very legible. When it's coming rough, not so much, but they're there on the page in mostly black, although sometimes other colors, purple being the favorite. Pages and pages and shelves full of journals of all types and sizes, filled with words and ideas, bits of stories, ruminations on what I've been reading or some question that popped into my mind at random. An idea peeks around the corner while I'm writing and before long I've grabbed it and taken it for a spin.

I work out plot points and character details in the journals. Those are marked with metal clips, a trick I learned because I didn't want to go back through nearly a hundred journals. Dates don't really mean anything except for a way to put the journals in order; they certainly don't pertain to a specific book or character or story because I don't put them by dates. A story may germinate and grow over ten years or ten minutes. There's no way to tell. I do know when the story is ready to commit to paper and I often have to hold back and finish a book or story I've already started. Not so with the journals. I can pick them up at any time and go for hours or jot down a few lines that take an hour or so.

No matter how hard it is to write some days, I always come back and write some more. The journals are my truest voice and my proving ground, my place to discuss things and pour out my anger. In those pages, I am naked and angry, hopeless and hopeful, full of rage and full of joy. Sadness, pain, curiosity, philosophizing, ranting, and wonder are on all those pages.

I watched Any Human Heart, a Masterpiece Theater series based on William Boyd's book of the same name and realized that Logan Mountstuart, despite being blocked in writing another novel, Octet I think he called it, considered himself unsuccesful because his books hasn't sold tens of thousands of copies and he wasn't rich. He even had a few years of living on dog food and wrote about how it was edible with the right condiments -- a lot of the right condiments.

All the while, Logan wrote in his journals, stacks and stacks of journals. He even managed to keep a journal during the year he was imprisoned in Switzerland during World War II, hiding his pages in a hole he dug in the wall and making ink out of what was available, writing with the pointed end of a stick. But he wrote and he continued to write, keeping an account of his musings and trials and tribulations on those blank pages, beginning when he was at university and continuing to the end of his days.

Those journals, the account of his life, was published posthumously as a novel, a best selling novel, though there was no heir to collect the royalties, all of them having died long before he did. He never realized how important his journals were and how successful he was as an author and a writer who chronicled the decades through which he lived.

I have no such delusions of grandeur and it isn't why I keep journals. They are for me, although there have been times I have shared one or two journals with someone so they would know me better, be able to see the real me collected on those pages.

No, I doubt my journals will be published when I die, especially since I have left orders to have them all burned -- or buried -- when I'm gone. I don't keep journals to be published. I keep them because the blank pages beg to be filled and covered with my variable scrawl and because they are my truest self, the one I know the best, the one that changes and evolves, the one I look back on to see how far I've come.

Now, if only I can translate that to the blank screen with its blinking cursor waiting for brilliance -- or even mediocrity -- waiting for me to get busy and be as faithful in writing books as I am in keeping journals. The journals are my life's blood poured out in organized inky scrawl, my yawp and howl that I am here, that I existed, that I write.

Trickle Down Socialism

2012-02-06T11:31:00.004-07:00

A utopian paradise is possible as long as there are no people. The Shakers had it, but they all died out because sex was not an option, not even for procreation. No sex = no offspring = oblivion for the sect.

Thomas More died for his utopian beliefs, and because he wouldn't agree that King Henry VIII's first wife, Catherine of Aragon, was not his real wife, that the marriage was a lie because Catherine had been his brother's wife first and was not a virgin when Henry married her. That belief set the religious and spoiled Henry on a tear that resulted in a religious schism and strenthened the protestant movement away from the Catholic church.

Utopias begin with the idea that if everyone has enough and takes care of his neighbors everything will be light and happiness. That's not the case. Where there is a way to cheat the system, or the idea, someone will find a way and exploit it. Now politicians bent on saving the rest of the world and humanity cry out against poverty and want. Everyone should have enough to eat, a doctor to care for their needs, and money to fund it all. Share and share alike is the motto as politicians and do-gooders prey on the hearts and minds of their fellow citizens.

Share and share alike was at the heart Marx's utopia. Everyone works and everyone eats. No one gets more than anyone else. Cuba embraced it but Russia embraced it first in the wake of World War I when the Tsar's family was ousted, imprisoned, and murdered. There was no need for royalty or a ruling class. No more ostentatious wealth stolen from the middle class and poor. No more haves and have nots; everyone would have. Except that's not the way it worked. The Soviets had a ruling class and they were ruling from the top in the tsar's palaces and the homes of the ousted royalty and very rich. The ruling class was the government built on the backs of the poor who still didn't have enough and worked for their share of the profits, except none of the profits trickled down. The poor were still poor and the rich and privileged were just as rich and privileged. They wore uniforms and suits, and kept the ermine, jewels, and fabulous art hidden from view.

Prick a liberal and they bleed and the blood trickles down.

It is a shame that there have to be poor who don't have the money to get good dental care and cannot afford doctors and hospitals. It's unfair that they cannot have as much food as anyone else. The cry goes out and laws are passed. Welfare is born. Food stamps are distributed and Welfare gives money for families with children; they need help the most. Food stamps don't cover toilet paper, Kleenex, and household products to keep the house and family clean, just food, and not food that is already prepared. They must cook the food themselves, although chips and dips are perfectly acceptable. They can buy a lobster if they like, but they must cook it themselves or food stamps won't cover it.

The madness continues and the cost trickles down.

The poor are still poor, but for a few days or weeks in the month they eat as well as anyone else -- until the food stamps run out. They trade food stamps for money to buy cigarettes and drugs and booze, or just trade for cigarettes, drugs, and booze without the money. One way or another, they get what they want. They go to the doctor and the dentist on the taxpayer's dime but don't get the same level of care that someone who can afford it gets. It's enough. One finger in a hole in a dike is sufficient for the area it covers. Someone else will have to cover the other holes in the dike.

Socialized health care is a good idea, but it's not workable. If the disease is too chronic or the illness will cost a great deal to heal or manage, take a number and wait in line. At least you're covered. When isn't important. You're covered.

Where does all the money come from? The taxpayers. The fast disappearing middle class. It certainly doesn't come from the richest citizens. They don't pay taxes, not with all the loopholes and government worker palms they cross with silver or gold. Pay for a junket, pass along an envelope full of cash, or a suitcase full of stocks or gold, and th law works in your favor. The rich are still rich and getting richer and the middle class, the engine of the country's economy, gets poorer and join the growing hordes of the poor. They're honest, hard-working people and don't have generations of living on Welfare to know how to work the system, how having more kids means more money and how to turn inadequate food stamps into luxury items and fund their vices. They'll learn. They have time to learn as jobs dry up and the economy falters.

In the twilight of one of the greatest nations on earth, the rich will still have money and they won't care what happens to the poor who are so much unwashed, lazy people unable to work their way up the ladder. Wouldn't matter if the did. The rich don't given countenance to the nouveau riche or the social climbers, except to use them until there is nothing left to use.

The demands for more trickle down from above and stop in the middle class where the money is made, sucking out the life blood, while the benefits trickle down to the poor. Panhandlers pop up everywhere, and not just the drop-outs and recently poor, but the con artists that doff their rags and wash off the dirt before they go home to their well appointed homes to eat roast beef and ice cream and play with their children in comfortable homes where the roof never leaks and the plumbing always delivers hot and cold while flushing away the debris.

A seesaw works on a fulcrum. A long board goes up and down depending on the weight and thrust of each end, pivoting on strong center. If the center is weak, the board falls to the ground or it breaks and casts the riders to the ground. It doesn't hold. It won't work.

And the money keeps trickling down.

All the social services come from the working class, the middle class, not from the wealthy and privileged, and the poor benefit. Some poor benefit. The rest eke out a meager existence little better than what they had before Welfare and socialized medicine, but that's all right. Consciences have been salved and the poor are taken care of -- barely. What happens when there is no more middle class to fund the social services? Will the rich pitch in ? Don't count on it.

The top 1% will never pay a dime and most of the rest of the rich will pay as little as possible. The middle class will sink under the demands of a liberal and utopian society while the grafters and grifters will skim off the cream and send the rest to trickle down to the poor, most of whom live better than the people working for a living -- the poor's living. Utopia once again dies like a sinner under the weight of rocks piled on his chest, crushing the heart and leaving the blood to trickle down.

I'm not against providing assistance to those that really want to better themselves, but I refuse to pay for the theft and fraud that the rest exact as their brutal toll on the sensibilities of the working class. Immigrants come to our country and work their way out of Welfare and socialized assistance, working hard and bettering themselves, and become part of the middle class. They won't be there for long, not at the present rate of self-destruction. The poor remain as they have always been and will always be.

Sharing out the profits of a hunt when man lived in caves was workable, but not when man moved together to build towns and cities and countries. The difference between rich and poor was well defined and some went hungry. When we lived in caves, someone who was broken down by ill health and old age was cast out or left to die along the road. The tribe's resources would not stretch to carrying dead weight from those who could not or would not work and they were left to their own devices, or to be preyed upon by wolves, hyenas, and other predators, becoming a part of the cycle of life, a titbit in the food chain.

When we became civilized, it was no longer right that the sick and old should be cast out. There was room and as long as someone was willing to feed, clothe, and house them, they would live until death took them in the course of time. Caring for the sick, the old, and the helpless is still a good idea, but at what price? How long must others bear the burden of caring for them? How much must be taken from someone who has worked hard to give themselves and their families a good life? How much must they be forced by legislation and guilt to give up?

Socialized medicine is a good idea, as long as the money to fund it comes from those who can really afford it, the people who live in one of their many mansions and throw away money on parties for their friends and supporters, vacations in exotic lands, fruits and vegetables and meat and seafood flown in from around the world at the peak of freshness. People who think nothing of buying a jewel-studded toilet seat or paying millions for art that no one will ever see in their private collection vault. Let them fund the programs for the poor since they helped to make and keep them poor. Let the ultra rich oligarchs put their money to use funding factories and businesses that employ the poor and pay for health, dental, and eye care for their employees. They will still have more money than they can spend in 10 lifetimes, but they will do some good.

How much money can one person or one family spend? What good does it do to have such fabulous and obscene wealth except to say you have it? It would be better to own factories, businesses, and stores than piles of cash and the result would be strong economy that employs more people than anywhere else on earth and gives them a living wage. The middle class have paid all they can stand to pay. Lower their taxes and give them the kinds of breaks the poor get in colleges and universities and businesses and watch them flourish.

Charities get more money from working class people, from the middle class, than from the oligarchs. When times are tough, the charities get less because there is less to go around. That doesn't mean that some rich don't fund charities, and not just for the tax break. That kind of funding won't make a dent in their overall assets.

It's time for the wealth to trickle down, which does not mean I hate the rich and blame them for all the ills on earth. Governments handle that quite nicely on their own. Absolute power and absolute corruption. The rich need to pitch in. After all, how many Rolls Royces and Jaguars can one man drive? Let the funds for socialized guilt trickle down from the wealthy -- legislate it if that's the only way to get it done -- and let it trickle through the middle class and down to the poor. Let the money build a strong middle class and lift the poor, but not at the cost of no more middle class. Kill the engine and the vehicle stops and will move no further.

I don't think we need to get to the point of casting out the members of the tribe unwilling to work to maintain their position, but I do think it's time to be realistic. We cannot save everyone and we cannot abolish poverty. Someone will always get lost in the shuffle. What we can do is be smart and realize that nothing trickles down where nothing remains. If we don't get this right, there will be a revolution of the poor and unwashed, the disenfranchised members of a dwindling middle class, and they will tear down the palaces of the rich and set them against the wall with guns blazing. The fall of the tsar will be nothing to the bloodshed that will follow the collapse of the middle class as prey becomes predator and set their eyes on the wealthy. Chaos will follow and eventually a new wealthy class will arise from the ashes of the old to oppress the people not quick enough or unscrupled enough to get their share. All that will be left is blood trickling down and the argument begins anew.

That is not a world I want. Do you?

Cut Out the Middle Man

2012-02-03T08:52:00.001-07:00

As I work on the latest story fighting for head space, I take a few moments to read the news and am appalled by what I see. I've known about the fight in the UK to keep libraries open and a world where libraries cease to exist because of budget cuts is not a world where I want to live.

Yes, I can afford to buy books on digital and in print, but can the community afford to let free access to books end? Not if they want to maintain literacy or informed people. Not if they want to fund a place where poor children can go to learn to read and be introduced to new writers and books. Not if they want a place where even the poor can go to learn and dream and become more. It's not an option in a sane world.

The UK has socialized medicine, but they can't afford -- or won't pay for -- libraries? What is wrong with this picture?

Fighting for attention is the Susan G. Komen organization's decision to stop funding mammograms for poor and indigent women through Planned Parenthood. They can donate their money wherever they choose, but their reasoning is specious and faulty. Mammograms through Planned Parenthood aren't done on the premises? Okay, so why not make funds available to buy the equipment so the mammograms can be done in-house? End of problem and better use of resources. The $700,000 a year for mammograms previously granted to PP wasn't enough to buy the equipment and provide trained technicians to do the exams. The choice in how to spend the funds was up to the people making mammograms available.

Of course, machines and technicians for detailed exams and ultrasounds would also have to be purchased since that is the next step if a suspicious nodule is found on mammogram, but that could be shunted off to the local hospital or clinic and the funds could follow the patient. It's a hack's way of doing things when SGK could erect their own buildings and buy the equipment, pay the staff to do mammograms in a SGK funded facility, but why waste the money when there are facilities already available.

My biggest beef is calling Planned Parenthood an abortion facility. That is not all that Planned Parenthood is about and minimalizes what the facilities do. Education is a big part of their services, as is providing condoms and doing pregnancy tests. There are also training classes in safe sex and parenting and counseling on options while pregnant. STD testing, psychological counseling, group therapy for parents and would-be parents, a place to go to fill out forms for WIC and Welfare and a host of other groups and services, and, yes, a place to go for an abortion if that is a choice. Planned Parenthood is about choices -- all choices, not just approved choices.

On a positive note, donations to Planned Parenthood have gone viral and, at last count, were up to $400,000. It's a beginning.

Did I mention that prenatal care is also one of Planned Parenthood's services? Check-ups and risk assessment?

The spokespeople for Susan G. Komen say their decision wasn't based on politics and yet it looks political. It sounds political and it smells political. What do people say about something that looks, talks, sounds, and smells like something? 'nuff said.

We live in a world of political expediency where what looks like a money-saving issue is really anything but. The UK is supposedly trying to save money by shutting down libraries. Susan G. Komen is supposedly intent on spending their money where it would do the most good. Neither situation passes the smell test.

The people who donated their hard earned dollars to the Susan G. Komen Foundation should find a better place to donate their money, like directly to Planned Parenthood.

As for the UK, as an American anything I say would be ignored because I don't live in the UK, but in a country noted for its social programs and the home and birthplace of many literary stars, you'd think that politics wouldn't be the deciding factor in whether or not to fund libraries. It must be hard to close libraries with such a legacy, but it certainly doesn't look hard from here.

Put your money and your votes where they will do the most good. Speak in a way that politicians understand -- with votes and dollars. Go directly to the source.

Planned Parenthood

British Libraries

Somewhere in Time

2012-01-30T09:41:00.004-07:00

The fantasy of time, its limits only solid when looking at it from a day-to-day perspective, has been a popular element in fiction and movies. From H. G. Wells's The Time Machine to the modern day Map of Time by Felix Palma, it's all about time, where you can go, and what is found when the boundaries of time are crossed. Time travel was an element writers like Andre Norton and Stephen King have employed, King in his last 11/23/63, which I have not yet read, but look forward to whenever I unearth it from the cracks it feel between a month or so ago. I may have to tear down a wall to get to it, but that's what happens when reading in bed and falling asleep with it still in my hands.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could think or dream ourselves to a different time and walk the streets of Venice or watch the Battle of Waterloo from a mountaintop neaerby? Or find that perfect love, the one who was made with us in mind, and find that happily ever after?

It was a portrait of an actress who appeared at a theater after the dawning of the 20th century that drew Richard Collier to the past. Richard Matheson wrote Richard's love story in Bid Time Return, which was made into the movie, Somewhere in Time, with Christopher Reeve as Collier and Jane Seymour as Elise McKenna, a woman of beauty and talent appearing in a theatrical production. That has to be my favorite story and movie, although I saw the movie before I read the story, which is the way I find many books that have become favorites.

It wasn't so much the longing and excitement of that One Love that drew me to the story but the feeling that tim is a barrier only in the mind. To be in a room so steeped with time that the past bleeds into the present so seamlessly and to be able to walk from this time to that is an exhilarating possibility. Walking around in that time, knowing that you have been there before and can be again is a marvel of invention and relies only on the heart and mind of the traveler to make it so.

Although the story does not end happily ever after, the power of love and longing that reaches through time and connects two people is romantic and the sadness of the loss makes it that much more romantic and poignant. It is the delicate balance between romance and self-destruction that makes the story so memorable. Was it madness that drove Richard to reach through the veils of time or was it love, that most powerful of emotions? Truth be told, there is madness in love that so single-mindedly drives us to assault the hurdles that prevent us from being with The One. Maybe that's what makes it so compelling, so intoxicating.

There is also a sense of wondrous possibility and hope that permeates the story as Richard strives to find the connection between himself and an actress he met just once, an aging woman who leaves him with a gold watch and a cryptic message: Come back to me. Who would not have remembered and, given the opportunity, follow, no matter the risk? There is hope in such madness and madness beyond words that fills the soul with love and possibility.

Each time I read the story or see the movie I wish again that Richard and Elise had found a way to stay together, but then there would be no story and neither would have reached the pinnacles of their arts. It is the conundrum of time -- and love -- that what burns hottest and brightest is too seductive to resist and is still more worth the having. Who would not risk all to find even a moment of perfect happiness and to know that what was once found can be found again somewhere in time?

He Likes Me

2012-01-26T09:26:00.003-07:00

Chili Bob called me yesterday morning to chat. Aside from his ankle issues, he mostly talked about his youngest daughter and her first boyfriend. She has commented on her Facebook page that she's feeling wonderful. That can only be the whores moaning -- in the vernacular, hormones talking.

Beth is in the first flush of love, her first love and she's nearly out of high school. He likes me rings through her mind as she mentally plucks the petals of a mutant rose or daisy filled with petals that tell her 'he likes me, he likes me, he likes me...' There are not petals so perverse as to whisper 'he likes me not,' not at this stage of the flush. The world is brighter and the colors more spectacular. Food has no taste because the words 'he likes me' taste so good nothing can compare, not even her favorite deep fried turkey and sweet potato souffle.

Nothing tastes as satisfying as those words, probably because Beth has come to love so late in her teenage years and, for the first time in her life, she knows how it feels to be liked -- by a boy -- a cute boy. It's the same feeling that Sally Field set the movie industry snickering over and Stephanie Meyer turned to box office and literary gold -- the late bloomer overwhelmed by endorphins and questionable judgment. He likes me.

I remember those feelings. Doesn't everyone? I came to them early, before I started school, and felt them often whenever a new boy cast his eyes my way and smiled right before he rushed over to ask me to go steady. Parties where we played kissing games were extra sweet when THE BOY had to kiss me amidst titters, teasing, and tinges of red in my cheeks.

Beth didn't have those roller coaster times. She has spent her time playing basketball and auditioning for leads in plays all over the northwestern part of Ohio -- and getting most of them. She played ingenue and romantic leads opposite men and boys, feigning those emotions she never had the time or the interest to try on for real. It was all make-believe until HE came.

It's probably not that surprising HE was someone she knew from auditions and plays they acted in together and this time life imitated art. That they share the same passions (acting and singing and dancing, and a little bit of basketball) helps the romance along, but it's really just two teenagers getting together for the first time as they bounce around on endorphins while their whores keep moaning. Loudly. Often. He likes me.

None of us are immune to the power of 'he likes me,' not even as adults. Once the endorphins ping and the whores moan, we are lost -- unless we're too jaded and experienced to even notice. Not even money and stock options can take away that thrill. He likes me. The most secluded and antisocial of hermits will come out of their caves smiling, eyes twinkling when they realize -- he likes me. It's human nature. It's biology. It's the thrill of new love when everything is limned in golden light that blurs imperfections and hides flaws and inconsistencies.

Those first golden days, weeks, months (however long) allow carte blanche for mistakes, blunders, errors, and outright lies. The whores are moaning too loudly for anything else to get through. He likes me. It's no wonder that love turns to hate when the cracks in the foundation appear and all beings to crumble into the relentless sea of 'but he liked me.' From there, the rapid slide into pain and disbelief and outright stalking with intent to maim, torture, and punish drown out the last vestiges of 'he likes me' until there is only an infinetessimal skoch of hope. Even that little flicker of fading light will flare up again when the realization dawns that 'he likes me.' All hatred dissolves until all that is left is that all encompassing golden light and smiles ride the waves of endorphins and whores moaning once again. The subsequent crashes are more spectacular -- and far more dangerous -- until 'he likes me' whispers once again. No wonder people prefer the roller coaster to the carousel where there are no highs and lows, no depths of despair and volcanoes of anger and betrayal to counter the dizzying heights of 'he likes me.' But who can live on such titanic emotional struggles for long?

'He likes me.'

Remember how that feels, but be wary. Few loves can last such frustrating and delirious emotions for long before burning out and leaving the taste of ashes.

I hope Beth enjoys her first boyfriend and finds her passion for acting, singing, and dance as a balance for her first flush of love. It's safer when you fall if your feet are flat on the ground.

King Tut, Bequests, and Cross-stitch

2012-01-24T07:27:00.005-07:00

Beanie called yesterday to see how I was doing. What she really wanted was to talk, something we haven't done in a while. The connections seem filled with static with broken trunk lines.

We chatted, but what interested me most was a all she told me about. One of the boys called her a day or two after the funeral to apologize if he was inappropriate and ask if he could have the death mask of King Tut that I had cross-stitched and given to my mother. Beanie told him she couldn't do that because Mom gave Tut and Nefertiti back to me a few years ago. They hang on my living room wall. He never called and asked me about them and it has been nearly a week. I guess he'll wait until I die, take them down and take them with him when he goes after my funeral, except I am not planning on there being a funeral and I've considered donating them to a museum. The frames at least are worth something and I put a lot of work into both pieces. Mom always said I should have them appraised, but where does one go to have cross-stitch appraised and how would they be valued?

The value to me is obvious. I spent a great deal of time stitching the pieces, two weeks for each, working 8-10 hours a day for 14 days. I changed some of the materials, like using a 28-ct even weave cloth in navy blue instead of the Aida suggested. I don't like Aida; it's too stiff. The fabric I used feels soft and takes the thread and needle like a dream. The metallic threads that give the piece it's shine and rich look are hard to work with but worth the effort. I still have some of the thread I used for Tut and Nefertiti; I saved everything, including the metallic threads, and then I gave at least one box of the threads to a friend. Mom sent them to me in one of her junk boxes, a combination of things that belong to me and were in storage and whatever she thought I'd like.

Our tastes were so different. She preferred gaudy colors and knick-knacks and, while I like looking at knick-knacks, I don't like dusting or having them cluttering everything up. I gave up knick-knacks a while back and even then my dust catchers were different from my mother's ideas of tarting a place up with junk. I prefer crystal balls in ornate holders and porcelain statues of Erte's costume designs, and the occasional Greek goddess or god. There was a time I collected porcelain eggs, but that time is past. My shelves are more apt to be filled with books and DVDs than statues and painted marble or porcelain eggs. Fewer things I have to box up and move.

And the books are going, too. I'm donating them to the library and either Goodwill or Volunteers of America. Maybe both.

One thing we did agree on was Tut and Nefertiti, or at least my colored thread renditions of them. That's Tut's picture above. It's not a great likeness, but it's all I have right now and I cannot find my camera to take another. Maybe after I get rid of some more books it will turn up.

Since the first time I shared the pieces with her, Mom coveted them, so much she threatened to burgularize my apartment to get them since I refused to just hand them over. Neither piece was matted and framed yet, that was next on my list of things to do. I did allow her to take them to work to show people. She loved bragging and showing off, even if it wasn't her stuff she was showing about. When I got them back, I cleaned them up and took them to a framer's shop to be done. They cost $119 each, and that has been about 20 years ago. It was a lot of money but it was worth it.

I chose the mats and frames with such care, settling on a papyrus reed paper for one of the mats. The effect was stunning. I gave Tut to Mom for Xmas one year using one of my more devious methods and she nearly fell down the stairs getting to it when she finally realized it had been hanging on the hall wall all Xmas Eve. None of us had seen her move so fast, not with two knee replacements and her bad back. She clutched the large frame to her chest and ran through the house yelling, "I got it. I got it. It's mine. It's mine." Nefertiti follow a few years later, but I just handed her over once she was matted and framed without the elaborate gift-giving strategem. I had someone else to torture that year and I limit myself to torturing only one person a year -- per family.

Tut and Nefertiti hung in pride of place in the house in Hilliard and then in New Holland until the year Dad died. I came back to Ohio to spend a week with Dad and took Tut and Nefertiti home, wrapped in a faux mink throw. They -- and I -- made it safely home and they have been with me since.

Mom told me several times that she wishes she hadn't given them back. She missed having them close. Someone she knew offered to mat and frame them again, this time with glass between the work and people's hands, and did the pair for free. She didn't choose a papyrus paper mat and didn't use the same colors in the matting, but the frames are nice and the glass protects the work from the elements and people. I don't mind too much because it's not the frames or the mats that count, it's the work itself.

I'd no idea that my son had ever seen them or wanted them, but he must have seen them some time. That he remembered and coveted them still surprises me. There are so many other things to covet and ask to have. Mom had so much junk and lots of knick-knacks to choose from, but he wants Tut. Probably Nefertiti, too, if he knew about her; she did come later since it took a while to find a pattern and change the colors to match Tut's, and then the all the time to stitch and frame her. Getting either one is not an option now. I'm still alive.

And I've taken up cross-stitching again. I'm working on Xmas stockings for my grandkids. I've nearly finished the first one -- on Aida cloth -- and will hopefully finish the other four by Xmas. I don't have the time to spend 8-10 hours a day working on them and my fingers are not sufficiently callused yet so the needle doesn't hurt so much when I push it through the stiff cloth. I've a little callus building, but it's not ready yet. I'm ready though, ready to pick up cross-stitching and there are so many beautiful projects to choose. I even found some beautiful nudes that would be fun to try, almost as much fun as the 24 x 36-inch nudes I painted when Dave and I moved to Arizona after David Scott was born. I didn't work at first and on those rare occasions when my son was quiet or napping and I waited for the load of wash to finish so I could hang them out to dry, I painted by the numbers, blending the colors and changing some of the design, and created two beautiful nudes that hung on the wall.

I never had them framed and somewhere along the way they were either lost or given to someone who coveted them the way I covet colored and metallic threads and the way they change in my hands from thread to layers of light, shadow, and color to create beautiful images on cloth in some alchemical magic that delights and surprises me still. The process is calming and soothes the restless artistic spirit that overtakes me from time to time, reminding me of a time when brush and paints answered the touch of fingers and hands to bring the seeming of life to blank canvas for someone to covet and ask for -- or pay for -- with or without mats and framing -- and glass.

The night stand by the bed has a heap of tangled thread ends on it. I like to stitch in bed for a while before reading until I'm ready to fall asleep. The images on the instruction sheet come alive on the cloth as I stitch and I marvel anew that threads combined in a certain way create the subtle shading, shadows, and light that make the whole project come alive. I see the possibilities when I decide to buy the kit and it makes me want to buy other kits and make more projects. Bell pulls, tapestries, baby afghans and bibs, bits of cross-stitch for clothing, and so many other things. I imagine stitching and hanging them on the walls with appropriate frames and matting or hardware, or packing them in boxes and sending them to my sons to give to my grandchildren to enjoy. This need to cross-stitch will pass and another creative outlet will excite me for a while until only my true passion remains -- words.

Words on a page, threads on canvas, built letter by letter and page by page, a tangible reminder that I was here and left a mark for someone to covet after my death. I wonder which will endure the longest -- Tut and Nefertiti behind glass or these tangled words.

Review: Cinder by Marissa Meyer

2012-01-23T08:19:00.004-07:00

Linh Cinder is the best mechanic in New Beijing in the Asian Commonwealth. She is also a cyborg and therefore a second class citizen because she is less human, about 38% human, according to the tests. With a platinum and plastic heart that pumps quietly and efficiently and a cybernetic network and visual display that keep her cool, calm, and collected, she is a marvel of machinery. A few minor upgrades, like a brand new mechanical foot since she's outgrown the old one placed when she was a child, and she'd be perfect, just not human, as her guardian and adopted mother would have it.

