In Memory

It is inevitable when you get to a certain age that death comes quicker for people you know. I didn't expect this one.

Shelby was in the 1974 graduating class at West High School in Columbus, Ohio and I knew her mostly through other people, like her first husband, Rob, who was close to my best friend, Connie. Rob was in band and so was Connie's first husband, Tom.

I saw Shelby at the 15th reunion with Rob and we chatted briefly. I think she knew Hoity-Toity better than she knew me, but that is to be expected since they were in the same graduating class. I got to know Shelby better on Facebook over the past year and she seemed happy and contented with her life. She posted pictures of her children and grandchildren and of her husband and she shared thoughts, quotes, and pictures that were special to her and demonstrated her faith.

This year marked the 40th anniversary of the class of 1973 graduating from WHS. The reunion was held at a casino in Columbus on the west side of town. Shelby had been diagnosed with cancer a few weeks before the reunion and was in a lot of pain. She handled it the best way she could, but I think being invited to join our class reunion helped a lot. Many of my classmates knew Shelby very well and inviting her to the reunion made perfect sense. Shelby didn't plan to go since she was in the class behind us, but at the last minute (the day of the reunion) she decided to go and was welcomed with laughter and open arms.

When I woke up this morning and checked Facebook, the first thing I saw was that classmates were asking for prayers for Shelby's family's loss. I didn't expect that. She had just started chemotherapy and would get better. Except she didn't. Shelby is gone and she leaves a hold in so many lives she touched with her smile and her generous heart.

I didn't know her well and I regret that now. What I have learned of her since we became friends on Facebook is that she is someone I would have enjoyed knowing better. She was a rare person, a woman of faith and family, and a person of depth and strength. She is missed by all that knew her. I miss her, too.

Have you actually met me before?

It's a question I've asked my family many times (not Beanie, of course) when they say something or characterize something I've done that is completely foreign to me. It's as if all the years we've spent together, and apart, have been meaningless and they just have not been paying attention. I expected my immediate family to know me better. I was wrong.

I can excuse someone like Beastly Bobbie, my ex-sister-in-law, to be so ignorant as to go to my brother The Idiot and ask why he couldn't control me better. No one who has ever met me and paid the least bit of attention would even consider the possibility that I can be controlled. No wonder The Idiot laughed in the face of her tears and recriminations when she shoved my letter to her in his face. Well, she did ask for it when she asked for my address so she could send me a wedding invitation to Alisha's forthcoming day of days after decades of ignoring me and making it plain I was not welcome in her home or as part of her life. She was merely trawling for gifts and figured I'd be sure to give her a really good one since I'm a rich author. Right. Just goes to show how greed can overrule any and all common sense. Having not invited me to her children's birthday parties or family get-togethers, she must have been drunk or high or just plain stupid to think I'd respond to an engraved wedding invitation with sweetness, light and a pricey wedding gift. I don't do nice and I don't stay silent when I have something to say. No one controls me or my words. It's a given -- if you've ever actually met me before.

When I relate this story to casual acquaintances or to people who have come back into my life after decades of living their own lives, and after having read my stories in anthologies or my novel, they laugh when Beastly Bobbie demands The Idiot control me. They get the joke. My family still doesn't. How could I be so cruel, so rude, so uncontrollable? Because I can and because I am too old now to be anything but honest. I have nothing to prove and no one left to impress. I am simply -- as Popeye says -- what I am, and that's all that I am. Read my writing and you'll know me better than the people who claim to be family.

But I know why they're so clueless. It's the same reason I still think of my cousin Ellen as the beautiful little girl with the long golden ponytail wearing the "I Dream of Jeannie" costume I made for her from a yellow satin and chiffon dress Mom picked up at Goodwill the year she represented Iraq in our annual summer beauty pageant. Ellen is still little, but her hair is a deep dark brown, almost black, and she is no longer a child, although she still remembers the harem costume I made her. I think that year I represented Monaco, but I don't remember the costume I made for myself. I do remember I won that year, beating out the girl whose mother had her costumes and gowns made by a dressmaker. The girl was furious, but not nearly as furious as her mother. They thought it was rigged for me to win and thought I'd cave in, but they didn't know me very well. They found out I was no pushover and wasn't about to give up my hard earned crown, whether it was covered in diamonds or glass. It was mine.

My appearance and voice are perhaps deceptive. I smile easily, laugh easily and sound innocent. A classmate from high school wrote me this morning to tell me I sounded like I was in my early twenties, and he knows how old I am because we're about the same age. He can count. He's met me before. I am playful by nature and especially like it when people loosen up enough to say what's on their mind, like another classmate who called me a smart ass last night. For the first time since we became reacquainted he unbent a little and let the real person show through. He'd asked if I was still there and I responded, "No, I'm here," to which he responded, "Smartass!" It was the best part of a very technical and involved discussion on global warming and historical evidence of socialism in an otherwise democratic republic, not that I didn't enjoy the discussion. He's an engineer and a guy (obviously from the "he" part of the sentence) and I enjoy lively debate, even when we don't agree. I surprised him that I'm not a lightweight when it comes to politics and environmental issues and he paid me by giving in to his sense of humor, something I remember he had in abundance. He always smiled and laughed easily, a little deceptive in his appearance since his affability disguised a bright wit and a brilliant intellect. I got to meet him all over again and I hope he looks forward to our next encounter.

We all have preconceived notions about people from appearances and demeanor, but it doesn't take long before the real person comes out from behind the curtain to take responsibility for the holographic shill center stage spouting fire and calling names that protected the soft chewy center of the soul and psyche. Brash, preening peacocks turn out to be dun-colored killdeer pretending a broken wing to hide their vulnerability from potential predators or cruel jibes delivered with deadly aim. Duck and cover. It's doesn't always help, but often minimizes lasting scars and pain.

As we grow older and learn to recognize predator from casual onlooker, we loosen up, unbend and stop worrying about what people think. Well, many of us do. The rest remain behind the curtain, hoping beyond hope that they will be overlooked and ignored while their alter ego is center stage full of bluff and bluster or coy looks and seductive poses to throw everyone off the scent, emotional chameleons. Some people are so caught up in their camouflage they don't pay close attention to the image they project or care to get closer to anyone else to look behind the facade until they are brought face to face with the truth. They have lived in a dream world where nothing is real and everything and everyone are shams. It's hard to get to know someone who never lets down their guard or care about anyone else when caught up in the need to hide who and what they are. I'm sure most people find themselves asking, "Have you ever really met me before?" to spouses, friends and, yes, even family. It's still frustrating, at least for me.

Yank off the bandage, forget about your chipped nail polish or lack of war pain and just be yourself. It may be one of those Jane Jetson days when you instantly reach for the mask so the caller doesn't know you look like hell and haven't put on your face or you've been so intent on finishing a difficult part in the latest story you are still wearing the ratty robe that should've been washed a couple days ago, but it's all right. Everyone has bad days, weeks, months, even years. It's best to let the worst be seen so every good day after that is a bonus. When you've seen the worst, everything else shows up in a much brighter and more flattering light. Face it, the worst will come out eventually. Get it over with right up front so the cowards can run, the phonies can excuse themselves to tend to a sick relative they just remembered was in the hospital and may die at any moment and the people who matter, and the ones who love and care about you can relax and call you a smart ass so the laughter can begin. Those are the ones worth having around, the ones who have actually met you and still think you're worth knowing, warts and all.

Vacation friendships and home

There is a poignancy about returning home from vacation. I am glad to be home as I was glad to leave, a balance of emotions and aims.

My intention on vacation was to relax and get away from the chores and duties and reminders of work that surround me every day and follow me even into sleep at times. I got what I wanted: peace and relaxation. I also got more than I asked.

My days followed no particular order or scheme, other than the impetus of the moment. I had breakfast at the B&B in the mornings and tea at the castle most afternoons, and dinner was wherever my wanderings led me, even to the point of not eating a formal dinner and snacking on something picked up on my walks. Wednesday morning was very different. The owners of the B&B surprised me with a birthday cake at breakfast, thus alerting the other guests to the significance of the day. One guest, Rob from New Mexico, chose to offer a more personal birthday greeting and took me out to dinner that evening to an Italian restaurant nearby where he grinned like an idiot when the owner brought out a birthday cake covered with blazing candles and singing Happy Birthday while the rest of the clientèle joined in. We had a pleasant evening and spirited conversation, but I was ready for the quiet and peace of my suite by the time we returned. He didn't intrude on me at breakfast the next morning and we passed in the hall as I headed to the castle for tea. Out of politeness I invited him to join me. He balked at first -- "I don't drink tea. I'm not that refined." I assured him he could have coffee if he chose and he agreed to walk me over in case I needed a strong arm to keep me from falling as it was snowy and slick outside. It didn't take much urging for him to join me and he even agreed to try the tea and was pleasantly surprised. Black oolong has quite a strong caffeine kick; I chose jasmine green tea. I prefer a less pronounced caffeine kick. Tea led to dinner on Thursday and a repeat performance on Friday evening as we were both leaving Saturday morning, he to return to New Mexico and me to return home.

