Ask me a different question

I was asked whose writing ability I'd like to have and if I would choose write like them permanently.

Why would I want another author's writing ability? Ask me if I want their prolific output (yes) or their earnings (most definitely), but not their writing ability.

While I admire many authors and learn from their techniques, or lack of technique, I don't want to write like anyone but myself. How can I tell the stories of my life and experiences if I'm doing it through another writer's senses and styles? I've no doubt Ray Bradbury has spent some time in Central and South America, but he has not seen or known what I lived with every day in Panama. The way he saw the airport landing strip cut out of the bloody jungle clay is not the same way I saw it as a small child with the bloody clay dripping, congealing and clotting on the black macadam of the strip as the plane touched down.

John Steinbeck saw human waste during the great exodus of middle America and the people displaced crowding into tent cities on the California coast angling for jobs picking grapes or lettuce or whatever they could do to stay alive another hour, another day, another week. He saw the crumbling fish canning factories along the Pacific coast and the lives that washed up among the broken boilers and near empty diners. Had he seen the flood of people caught in the Mississippi levees in New Orleans, it wouldn't have been from the level of the street where getting a license to paint faces or sketch in pastels or tell fortunes with tarot cards was the ticket to a better life than pushing a Lucky Dog cart into the eddies and currents of tourist traffic in the Vieux Carre, but I did. He saw it from a loftier perch and I saw it from with stale hot dog steam in my eyes with my stomach cramping from hunger while partying tourists bought hot dogs they ate dripping catsup, mustard, relish and onions less than a foot away.

I admire many writers and I enjoy their different styles for many reasons, but the only ability I want is the ability to share my stories with a world wide audience and make enough money so I don't have to split my time between earning a living and doing what I love the most -- writing. Ask me a different question.

That is all. Disperse.

Have Faith, Your Belief is an Opinion

faith
Pronunciation: \ˈfāth\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural faiths \ˈfāths, sometimes ˈfāthz\
Etymology: Middle English feith, from Anglo-French feid, fei, from Latin fides; akin to Latin fidere to trust — more at bide
Date: 13th century

1 a : allegiance to duty or a person : loyalty b (1) : fidelity to one's promises (2) : sincerity of intentions
2 a (1) : belief and trust in and loyalty to God (2) : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion b (1) : firm belief in something for which there is no proof (2) : complete trust
3 : something that is believed especially with strong conviction; especially : a system of religious beliefs
synonyms see belief

— on faith : without question


be·lief
Pronunciation: \bə-ˈlēf\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English beleave, probably alteration of Old English gelēafa, from ge-, associative prefix + lēafa; akin to Old English lȳfan — more at believe
Date: 12th century

1 : a state or habit of mind in which trust or confidence is placed in some person or thing
2 : something believed; especially : a tenet or body of tenets held by a group
3 : conviction of the truth of some statement or the reality of some being or phenomenon especially when based on examination of evidence
synonyms belief, faith, credence, credit mean assent to the truth of something offered for acceptance. belief may or may not imply certitude in the believer . faith almost always implies certitude even where there is no evidence or proof . credence suggests intellectual assent without implying anything about grounds for assent < a theory now given credence by scientists>. credit may imply assent on grounds other than direct proof .

opin·ion
Pronunciation: \ə-ˈpin-yən\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin opinion-, opinio, from opinari
Date: 14th century

1 a : a view, judgment, or appraisal formed in the mind about a particular matter b : approval, esteem
2 a : belief stronger than impression and less strong than positive knowledge b : a generally held view
3 a : a formal expression of judgment or advice by an expert b : the formal expression (as by a judge, court, or referee) of the legal reasons and principles upon which a legal decision is based

— opin·ioned \-yənd\ adjective

Today's post is brought to you by the continued wrangling over religious in/tolerance in the military and especially at the Air Force Academy where the current commandant is doing his best to promote a tolerant environment for the worship of all faiths.

A friend who works at the Academy keeps sending me links to articles and articles about this issue ever since the ring of stones was set up for pagan worshipers to gather. One intolerance Christian put a railroad tie cross against one of the larger stones of the outdoor circle and set off the current debate. There have been comments about how our forefathers would view the military and would cringe at the incursion of religion into the military and government sites, but I'm not so sure they know whereof they speak. It's hard to say what the individual founders of the Constitution would say since many of them did go to church and carried their faith with them, but one thing is certain, it was their anonymous belief that a state religion would only tear apart the fabric of the country they created and endowed with their own blood, sweat and tears.