Her guardian was once the wife of a rich and powerful man who died of Letumosis, a contagion that began in the country and has worked its way into the confines of the city, and it is always fatal. Cinder's guardian blames her for infecting her adopted father and leaving them all destitute so that Cinder is the family's only source of income, and Cinder's guardian resents her for it.

When the prince (incognito) comes to Cinder's stall on market day to have a teaching robot fixed, she is surprised and her system warns her that she was in danger of sensory overload. The prince wants his robot fixed before the festival and Cinder agrees to give it a go, while concealing she is a cyborg, thus changing their lives forever and setting the ground rules for Meyer's re-imagined fairy tale.

In remodeling the fairy tale of Cinderella, Marissa Meyer throws out most of the conventions and strikes out into brand new territory, retaining a few of the traditional elements to give the story a magical feel. There is more science in Cinder than magic, but that shouldn't deter die-hard fairy tale fans. There is enough of the fairy tale to maintain the fantasy.

From the beginning, Meyer lets you know what is about to happen, leaving not so subtle clues and repeating them from time to time. From the first mention of the lunar princess who has been missing for more than a decade, it's obvious who she will turn out to be -- Cinderella, or in this case, Cinder. Meyer leans pretty hard on the "I'm not good enough because I'm a cyborg" element, but it's not always unpleasant and anchors Cinder within the story's emotion and social framework.

While Cinder isn't a classical fairy tale, it is still fairy tale enough with queens from the moon with the power to glamour entire populations and turning their emotions from hate and disgust to love and adoration. The fairy godmother may be a lunar scientist on the run from the current regime and not using his glamour gift, but he is certainly a fun and fascinating addition to the tale.

When a dirty Cinder limping on a poorly fitting mechanical foot in a discarded dress shows up at the ball, the ending to the night is in the bag -- or is it?

Marissa Meyer throws a few curves in Cinder and they enhance the story: missing lunar princess, a cyborg Cinderella with no feminine wiles, an evil queen with the power to glamour everyone, and a power struggle between Earth and the Moon for starters. The biggest drawback is knowing the book is part of a trilogy and it will take a while before Cinder finds her happily ever after ending with the prince.

Cinder is a welcome addition to re-imagined fairy tales with a style and shape all its own.

Upcoming Book: The Longest War | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2012-01-18T12:11:00.000-07:00

Upcoming Book: The Longest War | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Who fights the wars? What do they have to say about glory, honor, and death? Find out.

Bad = Good for You

2012-01-18T11:09:00.002-07:00

Isn't it interesting that when someone tries to harm you they end up helping you? I'll bet if they knew, they'd stop causing trouble and meddling. I certainly wouldn't want that.

It's like a bad review. On the surface, your work has been slammed -- HARD. It's a blow to the ego and to everything you thought you had done. Don't take it like that. A bad review causes talk and talk causes interest which ends up in sales. Take a bad review like a free marketing push that will put your work higher up in the consumer's consciousness. Think not?

How many times have you read a book or seen a movie because you heard it was awful? Really awful. Translate and rejoice. You finally get it.

The same thing goes for people who mean you harm by talking about you and creating problems, especially if you're a writer. Their ill intentions usually equal interest and that will equal sales. But don't tell the pot stirrer because they might stop creating problems. You don't want that.

Be a pro. Thank them for the time they took to read and review your book. Ask them to tell all their friends. You might not have to ask; they've probably already spread the word.

Sometimes bad equals good. It's not the best intentions you need, but often evil intentions. It gets more press and generates more interest. Thank the publishing and movie gods for bad intentions.

Not in my Head | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2012-01-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

If you're going to talk like that, I'm going to have to hang up now.

Not in my Head | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Chaos in her Wake

2012-01-14T10:54:00.001-07:00

Death brings out the worst and the best in people, especially in families, and I have seen my share of death, trying unsuccessfully to keep my distance. Death finds us all in the end.

All the unresolved issues, arguments, and missed opportunities come back with vengeful force, and so it is with my family. My mother died last night.

Beanie called me last night to tell me Mom was dead. Through hysterical tears and heightened emotions (good thing Dan was driving), she told me the news. My first impulse was to tell her the joke was in poor taste; I squelched it. When I couldn't grasp the facts quickly she began screaming at me. "She's dead. Mom's dead. Don't you get it?" Yes, I got it.

I called my brother, The Mushroom, because he keeps a cool head in situations like this, and I often wonder if it is because he doesn't feel anything deeply or that he covers his emotions so well. It's a big change from the usual weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that grips the rest of the family. Dad was like that, too, a duck whose feathers shrugged off the storms, water gushing over the oily feathers without touching the down and heart beneath.

The Mushroom gave me the facts. I'm good with facts. They provide a calm center in the worst of family hurricanes and cyclones, providing a touchstone of calm in an otherwise turbulent background.

Hoity-Toity came home from work and found Mom lying face down on the sofa, her heart having stopped at the moment she walked to the sofa and taking her down in an instant. I doubt she felt much pain; the pain is left for her family. Hoity-Toity, through her tears and guilt, called the important people: cousin Laura, the Mushroom, and Beanie, all of whom rushed from different parts of the compass to be there. The sheriff pulled up as the Mushroom pulled into the driveway at Hoity-Toity's house while he was talking to me.

As I called more of the family, Aunt Anne, my children, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois, more of the story emerged. Laura had called Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois and the news spread along the family network like wildfire in a dry and desiccated forest. Only my children and Aunt Anne were surprised by the news that yet another of our clan was gone and chaos had descended.

Mom would have loved the stir as a faithful disciple and spreader of chaos, even more so because she was once again at the center, only marginally pushed aside by Hoity-Toity, hysterical in her grief and guilt at Mom having died alone. Probably the only marginally funny moment to come out of this first storm of grief was Laura's suggestion we hire a helicopter and spread her ashes over Lazarus where Mom spent most of her free time and all her and Dad's money when she was alive. Lazarus should at least put up a prominent platinum plaque in her honor; they have lasted this long because of Mom's faithful patronage.

Yes, Mom is being cremated, as Dad was five years ago, and after railing and trying to guilt me out of my desire to be cremated. She was so invested in monuments and graves and places to go on Memorial Day to place flowers and parade her grief. How could I even consider being cremated? It was a slap in the family's face, but I was adamant, and remain adamant, that I will be cremated. I think Mom came around to the idea when The Mushroom told her he wanted to be cremated. I was always the trail breaker, the first to step out against tradition, but nothing ever caught on until one of my younger siblings took a step in the same direction as if they were the first. Mom will be cremated but not without her parade of grief and show of friends and family.

Family you can pretty much count on when someone dies, many of whom will come to make sure it's not an elaborate and costly joke. They want to see the body in its coffin to be sure the person is dead. Oftentimes, funerals remains one of the few times that family still come together, burying old feuds and disagreements to follow the funeral cortege in mourning black. The intricate to-and-fro dance of renewing old ties and catching up on the years of silence continues the tradition of public mourning. Some traditions are bred in the bone and sinew and funerals and mourning (or assuring oneself of) the dead is one of them.

I forget who said or wrote it, but funerals are supposed to be a sign of sentient intelligence. Coming together to mark a passing is proof we have climbed out of the mindless muck and become aware of the gravity and importance of life and death. I wonder how many funerals whoever that was had attended.

Mom told me that she knew she would not be mourned the way Dad was and continues to be mourned. I didn't agree or disagree, but I was curious to know why she thought that, so I asked. "Everyone loved your father and he made friends easily. I am more difficult, not lovable."

How right she was -- and is. She was difficult. No one knew how difficult better than I do.

Mom was vain, selfish, jealous, controlling, manipulative, greedy, and self-centered. She could also be generous and kind -- and she reminded you of how generous and kind at every opportunity, not so much to remind you she had been kind, but to let you know you owed her for her generosity and kindness. To strangers she seemed a kind woman, but even acquaintances soon lost the rosy tint in their glasses. She was implacable and unrelenting in her anger, only softening with age as her memory failed, but even then she clung to the edited version of her life and actions that proved she was an exemplary human being. She wasn't. She was vicious, vindictive, and full of venom, but in that moment when she told me she knew we wouldn't miss her and mourn her as we did Dad, she knew.

There are more than five decades of anger and hurt I could write about (and I will eventually) Mom, but there is really no need right now. Whatever harm she caused, whatever grief and bitterness she left behind, she was a big part of our lives and now she's gone. She died alone hours before she was found face down on the couch, getting her 5-year wish to join Dad. She finally made it. She died.

She leaves behind 4 children, 10 grandchildren, and 10 great grandchildren, 9 of the great grandchildren belonging to my boys. She leaves her brother, the sole remnant of her branch of the vast May clan, and his five children and numerous grandchildren.

As Mom looks down and sees the chaos left in her wake, she is smiling. She would have loved the theater of it all. She died as she lived, a disciple and proponent of chaos.

Faded Photographs

2012-01-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

Whether it's fantasy or reality, memories transport us to the past, to moments of pleasure and pain, to times when we were important or diminished, to what lies beneath. The quality of memory is often strained.

Mom sent me an old photograph of my father in his Army uniform when he was young and healthy, when he was alive. I decided to make copies and send them to my brother and sisters when I realized my grandchildren know nothing about Dad or Mom or even me, come to that. My children were partially raised by another woman, my ex-husband's second wife, and she is not a fan of me or my family. She did her best to eradicate us from my boys' memories and what remained was painted in vivid venom. This is what my grandchildren have learned as those tainted memories are passed down. To my grandchildren I am the faceless entity who sends them birthday and Xmas gifts. I exist to give them presents.

I had printed off copies of Dad's picture, took three of them, and inscribed the back with who he was and when the picture was taken. Dad was in his 30s and he looked handsome and smiling. He always smiled in pictures and in life, seldom frowning or getting angry -- unless someone got in between him and the television program or movie he was watching. He was full of laughter and great stories, but how would his great grandchildren ever know? I had to tell them, and I began by sending the pictures to my youngest son's three children.

My oldest son's twins are not yet 2 years old, so their picture will have to wait. Not a problem. I have the photo stored on my computer and online so I can download and print more copies, next time with the name brand photo stock that goes with my 4-in-1 printer.

Eddie, the middle child, has two boys I've never met and have had no contact with. He was the one most affected by his stepmother's tales of terror and it will take time to get an address for him when I reach out with my Xmas gift for 2012.

I've decided to put together a family history of my side of the family: the good, the bad, and the ugly, but only the truth. There are some stellar types in the family and some less than stellar types, but they all deserve their moment on the page. I've contacted both sides of my family asking for photos and letters and histories, if they want to write them. I will add news clippings of births, marriages, and deaths and notable happenings, like the cousin who was governor of Texas and in the car with JFK when he was shot in Dallas that November day in 1963. The old letters I've saved from family who have died and gone on, leaving a legacy of remembrance and colored bits of their life, will go into the books (there has to be one for each family), as will the family reunions and DVDs and CDs with home movies converted to digital format.

I started with the idea of photos and histories, but there is so much material that I'll likely have a few volumes, one each Xmas, for each of the families. I may even convert it all to digital and print so those who don't know that Mom's dad was the sheriff, mayor, and biggest business owner in Alger, Ohio can read about how he captured John Dillinger and took him to the Lima jail where his buddies busted him out and killed the sheriff, or how one of my father's in-laws ran with Dillinger around Dayton and Cincinnati before he went to Alger to see his stepmother and was caught.

There were alcoholics and family locked in institutions. Some were rich and some were poor. There were farmers and business men and ordinary people and a beloved aunt who was married to the Omar Bread man. Name changes and secrets, a skeleton here or there, but a truthful and accurate picture of all my family, including the abject poverty in which my father grew up in Cynthiana, Ohio. Dad's letters to me about growing up and his life in a rural wide spot in the road will be copied and placed in the book, even the part about how backward he was and that his father delivered him in the field when his mother went into labor while bringing lunch to Grandpa Cornwell when he was plowing. The fights with local boys and the jokes and risque stories and the jewel bright moments and my father's funny stories, stories no one could tell the way he could; they will all be in there. Cousins, family reunions, feuds, dreams, madness, and life in all its facets is my gift to my grandchildren.

My memories and the remembrances of as many people as I can beg, cajole, threaten, and interest in contributing is my gift, but it is a true gift and one I hope they will treasure as much as I treasure them.

In this world where few people stay close to their families and still live within a 20-mile radius of home, memory is even more important. It may be the only way to keep in touch with one's roots and the legacy of family. My solution is one way of bringing the past to life, but I'm a writer and words and pictures are my touchstone with life and memory. I live a half a continent away from my family but they are never far from my thoughts or my heart. I want my grandchildren to share a bit of what makes them who they are and to feel all their roots, my side of their roots, too.

It's All About the Words

2012-01-09T08:26:00.003-07:00

When Jon Land offered to read and review my novel, Among Women, I was a little anxious. He was after all an internationally known author and I was just the person who had read and reviewed several of his books, and not always with glowing words. I pointed out shortcomings and places where the plot or characters didn't quite work, but the surprise was that with every review, he has thanked me unconditionally -- and agreed with my assessment. It's not like he could change the books to fix the plot holes but he was gracious. That was the one thing I counted on -- him being gracious -- even if he didn't like my novel.

He is also a gentleman. I could forget about any soul ripping or prose rending as I've endured with former friends who have decided to vent their spleen on me by trashing my work. I knew he would be honest whatever the outcome.

I sent him my book in April and a few days ago he gave me his answer.

"With AMONG WOMEN, J.M. Cornwell has fashioned an emotionally bracing tale of love, loss, and redemption. Here is a book of rare depth in both character and story, tragic and uplifting at the same time in the tradition of Alice Walker, Terry McMillan and Judith Guest. Certain to stay with you long after you've turned the last page and just as certain to leave you eagerly awaiting the talented Cornwell's next effort."

--Jon Land, bestselling author of STRONG AT THE BREAK and BETRAYAL

I was stunned, shocked, and pleased. I've not been compared to McMillan, Walker, or Guest -- and I wasn't quite sure who Judith Guest was. I found out pretty quickly. She wrote Ordinary People and several books in the same vein. Walker and McMillan I knew; I've been fans of them both for years.

The extravagance of the blurb is undeniable and I thanked Jon profusely. If I wasn't a fan of his Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong before now, I would be soon. However, I am a fan and have been since the first book. Jon writes solid and timely thrillers and, while I quibble on occasion with some of his plot choices and point out the holes, he is overall a solid writer with a vast imagination.

I've been told that authors praising other authors doesn't make a difference to the reading public and yet publishers and authors put blurbs from recognizably famous authors on the backs of their books. I didn't do that with Among Women because I hadn't sent galleys or advanced reading copies to any authors who had agreed to read the book. I could barely get people I know to read the book. They're always too busy, don't read that genre, or just don't read at all. I have a rather long list of authors whose books I've read and reviewed, but I didn't think it appropriate to ask them to read my book, and I didn't ask any of the authors I've known for years and corresponded with. I wanted the reading public to start talking about my novel and my writing, good or bad (preferably good), and start the snowball rolling down Mount Everest. The snowball seems to be stalled at base camp 2. Or is it 3?

The thing about the writing business is no one really knows how it works. Authors who tell great stories and couldn't put together a cogent grocer list zoom to the top of the charts, garnering automatic fame and a considerable fortune. Authors who know how to market and tweet and socialize like madmen and write formulaic drivel zoom to the top of the charts, too. All too often, authors who do it all right and follow the rules, barely make it to the middle of the pack. It's a crap shoot, especially for indies, and fragmenting themselves and their efforts following what worked for other authors doesn't do much good, except to provide a little bump in sales. There is no tried and true method of getting ahead and advertising on no budget isn't an option. The only thing left is the story.

I read a post Amanda Hocking wrote recently about how everyone talks about all the millions of dollars she has made and no one mentions that she writes books with stories that people want to read. It's all about the story even though the editing and proofing are horrible. She's one of those who write fantasy and fantasy is hot right now, so what happens to someone like me who writes books about real people in real situations? Base camp 2 -- or 3. You know, right at the summit.

I don't know what else to do but keep writing what moves me and keep hoping that among the seven billion people on this earth, a few paltry million will discover my stories and decide to read them.

Jon Land did me a huge favor by reading my book and I hope, by putting his views here, others will feel the same way and read. I don't socialize and network all the time (I have two full time jobs) and I don't haunt the bulletin boards and forums. I'd have no time to write if I did. That just leaves this story and the ones that came before and the ones that will continue to follow. Somewhere along the way, I hope it is enough.

It's all about the words.

Pick Me, Pick Me!

2012-01-07T10:22:00.002-07:00

Three more days until the end of the Preditors & Editors annual poll for the best of the best -- or at least the best of who knows about the site and nominates themselves or someone else's books, stories, articles, art work, and all things publishing online. What it really comes down to is popularity contest and often whether a book, article, etc. is good or not is secondary to who knows the most people.

All over the net where I spend most of my time writers, editors, publishers, and the industry people are hawking their wares and begging for votes. There is no blind judging panel sequestered in their cubicles or homes reading, making notes, and employing their hard won skills and literary acumen to decide the fate of the finalists. It's just like high school when the in-crowd and the popular people cozy up to the fringe sector to woo votes and influence the final outcome. Does that make the Preditors & Editors awards less useful or less worthy? No.

The award does garner attention for the independent (indie) authors, editors, publishers, and artists who spend the rest of the year working hard to produce books, magazines, articles, etc. that rival the slick print and traditionally published versions, and often surpass them, because it is a labor of love. Why shouldn't they be allowed to call on all their friends and fans to nominate and vote for them when in the end it's all about the fans and friends who buy their work?

While the awards may not have quite the clout or the sheen that a Pulitzer, National Book, or high profile prizes do, any award is proof that what the artist and writer have produced is notable.

Am I entered?

You bet, and you can wander on over, if you've a mind to, and vote for me for my novel Among Women. After all, I've used up all the oomph I gained from the awards I won as teenager and young adult. I need all the oomph I can get.

Vote and tell your friends. I'd like to be the most popular for a change instead of the most useful.

The Path of Adaptation

2012-01-06T10:05:00.002-07:00

People talk about reinventing themselves, making themselves over, but reinvention is what life is all about, and the journey from infant to adult to senior citizen is all part of the process.

A newborn infant grows and gets stronger, changing from immobile to mobile, but only in the sense of being able to crawl, walk, run, and race. Each milestone is a reinvention of the previous state, a constant state of flux until reaching a plateau from which more milestones are reached. Preschooler becomes a child going to school, learning, changing, embracing the lessons learned and new goals are chosen, or at least aimed for, as new paths open up. Elementary schoolers become middle schoolers (junior high schoolers in my day) and then high schoolers. Some high schoolers go to trade school, junior college, and university, and some go directly into the working world, reinventing themselves every step of the way. Some paths work out better than others and there are opportunities to switch paths -- or horses -- to find what works better or is forced upon us by circumstance or situation.

As a child, my dream was to go to college (university in European parlance) and become a writer and Supreme Court Justice. I didn't make it since my mother felt that their college dollars should go to my brother, the male heir, since he would have a family to support. He is five years younger and was six years behind me in school. By the time I had graduated with a degree, he would still not have been ready to go to college, and I would have been invested in my new career and making enough money I could help. That wasn't part of my mother's vision and thus not part of the deal, so I changed course, or rather it was changed by my choices.

I was my parents' child and then became someone's wife. I had been reinvented from college-bound student to wife and, soon after, someone's mother. I was also a military wife and that was another path that converged with the wife and mother path. Two more children followed and then came divorce. I was reinvented as single mother with children working two jobs and I had to adapt again. Children moved away and I was reinvented as divorced female moving into middle-age, single and alone, but at last following a part of the path I'd dreamed of long ago. I was still divorced, still living alone, still working, but the hours not working at a day job were filled with reading and writing. I wasn't going to be a Supreme Court Justice, but I was going to be a writer.

As a writer I have reinvented myself several times. I moved from freelance to stringer for newspapers to freelance writing for magazines to PR and writing newsletters for businesses and associations and writing a novel part-time. I have since reinvented myself as novelist and blogger and continue to adapt to a changing environment, hoping one day to be reinvented as award-winning, self-supporting, well known author selling millions of books. Choices and the changing industry may change my plans, or disrupt them entirely, but I continue to adapt.

Adaptation is another word for reinvention, or repurposing in the modern PC parlance. Basically, it all comes down to finding a way to fit in and finding a niche that suits for a day, a week, or a lifetime. Some people move from child to adult to marriage, children, and old age together and some people never get beyond having arrived in adulthood still clinging to their childhood. Men are good at that; just look at the size and price of their toys. Substitute 'adapt' for 'reinvent' and it's the same thing.

I have adapted many times, being a military wife moving from base to base and state to state (sometimes even from country to country) makes it easy for me to fit into life's currents and swim, sometimes even to surf, snorkel, dive, and hydroplane. I've had many different jobs, starting off in sales and moving to cashier and then to keypunch and data processing and IT. Those skills allowed me to reinvent/adapt to become a transcriptionist and then a medical transcriptionist to keep the lights and phone on and a roof over my head to keep the rain, snow, sleet, and wind off the food, but I have remained always a writer, and sometimes an artist. I've managed offices and businesses and been a worker bee buzzing about someone else's hive. I've always adapted to reinvent myself again and again in an ever changing environment, hitting the ground running with very few stumbles. I am the same child born over fifty years ago and I am the new and improved, although somewhat battered and scarred, me that will continue on whatever life throws at me, adapting and reinventing myself as I go. Where I will end up even I don't know, yet it has been and continues to be a rollercoaster ride with surprised around every bend.

Skimming the Cream

2012-01-04T08:50:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, I received a newsletter from Powell's Books to choose the best of 2011. There's a lot of that going around -- choosing the best of the previous year now that we are firmly ensconced in the new year. I decided to play along. After all, $250 in books is going to save me at least $250 in books that I will buy this year, or more accurately, this quarter (and sometimes this month).

I briefly flirted with choosing The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes, which would be a first for me since I seldom choose literary novels as my favorites, but there I was flirting. Then it dawned on me which was the best book I had read last year (always excepting my own Among Women, which I thought was a very good and notable book, but I would since I wrote it). The best book was The Help by Kathryn Stockett for its humor, social themes, writing, and mostly for its characters. I absolutely adore Minny's smart mouth and Aibilene's common sense and courage. Skeeter reminded me of me, ever on the fringe of the right people and the right causes but discontented with that place and questioning everything and everyone.

In the end, it's all subjective and my favorites might have been different had I read more books or read different books. I read a lot of good books, but very seldom stellar books like Barnes's and Stockett's, books that engage and surprise me, but most of all entertain me and enrich my life, and Barnes's book was barely a novella.

What I look for in other authors' books is the same thing I look for when writing my own -- integrity and courage. The themes and plots aren't as important except as they bring the story together, as being true to the characters, setting, and heart of the novel. I can find that in any genre or literary novel and good writing is good writing whether it's for young adult fiction or adult fiction. Just give me something true and honest; just give me integrity.

Maybe that is what has stalled my own writing of late, lack of integrity. No, that's not it. What has stalled me is disappointment. I thought my book would be more widely read and people would talk about what I created, but no. Just no. If people are talking, they're not talking to me or anywhere else I can find outside the core of fans and good people (writers really) who keep touting my book, and that's one of the hardest pills to swallow in writing.

It takes some screenwriter or director optioning a book they've read or creating a show based on a book to get the masses interested. Take George R. R. Martin, for example. He wrote a marvelous series of books that are amazing in its breadth and scope, unforgettable characters, and themes that resonate in all parts of the world, yet it wasn't until HBO decided to make Game of Thrones that readers sat up and took notice. The geek world had been on fire as Martin created his series and waited a bit impatiently for each new piece of the Westeros puzzle, but The Song of Ice and Fire series didn't take off until HBO's version of the show. The same thing happened for The Help where people sat up and took notice when the movie was announced and released. Barnes's The Sense of an Ending didn't need to be made into a movie since it won the 2011 Man Booker Prize for fiction -- literary fiction, no others need apply.

The problem is that most people are followers and they look for the leaders to tell them where to go and what to read or watch, or watch and read. The authors keep plugging away at their day jobs, unless they already have created a following by writing tome upon tome like Martin, and I get that. I don't want to wait for some bright screenwriter or director or producer to decide that my book is ready for its closeup so the masses will see what they are supposed to watch and then read. I haven't made enough of a name for myself yet, and I'm getting impatient with being disappointed. I also don't want to work for someone else when I could be writing more books and getting paid for the writing alone, be able to live on my writing alone without the help of a regular 2 pm to 8:30 pm job. I want my closeup now.

While I wait, I read and read about 80 books last year, give or take a couple, and it may have been more. I read and review a lot of books, and the best book I read last year was Kathryn Stockett's The Help. I also watched the movie and it was very good and, for once, stuck to the book and didn't change the ending or combine characters or anything else that Hollywood usually does to jazz up the material. The Help stood all on its own.

If you're interested in weighing in on your favorite book of 2011, go to Powell's and cast your vote. If not, check out Julian Barnes, Kathryn Stockett, and George R. R. Martin and then check out writers you've never read and your favorites, your literary comfort food, in whatever format is your favorite. The best advice I can give you for 2012 is read, read a lot.

Although 2012 is just beginning, it too will end and you'll have a chance to choose your favorite at the end of this year, but only if you read. Good luck and good reading.

Review: The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

2011-12-22T11:26:00.003-07:00

Tony Webster begins his tale at the age of 60, a time when he reflects on the past and his friends, trying to find memories and meaning in what happened to explain the bequest from an old girlfriend's mother, who was once kind to him while the rest of her family taunted him and made him feel awkward and out of his depth.

Forty years ago, his best friend, Adrian, committed suicide, leaving a note that was the essence of the young man giving up his life, in Roman style, and asking that the coroner publish his note. It wasn't a cry for help or a plea for forgiveness, but a rational and studied message that gave his life -- and his death meaning. Shocking as it was for his friends, and especially for Tony, it made sense -- Adrian's kind of sense.

Now, Tony must revisit that past and those memories to see what was true and remains true, and what was illusion.

It is not too difficult to find books that will blend past remembrance with current struggles, but Julian Barnes does not give Tony Webster anything to struggle against at first glance. Tony doesn't need to bring things full circle, as Victoria suggests, nor does he become maudlin and regretful about his past or his life since Adrian's death. Tony takes life as it comes, so he says, until he needs to wear away at the stones that bar his path, like an insurance company and most especially Victoria, hitting each with letters and emails that slowly, carefully, and thoughtfully wear down their resistance and give Tony what he wants. He is the water that drip, drip, drips until a hole is achieved. That is the essence of The Sense of an Ending, and what makes it work.

The Sense of an Ending is barely a novella but is sufficiently long to tell the story and give up all the details without too much overbearing style or too many bloated words. It is simply a good story told with economy and a subtle richness that makes the story fly; I read it in a matter of hours.

There are echoes of what is coming by the suicide of a school fellow who finds out his girlfriend is pregnant and hangs himself, leaving a quite note: Sorry, Mum. Adrian's death is more thoughtful and yet no one finds out, not even the reader, why he decided to end his life. Was it in typical Adrian fashion because he was finished or because he felt that nothing more could be accomplished after a first at Cambridge and honors to fill his cabinet? The answer to that lies in the diary that Victoria refuses to hand over to Tony, the diary her mother left him in her will, along with a letter and $500.

Tony is as clueless as Victoria claims throughout their relationship and during their struggle over Adrian's diary and that is aptly shown at the ending of The Sense of an Ending, but, in Tony's defense, little was given him and he wasn't curious enough to look farther than what was right in front of him.

What is best about The Sense of an Ending is not just a story told well, but how memory deceives and changes over time and how it can become as clear as clean glass when one least expects it. Although Tony claims to be a peaceful guy who wants nothing more than peace in his life, he is shown as someone who lets life happen to him rather than making life happen. He accepts all without rancor or regret, except when he finds out that Victoria is now with Adrian, and he muddles through without too much effort or thought, even to remaining friends with his ex-wife, who left him for someone else and eventually divorced. When she wanted to get back together, Tony said no because he liked his simple life as it was -- simple and without clutter or responsibility. In a sense, Tony committed emotional suicide in his youth and ghosted through the rest of life.

The Sense of an Ending, no matter its length, is worthy of the Man Booker Prize it won this year and I highly recommend it.

Review: The Bone People by Keri Hulme

2011-12-20T11:28:00.004-07:00

The Maori legends and culture are the centerpiece in Keri Hulme's The Bone People, Man Booker Prize winner 1985.

