Alzheimer's, yearning and sex

I'm struggling between cudgeling my brain to remember things I shouldn't have forgotten so quickly and longing for a trip to Spain as an exchange student. I was chosen as an exchange student when I was in high school but was told my parents couldn't afford to send me. There are times I wonder what would have happened had they allowed me to go. I don't allow those thoughts to surface often, but I was looking for a translation program for a writer who needed to translate English dialogue to Spanish and stumbled across the exchange student site. The translation program, if anyone is interested, is Babel Fish, aptly named of course.

Aah, Spain, home of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra and one of my favorite literary characters: Don Quixote. I shouldn't forget Dulcinea or Sancho Panza either. I read Don Quixote in Spanish when I was in school but I had already read it in English many times. I've seen the play with Giorgio Tozzi as Cervantes and Don Quixote and the movie with Peter O'Toole (Man of La Mancha and starred Sophia Loren as Dulcinea). Peter O'Toole reminds me of My Favorite Year when he played Alan Swann, which was written by Dennis Palumbo, who also wrote one of the books I'm reading now.

Writing from the Inside Out has turned out to be a very valuable writing book about the psychology of writers. I'm barely into it and already I've learned quite a lot about myself and my writing relationships. I bought the book and am waiting for it to arrive in the snail mail but Amazon offers a new service. You can download the book for a nominal fee and begin reading and highlighting and sticky noting the text on your computer right away. It keeps the hard copy clean and it fills that need for instant gratification that is sometimes so difficult to ignore.

Right now, everything has taken a back seat to writing and reading about writing and reading writing. I've no time for anything else and I even begrudge the need to work every day. I don't mind getting up before dawn even yawns near the horizon since it means I have that much more time to write and make notes and edit and read.

It's a good thing I'm not seriously involved with anyone since I wouldn't have the time to spend with them anyway. With a book coming out, two books in the works (both from the same information), coordinating Q&As with writers for the two books, and dealing with the changes necessary on one book, I just don't have the time for romance.

Unfortunately, my moaning whores can't seem to get that through their hormone-laden brains and keep plaguing me with lurid dreams that leave me aching and sweaty come morning. Nothing like sleeping in the wet spot alone, especially when it covers nearly half the bed. Well, the whores will have to keep on moaning because I can't hear them since I bought noise canceling headphones, which don't actually work for the whores' moaning, but work and writing help to tune them out, just not when I sleep. Oh, well, it could be worse and I could be trawling bars and singles' hangouts looking for meaningless sex. Still, I could take one gentleman up on his offer of no-strings attached sex, as long as he could fit his libido into my schedule. Something to think about, but for now . . .

That is all. Disperse.

Yippee!

It took a little while but at least I got the check last week.

Here, in all its glory, is my short article for Writers Weekly

That is all. Disperse.

Never give up

This is beautiful morning. Everything is going right.

I woke at six because I just couldn't sleep. Don't remember the dreams, but I felt a sense of urgency even though no place I need to go today was open at that hour. Bathroom, throw on a long T-shirt and check my email, all the time deciding whether or not to buy a new multifunction printer since my HP died. I checked online for deals and steals and found quite a few, but as my finger hovered over the enter button I hesitated--a lot. I checked more places, more sites, and even went to some auctions to find even better deals with add-ons, but as my finger hovered over the button I couldn't bring myself to send my money and my request into the cyber ether. What if I could fix the ailing HP? I closed the browser and went to the HP's side and took it apart.

Lo and behold, there was something wrong and it was a simple fix. Getting my tweezers, I removed a sticky label stuck in the gears of the paper feeder. One tiny piece eluded me because my tweezers didn't bend (they are after all for eyebrows) and weren't long enough, but just maybe... I fed in a sheet of paper, stuck a book on the copier bed, pressed copy, OK, and start and held my breath. It worked. The gears didn't clash and grind. The paper fed through and disappeared. Message said: out of paper. But where did it go? I looked around and noticed a clean sheet of paper on the floor. I forgot to put on the back of the machine. One more time into the breach.

Paper in the feeder, hit copy, OK, and start and . . . wonder of wonders I heard the printer element sliding over and over the sheet as the paper emerged from the bowels of the machine with . . . an image on it. It worked. I got my laptop, hooked up the USB, and got down to the business of printing everything I had held over the past month. I'd meet my deadlines and I didn't need to buy another multifunction printer.

However, I am still going to spring for the flash drive. It will save me so much time when it comes to getting minutes from the club secretary who waits until the last minute. Maybe I can even convince the president to write his monthly column by the date of the board meeting and kill three birds with geek fix. Anything is possible right now.