The purpose of the dictionary definitions of faith, belief and opinion above should be obvious, especially since the first two words -- faith and belief -- have figured prominently in all the articles about the current discussion about tolerance. When you get right down to it, the whole idea of a single religion speaking for all is an opinion and has no basis in fact. Some people have faith that one god is the only god, whatever they choose to call him (the Jews have several names for him, Muslims one, and Christians none at all, other than god or lord, which are titles and not names) and other have faith that no god or the anthropomorphic (made in man's image) representations of natural forces and ideas called gods and goddesses rule their lives. It is their belief that they are not alone or, if they are alone and life is just a finite point of existence no one survives and is blown out like a candle flame, that they are alone and nothing matters because we're all going to die. Then there are the more exotic religions based on worship of ancestors, animal headed god/desses and cargo planes that once disgorged vast quantities of food, material, weapons and people and then took them all away again. There are religious beliefs of many types in every part of the world and all of them promote the idea that one set of beliefs is the only true path to enlightenment. I find that difficult to believe that if no one will agree to wearing one color, one cut of clothing, one shoe design and one hairstyle there is hope for everyone believing in one god or one religion.

When you boil down all the rhetoric, gossip and proselytizing, it comes down to one simple truth: one size does NOT fit all. America has been in the forefront from its bloody birth because there was no state religion and freedom was at the center of what has become the most important country on the planet. It isn't because the United States of America is the strongest, richest or most powerful nation in the world and can destroy every other country in the world ten times over; it is because America is the only country that works hard to promote and maintain freedom: freedom to speak out without fear, freedom to print opinions and beliefs without fear and freedom to worship any religion without fear. The word is out; the streets are not paved with gold, but, with hard work and faith in the system and yourself, anything is possible. It's time the evangelical arm of Christianity got the message that in order to practice their religion without fear, they must allow the same freedom to others and stop pushing their agenda down everyone else's throats. Christianity is a religion, a set of beliefs that followers have faith in, but it is not the only religion and believers have neither the right nor the mandate to force everyone else to believe their way and only their way.

I have faith in the Constitution. I believe that following the simple statements set down by our founding fathers will keep us a diverse nation of freedom loving and tolerant people. It is my opinion that all this religious tug-of-warring benefits no one and that it will tear this country and its people apart, thus negating the principles on which this country was founded.

There's a simple solution: You find meaning in whatever religion you choose and allow everyone else the courtesy to find meaning in their own way. After all, the only person you have some amount of control over is yourself. I can say, from personal experience, that I have enough trouble controlling myself and I do not need nor do I want to control anyone else, except maybe my mailman, but that is a story for another time. In the meantime, follow the dictates of your heart and leave everyone else to follow their own. We'll all be a lot happier.

That is all. Disperse.

Writing Murphy's Law: A Fable

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Everyone knows the saying and knows it's called "Murphy's Law," but does anyone know how it came about?

It started in aerospace engineering when using a human, specifically Murphy's unnamed assistant. What Edward Murphy actually said was that if there was a way for his assistant to make a mistake he would. In conversation later among the team members, the aphorism was pared down to its basics and thus a legend was born.

The idea that if something can go wrong, it will, or that if someone can make a mistake, they will, has been around as long as there have been people. Jehovah set the whole thing up when he told Adam not to eat the fruit of a certain tree, thus guaranteeing it would happen.

In 1841 in Norwalk, Ohio, a newspaper ran this parody of Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh:


I never had a slice of bread,
Particularly large and wide,
That did not fall upon the floor,
And always on the buttered side.

But back to Murphy's Law and Nick T. Sparks who put Murphy's Law on the literary map with the publication of A History of Murphy's Law where the story goes that the first run printing of the book had to be destroyed because of a typographical error that was not discovered until several of the books were sold, thus proving the aphorism that when something can go wrong, it will. In this case, on the cover of the book.

There is nothing so humiliating or depressing as seeing the cover of your very own book for the first time. For Nick T. Sparks, it was a mixed blessing. His books were already on the shelf when he opened the box sent by his publisher and gazed with excitement on the cover of the book, A History of Murpy's Law. It took a few moments for the euphoria to die a quick and violent death as the realization of what he saw sank in. The worst had happened, something had gone wrong and hundreds of thousands of books were sitting on bookshelves around the country with a glaring mistake on the cover: Murpy's Law.

The editors at Periscope Film didn't catch it, neither did the copy editor or printer, and no one in the marketing department saw what was obvious to Sparks. On the front cover in bold yellow type, Murphy's Law had struck before anyone would open the book and read one of the sixty-eight pages. Murpy's Law. Could anything be worse? Not even when Why Everything You know About Murphy's Law is Wrong was serialized and published as a four-part article had the Law descended and hit with such force. There were a couple of minor mistakes in syntax, grammar and spelling, but they were minor, almost invisible compared to the first run publication of the book. What could Sparks do but laugh?

He was still laughing when he called the publisher's office and requested his editor get a copy of the book and look at it, really look at it. The editor's groan turned into a banshee wail when the enormity of the mistake hit with full force. The very idea of recalling hundreds of thousands of books from retailers all over the country was a monumentally daunting task, and then there was the publisher to face. Who would get the axe over this one? The buck could not be passed fast enough or far enough.