The story centers around Kerewin, a wealthy artist estranged from her family and living alone in a tower in Moerangi, Joe Gillayley, widower and foster father of Simon Peter Gillayley, a young boy found at the age of 3 washed up on a nearby beach and a devil of a young man who can't, or won't, speak. He's far too advanced for his age and a regular hellion.

The story begins when Kerewin finds Simon has broken into her home. They begin a tenuous relationship that eventually includes Joe. As the trio become closer, Kerewin discovers what Joe's family, all of whom live nearby, already knows: he beats Simon, leaving scars from the belt buckle he uses. Joe gets drunk, loses his temper when Simon throws something or does something he shouldn't (steal, break into other people's homes, etc.), and the beatings commence. The story isn't so much about the abuse, but about the relationship between the three: a confirmed virgin in her late 20s, early 30s, a man looking for love and acceptance, and Simon looking for a family and someone to accept and understand him, warts and all.

Keri Hulme creates a dream world that shares echoes with reality in The Bone People. She winds the central tale about the internal monologues of the three central characters, and some of the background characters, and adds poetry, songs, and a sense of otherworldliness into the story. The quick side tracks and segues into monologue, legends, and hints at back story are vertiginous at times and heighten the suspense of the central question of who Simon really is.

It took me a while to figure out that the Maori dialogue was referenced in the back of the book since there were no footnotes or links or mention of the translations and that was frustrating. I wanted to know what the people were saying and how it affected the story. It was like being part of a conversation where others are speaking a different language at times.

I did like the Maori legends and the dynamics of family relationships, or the lack of them in Kerewin's case, but not so much the hints at some problem between Kerewin and her own family and why she had no contact with them. There are sections when the story soars and the writing is clear as glass and others where style has overwhelmed the story. Too much was left unwritten and still unclear at the end of the book. Much of what was left out or hinted at should have been tied into the ending and wasn't.

The Bone People is a good book, but not a great one. It allows a peek into the Maori culture and offers some broad hints about the clash between Maori and Europeans that added texture to an already intricately textured book. The style is very different from most books I've read in the literary genre and that's not necessarily a bad thing, but took some getting used to in the beginning. All in all, Keri Hulme did a good job with the book but forgot the main reason for writing a story -- the story. I'm all for magical realism, and this book is definitely in that realm, but I'd have to give the overall effect a C+.

The Gift of Silly

2011-12-15T09:11:00.002-07:00

A close friend is going through a particularly bad patch of depression right now. She told me she feels empty and I missed the point when I offered some suggestions to ease the depression and get back on the holiday track. I do that sometimes, offer help instead of just shutting up and listening. It's my nature. I'm the fix-it girl.

As I read her post on Live Journal about not wanting pity or sympathy or quick-fixes (guilty as charged), I thought about what she said about not being able to get out and get those little inexpensive gifts for friends that makes her holiday season more like a holiday and less like just another season, and I decided to make things a little better (I hope) by getting her a few fun little gifts to help her find a way to smile again, if only for a fleeting moment.

As I looked through page after page of little gifts, I began to smile. Slinkies and pocket Etch-a-Sketches and all manner of plush toys you can fling from a sling. Those plastic-enclosed pictures filled with iron filings you can move about to make different faces with an attached magnet, Magic 8 Balls, and any number of other little pocket- and stocking-sized gifties from my past, and possibly from yours. The items are all silly in one way or another, but remembering the hours I spent playing those games, making faces, seeing if Silly Putty really could pick up comics from the funny papers (it does), and generally just having fun were the best.

In addition to the usual gifts I give my grandchildren, I'm giving them something silly and fun to create memories for times like these when they need to be cheered up or want to cheer up a friend. I'm still giving them the books and other gifts I've chosen, but now they'll get a little something fun and silly. It's what grandmothers are for -- and what grandchildren are for.

The holidays are hard enough for some people as they scramble around making do with what little money they can afford to spend or making and baking gifts because it's more personal and from the heart -- and hand -- and often because they are lonely far from home in a foreign land or in their own country and isolated by circumstance, health, or whatever reason and not able to spend it with family and friends. One little something, a plastic egg of Silly Putty or a tiny Etch-A-Sketch or Magic Doodle Pad that disappears when you raise the plastic film or a Slinky, can make the difference between another silent night full of sadness and regret or a night of laughter and nonsense. I'm choosing the laughter and nonsense, so thank you, my friend, for reminding me I can't fix everyone's problems, but I can fix my own. It's a wonderful gift.

One Voice

2011-12-14T05:48:00.004-07:00

I don't usually write about politics here, or anywhere, although I have at times become so angry with what is going on that I let myself go and put it out there . . . in writing. That's what writers do -- write.

As I watch the Democrats and Republicans scrapping over the country's votes and Obama gearing up for yet another campaign, as if he ever got off the campaign trail since he started umpteen years ago, I am appalled by what I see and what the elected representatives of the people call working in our best interests, that is the interests of the common man, the people who elected him, and those who did not but must look to him or her as their voice. The only voices those politicians hear are their own and those of the people who lobby for their attention with money, favors, and power. It's called bribes or baksheesh anywhere else in the world.

Had these politicians been paying attention the people would not be rising now, first with the Tea Party movement, which was co-opted by the Republicans and twisted to their own ends, and now with Occupy Wall Street, and the politicians are getting nervous, as well they should. It is just such anger and resentment coupled with the need to know what is being done about fixing this broken ship of state that led to the creation of the United States of America and the colonists' break from England. I'm sure King George was just as appalled by what he considered disrespectful behavior no in accordance with the terms of agreement between colonist and king. The colonists should have been thankful to be British citizens and to provide the mother country with goods and money that it needed to continue looking after them -- and they were definitely not thankful. Why should they be when they were asked to carry a burden of taxes for people who didn't work the land or undergo the privations and conditions of this new world, or allow them representation in Parliament?

To some modern day scholars, it was the rich that flung the fortunes of all at the King of England and his Redcoats just so they could pay fewer taxes, and yet it was the common man killed in the streets of Boston during the massacre and the average colonist who bravely withstood the Redcoats until this country was free of foreign rule.

Once again, we have the rich on the spit for our problems and the rich are the wo/men elected to do our bidding, to be the voice of the common man, but the common man doesn't have the sense to know how to wheel and deal in the halls of power, intrigue, and bartering for favors that passes for legislation. They no longer have any connection to the majority of Americans who are marching, assembling, and angry about what is being done to them and to their country. How could they when they no longer live and work among us, intent only on the acquisition of power and wealth?

America's government is not a democracy but a republic, which is defined as:

a (1) : a government having a chief of state who is not a monarch and who in modern times is usually a president (2) : a political unit (as a nation) having such a form of government

b (1) : a government in which supreme power resides in a body of citizens entitled to vote and is exercised by elected officers and representatives responsible to them and governing according to law (2) : a political unit (as a nation) having such a form of government.

When asked what kind of government the first constitutional convention Ben Franklin said, "A republic, if you can keep it."

There is no form of government or power that cannot be twisted and turned into something other than what it was designed for. There have been benevolent and thoughtful rulers among the despots and good presidents who have had what is best for the whole country at heart. By and large the rulers, and a president does rule in a sense, as one friend puts it, as the face of the franchise, have been drunk on power and their own importance and the common man suffers. The excrement always rolls down hill due to gravity and its own weight and now the excrement has hit the oscillating blades and the power brokers are shaking in their shoes.

It is about time, too.

Okay, so why should anyone pay any attention to me -- or to anyone with an opinion (and there are a lot of people with a lot of opinions out here)? To get a different perspective, to hear and pay attention to the growing roar of the angry and disenfranchised Americans who have been cheated, lied to, and treated like dirt. (I think there's a song in there somewhere.)

I am the canary in the coal mine telling you the air could be dangerous. You should worry when I no longer sing because then you're dead and it's too late to get out, to clear the air, to breathe.

The Democrats are determined to put the world right by any means necessary and save us from ourselves, rescue our world and the people in it from extinction -- or worse. They are the ones who slowly made cigarette smoking nearly a crime and want us all to drive hybrid or electric cars or gas up at the alternative fuel station and to pay for the privilege on both ends.

The Republicans meanwhile are busily engaged in the usual sleight-of-hand while they substitute politics for sticking their noses into everyone else's private business and bedrooms and calling it Right.

Both parties are out of step and out of line. They are supposed to be the voice of the people not to dictate morality and who can or cannot marry, serve in the military, or dine out in public while they hide their barely post pubescent mistresses, receipts for prostitutes and toy boys, and various schemes for keeping power and money in their hands while wrecking the world around them. They are the Neros who continue to fiddle while Rome burns and looking for someone to take the blame while they're still sending out troops to set the fires.

America no longer produces much of anything except contempt and a growing unemployed mass of people who can no longer keep up with the Joneses -- or the Muhammads and Krishnamurtys -- any more. It isn't just the rich getting richer, but a small fraction of rich who got their wealth by taking it from the very people necessary to create the wealth they covet and beg, borrow, and steal to maintain. Who actually needs or can spend in ten lifetimes $200 billion dollars, or even $50 million dollars? Okay, anyone who wants a gold toilet seat encrusted with precious gems and wired for WiFi and iPhones, but there aren't that many people out there who ever feel comfortable sitting on a toilet seat that would feed, clothe, and house a family of five for ten years. Those that do are called masochists -- and looters with very poor taste.

The bottom line is that America is slowly slipping into a top-heavy pyramid of excess that is poised on its head and ready to crash and destroy everything around it. There's a reason the pyramids were built with their broad bases resting solidly on the ground and not on their pointed tops. It's time to clean house and get rid of every Democrat and Republican and president and politician who is out for themselves and replace them with Daniel Boones and Rosie the Riveters who know what the people and this country need.

I've said it before and I will say it again and again. It's time to throw the looters out and get back to what America did better than any other country -- produce. It's time to stop worrying about whether or not same sex couples want to marry and have children and whether or not gays want to serve in the armed forces. Anyone in this country willing to wear the uniform and do the job should be able to do so -- and the pay should be commensurate with the risk and the danger. If someone wants to make serving the people a career, let him work for the fire department, police and sheriff's departments, and in other service jobs, but not in the legislature.

It's time to focus on fixing this broken republic and put it back on course. The current slate of candidates will not do the job, as we have amply seen in the past three years under the leadership of Obama and his ilk, who have subverted the Constitution and the will of the people under the guise of hope and change. Well, we hoped Obama would change the policies, and he did, but only to make further inroads into the destruction of this country and for personal gain. He has no clear objective, other than destruction, and no clear policies. It's time for a real change and so far I'm not liking what's out there.

It's time to take back our country and put it on a paying -- not borrowing -- basis. People will make their own choices and that is as it should be. It isn't the rich we have to fear, but the greedy. If we want change, it has to come from the people and from the wo/men with vision willing and able to produce a product or service that will bring change, not from legislation and back door deals.

It's time for the sheep to become proactive and extend the reach and power of movements like Occupy Wall Street. The time for asking questions is over. It's time to roll up our sleeves and clean house.

Hand Over the Fruitcake, Please

2011-12-13T11:52:00.002-07:00

Shopping for fruitcake has been an interesting experience and I've come across quite a few variations on the fruitcake theme, including a monastery in Oregon that sells 6 slices of fruitcake covered in chocolate for almost as much as a whole tinned fruitcake. Maybe not. Don't think the fruitcake is like Boston brown bread steamed in a tin but one of those lovely tins that Gram used to save buttons in with holiday pictures and traditional holiday and Jacobean pattern paintings. There was one tin, which I still have, that was covered in a classic Wedgwood pattern in blue and white, that lovely Wedgwood blue that is so indicative of real Wedgwood china. The paper's torn in a couple of places, but the tin is still good and full of buttons Gram collected and I inherited, some of which are gone because I used them on outfits I made here and there.

What I don't get are the jokes about fruitcake. Yes, it's heavy (weight-wise) because of all the fruit and nuts (my favorite always had pecans) packed inside, and the cake itself is dense, but a good fruitcake that's aged in whiskey or brandy is a rich and delectable treat that spells Christmas for me as surely as flaming plum pudding does for some Englishmen (and women, too). Our holidays when Gram was alive was not complete unless there was fruitcake, great thick slabs of it glistening with glaceed fruit and redolent of brandy. I don't know that Mom was so persnickety in those days because she even had a piece, despite her no alcohol in the food stance. Eating the whole fruitcake wouldn't have been even close to enough to get anyone drunk, not even a newborn, if the child had the teeth and taste buds to be able to enjoy the treat, but that's a story for another time. This time it's about fruitcake.

I guess because of all the nuts and fruit, that's why fruitcake became another word for a score sheet full of gutter balls or a few bricks shy a load. Just another way to call someone insane -- or nearly there.

And then there are the jokes about fruitcakes so heavy they were used as bricks to build a grill outside after years of fruitcakes had piled up in the basement, still inedible and fireproof to boot. Or that someone threw a piece of fruitcake and knocked out their spouse, as if that is even possible. Talk about hyperbole. It's all about taste, and a good fruitcake is packed with taste, and those that love fruitcake will agree, it's not Christmas without it.

It wouldn't be human without contention and disagreement, choosing up sides to fire off against opponents. What is it about people that they just can't enjoy themselves and allow others to do the same, even if what they enjoy isn't what you enjoy? There are so many things in life to choose that it is a waste of time to sneer at others who choose something else. People able to afford cashmere give the cold shoulder to someone wearing a polyester blend sweater or a cardigan someone knitted or crocheted as a gift. Drivers of BMWs thumb their noses at drivers of Mercedes and Volvos who in turn look down their noses at anyone who drives a Ford Taurus or Chevy Cavalier, and all of them look enviously at the couple with the top down driving the vintage Ford Mustang or classic Jaguar or Spider. It's plain to see they like what they bought, so there's no reason to denigrate someone who either couldn't afford or preferred another type of car.

We're all about contention and disagreement. My mother is famous for it, calling me up just to argue because no one in Ohio will argue with her and she knows I will -- or rather I did until I figured out that was her game. She picks and pushes buttons until I -- or anyone else -- respond and push back, verbally of course. Luckily, I live far enough away so that it doesn't matter if I decide to make or buy a fruitcake. It's too late to make one, although I have the cheese cloth and the liquor store isn't far away, because I don't have a month or two until Christmas to age the fruitcake properly in the closet soaking in rum or brandy or whisky. It takes time to make a fruitcake the right way, the traditional way.

In the meantime, I'll keep looking and avoid the place where I bought one last year. I got a tiny fruitcake, hardly more than 2 good slabs, for $30 and I want fruitcake to spare for the holiday, or until the new year, whichever comes first. Mock me if you will, call me names, and snicker when you read this, but I will enjoy every morsel and crumb of my holiday tradition and you can enjoy yours, even if it does involve a liquor-soaked flaming plum pudding.

Come to think of it, I need a good old-fashioned mincemeat pie, too, just like the one Mrs. Jonathan Frake won the blue ribbon for at the Iowa State Fair.

Happy holidays.

Who's a Bully?

2011-12-09T09:17:00.001-07:00

The only person who ever bullied me was my mother. Bullies come in all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, which is something I was reminded as I watched The Big Bang.

I was talked into watching the show and I love it. Last night's show was about bullies.

Leonard got a message on Facebook from one of the high school bullies who made his life hell. He wanted to meet and Leonard finally agreed to do so -- with his friends. Penny, Bernadette, and Amy were trying on clothes and having a little hen party and Amy and Bernadette talked about their bullies. Penny had no bullies in her life because she came from a nice place where no one bullied anyone else, but they did play pranks on each other. That's when it came out that Penny was the bully.

As I watched these adults work their way through the demons of their past, or realize they were the demons of the past, it dawned on me that Sheldon is a bully. He hides behind his intricate rules and ways of doing things and makes everyone's life miserable until they fall in line. Bully. That reminded me of another bully, a woman who was a close acquaintance and who bullied everyone in her life, but not with pranks or tricks. She bullied with her intellect, which wasn't all that great, but definitely above the average.

Sheldon and my acquaintance are bullies of the intellect, using their intelligence to make everyone else feel smaller and less accomplished, and that is just as bad as some big brute or beautiful girl who uses their assets to make everyone less brawny or cute to feel just as small, even when they don't stuff them into a locker.

When you get right down to it, bullies are basically narcissists, among other things, and they feel inadequate so they must knock everyone else down to feel superior. Come to think of it, I've known a lot of bullies in my life, and they were often people I looked up to (for a while) or called friend, but not for long. Their true natures eventually came out and I walked away, not without some emotional bruises and scars, but I walked away all the same.

Bullying happens in writing and publishing, too, but the only bullies seemed to be traditional publishers. They are no longer alone. Bullies crop up every day in indie publishing and among the writers, too. It still comes down to the same equation. If you feel inadequate or small, make everyone around you feel small, and sometimes the bullies are a little hard to detect because they seem to be doing you a favor or telling you some truth. Let me give you a hint: Even bullies know a few things and they're not shy about sharing -- or making you feel stupid and small.

Any time someone cuts you down or denigrates your choices, you may be in the presence of a bully. Any time you feel like your success has been turned to dross, a bully was likely behind it.

The only way to exorcise bullies and weaken their influence is to walk away and ignore them. Take what's useful and discard the rest. If someone makes you feel stupid for going the traditional or the indie route in publishing, ignore them. It's your choice and you're the only one who has to live with it. If it doesn't work out, then choose something else, but do not allow anyone the power over you to make you feel small or question your choices. All questions should come from inside you and not from some bully.

Life is difficult enough without being bullied, and there are plenty of bullies in every walk of life. Keep one eye on the bullies and the other on your path. Make your own choices and ignore the rest. It's your life after all, and bullies seldom change. They just switch games.

Marking Time

2011-12-06T08:56:00.003-07:00

I was shopping (well, browsing) and I saw the signs for a 2012 calendar. I'm usually figuring out budgets and when I can afford to get my 2012 calendar, usually some time in January when they go on sale. This year, even with the lapse in paychecks (fired and then hired and then waited for a month to get a check), I bought my 2012 desk calendar two months ago.

For most people, a desk calendar is a way of marking days. For me, it's mini version of my journal with birthdays, anniversaries, and notable moments along the year's path. It's also the place where I keep a record of paying bills and buying food and appointments. A glance through any desk calendar will give you a quick view of what I did that year.

Yes, I keep them to refer back to for details, as a goad to memory when I know I did something at a certain time but just cannot remember when, and as a way of reminding myself how full -- or usually empty -- my days were of writing. Book launch days, personal appearances, the road to publication and the marketing and struggle to get people interested enough to buy and review my books, it's all there on the page, and I don't have to read through hundreds of pages of writing to find it. It's quick. It's simple. It's there.

I did get smart, though, about the time I found Levenger's metal page markers. Little pointed arrow-like metal clips that fit over the page to mark a passage. I began using them in books I was reviewing when highlighting text I would use in the review and then decided it was a good idea to use them in my journals to mark the spots when I was writing through problems with a book or fleshing out characters or themes or whatever in books I have yet to write. Again, it's better than having to read hundreds of pages to find one little moment when I had a brainstorm. My journals have a glint of gold about the pages in various spots, pages I marked with the little metal arrow-like thingies. Now I need to find a way to note what book the passages mark, so I don't have to read all the pages with markers on them.

There are paper arrows with space enough to write on, but that's not going to work. Paper gets torn and crunched up when they sit on the shelf, and the glue gets old and the arrow drop off if I don't get around to it for a while. The metal thingies work perfectly. I guess I'll have to work with what I've got and take those trips down memory lane more often until I memorize which journal, which year, and which months (a journal lasts me about 2-3 months) to look in. I have hundreds of journals written day by day over more than twenty years. If only I could turn them into books or, better yet, they would turn into books. Alas, that's not likely.

Maybe I could make a notation on the desk calendar about that, too. Some pages are awfully blank. Then again, some are pretty full, just like life. Some days, nothing, and then days when there aren't enough hours to get it all done. And so it goes.

I'll figure it out, but suggestions are welcome.

How do you use your desk calendar -- if you have one. If you don't have one, why not?

By the way, the little picture up on the right is of the page nibs (arrow-like thingies) and they're available from Levenger's. They make good bookmarks and great gifts for the writers and readers on your list.

Economics 101

2011-12-06T01:02:00.001-07:00

Occupy Wall Street has gone global. People are angry and they're not sure why or to whom they should direct their outrage. It's really about economics and what should be going on and isn't. Take a lesson from the King of the Elves in the following cartoon. He sets the shoemaker right. This is Economics 101. It's not difficult and it's not about power or grabbing as much money as possible, but about using resources intelligently to make a product to sell that people want and/or need. In this case, it's shoes. Pay attention. There will be a test. It's called life.

That is all. Disperse.

Nothing to See, Lots to Write

2011-12-06T00:30:00.001-07:00

The water is running in the bathroom and kitchen and the water bill will be higher than usual because of it. I don't care. I can't, not when the alternative is frozen pipes and no water for a few days. I went through that at the beginning of the year and I don't want to go back there again. No toilet, no water, and bitter cold. So I'll pay the extra because of the subzero weather and be grateful for the water.

It's amazing what makes me grateful these days. Running water and heat. Being able to buy a book or indulge myself with a pizza instead of the usual round of frozen and shelf stable dinners. Being without a paycheck for six weeks will do that. I'm back and the paychecks have started up again and I'm doing all right, except that I can't figure out what OASDI is on my paycheck and why it's deducted from my pay, so a quick check was in order. It's the new name for Social Security: Old Age Survivors and Disabilities Insurance. Okay, so it's descriptive, but what was wrong with Social Security? More useless labels, just what everyone needs, and I can do without.

Nothing like reminding me that I am getting older and should be closer to the end than the beginning, and I would be if I weren't going to live another 96 years. Yes, I plan to live to a ripe old 150. I can dream, can't I? It's where it all begins -- dreams.

I still have dreams about writing lots of books and getting paid for them, of people talking about my books and getting what I put into them, of living a life different than the one I live now where I'm grateful for breezes around the windows and doors because it keeps out the specter of carbon monoxide and running the water all night, and all day if necessary, keeps the pipes from freezing. I don't like having to rely on other people and, as long as I rent, that's what I'll have to do. I'm at the mercy of a landlord who doesn't care enough about keeping this house up, like making sure it's insulated, everything works, and the roof doesn't leak like a sieve. He's too busy on building his other properties while this one deteriorates at an increasily rapid rate. I'd buy it, except he wouldn't sell and I can't afford it right now, not until my books sell more than they have.

That's the way it always is, dreaming about what you don't have so you don't enjoy what you have. I get that way sometimes, but only when the weather is below freezing and the water is running. It's the way of things, the need to focus on the bad and forget about the good, like reading there could be a cure for Alzheimer's and Parkinson's in the lichen used to create the red dye so prevalent in junk food. No wonder my mother is still around. She eats nothing but junk food. She forgets things sometimes, but that's just atrophy in a brain that's used for little more than arguing and demanding her children (that would be me and my siblings) see she's right when we all know she's wrong. She has no good memory of things but she insists that she remembers. It's the usual dichotomy of someone who spent all of her life controlling the people around her, mostly Dad, and is suddenly cast adrift because her favorite focus of abuse is now dead, and we all deal with her in various ways.

My brother, the Mushroom, stays away from her and keeps his life and himself to himself. Beanie avoids her, except at the beginning of the month when she has to give Mom her B12 shot and whenever she blows up Beanie's phone while she's at work. Hoity-Toity lives with her, but spends all her time at work so she doesn't have to deal with her too much. Well, that and because she doesn't have a man in her life for a change. He got tired of Hoity-Toity's controlling ways and constant niggling about how cheap he is and gave her the gate on Valentime's Day over a year ago. I heard he's come back with a motorcycle and plans to take her out again. He's either addicted to the nagging and belittling or he is a classic masochist missing his daily dose of sadistic treatment -- probably a bit of both. And then there's me.

I keep my contact with Mom brief and usually talk to her on Thursdays, unless she calls me to ask who this actor or that author is because she can't remember. Like Tom Wingo, I am her memory -- on everything but my own life, about which I cannot be trusted to remember. I used to argue with her about that, but gave it up when I realized that was mostly the reason she started the argument in the first place. She knows my buttons and she pushes them with gusto and unholy glee. I've learned to just tell her she's right (not very often) or say I have to go to the bathroom, which gets me off the phone and gives me time to realize she's pushing my buttons again. She lives for confrontation, which is why all of us, my siblings and I, have an aversion to confrontation . . . in varying degrees. I, less so, because I have had to fend for myself by myself a long time. Mom lives to argue and I have been her favorite opponent even before Dad died. It took me a long time to figure that one out, and that is one thing I had that I do not miss now that I don't have it -- or at least avoid it most of the time.

But, without Mom and my estranged siblings (except for Beanie) and my lack of luck with man-woman relationships, I'd have nothing to write about. It would be all sunshine and flowers, sweetness and light, and who wants to read about that? It does get boring after a while, which is why I write what I do. Oh, well, life's a mixed bag of tricks and each comes with its own warning -- most of which we don't understand until they land on us full force -- like the water bill when it comes. I'll have at least nine months to recoup. Meanwhile, I'm thankful for budgets on utilities that take the financial kinks out of what could be a disaster, but a small disaster compared to replacing pipes and hiring plumbers when the pipes freeze from the lack of insulation, old works, and absentee landlord, except when the rent is late 5 minutes. That's life in the big city.

And, yes, I still miss the cabin. I do not miss the owners of said cabin who dropped in whenever they liked without a phone call or the balloon payments on propane and paying twice for something that was on the budgets. Yes, more stories, and stories upon stories, from the highway pile-up that sometimes resembles my life.

There are shining moments when a helping hand reached down to me or I was able to reach down for someone else, but those are best left untold. In that at least I prefer to remain anonymous.

M. Eve and Spartacus

2011-12-04T12:15:00.001-07:00

The M in M. Eve is for mitochondrial. Mitochondrial Eve is one of the clan mothers, the first clan mother, who had at least two daughters who lived to have two daughters who had two daughters and so on up to the present time. Mitochondrial DNA is a circular spiral that has a neutral section that collects mutations, about one mutation for every 10,000 years, and is used to track connections between the generations. It is accurate and stable and it comes down to us through our mothers, the one parent we know without a doubt is the parent. Fathers? Not so much.

During conception, the sperm sheds its tail and his mitochondrial DNA when it enters the ovum during fertilization, which is why mitochondrial DNA can only be tracked through the maternal line. How do I know all this? I just finished reading The Seven Daughters of Eve, a book about the seven clan mothers, mitochondrial daughters of M. Eve, who are the progenitors of the peoples of Europe. Their DNA is in a large percentage of the European population and has been used successfully to determine whether or not archaeologists are correct about their assumptions regarding how people moved from continent to continent, where they came from, and what they did (hunter-gatherer or farmer). The book also shed light on some fascinating facts that turned archaeologists and historians on their ears.

There have been two camps, for instance, in determining where the polynesians came from, and it wasn't the Americas. They came through SE Asia and Tawain across the Pacific Ocean and against the prevailing currents to settle the islands between Asia and the Americas. Sorry about that, Thor Heyerdahl. His epic voyage on the Kon-Tiki was indeed a marvelous achievement, but it was wrong. The polynesians actually did come from Asia. The inclusion of yams, or sweet potatoes, in the diet was as a result of trade and not because they came from Chile or South America. Good guess, but wrong, although there is DNA that proves some females came from South America on a few of those trading expeditions and became part of the polynesian DNA. That's there, too.

As for Europe, it seems that the farmers did not push out the hunter-gatherers. They're still in Europe and they are the predominant population. They weren't pushed out; they adopted agriculture because they knew a good thing when they saw it. Historians and archaeologists were wrong about that one, and that was a hard fought realization in scientific circles.

The Seven Daughters of Eve is fascinating and even shares a bit of fictional fancy when reconstructing the lives of the seven women whose DNA is visible in the European population. I'd have to say the science is just as fascinating with its in-fighting and battling publications about the veracity and efficacy of using mitochondrial DNA. I enjoyed it thoroughly, so much I decided to begin another nonfiction book, The Spartacus War, something I haven't been able to do much of (reading, I mean) for years, not with my book review load.

I began The Spartacus War last night and dove right into the deep end of the pool. Spartacus was a Roman trained soldier who, for whatever reason (bandit, brigand, thief, or insurrectionist) was sold to a gladiatorial school. He was not a poor and ignorant slave, but a free man who was taken by the Romans and thrust into warring for them after Thrace was conquered. That's the way they did things back in the Roman days.

No wonder the Romans so feared Spartacus. He was a trained solider and a gladiator from a race of war loving people who knew how to fight a guerilla war, strengths that kept Rome from capturing and killing Spartacus for two years, while Spartacus freed rural slaves and wreaked havoc against Rome, while Rome fought two other battles, one with the Silesian pirates and the other with Mithridates. I haven't gotten very far into the book, but I already know it's going to be riveting.