I have been sad and frustrated for about a month since my printer died, especially since some publications refuse to take articles and stories by email. I received a much needed and anxiously awaited substantial payment for my writing yesterday and paid up all pending accounts, with a little left over for a new printer, I had waffled about actually spending the money. A friend offered to give me a printer but I just didn't want to let go of the HP. It was a Yule gift to myself four years ago when I moved up to the cabin, bought with an unexpected windfall, that made my life so much easier, and it has helped out friends and neighbors when they needed copies or to fax something.

I haven't scanned anything recently, but I've decided to make use of all my resurrected machine's functions. I have a lot of clips to document and store. Now I can even afford to buy that DVD burner I've been eyeing for so long. Life is good, especially when I'm going to get paid for an article that will be received well ahead of deadline. Life is very good.

That is all. Disperse.

Just breathe

The greens are brilliant this morning and the sky a perfect Colorado blue. Sunshine lightens everything and shows up the rain-washed clean, warming the lilacs and spreading their scent everywhere while the breeze wafts it through the open windows. It's cold but not a sharp, bitter cold, rather a blunt-edged cold that hints at the warmth to come.

Time moves so quickly, the soft yellow-greens swelling to the brilliant growing green that will soon darken in the sun to a deep verdant green like sun-dappled pools where light is a stray fiery diamond shaft softened by its passage through the heavy canopy of the forest. This is one of my favorite times of year, when the air is soft and fragrant with new growth before the blaze of the relentless summer sun sears away the fragrance of earth and bursting seeds and spring petals that emerges only when rain releases what hides from the sun's brazen glare.

A few months after I moved here, I got caught in the rain. As I passed a towering full-figured pine in the middle of a parking lot, I caught the scent of spicy green. I stood and just breathed, surprised and pleased. As the sun burned away the clouds, the scent faded, going back into hiding until the rain would bring it out again.

There are moments like those, surprising moments when a sound or a scent or a flash of color, movement or light, remind me what a wonderful life I have. Some days, when the work seems endless and I've been hard at it until my eyes burn and a sharp pain bores relentlessly into my head, I'll catch a glimpse of a bird with scarlet feathers warbling on a branch in the squirrel porn tree in front of my desk or see the tarball twins--most likely the offspring of the female black squirrel that disappeared last fall--tumbling and carousing along slender branches or see birds and squirrels dining together at the now open all you can eat gutter buffet next door, and I am reminded there is something in life other than work . This is one of those days, a gift that makes me want to just breathe and enjoy the flowering wealth of earth, air and sky before I turn back to the necessity of work.

It isn't as though the days aren't full of these moments--every moment holds the same promise--but rather that I get so wrapped up in what I must do that I forget to pause and just breathe. I need these reminders and I'm glad they land in my trees or whisper through the open windows to catch my attention. Those moments are my little vacations, moments that make it easier to survive the seemingly endless working hours and just breathe.

News and views

I have created a new blog to document my experience with publishing my first romance novel. If you're interested, toddle on over to Eyes On Publishing and take a look. It may not be pretty, but it will be, as always, brutally honest. After all, someone needs to mark the trail and I'm fresh out of urine.

That is all. Disperse.

And now this...

It seems freelance journalists in America are no longer good enough--or cheap enough. Think I'm kidding? Check this out.

It isn't bad enough that writers are consider the bottom of the creative food chain, but now they're outsourcing writing jobs to India. What's next? Having your children watched on nanny cams by a nanny in India?

That is all. Disperse -- and purge.

At last

I was at the post office yesterday and the line was nearly out the door. The two people at the counter didn't go anywhere for nearly 15 minutes while everyone in the line chafed and shuffled and fretted. I was a little worried since the parking meter only had 26 minutes on it.

A very pretty young blonde with skin like new cream, black mascara ringing her pale blue eyes, and wearing a sarong and flip flops and a very short older woman, eyes deep brown nested in a wreath of smile lines, with short, wavy helmet hair threaded with silver and I stood at the end of the line. A short cranky bear of a man with a beard checked his watch every 15 seconds as we three women chatted and joked. The bear finally grumped off to go to "another post office where they aren't so &*$%*#*@ slow". We three looked at each other and smiled and then encouraged the people in front of us, one by one, to go to a faster post office, providing them with directions if they hesitated. Slowly we made our way to the head of the line.

"Why are they raising postage rates?" Blonde asked.

"Because they can," I said.

Silvered-hair and Blonde laughed. "Besides,"I added, "they need to be real snails to carry the mail. It's faster than using carriers." Everyone in the post office laughed.

We came to the head of the line and Blonde frowned. "He's so slow." She was about to get Papa Smurf, the guy with the blue fingers. "He's efficient," I said. "He's sloooow."