I hadn't intended to meet or get involved with anyone during my vacation, but I am flexible if nothing else. Rob was quite the gentleman and didn't intrude into my plans for relaxation and getting away from work and responsibilities. He had an infectious laugh that broke through my initial reserve as he regaled me with tales of life on a sheep ranch in New Mexico. He promised to write -- real letters -- but I will not believe it until I see it. Men are notoriously inconstant correspondents. He was very handsome and five years younger, but I choose not to hold that against him. As a companion, he was friendly and intelligent and surprised me with his tales of just how much technology can be done from a sheep ranch with a more than adequate satellite hook-up. Technology and nature in one very intriguing package.

The rest of my vacation consisted of rounds of sleeping, reading, lounging in a tub that could have doubled as a swimming pool, napping, reading, fire gazing, reading, sleeping and relaxing. It's just what I needed. I felt positively boneless and limp by the end of my stay, so boneless and limp I booked a long weekend in September before I left. Rob said he had an idea that he would need another vacation by then as well to celebrate his birthday. We'll see. Vacation friendships do not always last, but they are pleasant while they do.

Getting home early, I decided to dive back into my usual weekend chores by making bread that eventually became pain perdu, otherwise known as French toast, finished up some reading, returned some phone calls and acknowledged the many birthday wishes I received while I was away and then planned dinner. I made roasted chicken with a variation on the bleu cheese sauce I make for grilled steak by adding browned mushrooms and capers for the chicken and the baked potato. It was marvelous. I actually missed my own cooking. Imagine that.

Today, I'm diving into the letters, dispatches and histories of Gaius Octavius Caesar, also known as Augustus Caesar, and reading a review book I need to finish by Tuesday, and writing this.

I want to thank everyone who remembered my birthday in their blogs and journals. I did read them while I was gone, but limited my time online to get away from it all. It was wonderful to know that so many people remembered the anniversary of my birth. It was a memorable day for me and a reminder that even though I live alone I am not alone with such friends as these.

Time to take the chicken and potato out of the oven and fix lunch, do a couple loads of laundry and dive deeper into the life of Augustus Caesar and drift with the tides and currents of history for a few hours more until it's time to roll up this day and prepare for my return to work.

Celebration day, come on

Today is a big day for celebrations. It's Groundhog Day and Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, so that means six more weeks of winter, as if you couldn't already guess. I wonder if anyone checked the woolly caterpillar's middle stripe before winter set in.

It's also Ayn Rand's birthday, Ayn Rand of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged fame. If you've not read the books, you should. Yes, they're big and they are also meaty, but they're worth the effort. If you prefer the short version, check out the movie with Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal. I think the book is better, but I came to the book through the movie.

Today is my best friend Connie's 55th birthday. She is officially a senior citizen, and I'm not far behind, just 15 more days until I hit the double nickel, too. Connie and I have known each other for nearly 40 years and we're still best friends. Her children call me Aunt Jackie and I've been there for some of the big moments, and even designed and made Dawn's senior prom dress. She still has it.

Today is also Imbolc, the festival of lights, the first Sabbat of the pagan calendar. I know some people celebrated it yesterday, but I've always celebrated it on the 2nd and not the first. Imbolc celebrates the return of light and warmth and has been co-opted by Catholics as Candlemas and Irish Catholics by St. Brigid's Day. Everyone likes to get in on the celebration since it is at this time we are halfway through winter. Winter ends technically on March 21st, and that will be the celebration of Ostara and the first equinox, that moment in the year when the day and night are in balance.

The year wears on no matter how we seek to stop its movement for an hour or a day and, although it seems as though some hours are longer than others, it's perception and not fact. Gram always told me to stop wishing my life away because there would come a day when time would flash by too fast to catch it. She was right. It seems only yesterday that I was looking forward to the holiday season and now spring is nearly upon me. The years are becoming like a juggernaut rolling away faster and faster like the pages on a calendar in the movies. I don't know if I'm sad about that or if I'm too busy to worry about it, except in moments like these. The one thing I have always counted on is change, and the movement of time, as seen by human eyes, is nothing but change from one second to the next. All I can do is appreciate this moment and the next moment and the ones that follow and be glad for friends like Connie and looking forward to reading writers like Ayn Rand, Terry Pratchett and whoever shows up in the boxes Authorlink sends me to review. Good thing I enjoy change.

That is all. Disperse.

Beyond the sidewalk

Cold darkness surrounded me all night and getting warm was an elusive dream. The furnace blew overhead and sucked all the moisture out of the air and my body until restlessness turned to counting breaths to fall asleep. Huddled in the meager covers that once were more than enough to cocoon warmth and comfort, sleep played tag with mind and body until the faint light of coming dawn heralded the end of the night. It was a rough night in some ways and not so rough in others with peek-a-boo glimpses of other worlds and lives, some of which were familiar.

Have you ever wandered in dreams and recognized places you returned to over and over? People are often the same and they grow and evolve with time, sometimes a safe haven and other times the pits of nightmare. I spent several years going to a university and graduating on a faraway world that existed as shadows and mirages away from the stone and marble edifices of learning. That's fancy for a misty, barely realized world away from the university buildings, a wash of colors like the shifting radiation of the Aurora Borealis next to the sidewalk. That's the thing about dreams that seem so real, there's always some unreality attached to it. It reminds me of parents who invested all their time, attention and resources into their children without ever realizing that one day the child would leave despite their best efforts and the relationship they ignored -- their marriage -- is suddenly all they have.

One friend and his wife handled the empty nest syndrome by having another child, a girl fast approaching the time when she will be off on her own. They're good people, but their daughter has been a buffer and an excuse for lack of intimacy. In three more years, she will be gone and there will no longer be a buffer or an excuse.

Another friend and his wife only had one child late in life and she has recently gained some freedom by getting her driver's license. She is gone as much as possible, intoxicated by being able to go where she wants almost whenever she wants. Her mother isn't handling it well at all. She lived for her daughter and now her daughter is fighting to get free of her, struggling to become independent. Mom insists that when the time comes for college, the daughter live at home and go to college locally. The daughter isn't having any of that. She can't wait to get away and nothing but shackling her to a stake in the front yard will keep her from bolting for the far horizons. Mom has suddenly been faced with hours of empty time that once were filled with shopping, visiting and watching television together with her daughter and all that's left is her husband who, for the past 17 years has been nothing more than the National Bank of Dad. He was left to his own devices and now he has a pal tagging along after him, following him to his workshop and home office, always wanting to know what he's doing. She invites him to watch TV and sit and talk to her and he's a bit nervous about it all. It's what he wanted, or at least what he said he wanted: having her pay attention to him, to see him. It's not quite what he thought it would be like. It's a bit creepy if truth be told and the glimpse of their life together after so many years of neglect and outright animosity is a bit frightening.

Picture a bear that hibernates a lot or concentrates on the cub until she wakes up and begins ripping into her mate with sharpened claws and a ravening hunger that sends everyone and everything fleeing before her suddenly without a cub and unable to bear more making nice with her favorite meal. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it. That's where things stand for them now. Mama Bear is baby bearless and Papa Bear will have to do. Just think, the waning years filled with a needy and tetchy Mama Bear while baby bear goes to college and finds a life of her own.

That's the thing about empty nesters, they seldom realize until it's too late that building their lives and dreams around their children is a dead end, especially when they've spent little or no time nurturing the one relationship that will sustain them in the empty nest years -- their marriage. They began together, but somewhere along the way forgot who brought them to the party. In a way, it's funny to watch couples who have grown apart attempting to find some common ground, unaware that time and tide have worn away the connecting edges until there's no connection left.

Single people are a little more prepared because they know what it's like to be left alone. For them, it's a new lease on life and a chance to find someone with whom to spend their late afternoon and twilight years. Being single doesn't look so bad any more, not when couples that seemed solid from the outside turn out to be nothing more than shifting colors and light on a frigid night when sleep is elusive and hard to catch, and icy fingers steal the warmth from the body while the roaring furnace sucks the moisture from the air. It's like walking the halls and sidewalks near the university buildings so solid and sturdy on the marble foundations while the rest of the world exists as a dream beyond the sidewalks.

Calm and changeable seas

Pepper crusted pork tenderloin and red potatoes, green beans, red peppers in a butter sauce with hot cocoa to drink. Simple, but warming meal for a cold winter evening. It's a night of peace and quiet wrapped in a warm shawl and reading Terry Pratchett and watching I, Claudius. It's freezing outside, but very warm inside, and it is to this warmth my friends keep coming, like Bob.