I shouldn't be surprised that Stanley Kubrick took the facts, such as they are, and made a Hollywood movie, a movie, I might add, that I have enjoyed for decades. That's the way Hollywood does things. They take the facts, twist them into what they believe is a better story, and pass them off as entertainment. It worked -- to a point. I was entertained, but my interest has always been more for Spartacus's son and what his life was like after his father was crucified. I doubt I'll find out about that, but I can still dream there's a book out there that will shine a light on his son's life.

Or I can write one.

As much as I enjoy fiction, I often prefer a good nonfiction book on science and history. I haven't read a mathematics nonfiction book that really held my interest, but I keep hoping. Give me DNA and ancient history, astronomy and archaeology. Give me quantum physics and medicine once in a while and I will count myself content. Besides, all that nonfiction is fodder for fiction in helping the reader suspend disbelief and get into the story because there is a ring of truth. In the last case, the ring was mitochondrial DNA. I'm not sure what the ring is with Spartacus, but I'm sure I'll find it.

That is all. Disperse.

Humpty Dumpty Fell Off the Wall

2011-11-30T09:27:00.003-07:00

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

Humpty Dumpty should have been more careful and it's his fault he fell off the wall. Eggs, especially big eggs, have rounded bottoms. Without some kind of support, they fall over and roll all over the place just like they do on the kitchen counter -- and anywhere else they tend to be. It was Humpty Dumpty's fault he fell off the wall. He should have been more careful since a broken egg is not something that can be put back together with the insides intact, unless they were hard boiled, which negates Humpty's living existence, and we're back to the main point. It was Humpty Dumpty's fault he fell off the wall.

As in everything else in life, we are responsible for what happens to us, even when random violence strikes, because nothing is really random. It's all about behavior and foreshadowing and the choices we make. Had he not been walking down an alley in the middle of the night in a bad neighborhood to cut short a long walk or taking the garbage out at 3 a.m. because she forgot to do it earlier in the day when the sun was up, neither would have been harmed. Of course that does not negate the situation where someone drives a car through the front of the house, but, honestly, how often does that happen?

It's like this morning. I have 10 days until the next VE session and have to send out emails to make sure we have a room, ham radio operators wanting a license or an upgrade, and the volunteers for the session are informed or there will be no session. Since we hold our licensing exams at Colorado Technical College and since they tend to change the person I need to request a room from changes quite often, and the person currently in charge does not respond in a timely fashion, I chose to send out the email this morning instead of waiting until Saturday, the way I have done in the past. I don't like surprises when I don't have time to fix the situation, so it was a no-brainer; do it now or get surprised and maybe not have a room. Good thing I chose to do it this morning because the person I've been reporting to recently is not longer at CTU. Luckily, there are always other people copied on emails, so I send out a group email to all of them so that someone will respond. Now, I have asked many times for them to inform me when they are no longer in charge of assigning rooms, but no one listens and I am never informed. This is my last exam session to arrange before someone else takes over, and I'd like to go out with a quite whimper and not a chaotic big bang, hence my need to be careful.

Life is full of small moments like this, moments that can be tracked back to me when someone decides to assign blame. If I had followed the usual method of emailing CTU the same time I email the volunteers and the public at large, then I would have been in a world of trouble and would have had to go into last resort measures to get things done. When the volunteers don't respond, all I need to do is add a dash of guilt and another feminine plea edged with tears welling (metaphorically speaking) and they respond. I can't do that with CTU and whoever is in charge this month. I get it. I need to plan better, and so I do.

My sons are always asking why me when trouble finds them, as it inevitably does. I have no sympathy for them. It's always them because they set up the situation. When they spend their money on frivolous things instead of paying the bills, then they are going to get caught short and have to scramble to keep the lights and phone on and not have to move. I learned that one a long time ago when I was a live now and pay later kind of gal. I was immature and irresponsible and always running one step ahead of trouble. It's what happens when a child goes out into the adult world without the proper preparation, and I was not prepared. I learned and I eventually figured things out, like sending emails ahead of time and being ready for trouble or putting off buying more stationery when the phone and utilities have to be paid. I've learned a new one, which is not all that new, and that is to put some money aside in savings every week so that when trouble comes, and it always comes, I will be prepared and the phone, utilities, and rent will be covered. It's another one of those no-brainer situations.

Everything happens for a reason, just as in a novel, television show, or movie. If you read and watch carefully, there are signs that what you see is not what is actually going on, that there are clues peppered throughout the book or show or movie that lead to the big ah-ha moment, like last Sunday on Dexter. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Gellar was dead and that Travis was actually doing the work and setting up the tableaus. Yeah, we saw Edward James Olmos doing the work, but it wasn't really him; it was Travis. He had taken on the persona of his mentor and his personality had split. He was still fighting that part of his personality, but one of the first clues should have been a dead giveaway. Dexter found a piece of parchment like Travis uses to restore old manuscripts that was used to repair the angel's wings. Why would Travis repair the wings if Gellar was the one who made them? Bingo! And there were other hints.

Another big surprise shouldn't have been a surprise on The Walking Dead. Shane is a jerk, a big, honking, Neanderthal, gun-toting jerk. He shot Otis and left him for the walkers so he could get away and he nearly killed his best friend and partner, Rick, when he rejoined them up in the mountains outside of Atlanta, so it should not have been a surprise that he would've have taken control of Herschel's farm with a gun in his hand. It's why Dale was going to sink the guns so that Shane would not have the firepower to do what he did at the barn. Dale was right when he said Shane was made for the world of the walkers. He's a violent man with no conscience, a law unto himself, and the zombie apocalypse freed him to be all he was and was meant to be. Dale should have killed Shane when he had the chance.

That's the thing about life and creative works. Even though it is said that what happens in real life would not fly in a novel, it's not true. It would fly because it does fly. Novels are the mirror image of life, pared down to the essence of things, but a clean and shiny mirror that shows everything, good and bad. You just have to know where to look.

Unless you had the key, what you see in da Vinci's Last Supper or one of Ellis Peter's Cadfael mysteries is all a mystery. Look closer. All the clues and the evidence is there, just as in life. Set aside the emotions and outrage and look with clear eyes and a clear mind; you will see that it all tracks back to choices.

Why me?

Why Humpty Dumpty?

Isn't it clearer now?

The Real Meaning of Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T10:01:00.001-07:00

We tend to forget what Thanksgiving is in celebration of. It's not about the food, although there was food at the first Thanksgiving, and more about giving thanks after a brutal period of time when there was little food and people died from privation, cold, heat, and disease. Many of the plants and seeds they brought with them wouldn't grow in the soil and their stores quickly dwindled. They were unfamiliar with the land, with the food growing all around them, and with the diseases and pests that took them down one by one. If it had not been for the natives, the Pilgrims would have died altogether, or disappeared like they did at Roanoke not many years before. When the second year came, the natives had taught them how to grow and harvest the new crops and how to survive.

That first thanksgiving dinner when the pilgrims thanked the natives and their god for bringing them through the year wasn't lavish by our standards. Game was plentiful and there was fish in the sea, but much of what was harvested had to be prepared and stored for the long winter months, and yet enough of it was left for them to share with the natives who made living in this land possible. It wasn't the food; it was the the chance to celebrate a good harvest and good friends.

Thanksgiving is a time to harvest the crops and celebrate the trials and tribulations and the triumphs of the year. I've a lot to celebrate.

This year I went independent and published a novel in print and ebook form. Sales have been iffy, but it's selling and I'm proud to have written the book, although there are still some problems with formatting and conversions I need to deal with.

I also lost a job that has caused me no end of heartache and frustration, a job I have worked for 6-1/2 years. While it seems like a mark in the negative column, it's really a blessing because I no longer have to be raped and pillaged by that company ever again. It also gave me a chance to find a better job, and that I did 2 weeks later, except that led to problems of its own. I had to wait a month to be paid, so that was 6 weeks without a paycheck and my previous employer made sure I didn't get unemployment. I fought her on that and the results of that fight are not in.

I finally got paid, which was enough to catch up the bills, but not buy the turkey dinner I was dreaming of for Thanksgiving, and I have to work the holiday since hospitals don't close and I don't have enough time saved (I actually get to see how much now) and didn't have 30 days to let them know I'd be taking the holiday. On the up side of that, I get paid time and a half for my time, and that is going to look good come the yule season since that's when I'll savor the fruits of this particular harvest. Pay is always 2 weeks behind the earning. My next check will be a tidy sum and I will be able to do something good with the money, like buy my granddaughter Savannah a birthday gift and that turkey dinner I was hankering for. I'll have a frozen Marie Callender turkey dinner for today, suitable thawed and nuked, but it will be alone at my desk in the chair that makes working a whole new level of ache.

I still have the new job to be thankful for and being back to regular paychecks with a place to view my earned vacation time and the occasional bonus for holidays. I get another benefit this year since Christmas and New Years are both on my days off and I will get paid and be able to enjoy the fruits of my labors and the changes in my life with a little peace, holiday music, and that turkey (or goose or ham) I've been waiting for.

All in all, this has been an interesting year with lots of changes and more changes to come in the new year. There will be tough times and times of joy, but mostly days I will have to get through one way or another. It hasn't been all good this year, but it hasn't been all bad either. I have friends. I have work. I have paychecks. I have lots to be thankful for, and that's what this holiday is all about -- the thanks. I give thanks for it all and for the chance to sit here and write my thanks for all the people who have made my life a little bit more interesting, a little bit tougher, and a whole lot richer.

Happy Thanksgiving.

That is all. Disperse.

'Mike & Molly,' Season 2, Ep. 8

2011-11-16T10:23:00.000-07:00

What's worse than Peggy Biggs showing up unannounced at Molly's house bearing gifts? Showing up at school behind the lunch counter and in Molly's classroom bearing brownies -- and gossip.

'Mike & Molly,' Season 2, Ep. 8

Veiled Racism

2011-11-15T08:51:00.001-07:00

We didn't think of Veronica or Dora as anything more than people who worked for us, at least my parents didn't. My father admired Dora's dark beauty and graceful movements and he liked Veronica's easy manner and the way she fitted into our family as though knit there by design, a dark bright thread running through the fabric of our lives. To me, Veronica was someone I could talk to and Dora a young woman who understood what it was like to be nine going on twenty-five. Veronica was kind and warm and welcoming and Dora was understanding and showed me a respect I never got from my mother. These two women were a fixture in our lives and it seemed as though they were as much a member of the family as my brother and sister or my parents, and yet they weren't. Dora and Veronica were our maids in a place where servants were cheap and the need not at all visible.

We lived in a two-bedroom apartment that was small by today's standards. My parents had a smaller room with a bathroom separated from the larger bedroom by a curtain. The kitchen was a corridor between the bedrooms and the living and dining rooms where plastic strips hung from the door frames to keep the air conditioned air in the bedrooms and front rooms. Another bathroom was off the dining room and that's the bathroom we children and the maids used. Mom and Dad's bathroom was separate and theirs alone.

Into this small living space came Veronica first to clean and do the laundry. Dora came later when Veronica was off having another baby. I cannot remember a time when Veronica wasn't pregnant, her belly round and bulging with life. She was the quintessential earth mother and spent her time producing children, although not while she was working. I don't remember ever seeing more than a glimpse of her husband, a dark sliver of a man so incongruous beside the Amazonian proportions of his wife. I didn't know the names of Veronica's children either. They were a cluster of dark faces with wide and round eyes peering around their mother's ample hips when Dad took me to visit her after she had one of her babies. She cradled the gurgling child in her arms, a swarm of hands clutching her brightly colored skirts. Dora is easier to remember because she stayed with us on Friday nights while our parents went to the NCO club to play bingo, drink, and dance.

I have thought often of those times, but it wasn't until I was reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett that I began to wonder about Veronica and Dora and what their situation was like from their perspective.

I do know neither were mistreated, but as I look back now I see a certain reserve from my mother in her interactions with both women and a pulsating green jealousy where Dora was concerned that no doubt came from a glimpse I had of Dora dancing with Dad and Mr. Kennon from upstairs in what can only be described as intimate. I learned later Dora was teaching them the dirty dog. What I remember most is the look of barely suppressed fury on my mother's face, her lips a tight red line of disapproval and disgust I had often seen when she looked at my hands each night when she painted my nails with Tabasco sauce to keep me from biting them. It was the same look she gave me when I came home from playing with my friends in the jungle that made me bow my head and grip the sides of my shorts or skirts with sweaty hands. I could never mistake that look or the thrashing that followed for not acting like a lady. Mom obviously wanted to thrash Dora but she must not have because Dora continued smiling while she worked and humming some song that made the work go quicker. She told me music made everything easier. I always wished I could find a song to hum that would make dealing with Mom easier. I still haven't found it.

There were little things that made the separation between them (Veronica and Dora) and us more apparent, like when Mom made me put on a dress and my best black patent leather shoes to go with her to the dressmakers down in Colon. I didn't see why I had to go; Dora was riding to town with her. That should have been enough, but it wasn't. I had to go as a buffer between Mom and Dora, but mostly so Dora wouldn't be riding in the front seat with Mom. She was the help not a friend and Mom would not pretend she was anything more than a servant.

There were other subtle things I missed as a child that are all too clear to me now, especially given the numerous arguments Mom and I have had over the years about racism and bigotry. It is a demarcation that children don't understand, or at least I didn't see growing up. Dora and Veronica were friends. They were women who cared for me and my siblings, women who kept our home neat and clean, washed our clothes, and were there to comfort me when I needed someone to hold me or listen to my troubles. How silly I must have seemed with my petty feuds with the neighborhood children or my anguish over being denied some pleasure when I sniffled against their shoulders or was comforted when they put their arms around me, and yet they gave me comfort and love and let me give them teary kisses when we were sent back to the States.

Reading The Help, I know they loved me as they loved all the children they tended, and I am honored to have known them. It was their generosity and kindness that shaped me and not the heavily veiled bigotry I could've learned.

I imagine Veronica surrounded by her own children and her grandchildren and great grandchildren, still the earth mother, and Dora with a small family of her own and a husband who blesses the day she came into his life, as I bless the day both women came into mine.

What About Love?

2011-11-10T06:35:00.001-07:00

The writer's block question this morning was about crying. As I went through all the reasons I cry -- or have cried -- I came to the one where someone I loved so much could still hurt me. I mean the man in my life.

As I wrote, I realized that there is a point beyond which there are no more tears, no more recriminations, no more drama. It's the point where someone has hurt me so many times they have exhausted every vestige of emotion from me and left me untouchable. You don't want to get to that point with someone because no matter what else happens, the relationship is dead.

When you can no longer be irked, frustrated, furious, loving, caring, and every color and emotion in between, there is nothing left. That's where I found myself with the man in my life. After years of tears and pain and frustration and anger, I had nothing left to give. That does not mean there is a limit to love, but there is a limit to how much someone can hurt you. It's like torture. At some point, the body shuts off all conduits to pain and you drift in that limbo between life and death until the torture is gone and there is enough of you to heal, or you die. That's what happens with relationships, especially when there is all pain on one side and all sadistic torture from the other side. Torture ceases to be effective and there hasn't been enough love and caring to balance out the pain.

On one hand, that's a good thing because it means the pain is finite and there will be a way out. On the other hand, it means the relationship is doomed to fail because neither party is paying attention to what's happening. The torturer cannot see that his actions are less effective and the tortured cannot see that there is an easier way to end the pain -- walk away. Getting to the point where the tortured no longer cares enough to cry or feels enough to be angry and hurt is not a good thing. Something inside the tortured dies a little more every day with every strike of the torturer's tools and it's difficult, if not downright impossible, to get it back. Unlike calluses that will eventually soften when the need for the callus is gone, emotions and love take a lot longer to heal, and sometimes never do. It takes love and patience -- a whole lot of love -- to regenerate love and caring.

I see it as adopting or taking in an abused animal or person. Every time you raise your hand for the most innocuous reasons, the animal and the person cringe away just as they would if they had been raped and tortured, which is usually the case. It's not often that an animal is raped, but you get the point.

Let's take rape as an example. A woman -- or man -- has been brutally raped. How close will they let a rapist of the same gender get to them in the days, weeks, and often months after the rape without cringing, crying out in terror, or even lashing out? Different for each person, but I'd say the personal bubble just expanded by magnitudes of distance.

In a very real sense, anyone who has been through an abusive relationship (and, yes, a relationship fraught with drama and pain is abusive) has been emotionally raped. Every time the abusive partner breaks away, for whatever reason, and makes his partner cry or leaves them in pain without communication, their actions constitute a rape of the soul. And the soul develops a callus that grows thicker with every infliction of pain, every silence, every excuse until all that is left is . . . nothing. It's the nothing of limbo where pain no longer has an effect, positive or negative, and the love and caring and softer emotions are gone.

That is what happened to me. Let me clarify that. That is what I allowed to happen to me. After years of moments together that add up to less than a month of continuous contact over nearly a decade, I had reached the point where he couldn't hurt me any more and I just wanted him to be gone. I no longer thought about him or wondered why he didn't call, email, write, or show up. I no longer cared if I ever saw him again. I was done. I wanted nothing more to do with him. I had given everything I had and got very little in return.

My family wonder why I don't date and don't care about finding a man. I've been hurt too many times, and this last time was the worst. I am no longer willing to live on promises and accept excuses for negligent behavior. My world is small, but I know everything in it and there is nothing here to hurt me or cause me anguish. There are no wounds to lick, only psychic scars that need time to heal, and I don't think they will heal any time soon. The longer I live, the more I realize that love does not come to us all, and that is all right. I've known love -- of a sort -- and I've known passion. When you get right down to it, that's all we get -- moments. The rest is slogging through the days and nights working, reading, writing, spending time with friends and relatives, and just living. At least I have a lot to write about and a lot of material to use in books and stories and in blog posts. I've lived.

Now, it is time to write.

That is all. Disperse.

'Mike & Molly' Recap: Season 2, Ep. 7

2011-11-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

Carl needs to stop shaking the whore tree hoping for an angel to fall. Of course the stripper glitter in his teeth is scaring them away.

'Mike & Molly' Recap: Season 2, Ep. 7

Readers Enough For All

2011-11-07T09:15:00.004-07:00

There's a writer of my acquaintance who has been touting her traditionally published new book for what seems like forever. She's done this before and now she wants to know if she should self-publish or stick with the traditional publisher, who has purportedly announced the book is not coming out this year, but next year. After having been through this with her several times before in the decade plus that I've known her, I can't say I'm surprised. She has wanted to be published forever and that's not to say she isn't a good writer. She's good in her genre. I just can't get behind this constant push and pull and maybe and maybe not story behind her books. This is the third or fourth one that has been coming out for so long it's almost a joke.

I remember the days when she was telling me how getting published in anthologies, and I've been published in a lot of anthologies over the past four years, was not really being a writer. I don't know why. I got paid and there are books containing my stories. Some of the anthologies carry two of my stories in the same issue, and I've been published and self-published in 18 books in the past four years. I think that's pretty good. She was over the moon when one of her stories was published in an anthology and she was paid 1/4 cent for her contribution, most of which she spent on a case or two of copies to give and sell to her friends and fans. I think she still has a case and a half.

One thing I don't understand is the need to denigrate another writer to make yourself feel better or more professional. It's less professional and petty. I am glad for her successes and, while it's not obvious by this post, I do hope her book is published soon. There is no greater thrill than seeing one's work on a bookshelf, virtual or otherwise, and know that all the hard work, sweat, blood, and tears (always a lot of tears) paid off.

Writing isn't, or at least I don't think it should be, a competitive sport. We are all writers together. We may not write the same things or appeal to the same audiences, but with nearly 7 billion people on the planet, there's room for all of us, and buyers and readers for all of us, too, even if only a handful ever know you existed. There are more people born every day and that means more people who will grow up and may choose to read your book or mine. It's not a competition -- except when it is -- and it's not worth keeping score. It is, however, worth making sales, and I hope your sales and mine are always the best.

The Dungeon of my Black Despair

2011-11-03T10:13:00.003-06:00

What is it about Bach and organ music that makes it seems like Halloween? Or is it the tonal shadings and the image of Lon Chaney as The Phantom of the Opera? I don't know, but I bought an album with over 50 Halloween sounding classical pieces, and most of them are written for the organ.

When I think of organ music I think of Bach and church and the holidays, not necessarily Halloween, ghosts, goblins, and darkness. I must be wrong. Okay, I could be wrong.

As I listen to the fugues, cantatas, tocattas, elegies, and requiem masses, I feel a definite stirring of the sublimely dark and other worldly that is just perfect for invoking the spirit of a muse to help me finish my Victorian morality and murder tale. That was the whole point of buying the album, to play while summoning the muse, an invocation to the creative spirit to help me be inspired and creative. The only reason I chose music was because I was asked during an interview what music I listen to while writing. None?!

I decided to shake up the ant farm and give it a whirl, especially since until now I used music to inspire me to clean, making of the chore a dance, a performance. I danced and sang and the house got cleaner. It's an idiosyncrasy, but it works.

So far, except for Night on Bald Mountain, I don't really feel the whole Halloween spirit. Maybe I need to listen to more -- and I will. I think In the Hall of the Mountain King from Peer Gynt is among the selections and that is appropriately spooky, as are The Mephisto Waltz and the Ride of the Valkyrie. I'm less sure about Carnival of the Animals and a selection from Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues and Capulets fight. The fight would be rather more exciting and not exactly reminiscent of death and ghosts and goblins and all things that go bump in the night behind children's closet doors or under their beds. Then again, I'm not trying to scare children but journey to the heart of darkness that spawned a serial killer, a man who butchered women, to discover why and what led him to that pass, and why he spurned love and passion and happiness for the pit of hell where his soul becomes trapped. All I'm getting is Lon Chaney at the organ in Phantom of the Opera and church, neither of which really answer my need. I can see I'll have to pare down the list.

In the meantime, I am transported on the rills and white water of classical organ music between the banks of fantasy and darkness and wondering where the journey will lead.

Did I ever mention I once lived next door to Lon Chaney's old house?

Dealing with Mom

2011-10-31T23:18:00.002-06:00

My mother is 81 years old and not in great condition. To hear her, she is as good as when she was 30 or even 25, just not able to do as much housework, and this from a woman who has two leaky valves in her heart (tricuspid and mitral), one remaining kidney full of tumors and hemangiomata (blood tumors), liver riddled with hemangiomata (more blood tumors), reflux, a hiatal hernia (hole in esophagus), needs frequent blood transfusions (don't know where the blood is going -- probably to the expanding hemangiomata), iron infusions, monthly B12 shots (her body no longer makes its own B12), protein-calorie malnutrition (body does not absorb nutrients or vitamins), a raging sweet tooth and she eats constantly, weighing in at 105 pounds (usually less), wrecked intestinal tract from decades of laxative abuse with resultant constipation and need for disimpaction (don't ask), truncated small bowel (15 inches because of strictures and adhesions from previous surgeries), incompetent bladder, and I could go on with hypertension, arrhythmias and more. Yeah, she's in great condition.

The above litany of problems means she is as healthy as a horse -- that has needs to be put out to pasture -- and then there are the balance problems and constant falling, one time taking a close-up look at a sidewalk from a prone position resulting in enough bruises to qualify her for going one-on-one with Muhammad Ali in his prime and then letting George Foreman use her face as a punching bag. She also has TIAs (transient ischemic attacks that leave her cold and barely consciously of her surroundings or actions for longer and longer periods of time) and vomits for days at a time.

I had THE TALK with her this evening after she got home from a 5-day stay in the hospital about her options. None of my siblings is willing to discuss this, although they have talked about it among themselves. I wasn't included. I live in Colorado and nothing I say is germane to the issue since they live in Ohio and are dealing with the issues, except they are not dealing.

I told my mother that she has three options: a daily caregiver while Hoity-Toity is at work, adult day care while she is at work, or an assisted living facility. You can imagine her response. She is great. (She just had an iron infusion and a blood transfusion today, the vampire after a feeding all full of blood and warmth. How long will that last?) She doesn't need any help. She said that after she picked herself up from yet another fall. I told her having two canes, a motorized wheelchair, and a walker do no good if you don't use them.

She is adamant about not needing help and she isn't going to pay for it either. She doesn't want to waste her money, and yet she will waste money on jewelry she carries around in Ziploc bags and seldom wears. She's failing. She's 81 years old. She is no longer the best judge of her own situation or her needs.

"I'm healthy. Nothing wrong with me," she said. "No one can believe I'm 81."

No, I think. That's because they're sure you're 101 or even 120.

I broached the subject of going to court to have a guardian appointed, probably Hoity-Toity or The Mushroom, to make these decisions for her and her response was a threat to commit passive suicide by no longer eating or drinking. I don't take that seriously. She'd never give up the bags of peppermint patties she goes through every day or the Bit-o-Honey, Tootsie pops, or circus peanuts she devoured by the bagful. Besides, we'd just wait for her to pass out from her sugar coma and take care of business.

It's difficult dealing with an intransigent parent bent on destruction and unmindful of her own safety and needs. She still thinks she is able to make these decisions and I can see that is not the case. I know she's terrified of being bed-bound and left to die in a nursing home like she did with her mother, not that there was much choice since repeated strokes had destroyed half of Gram's brain and she was a vegetable -- a vegetable in pain with no access to speech or language or reasoning functions in her brain. Mom kept her in the nursing home so she would get the care she needed and kept her alive by begging Gram not to leave her alone. Mom doesn't believe in karma, but I can see that she knows a great big old free-for-all is coming and she doesn't want to face the music.

I understand my mother's need to direct her own care and her own fate. I also understand that she can no longer do so with any reliability and needs someone to take care of her or to be taken care of during the day. Hoity-Toity's house is out in the country far from the city. It's picturesque with its surrounding farm land and semi-built-up housing development, but it's still the country. There are no services that far out of town. As lovely as it is, it's not longer safe for Mom to be there along for 10-12 hours a day, not with her falling and the TIAs.

My siblings are not willing to make the hard decisions, which is why I had THE TALK with Mom tonight. She needs to be aware of what is coming, and so do my siblings. They're going to have to put on their big kid panties and deal with this. They can no longer wait until some day. That day is now.

It's never easy telling Mom anything and even less so now that I have to hit her with the bad news. She's not safe. She says she has her cell phone, but cannot grasp the reality that if she is hurt and not able to reach her cell phone, she could die or be hurt badly and no one would know until Hoity-Toity made it home.

I don't relish this moment. I know that in not too many years it will be my turn to face these realities and I hope someone love me enough to make the hard decisions. Someone has to.

The Price of a Life | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2011-10-31T00:31:00.000-06:00

The Price of a Life | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind

2011-10-29T11:19:00.003-06:00

Have you ever avoided places online where you might have to write? I've been there -- and am still there often enough to know how it feels. It isn't as though I have nothing to say. I have lots to say -- and write -- but, for some reason, getting lost in the words is not where I feel I can go right now, not with a new job I'm learning and a new scheduled I'm doing my best to get used to. My haven -- writing -- seems unattainable right now because I'm afraid of getting lost in the words and lose all sense of time (the way I usually do) and miss clocking in for work. That's the new way of keeping track of transcriptionists working remotely, a website to clock in and out of work. Being late is not something I am every comfortable with, not with memories of sitting in the girl's bathroom in a stall with my feet up on the door so no one will know I was late for Sunday school again

I hate being late. Comes from having a mother who was never on time for anything and will doubtless be late to her funeral. I know that is possible because my ex-husband's mother was late to her own funeral due to some mechanical failure on her coffin cart. I wrote about it once and it ended up in a Chicken Soup anthology. I've no doubt my trials and tribulations -- of the minor sort right now -- will also end up in an anthology or provide the seed that will grow into a book or screenplay. Anything is possible when a writer is involved, and everything is food for the writing mill.

Not only am I worried about clocking in late, but I'm also on my toes because my ex-boss is still trying to suck the last vestige of life, soul, and money out of me. A call from the unemployment insurance rep here in Colorado earlier this week was because she was doing her best to deny my claim. I don't need much, just the monies that are due me for the weeks I was off work before I started the new job, from which I will not be paid until the end of November. The new job pays twice a month, the 4th and the 20th, and they hold back the first pay. Lovely.

I didn't figure that into my budget because I counted on unemployment, for which I have duly filed, and yet the ex-boss is still hot to save a little money by taking it from me, as she took it from me for the past 4 years. The story is too long and sad and, yes, I stuck it out because I had so much time in and didn't want to lose what I had gained. The problem with that is that I gained nothing except lost time in servitude to a greedy and vindictive employer who is still hell bent on keeping me broke. It's why she kept hounding me for the past 2 years to resign -- so she wouldn't have to pay unemployment.