Silvered-hair got Terry, the lady whose husband died a year ago and I got Ed who is always smiling and glad to see me. Then I was out of there and to my car in record time with one minute still on the meter. And I thought it was going to be a quick trip.

The point of all this is snail mail (now with real snails). I just received an email from my publisher. After six weeks of waiting, my contracts finally arrived. That's priority mail for you. I now have lots of instructions and information and will soon meet my editor (virtually, of course) and we will begin the process of getting my book up and ready for bookstores everywhere, and I do mean everywhere because we already have an international tie-in, which means my book will soon be available, once it's edited and packaged, in Asia and Europe. I can hardly wait. My publisher said he was sending my copy of the contract and I should have it in about 1-1/2 to 2 weeks. I think he's being overly optimistic about those snails. Of course, where he lives it's much warmer than here and the snail tend to get frozen in their slime trails from time to time.

He also said the artist has been given my suggestions for the cover art; I was pretty explicit and detailed. I have a vision. They asked if I had any ideas . . . and I did. Now, whether or not they follow it is something else again. I'll just have to wait and see. Now for a question.

Do you like characters more who are vaguely described or intricately described?

We now return you to regular programming.

That is all. Disperse.

Shameless promotion

I just received word from Angela Hoy who edits and puts out Writers Weekly that my success story will be in the next issue. She's also publishing a letter I wrote to her in Letters to the Editor. She is also buying an article on freelancing, but the date of publication is still not determined. So keep an eye out for the Writers Weekly newsletter. It comes out on Wednesdays and if you haven't signed up yet, what are you waiting for. WW is a great resource for marketing and freelancing. Angela also runs Booklocker one of the premiere Print on Demand publishers.

And speaking of determined, the good news keeps coming. Byline has selected two of my articles for future issues and there may be another article in The Writer.

It helps to shake up the ant farm from time to time to keep them from their ruts becoming too well worn.

That is all. Disperse.

Keep the irons hot

Did you ever look through market listings and get an idea but thought you could hold onto it until you finished looking through the listings? You finished and got out your writing tools and . . . nothing.

It's happened to me a lot. I've missed deadlines that way by being unable to think what it was I had planned to write. The clock ticks on relentlessly and the deadline passes. No one noticed because no one was expecting my submission. There are always other books and contests down the road; so what if I missed one or two or an uncountable number of opportunities to be published?

I've found a solution.

When I go through the marketing listings I have pen and paper or my laptop close by. That way when I get an idea or something sparks (hopefully, without actually catching fire to the books on the bed or sofa or table) I make some notes or just write the piece. I can always edit it later, but I might not get the spark again. It also helps with getting ahead of deadlines. Nothing like being weeks or even months ahead of deadline so you can move on to the next deadline and the next market listing that strikes a spark.

The same thing works for reading the newspaper, magazines, hear a snatch of conversation, or see something that simply must be recorded (you can keep a camera handy for this--make sure you have batteries just in case). Keep a little notebook you can stick in a pocket or purse and a pencil and a pen (never know when the ink will cut out on you). Stop whatever you're doing and jot it down. It won't take long and the results are definitely worth it. Making a note or taking pictures helps capture the moment, but they also help set the information in your memory so it's less likely you'll forget. The boy and girl scouts had it right: always be prepared.

I also write stories and articles and then look for markets, but when I have nothing pending and I'm cruising the listings and contests, this method works really well. I have chalked up ten stories/articles/essays in the past two weeks. Being productive helps keep you productive and the ideas flowing. I've also landed four assignments, which means there will be checks in the mail upon publication or receipt. And none of this gets in the way of my regular work or reviews I already have slated.

In a way, it's like exercise, keeping the writing muscles and energies high and very flexible. Nothing wrong with filling the pipeline and keeping it filled. The end result is good for you and for your bank account.

What is your method for being creative and keeping creative?

That is all. Disperse.

Bruised egos

When a writer lashes out at a reviewer or has a review deleted it never works out. Case in point: Anne Rice lashing out at reviews on Amazon won her no new fans and showed a side of her that was monumentally embarrassing--for her. I wonder sometimes if that is why she shelved her Vampire Chronicles and not because she hid her scars and dents in the bosom of Mother Church.

The truth is that not everyone is going to like a writer's work. Granted, people will buy or not buy based on a reviewer's opinions and sometimes a review will create a few tempest in teacups like the one over Specfic Floozy's recap and column on the recent Hugo awards (that's science fiction for all of you who don't know).