Bob is one of my best friends and has been for many years. We talk about everything. He's happily miserable, or miserably happy, in his marriage.

He is married to a wonderful woman, an intelligent, talented and successful woman, and often he wonders how he managed to get so lucky that she agreed to marry him. He doesn't see himself very well and is a very good man, quite wonderful in his own way. There is one big fly in the ointment--the lack of intimacy. Everything else is perfect, but sex once a year is untenable. She isn't interested and doesn't have any desire at all and Bob has far too much desire. She refuses to discuss it and he considers looking elsewhere to fulfill his needs. I proposed a different solution, one I've proposed for many people: talk it out openly and directly. "I don't like confrontation," he said to me this afternoon.

I'm always amazed that people see confrontation in a negative light. It is basically honesty and honesty does have its uses.

I suggested Bob lay out the situation to his wife, tell her sex once a year is not acceptable and either they seek counseling and she be tested and treated for a hormonal imbalance and depression. The signs and symptoms are clear even at this distance. I explained that he need not lose his marriage over this because so much of it is good and, if his wife refuses to go to counseling or get treatment for the medical and emotional issues, he propose an alternative -- an open relationship that allows him to fulfill his desires as long as he doesn't bring anything home that can't be gotten rid of. He said he'd see. I've heard the same thing from any number of friends and acquaintances. I don't understand why people insist on making things so difficult.

All life is not so complicated or so sad. I received a lovely -- and late -- Xmas card from Ted with his witty and funny crèche. This year's subject was Tiger Woods and it was quite beautiful and funny. I do agree with Ted that it's difficult to tell one blonde waitress from another.

I also received a thank you card from Laura and Jeremy, daughter-in-law and son of the fascinating and lovely Mary Ann, for a little something I sent for their first Xmas together. They were married last summer and appeared quite delirious with happiness in their pictures. I think they are a good match. Laura wrote on real stationery with a distinctly Victorian theme. I do so enjoy getting letters and cards in the mail. This may well be the beginning of a revival of the old art of letter writing, at least in a modest way.

The mail was full of the usual snail mail spam and a catalogues. Included among the debris was a box, my copy of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My day is complete. Videos, books, cards and thank you notes on Victorian stationery, definitely a good day.

Even with the trials and tribulations of my friends and family, a dose of ancient Roman intrigues and the fun of Terry Pratchett, each day is a surprise. Sometimes the surprise is not pleasant and sometimes the surprises exceed my modest and meager expectations. I'm easy to please. I ask nothing of the world but peace, quiet and the occasional adventure to make things interesting. I don't mind living in interesting times, even when the times take on the dark tinge of betrayal, lies and ill wishing. Life is much like the sea, moody and often dangerous, but well worth the trip.

That is all. Disperse.

Karmic tally sheet

People sit and wait for karma to happen to other people, people they don't like and feel have hurt or cheated them, but karma's already at work and the proof is in front of their eyes. The problem is that they refuse to look or see what there is to see.

Let's take people. Their friends see them as good people and strangers and the rest of the world see them as not very nice people. It's all in the perspective.

The first person, let's call him Luther, called down the wrath of karma on Mark and waits for the hammer to fall.

Over a period of three years, Luther meets a girl, Petra, who is living in her family home. Her family is all gone and the house is free and clear. Luther moves in and settles down with Petra. They get married. The house and grounds are beautiful and they have lots of friends. Things aren't always perfect, but they muddle along nicely. Always the entrepreneur, Luther decides to expand his business and get Petra, and himself, a few nice things, so he takes out a loan on the house. Business is good--for a while--and then it's not. The couple struggle with finances and are soon in danger of losing their home. They work like mad to make ends meet, take on more jobs and put every cent into the house to keep from losing it, even to the point of taking in boarders. After all, what is all that space worth if you can't share it with friends -- for a price. Nothing works. They sink deeper and deeper into debt. The strain works on their marriage and, in addition to losing their house, they may well lose their marriage. Petra doesn't believe in divorce; she married for better or worse, no matter how worse the worse gets. Luther keeps thinking about taking the money (what's left of it) and running. He's been married before and he's not averse to chalking this attempt up to bad timing, different backgrounds, incompatibility. There's always another Petra down the road.

Mark struggles, living from paycheck to paycheck. He's careful with his finances and doesn't indulge in many luxuries. He's frugal and diligent and spends his twice yearly vacations working on other things that bring in money. He can't afford to take a real vacation. It costs too much and his meager finances won't stretch that far. He doesn't live in a house or have cable TV or the latest electronic gadgets (cell phone, camcorder, spiffy and expensive computers) nor does he go out to eat much. He only orders pizza once every few months as a treat when he has a little extra money. Mark lives alone and doesn't have a partner to help get things over the rough spots or smooth out the lumps. It's not important because Mark is building a future, working toward owning a business of his own, one that will free him from wage slavery and give him the wherewithal to take a nice vacation once in a while or go out to dinner, the theater or take a long weekend somewhere nice. The day finally comes when the answer comes. Mark's plan has worked and his business nets almost $10,000. He pays off all his bills and his debts to people who helped him when he needed it and he buys a few necessities and a couple things he's always wanted. The rest of the money goes into savings and he keeps working. For the first time in years, things are going in his favor. He is cautiously optimistic. One of the things Mark learned is never to count on the cards to come; he plays the cards he has and makes the most of them. It has been a long, hard climb and there are other peaks to scale, but life is good and Mark can breathe again.

Luther expected Mark to crash and burn in an ugly and horrendous way while Mark put down his head and kept working. He missed Luther for a while, but then decided that the constant drama and lies and manipulations weren't worth what Mark thought he lost at first. Luther keeps tabs on Mark, but Mark's too busy to care about keeping tabs on Luther. Besides, Luther makes sure Mark gets word of his successes while he hides his failures and his crumbling life and marriage. Mark keeps on working; he has a life and a future to nurture and enjoy.

You tally up the karmic scores.

That is all. Disperse.

Year end of line

The battle of the e-readers is over and I have chosen the eBookwise 1150. I was about to buy the Kindle when I went to the site this morning and found the price had been raised to $259. I also discovered the Kindle does not come with a cover; that costs another $29.95. The refurbished Kindles were $219, but I'm not about to plunk down that amount of money when there would be an extra cost for the cover. At that price, they should have thrown in the cover and 100 books. End of game. I don't really need the global wireless. If I do find that a necessity in the future, maybe Amazon will get smart about the price and bring it down.

New Year's Eve was quiet and I just now finished my traditional New Year's Day lunch: pork ribs and sauerkraut with a side of fresh sliced avocado. Traditional dinner complete.

Today is an off work day and the weekend ahead will include considerable work. I have things to finish, a submission to get ready for Algonquin Books and a full two days of operative reports. Nothing like getting on track and staying on track for the coming year. I have a lot more books and stories to write, submit and sell.

Last year ended on a positive note. I sold two stories, Seeing Pink and Curiosity Kills More Than Cats, for an anthology about body image: Wait a Minute, I Have to Take off my Bra. There's an interesting story behind the submissions. I didn't realize I had sent two versions of the same story to the anthology, the first one when the first call came out called The First Full Cup. I revised the story, gave it depth and texture and renamed it Seeing Pink. The editor emailed me Wednesday and asked me which one I wanted to use since both stories were very similar and I wrote back: "Whichever one you like the best and will publish." Seeing Pink was a contender and that's the one they chose. Then, last night, I got the word they were taking two stories. Can't beat that for a way to end a semi-successful year. It bodes well for the future.

In other news, I have twenty copies of Past Imperfect. If you'd like a signed copy of the book, comment or email me and I'll send the details.

All but one of my Xmas gifts were delivered. The gift I sent Uncle Bob went to Florida and when I called to check on it, I found out they were still in Ohio. Luckily, the post office will forward the box to them in Ohio, but they'd better hurry since Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois are headed to Florida within the next two weeks. The gift to my grandson Jordan wasn't even sent until Wednesday and he won't get it until tomorrow or Monday (hopefully) at the latest. Everyone else received their gifts.

Last year was full of ups and down, the ups outweighing the downs, and the buzz about the coming year is good. I have no doubts the last year of the first decade of the 21st century will be even better than the previous eight years have been. I'm looking forward to the coming year. It won't be perfect and there will be ups and downs, but I have no doubt the ups will once again outweigh the downs. May the coming year be as generous and full of happiness and joy for you.

That is all. Disperse.

And so it begins

I've been busy lately adjusting to a new work schedule and having some difficulty with it, but tonight's events put things into perspective.

I had my first radio interview at Blog Talk Radio with Gayle Johnson and Miriam Mimi Jacobs. The ladies were wonderful and had actually read Past Imperfect so that was good. The best part is that they both loved the book. I'll see if I can get a copy of the podcast and post it. Beanie and Ants surprised me by calling in to the show and saying hello. I heard Ants in the background say, "I love you." Beanie said how proud of me she and the boys are. That was definitely worth hearing in such a public way.