Do you really see how I could be a little gun shy and wary of clocking in late on a new job with such history behind me? I feel like someone who has been in an abusive relationship for years, finally got free, and is wary of anyone who wants to begin a new relationship. It's called baggage, and I have my fair share of it.

And yet here I sit writing when I know that if I keep going -- and I can keep on going for hours, maybe days -- I will miss clocking in on time. The clock is ticking and I'm already getting sweaty and nauseous at the thought, still the little girl sitting in the bathroom stall with my feet on the door waiting to hear the sound of Sunday school over so I can slip quietly -- and early -- into church for services so no one will notice me.

Funny how time does that, pass and still not pass. I'm 56 years old and yet I'm still 11 years old and late for Sunday school sitting in the girl's restroom with my feet up, worried someone will come in and find me. The only good part of that scenario is hearing all the things that other people hide when they're avoiding being seen.

The Cure for Lack of Inspiration

2011-10-25T06:41:00.000-06:00

There are often times when there is nothing to write about and the thought of putting down nothing or some nonsensical stream of consciousness doesn't sit right with the writer, and so they don't write, waiting for inspiration to strike or a job to come along that will foce them to write. What they should have done was just write. A writer's slogan should be the same as Nike's: Just Do It.

Inspiration may not strike. The muse must be coaxed and cajoled, forced out of hiding by the sheer weight of what may seem like nonsensical verbiage, like this. I have nothing, except for two novels to finish and a deadline on a recap of Mike & Molly, a Monday night television show I agreed to write about for The Celebrity Cafe. It's nothing special, just a retelling in words of what is seen on the screen, a sort of reverse engineering of a television show that began as words before it was filmed and is now to be rendered back into words. All writing begins with -- words. Not brain surgery that, just words and more words.

One way to Just Do It is to join NaNoWriMo and begin the quest for words that make sense, even if it means writing words that don't make sense to arrive at the end of the month with 50,000 words and a novel, a rough beginning of a novel most of the time, but a novel all the same. I've used NaNo a few times in the past to work through writer's block, writer's stasis, and writer's fear of writing stupid and it has worked. I've retooled one novel that became a sort-of romance, Past Imperfect, and worked through a few other novels that didn't quite work and need much more work to be novels, and will work through my writing balking on two more novels -- or at least one of them. I need to get them back on track and out of my head so I can move on to other works, like the sequel to Among Women, which is Among Men. (Seemed like a fitting title to the sequel to Pearl Caldwell's wrongful incarceration and journey of the soul.)

In the end, when writing isn't coming and the muse stubbornly refuses to answer the call to inspire, NaNoWriMo is a good way to put things back on track and write. Deadlines are good, and not just when they go whizzing past.

Saturday coming down -- with something

2011-10-15T13:54:00.001-06:00

It is Saturday, which is unnoticeable from any other day of the week, except that the post office is closed earlier today and there will be no mail pickup or delivery tomorrow. I have often thought the post office should work seven days a week during the holidays to keep from falling further behind in delivering the mail. Letters and cards I mailed earlier this week have not shown up at their destination, at least as far as Ohio is concerned. What once took two days now take 3-5 days. This is unacceptable and, if having Sundays off and working a half-day on Saturdays is the reason, they need to work a full seven days during the holidays.

I've a pile of letters and cards to be mailed. T'is the season -- Halloween of course. Did you think I meant Sukkot? No, I'm not Jewish. I call Halloween Samhain (Sow-en), but am not averse to calling it what most people use to refer to that end of the harvest time when the walls between the living and the dead is thinnest. Okay, that might be a little long to put on holiday cards. They would have to be bigger, which would be good for the card companies so they could charge more and for the post office so they could charge more, but not feasible. Most people barely get through the usual simple greetings: Happy (insert holiday) and many more. They don't even add the last line or your name. They are just so cheap, except where I get my cards.

When I look at cards in the store and see anything priced over $1.99 (usually $0.99), I put the card back as being too much to spend on a simple greeting or remembrance. I don't feel that way when I look at cards on Papyrus. I don't even look at the cost, except when there's a sale and there's a card or box of stationery I want. Their cards are lovely -- as some of you can attest -- and are worth the money, even with extra postage. I have become a connoisseur of greeting and correspondence cards and my only regret, now that I'm temporarily unemployed, is that I cannot afford to buy more. I'm running low on correspondence cards and will soon have to restock. The box under my desk is getting emptier.

This week and next are busy weeks. My Uncle Bob's birthday is tomorrow (card and gift already sent), Nonny's birthday is next Saturday (card and gift ready to send), and Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois's anniversary is next Saturday (card ready to send, but no gift). It looks like I'll also be going back to work next week. I start training on Tuesday and will finish out the week on Saturday with a Tuesday-Saturday work week (shorter hours, better pay, and cheaper benefits). I think I need to get back to work to provide some structure to my days. I don't do well without structure. Too much time on my hands is too much time on my hands and nothing gets done. Okay, I did a few loads of laundry and cleared off my desk, took out some trash, heated up some meals, and otherwise lollygagged around reading books and playing games with friends. Sue me. I said I needed structure.

Going back to work might also give me the frustration my muse obviously needs to inspire me to write. She's been elusive this past two weeks and give me nada, zilch, zip, nothing in the way of encouragement, inspiration, or time. She must think this is her vacation, too, except I don't remember firing her when I got fired. Oh, well, maybe she'll return when I am back to being miserable. Anything is possible.

In the meantime, that is all. Disperse.

Literary Therapy

2011-10-14T06:01:00.003-06:00

Today has been an early day of uploading book reviews. I should have done them earlier, but got caught up in all the work drama that now seems to be sliding slowly toward a new path. There are worse ways to spend my life, but making more money with better benefits and a whole lot less stress doesn't seem to be one of them. These are the times I go back to basics, one of those being the comfort of an old friend -- a book.

The book is Andre Norton's Moon of Three Rings about a Free Trader (space faring free trader) on a new world caught up in that world's intrigues who ends up wearing fur for a while. The fur is a barsk, a dangerous and violent animal not easily tamed, dying from abuse. The Moon Singer, Maelen, finds and saves the barsk and ends up putting Krip Vorlund in the barsks body, shoring up both spirits since his body has been beaten. Thus begins an odyssey into the interior of Yiktor among the Thassa and a price that Maelen must pay for her actions.

I read Moon of Three Rings for the first time nearly forty years ago and I find something new every time I read it, picking up little details and bits of writing that I missed the first few times. Each time it's a new book, not because I don't remember the story, but because I am coming to the book a little different, older, hopefully wiser, but most definitely changed by time and experiences. I bring a different me to the book each time, as I do to other books I reread. My experiences change me, but they also change the way I view the world and the world within the books. Good books just get better with time, and I was in need of a good book, although I almost opted for the next Disc World book from Terry Pratchett.

I flirted briefly with another Jasper Fforde, likely The Eyre Affair, the first in the Thursday Next series, but decided a good old book was exactly what I needed.

I often wonder if doctors ever think of library therapy for what ails their patients. It should be a required treatment for depression, ennui, high blood pressure, and stress, among other ailments that have accumulated with our modern age. Sometimes the best treatment is slowing down with a good book, not just any book, but a really good book, a golden oldie if possible. There's something to be said for a trip through the pages of a well loved book where the characters are familiar and the environs comforting. It's the literary version, at least in my opinion, of stopping to smell the roses. A vase of fresh cut roses wouldn't go amiss while sitting down and reading and you'll have time to smell the gentle fragrance while you read. Two birds. One stone.

The world changes so quickly and times begins to feel like it's traveling past at mach speed. The vistas change and so do we, but at the core we are the same people who fell in love with a story or an author as children and need a little reminding. I may even dig up a copy of the very first book I ever owned and read it again, imagining myself lying in the sweet hay on clean sheets in the loft looking up at the stars shining into the attic with Heidi. Or I could journey back in time with John Carter or swing through the jungles with Tarzan or even go on an adventure with Conan the Barbarian.

What I really need is a box full of vintage comic books and a Creamsicle or a bowl of popcorn and a stack of fairy tales or 1001 Arabian Nights. Sometimes the world looks better from a fantastical perspective. Thoreau did say to simplify and fairy tales, comic books, and fantasies are the simplest and best pleasures I know.

Simplify. Find a comfortable spot with good lighting and read a book. You can enjoy your lunch in a comfortable chair as easily as at the table or a counter, but bring a napkin so you don't mess up the book. Don't forget the roses.

Review: The Map of Time

2011-10-14T05:23:00.001-06:00

In Victorian England, for a fee, it is possible to move out of time and space and see the future or the past at Murray’s Time Travel.

Andrew Harrington, a wealthy young man in love with a common Whitechapel prostitute named Mary Kelly, wants to go back in time and stop Jack the Ripper from murdering her. It is either that or suicide.

Claire Haggerty is a victim of the times, an independent woman with a strong mind who feels stifled in Victorian England. She wants to travel to May 20, 2000 to see the last battle between humans and automatons.

Scotland Yard has its own problem. Someone from the future is traveling through time to commit murder in Victorian England.

Connecting all these tales is H. G. Wells and his marvelous time machine for he holds the keys to the future and the past.

Félix J. Palma mixes science, fiction, and fantasy in The Map of Time to mixed effect. Since the book was originally written in Spanish and translated to English, I wonder if the problems are connected to the translations or to Spanish literary conventions. Spanish writers tend to focus on description and Palma spends a great deal of time intruding to explain and pontificate.

In spite of the uneven pacing and authorial intrusion, The Map of Time is very different, at times funny, shocking, inventive, and somewhat mischievous. Palma gives us his versions of H. G. Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jack the Ripper, the Elephant Man, and many other mainstays of the Victorian age and integrates them rather well. The three connected stories have their own eccentricities, told in three sections of the book, but do offer a fascinating look at what might have been.

The Map of Time reminded me of Time after Time when H.G. Wells travels to the future to track down Jack the Ripper only by using Wells to power the story. Palma does give Wells and the other characters their due, imbuing them with a new reality and a bit of fantasy. The tale slows in several places but The Map of Time is an admirable rendering of the times and the literary and historical characters he uses to wonderful effect. Prepare to be entertained and amazed.

Review: Killer Move

2011-10-14T05:22:00.003-06:00

What do a recently paroled murderer and a successful real estate agent in Florida have in common? They have been modified.

Bill Moore is an enterprising person and he wants success in a big way. He has a lucrative job, a beautiful wife, and everything going for him until he gets a message. Modified. Everything changes and Bill’s life unravels around him.

John Hunter was just paroled. Once he leaves the prison, he sets out to break all the terms of his parole to prove he was convicted unjustly. What he finds is that he and Bill Moore are nothing but pawns to a group of men out to destroy their lives--because they can.

Michael Marshall is known for his thrillers, and Killer Move is my introduction to his work. Marshall begins on a slow arc, building the suspense and then unleashing a psychodrama that builds speed and a bit of paranoia in the characters and this reviewer. Told from two different points of view, Marshall piles on the tension.

There are a few soft spots in an otherwise taut thriller and the characters are flat, except for Bill and John Hunter, both of whom are fully fleshed. There are moments when it seems Marshall will be unable to tie all the loose ends together, and some are a bit slapdash, but overall Killer Move is a good example of life turned on its head at full throttle, the kind of novel that will have you racing to change your computer passwords.

Review: The Last Letter From Your Lover | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2011-10-14T05:22:00.001-06:00

Jennifer Stirling wakes up in hospital and does not remember who she is—or was—and has trouble connecting to the people in her life. Most of all, she has trouble connecting with her husband Larry. He is solicitous and does not press her, and the doctor tells her not to dwell on things and just live, but nothing feels right. Jennifer does not fit her skin any more and she is not sure whether it is because of the accident or if her body and soul are showing her what her foggy mind cannot.

When she comes across the first letter, she begins to see her feelings are not far wrong and there is, and was, something wrong with her marriage, so wrong she had an affair. She does not remember who the man is, but she is determined to find out.

Forty years later, Ellie Harworth is flailing when she comes across a love letter. She thinks the letter will rejuvenate her career and give her answers to her own relationship. The letters connect both women and Ellie wants to find out what happened to the couple.

In what purports to be a double love story, Jojo Moyes vacillates between Jennifer’s past and present lives as she struggles to find where she fits in. I could not figure out whether Jennifer was remembering the past or Moyes was offering glimpses of the past to move the story forward and create tension and depth for Jennifer and her lost lover, Boot, in The Last Letter from your Lover. I enjoyed both stories and the budding romance, but felt that a chronological tale would have benefited the story and the characters.

Jennifer is fragile and confused and it was easy to warm up to her as her life falls apart and she struggles with where she belongs, especially when Larry tells her that her love is dead, killed in the accident that sent her to the hospital. His bitterness is understandable to a point, but Larry is no saint and not much of a husband. He has money, but little compassion and fewer reasons to be bitter.

Ellie is not as easy to understand or to like. She is all about the job and her drive, while commendable, is more a vehicle to bring Jennifer and Boot’s story full circle.

I enjoyed The Last Letter from your Lover but with reservations. The writing is wonderful when Moyes focuses on the story, but the plot devices and time switches tend to be distracting and less effective. Moyes, however, has penned a substantial romance with all the right tropes, and one that is memorably poignant.

Review: The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman

2011-10-13T16:08:00.006-06:00

Jerzy, Mahault, Ao, and Käinam return to The Berengia in their ship after battling the Washers and Ximen. Ao needs more assistance than Jerzy can give on shipboard and Jerzy needs to return to the vineyard. There Jerzy is stronger and he will confront Ximen on his own turf.

The Washers and the Land-Lord Ranulf, all of whom want Jerzy to combine forces with them, note Jerzy and his friends returning. Jerzy may be Apostate, but he thinks he knows how to stop the darkness that reaches up from the Root to shadow all the land. On the Vineart’s soil is where the friends will make their last stand against all the forces against them.

Laura Anne Gilman ends the Vineart War trilogy with The Shattered Vine, bringing all the enemies and friends together for a last stand that ends as it began with Jerzy at the vanguard. The Shattered Vine takes off on a slow rising arc. It was a bit difficult to find my bearings in the beginning, a problem that could have been improved by rereading The Weight of Stone or even going back to the beginning and reading all three books together, from Flesh and Fire through to The Shattered Vine.

Once the tale began to move forward it moved quickly to the end of the tale, leaving enough room for more stories from other viewpoints. Gilman has ended the trilogy with a subtle power that leaves questions about the nature of religion and magic and the truth of Zatim Sin Washer and what really happened to create the Lands Vin and the legacy that comes full circle with Jerzy. Each of the friends—Mahault, Käinam, and Ao—as well as Lil and Detta and Washer Brion, become fuller and more complex as the final confrontation nears, giving depth and complexity to Gilman’s trilogy and showcasing her writing and world building skills. There is so much more that could be written about the Lands Vin and the Exiles and I hope Gilman will eventually take that task in hand.

The Shattered Vine is intelligent and complex and satisfying. I am glad I had the chance to follow Jerzy’s education and his journey and sad that the tale is ended. Aside from a few minor pacing issues, the Vineart War trilogy is a rewarding and rich experience of high fantasy. This book -- and indeed the trilogy -- is worth keeping.

Simon & Schuster did send me a copy of this book in order to read and review it. It goes well with the previous two books, which I also read and reviewed for Authorlink. The free copy in no way affected the outcome of my review, however, Laura Anne Gilman's writing did.

Wanted: Mail carrier | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2011-10-12T08:47:00.000-06:00

It's no wonder the post office is going broke. I imagine it's because they're paying on a lot of insurance policies from mail carriers being murdered by the people who are supposed to get their mail and don't, or have to use the jaws of life to get their mail out of the box. Whoever decided that bigger was better with reference to mailboxes was an idiot.

For the past two years I have had a running battle with the post office about mail carriers shoving, stuffing, wedging, and otherwise bulldozing packages into my mail box, the one that's half a block away down at the street. I've spent hours over the past two years working wedged packages and crumped, chewed up, and otherwise mangled mail out of the box cursing the mail carrier of the week and vowing revenge. Instead, I call the mail carrier office and ask them again not to put packages in the mailbox, but they persist. I suppose the turnover is too high and the quality of education of the new hires too low to understand that simple request.

I suppose I should be thankful they even deliver the mail, since several times over the past two years they have left a notice saying my box was too full and please arrange to pick up the mail at the post office or request redelivery. I requested redelivery yesterday and was asked if I'd be home. Of course, I am home. I live and work here and am currently not working at all, thank you very much. The supervisor told me they would redeliver my mail that day. They didn't.

In my empty mailbox was a catalog I didn't order along with a notice neatly printed. "Your mailbox is full again. Please go to the post office tomorrow to pick up your mail." In the empty mailbox where I put several letters going, which had been taken, my mailbox was full. Again. And she left a note after I had called and requested my mail be redelivered yesterday. To my house. Where I was at home. Right.

Now I have to go to the post office and pick up my mail If there was another way to get my mail and packages I would. It seems the post office hires people physically unable to walk half a block up to the house and deposit the packages on the doorstep where the mailbox should be. They are physically able to write a note and leave in the mailbox so I can go to the post office to pick up my mail. I'm half tempted to get a mailbox at the post office so I can pick my mail up directly instead of dealing with these idiots, and it also keeps me out of prison for torture, dismemberment, and murder of the constantly changing kaleidoscope of people who play post office with my mail six days a week. I almost wish Clyde has stuck around a little longer, but he got a better route again.

Clyde is the mail carrier who demanded to see my ID when I happened to be on the porch and asked him to give me my mail. Clyde refused to give me the mail until I had gone upstairs and brought the ID back down for him to check. He'd been leaving mail for me in the box or on the bench on the porch for months without asking to see my ID, but he would not hand me my mail without ID. I also had to write, date, and sign a letter that stated he could leave packages and bulky items on the porch when they wouldn't fit in the mailbox. He also had a penchant for leaving notices to pick up mail at the post office, and he threatened to force the landlady to get a bigger mailbox and put it on the street so he didn't have to walk 20 yards up to the porch, climb the stairs, and put notices in my mailbox.

One of my cousins was a mail carrier and he never behaved that way, but he was a decent guy not living by a rule book and growing a beard every winter so he could deliver mail as Santa Claus. He died a few months ago and so did the last mail carrier who understood the meaning of customer service. No wonder the post office is in financial trouble. They're probably paying death benefits on most of the rude, impersonal, and downright stupid mail carriers.

I imagine that people would be lined up around the block waiting to be hired for the post office, but maybe not since the life span is so simple. Then again, what's a little population control by death in the line of duty while delivering -- or in my case, not delivering -- the mail? Talk about your hostile work environment and that's just from the people like me who have trouble not getting their mail.

Woman Bites Dog | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2011-10-11T07:30:00.000-06:00

Woman Bites Dog | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

That Dry Feeling on the Highway to Hell

2011-10-10T08:39:00.004-06:00

I wouldn't have thought that a fizzy drink that is supposed to make my muscles strong and work better could affect my sinuses, but it does. Or rather, the lack of the fizzy drink has affected my sinuses.

The back of my throat has that dry feel that presages a bout of sinus infection, or possibly a cold, but it couldn't be just because I didn't mix up my fizzy vitamin and mineral drink for the past two days. Could it? Maybe it is the reason. Time to stop being lazy and mix up a double dose this morning. If it keeps the germs at bay, I'm all for that. I don't like being ill, except when I need a reason to take a day off work.

I was reading tedwords's post about his in-law and outlaw problems with his son-in-law and it reminds me of a similar situation with my eldest son.

Dred Scotty has been a trial since day one. He preferred strangers to me and spent his formative years lurking about and collecting information to feed to my mother so she'd get angry and slap me in the face. His reasoning was that whatever he did was copacetic because it paid me back for punishing him when he, say, climb out his bedroom window on a phone cord after stealing money from my purse to buy a toy I had forbidden at 6 AM or getting up in the middle of the night to pile chairs on the table after pushing the table closer to the door to the kitchen, which was locked with a hook lock to keep him out of the kitchen and away from the gas stove. He still managed to get the door unlocked until we padlocked it with a key lock. That thwarted his middle of the night and wee hours of the morning rambles and kept him from burning the house down so he went back to sticking wire hangers in the outlets to try to start fires and shock the crap out of his hand. As I said, Dred Scotty was a trial.

He continued to be a trial as he played my mother and I off against each other, working through her to control things because I know how he works, like the time he claimed a teacher had sexually assaulted him when the teacher didn't even know who he was, a fact I became aware of when I stormed into the principal's office to have the teacher fired and brought up on charges. The abuse claim came about because he had given Dred Scotty detention for wandering the halls during classes without a hall pass. Yes, my son, is a devious and manipulative fella at best, and you don't really want to know his worst.

He broken into my apartment twice to steal things to sell because I wouldn't give him any money, the last time stealing my first computer on which was kept (password locked, of course) all of my writing and journals transferred from paper. He didn't know the password and no pawnbroker would touch it, so he tossed it in a dumpster "somewhere." All that work, and a couple of books, gone with the foulest of winds. He stole my tool box and money and the usual things one steals when he's deep into the drugs, even stabbing himself in the leg with a pocket knife to prove that he had been mugged and that's why the radio was missing from my car, which I had loaned him to go out looking for a job. I didn't believe that for a second and he finally admitted to it.

I cut him off financially and seldom heard from him unless he was in dire straits, turning on the tears and that tone in his voice that said he just couldn't take it any more. He should've been an actor. He would have had a couple of Oscars and a few Emmies by now. I was adamant. This ATM was closed for business until he grew up and took responsibility for his own actions, and I was not about to be his ATM as long as he only popped up long enough to get money from me. The ultimatum was simple: Either have a relationship with me or stop asking me for money.

Cut to now.

In January he contacted me by letter and sent me pictures of his children and his wife. He was married again (for the third time) and had a beautiful set of fraternal twins, Connor and Sierra. We wrote. We talked. He didn't ask for money, but then I made a mistake. I sent the twins a really nice gift of clothing for their first birthday. I was happy for my son and not a little surprised when a letter arrived with an installment on some of the money he owed me. Then everything fell apart.

His wife Aldonza, a recovering alcoholic, was drinking again and he was drinking with her to keep her company, and covering up the drinking. He can't drink because it's a direct route to drugs, alcohol being his gateway drug. He had his back surgery and returned to work too soon and ended up with more problems. Aldonza got a job and soon lost it because she was ill, but the truth was she couldn't make it to work because she was drunk on too many occasions. They were in trouble and asking for financial help. I refused to help them out that way, but I did send two cases of diapers for the babies, and I kept sending them every month, something I stopped after Aldonza lost the children when she was found drunk and the kids running around the house dirty and getting into everything. She was charged with reckless endangerment two days after Dred Scotty went into a church rehab program to get sober again, falling off the wagon after four years clean and sober. We don't even want to talk about Aldonza's wagon, and it can't be completely blamed on her mother and father, both of whom are career alcoholics. At least her parents managed to keep their jobs and their children, although they did pass down the alcoholism like a bowl of stuffing or cranberry sauce at the Thanksgiving table.

Aldonza was supposed to go into a 90-day rehab program to get back her children. In the meantime, her stepfather took her car, a car she and Dred Scotty had paid for and on, even though stepdaddy's name was co-signer on the loan, which was not in default, and Aldonza took Dred Scotty's car so she could run the bars at night. She was even caught hanging all over some guy she swears she's not having an affair with and denies that the blatantly sexual text messages and pictures of the fella's not so privates were on her phone (she forgot to delete them when she took Dred Scotty's phone and lent him her phone to call someone). What seemed idyllic and working, with a few minor snags, turned into a full fledged five-car pileup on the highway to Hell.

True to form, Dred Scotty called me for help crying -- that snotty-nosed, hiccuping kind of crying -- that was supposed to soften me up. Some friend of Aldonza's was granted guardianship over the twins and her daughter from a previous liaison was with her mother and stepfather, who just couldn't deal with taking the twins, too. I'd rather mummy and stepdaddy not have the twins and infect them with alcoholism, not that it isn't a possibility if Dred Scotty and Aldonza ever get it together and put their family back together, a possibility that grows dimmer every day since Aldonza moved in with the bar guy that she wasn't having an affair with.

Their lives couldn't be more of a train wreck or highway to Hell pile-up than it is, and my son will be 38 next month. Holy hopping hell toads on crack.

It just doesn't get any better than this, unless you add in my larcenous younger son Ajay and his equally duplicitous wife Jack-em-all, but that's a tale for another time.

Even though I seldom talk about really personal matters, I do have them -- in spades.

That is all. Disperse.

On a More Personal Note

2011-10-10T07:38:00.000-06:00

I tend to play it close to the vest when it comes to my personal business. I don't mean books coming out or other writing related news, but my very personal business, like losing my job a week ago Thursday. I've been hanging on by a thread for about three of the 6-1/2 years I've worked for the company, ever since they dumped a lousy account on me and took away 30-40% of my income, still demanding I maintain quota while taking away 30-40% of the work that I do. It's all about how many pages are typed and when the pages are not properly paginated, as in the account dumped on me, that cuts out a big portion of the money I earn. Two typed pages become one and you begin to see the problem.

I don't like putting my private business out here, not that I don't trust people, but because I don't want pity or people reading just for the thrill factor of someone else who's in trouble. I prefer to look on the positive side, like seven years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer only to find out, after two months of worry and hassle and testing, that I didn't have breast cancer. The doctor's office mixed my file up with someone else's. I never did find out whether or not they caught her in time and saved her life. I was so looking forward to perky breasts with upturned nipples. Oh, well. The same is true of losing my job.

Long story short: I called off work because the rain took out my electricity and phones -- again -- and I wasn't able to finish the day. I had vacation time coming and my boss took that opportunity to email me with a termination notice and demand I send back their equipment overnight at my expense, an expense that cost me $700, a month's rent and the groceries. I had some money saved and looked forward to my last paycheck and clearing out my 401K, but I should have known that would fall prey to the boss's tender mercies as well. It did. After a 20% bite out of my 401K, taxes, and surcharges, and the loss of all my accrued vacation time, I was little better off than when I had a job. Not a problem.

I filed for unemployment and am now waiting out the waiting week, which is government speak for not getting paid for one week. I wanted to take off six months, enjoy the unemployment and the time to read and write (mostly write), and kick back and relax after so many years of work without paid vacation even when I earned vacation time (she didn't pay me for that or compensate me for the vacation time in three other instances). I find that I need to go back to work and work I shall do.

I was offered three jobs (I'm a hot commodity with great skills and a solid background history) and accepted one of them. Now I need to decide when to start back to work, and it's looking like Oct. 25th, just in time for the Nov. 4th paycheck. It will be slim, but it will be a check and I do have other resources, and another job that pays a guaranteed salary each and every month without fail -- until it fails. It has before.

In a way, writing about my little pot hole in the road of life makes me wonder if I should share that information when so many people I know are either on disability or have been out of work so long their unemployment ran out. How can I talk about my little hiccup when so many others are in much more difficult straits? It seems unfair and needlessly cruel.

Suffice it to say, I always land on my feet and, aside from having to start over at a new job, I will get better pay, shorter hours, bigger paychecks, more vacation time, and cheaper benefits (benefits from the old company cost nearly a month's salary each and every month) with disability benefits. Like I said, I usually land on my feet. I do have to buy some equipment and may have to buy a program or two, but they are tax deductible. It's best to get on with the show. I still have two months off from writing book reviews after nearly nine years of nonstop reviewing and that I won't give up and may extend to three months, going back to reviewing at the beginning of the year, the same time I am giving up handling the PPRAA VE team exam sessions (someone finally stepped up to the plate after four years of me doing the job). Life is not all beer and skittles (I hate beer and don't really know what skittles are, except for the candy, and I know that skittles predate the candy), but it's workable.

That is all. Disperse.

Rain, Sinuses, and Stuff

2011-10-04T08:02:00.001-06:00

The breeze through the bedroom window this morning feels like rain, smells like it, too. I haven't checked the forecast, but I do trust my senses, especially my sinuses, which are stuffed, and my head aches, a sure sign that there is rain in the forecast. My sinuses and head are much more reliable indicators about the weather than barometers, thermometers, meteorological gadgets, and weathermen (or women). Ever since I moved to the mountains, I get the weather results on a direct feed to the brain.

This is a weird week since I'm off work and finished four book reviews last night. Those are the last books until December since I've decided to take the next two months off. I need a break. It's difficult finding new words to same the same old things. This is a good, mediocre, awful, wonderful, or horrid book. The details are important, but there are only so many ways to say a book is over written or the story line is flat lined and no amount of CPR or literary fireworks will change that. Dead is dead.