It is sad to say that all the books were recalled and consumers were hunted down and forced to give up their copies of The History of Murpy's Law so new covers could be printed and hurriedly replaced. It was the worst typographical error in the history of printing, at least to publisher and editor of the book. I think it was the ghost of Murphy's assistant making sure that his fame would not be forgotten and so the world would realize that mistakes . . . happen.

When mistakes happen in minting coins and paper money it turns otherwise ordinary money, few seldom see except as a way to pay for good and services, into an item to treasure, an item that will inevitably go up in value. Stamps with airplanes printed upside down or monarchs facing the wrong direction are sought after and cherished. In books, errors bring readers to a screeching halt in grammar shock when reading racked with guilt where wracked with guilt should be or, in a financial article, pay the principal replaces pay the principle, even though everyone knows that principals seldom required bribing to discipline rebellious students. Such mistakes in grammar are the result of sloppy work and lazy writers unwilling or unable to use a dictionary when in doubt. Strict grammarians cringe, wail, and gnash their teeth while less exacting readers keep turning page after page, occasionally stopping just long enough to sip their glasses of wine, nibble a bit of cheese or strew crumbs of food between the pages while chuckling softly at misplaced subjects and dangling participles.

In the end, when all is said and done, Murpy's Law will out.

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.

Winners -- Great Love Letters Valentine Contest

Choosing the first place winner was fairly easy. Choosing the second and third places much more difficult. Some letters were sweet, some passionate and some nearly broke my heart, especially first place winner, Staff Sergeant Drew Watkins lately returned from Iraq.

My Dearest Meg,

The days and nights here are hot and I keep cool reliving the last moments we were together. The cold wind blew your hair across your face. You smiled bravely but I knew your heart was breaking not knowing if we would see each other again. Your lips tasted of tears and honey, bittersweet regret. I keep the sight of you warm against the cold, the sun turning your hair to fiery gold, close to my heart. A few days left before I leave this hell for the heaven of your arms. Your faithful love has kept me alive.

Ever yours,

Drew
Iraq and Trenton, NJ

Second place goes to Jordyn Lane, Halifax, NS

Dearest Alex,

I’ll tell you a truth for free: you touched my life in ways I could never have imagined. I cannot possibly recount every memory of you that makes me smile, every feeling that coursed through my veins whenever your eyes caught mine, or every impulse I had to restrain.

I wish I had told you my feelings before I left. I know I’ll never see you again, so I hold your perfect image in my mind and savor your gentle kindness.

May you be happy in every way, forever. You deserve nothing less.

With my sincere love,

Jordyn

Third place was nearly a tie, but Karen M. Campbell's Sonnet won the day.

A Sonnet for My Beloved....


You, who are so free and independent,
An object of my faithless/faithful love!
Still waters, they say, run deep; and behind
This infernal/eternal composure
Hides an unseen emotion so resplendent
It almost dims the brightest stars above
By comparison. Hidden in my mind,
Secret of unopenable closure,
You would not suspect (or even believe)
My soul capable of the expressions
Of such tenderness and highest rapture.
It does not mar my freedom -- I deceive
Those who are not party to confession --
Enslavement will not result from capture.

Love, Karen

Congratulations to all the winners and thank you to everyone who took the time to send in their letters and bare their souls.

Early Valentines

I'm about to leave for my vacation and will not return until the 22nd. I needed to clear up some details, like posting the winners of the Great Love Letters Valentine Contest. They have been chosen and notified, but the news will not be posted until tomorrow -- as promised. I had a difficult task choosing the winners and some entrants sent in more than one letter. One entry was in the form of a sonnet. I had so much fun with this contest I will likely set up a few more with different prizes and maybe even copies of my Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort anthologies, appropriately signed of course.

What surprised me most was that several men entered the contest and one gentleman was a soldier in Iraq who is now safely home in New Jersey. That's the thing about people, you never know just what they will do or how they will surprise you, and I was very surprised at the depth of emotion and humor shared.

As for me, I'm taking my humor and depths to a cozy little Victorian B&B for nine days and will not be posting during that time. I'll have Internet access, but I'm taking this time to relax, read, write and write some more. I'll check email, but only the really important messages will be answered. The rest will have to wait until I return. Have a great Valentine's Day and don't forget to tell the people that matter and make a difference in your lives how much they mean to you. You only have today. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

That is all. Disperse.

News and Reviews

Bread was in the oven and filling the house with the aroma of yeast and goodness when I got the word. The review of Past Imperfect has been posted at Authorlink and it was worth waiting for.


Diana Palmer is a woman with a plan. Fixing up her plane in the hangar, wearing her grease-stained overalls, a voice comes from behind her; a voice that still, after all these years, gives her goose bumps and releases the butterflies in her stomach. Turning around, she meets Adrian Cahill’s familiar gaze. This is the moment Diana has waited for and, immediately, she goes into her “act” with the man she once loved with all her heart.