The other event this evening was a pre-interview with Toni Quest of Screaming Woman over the phone. We had a lovely conversation and found a lot in common, including our ages. TQ told me she doesn't usually read the books of authors she's interviewing, but after talking to me she had to read the book before Monday. I sent her a PDF review copy and I look forward to the interview on Monday night at 8:30 p.m. EST. I may even get used to all these interviews and chats my publicist, Linda Barnett-Johnson has set up for me between now and April 2010. At least I get to talk about my favorite subject -- writing. You thought I was going to say me. Ha! Fooled you!

Adjusting to a new earlier work schedule and working out the kinks has had me on the ropes, but the holiday has saved me. I love this time of year from Halloween right through to New Year's and Valentine's Day. It's not for the candy or the romance or the gifts, although I do enjoy that part, but because of the way it always makes me feel: happy, joyful and as excited as a kid trying to sleep Xmas Eve. The scents and sounds of the holiday get under my skin and make me feel like singing, but the best part is baking candy and cakes and cookies to give out and hearing how my gifts are received. One person, who shall remain nameless for now, opened her gift ahead of time, but I forgive her. It didn't arrive with the gift I got for her son and new daughter-in-law, so it's not really her fault. I also sent out holiday e-cards to everyone on my list and those were well received. Even if the gift is nothing more than an e-card, I always live in the expectation of shining a momentary brightness into the receiver's world so they hopefully feel what I feel -- happy to be alive and thankful for another year of friends, family and dreams coming true. That's something else I got from tonight's interview, that feeling of possibility and the knowledge that I am living my dream by writing and seeing my books published. Even though I can't live completely off the proceeds, it's coming and coming soon.

If you take away nothing else from this rambling post, take this: The holidays are a time of joy and happiness, a celebration of another year lived and a the brightness of love and possibility at a time when the earth is at its farthest from the sun. As we swing away from that bright glowing ball of gases and light and solar winds, it's temporary. After the 21st of December, midwinter day with the shortest day and the longest night, we swing back toward the sun and warmth and another year of possibilities and dreams waiting to be realized and lived. Out of the darkness, we come into the light. That is the promise of this time of year. Inside those dead looking trees, is life asleep and waiting to be awakened, and so it begins again.

If you do nothing else, be grateful for every season and enjoy it to the fullest. Don't waste it because although the season will come around again, it won't be the same one as last year or next year. Each one is unique and wonderful on its own. Celebrate your dreams and your families and friends, but most of all celebrate yourselves. This day will never come again. Make it a special memory.

For me, I'll be baking cookies and cakes and candies and finding people who need a little sweetness in their lives to enjoy them. After all, everything goes down a little easier with a sprinkle of sugar -- the natural kind of course.

Watching for cars

It's one of those golden mornings when the sun comes up and lights up a clear Colorado blue sky and I wish I was higher up in the mountains where the air is clear and I'm not snotting and sneezing all the time. I don't have nearly as many problems with allergens when I'm higher up and away from all the pollution and citified air. In order to get back there, I have to spend more time working down here, but I'll get there.

I had an interesting chat with someone I've known most of my life and had a crush on when I was younger: Scott Haney. His mother and mine were best friends and we both grew up thinking we were cousins, so the combination of shyness and familial taboo kept us both from saying that we liked each other. Finding out he had a crush on me was a surprise, but a pleasant one. Of the three Haney boys, he was my favorite. Paul, Jr, the oldest, was too focused on himself and Johnny, the youngest, was too goofy. Scott in the middle was not only the tallest but the best in my eyes.

Scott asked me if I remembered a time when he went out and laid down in the street to prove to me he was strong and brave by letting a car drive over him. I do remember and I remember being amazed and scared. I also thought he was incredibly stupid, if brave. He didn't live on a busy street so he didn't get his wish, but the gesture was enough--for me.

Scott and his wife Annie have been married for thirty years and they seem very well suited to each other and happy, which makes me happy. He got off to a rocky start and he's having a lot of physical problems now, due to his rock start, but he deserves to be happy and I'm glad that he is.

That's one thing I've noticed. Even when I've been interested in someone or had a crush, when I find out that they found the right partner and are happy and content with their life, it gives me hope for the future and that I'll find the right partner and happiness of my own. Until then, I am content to be closer than ever to my dreams coming true and being able to write makes everything so much better. I can see the change and evolution of my own writing as I let more and more of myself out into the open. There are still a few things I keep close to the vest, but fewer than before. It's a difficult process and one that is filled with challenges for me because I learned a long time ago to guard my heart to minimize the damage caused by others. I've found I'm not unique in this and several other people in my family do the same thing.

It's hard to put myself out there and trust people--or specifically one person--when I keep end up getting hurt and my emotions and heart trampled. People who only care enough to share their news and their troubles but never ask about mine remind me how much I still need to keep aloof and not allow myself to be someone else's emotional battery, boosting them when they are feeling ignored and dismissed in their own families.

Just because no one listens to you at home is no reason to run to me for an emotional boost because I care, especially if it means the only time you do show up is when you want something and never think to ask how I'm doing or how I'm feeling. It's selfish and uncaring and completely egocentric. That makes you the same as the people who marginalize, ignore and dismiss you. It's like a virus you keep passing around. It's sad and it makes me want to disconnect from all communication because I can only give so much without getting a little something back.

That's the thing about relationships. They work best when there are two people involved, like Scott and Annie. Scott had several surgeries on his back and is completely disabled, so Annie went back to school to get a nursing degree so she could pick up the slack. Scott designs and builds long bows and recurves, but he mostly stays at home and handles things there because he cannot work. He told me he and Annie get up together in the morning and when she leaves for work he goes back to bed for a while before getting up and taking care of things around the house and with his own projects. They are a team. When he was sidelined, she took point. That's the kind of relationship everyone should have instead of a relationship where one person carries all the weight and the other coasts and whines when they don't get everything they think they should have, and end up berating and blaming the other person for not working harder or doing more or giving up more so they aren't put out.

Relationships should be a two-way street, like the relationships I have with critique partners and friends. I give. They give. We all benefit and the relationships grow stronger. It's like a plant. Without water, sun and nourishment, the plant dies. Too much of any one element, or too little, and the plant cannot survive. Sometimes the plant needs more sun, a shuffling of nutrients and less water, but you adjust and give the plant what it needs to flourish. It's all about paying attention and being aware of what's needed -- like being ready to pull someone you care about out of the street when a car is coming.

Strangely enough, Scott was ready to get up and out of the way if a car did come, but it was the gesture that counted, and I was impressed eve though I did think he was a little bit stupid.

The week in review and reviews

This morning's email contained a notice that my interview with Lisa Haselton will go live on Wednesday, November 11th, otherwise known as Veteran's Day and my best friend Chili Bob's birthday. Lisa called my answers fantastic. That remains to be seen. I was, as always, just being myself, but I'd be interested in what you all think, especially you, , because your name came up.

Wow. The sky outside my window looks like a layered blue and white parfait with a mile of whipped cream on the top. Probably means snow, although I haven't checked the forecast in a few days. I've been buried in work and Alzheimer's disease of the early onset variety.

Did you know that there are specific tests available to detect Alzheimer's in utero and by a simple blood test? There are. It's only for the early onset Alzheimer's disease (EOAD) because that is as a result of faulty genes that are passed on. Offspring have a 50% chance of getting EOAD. They say drowning is pleasant when you quit struggling and from what I read in Lisa Genova's Still Alice Alzheimer's is very much like drowning. Sad, haunting, devastating and touching, although I don't care for Alice's husband who loves his work more than he loves his wife. I suppose life must go on even when one's partner is there and not there.

Finally got a box of books out to Aunt Anne and right this moment she is giving Jaye her autographed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family. Jaye will be "over the moon" according to Aunt Anne because a contributing author sent her a signed copy. At least she is easy to please. Timmy will give my fan his copy of the book this weekend, but I sure hope he reads On Esther Time because in the future it may well be him.

Aunt Anne told me as soon as she opened the box and took out the book she had to read it and she loved the story, and the signed copy of Past Imperfect I sent, which she will not loan out to Jaye. That one stays in Aunt Anne's possession.

I just finished Ted Dekker's new book, and the final book of a four-book cycle, Green. It's really good and I have to get the other three books, Black, Red, and White. This is strange fare but it's also fascinating. The characters and world created are amazing and although there is a strong good and evil element to the book, it's not overwhelming. The story takes precedence over the religious themes. If the other three books are as good as this one, I may have to check out more of Dekker's writing. I haven't been that engrossed in a very long time.

Well, breakfast is almost over and I need to get back to the work of editing and laundry, so arrivaderci, au revoir, bye-bye.

That is all. Disperse.