Critics abound and, in a country where a Jewish lawyer defends the Ku Klux Klan in front of the Supreme Court, will and should have their say without censhorship. It takes a very small mind and an overweening ego to believe that their work is above criticism and cannot be improved upon. Too bad so many of such people are adept at hiding the truth and casting others in a negative light, especially when people refuse to listen or open their minds or see they are being used. Such has always been the case and, I'm sure, will always be the case. It is as common as geese drowning in the rain because they haven't figured out looking away from the rain is all it takes to save their lives.

That is all. Disperse.

What you don't expect

Birthdays have always been special to me, probably because my own birthday has been so ignored by most of my family and some of my friends. After so many years of being ignored, I have become used to the silence because the silence has become my friend. It's something I can count on. It's always there, wrapping me in soft folds of comfort and stability.

A young friend was pretty upset when a party she threw for her own birthday was a bust. No one showed up. She later said that she realized she hadn't spoken to or seen some of the people for six months or more. She was surprised.

Time gets away from us so quickly that we seldom recognize its passage. Caught up in chores and deadlines and demands made on our time by those around us in our families, at work, and even demands we impose on ourselves, we focus on getting everything done and not on what we're missing, like friends.

Someone once told me that a friend is someone who would give their life for you and everyone else is an acquaintance. Friendship is a stormy sea but if death is the only criteria for being a friend, it's no wonder no one shows up to celebrate the anniversary of our births.

Friendship takes tending like rare orchids and temperamental roses. It does not grow like weeds or crab grass, although some people are as just as determined to insinuate themselves in our lives. Some friends need less work than others and some demand every second of our time: free or not. Friends are as varied as snowflakes and as rare as a true blue rose, but they can also be as common as dust on the wind and just as hard to pin down or count on.

Someone can be as close as a twin sister and suddenly be as dangerous as a bear wakened too soon from its winter hibernation and there are those who stay at a distance and yet are as close as a shadow, appearing and disappearing with the passage of the sun and time. There is no rhyme or reason, only the vagaries and inconsistencies of life in an all too busy world.

The next time you look around for a friend, make certain you haven't been so caught up in your life you've forgotten to tend to theirs. Sometimes it is only a matter of listening when they need to talk or calling to say hello and remind them that you remember they're there. Nothing is so important and so earth-shattering that you can't put it off to spend a few moments chatting or send out a note to remind them you think they're special and are glad they stuck around. Friendship is like a smile; the more you offer yours, the more often someone else will offer theirs. It only takes a few moments, but it's worth the effort.

That is all. Disperse.

Food and writing

When I opened the fridge I realized I had eggs. Not such a surprise since I usually open the freezer to take out something to nuke or take fruit and vegetables out of the basket on the counter to fix dinner instead. There is even sometimes popcorn in the basket and the oil is always near the stove. (Truth be told, everything is near the stove in my kitchen. It's rather small, but comfortably so.) I also had some button mushrooms, which are not my favorites but were on sale, and, since I hate to throw out anything that has a bit of use in it, and it costs more to buy them dried when I can dry them (by forgetting they're there) in the fridge for less, I took them out. I also had half a still fresh onion and omelet was on my mind.

The reason I'm not all that fond of button mushrooms is because they have so little taste, not like porcinis and meaty portobellos and (my favorite) shiitakes. But the buttons were there and still edible, so I chopped them up and scooped them into the pan where the canola oil began to sizzle. I cut up half the half-onion and scooped that into the pan, whisked up some eggs with a little water, sea salt, and white pepper and, as soon as the mushrooms and onions were tender and the onions still slightly crisp, the eggs went into the pan. I already had oatmeal simmering on the stove, so while I waited I washed a few dishes--I hate just standing around waiting for things to happen and fiddling with the food. The smell was incredible and I began to wonder if I had misjudged button mushrooms.

I had.

As soon as I took the first bite I knew I was wrong. Button mushrooms don't have much taste when they're fresh, but let them dry out in the fridge and something wonderful happens. The taste isn't as pronounced and rich as a porcini or as fragrant as a shiitake, but it is good. Next time button mushrooms are on sale 2-for-1, I'll get a couple more packages and forget them in the fridge until they dry out. I'll bet dried buttons are a good substitute for flour in making gravy, too. I prefer dried, ground porcinis, but they're a little expensive. I think I need to buy some shiitakes and let them dry out, too. Could be that Portobellos would be good, too, although I prefer them with spices and pureed salmon baked in the oven or with chicken breasts or in veggie lasagne instead of meat.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not going completely vegetarian. I couldn't go totally without meat, especially an occasional juicy medium-rare steak with sauteed onions, but mushrooms make a great substitute without resorting to soy fillers. I wonder how they would taste in lentil chili. Hmmmm.