Adrian Cahill lost his soul mate a long time ago. Lynn was the woman who inspired him and intrigued him, but he’d made the ultimate mistake when he told her that she simply wasn’t the “one.” Upon his heart-breaking declaration, Lynn had raced out of his life and into a fatal-car accident. Adrian has never forgiven himself for the words he spoke to Lynn all those years ago, but upon meeting Diana in the hangar, the feeling of the “one” comes over him in a rush. Perhaps he’d been right all those years ago, because Diana Palmer, in her grease-stained overalls, with her strong no-nonsense attitude makes his heart beat out of his chest.

What Adrian doesn’t know is that the woman he shunned years before is, in fact, the goddess who stands before him. Lynn has changed her appearance - needing reconstructive surgery after her horrible accident. While recuperating, Lynn had bought a cabin in Pennsylvania where a local handyman by the name of John Logan came into her life and brought his friendship into her otherwise empty world. Over time, Lynn became Diana, taking on the identity that would give her the ability to re-connect with Adrian Cahill, and get the marriage proposal that she richly deserves.

With wit, drama, and just the right amount of mystery, Diana/Lynn reconciles with Adrian and takes him on the ride of his life. The author not only delivers the “game” with precision and humor, but also offers a twist at the end that no reader will be expecting.

Fun, sassy, and mysterious…this is one of those books that you won’t put down until you find out exactly who is playing who.

Reviewer: Amy Lignor

Telemarketers, zombies and spiders

What's the deal with retailers and vendors these days? Everyone emails and calls for reviews and ratings. Here's a hint, folks, if I buy from you again or buy the same thing again, I liked it. If I didn't return it and didn't call to complain to you, I liked it. I do enough writing every day that I shouldn't have to be hounded at home when I'm relaxing with demands for ratings. Keep it up and I'll give you a rating you won't like.

It's like telemarketers calling at the most inopportune moments. Once upon a time I couldn't listen to the phone ring and ring and ring. I can now. Telemarketers have taught me how to live with the ringing. I also turn the ringer off on occasion when I really don't want to be bothered. Yes, I have Caller ID, but I don't always use it. When I'm too busy to answer the phone I let it ring and the voice mail pick up. If you want to get hold of me, leave me a message. I so can't wait for vacation. I need to get away from here.

Yes, I'm cranky this morning. You would be as well if every time you fell asleep and got into a really good dream it ended up with zombies trying to eat you and some wacko woman determined to get her philandering husband by infiltrating his organization and infecting them with arachnid-based parasites that bond to the host when wearing a silver jumpsuit. The things I saw. Luckily, I was in the bathroom when everyone was listening to the motivational speeches and putting on their silver jumpsuits. I snuck outside only to be tracked by some massive automated turn screw that I thought was sighting in on me and wasn't. I tiptoed over the huge tubes sending some kind of gas into the building and headed to my car to wake up. After the second dream, I decided it was time to get up and stay up. The bathroom was my cue to wake up and empty the reservoir. I so need a vacation.

The thing is that I've been in some of these places before back when things were nice and it was fun to go see a show in Vegas or go shopping for beds, but something twisted them way out of shape and into nightmares. Couldn't be something I drank since I only drank water before I went to bed . . . unless the city is now putting hallucinogens in the water. Great! Just great!

I hadn't planned to write anything so cranky, but there you have it. Lack of sleep and invading nightmares will do it every time, turn my usually pleasant dreams into the stuff of Tales from the Darkside. Yeah. I'd go back to bed if I didn't think the zombies and arachnid parasites would follow me. They probably would. It's going to be that kind of day.

That is all. Disperse.

Going off the grid

About time for another hot cocoa, probably with caramel. It's cold. It's winter; it's supposed to be cold. However, being forced by a full bladder from a warm bed into the cold is a shock to the system. The heart flutters and shudders and then beats furiously to maintain the warmth, pulling all resources to the center, to the core, leaving arms and legs, fingers and toes chilled and slowly turned to ice unless more heat is applied. Even with socks and a warm robe, the cold battles with the warmth until the body is left a shivering battleground. It's morning. Again.

I tried to prolong the inevitable by diving back under the covers and into the latest Rachel Morgan adventure in the ever-after (code name for hell), but nature won and here I am with an empty cocoa-rimed cup getting colder even with the heat struggling to keep up. It's too bad this place isn't as cool in the summer, but it's a hot box that I feel frequently to get to the cooler air outside under the molten brass of the sun. Strange how that works.

Except for the rushing tink of the furnace jacked up to 70 blowing cold air down on me, it's quiet. The snow plows aren't out yet and the darkness curdles before the turn toward the sun that probably won't be able to make it through the heavy clouds that turned even the darkness to an eerie red-tinged white all night long. I don't like it when I can't see the stars. Even I look forward to the first flush of spring and expectantly scan the naked straggling branches for the first sign of green leprous buds spreading along the brown ready to burst with yellow flags of forsythia in bloom. I'd look for crocuses and tulips if I had planted any or if I could see them in the dense rattling foliage of last year's spent honeysuckle and foxglove. Even the danger red flush of green that wound around and through the lilac hedges is gone, killed by the sparkling crystalline creep of frost and snow. Yes, I'm ready for spring. NOW!