Treading memory's waters

Snow a couple days ago and snow again this morning, off and on under such a dirty gray sky the sun cannot be seen. It's probably hiding or taking a vacation or just isn't strong enough this morning to clean the celestial windows. Whatever the reason, I am grateful for the soft white fall of autumn's ashes softening the ragged edges of the summer's bounty that drags the remaining ragged flags of brown, desiccated leaves from the skeletal trees. Like most men going bald, the trees look better clean and trimmed of delusions of summer. That's what evergreens are for with their year-round proof that the world is sometimes green.

A faint scent of coconut milk and jasmine tea lingers in the house this morning and an empty bowl sits on the nightstand why I write this. I've been up since before five and have spent most of the morning lingering among people I haven't seen for almost thirty years, remembering and adding insights from a distant where I am sufficiently divorced from the fear and feelings of hopelessness that I can see what I was hidden and overlaid with chaotic emotions. I've added things I didn't know at the time and used things I heard after the fact to springboard back into the deep end of time's waters to make a better story. Although the book could be considered memoir, I've decided to let fiction carry the weight of memory and experience and set myself free to imagine what was and could have been.

Mary Ann reminded me that I should be writing and finishing this book so I can submit it to the publisher anxiously and patiently waiting for me to get on with it. She's made her first submission and is feeing quite vindicated that it ended in rejection, but there's nothing to feel vindicated about. Try the same publisher in a few months or a year and the response could be very different, acceptance instead of rejection. Rejection is such a hard and hurtful word to the writer dipping a toe in professional waters. Don't take it personally. It could have been a bad day and everyone got rejected without a reading or the editor or editor's assistant decided that everyone gets a rejection without being read because they were tired from too much Halloween candy that will never make it to the beggar's bowl. Editors are people and rejections subjective. It's no reason to quit writing or submitting. Remember all the best selling authors who couldn't even get arrested for flagrant grammar violations before someone took a chance and published their work. Now they're free to promiscuously pad their word counts with adjectives, dangling modifiers and split infinitives to their hearts' content.

Oh, well, c'est la vie écrire. Such is the writing life. And to my writing life I shall return to wallow in companionship and alienation and abandonment just like the real thing. It's one of those weeks.

That is all. Disperse.,

Treaties and treatises

Have you missed me? Good.

Work has been crazy busy this week and I've been playing catch up with little success. Now it's the weekend and I still have a load on my schedule, including finishing revisions and edits on a novel I have to send to an interested publisher on Monday. At least it's never boring here, not even when I'm comfy in bed in my own room. Spiders have decided to break our treaty and have moved in en masse.

Not your little spiders, but big gray and brown spiders that spin webs and hide under window sills and in the covers of my bed. Not cool. And not tolerated. When Mary Ann and I were on the phone the other night, one of them raced across the bed and over the book from under my covers, covers that had been on my legs. Two nights ago, another one raced across the bed toward me and the safety of the covers and I stunned him with a book. Ha! Gotcha! I thought I'd killed him until I slid a magazine under him and he stirred. Oops. I crowned him with a bigger book several times and appendages went flying, after which I scooped him and his severed limbs onto the magazine and dumped them all into the trash. I then went after his mate hiding under the window sill and let her broken and smashed corpse fall to the floor to be picked up with the vacuum.

Tolerating spiders isn't a problem and I welcome them, especially in the summer when they feast on ants and other vermin that wander in through the gaping spaces around my doors, but my bedroom is off limits. I have a no tolerance policy for spiders in my bedroom and this is the second time I've had to enforce it ruthlessly and without mercy. I do have my limits and it's best not to test them or go beyond them because termination with extreme prejudice is the result. After all, if I don't enforce the limits, spiders will take my reticence as an invitation to join me in my little sanctuary. That's not going to happen.

I'm tolerant of many things, including deadlines, but as I get older I am less and less willing to tolerate what I consider to be generous limits, with the except of spiders and vermin in my bedroom. For a year I have reminded the landlord the roof over my office leaks and nothing has been done, so I keep reminding him each time I send my rent payment. For eight months I have waited for him to fill in the hole in the planter and cover up the sewage system, but the dirt mound remains, getting smaller and smaller with each rain as it washes out across the parking lot and into the street and with the neighborhood boys on bikes who feel the hill is an invitation to ride over it an jump their bikes. I'm half tempted to fill it in myself and pay to have the roof fixed and take it off the rent. I may still do that. If I can't get him to do it, then I will have to do it myself. It's how I got the toilet fixed in February -- by calling Roto Rooter.

In the meantime, I will likely be more absent than present here in LJ because I do have to finish the revisions on one novel and begin writing the next two novels. I have been stuck on the post apocalyptic vampire story because I didn't have a clear motivation, or hurdles, for that matter. Then I did what most writers do, I talked to another writer and asked a question. I chose Mary Ann because I consider her an expert on vampire lore. It was a short conversation from my question to her answer. As we were really getting into it, she had to go because dinner was ready. Like she said, there's nothing worse than eating cold quiche. I turned to my journal, as I do when I need to work things out (personal, financial and literary). As I wrote, building on what she and I had discussed, it all came clear. I had not only resolved the problem with the motivation and hurdles, but I have moved in a direction that will make one or two more books possible. Bonus!

That conversation led to something else I was working on, a murder/mystery/ghost story/romance (light on the romance), and solved a small problem on that one, giving me everything I need to write the book. I'm still waiting on one piece of information, having requested assistance from a specialist in the field. Now I have a new problem.

I have revisions and work to do (the job that pays the bills) and all I want to do is get busy on the new books. I can have both of them written within a month now that I have all the problems and kinks worked out. But I have other obligations. That's what I hate most about having a day job: having to put my writing on hold to earn a paycheck. At the end of the day, I'm so wrung out it's difficult to muster the energy to write. I've expended it all on work. That's why weekends are so important to me and why I end up refusing a lot of invitations, especially lately. It's the only time I am not bound by obligation and responsibility, except to my writing. It's also the time I use to read books I need to review and do critiques, both of which add money to the coffers, much needed money.

All of this is really a long-winded explanation of where I'll be in the next few days and weeks and why I won't be able to devote as much time to LJ as I normally do. I'll still make the tarot posts on Wednesday, or thereabouts, and try to at least drop in to read, but my posts may be scarce. It depends on my writing and whether or not I need to take a break to clear my head and writing gears. In the meantime, I'll be happily ensconced in the zone, intent on putting out another two or three books by the end of the year and finding homes for more of my short stories.

Find your bliss and let nothing get in the way of making it yours. That's what I intend to do.

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot: Victim or Victor

I once told a friend who was intently pursuing a man who turned her life inside-out and upside-down and then walked away only to come back again and again that the reason he didn't stick around was because she had nothing to offer -- not to him or to herself. She couldn't make up her mind about what she wanted to do and bounced from job to job and school to school, constantly changing her major and her goals. She was scattered, uncertain and spent her life moving from one friend's house to another, watching their children in exchange for room and board and a little money. Everyone took advantage of her, but she didn't see a way out. She had to have a place to stay and couldn't hold a job long enough to earn the money to get a place of her own. She had grants for school and kept flunking out or failing to show up, always ready with excuses. "I didn't have a way to get there. I didn't have any clean clothes. I got up too late."

She had more excuses than anyone I've ever seen before, and yet she kept getting one break after another. Jobs fell into her lap and she seldom held them for more than three weeks, and it was always someone else's fault. She had nothing of her own and didn't mind living off other people -- or other men. Some guy was always ready to bail her out and she played the damsel in distress very well.

By contrast, Jason, the guy she was obsessed about, had a good job and had a place to live. Granted, it was his mother's house, but he paid the bills and kept it clean. His family had several homes and he came from a wealthy family, so where he lived was really no surprise. He was used to better. So, here comes this girl from the ghetto with no ambition and nothing she could call her own and she wanted him. He enjoyed her company and the sex, but wasn't ready to make their relationship permanent. He didn't mind helping out from time to time, rescuing her from her latest situation, but he didn't want the job full time.

I told her she needed to get herself and her life together before he would consider her as anything more than a booty call or occasional girlfriend. She needed to do it for herself more than anything else, get her life settled. She was almost 30 at that point, and being almost thirty with nothing to show for your life is a very sad situation. She wasn't the kind of girl that rich men went out of their way to wine and dine and shower with riches, but rather the girl who would do their nails. No class, no education and nothing to show for her life except a string of failures. She didn't listen. The only thing she wanted to know was how to trap him.

And trap him she did. She got pregnant. After seven abortion, because the fathers weren't him, she got pregnant. It happened under the effects of drugs and alcohol when he forgot to use a condom or pull out in time. She had him dead to rights and she let him know when she was far enough along that an abortion wouldn't be feasible that he was going to be a father. He ran away from her and refused to have anything to do with her. She pursued him and, when he wouldn't give her what she wanted, she went to his family.