The trick is to find something nice to say about the book. Don't want to completely deflate an ego that has New York Times Best Selling Author across the cover even when they phoned it in. Having written reviews nonstop for over eight years, I can attest to the fact that at times it is an effort to put anything down -- or to have to read one more thriller with the same tired plot and set up or a romance that isn't much of a romance or a literary novel that takes fifty pages to say a character now lives on the other side of the country and is working as manager of a sporting good store since he got out of prison. I get introspection and navel gazing, but no one can gaze that far into a navel that is too shallow to collect lint, especially when lint collects everywhere and anywhere.

At least I'll have something different to do for a while since I signed up to recap Mike & Molly. Now that is pleasurable and something new and I have Christy to thank for that one. She told me Mike & Molly was about a plus size couple finding love together. That was moderately interesting, even though James Coco did a similar sitcom a few decades ago, but what really got me was the public outcry by a blogger who was disgusted by seeing an overweight couple hugging, kissing, and loving each other. I probably wouldn't have checked it out as quickly or been as interested. Give me a good story and some laughs, but to really hook my interest you'd better give me controversy. It was also nice to see that the actress who plays Molly won an Emmy. Now that is progress since she does not fit the starvation ravaged figure that the rest of the females up for awards sported. That's a topic for another time.

Right now, I'm sniffling, sneezing, and wiping my nose while enjoying that rain-kissed breeze coming through the window. Time to tuck in the tootsies and find a good book to read, one that I am not contracted to review and don't have to finish if it turns out to be a dud.

Whizzing deadlines and holiday cards

2011-10-03T12:39:00.001-06:00

It's that time of the year to pick out holiday cards for my grandchildren and a few friends. Ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and skeletons dance about in paper, felt, and other materials, delighting and filling me with the holiday spirit. Halloween cards are followed by Thanksgiving cards -- I like to be prepared and hate waiting until the last moment, except for writing deadlines.

Missing or extending writing deadlines never kept me in the church restroom when I arrived late for Sunday school. As a character once said, I love the sound of deadlines as they go whizzing by." I don't really like the whizzing sound, but it sounds good as long as I don't miss them for real. I'm always in that church restroom with my feet up against the wall so no one knows I was late for Sunday school -- or deadlines. Then again, I was writing about holiday cards.

The Thanksgiving cards are pretty unamazing decorated with wreaths in fall colors, turkeys, cornucopiae, food, and trimmings that all remind me of autumn harvest festivals. I found seven cards just right for sending, cards that will likely end up in a dusty box or in the garbage or pasted in a forgotten scrapbook that seemed like such a good idea when it was started. The cards are mostly for the grandchildren and I hope for at least a moment or two they enjoy the sentiment and think of me.

This is the busiest time of year. There are cards to buy, address, and send for four holidays, food to plan and make and eat, and the bustle and tussle of holiday presents to plan and buy and send. The rest of the year is fairly quiet, unless you count writing, editing, and publishing books, in which case there is no real slow time of the year. I'll bet that is why the months flash by like weeks and weeks flash by in a matter of hours.

There was a point to this post when I began and then it got lost among the gathering detritus of holiday planning and buying and sending and knowing that there is still a lot more to do right here and right now with four book reviews to get written, correspondence to catch up on, and writing of other works to do. Just for a moment it was pleasant to think of cool, crisp autumn days and frosty mornings, spices and herbs swirling through the house on a cloud of warmth and deliciousness, and the thougth of soft snow drifting and swirling down to turn the world into a faery land of dreams and possibilities. Other than that, there really is no point, except to say happy holidays, whichever ones you choose to celebrate.

Review: Blind Fury by Lynda La Plante

2011-09-27T09:32:00.006-06:00

Detective Inspector Anna Travis has a new case. A young woman was raped, strangled, murdered, and then thrown into a field a service station on the M1 outside London. Three more cold cases are linked to the murder, victims of a serial killer, but something is off. DI Travis can feel it and so can her boss Detective Chief Supervisor Langton, her ex-lover.

The man in their sights works for Swell Blinds. John Smiley is all that he seems and more. No one has a bad word to say about him and he is very cooperative in the investigation when brought in for questioning about his work van parked in the lot at the time of the murders and caught on CCTV.

Although, Smiley looks too good to be true, Langton has a feeling they have the right man. The problem is they have nothing to tie Smiley to the women except being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feelings aren't enough to go on. That's why Langton was willing to send Anna to Barfield Prison to interview a serial killer she helped catch.

Cameron Welsh is obsessed with Anna and she doesn't believe Welsh has anything to add to their case. Anna follows orders and interviews Welsh several times. Beneath the arrogance, Welsh knows more than he says and he continues to dangle the bait to draw Anna closer, and she comes closer than she cares to come to trap Smiley.

Cameron Welsh tells Anna Travis that no matter how careful a murderer is, there's always a witness, which provides one of the main themes in Lynda La Plante's latest thriller, Blind Fury. Witnesses pop up all through the novel and La Plante uses them to good effect.

At first glance, it seems as though Welsh is Hannibal Lecter to Anna's Clarisse Starling, but the comparison doesn't hold. Welsh doesn't have Lecter's calm and pointed clarity nor is Anna the willing student anxious to climb the ladder of success. Anna also lacks Clarisse's intuitive read on Welsh's character. Where Lecter is insightful and shares information that helps move things along, Welsh is frustrated and frustrating, using the interviews as mental masturbation. Welsh does help, but such help as could have been laid out in the first interview.

La Plante lacks the polished characterization used to such telling effect by Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lambs and loses her grip, much as Welsh loses his calm, superior demeanor when he discovers Anna is interested in another man. Welsh witnesses Anna with one of his guards, Ken Hudson, a buff blond guard studying to be a child psychologist.

Where La Plante fails to hit the mark is in the sudden intense relationship between Anna and Ken, moving from tentative first date to sex to marriage in less than three dates. Anna, who has always been obsessed with her work and is an orphan, is too anxious to move forward after her failed relationship with Langton, and jumps into sex and marriage with determined effort. The minor hitches along the way where Anna suspects Ken might be involved in the murder fail to ring true and look like attempts to throw a few roadblocks that never actually work. They are as quickly disposed of as is Anna's single-minded career track, coming off as desperation rather than head over heels love at first glance. It simply does not work.

Where La Plante excels is in detailing the minutiae of a murder investigation, going over and over the same ground mining for bits of information. Blind Fury is a template for how murder investigation are run and the time consuming work done by the officers--and the reader at times. The attention to detail does pay off as Anna gets the killer and finds out how all the murders are committed since the murderer is only too happy to lay out the details.

Blind Fury is less a thriller and more a police procedural, with the emphasis on the procedure. The relationships between co-workers and the main characters is less detailed and there is no ticking clock, although budgetary cuts are mentioned a couple of times. La Plante knows the turf and describes it well, providing an excellent manual on how to proceed in a cold case investigation. The human element takes a back seat to solving the murder and there Blind Fury succeeds beyond all expectations.

The End of the World as We Know It

2011-09-19T08:46:00.000-06:00

Monday morning and work beckons. I'm reluctant to answer the call and want nothing more than to pull up the covers and go back to sleep for at least another four hours, the four hours I didn't get last night. I'd rather finish the thriller I started on Friday and had difficulty getting through until late last night when suddenly the story moved on. (I hate when that happens -- taking days to get through a book that should've taken hours and I couldn't chastise myself sufficiently to get it done because the story didn't really interest me and was confusing and the characters were all cut from the same cloth, the authorial intrusive cloth.) I'd rather do anything than have to sit at my desk and wade through another fifty dictations to get enough to be able to stop and move onto better things, like writing. I'd rather . . . you get the point.

So, in my work avoidance and abhorrence mode, I did what I usually do on Monday mornings, check out other blogs and I found a doozy. It wasn't unexpected, these "draconian measures" Anne R. Allen blogs about, and Joe Konrath called it several times in the past few months, and yet I found myself crying, "Foul!"

An author signed to one of the Big 6 publishers has been fired by her publisher for self-publishing a book of short stories meant to help publicize her upcoming novel. Now that is indeed foul. I would have thought that the publisher would be ecstatic at anything an author does to push sales and promote their own work, especially since the publisher would not be dumping oodles of marketing dollars into promoting the author's work, not unless the author had a contract with a six- or seven-figure advance, and yet here is the publisher cutting off his nose to spite his face. (It could be a she cutting of her nose, but you get the point.) This will not go down well with authors and if authors decide to sign with smaller publishing houses, as Anne R. Allen suggests, and the rest decide to self-publish or put up their own website, like J. K. Rowling, who was published by a small publishing house and then set up her own website to publish the Harry Potter books as direct sale ebooks, then the publishers are going to go out of business with a whimper instead of a bang.

I would have thought that keeping writers happy was more important than making writers angry enough to sue the publisher over being fired. Guess now. Look for the Big 6 publishers to include airtight conttracts that allow the writer to do nothing without the publisher's say-so, even if it means failing sales and the author not selling through. It doesn't make sense, but nothing makes sense in the midst of a major flounce, and that's what the publisher is doing, a major flounce. I'm sure hair tossing and having their noses in the air are all part of the flounce out. I'd call it a snit, having a cow, and one of the biggest and most public temper tantrums ever right when the Big 6 publishers need the good will of both authors, who keep them in product, and readers who usually side with the underdog. I don't think there is one of the Big 6 that can be called the underdog, no matter how their marketing department spins this one. Kiana Davenport will tell you all about the publisher's snit, and she's not the only one.

Kris Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith have written about and talked about the slow slide into oblivion that will take most publishers down the tubes and Dorchester, the publishing company that has stiffed notable writers like Brian Keene on their contracts, has retooled and gone into e-publishing only. Joe Konrath has said that paper books will be extinct very soon and some predict publishing entropy by December 2012, just in time for the end of the Mayan calendar. Maybe that's what killed the Mayan civilization, no more big publishers putting out codices and stone carvings and killing off the authors by strangling them with contracts that force authors to give away 75% of ebook earnings in order to get the coveted prize of a $20,000 advance on a contract.

Kris Rusch has called big publishing a dinosaur, like the Tyrannosaurus Rex or Argentinosaurus, that moves slowly and does not change directions quickly or easily. What she means is that a business with so many tentacles engage in so many different areas cannot easily extract said tentacles to put them engage them elsewhere.

Publishers want to protect their turf, but they will not be able to feasibly do so by strangling authors. Whatever they say, publishers need authors to stay in business. Celebrity authors are a dime a baker's dozen and often ghost written by real authors and once again authors are in the mix. Unless publishers want to try the trick of copying, cutting, and pasting past work into new books (and that doesn't seem likely), the only way to stay in business is to compromise and adapt, something the Big 6 seem ill equipped to do.

Add in the fact that literary agents, those people who take 15% of an authors royalties to protect the author's interests, are siding with publishers and we might see the demise of two big chunks of publishing business, or at the very least two big chunks of the publishing monolith that will crumble and fall into the digital sea with a resounding crash, leaving blasted hulks like the House of Usher.

It's a sad situation and one that should be a cautionary tale for anyone entering into a contract with what is increasingly being seen as the Devil. Whatever authors do, they should read the small print and be prepared to walk out (running would be better) if the publisher isn't willing to see reality or logic. Even life guards know that there are times it's best to let someone drown rather than go down with them. It's harsh, but it comes down to a matter of us or them. No one will protect you if you don't protect yourself.

The publishing world is changing quickly. Don't be caught in the stampede. Stay informed and abreast of the news. These are volatile times and the Mount Etna of Publishing no longer slumbers. Remember what happened to Pompeii and Herculaneum.

Spring Thaw

2011-09-14T07:35:00.004-06:00

Last night my oldest son called and we got into an old subject: him defending my honor. I could say I've no honor to defend, but that wouldn't be true. I am an honorable person. I could also say that I don't need defending, not against rude children or current spouses of ex-husbands because, well . . . there really is no need to go any further. My son was sincere in his passion to defend me against any and all foul comments, and I applaud him for that even though I am a little sad he felt the need to defend me.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's sweet that my son loved me enough to defend me, even to the point of bruises, blood, and the usual rewards of fighting. I also think it's more about a young boy's need to prove himself in battle and to himself that he is a man, which is some feat for a seven-year-old. I have always believed the need to resort to fists and weapons, the push to war, is ingrained in the male psyche and, after reading some of what an acquaintance is going through with the introduction of testosterone into her system to transition from female to male, it must also be hormonally connected. Take that, fellas. Men get just as hormonal as women; it manifests in a very different way.

Women, when hormonal, get weepy and moody. Men, when hormonal, get homicidal and often sociopathic. To put it in another way, hormones when rising make women go into the house and men out of the house. Women nest and seek answers and men want to mix it up.

I know. It's a very simplistic way of looking at things, but it's also right, at least from what I've seen over the years, and I've seen a lot of years, and men high on hormones angling for a fight. Only a man could have written, or even conceived of, Fight Club. Some women enjoyed the book, as I did on some levels, but they really don't get into fighting for the sake of fighting, even if the end result is being beaten to a pulp and spitting teeth and various chunks of internal organs. Women on the whole just do not get all excited about blood and guts and physical damage.

Having written that, I wonder at my own excitement during Gladiator or other movies where there is physical violence and I can safely say it's more about justice than blood and guts exciting me. Seeing the villain, or villains, getting their due after raping, pillaging, and exercising their hormonal excesses gets my heart beating faster and the blood rushing through my body. It's visceral -- and it's also hormonal. I've been known to get excited when reading a particularly bloody and physical scene in a book when the villain is beaten into the dust and loses a body part or his life. I wince when the hero is mauled. My sympathies are always with the hero. I'm a girl looking for a hero after all.

The human body is mostly water and water transports nutrients and hormones, lots of hormones, all over the system (the body is a system) like the Colorado River at spring thaw. Whitewater rushing from organs secreting hormones infusing the brain, muscles, and tissue until the chemical soup boils over and the mind, body, and soul are poised for action: women inside the house and men spoiling for a fight outside the house, although men have been known to mix it up inside the house as well. Men just want to fight.

I smiled when my son got that hurt and defensive tone in his voice. "I had to protect you, to defend you," he said. I wanted to laugh and tell him he was silly, but he was being true to his feelings and acting on hormones. I didn't want to downplay his contribution to defending his mother, so I just said, "Thank you." Then I explained that I've heard lots of people calling me names and saying nasty things about me and it doesn't bother me. After all, after spending my formative years being told what a waste of space I was and that I was a whore (while still being a virgin) by my mother, nothing gets to me any more, at least not if they resort to names.

My ex-husband's spouse lives in mortal fear of me coming back to reclaim my husband, and she demonizes me in order to give herself a reason to keep trashing me. She's right on one count. I am overweight. Like my mother, she is also wrong. I have slept with far fewer men than advertised and have not spent my life on my back with my legs in the air and my box stuffed. I haven't had the time and well, overweight. The two just do not work or play well together.

One thing I do know, which I didn't tell my son, is that people demonize people they fear and have wronged. It has nothing to do with logic or truth or honor. It's the only way they can justify their hormonal excesses.

When the twins are older and fighting for his honor and good name, he will look back and smile a little because he will finally understand that kids will be kids and the spring thaw hormonal rushes are upon them, and he'll remember our conversations. The wheel of life turns and his position on the wheel will have changed. He was my little boy and one day his little boy and girl will look up to him with that hurt tone in their voices and a glimmer of tears in their eyes while their lips quiver and my son will smile. It's the only thing to do when hormones are in control.

Guess it's the woman's turn to ask her fella, "That time of the month?" when he goes off like a rocket or pushes up his sleeves in preparation for a smack-down.

Review: The Traitor's Emblem by Juan Gomez-Jurado

2011-09-13T02:50:00.003-06:00

A novel of revenge, betrayal, and love in the manner of Alexandre Dumas.

Paul Reiner and his mother, Ilse, live in Baron von Schroeder’s home in Munich as servants. Ilse is the Baroness Brunhilda’s sister and the Reiner’s are dependent on Brunhilda’s generosity, what little there is of it. There is little of the baron’s fortune left in the wake of his gambling and that does not change the way Paul’s cousin Jürgen treats Ilse and Paul. Jürgen is a petty tyrant and a coward and vents his arrogant sadism on Paul for no other reason than Paul exists. That changes with time and the revelation that Paul and Jürgen’s relationship is closer than cousins.

As time goes on and Paul and Ilse are thrown out of the mansion, they struggle to survive and, with Paul’s intelligence and ingenuity, prosper in the wake of Germany’s struggle to survive after the Versailles Treaty’s onerous provisions. All Paul wants is to find out what happened to his father Hans and why he was branded a deserter and the facts of his death obscured. Paul will get his chance, but it will cost him dearly.

In the author’s notes, Juan Gómez-Jurado explains that the story of The Traitor’s Emblem is different from what he initially planned and is based upon a story a man told him about a relic from the Hitler, a profane object with which Gómez-Jurado begins and ends the novel, a piece known as the Traitor’s Emblem, long thought to be a myth. While the story surrounding the relic is fascinating, Gómez-Jurado is correct in believing it is not enough to hold the novel together. He does construct a plausible scenario for the main characters and much of it is believable. Unfortunately, the story falls apart in some areas.

Without giving too much away, the circumstances surrounding the breakout from Dachau fails to provide the slimmest glimmer of evidence as to why the Nazis suddenly took up the chase. From all accounts, the imposters had gotten away with their ruse and were driving away when alarms go off, lights flash on, and gunshots riddle the getaway car. After having come so far with success, there is no reason for the camp to erupt and the Nazis to give chase. It makes for an exciting getaway, but seems too convenient and implausible.

The other issues surround a man Paul spends eleven years tracking, the man, Nagel, one of Hans’s confederates, runs for his life, which makes no sense. Paul supposedly has information Nagel needs and Nagel has no reason to suspect Paul plans to kill him. Once again, a nice bit of drama without a plausible reason. Paul wants information, as does Nagel, and Nagel keeps running away, abandoning one profitable business after another to end up back in Germany after a long fruitless chase through South West Africa. The whole piece of business is too pat, although it does put the players in the right place at the right time, and so conveniently plotted. There is also the hint that Nagel was the murderer and not Hans and this fact, thrown out as part of Nagel’s internal monologue, was not cleared up or mentioned again.

Despite the flaws in the story, The Traitor’s Emblem is an intricate tale of revenge, betrayal, love, and the chaotic political scene of Germany in the years between the end of World War I and the rise of Adolf Hitler to power before World War II. The details of life in Munich and the struggles of the German people under the lash of the Versailles Treaty are intimately drawn and provide a dark backdrop for the more personal tragedy between Paul and Jürgen.

Gómez-Jurado has written a page turner with strong adventure elements that is mostly satisfying and exciting. The pluses substantially outweigh the flaws even though the novel should have been longer to do justice to the story and the characters.

Wolf Cravings

2011-09-11T09:17:00.000-06:00

Since reading The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan, wolves have been slipping out of the corners, so many I had to resort to the only cure known to feed the wolf -- watching movies.

I started with Red Riding Hood, which is a modern interpretation of Little Red Riding Hood in which Red Riding Hood is neither little nor young and she can understand the growls, barks, and yips of the werewolf. Gary Oldman is in the movie, so it's worth watching just for that reason, but the story is, although not unique, fascinating. There's a blood moon, which is when Mars casts its shadow on the moon, hence the blood part of the moon, that occur every thirteen years and the wolf passes on its legacy to the bitten, turning the bitten into a werewolf on the next full moon.

The story is a simple love triangle. Daughter of woodcutter is in love with a young woodcutter, her playmate since early childhood, but has been promised to the blacksmith's son in marriage. The blacksmith's son is wealthy and the young woodcutter is not, and definitely not good enough for the daughter of a woodcutter when her mother is intent on selling, or rather giving, her daughter to the son of the man she once loved as she was given in marriage to the woodcutter. Add a zealous warrior of the church (Gary Oldman) with a silver sword blessed by the pope, a cadre of torture devices and mercenaries, and silver fingernails perfect for killing wolves, a town in which the pact with the wolf has been broken with Red Riding Hood's elder sister is savaged by the wolf, and the fun begins. It takes a while to unmask the real werewolf, by which time a few townspeople have been murdered, the zealous warrior unhanded, and the woodcutter's daughter, Red Riding Hood, ready to save herself from the werewolf after it kills her grandmother. It's a nice retelling of the old Grimm's fairy tale and visually appealing and bloody.

Since that was not enough to feed my wolf cravings, I resorted to my favorite wolf movie, Wolf with Jack Nicholson, Michelle Pfeiffer, James Spader, and a stellar cast. Now that is what the wolf needed, a good man bitten by what appeared at first to be a dead wolf on the way back from Vermont to sign a well known author to MacLeish House, a turn from vegetarian to carnivore, heightened senses, betrayal by his protege in business and with his wife, a beautiful and screwed up rich man's daughter, and a milque toast turns into a savage man right before your very eyes. I have to say, for all its cinematic beauty and wonderful casting, I never really saw Jack Nicholson as a milque toast for all his acting chops. He is more wolf than mild-mannered man battling a curse, and the way he embraces the wolf at the end is pure Nicholson. Michelle Pfeiffer is, as always, the most beautiful scenery and at her ethereal best.

Now that the cravings have been stilled for now, I can go back to my regular life a little sadder that werewolves don't actually exist and that there is no chance for the bitten to gift me with his wolfiness through his passion. More's the pity, too.

Weekends, UGH!

2011-09-10T09:50:00.000-06:00

The weekend has finally arrived and I've looked forward to it all during the work week. That's the problem, though, the weekend has arrived and there's no more work week for two whole days.

Why do I call it a problem? For the same reason that kids complain but actually prefer their parents to enforce the rules. I need structure. We all need structure, and I don't mean the kind where every waking hour -- and a few of the sleeping ones -- on the weekend given over to filling the time with as many errands and chores and social engagements as possible, so as not to have to feel guilty about taking time off during the weekend. It's what I always called planning the fun out of life when I was married.

My ex-husband was one of those people who scheduled everything, including his bowel movements, same time every day. If he didn't have his morning bathroom time at the right time, his whole day, and thus his schedule, was thrown off and he was a real bear until he got back on track.

I'm more of a fly by the seat of my pants gal, in writing as in life, and I resent being told what to do and when to do it. I don't mind agreeing to a specific deadline or schedule, as long as I have some input in the process. I don't respond well to orders or demands, and don't even hit me with an ultimatum. That smile on my lips is not a good thing. Trust me. It is a promise of bad things to come.

And yet here I am complaining about the weekend when all I need to do is read, write, and loll about for two whole days. It's exhausting when you get right down to it and I just discovered I almost look forward to the work week so I know there will be a rhyme and reason to the daylight hours, and the nighttime, too. I can -- and often do -- get the urge to blow off work and loll around reading, writing, and sleeping on occasion, but that's only because I get burned out. But being forced (there's that word again) to loll around reading, writing, and sleeping is something else again.

Maybe it's not the lack of structure that bothers me but the idea that now I have to lollygag, as my grandmother would say, about. Yeah, that's it.

Okay, it doesn't make sense, but I don't have to make sense. I'm a writer. It's in the rules.

Review: The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

2011-09-06T20:44:00.002-06:00

A stunning tale that turns the genre on its head despite literary contortions and acrobatics.

Jacob Marlowe has been a werewolf for one hundred sixty-seven years (a fact he keeps repeating throughout the book) and is about two hundred years old. He has made his mark, accumulated a vast fortune, and has no wish to continue the allotted four hundred years of a werewolf’s life. Marlowe knows the Hunt has killed the rest of his kind. He is the last and he is ready to return to the site of his creation and welcome the Hunters. His friend and familiar, Harley, wants Marlowe to go on living and Marlowe simply wants out. There is nothing left to live for and life feels pointless.

Grainer, the lead Hunter, plans to take Marlowe out personally. Marlowe killed Grainer’s father many years ago and both are ready for the showdown of their lives.

The vampires want Marlowe as well and it will be a race to the finish to see who wins the prize in the end. The difference between vampires and werewolves is all about language. Vampires speak and read and werewolves do neither, except for Jacob Marlowe.

As in The Last Werewolf, Marlowe and Glen Duncan share the same problem, too many words. Add several different writing techniques—lack of punctuation, run-on sentences, stream of consciousness, literary acrobatics—and the result is a mish-mash of styles in an episodic tale that takes a considerable amount of time getting to the point. Duncan’s writing is at times pompous and overwrought as he flexes his literary muscles, much like a bodybuilder posing in front of a mirror.

I considered tossing the book a few times, but Duncan surprised me by throwing a curve and I was off again chasing Marlowe and trying to figure out who was playing whom. As frustrating as the writing is at times, Duncan tells a compelling story and, when he sinks his teeth into it, does so with breathtaking speed.

The Last Werewolf takes the mythology of lycanthropy, throws in vampires, who loathe werewolves as much as werewolves loathe them, becoming physically sick in each other's presence, but need them to conquer their last frontier. The result is an exercise in planned obsolescence and science that fuels a race to the finish, leaving an ending that offers a satisfying sense of hope and promise. Duncan uses the werewolf mythology to good effect, penning a stand-out novel in an overflowing genre rife with copycats and the same-old, same-old.

It's Live

2011-09-05T10:07:00.006-06:00

It's not often I get a chance to plug my book, so please forgive me if I plug mine.

Among Women just went live at David Wisehart's Kindle site. Take a look.

Much of what goes on in jails has been sensationalized for movies, television, and novels. What really happens is very different. Orleans Parish prison in New Orleans is jail, despite the name, and Pearl Caldwell was incarcerated there for six weeks, six interminable weeks when she didn't know how long she'd be there or when she'd get to see a judge or a lawyer. Among Women is the story of those six weeks and what led up to being jailed. It is also the story of how Pearl's eyes were opened and her views changed of the kinds of people who end up in jail.

She began writing as a way to maintain her sanity, but became a confidante, a modern Scheherazade, who wrote down the stories of the women she met and came to know. The long hours, the injustices, the tales of the women are woven in and around the core of Pearl's experiences. It's not an easy story, but it one that at last can be told.

The time is late December 1984. The place is New Orleans. The story is Pearl's and the women of Orleans Parish Prison.

Among Women is available at all bookstores in print and ebook. Also available at Smashwords in all ebook formats. Check it out. You'll be enlightened if you do.

Leaves on the Winds

2011-09-03T08:36:00.000-06:00

It wasn't an addiction in the beginning. It was an idea.

I had just seen the mini series about John and Abigail Adams and had read some of the background material about their letters, those personal and intimate letters. That is how it began.

There was a little stationery in my cache of goods and all I needed was a little more stationery and a new fountain pen. I bought both and began writing, at first a letter to a friend or two and once in a while to family. Writing letters wasn't anything new. Letters and envelopes had poured out of the printer over the years. Now I wanted something more personal, a piece of myself offered to friends, a trail that led to the heart of me, to the often anachronistic me, in my own hand.

My handwriting had deteriorated after years of neglect, and after years of scribbling in paper journals, most of which are written in a coded kind of shorthand, not to hide information but to make the writing go quicker. Quick writing is seldom legible; it is scribbling. I can read the entries, often with a little difficulty, but I wrote them and I know the code. Letters would have to be neater, clearer, something anyone could read, and so I began.

Handwriting letters causes physical pain, mostly in the hands, fingers, and wrist of the writer, and cramps seized my hand at odd moments, increasing until by the end of the letters it ached. Anyone who says writing doesn't change you is wrong. It changed my hands. I had no idea how out of shape they had become, at least as far as dexterity and strength were concerned. Typing, which I have done a lot over the past 40+ years, uses a different set of muscles and makes different demands on coordination. Bluntly put, my penmanship needed work, a good bit of work.

Taking long breaks between letters while waiting for answers that never came left me with aches and pains and cramps after writing a few letters. The only answer was to write more letters, be more diligent. Okay, so no one was writing back (okay, one or two responded in kind once in a while); that could not be a factor in the plan to hone the art of letter writing. These were my messages written on leaves and sent on the winds of the U.S. Postal Service and must continue whether or not anyone responded in kind.

I flirted with sealing wax but deemed it unfit for letters sent by mail and not by pony express. Letters would jam in the USPS machines and would end up at the other end in shreds or perhaps one small corner in a plastic bag with a contrite message of apology. "Your mail was caught in our machines and we do apologize for your loss." As much as I like the idea and the whole fire melting wax and ornate seals pressed into the heated glob, it wouldn't work for modern machines, so it was out. There was a momentary sigh of loss and lost opportunity, but only a moment's worth.

The stock of stationery dwindled and was replaced with more of the same -- at least until I checked out another stationery site. There were cards: greeting cards, birthday cards, thank you cards, invitations, just because cards, and blank cards. Blank cards with space for writing little messages. That was a good idea, and so a small purchase was made.