It's not so bad, though. It's Tuesday and I'll be off on vacation as soon as the sun goes down on Friday. Nine days of doing nothing but reading, writing, lounging and wallowing in a huge bubbling tub of water and bath salts and oil under dimmed lights with a glass of wine ready to hand and soft music whispering in the background. No trash to take out. No dishes to wash. No vacuuming or sitting at the work computer huddling over the keys in a drafty office where spiders busily spin their sticky silken webs and drafts finger through the cracks around the big picture window while melting snow drip drip drips down the window and from nail holes in the plywood ceiling into plastic buckets and containers. Far from the madding world and into the warm caress of feather beds and crackling wood fires and four poster beds that look out on castles and fairy lands of new scenery. I can hardly wait.

Until then, I need to finish reading all the entries in the contest, choose three winners, and write and date the post so it will go live while I am far away from here. I'll have my computer and there will likely be Internet connection, so I have been assured, but I don't plan to use my laptop for anything other than reading and writing and a little bit of editing. I'll check email on Wednesday next to see if anyone remembered my birthday, but otherwise, I'm off the grid.

That sounds so good: off the grid. I will have to do that more often just for the lack of mechanical whispering, rushing and clinks. I prefer the crackle and whoosh of burning logs falling to ash in the grate (that I don't have to clean out) and the hushed quiet of measured breathing (mine) and ecstatic sighs.

Don't you?

Long distance relationships are the best.

High on hot chocolate and shivering under a faux fur lap robe, it's hard to think of anything to write. It suddenly got cold, me wearing heavy robe, socks, guzzling hot chocolate and jacking up the thermostat cold. I'm half tempted to turn the oven on and get some real heat in here.

It's snowing outside, a granular, salting of tiny crystals kind of snow that hits the ground with a weak sizzle since it hasn't been that warm all week. We've had a heat wave with the temps in the low to mid 40s, barely above freezing, but it hasn't been bad and my thermostat hasn't been over 65; I've been comfortable -- until today. Good thing I moved my herbs into the bathroom where there's more light and heat and the occasional whiff of steam from the shower. The only thing I don't like about winter is how much it dries out me and everything else. I can almost hear the atmosphere sucking up moisture through a straw.

John Of Arabia asked about my relatives. As I told him, I have them, but I'm keeping my whereabouts a secret lest they come and visit me, bringing an eastern seaboard blizzard with them that would trap us all in my little cottage (and I do mean little) for so long it would make the Donner party except with French sauces and cheese. I have lots of cheese. Since I prefer healthy food, I'd have to toss Mom to the wolves, crows and ravens because I don't eat junk food. No, hot chocolate, or rather cocoa, is not junk food, especially when made with whole goat's milk and 65% cacao, organic, of course. Hoity Toity would have enough fat on her to make eating her stringy flesh almost worthwhile as long as I marinated her for a few days in vinegar. Not too much vinegar, since she's pretty vinegary already. Beanie would barely make an hors d'oeuvre and I wouldn't eat her anyway. I would have to knock her out with a handful of Mom's narcotics and feed her myself since she would probably rather starve than eat her relatives, at least until she got hungry enough or I managed to convince her the gumbo was pork and smoked sausage. The aroma should be enough to make her mouth water. She's always complaining she can't get good gumbo since I moved away. Well, I can't get oatmeal cake since I moved away either, but at least I can bake it myself. (Note to self: get organic coconut and walnuts for oatmeal cake.) The Mushroom wouldn't come so that would be all right, especially since it would take too long to de-hair him to find out what meat is available. Beanie sent me a picture and I'm still not sure it was him under all that hair. He looks like Grizzly Adams, except not as neatly groomed. I told him all he needs now is sackcloth, ashes, and a cave to be a real hermit. Why do you think we call him the Mushroom?

Do you know how some mushrooms are cultivated? In manure in the dark.

Speaking of which, a friend asked if I'd seen Brad Pitt lately. I had to admit to watching Troy (I was avoiding work) because I liked the naked Brad Pitt shots. Yes, I was looking for dangling bits. It's been a while since I've seen any up close and personal. (Note to self: must get male in compromising position while naked.) She said I wouldn't want to see him now. He's gained some weight (not necessarily a bad thing, I like something to hang onto while I'm riding), sporting a scraggly, unkempt beard (that must be where the Mushroom got the idea that women like it) and people say he smells. Also, not a bad thing. "He smells bad." Okay, definitely a bad thing. Angelina, she said, looks like a plucked chicken, a really stringy, skinny plucked chicken. I'll bet her nose is white, too, unless she's stopped riding the white line or smoking the glass pipe and has moved into the main line.