She now has a son, his son, and he pays child support regularly. She still has no job and no prospects and no place to call her own. She's living with her mother for now, but time is running out, so she has made a plan to get help from Welfare and other charitable organizations to take care of her and her child. She's 31 years old and still hasn't learned.

So what does this tale have to do with today's cards? It depends on whether you see my friend as a victim or a victor.

The Nine of Wands shows a soldier weary from battering against an insurmountable blockade. He has put everything into the battle and leans on his remaining support, remaining upright by will alone. When he went into the battle, he was certain he'd succeed. Everything was on his side: experience, intelligence, skill and desire. He is puzzled. Why didn't he succeed? What went wrong.

Beside him in the ivy is a scarab, symbolizing the quiet voice of the soul, the voice that says, "You need time to figure this out. Retreat and regroup."

He needs to contrast his belief in success against his worldly experience and reconcile the data, balance his experiential and emotional checkbook, so to speak. Failure has caught him napping and nothing turned out as he had planned; he is not certain why. He needs to go over the data, reflect and find the flaw in his approach, learn from his mistakes and find a way to turn defeat into victory, and then try again.

The message of the Nine of Wands is not to despair when a difficult situation seems insoluble and confusion. Nothing is impossible. Sometimes it is a matter of taking a few steps back and re-evaluating the situation, learning from the mistakes while healing and figuring out a different pathway through the barrier. Above all, don't use this setback as a reason to escape from life. Life is about struggle. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but the losses can become victories if you take the time to learn from them. We often learn more from our mistakes than from our victories. Victories are easy and failure a chance to grow and expand knowledge. Don't waste it.

Pentacles are earthly symbols, the sign of the material. In the Nine of Pentacles, a wealthy and accomplished woman stands in a flourishing garden gazing intently at the hooded falcon on her wrist. She takes pride in her surroundings and her pride is evident in the garden, a feat she has achieved alone. She is a strong woman who has chosen a solitary path and she's comfortable in it, comfortable with herself and in her own skin. She has a right to be proud and in spite of her choices she is not lonely. She needs no one.

The nines of the minor arcana are symbolic of nearing the end of a journey. There is still a little more to come and for the accomplished woman in the Nine of Pentacles what is to come is a companion, someone to share and enjoy her garden and all she has accomplished. After all, success is a dish that tastes better when shared.

It's it often the case that those who want for nothing are the ones who get the best breaks and people are always willing to do things for them? Think of movie stars and celebrities. They have more money than they can spend in 100 lifetimes, and people fall all over themselves to give them whatever they admire. For instance, Queen Elizabeth of England often goes down to the high street to shop. Whatever she admires is given to her free of charge.

I remember a story about Hedda "the Hat" Hopper, the gossip columnist. During the depression when most people had nothing, Hedda mentioned in her column that she couldn't find a decent hat to wear. Tens of thousands of readers made hats and sent them to her, many of whom had little enough for themselves.

That's the way it goes. Make your life a success so that you have everything you need or want and, when you least expect it, more will be added. In the case of the Nine of Pentacles, that more would be someone to share your life.

The Wheel of Fortune, or Fate as some call it, turns beyond our control. It is mechanized and in perpetual motion, turning round and round, like the clockwork mechanism of the sun and planets and universe. It defines and is moved by the rhythms of nature and life, attuned to the energy and music of the spheres. The sun in the background symbolizes the mind: centered and secure, never worrying about the wheel. The mind is not at the Wheel of Fortune's mercy; it is apart, free. Everything that happens -- good or bad or indifferent -- depends on your point of view. The situation could be a blessing, a curse, a tragedy or an opportunity, or so much more or less, depending on what you see.

When the first colonists came to the New World, they viewed the natives as savages without culture or wealth, owning nothing and having no morals or society. The native viewed the colonists as children, idiots who did not see or understand the wealth around them or how they could feed and clothe and house themselves. They were over dressed, over sexed, and over here, to borrow a saying from England during World War II. The colonists saw the land as something to possess, put their fences around and set to orderly rights. The natives saw the colonists as intruders intent on forcing everyone and everything to conform to their way of life without respect for the millennia of culture and contented life that existed before them. Each saw the other as an obstacle to remove and bloodshed followed. It was all a matter of point of view who was right and who was wrong.

Out of great wrongs came The United States of America, a country hacked out of the a Garden of Eden, raped and pillaged and born in fire, bloodshed and death along a trail that extended from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Much great has come from America, but there has also been much harm. Which outweighs the other no one can truly tell because everyone sees things from a different point of view. What is good to one person is evil to another. And so it goes. The Wheel of Fortune turns, grinding down all in its path who fail to see that, although time and fate march on without us, as long as we understand and accept what can and cannot be controlled, life need never be a tragedy or a disaster.

See the cycles of the Wheel for what they are. Don't use fate as an excuse to avoid responsibility or a reason to blame someone else for bad luck or misfortune. Learn to control what you can and let the rest go. Accept blame only for what you did wrong. Take responsibility only for what you can control -- and didn't or wouldn't. There are enough people to take the blame for the rest. Above all, learn to find the good in a bad situation because every situation is a learning situation.

* * *

A woman owns a large piece of land on which she has built a home, tends a garden that provides herbs and food and beauty and she runs a successful business. She has it all and she is happy and content.

In her youth she spent a lot of time trying to find the right man with whom to share her life, but she had nothing to show for all those years except scars, experience and a drive to make something of her life on her own, depending on no one. She had been taught by her mother that a woman needs a man to complete her, to protect and give her everything she needs and, when she was young, she bought her mother's philosophy. When she couldn't find a man to complete her -- none of them were right and she ended up either supporting them or standing in the background -- she decided to make her own way. The result of all her hard work and effort is success, happiness and a feeling of contentment. She doesn't miss having a man around. She doesn't really need one, not with BOB, her battery operated boyfriend.

Midwinter night, December 21st, she sits in front of her fire after a pleasant meal sipping a glass of Merlot. As the full moon rises, she hears a knock on the door, a pounding really that fades into a faint scratching. She goes to the door and finds a naked man collapsed on her porch, shivering and blue with cold. She brings him inside, wraps him in warm blankets by the fire and fixes a cup of hot chocolate with a shot of rum. As he warms and begins to get back some color, she asks him who he is. He shakes his head, confused. "I don't know." He doesn't know where he was before he saw the lights in her windows or why or where he lost his clothes. The only thing he remembers is waking up, seeing her light and knowing there is where he'd find safety and warmth.

In my mind's eye, I see a different story than the one that will occur to you. Do you see a mystery or a fantasy? Is he a con man or something else? Who is he and what will happen in the days to come? Using the message and images of today's cards, how will you write this story's end?

As always, until next week, or when work slackens enough for me to be able to take the time and delve into the stories hidden in the tarot cards, keep writing.

Two degrees of separation

My cousin Timmy's brother-in-law, Brand, visited him a couple weeks ago to discuss the headstone for Ruthie's grave and her memorial. Timmy had Beanie's copy of Dad's memorial DVD and showed it to Brand to give him an idea of what they could do for Ruthie. Brand watched the video and listened to me read what I wrote about my father. When Brand saw my name, he said, "That's my favorite writer and that's just how I always thought she'd sound. How do you know her, Tim?"

"She's my half-sister. How do you know her?"

"We've read all her stories in Chicken Soup. The whole family loves her. She's their favorite writer, too."

Timmy was thrilled, especially when he showed Brand my novel. Brand didn't know about that, but it didn't take him long to recover. "I'm going to go straight home and order copies for everyone in the family."

When Aunt Anne told me about all this tonight, I heard her ear-splitting grin through the phone. "Timmy's really proud of you. He always has been."

I had no idea Timmy even thought about me very much and I haven't seen him in over ten years. Aunt Anne told me a couple weeks ago that she planned to give Timmy a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family so he could read my story, "On Esther Time." Timmy has a problem with always being late just like Esther. And he's reading Past Imperfect right now.

That's the surprising thing about all of this. Timmy's in-laws have been fans of my writing for over a year. Aunt Anne said whenever a new Chicken Soup book comes out, Brand and his family check to see if it contains one of my stories before they buy it. I had no idea. But to find out that I have a family of fans who don't know about the novel who are related to me by marriage throws the whole "seven degrees of separation" out the window, at least in this instance.

I didn't expect people to approach my family, or me, until I had made a real name for myself, but evidently, in some quarters, I already have a name -- and fans. I have fans.

Writing on blogs and getting comments, interacting with people quickly this way imparts a strange point of view based on instant gratification. People write. People respond. It's effortless. It's conversation electronic style, and many bloggers have fans. I have one or two. Writing a book or having stories published in anthologies is different. I've had a couple of people email me about what I've written in Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort anthologies, but it's not the same. I know; I'm repeating myself, but it's true. I didn't expect this, not this soon, and not before I'd hit the best sellers lists, but it's so nice to know that even though people haven't contacted me directly they have read my stories and been touched and affected by them. That's part of why I write -- to touch people, give them something to think about.