The cards didn't last long, what with all the writing and keeping up my dexterity, strength, and writing abilities, so more cards were purchased. A few extra dollars in the budget and off I went to purchase more blank cards and occasionally more stationery. One fountain pen was followed by two and three and more until I owned six fountain pens and a dip pen. A cobalt glass inkwell with a silver lid followed -- there has to be a place to keep the ink since the ink bottles, utilitarian as they are, were not pretty enough, didn't make enough of a statement with the fountain pens and colored inks.

Yes, the switch to colored inks began innocuously enough with a sample pack of all the inks that Levenger offers. One cartridge of sixteen colors were tried and a winner selected. Not blue -- that is so common. A regal purple fit for a queen, fit for my letters. All I had really wanted was an ink light enough to show up on some dark blue envelopes that went with some special correspondence cards (I had added those to my letter writing repertoire) and I ended up with Regal, which is Levenger's name for that royal purple.

I often wonder if the ink is still made with the special shellfish that were ground up and used to color the satins, laces, silks, and velvets worn by royalty in days gone by.

At any rate, the addiction was full blown at that point. Boxes of blank cards and stationery and correspondence cards stacked in spaces once occupied by books and magazines fill the cubbies on my desk. A box of the latest offerings holds another cache of cards.

Such an addiction needs feeding. Birthday cards, get well cards, just because cards, and holiday cards fill out the list and I'm looking and lusting after a Waterman pen that is far more expensive than any pen I have previously purchased. A Venetian Murano glass dip pen twinkles at me and suggests I give it a try and there has been a brief flirtation with a real quill pen and not some modern hybrid with a nib to make it easier to use. A real quill pen will require a pen knife to shittle and shape and of course a supply of quills, should I find I enjoy the effect, may have to be worked into the budget. I can give up more of the clothing allowance and, since I'm on a diet and eating more packaged food (good packaged food), money can be diverted from that, and a second job to fund this addiction could be worked into my already over worked scheduled, but it's writing letters. Personal and private missives that delight the receiver and fill me with purpose and joy. What else can I do but give in?

I never intended to get this far into the whole handwritten letter thing, but I am caught and I want to continue. Few days go by without me choosing and picking up a fountain pen, checking the ink, choosing a card, and writing a little something to my friends and family. I began with a very small list that has become a much larger group of people that every week or two get some little glimpse of my life and my improving penmanship.

Imagining the look of surprise and maybe even the smile that flashes when they receive an envelope addressed to them gives me pleasure, and I am adding to the belles lettres (although probably not quite that belle) in the world. I need no longer look for pen pals or beg some stranger to write to me. I write the letters and look forward to the rare response that comes my way.

The addiction is mine. I own it. I admit it. I'm not going to stop it. I enjoy the time spent with pen and ink and paper. I don't even mind the cost in postage, to which end I have purchases supplies and a program and print out my own postage. It's an addiction that can be as expensive or as cheap as the addicted wants. I prefer quality in my tools and that costs money. So what if I don't have a closet full of shoes or purses and I didn't buy a brand new toaster or electronic toaster oven? I have boxes of stationery, boxes with changing contents, and I write letters.

My cooking might be remembered (it is quite something to remember) and someone might keep a memory of some stray comment or joke I once told, they might even pull out pictures of our times together, but there is nothing more lasting than a letter written by my hand and kept in a bundle, perhaps tied with a ribbon, and some day stashed in a trunk in the attic for some future someone to find, read, and smile over. While all that might be true, it still remains something I do for myself -- and for my friends -- a bit of the past alive and well in the modern world, a part of old technology with new tools, letters sent off on the winds like poetry written on leaves and offered to the fates, a piece of me and my world alive and well that brings someone a smile or a tear. What better way to spend a couple of moments or a quarter of an hour? I can think of none better.

One Trick Ponies

2011-08-31T21:18:00.002-06:00

Can anyone learn to write? Yes.

Can anyone learn to be a writer? Not really.

No matter what people and teachers will say, not everyone has it in them to be writers. That's a good thing. Everyone has a talent, a desire to do something or be someone, but not everyone can or should be a writer. That is a lesson that came home to me again this week.

The publishers of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies send me regular call-outs for new books. Since my stories have been featured in six books, it makes sense they want to hear from writers who have been published with them before.

One such call-out came a month ago. The book was for stories about caregiving. While I have taken care of my ex-husbands and children (the kids were much easier), I don't consider myself a caregiver. I have helped out with relatives and friends, but still no real caregiver stories. I did, however, know of two people who had stories to tell and it would be a nice to see their stories in print.

My sister Beanie took care of our father in the last months of his life without the help of my other sister Hoity-Toity and my brother The Mushroom. What began as a bit of resentment for having to do it all alone and put her own life and family on hold, turned out to be a rich and memorable experience full of love and laughter. We are talking about my dad and there was always laughter, even when the cancer was devouring his bones and he was in great pain. That was just Dad. I've written about him before, but this story was Beanie's to tell.

I didn't help out because they all lived in Ohio and I live in Colorado. I wouldn't mind the commute, but I really couldn't afford to fly back and forth every day.

I told Beanie about the book and urged her to write about taking care of Dad, explaining she had until August 31st to get it done.

"That's not long enough," she complained. "Why don't you do it?"

"Because it's not my story. It's yours."

"I could tell you and you could write it."

"Nope. It has to be your story. I'll help with editing."

I could have heard her sigh without the telephone. "You'll rip it to pieces. You always do."

After a short explanation of editing and a discussion about how my ripping her work to pieces helped her earn As in her college composition classes (a required subject), she relented and agreed to give it a try.

My next call was to my aunt. She had just lost her youngest son Timmy and had taken care of him in his final days. Timmy was forty-eight when he died a few months ago. I knew it would be a tough sell, so I suggested it gently. She took to the idea right away and said it might help. (She's been crying for months now and I thought writing the story about caring for Timmy would be cathartic even if it was never published.)

We were off to the races -- or rather they were off to the races and I waited . . . patiently.

Beanie sent me her first draft about two weeks ago. I edited it, suggested some changes and sent the edited version (marked up in red and "ripped apart"). She was reluctant to open the files and finally did. She found out it wasn't quite as bad as she thought it would be. I suggested she add more about what it was like to take care of Dad and she said she'd get to it. "Better yet," she said, "why don't you write it and send it in? I've done the hard part."

"We talked about this and the answer is still no."

That's when the truth came out.

"I worked on that for three weeks. I tried to write it when we went camping, at night when the kids were asleep, at work when there was nothing to do, everywhere. Every time I started writing or thinking about it, I got a headache. I have too much going on and I can't go through that again. Either make the changes yourself -- I'll tell you what I did -- or forget about it."

I really do not and did not understand what there was about writing that gave her a headache. Writing helps clear my head and gets rid of any tension headaches I get.

We went back and forth and finally I agreed to her solution. I'd write what she said and incorporate it into the story. I submitted the story yesterday with her information. She can use the money, but I thought getting a story published would also boost her confidence and show her that she could write. "It's just not my thing," she said. "That's more your turf."

She's right about that.

My aunt was easier.

Aunt Anne worked on the story, did a bit of tightening and rewriting, but couldn't get it printed out. Her desktop computer was ancient, at least ten years old, and Timmy's printer wouldn't interface with it. She told me about it after the fact, but I would have suggested copying the file to disk, going to Kinko's, and printing it out there. Cheap, fast, and reliable.

Aunt Anne bought a new printer. The computer didn't recognize it at all and the printer said she needed to upgrade her software. She wasn't about to pay $129 for a Windows upgrade, so she took her grandson's advice, went to Best Buy, and got a laptop for $298. The new printer installed quickly and she printed out the story, put it in an envelope, and sent it overnight to me. The clock was ticking.

Her grandson told her to get the computer, print out the story, and take the computer back. She wouldn't be out any money and she'd get the job done. The only problem with that idea was she liked the new laptop so much she decided to keep it.

I received the story today, looked it over, and noticed that it needed a little more about what it was like taking care of Timmy. I called. We talked. She answered my questions and gave me the go-ahead to add to the story and submit it, which I did this evening well ahead of the deadline.

Aunt Anne did good. The story was clear, touched the emotions, and there were only a couple of spelling errors. (She couldn't find the spell check on the new computer.) I told her I was impressed and I could hear the big grim over the phone."Well, you're the expert," she said.

"No, I'm just a writer with some experience."

"I'm a one trick pony," she added when I suggested she might like to try writing something else. "I love the new laptop, but I'm no writer. That's your thing."

I teased her a little (she used all caps to write the story) about getting older (she is 77 years old as of last Wednesday) and she laughed and teased me. We're family. She is definitely not interested in writing any more stories, but she did appreciate this challenge because it gave her a chance to write about being with Timmy those last days after he decided not to get the liver transplant, and she had something to share with her other son Jeff and Timmy's children. I learned something, too, about what it was like for her, although I knew because we talked on the phone nearly every day. She lives in Ohio, too, and it's still nearly 2000 miles away.

My sister and my aunt rose to the challenge and got a little satisfaction from writing about their experiences, but Beanie isn't fond of headaches and Aunt Anne only had one story she wanted to tell. They are content with what they've done but they don't want to be writers. That's my thing, as they both reminded me.

No, not everyone wants to be a writer, nor should they. Someone has to read the books, stories, and articles writers create.

I would have welcomed both my aunt and my sister into the family of writers if that had been their choice. It just is not going to happen. I'll keep correcting Beanie's grammar, spelling, and punctuation when she emails and Aunt Anne will keep me on tap to help her get the most use from her laptop. That I can do.

Even though they're not writers, nor do they want to be writers, it's nice to know they appreciate the work and talent that goes into my writing. If nothing else, they understand me a little better. I guess that is enough for me -- and for them.

Connections

2011-08-28T09:22:00.004-06:00

I was browsing through The 10% Solution.

I mean the $9.99 book by Ken Rand, not the movie about Sherlock Holmes going to see Sigmund Freud, which is really The 7% Solution since Holmes was in all things careful about his health. That centered on a time when opium dens flourished and cocaine and other drugs were sold over the counter and readily available, when the police only went to opium dens to do the job of detecting, question suspects, and pick up dead bodies and the government was more involved in intrigue and governing the country and not filling the prisons with drug addicts who, they believed, could go to the devil in their own way as long as murder, theft, or fraud were not part of the deal.

They (the British government) also had a strange idea that if the prisons were full to capacity with the downtrodden, debtors, and real criminals who had stolen, defrauded, murdered, beaten, robbed graves, burked people to provide bodies for medical students who needed a cadaver to study, or were mad and shut in Bedlam, among other ills due to the financial disparity between the upper, middle, working, and lower classes (the lower classes driven to crime to feed themselves, their families, and buy gin to get drunk and numb the pain of reality and poverty), the malcontents and miscreants were packed off like chained sardines to Australia where they were out of harm's way, decreased the surplus population, and could drink, whore, steal, drug, and whatever into oblivion away from the increasingly cramped confines of London and the countryside. Australia was also a good place for political prisoners who objected to the poverty, government, and way of life that denied a man all pleasure and sustenance, as were India, the colonies, the Bahamas, Africa, and the other outposts of British control. What's the use of having all that real estate without real Englishmen to populate the lanscape?

Aah, the golden days when the rich got richer and the poor could still get drunk, do drugs, and whore without risking jail. The rich drank, did drugs, and whored, but the likelihood of them seeing the inside of a jail cell was remote. Rank and funds doth impart immunity and privileges. Oh, for the days of opium, a 7% solution of cocaine to relieve boredom and ennui, and plenty of gin, even without the tonic.

I was browsing through The 10% Solution, which is a slim paperback volume priced far too high for the content, about writing tighter, moving the story along faster, by eliminating extraneous words. Those words are mostly connective words, writers' tics, that impede the flow of speedy progress, which is fine in a newspaper report or radio report, but not so fine with regard to the cost and content of books. It's all connected. Everything is connected.

What Rand writes about, in the tone of a sales letter that is long on words and short on getting to the point, is removing words and syllables like And, ly, that, of, ing, but, etc. Those words can provide color and a hint of the writer or character using said words as narrator or in dialogue and are not necessarily obstructive, but Rand believes them to be so, hence the book, which is more an article and less a book without the large type and small size of a less than trade paperback. The cover is nice and so is the introduction by a big fan, and well known author, whose name escapes me at this point.

(Oops, one of those phrases that should be edited out . . . at this point . . . and I do see the point, especially when typing up operative reports in which doctors repeatedly use that and other phrases that basically boil down to and then this happened and then that happened and then and then and then instead of getting directly to the point without all the fluff. "I used a scalpel to cut down through the layers of tissue and entered the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity. The hernia sac contained incarcerated bowel (omentum, muscle, fat, etc.) and was reduced back into the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity, ligated, and closed. Etc., etc., etc. Instead, (another verboten word in tight writing) the doctor goes on and on at length adding as well as instead of and, at this point, instead of moving on or at least using at that point since the text is in past tense, as is the rest of the sentence, and so on. I'd rather have a concise and tightly written/dictated report and lose the pages than have to go on for five minutes -- or up to 20 minutes -- with fluff and garbage. Get to the point.)

To get back to the point (pointless words that do not move the narrative forward), the book is a bloated explanation of a very simple process, something that George R. R. Martin calls sweating the text, which is a screenwriter's term for getting out the fluff and condensing fifty pages to ten, which can be done. I've done it in editing my own work, removing my own writer's tics. Writing tight isn't really my problem since I err on the size of tightness in the first place (self-editing as I write) and usually need to pad the text, only I pad with description and characters and action instead of erm, but, or, at this point, as well as, etc.

Whenever I am forced to listen to, watch, or read reams of text just to tell me a product works with a couple of examples, maybe a testimonial or two, and the price it will cost me to get this miracle, I skip down to the text. When faced with a video scrolling words or a talking head reading said sales text, I shut it down, run a search on the topic, and cut right to the chase.

What I'm am getting around to writing is that, while I do agree with the subject of the over priced book, I don't appreciate paying more than it's worth. Some would say, a little prevention is worth the price of a pound of cure, but they knew the prevention cost less than the full treatment. I'd give Rand's writing tip top marks for the central theme and a big thumbs down for the price. I've bought, read, and written books that didn't cost as much.

I suppose the real point in this meandering post is that everything is connected some way. I started with Sherlock Holmes, moved through scriptwriting, operative reports, and sales letters and came out at the same point where I started. Sort of. I didn't mention the price in the first sentence; that came everything is connected and makes ours a much more interesting life and -- in this case -- a review of a good pamphlet that should not have been a book.

I highly recommend the content. Consider getting the book second hand or checking it out of the library and copying the important material. It's cheaper.

At a Slower Pace

2011-08-27T15:23:00.002-06:00

My brain tells me that 87 degrees is not that hot. It's less hot than my body temperature and tolerable. Just try telling my body that. My body feels warm and uncomfortable and I'm considering another long cold shower. Anything to feel cooler, even for a few moments. Perception and reality don't always agree.

I recently read a book where the story took place at an almost glacial pace. At first, it was irritating and I just wanted the author to get on with the story; that was what I wanted when I sat down, a story that moved. As I got further into the book, I realized there was a point to the slow pace. The author was in effect demonstrating the time dilation effect (time carried by a iced snail) and how it appeared to the characters. To have moved at a different pace would have ruined the effect and the story. Some things you cannot race through, and that story was one of them.

At the end of the journey, I was satisfied with what I had read and the pacing, tone, and characters fit together perfectly.

Since I am curious by nature, and by temperament, I decided to check out the reviews on various bookstore sites. What initially irked me -- the pacing -- was something that irked many of the readers sounding off. They complained about how slow the book was and felt it was a strike against the book. The readers had missed the point of the pacing. The book was supposed to be slow so the reader could experience the endless hours with the character, and all the readers wanted to do was race through the book and get it done.

The perception was at odds with the reality of the situation. They perceived the book as slow when the story was told at the same speed the main characters experienced it, and was effect. Most of the readers didn't agree. I felt the same way about Heinlein and Austen when I first essayed their pages. I didn't see the point. Time and experience have given me a much different perspective and reality of both.

There are times when a really good book can't be appreciated because the reader isn't sufficiently educated about the style or at a point in his life when subtleties are lost. Subtlety is not a big favorite in a population where news is delivered in sound bites and movies are all about action, action, action, fitting the story in the brief (all too brief) pauses. Everything must move at the speed of sound, but the speed of light would be better. It seems that so few people understand or appreciate a more sedate pace.

Fast food restaurants, speedy oil changes, rushing to work -- fast, fast, fast. All we do is run. How many times do these high powered people mosey down the trail, meander along a lane overarched with trees budding, in full flower, or blazing with autumn colors, or simply stop and savor each and every bite of a meal -- even if it isn't a decadent chocolate cake so rich each mouthful is a sensual explosion of flavor? Gone are Sunday evenings in the park listening to the local band or taking a leisurely stroll in the garden or down the street in twilight or gathering dark. Gone are the subtleties of life, and those subtleties have been gone long enough that few people reember what it was like to stop and enjoy the moment.

Literature has followed and much of what is written today (thrillers, adventures, crime novels, etc.) are being driven by television and movies, by the blockbuster summer movies full of special effects and explosions and chases and by the holiday movies that contain their share of the same summer blockbusters trimmed with baubles and lights and people racing around trying to find the perfect toy for a child who has a house full of toys and games strewn everywhere. Short attention spans is what are being bred by this fast-paced world and they are so short people have lost the ability to appreciate a story that unfolds rather than races to a breathless conclusion. These are the people raised on time lapse photography that showed the birth and death of a flower or insect or storm in the space between commercials.

Many good books and authors are being remaindered and criticized for a slow pace when the pace is part of the style and tone of the novel. Maybe the readers just haven't reached the point where they can appreciate what these skillful writers have achieved, novels that will endure and continue to find fans who have not forgotten what it means to enjoy a book instead of race through it. They haven't reached the point I have so that Heinlein and Austen and even the often lethargic flow of Faulkner provide meaning as well as entertainment.

I can only hope that somewhere along this race track of life people get a flat or spin out and off the track with a broken axle so that they are forced to slow down and stroll back to the pits and just enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and taste of life.

Stop, Take a Breath, and Sit Down

2011-08-24T08:26:00.000-06:00

There are times I look for something, tearing the house apart, certain I remember where I last saw and put something, and just cannot find it. Then, suddenly, it's right in front of me. It happens with writing that way, too. At least, it happens with me.

I have been struggling with finishing the latest book and just could not get back into the scenes or the characters' minds. Try how I might, nothing worked. I struggled, fussed, fumed, and generally forced words onto the page in a semblance of what should be there and it all felt flat. It read even flatter. Nothing was working, so I took yet another break.

The last time I visited this particular book was three years ago when I decided to veer off in another direction and write the novel I published earlier this year. Three years is a long time to put something off. The characters were still on the page. I knew where the story was going. Nothing sounded right. I could not connect to the excitement, the enthusiasm, or the language needed to get the story written. It was like looking for something and tearing up the house when all I had to do was stop and wait and it would magically appear. That's what happened in the wee hours of last night.

While asleep and dreaming peacefully (or not so peacefully where my dreams are concerned), I heard Delilah's voice. She had begun to tell her story and kept on talking while I slept. Slowly, her voice pierced the dream to the point I knew who she was and that I had to wake up and take dictation while she was ready to speak, so I woke up, opened the computer, and started checking email, and running the usual cycle of websites as she continued to talk.

At some point, through the haze of half-dreams, I opened up Word and began typing, and there it was, that connection I had tried so hard to find, right before my eyes and tripping off my fingers onto the keyboard. There was some hesitation. I felt like a doe walking into a familiar clearing and scenting danger in the air. The danger was intangible and the thought of losing the connection was palpable. I kept typing and ignored the danger, found my calm place in the writing zone, and the connection held.

One of the most important things I've learned about hiking is about getting lost. Instead of running around frantic to find the path, the smartest thing to do is sit down and take a breath. That's what I did with the novel. Bashing at it with words got me one flat chapter. Taking a step back and taking a breath got me half a chapter and back into that much desired connection with my characters.

I don't recommend waiting until the muse hits or inspiration strikes, but writing. I continued writing other things, blog posts like this one, for instance. It's more important to be open to the characters, leave a wide open connection, than it is to bash at the problem as the characters move farther and farther away.

My problem has been due to a disconnect with the story line and the characters and, in writing a period piece like this Victorian gothic novel, the right connection is all important. I have vowed not to go haring off after another book that needs to be written now while the iron is hot. I have had story ideas that gestated for years before they came into being on the page, and this one has been put on the back burner twice to bring books to publication. It's Delilah's turn to shine.

This time I'm following a slightly different direction, but it's not far off what I thought was true and will result in a satisfying conclusion and the book that I've been trying to write for some time, ever since an article on Jack the Ripper and a conversation about Victorian morality made the connections in my brain that began this journey. I should have learned the lesson a long time ago: finish what you start. I'll finish it, somewhat later than originally planned, but this time I won't lose the connection. Excuse me, but I have work to do.

What's in it for the Boys?

2011-08-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

Amanda Hocking wrote about an article she read on the NY Times Sunday Book Review about boys and their reading habits that I found interesting. Basically, what the article said is that the numbers of boys who read is because current YA books "...lack the tough, edgy story lines that allow boys a private place to reflect on the inner fears of failure and humiliation they try so hard to brush over. Editors who ask writers of books for boys to include girl characters — for commercial reasons — further blunt the edges."

While the article did mention some specific books targeting boys, I think the problem is simpler and more basic. Boys do read, but the boys who read books early in life are usually the boys whose time is not consumed by sports or a lot of outside activities. With all the schoolwork and extra curricular activities and sports, who has time to read for pleasure? There are only so many hours in a day.

I do agree, however, that the reading landscape is much different now than it was in the 1950s and 1960s, and even into the 1970s, and has become more constricted because of the fear of upsetting parents and creating yet another war over what books should and should not be allowed. The classics are safe and time-tested and edgier current novels less so. Boys began reading children's books about explorers and then moved on to adult males like Heinlein, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. Nowadays, boys move from children's books, if they read at all, and are flummoxed at the length and breadth of adult and YA literature due to the predominantly female protagonists -- or maybe not. Could it be that boys and men are lying about what the read for fear of being thought gay?

I know many men and young men who read a lot. None of them are or have been overly involved in sports (that time thing again, only 24 hours in a day). They do enjoy gaming, which tends to be a more active pursuit than sitting quietly in a chair and reading, but they do not care much for the novelization of their favorite games, most of which read like gaming manuals. In cases like that, it's better to play than read. The men I know read across a wide swath of literature, from nonfiction to science fiction, fantasy (mostly vampire and werewolf fiction), and a few into the verges of romance and mainstream fiction. They like Grisham and Palahniuk as much as Rowling and Meyer. My brother, who has always been a voracious reader, sticks pretty close to science fiction and fantasy (IT professional) and enjoys Anne McCaffrey and Piers Anthony. For him, it's the writing and characters and not whether they are male or female.

For what it's worth, the literary landscape, in my estimation, has become as narrow as the minds of principals and schoolboard members. Women writers used to write male protagonists as believably as their female counterparts and there was no gender bias either way. While there are still some good writers able to cross gender lines with their protagonists, and quite a few emerging that write gender neutral and gay stories for readers of all ages, the choices are limited unless you know where to look, and care about looking at all.

When all is said and done, the real numbers about whether or not boys and men are reading and what they are reading are skewed. Not everyone likes to talk about what they're reading or that, like my nephews, they are reading Stephanie Meyers and Charlaine Harris and Kim Harrison, among other paranormal writers, where the protagonists are female and the emphasis is on romance and sex. I suspect it has always been that way. Then again, my nephews were never big on sports and neither was my brother. An active life in sports takes up time with preparing and training for the game, playing the game, and dissecting and talking about the game after it's over, none of which leaves much time for reading.

It all comes down to time and whether or not there is enough time for reading. I'd like to see a study with that as the focus instead of whether or not the fiction is available for boys to read and not feel as though they are being stereotyped.

Editing, the Gentler Side

2011-08-15T07:43:00.001-06:00

Editing professionals is often difficult. Few writers thank you for bloodying their pages. Editing amateurs is usually much worse. Case in point: editing my sister's story for anthology submission.

Professionals, and most advanced amateurs, realize that what they write isn't perfect and it often takes a practiced eye to catch the faux pas, grammar goofs, and sentence structure problems that should be fixed, especially if publication is the goal. Editing my sister is always an exercise in perceived brutality and rampant perfectionism (mine) and inflicted pain and torture (hers). I am neither a brute nor a rampant perfectionist, but you will not convince her of that. I live to correct her. No, I live to write and correcting writing is a byproduct of the process, and I've dealt with my share of slash and burn sessions with editors, some of which I accepted with grace and some I accepted with grace after a spate of turning the air blue with curses, calling the editors' intelligence and competence into question, and envisioning the editor staked out naked over a red ant hill covered in honey in the middle of a desert with a pool of water just out of reach, although those incidents are rare and no editors have been harmed, except within the confines of my very fertile brain.

My sister (I'll call her Beanie. It is her nickname after all) sent me her essay about taking care of our dad when he was dying of cancer four years ago. She got a few facts wrong (dying four years ago and not five) and has a tendency toward run-on sentences, most of which are immediately apparent. It's the way she talks as well. It's partly my fault because I told her to talk it out and then type up what she recorded.

The central theme of the essay is taking care of dad and how that felt, which is in there. It is buried beneath a ton of sibling rancor and emotional detritus that is not going to make it into an anthology that is meant to feature the up side of life. This is all mostly downer. I get to tell her that she needs to dump most of what she has written and write more. She's going to love me.

The point is to do this delicately without hurting her feelings too much. She expects a little pain since she's known me all her life, but the pain must be quick and minimal. It's a balancing act.

The trick is to point up the good things -- and there are a few of those -- and show how to make the bad things go away or improve with a positive slant, sort of like political spin, except not so blatant. The point of the essay -- how difficult it was to balance her own life with taking care of dad -- is buried three paragraphs down and the dialogue is not in dialogue format. The latter is an easy fix. More description is needed, like how dad looked and how she saw him, and that will be fairly easy to fix once I can dig and drag it out of her. Beanie is a very private person and not so in your face and out there as I am. Another balancing act is necessary: me balancing criticism with praise and guidance.

It can be done and, in this case, must be done. Even if Beanie never writes anything else for publication, at least she will have tangible evidence that she wrote a memorial to Dad and shared it with others. It will be cathartic and also a bit of an ego boost that she had something published, both of which she needs right now. My job is to get her published.

One thing I've learned in editing and critiquing is that people remember what they read last. It is important to emphasize the praise and gently insert the criticism. I must do something right because, despite my red pen wielding slash-and-burn editing sessions, many of the writers I work with keep coming back and sending more people my way. I'm certain they turned the air blue and cursed me to the lowest circle of hell before they thanked me for my help. Beanie will curse me directly and will remember the time I slashed and burned my way through her writing right before she thanks me for helping her make the writing better.

When Beanie was taking some college English courses, she ranted about my editing. When I asked her what grades she received, she smiled and said she passed with an A. I hope a similar scenario will ensue, which is writer speak for, I hope she feels the same way this time.

In editing, as in dealing with anyone who could be homicidal given the right circumstances, it is best to deal gently with the writer, especially when the writer is an amateur. Use their words to best advantage, praise the good things, and help the writer see why removing a chunk of the text makes the work better. Last of all, add a dollop of praise and a pat on the back, and step aside to avoid the sling and arrows of the outraged writer. You'll live longer and be able to edit again.

The White Rabbit's Dilemma

2011-08-12T09:45:00.002-06:00

"I'm late. I'm late for a very important date." The White Rabbit checked his pocket watch, twitched his long ears, and tugged down a corner of his waistcoat. "I'm late. Can't stop or off with my head." He ran off with Alice chasing after asking, "Why? What's so important?"

It's not verbatim from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, but the gist is about right. The White Rabbit raced to and fro across Wonderland while the Caterpillar puffed on its hookah and contemplated the fate of the Underverse, which is where down the rabbit hole leads. It all comes down to time. Time enough to do what needs doing and time enough to relax and do what you really want to do. It's all about time.

The same is true for people on the surface of this planet, people rushing to and fro, checking their watches, cell phones, and clocks wherever they happen to be, checking their look in mirrors and windows on businesses everywhere, to make sure they are looking good and on time. It doesn't pay -- or so the saying goes -- to be late or look less than perfect, unless you're homeless where hygiene and the best designer clothes just will not do. The right look, the right time, the right everything -- and no one thinks about the finer things in life or what all those gadgets and time-savers are actually saving time for.