What is wrong with people, especially people who have it all? If they're not running to the plastic surgeon for Botox, collagen and knife work, they're dragged out on drugs. I still remember the horrific story of Bobby Brown disimpacting Whitney Houston's brown load because she was so out of it she was constipated. No, that's not love, that's insanity. No one is worth that, especially if they're not senile or suffering from Alzheimer's. Gag me with a pitchfork.

Seen in the light of Brangelina and Bobby and Whitney, maybe my family isn't so bad. Okay, the Mushroom needs to come out of the cyber closet and trim the beard or cut it off, get his hair trimmed and meet real people in real time, Hoity Toity needs to stop complaining about her boobs touching the sides of her arms and Beanie needs to make me an oatmeal cake and deliver it personally, but they're my family. We won't even talk about Mom. She's not my mother. I have proof. They left me off my father's obituary, which is a blessing in disguise. Every time Hoity Toity and Beanie call to talking about what new irritating thing MY mom did, I can now say, "She not MY mom. I wasn't listed on Dad's obituary and she was his wife." Works out really good for all concerned.

Okay, it works out really good for me. I don't care about the rest of them. That's why I have an unlisted number and refuse to tell them where I live now. It's safer.

I've found that some relationships work better when they're long distance. Now, if only I can get their mother to move to Pluto, everything would improve.

That is all. Disperse.

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.

I have to choose just one?

When I saw the challenge to write about a favorite book, I was stunned, unable to write anything. How do I choose just one book? I have many favorites, books I read over and over and find something new each time, some I've read since childhood and new favorites that pop up all the time.

I could write about how I couldn't get into Jane Austen the first few times because the language seemed incomprehensible or how Shakespeare was like climbing a mountain without the proper equipment, classics and bestsellers that initially left me cold and banned books like hidden gems that I read because they were banned. I couldn't abide Robert Heinlein the first few times I essayed his heights and then like magic I couldn't get enough. Jane Austen's stilted language melted like frozen butter on a hot griddle and enriched the way I saw relationships and society. Shakespeare's daunting mountains of literary wit and wisdom became green hills that begged to be rolled down and skipped up and around until I was dancing in heather and falling in love over and over, the words and phrases like honey on the tongue. 

The deceptive simplicity of Andre Norton's fantasy and science fiction which was more space opera with fantastical elements, the seeming complexities of Stephen King's apocalyptic and horrific visions coming down to the basic elements of good and evil, and the overwhelming sexuality and visceral emotions of Henry Miller contrasted with the fey sensuality of Anais Nin are all steps leading to a wider and more wonderful world full of words and ideas. How can I choose just one when one book leads to another and another and another? 

I finally did choose one favorite book and it was a hard choice, going back to my childhood for books that remain in memory still, hard wired in memory and emotions. It was a tie between Heidi by Johanna Spyri and Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. 

Heidi was given to me for my tenth birthday and the window it opened on the world was one where I ran barefoot in soft alpine grass among goats and slept in a fragrant hayloft beneath the stars after dining on fresh milk, homemade bread and toasted cheese. Even when Heidi was kidnapped and taken to Frankfurt there were adventures to be had and a wide vista of possibilities to be taken back to Grandmother and Grandfather so Clara could share Heidi's mountains and be healed. 

But Ivanhoe is the one, my favorite book, with its interplay of Saxon and Norman frictions, valiant Crusaders, King Richard the Lionhearted in prison and brother Prince John wreaking evil havoc in the land where Locksley fights against injustice and tyranny and turns Sherwood Forest into a haven for freedom. Serfs, knights, Templars, damsels in distress, kings, tournaments and castle sieges, what's not to like. The historical references were romantic and horrible and Brian de Bois Guilbert kidnapping Rebecca in violation of his Templar vows set me on a course of study that have stayed with me throughout the years, resulting in a collection of books about the Templar Knights and times in history that still affect the current times and culminated at one point in America.

Ivanhoe reminds me how all things are connected and that the least pebble dropped in the biggest ocean still send out ripples that are felt everywhere. Where else but between the pages of Ivanhoe is it possible to see how society is formed and reformed and good and evil switch tracks so that good isn't always completely good and evil not so evil. Sir Walter Scott's historical fantasy is a blueprint of how a book can enlighten and inform while it also enchants and is as much a reason why becoming a writer became more real and was within my reach. As Wamba the serf became Wamba the Squire, I knew that nothing was impossible and the world was wider and more wonderful than what could be seen from the front porch. 

I still remember the characters and Sir Walter Scott's story as if I read them yesterday and, although I love Heidi, The Stand, Shakespeare, Andre Norton's simple magics, Jane Austen and every other book and author that have a place on the shelves and in my memories, I return to the world of King Richard, Rebecca and Wilfrid of Ivanhoe all the times among the pages and in the memories laid down so many decades ago that they have all become a part of me as a person and a writer.

Thank you, Sir Walter Scott.

Live graciously and well

Note to self: When a recipe suggests that a bigger container would be best for rising bread, either buy or find a bigger container.