It's a heady experience, knowing people read and like what I write. I doubt I'll ever get used to it or stop smiling when I remember moments like these. Even if no one ever told me they liked what I write, I'd still write. I wrote when no one read what I wrote, and I still do -- in paper journals. Still, even though most writers write for themselves, they also write for others because without readers there is no reason to fight the current in the publishing stream.

And like Scott Edelman wrote in his story, Almost the Last Story by Almost the Last Man about a writer unable to stop writing as long as he is alive.

"With each part of the Web that vanishes, I imagine that a part of the real world has gone as well. When it all goes, I will be alone.

"Well, not entirely alone. ...Shakespeare is here. And Frost. And Faulkner and Austen and Carver and Proust. All telling me of the worlds in which they lived. Worlds that continued to exit only because I am still here to read about them. ...

"It's not worth remaining in a world without readers, and I doubt that you still exist.

"My world can survive my death. But it cannot survive yours.

"Art for art's sake as never what I was about. Art alone was never enough."

Amazing isn't it, Mary Ann that Scott Edelman's story is about zombies, too?

Requiem for a menu change

Taking a leaf from Kaiberie's book, I am getting rid of more time devouring things in my life that slow my writing progress. Nothing that doesn't contribute to a bigger paycheck or move my writing along is going or gone. Everything is being stripped down to basics. I don't have room for anything else, especially not with a big expenditure coming that will move my books to the top of the lists and generate a lot more sales. That's my main focus, along with spending more hours struggling with work.

I emailed my boss yesterday and told her the programs we are forced to use are clunky and inefficient and they waste time, hamper production. I had to explain the concept of integrated programs 3x and I still don't think she got it. She was worried about incomplete dictations because someone closed a document to answer the door or take a break and it being sent back before it was finished. Uh, no, that's not a problem if the job is not finalized and merely closed.

The way the system works now -- or rather doesn't work -- the programs to get and upload jobs are separate and have to be manually activated every time work needs to be downloaded or uploaded. When there are no jobs, getting jobs entails shutting down the program, launching it again and doing the same things over and over and over, wasting loads of time and increasing frustration. In other words, not productive at all. The system I am more familiar with and worked with for 10 years is one that never needs to be shut down, opened and initiated once. It can be set to manual or automatic by the operator to get one job or five jobs at a time, sending finalized work automatically, and downloading new jobs automatically. Less time is wasted. The MT endures a lot less frustration and is hence more productive, which translates to more pages typed and more work done for a bigger paycheck. I'm talking about hours, not minutes. It's such a simple concept.

Her complaint that if a dictation is cut off in the middle and continued on another dictation, then the pieces will not be connected and the job incomplete. That's specious. If an MT is getting one job at a time, finalizes the job and sends it up, and then gets the other half, the pieces won't be connected. It's very unusual for a follow-up dictation not to arrive within the next three jobs and can still be typed, combined, finalized and automatically uploaded with the integrated system, which I explained at length. She said Jason is revamping the system and will take my suggestions into consideration. I offered to work with him; I don't know if she'll take me up on it.

When I finally finished work last night, I was exhausted, aching and tired. All I wanted to do was go to bed, but I checked my email and shut down the browser to find that Patrick Swayze died yesterday. It was not unexpected, but still it's sad. Someone posted a YouTube link to Dirty Dancing where Patrick and Jennifer Gray dance the last dance ("No one puts Baby in the corner.") and I watched with a great big smile and tears in my eyes. Patrick was young and exuberant and so talented in that movie and I am glad it remains as a ever bright memory. That, of course, led me to thinking about Ghost and his touching performance as Sam Wheat, the man who couldn't say "I love you" until he was dead and trapped between life and death because he wanted to find his murderer and protect his girlfriend, Molly, by forcing himself on a psychic conning people who actually was a psychic, Rita, played wonderfully and memorably by Whoopi Goldberg. ("Molly, you in danger, girl.")

And Ghost puts me in mind of so many people who can't say "I love you" or tell people how they really feel, and probably won't until it's too late. Time moves on and few people will leave the legacy Patrick Swayze leaves behind him. He put his heart and soul into his work and his life and left no doubt in anyone's mind what he thought and how he felt. That is a tribute few people can boast. He lived his life broadly and without compromise right to the end and I am so thankful I have even a little bit of his talent and zest for life to remember him. He is one person about whom I have no illusions and no confusion. He was simply a wonderful, loving, intelligent and talented man and I'm grateful to have sat on the sidelines and shared a few happy moments and tears. Can't say that about too many people in my life -- our near me.

It's times like these that remind me most of what is speeding past like a bullet train on anti-gravity rails without brakes and how much time is wasted by waiting for people to wake up and realize what is rapidly slipping through their fingers and out of reach. I have wasted too much time waiting and hoping and am now galvanized for the forward push up the rocky slope. Life is seldom easy, but it's worth every blister, broken heart and struggle to get to the good moments, and there are only moments. It's just as much a waste of time to hang around celebrating when there is another road to cross and another mountain to climb. The heavenly moments are for resting before the next big push, not for sitting around until you're either thrown out or bored out of your skull, weighed down by depression and ennui. To be human is to keep moving, hopefully holding hands, supporting, and being supported by a like-minded companion. The real blessing is finding lots of like-minded companions to share the load and the road, and I've been lucky and blessed, although I miss those who shared the journey for a short time -- too short.

If you do nothing else today, don't hesitate to tell the people you care about how much you care. Don't be afraid to say "I love you" because you might not get another chance. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. The only thing you can count on is this moment. Don't waste it.

Name dropping

Jaye is a friend of my Aunt Anne's and plays the organ at the church where my family attends. She has fallen in love with my book, but mostly because she "knows the author's family." She drops my name into conversations everywhere she goes, offering to loan people Aunt Anne's book instead of returning it to her.

Last night Mom called to tell me what happened at church.

Jaye was talking to some woman named Ann about my book, and about me. She button-holed the woman in a pew near the door and went on and on about how good the book was (not bad news for me) and what all I do (medical transcriptionist, artist, author, columnist, editor, author and critiquing manuscripts). The woman was not impressed and that set Mom off. "She's an old sour puss," Mom complained. "She doesn't like anything or anyone."

I got a flash of Mikey who hated everything, but loved Life cereal.

Mom railed against the old woman and called her a sour puss several times, going on and on about how Jaye drops my name every chance she gets. I'm glad I don't live there.

When I talked to my Aunt Anne last night, she told me much the same thing, except for the "old sour puss" and that Jaye still had not returned her copy of my novel. She is fit to be tied and believes that Jaye has left the book in Texas when she was there for two weeks.

I certainly never expected to be the center of a tempest in a teapot, although I have found myself in the eye of such storms.

I told my aunt that I would sign a copy of the book and send it to her. "That will really make Jaye jealous," she said. I had never heard that tone in her voice before, the unholy gleeful tone of having the upper hand.

Mom has called nearly every day to give me an update on where she is in the book and where the errors are. She at least likes the little airplanes centered in the space between paragraph breaks, so that at least is something.

I had to go to Mountain Mama's for some things and stopped at the deli to see my favorite counter person. She just had to tell me my novel passed her "time test." The question must have been obvious because she went on to explain. She read the book about a month ago and she keeps reflecting on the characters and some of the scenes, giggling at jokes or antics and seeing more layers and textures she missed the first time around. "When the characters and story keep coming back to me after I've read a book, that passes the time test. It's a really wonderful book and I enjoyed it so much."

My cousins and some of my friends drop my name and I can only imagine that the effect is something like dropping a grain of sand in Lake Titicaca, but at least they enjoy being able to say the know a published author. Even a grain of sand creates ripples that expand outward.

Face plants and police sirens

Wednesday night, I called Aunt Anne to wish her happy birthday and to find out how Timmy was doing. His wife Ruthie died a couple weeks ago and he is finally back to work after months of caring for her. He's doing better, but not too happy about all the condolences. Aunt Anne told me they make him feel worse and, while he appreciates the sentiment, it just makes things worse for him.

It reminds me of an episode of All in the Family when a doctor told Archie to be nice to Edith because she was going through the change. Nice isn't Archie's strong suit and he was nearly strangled every time he stifled the urge to rail at the dingbat. Archie's nice and polite attitude frayed Edith's last nerve and things didn't go back to normal until Archie lost his temper. Timmy losing his temper at work isn't going to go down well, especially not at the post office. I think he'll have to endure it a little longer.

Aunt Anne and I talked about a lot of things, like whether or not her friend Jaye was going to bring back her copy of Past Imperfect she took with her on her annual two-week vacation to Texas. Aunt Anne is not happy. If Jaye has damaged her copy in any way, she can kiss any thoughts of a copy signed by the author (that would be me) for Xmas goodbye and buy Anne another copy.