Since it's Saturday and I don't have a VE session in Woodland Park this weekend, I'm doing what I usually do on Saturdays: writing reading. I finished the review for The Cat Master last night, wrote and posted my review, so I don't have to start another review book right away. I have some personal reading time. I have a stack of books I want to get through and some literary, writing and specfic magazines to read. I'm not just enjoying myself, should that be what you're thinking; it's research and one of the writing rules: before submitting to any magazine or publisher you should know the competition and what they publish, get a feel for tone and type of stories and articles. Like I said: research.

I did have some good news this morning though. Angela Hoy of Writers Weekly is buying an article from me and, if my retool of another article flies, will buy a second article from me. Next Wednesday, 05/09/07, my letter will also be printed. I wrote in response to an article and Angela wrote back and asked if she could print it next week in the newsletter. How could I refuse? (only by being brain damaged) Since my name was already on her mind, and she knew my byline, I decided to take a chance and send her a success story and an article. She asked me to rethink a couple sentences and I rewrote the paragraph and sent it back. A check will be in the mail this coming week. The article is a little harder sell, but it's worth negotiating. If Angela doesn't buy it for Writers Weekly then I'll redo the query and send it to a couple other writing magazines. One of them is bound to buy it.

That's the thing about writing, it takes sweat and effort and moving outside your comfort zone. I was happy where I was, writing reviews and articles, editing and pitching magazines; it was safe and I was content. A writer should never become too safe or too content; it's bad for business. But not all writing is about business. Writing is about--writing, expressing yourself, your thoughts, feelings and observations. Publishing is secondary, but only if it's a hobby or you have no desire to see your work in print. Whichever path you choose doesn't make you any less a writer.

Make no mistake, reviewers and columnists and editors and ghostwriters are writers, too. They may not have a book on the shelves with their name on it but that makes them no less professionals and no less real writers. Like I said, a writer writes. No one would say Emily Dickinson wasn't a poet because she didn't publish her poems while she was alive, hiding them in the attic and keeping them to herself, except for a handful that were published during her lifetime, most of which were published anonymously. She wrote.

In this all too over-exposed world we live in, too many people have come to see success only when it is prominently displayed. I remember (misremember) a quote that says: "They also serve who stand and wait." Publicity is nice but publicity does not make a writer real. That is not the measure of success. Real success is in writing and continuing to write--whether it is in a private diary or journal, stories, books and poems you keep in a drawer or bound and hidden away, in a locked blog only you can see, or wherever you write--and continuing to evolve and grow, writing because not to write would drive you mad and render you miserable to be around.

The world measures success the way it measures faith, as something that can only be quantified in numbers and dollars and cents; that's a poor way of measuring anything. For me, it isn't about success in terms of recognition, although that would be nice; it's about writing. I am miserable when I'm not writing, unhappy with my life and tense and cross with the world around me. I live a half life when I'm not writing. And I am also selfish.

I do not want to share my time and my writing with a 9-5 job or any job. I begrudge the time and the effort, knowing I have no other choice if I am to continue living in an apartment instead of under a breezy and well traveled overpass or bridge.

I'm not a troll nor do I come from dwarf stock. So, while I like to visit caves and dank and dark places on occasion, I prefer living above ground in warm rooms with walls and furniture and amenities and, occasionally, food. In order to do that, I have to give up the reliable and constant companionship of unhappiness and the feeling of missing my life in pursuit of work and a paycheck, move out of my comfort zone (miserable as it sometimes is) and feed my soul by writing. I am a writer, a real writer; I can do no less and retain my sanity and my self respect. I no longer wish to spend all my energy and my time only on the mundane day-to-day pursuits. Work is necessary, but it's not everything. For me, there has to be writing . . . and occasionally food. It's who I am and what keeps me ticking.

If it stings...

...it must be good for you.

That's what my grandmother used to say whenever she tended a hurt with some nasty spray or liquid that burned like fire. I knew she was attempting to make the pain worthwhile but it still hurt. The same thing goes for slights and nasty remarks that sting. If they don't sting, there is no truth in them. If, however, they sting...

Whenever someone slights us--and it's usually a friend or relative because they know us well enough to know what buttons to push--it is usually out of their own pique or pain. They need to make sure you hurt, too, and digging the spurs into your ego and psyche are the quickest ways to get there. It's mean, but it's effective, and you should thank them. If it stings...

Sometimes we get into a comfortable rut where it's safe and we are content. Little things will bother us, and that's guaranteed, but overall we are happy where we are. There's no need to exert any energy to maintain stationary orbit or climb up out of that ever deepening rut, so why bother? It takes grit and guts and a lot of energy to blast out of orbit and escape the strong pull of gravity or reach up to grab the edge of the rut and pull our comfortably padded rumps out, but the effort is worth it.