I tried a new recipe for almost no-knead French baguettes. It's a simple recipe: water, flour, yeast and salt. There's very little kneading needed, but kneading with a dough hook is part of the process. I used the dough hooks on my hand mixer for the first time (it's a sticky dough) and got the exact result described in the recipe. It poured out of the mixing bowl into the oiled rising bowl pretty easily, but I also discovered why you add the flour to the water instead of the water to the flour in this kind of process; it's so all the flour is incorporated. Okay, so that went well. I covered the rising bowl, the biggest bowl I own, with plastic wrap and set the hole thing to rise on the stove for two hours. Since it's out of my usual line of sight, and I didn't think it was anything to worry about, I let it sit for two hours and came back. Boy, howdy, did the dough rise dramatically. It had spilled out of the bowl and down the sides, spilling over onto the burners and down the front of the stove. Lovely. I scraped the drying dough and tossed it down the sink and replaced the plastic wrap and put the whole thing into the refrigerator -- that was the next step in the process. The dough rests, and droops dramatically, in the cold temperature of the fridge and will keep there for a whole week, longer if its frozen at this stage. In a little while I'll quarter the dough and freeze two pieces, shaping the other two pieces into baguettes that will rise in two hours and soon bake into a fragrant, crusty outside and tender inside French baguette made in my own little American kitchen. So far, everything has worked out just the way the recipe detailed and it should taste just as good since I plan to make asparagus and eggs Benedict over toasted baguette pieces for breakfast tomorrow morning. I may even make a cassoulet tomorrow afternoon for dinner.

I was in a baking mood yesterday. It's all part of my relaxation program to de-stress from the work day. Baking and cooking relax me. I usually bake when I'm depressed and I cook massive quantities when I'm stressed. Cooking and baking are my version of therapy. Anger means I bake bread, the kind that needs to be kneaded, so I can take out my aggressive tendencies on the dough, so this almost no-knead bread works out pretty well since there's no one I felt like hitting yesterday. Kneading is also good exercise and I was on my feet enough yesterday and didn't need to pound dough.

Anyway, back to baking. I also baked Madeleines, with rose water since I didn't have any orange flower water on hand, for afternoon tea. That's another part of my relaxation program. The British have a good idea with afternoon tea. A cup of tea and baked goods, especially when they're home baked, are like a great big sigh after holding my breath all day. Just exhale -- bake, brew tea, sit down and enjoy.

Oh, Madeleines are tender little scallop shell shaped cakes that are golden brown on the outside and moist and tender on the inside. They're simple to make and the trick is in thoroughly beating eggs, a small amount of sugar and the flower water until it is light and quadrupled in volume. After that flour is folded in, just one cup of cake flour or organic soft red wheat flour, and four tablespoons of butter. The pan looks like scallop shells and it's buttered thickly (helps with the golden crust) and the batter is spooned into the molds. Bake in a 400-degree oven for 12 minutes and turn out onto a cooling rack, dust with confectioners' sugar and eat while warm. With a cup of Earl Grey tea, they are just the right touch for slowing down and exhaling. I've only made Madeleines once, that was yesterday, and they were wonderful -- even if I do say so myself.

It all comes down to gracious living. Gracious living doesn't necessarily mean expensive or ostentatious, but living well, treating yourself like royalty and taking the time to just sit down and enjoy a cup of tea and a few Madeleines, scones, crumpets or a gourmet meal. Gourmet can be as simple as cornbread and beans simmered all day with a bit of salt pork or bacon with a glass of ice cold buttermilk or as lavish and cassoulet or a prime rib dinner with a glass of wine and a decadent dessert. Even poached eggs, steamed asparagus, toasted baguette and Hollandaise sauce can be an elegant meal. It's all about attitude and using the best ingredients available, quality over quantity.

Well, it's time to divide the dough and get the loaves ready for baking. I'm looking forward to a sandwich on home baked bread.

To clone or not to clone

Yesterday the subject of cloning came up in a conversation with my mother. To understand the context, a little background is necessary.

My mother is one of those people who have had so many health problems, she should be dead. She isn't. Even her brother and sister-in-law said they were sure she'd die before Dad. She didn't. She's still here. It's probably my fault because I've always said that when the bomb is dropped and humanity is eradicated all that will be left will be cockroaches, moths and Mom. That's where the cloning discussion comes in.

If humanity were reduced to one individual, then the rise of humanity can only come from cloning -- if, of course, the human in question has the techniques and the skills to clone herself. She'd have to use ova from another source since her reproductive system was cleared out decades ago, but it is possible there would be some fertility clinic or sperm and ova bank still standing with the requisite genetic material available for use. Then again, with all that raw material, there would be sufficient diverse cellular material to use for test tube babies, with a suitable host. Mom's not good with the technical but, for the sake of argument, let's say she could fashion a mechanical womb to grow the cloned fetuses and thus clone herself.