On the up side, Jaye wants everyone to read my book. On the down side, Jaye loans out Anne's copy instead of encouraging people to buy a copy and read it. She has no business sense. I admire her generosity, especially with something that doesn't belong to her, but there are times when there is no substitute for a copy of your own . . . said the author who won't get any royalty checks if people don't buy their own copy.

I bought a copy of a great little writing book, You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, written by Cindy Davis who happens to be my editor. I've read the first 2-1/2 chapters and it's really good and very helpful. Due to my bungling the event planner on Facebook, Cindy appeared a full two weeks early on the Writers Talk / Q&A I've set up. Luckily, Cindy is a very nice person and agreed to go through with her previously scheduled appearance on Sept. 9th and talk more about editing your own writing. Anyone who missed her talk on pronouns will forgive me and show up in two weeks to comment, question and learn from Cindy -- I hope.

I also received my copy of Dead Worlds: Undead Stories and plan to wander through the zombies to find Sabrann Curach, otherwise known as . I also broke down and got a copy of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer and so far I'm not impressed. I'm waiting for the fan girl hype to live up to the reality. It has not happened yet. The only good things I've gleaned from the first couple of chapters are future grammar posts, and one of those will be posted later today.

After a long and protracted, and fruitless, tussle with a software program on Goodreads, I have finally been recognized as the author of my own novel. I had to call in reinforcements and get an actual person to respond because the software program on the site was too stupid to figure out that my name and the author's name are the same. That's been fixed and I have been accorded author status. I had no idea life could get so complicated. Weren't computers supposed to make our lives easier? Doesn't it take a human to screw things up this completely?

Dinner last night was pleasant since I had some company, but I'm afraid I was not at my sparkling best. I was tired and cranky and doing my best impression of Archie being nice between periods of abject weariness that had me nearly nodding off. There is nothing so funny or frustrating as having a conversation with someone whose head keeps bobbing toward the plate in imitation of one of those birds that dip into a cup of red fluid. I avoided a full face plant into my steak, but couldn't keep up with the thread of the conversation. I did apologize and promised a rematch dinner on a night when I was more awake and alert.

The kids are back to school across the street, but they seem subdued and quieter than last year. I wonder if it's because the rowdier and livelier kids graduated to high school or if exuberance has been outlawed. The police presence of late has been more apparent, but so has the joy riding idiot that has roared down Pikes Peak going from zero to 140 between stop signs. He was followed, about 30 minutes later, by a police cruiser whoop-whooping his siren as he neared the cross streets and a helicopter about 15 minutes after that. I doubt they caught the speed demon since he was long gone before they appeared on the scene, their siren saving me from that face plant into the steak. At least they were good for something. Catching speed demons wasn't it.

I am going to take my weary and rumpled self to the showers and get cleaned up for another day in the salt mines. This is one day getting irritated at doctors learning English on my shift and mangling words until the occasional vowel and rare consonant surface in their chewed up melange that is supposed to pass for intelligible speech will be welcome. It should keep me awake.

Passing friends

When I checked the mail, there was a letter from an old friend, Louise Lowry, or so I thought. The letter was from Elizabeth, Louise's daughter, to tell me that Louise recently died. She sent me a copy of the death notice. It still hurts.

Ten years ago, I spent a week with Varan and Louise, having met Louise on the Prodigy forums on UFOs and history. We became friends and I wrote several articles for her website, World of the Strange, articles that were syndicated worldwide after being translated into several different languages.

It was during that visit ten years ago that I conceived and wrote the first draft of Past Imperfect after Louise challenged me. The deal was that I would write my novel and when I finished she would write her book on UFOs and unexplained phenomena. I finished the novel at the end of October, just one month after I visited Louise and sent it to her. She never wrote her book and I didn't know because we were in and out of touch.

Much of my novel was inspired by that visit to Louise and Varan. The research that I did on creating a new life was done at the public library a few blocks from Louise's house. The restaurant where Adrian proposes to Diana is the restaurant where Louise and Varan took me for dinner one night. The hotel where Adrian and Logan meet for the first time is near Louise's house. I went from Louise and Varan's up to the university where the local girl I found in the newspaper archives died on the winding, tree-lined road that parallels the Pennsylvania section of the Erie Canal. I stood at the spot where the girl died. I talked to the teachers and principle at the schools the girl attended and she became the new incarnation of Lynn Sanderson who became Diana Palmer.

Louise is an integral part of Past Imperfect and I owe her a debt for her generosity and for challenging me to write the story. Louise was an amazing woman and I will miss her. When you read Past Imperfect, you will find glimpses of Louise and her kindness and generosity and my memories of that visit ten years ago in between the lines and on many of the pages.

It is through the lens of friendship and experience that writers find inspiration. Louise was my inspiration on this novel and a simple acknowledgment is not enough to thank her for all she has done and for all she was.

Louise Lowry, rest in peace. I will always remember you.

A painter's tale

Carolyn called me last night in tears. She is upset over her sister-in-law again.

Carolyn's SIL, Adele, is a woman who has it all -- great house, money in the bank (loads of money in the bank), a job she loves and is really good at, a husband, five well adjusted and happy children, a loving family and a lot of good friends who adore her -- but she is bored. Carolyn is a widow and has one daughter who has had to struggle a bit and is finally making a success of her life. Carolyn has had one dream her whole life, to have a show of her paintings at a gallery. She finally got her dream a few months ago and her show sold out.

Carolyn has been painting her whole life, but never thought she could be an "artist," yet she kept at it, giving up clothes, vacations and even little luxuries to buy canvas, brushes and paint. She leads a small life, but it's a valuable life and she has struggled for so many years to get where she is today. She deserves the success she has finally achieved.

Life has come very easily to Adele. She has had the support and backing of her very wealthy family her whole life. She has had everything she has ever wanted and really doesn't know how to struggle, but she's bored with it all. She has been heard to say that she could paint better than Carolyn, but she can't. She doesn't have the gift. She just wants what Carolyn has because Carolyn has finally become a success.

Adele is dissatisfied with her life, but Adele's biggest problem is jealousy. She has always seen Carolyn as beneath her. Carolyn isn't as smart and beautiful and socially acceptable as she and Adele has let her know in no uncertain terms. She considers her husband, Carolyn's brother, as the only worthwhile member of a degenerate family, and has watched Carolyn struggle for years, refusing to lend a hand or allow her husband to help financially, even though he has been very successful and has his own money. Adele cannot stand to see Carolyn succeed and she wants to put Carolyn in her place.

What is it with people who have so much that they cannot stand to see someone else get a taste of success, especially when they've given up everything to make it happen? Don't they already have enough? Why do they feel the need to ruin it for everyone else?

Jealousy.

Carolyn and I have been friends for thirty years and we have been through some very difficult times together. She has been married a few times and finally found a man who loved and respected her. They had a happy life for just two years before he was killed in a convenience store robbery when he went in for coffee one morning. Carolyn was devastated and I didn't think she was going to be able to handle his death, but she did, and she did more than survive, she lived.

She encouraged me when I had almost given up the idea of having my books published, and she refused to let me give her a copy of my novel. She wanted to buy a copy. That was a very easy dedication to write. She didn't even chide me when she saw I had acknowledged Louise and not her because she said she didn't really do anything except listen. When I dedicated my book to everyone who has ever wanted to rewrite the past, I had Carolyn in mind, and so many others, and she understood. So, how could I not be there for her now?

I didn't have any magical solution to her dilemma, but I did have a smidgen of advice. Even though Adele has used her influence to get the same gallery to show her paintings, and no doubt her loyal friends will buy a few, she cannot take away what Carolyn has achieved. No one can. Adele would be dissatisfied no matter what she does because there is always someone else's thunder to steal to make sure she always stands in the spotlight center stage. All Carolyn can do is keep painting from her heart and forget anything but enjoying her own life. To worry about what Adele will try to co-opt next would only make Carolyn miserable; she'd always be looking over her shoulder instead of ahead. Her first show was a sell-out and the critics raved about her paintings. No one can take that away from her, not even Adele.

The reason Adele is so unhappy and jealous is because she's never really worked for what she has. She doesn't know what it means to sacrifice everything to achieve success. It has all been handed to her on a platinum tray. She wouldn't be so bored if she actually had to suffer or to struggle for something, and she wouldn't like it either. She wasn't made to suffer. Beautiful, privileged people seldom are.

I told Carolyn to think of it this way, if she wasn't such an amazing and talented person, Adele wouldn't deign to notice her. It's a mixed blessing, but Adele, for all her beauty, wealth and advantages, will never have the sense of peace that Carolyn knows. That only comes with achieving something after working hard. It's called sweat. Adele doesn't sweat. Too bad, a little sweat can be sweet.