I climbed out of that rut. It was a good well worn rut but I left so much undone. I had stories and novels and proposals for books gathering dust buried beneath a growing stack of minutiae. It's what Apollo Creed called the eye of the tiger, that burning desire to be more than you are, to reach beyond yourself and achieve your dreams. I had lost it. I have it back and now the results are piling up.

There were times I had a bright idea and thought what a good story or article or essay it would make. I religiously read marketing newsletters and lists of contests and calls for submission, the ideas blossoming as I read, but I did nothing with them--other than writing them down or marking that place in my memory. Memory is not a good place to keep hot ideas; it has a tendency to become overlaid with bills and work and the minutiae of every day life, getting pushed out of the light to huddle under the bed or in a corner or behind a big heavy piece of mental furniture. The only time they're found is when you move (I'm not planning to move) or when it's time for spring cleaning (not going to happen this year) or when relatives come to visit (they live too far away), and then it's too late. There's a reason to strike while the iron is hot; it's much easier to mold and bend and shape. When it's cold . . . well, you get the idea.

I got stung. Then I got mad. Then I started to look at things and see it stung because it held a small poppy seed of truth. Then I got busy.

Time passes so quickly and the older we get time grows wings and then engines and then jet engines and then it's rocketing out of sight, leaving us gasping and coughing in its wake. Time does not wait. It is relentless, a construct of perpetual motion that soon becomes a juggernaut moving at unbelievable speeds leaving nothing in its wake but regret and a cloud of dust without even a hearty Heigh-Ho, Silver! Life is short and can end at any moment. Think not? Talk to the wife of the guy who was driving to work one day when an overpass collapsed on top of him or the athlete who was in tip-top condition and going out for his morning run when his heart stopped. Yes, these are extreme examples, but they are nonetheless true.

We don't need a fatalistic view of life. We need a realistic perspective. Every time we put something off or let something mundane take precedence over dreams and desire, we lose. We lose time. We lose the heat in the iron. We lose escape velocity. The result is inertia: safe, comfortable, going nowhere inertia. Gravity has taken hold and no matter how fast we run or how high we jump, there's no escaping it. The trick is to move and keep moving, keep evolving, and most of all, keep living. That's why slights sting and why they should sting--to remind us we could have had a V-8 have our dreams right now. All it takes is the eye of the tiger and a little bit of audacity.

So, thank you for all the insults and slights and nasty things everyone has ever said to me. It did the trick.

That is all. Disperse.

Roll out the barrel

I've been busy. The new schedule is working out very well and I'm getting a lot accomplished. I'm even typing more reports than before and my paycheck is about to get a boost right into the next tax bracket. Just as an example, I finished three stories for Chicken Soup this afternoon after typing as many reports in four hours as it used to take me seven hours to do. And that includes editing and proofreading the stories. I have to thank Marcia Golub's advice on scheduling and Elizabeth Lyon for inspiration. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Elizabeth Lyon has agreed to collaborate on a book with me, but that's another story for another time.

The only sour note in this ode to joy is my printer. The plastic innards that feed paper through it have decided to quit feeding. The copy function works, and so does the fax and scanner, but without paper, they won't do me much good. I actually had to hand print labels for the monthly ham club newsletter and my fingers still feel cramped. I don't write much by longhand since I got the laptop, which just celebrated its first year with me.

I probably should change the title of this post to roll out the printer, but it doesn't go well with barrel, especially since the ink is holding out. Too bad the printer won't allow any paper through its plastic teeth so I'd need to roll out the ink barrel, but into every life a little rain . . . et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I do know some things for certain: schedules make a difference, working until you drop is not necessarily productive (or lucrative) and when you leave some room for the spark of creativity to strike you're sure to burn brightly and often. A fire cannot burn in a vacuum and creativity cannot function with tired and depleted synapses incapable of generating a spark.

That is all. Disperse.

Blank slate

Saturday mornings are the best, especially lately. I awaken in darkness well before the sun hints it's up and realize I don't have to get up right away or at least I can go back to sleep once I take care of the morning water. A blank slate hangs before me. I have a few things I need to get done, but there is no clock ticking and no sense of time running out.

I watch the first colors tint the clouds and sky. As the light brightens, dark shapes coalesce from shadows into color and light. Birds twitter and call, singing up the sun. The blossoms on the tree next door brighten and the colors soften to shades of pink and rose when the light hits them. The breeze brings the scents of fresh, cool air and warming flowers. Sunshine filters through the leaves that seem to grow more profuse with every passing moment. I close my eyes and breathe and relax and drift in and out of sleep and dreams. It's Saturday and life is full of possibilities.