People spend more time in the bathroom washing away every scent that doesn't come out of a bottle or from a jar, bar, or potion. Teeth must be whitened and hair washed, conditioned, gelled, moussed, fluffed, blown dry, and tousled to look just right. Clothes must be pressed, dry cleaned, washed, and hung on special hangers -- wire hangers just will not do. Drapes, curtains, furniture, cappuccino machines, milk frothers, food processors, blenders, microwaves, griddles, grills, juicers, pulpers, composters for trash and food, and all the spices, herbs, and flavorings to make breakfast, lunch, and supper memorable meals with plenty of sweets and cakes, pies, tarts, turnovers, and cookies. Everything must look and taste the best and no one must be bored.

So much time spent rushing around making sure everything looks perfect, smells sweet or spicy, making money to buy things that must be cleaned, polished, wiped, and looked at, time spent accumulating things at prices less than fifty years ago would have been considered insane, and all done with the television and stereo blasting and nothing is really getting done, especially if you're a writer.

I always wanted to be a writer, says the person who is certain that being a writer is a life of ease and personal appearances, book signings, readings, and cashing huge royalty checks, but I never had the time.

No, they didn't have the time because there were too many other things in the way ticking like bombs that must be defused or at least put on pause while they exercised, watched TV, ran the kids here and there, and generally wasted time fussing with complicated recipes or going to get dinner and bring it home because there was no time to cook. How much is lost because we think we don't have enough time.

It all comes down to time and time is mostly wasted. If you can write 500 words a day, that comes out to two typed pages, you can write a book in a year. Write 1000 words a day, four pages, and cut that time in half, finishing a book in six months, 180 days. That's two books a year, and if you're middle-aged, that would still be sixty books over the next thirty years, providing you have thirty years, and forty books over twenty years isn't too bad either. If you're in your twenties, do the math. Two books a year and a working life span of at least forty years and that's eighty books. It is possible when you break it down to basic math, but it's not the pages that will get you, it's the time.

Time lost. Time wasted. Time spent moaning and groaning. Time used watching television whilte talking on the cell phone or playing games on the computer or chatting on Facebook, LiveJournal, or Twitter. Any number of blogs or web sites beckon and begged to suck the teat of time and leave nothing for writing, for living the dream you've been harboring in some secret locked part of a mind cupboard.

Technology is supposed to save time, give time for other more important things, and I don't mean shopping, networking, socializing, or whatever it is you do with the time that is left over from not having to do things manually, the hard and slow way. Typewriters made writing books easier (for writer and publisher) by making the words legible and set in a specific format. Word processors took it to the next level and left behind Wite-Out and correction strips, carbon paper, and special erasers, and computers took the process one step further, saving the words and pages in the correct format on floppy disks and then on thumb drives, about the length of the thumb. The words don't take up much space in ones and zeroes, and a 16GB drive will save thousands of books -- if you write them -- but it all comes back to time. Making time, having time, spending time -- to write.

When there were fewer gadgets and time saving devices, people had fewer demands on their time and fewer sirens seducing them to waste time. Work got done. Meals were made and dishes washed and put away. And books were written, and what books they were -- and are. It's all about time.

We all have the same 24 hours each day, but how we spend them is up to us. We can spend the time working to acquire more things to make life easier that will suck up more time away from that dream of writing books, which is not necessarily a glamorous life, not down here in the trenches where the words are written, stories are plotted, characters are given life, and books are put together, but it is a life that offers some rewards, not the least of which is satisfaction in seeing dreams come to life. It's a life. It's a choice -- a choice in what to do and how to spend all those hours saved from other labor, a choice that means turning your back on the seduction of things and get down to the nitty gritty of writing a book. Two pages a day or four pages a day, or ten pages a day, it can be done. All it takes is time.

Do you have the time?

The battery in my watch is dead.

The above is 1137 words, a little over four pages, and it took me 20 minute to write. How about it? Have you the time?

Riots, Powder Kegs, and Time

2011-08-11T09:05:00.001-06:00

Parents out of town and teenagers, left to their own devices, will have a party. It's like the reason for climbing Mt. Everest, or any big mountain, because it's there. Food, alcohol, plenty of space, and the parents are gone, so why not have a party. That's how I see the riots in England in the wake of a constable's death. It's a reason for a party or, in this case, a riot. A chance to break into shops and take whatever is wanted -- or needed.

In times of economic difficulty, especially in the heat of summer when tempers are short and the temperature is high, cities and towns are like powder kegs with fire burning nearby. One inch to close and BOOM! The constable's death was an excuse, not a reason, and the powder keg blew with stunning force. Shop windows were broken and contents damaged and stolen. Police were called out to keep order and one bookseller, whose store was in the heart of the rioting, kept his cool. He is reported to have said that if the rioters want to steal his books it was fine with him; they might learn something. That's the thing about books, they change a person's perspectives, feed a hunger for education, and provide a safe place to play and imagine a different life. It's why most authors write books, too, and, evidently, why booksellers get into the business of selling books to the public.

Borders, a bookstore that has been an institution, is now closed. The remaining stock will be parceled out to remainder shops or other bookstores to satisfy some of the chain's debts and the stores will remain empty, homes for spider, or will morph into something else: a dance club, a big box bargain or scratch and dent store, or even a getaway for drug addicts looking for a safe place to shoot up or smoke themselves into a different reality. Too bad they didn't get hooked on books and fall into worlds created just for getting away from reality and imagining a different life.

It wasn't in a Borders bookstore, although I spent many hours on Sundays when I was living in Texas, reading, sipping fruit juice, water, or hot chocolate, writing in a journal, or reading a book I picked from the shelves, but in a Waldenbooks bookstore in the Westgate mall in Columbus, Ohio where I got my first taste of worlds and adventures that would change my perspectives and my life. That was where, from across the store, I caught sight of a book cover with three people on it, grouped together like a force of nature. I was drawn to the Science Fiction and Fantasy aisle of the store and I picked up the book. It was Three Against the Witch World by Andre Norton. I was fascinated by the blurb I read and bought the book, taking it home with me. I haven't looked back at that moment for a very long time, but, last night while I was being interviewed for a biography about Andre, that moment came back to me as clear and sharp as it was the moment it happened nearly forty years ago. I was in full reverse mode, sharing the books and stories that I remember best, and talking about a friend who is now gone, a woman who became my mentor, and we met in a bookstore.

I received a Kindle a few months ago and I thoroughly enjoy being able to download books to read. The Kindle is light and convenient and the battery lasts quite a while, especially if I turn off the screensaver. I found that out the other day when I had to recharge it, thinking I had a lot more time on the battery. Even though I already own A Storm of Swords in paperback (part of a four-book boxed set), I decided to buy and download the book to my Kindle. Am I the reason Borders went out of business?

As self-centered as I can sometimes be, I know I'm not the reason Borders closed their doors. Bad business practices is what did Borders in, otherwise Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, and Books-a-Million would close their doors and call it quits. All of those bookstores, Borders included, sold more than books. They also sold CDs and DVDs of music, movies, and television shows, stationery, magazines, and pens, and some of them sold coffee and food. No one person or lack of people is responsible for Borders going under. It's like the riots in England, no one precipitating event caused people to slip their tethers and go berserk. It's a lot of different reasons catalyzed by a single event or series of events. Borders was a powder keg and someone lit a match too nearby, so it blew.

I don't mourn Borders too much. There are still bookstores with little cafes where I can sit on a Sunday sipping iced cappuccino and read a book on my Kindle or write in a journal, and there are plenty of small bookstores that will now get the book buyers and browsers who once frequented Borders.

These are volatile times financially, politically, and businesswise, powder kegs with fire sparking and burning nearby. There is no telling which powder keg will explode first. Anything is possible. There might be some good Samaritan who will put out the fire and put move the powder keg to a safe place -- or not. Nothing stays the same for long. Everything changes.

One thing never changes and that is the need and desire for knowledge and a place to get away from the cares and woes of the world, places that can be found in a book. Like the bookseller who said, "Let them break in and steal the books. They might learn something," I, too, am confident that what people want can be found between the pages of a book -- print and electronic -- wherein is contained the wisdom of the ages -- and quite a few silly and bad stories. Jump in, the reading's fine.

Price Fixing and Other Publishing Games

2011-08-10T07:42:00.001-06:00

A year or so ago, Amazon knuckled under to the big publishers and agreed not to discount their ebooks any more. It was a tough decision and Amazon hung out as long as possible, but in the eleventh hour there was nothing to do but bow the head and take it like a big corporation should. It was tough to see the end of that fight . . . but it's not over yet.

It looks like Apple and the Big Publishers are facing a lawsuit for price fixing. Imagine that. Apple and the big publishers wanted to keep Amazon on a leash because Apple and Steve Jobs were afraid that Amazon would get into the movie and music downloading business, and Jobs wanted that corner of the world for himself. Guess it came back to bite him in his nether regions and he may be forced to give up hsi dream of world domination.

A few days ago, Steve Jobs, looking very thin and ill and having some trouble navigating the stage, unveiled the Apple iCloud, which is similar to the Amazon Cloud Drive, and how even the Mobile Me, which Jobs admitted was a bust, would be incorporated and the annual price, which was $99/year for Mobile Me, was now free. It was a moving moment for the audience, as was the demonstration of what iCloud will do, and that is synch all input from the cloud to every device -- as long as you own Apple products (Mac, iPhone, iPod, etc.).

The thing is, in business you don't beat the competition by making them play on a different field or by taking them off the field completely, but by playing head to head and toe to toe and may the best man win. That is not what happened with Amazon last year and not what is happening now.

On forums all over the Internet, people are complaining about paying near hard cover prices for ebooks. The perceived value is that a file endlessly downloaded and formatted once should not cost as much as a hard cover, paper and board book, and even more than a paperback because there are no physical resources involved. Militant readers are calling for boycotts of the big publishers and waiting on books they really want to be remaindered or become available as secondhand books. Either way, publishers aren't paying attention and neither it seems is Steve Jobs at Apple. They can't see readers are beginning to fight back.

To further expunge all mention of Amazon or links to Amazon in ebooks, books sold in the Apple store through Smashwords must have no mention of Amazon, or any other bookstore, and no links are allowed, which cuts an author's chance to cheaply market their ebooks. Not everyone owns a iPhone, iPad, or Mac and authors know that. Making links to other bookstores is one way to provide access to books and offers a few alternatives for point of sale. When I submitted the revised version of Among Women to Smashwords I was told I had to take down all links other than Apple iStore links or my book would not be distributed at all. Apple's draconian measures affect all the bookstores where Smashwords distributes ebooks, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, Kobo, Sony, etc. Since when does one store have the right to determine what is and is not allowed for other stores? Never, until Apple got into the price fixing and smash Amazon game.

Add to that little titbit, the news that the big publishers' accounting systems are out of date and sales of ebooks are being under reported. In other words, more ebooks are sold than are reported and authors are not getting paid royalties for all ebooks sold. That's not news to authors. We know what is and is not going on with our money.

Publishers have been playing an end game that is going to cost them the reason for their existence -- authors. Self-publishing is looking better and better, even if an eStributor, as Joe Konrath calls agents to help package and manage sales of ebooks, is involved. Even though it was not their intention, it looks like the big publishers and Apple, under the guidance of Steve Jobs, who has not gotten over what happened in the beginning days of computers and operating systems, are going to have to pay for their price fixing and cavalier attitudes towards authors and competitors.

Every day is a new day and in the publishing word outside of the behemoth that traditional publishing has become, each new day hammers a new nail into the coffin. When you add in factors like literary agent, Andrew Wylie's railing against the 30% share of the market distributors like Apple and Amazon get from publishers and calling on publishers to stand firm against such tactics. The Jackal, as Wylie is called, said that Amazon and Apple should be willing to go quid quo pro and give publishers 30% of sales of iPads and Kindles to publishers if they wanted to protect the 30% they demand stating, "They [Amazon and Apple] have the device, but they cannot sell it without the content." Wylie's deal with Amazon to sell ebooks of his clients' back lists seems to fly in the face of his stand against Amazon and Apple, especially in the face of Random House publicly censuring Wylie by calling him a competitor instead of a deal broker between authors and publishers.

Yes, boys and girls, this is a volatile age we live in and the battles in publishing have just begun. Personally, not having to deal with agents and the ponderously slow time table of publishers seems more and more like a smart move, especially when my own publisher can't be bothered to send out quarterly statements quarterly and prefers to do it annually. Granted, the sales have been slow, but they have picked up and here we are in the third quarter without a single word from the publisher. At least Smashwords and Amazon pay every month without fail, no matter what royalties have been earned.

When All Else Fails -- Discipline

2011-08-08T06:22:00.000-06:00

One of the most wonderful things in the world, at least for me and those like me, is writing. One of the worst things in the world is not writing, at least as far as being prolific is concerned, or finding oneself unable or unwilling to write. That's where discipline and habit come in.

The act of writing is a choice for some, a necessity for a few, and an addiction for others. Writing is more than just putting words on the page, virtual or paper. It's a calling and a curse. It's joy and sorrow and heartbreak and proof of life and heart and mind and determination. Without putting too fine a point on things, in order to be viable as a writer, as a published writer, it is necessary to develop, learn, or get into the habit of writing, to be disciplined. Often, discipline is the only thing that will keep a writer going when the going is hard and there seems to be no other way to get the words down.

It takes six weeks to create a habit and a lifetime to keep it going. Stephen King, in his book On Writing, writes about his daily regimen, his habit, his discipline and everything he does to make it happen. Even on vacation in England, he continued to write; he doesn't believe in taking days off. The result of his discipline is an impressive body of work.

I remember a story about a 19th century writer who worked in the local post office. He got up early in the morning and wrote for a specified amount of time, shutting himself in his room to write. When he finished one book, he didn't rest on his laurels or allow himself the luxury of marketing, networking, socializing, or post publishing blues, he picked up another sheet of paper and began his next book, continuing to write until his time was up and he must leave for work. That is discipline, and it is also commitment to the task.

As I've struggled with moving forward on the latest book, I've found that I have lost steam, lost headway in the process. I let the book sit for too long and have had trouble getting back into the minds of my characters -- at least on a conscious level. Unconsciously, all the characters are there, especially my narrator, and she speaks to me at odd times -- most often while I'm sleeping. The only trick (and it's not really a trick per se) I know is to just get on with the business of writing, keep the fingers typing and the pen full of ink and moving across the page. I cannot afford to let this book drop out of sight because it is a good book, an interesting book full of all kinds of contradictions, surprises, truths, and a fair amount of horror. What I have lost, other than time, is that forward momentum that propelled me through the last book in two weeks. That's what I need now.

Since I'm out of the disciplined habit of writing every day at the same time (I prefer early in the predawn hours because I tend to be more focused and creative at that hour), it's time to get back into the groove and rebuild my habit, reforge the discipline necessary to get through this rough patch.

Writing isn't all champagne launches and standing room only queues of fans waiting for a moment to hobnob with the author and get a signature on a copy of the book. Writing is like anything else that is worth doing -- a long hard slog at the worst of times and a determined one foot in front of the other procession down the path without side trips.

Back into the breach I go, full of determination and knowing that what comes out at first may well and truly suck, but will get easier and better with time -- with discipline.

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to writing I go.

If you're having trouble getting the words onto the page and can't seem to get them just right, the only thing left to do is write and keep writing and then, in the cold harsh light of day, go back through and edit, rewrite, and do what's necessary to turn the straw into gold. You may find that some of that straw glistens already and what you thought was sub par may be better than you hoped.

Discipline is the key to keep going and the fear of the page or failure or success or whatever is bothering you will fade away as the daily writing habit kicks in. Don't let it fool you. Vacations are optional and there will always be time for that hour or two or five when it's you and the page and the words.

Good writing.

Make Room and They Will Come

2011-08-06T16:50:00.002-06:00

Sentences and dialogue swirled in my mind as I walked toward the front door and I refused to turn back and open the laptop or grab paper and pen. I knew what would happen the moment I sat down, the words would disappear and the dialogue turn trite as I struggled to remember the exact phrasing, the position of noun, verb, adjective, adverb, and connecting words. It happened the same way every time I sat on the porcelain throne or stood in the shower with my hands full of lather when I washed my hair. Everything came clear. The next scene, the next transition, the next everything, and all disappeared the moment I attempted to grab them from the ether and give them substance on screen or paper. It wasn't writer's block; there was no block, no impediment. It was as though it was leaking out and being funneled somewhere other than where I needed it to go.

That's the way it has been for the past few months and my latest book languishes for lack of words.

I finally managed to finish the last chapter I'd begun and I continue to soldier on, but it should not be this difficult. I should be able to sit down and put the words together as I'm doing now, and sometimes it is that way; most of the time the words elude me, playing hide and seek or catch as catch can when I need a rousing game of Rover, Rover, come on over, except with words.

If this is post publishing blues, it's the longest stretch I've endured to date. I began and finished the next book about a month after publication of my first solo novel. It took two years to edit and rewrite, but that's the way it is when anything is done by committee. I even took a few months off to let things rest and my temper to cool from all the helpful input I kept getting, none of which was helpful or input anything other than spleen and venom. How does one use too many verbs anyway?

As I tried to figure all this out the same way I've always done -- by writing things out in my paper journals (pen and paper have always been the best way for me to think) -- it all came clear, or at least as clear as anything does in my experience. I needed to stop worrying that what went onto the page had to be perfect the first time around. If I learned anything from my last novel, it is that sometimes it takes time to make a book, even one that is self-published. I'd have to struggle through the trite dialogue and lackluster descriptions and uninspired plotting and just get on with it. The book would be finished and the real work (editing, rewriting) could begin, but not until I actually finished the book. I'm still adding bits and bobs to the last novel, which is a lot easier since I can upload the latest version without going through a lot of red tape and hem-hawing about. I can't move on to the next book until this one is finished.

It's hard sometimes because I have so many responsibilities and so much to do, to carve out a few hours, or even one hour, of writing time, as evidenced by the lack of daily posts here and on other blogs. Everything seems to pile up until I am at the bottom of a tottering heap about to be crushed by the sheer weight of it all. Like housework and the laundry, I have to stop trying to do it all at once and be content to do what I can when I can. Work, unfortunately, is non-negotiable. I have no choice in when I have to do that, but there is a little latitude with my other responsibilities, like reviewing books. I need a break and so I shall take one after I finish the latest box of goodies to be read and reviewed. I'll take a month or two off and focus on finishing the current book and beginning the next one. Yeah, that'll work.

In the end, it is all about focus, concentrating fully on one task at a time, instead of trying to work it all in and giving short shrift to the task at hand, and I've been wasting so much time in being indecisive and avoidance. Time to reassess. That's what I'm doing now: reassessing.

I used to have time for writing, but I carried a much smaller load in those days, and picked up a lot of rejections. I don't need to worry about rejection as long as I'm self-publishing, but I do need to concentrate on quality and getting things done. Time to do another mental spring cleaning and get rid of all the time wasters and detours.

That's what I will be doing. Cross your fingers that I don't decide that posting isn't one of the things to go.

No, it will probably end up being useless things like men and dating and cooking. It's amazing what a variety of frozen and precooked meals are available these days. And there are always sandwiches.

The words will come if I give them space and concentrate. That is all that is necessary -- that the words come. Build it -- or in this case spread out and make room -- and they will come.

Book Review Dos and Don'ts

2011-08-01T12:30:00.001-06:00

There is something disheartening about reviews. Either a whole bunch of negative people review a book, most of whom have no sense of spelling, grammar, or punctuation, let alone story, plot, characterization, or few people write a review. They might email and tell the author the enjoyed the book and try to engage the author in a long, drawn out email conversation, which isn't productive and often means time lost writing, or they come up to an author at a con or book signing and gush about a book, never having taken the time to go online and review the book.

In this cyber age, it is important to put the remarks in writing -- and not just the negative remarks since that seems to be most of the kinds of reviews made. So many people with so many grudges. You can tell the author how much you liked a book, or books, but put it in writing. Amazon has the most visible and oft used review system of all the bookstores, but take the time to cut and paste your comments into B&N, Goodreads, or your favorite indie bookstore, like Powell's, all of which have good review forums.

One thing the online review process has created is a forum for the discontented and disgruntled to write their opinions and be heard. It's best if authors don't check the websites very often. It can be deflating, disheartening, and downright down casting if you've a thin skin or are new to the game. It seems people like to trash an author's work, but there are plenty of reviewers (and I use the term loosely) who have not a clue how to write or score a review, so I'll offer a couple of points.

First, if you liked the book but it had a few errors in formatting (check for an updated copy if it's a free review copy) and the story didn't turn out the way you wanted it to, and was well written, the least score should be 3 stars. Giving a writing 2 stars and saying how much you enjoyed the book is like sending mixed signals on a first date. Good thing the author can't drop a roofie in your drink and have their wicked way with you.

Secondly, if you loved the book and there were no errors or formatting problems, and the story was well written overall, give it 5 stars. The more errors or the more problems you had with the story, down grade by 1-star increments.

Two-star reviews are for those books that had merit but were not particularly well written, had too many formatting or spelling/grammar/punctuation errors and didn't come up to the mark.

One-star reviews are reserved for utter crap, including that the author couldn't write his or her way out of a paperback with a hole it and a sharp knife to hand.

Above all, be fair. Be honest. And don't take out your bad day on the author. It's not their fault.

If the book didn't end the way you wanted it to, don't take that out on the author either. It is the author's view and not yours. If you want a different ending, write one, but don't penalize the author by exercising your fits of pique with a low review when otherwise the book was good, or even excellent.

Reviewing is an art form that professionals learn how to do through years of experience and background in writing critiques. Reviewing in the cyberworld is somewhat different and mostly akin to a group of people talking about a book in a book club or among a group of friends. Keep that in mind. Very few reviewers are professionals on Amazon, but a few pros do slip through from time to time. Learn to write a substantive critique and keep it clean.

It's a tough world out there and Amazon reviews are the currency favored by the market right now. If you need help writing a review, ask someone with some experience, or write it the way you would tell it to a friend. Use a voice recorder if it helps.

Review books, preferably on days you're not having a major case of PMS, haven't fought with your boyfriend/girlfriend/boss/mother/father/siblings, got up on the right side of the bed, and didn't have car trouble or a bad hair day. Reviews are about the book, not your personal perils and petulance.

You can say whatever you like but do it with some class. It makes a difference.

Back in the Saddle

2011-07-31T07:37:00.001-06:00

At long last, I am getting back into the language of Victorian England and putting words on the screen. That's a good feeling, especially when I have been slogging for so long, unable to get through the horse latitudes of ending one project and getting back to another. It takes time to get into the right frame of mind and the cadence of language from a different era, but I'm finally there with another chapter down. It's a bit rough in spots, but that is what editing and polishing are for -- working out the rough spots.

I've decided to give myself a treat once I've finished with a certain number of pages and chapters, and that is a holiday in another time and place with different characters. They are the carrot on the end of the writing stick. It is important to reward yourself for accomplishing set goals. I may even serialize the novel online, but I'm not quite there yet. Right now is all about getting back into the story and seeing it unfold on the screen, and that is a good feeling.

There are so many different levels to writing, not the least of which is finding a pace that suits the characters and the writer, all the while expecting and dealing with changes in the weather, so to speak. Some days, writing can be like skimming along a smooth track without a care in the world or a cloud on the horizon. Other days, it's more like slogging through mud up to your knees that sucks you down and makes forward movement downright difficult. It's important to keep slogging until you get to smooth ground again or nothing ever gets done.

There are times that other characters and stories beckon and seduce. I do my best to ignore them, taking notes when possible and remembering and noting details for exploration later. Distraction is a form of procrastination and should not be indulged. That's always hard for me to remember since I tend to be a bit of a magpie with new ideas, characters, and bits of research that lead in different directions from the one I'm currently traveling. That's where discipline comes in, but discipline and I have a rocky relationship. Discipline throws rocks to get my attention and I bob and weave and go off track. Like I said, a rocky relationship.

This morning was different. I felt the muse stirring and decided to follow her back into the fray. Now I'm past that awkward part in the story where clues are slipped in and a bit of foreshadowing done, I can move on to the meat of the story, coming back later to smooth out the bumps and brush away the cobwebs that gathered in the months between when I put the story down and picked it up again determined to move through it. It's a little like exercising after being a couch potato long enough for the pops and clicks of unused muscles, and the inevitable ache that settles, makes me wonder why I ever decided that exercise was a good thing.

At any rate, moving ahead is painful at first but gets easier each day -- as long as I minimize distractions and focus on getting some work done. In spite of the fits and starts, it does feel good to be back on track with a specific and reachable goal ahead. No one said writing was easy, but the rewards are worth it, as long as I don't think about the reviewers that will inevitably dislike what I've achieved. It's all right. Everyone is entitled to an opinion -- even when it's wrong.

From Amateur to School Girl -- Again

2011-07-27T06:44:00.001-06:00

A reviewer, who admitted she doesn't read the kind of book I write, said "the writing and character development seemed a little amateurish." I guess a little amateurish is like being a little virginal. On the cusp of being a tramp and on the road to whorish -- or something like that. At least it's a three-star review, so I'm not going to worry.

Not worry? I'm going back to school. Maybe I can burnish the rest of the amateur out of my writing.

I did decide to go back to school, in a way, by signing up for Great Courses. It was a huge bargain, $39.95 down from $215. College at bargain basement prices, and no exams or dissertations or angst about what to wear to class. I always obsessed about having enough paper and a pen and pencil that worked. Silly me. I may even take the course on rhetoric and critique. It's likely my reviewing skills may also seem a little amateurish. Of course, I've earned enough money to buy food when the bills depleted my regular income, and I've had to pay taxes on the earnings for the past six years. Do amateurs pay taxes on earnings? Oh, well, not important.

I decided to try out one of the Great Courses since I've been receiving their catalogues for years. With the long list for the Booker Prize out today, it just makes sense to brush up my reading, writing, and critiquing skills. I took a look at the list and checked them all out on Amazon to see what was available for Kindle and at what prices.

Surprisingly, four of the books were out of print even though they were published within the past few months, and nearly all of the books were priced at near hard cover price, and often more than the paperback price. I guess publishers just don't get it.

How does a book go out of print in the seven weeks since it was published? Low print runs. Most of the books were published with a less than 6000 print run -- for all countries. Had they chosen to offer digital files (at realistic rates), the books would still be available while reprint orders were being made. I guess they didn't believe in the books enough to order a print run sufficient to sell to interested readers, and ebooks readers do actually read. I've finished six books on Kindle and just received the Kindle the first of May. Of course, it goes without saying that I've read many more books in print (that's what the office sends me to review) and a few in digital form that is not compatible with the Kindle. The total is, I believe thirty books that I didn't read on Kindle, and that's a conservative estimate. I've also read two of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice books (A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings, and have begun A Storm of Swords) and have nibbled The Bone People, a Booker Prize winner from 1985 that was a gift from a friend who said after the second chapter she realized the main female character was me.

One of my guilty pleasures, and not including Martin's saga, is the Nikki Heat mysteries written by Richard Castle, of television fame. Now there was a bright marketing ploy. A character on a TV show (one of the few I stream) is an author of mystery novels and, in real life, there are books written by said TV character featuring his partner and love interest, Detective Kate Beckett, aptly named Nikki Heat.

The writing is simple and the mysteries not that difficult to solve, and the byplay between Heat and her literary shadow, magazine writer Jameson Rook (who also writes romance novels as Victoria St. Clair), is heated, to say the least. It's fluff writing but it's fun, hence guilty pleasure. I've read Heat Wave and am working my way through Naked Heat, although the naked part is sadly missing so far, and I'm reading them on Kindle at a price below the paperback price. What a concept. The thing is, I'm enjoying the books, just as I enjoyed reading Terry Pratchett's Discworld series on Kindle.

Kindle is a great product and I'm enjoying the heck out of mine -- when I'm not reading review books, like Prophecy by S. J. Parris or Deed to Death by D. B. Henson, whose writing is long on detail and short on action through the first half of the book. D. B. Henson was first self-published and then picked up by Simon & Schuster, so indie to traditionally published still happens, and not just to Amanda Hocking, who is wringing the very last drop of tease out of her move to St. Martin's Press with her troll series.

What surprised me about the Booker Prize news this morning was the slap at Apple for not having any of the digital books available from the long list and being questioned as to whether they were players or just playing. I guess Apple is an amateur compared to Amazon, but you didn't hear that from me.

So, while the publishing world is heating up and plots are being bandied about, I will return to the beginning and learn to construct artful sentences in an effort to shake off that amateurish taint in my writing and character development. After all, writing is evolution and to write and sell one must evolve.