Family matters--or not

An old friend emailed and asked me if family was important. She's been having yet another go-round with her sisters and is feeling left out. Sometimes her sisters close ranks and gossip about her, passing around stories that have just a small poppy seed of truth that blossom into much more, thus alienating her from the rest of her family--and especially from her nieces and nephews.

Recently, one of her nephews stopped by and told her his sister moved back to Las Vegas. She had returned home to live but after three months found out it didn't work. She supposedly had cancer and full blown AIDS and had until October to live. When my friend contacted her, she said the tests weren't back and she's not going to worry until she is told differently. My friend thought she'd find her niece distraught and frightened; she wasn't.

My friend enjoys her nieces and nephews and she would enjoy her sisters if they weren't forever plotting and scheming and verbally abusing her. I've seen some of the abuse first hand. It's subtle but they certainly know how to set the barbed hooks deeply. Her sisters will make a comment that seems like a compliment on the surface; it's not. There's that sharp barbed hook barely hidden in the bait. My friend has learned not to rise to the bait but it means her sisters have less and less contact with her because she no longer gives them a burst of emotion to feed on.

This is what I told her:

I was thinking about family and how important--or not--they are just this morning. In fact, I was writing about it in the diary I keep on my laptop. I have a few of them, but that one sits on the bed on the side where I don't sleep and it's easy to pick up and type everything out, easier than writing it out long hand. Anyway, it all started with a shower yesterday afternoon. I was washing and suddenly the scent of Ivory soap came to mind. One of my aunts used it on her kids and I always associated the smell with her and with love. Dad told me one time that when her girls were little and came in from playing she'd wash their hands and faces in Ivory soap. Her bathroom always smelled of Ivory soap and I used to wash my hands very thoroughly when I went to the bathroom at her house so I could smell like her and her daughters. She never worked outside the home and I don't think she drove a car. She wore dresses all the time, simple cotton dresses--with sleeves for winter and without sleeves for spring, summer and warm days in fall. She didn't wear makeup or have fancy clothes and her house was always clean, but it was the kind of clean that was welcoming and homey, a place that smelled of love. When I was old enough to drive and had a problem I'd drive over to her house. No matter the time, she was always there for me and willing to listen to what I had to say.

Aunt Edith was family and she was important to me. But whether we like the people related to us or not, they have an affect on our lives and on making us who we are. In that sense the are important. In the sense that they should remain central in our lives and determine the course of the rest of our lives, no, I don't think they are important.

Family is a touchstone, a training ground, and a haven sometimes but family can also be a millstone dragging us down. There is the family you're born into and the family you make with the people who mean most to you, the ones who become your touchstone and your haven. In that sense, family is very important. Family is connection and we all need connections, just not the ones with which we come into the world.

Time's up; pencils down

For some reason memories often pop up without any reference to what I'm doing. One of those memories is a terrifying book by Joan Samson called The Auctioneer. I picked up the book as an impulse purchase and the story creeps into my nightmares from time to time. I wasn't dreaming when the book crossed my mind this morning. I had just finished writing another piece for the Chicken Soup books about cats.

The Auctioneer is one of the most horrifying books I've read. It creeps up on you and takes you over more with such a simple and innocuous start: an auctioneer comes to a rural community. What happens is insidious and will stick with you long after you put down the book. I read the story more than 20 years ago when it first came out. I haven't read it since, but it popped into my mind this morning. Then I went looking for the more books by the same author.

I didn't find them.

Like Harper Lee, Joan Samson only published one book. Unlike Harper Lee, Samson died the year after the book was published at the ripe old age of 39. She probably had a lot more books in her, but not much time. Her book lives on and is set for re-release August 2007. Now that is staying power. What's more, it has never been out of print.

From what I could find out, the book was once optioned for a movie that was never made. With the new release of the book in hardback (again), I hope some director has enough intelligence to put this one on the fast track.

If you want true horror, check out the book. Buy it, rent it, borrow it from the library or get it second-hand at Amazon or Alibris. You won't regret it.

I'll bet Joan Samson thought she had more time to write more books, but the sand had run out of her hourglass.

Writing well

I've been up since about 1 AM. I don't have insomnia. I just went to bed early because I'm trying out something I read in I'd Rather Be Writing by Marcia Golub about schedules and scheduling time to write. With one book contract and two other books in contract negotiations I needed to find a way to make better use of my time since I have a job that takes up a huge chunk of my time. The idea is to stick to a schedule for seven days and see if things aren't better and I am more productive. I have to admit I'm writing more and that's a good thing, but that little boost of confidence and energy came from a task I completed this weekend past. I did something I haven't done in a couple years; I entered the Writers Weekly 24-hour short story contest (short as in less than 1000 words). From noon (central time) on Saturday to noon on Sunday you have 24 hours to write a short story based on the prompt they email on Saturday. I am very pleased with the results and I came in just under one thousand words with a story that has a beginning, middle and satisfying end but leaves room for a longer story if I decide to go on with it--and maybe another novel. It wasn't what I first started plotting but what I came up with is better and not quite so mundane. At any rate, I'm still working out the kinks in this schedule thing.

I've decided to split up my working day because I can't sit still for eight hours straight, even with a break for lunch and going to the bathroom. I feel antsy and uncomfortable. So, I decided to work from 4-8 (yesterday it was 5:30-9:30), take a break until 1 or 2 PM and then work another 3.5-4 hours. In between times I'd shower and eat and run errands--and I'd write or work on writing projects, like marketing and proposals and submission. So far so good, except I decided to go to bed early last night and woke up at 1. Instead of getting to work I felt like writing. Something kept cycling in my mind that started in the shower and wouldn't let go, so I went with it. It's more a stream of consciousness, but I know from what happened this weekend that it's a process that works for me.

I started with an idea, a prompt of sorts (in this case Ivory soap), and I let it take me down memory lane to all the associations it brought up. I was surprised at some of the things that came out of that little freewriting session (something else I do on occasion--mostly in this journal). I had forgotten one of my cousins was married to Bill Howard who is the younger brother of Frank Howard who lived in a big stone house plucked right out of the medieval English countryside, complete with turret, that sat on the corner opposite Schiller Park in German Village in the Brewery District.

We lived in German Village just one block east of the park for a while. I went to Armstrong School just around the corner from the house my grandparents owned. We had just come back from Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland and were on our way to Panama in a few months after Dad got things settled and found us a place to live. I was in the second grade and I walked to school and home on my own every day. I don't think I realized my Aunt Edith lived just a few blocks south of us on Reinhard past the Howards' house with the turret or that one day I would stand in Schiller Park as Juliet's nurse in Romeo and Juliet a couple decades later or ice skate on the pond in the winter after driving across the city with my kids just to spend time in that particular park even though Westgate Park was closer and much more familiar. There is something magical about Schiller Park and the brick streets of German Village where so many grand old houses live.

But I am behind schedule this morning and the stories will keep a while longer, marinating in memory and the senses they stir, until I take my morning break and dip my fingers into the writing well again.

That is all. Disperse.

Hungry Bear

One of my friends is depressed--again. She was happy about a week ago. She smiled and laughed and told her awful jokes and everything was right in her world . . . until the world crashed down on her. She wasn't in an accident and no one died. Nothing broke and needed to be fixed and she didn't get hit with any unexpected expenses. The hungry bear came out of her cave.

There are some people who cannot stand to see anyone else happy, especially not someone they know. They feed on misery and depression and they're never satisfied until they've destroyed every last smile and real feeling of happiness. Only then is the bear's appetite sated. The bear can handle the occasional obligatory empty smile, the smiles that never light up the eyes or make anyone else who sees it feel light and happy. They don't mind laughter as long as it's hollow. But let the bear see a single ray of happiness or a contented smile or catch the faintest scent of hope and she charges out of the cave and devours every single morsel of joy until there is nothing left but depression, anger and sadness.

The bear is a subtle creature. She will start an argument or make some snide comment questioning competence, honesty or commitment to those around you, nagging and niggling away at the brightness until only dull and insipid smiles and thoughts remain. Insidious, the bear strikes without warning while her prey is lost in a fog of pleasure, sending her prey's bright dreams and fond memories plummeting into the dark abyss.

There are only two ways to deal with the hungry bear. Either learn to hide the smiles that come with true happiness or get out of the bear's territory where her keen senses can no longer discern the faintest whiff of joy. The only other option, and it's the coward's way, is to lock away every memory of happiness and joy and give the hungry bear what she wants: hopelessness, sadness, loneliness and depression.

The King and I

Strange dreams plagued me this morning. Stephen King was sending me money because he believed in my talent. Instead of sending the last check, which was a really large amount, he brought it himself. It wasn't one check but a whole bunch of checks from a lot of different accounts, all small amounts. He said it was to hide it from his accountant and his wife. The stack of checks was enormous, filling a box. What was really strange was that he brought the checks because he wanted to make me his mistress but when we ended up in bed together (his shirt was off and we were kissing when he guided my hand lower--much lower) it wasn't King but someone with whose anatomy I am very familiar.

What's up with that?