Cloning herself would be necessary since no other human in recorded history, other than my father whose genetic material is now ash, has been able to tolerate Mom for long. A world population comprised of my mother would be a self-limiting species since they would only exist to shop and eat junk food. Once the food stocks are gone, the junk food stocks, the Virginia Annabelle population would be forced to either evolve or die. Without junk food and massive quantities of preservatives to keep them alive, they would die, probably along the lines of the half life of a cesium atom or something similar.

On a more realistic note, it would be possible to rejuvenate the human race, given time and sufficient genetic material, by cloning and thus further advances in that area are necessary -- only in case of nuclear holocaust and the imminent demise of mankind. How do you think we got here in the first place? It's a time-honored tradition that brought us unicorns, centaurs, naiads, nymphs, mermaids/mermen, and assorted half-man, half-animal species.

Is cloning a good idea? It depends on the human being to be cloned. Ira Levin used a cloned Hitler as the basis of The Boys from Brazil and look how that turned out. I think I have shown that, while giving humanity another try, cloning my mother would be a bad idea. However, cloning as a viable option for preservation of species, Jurassic Park notwithstanding, is a good idea and should be pursued. The science is more complicated and less successful than Dolly the sheep seems to illustrate. More information is needed and to get more information, more work must be done. It's doubtful we'd end up with a sociopathic killing machine the likes of Embryo, but when has being wrong ever mattered when it comes down to where the rubber hits the road?

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.

Just relax

Nothing like spending the morning cataloguing my published works for The Red Room. It's another way to market my novel and my work and there can not be enough of those. The fact that authors like Salman Rushdie and Maya Angelou are members doesn't hurt either. I might even get noticed and sell books and ... well, it's best not to look too far into the future. Focus on the now and leave the later for ... well, later.

Since I'm supposed to relax, I probably shouldn't read the news, especially when it keeps pointing up that all the fear mongering about global warming and melting glaciers is more about winning Nobel Prizes and stealing grant money from charitable organizations. Doesn't hurt that it puts more money in millionaires' pockets and perpetuates more lies like that reported in The Daily Mail in the U.K. It's not a big surprise that the report still hasn't shown up in the U.S., not with the current administration and their ties to the global warming lies. Glaciergate isn't just for Americans now since Indian and Pakistani scientists are getting in the game. Money, money, money. It doesn't take a rocket scientist, or a climatologist, to figure out what's going on. It's one of the first rules of mystery fiction: follow the money. It's an easy trail to follow.

In my quest for relaxation and continuing lack of muscle spasms, I put pencils and pastels to paper and drew my first portrait in years. It turned out pretty well, but I need to work on my pastel chalk technique. My hands got very dirty from shading and holding the chalk; I need a holder. I also need smaller pieces of chalk instead of the big rectangles. I always did like broken pieces of chalk better than the brand new ones. I can't wait for the paints and colored pencils to get here. I have more control with them. In the meantime, I'll work on technique and practice with sketching. The skills and techniques are coming back quickly, so that means I haven't lost everything, and I'm more comfortable with experimentation than I was. With nothing to lose, anything and everything is worth attempting.

I'm actually looking forward to getting back to work tomorrow and catching up on all the correspondence, but I know I need to make time to relax, time when I stretch my creative muscles and do something other than surf the Internet and watch movies. That's not relaxing. Cooking, baking, drawing, sketching, painting and even taking a walk are relaxing, as long as the walking has no goal other than breathing and stretching the legs. When there's a goal, walking isn't quite so relaxing. Walking takes me to the mailbox and the trash container and shopping and the post office and those are chores. Chores are a lot like work and thus not relaxing even when singing is involved. The singing and music just help move things along quicker so there's time to relax. Relaxing is soaking in a garden tub (something I don't have here, hence the vacation to a B&B next month for my birthday) with a cup of hot cocoa or a glass of wine, a good book, some soothing music and plenty of bubbles (the bath salt kind not the methane kind). Wood fires and room service are relaxing. Scenic views and long drives, conversations with friends and kneading dough for crumpets and scones for afternoon tea, those are relaxing. And just breathing in long, slow, deep breaths are relaxing. It's an art and one that I've not practiced nearly enough and the one thing on my new year's resolution list.

I don't do resolutions; they're too much like rules and diets -- made to be broken and left in the dust -- and I'm out of super glue.

Making the American Dream

The day has finally come and it has been a long time coming. This week my 200th book review for Authorlink was posted.

I started work for Authorlink as a horror book reviewer in August 2002 and quickly branched out to all genres and nonfiction. What can I say? I'm a voracious reader. In the years between 2002 and 2007, I reviewed a few books each year, but then went into over driver in 2007 and most of the books I've read and reviewed fell between 2007 and now. Last year I read and reviewed 44 books, 68 the year before. Last year was a slow year and that total does not include the books I read for pleasure or books I reviewed that came to me directly, and there were a lot of those. I keep the files, but I don't keep track of the numbers on a monthly basis. No need, except for times like this when a hallmark has been reached, like 200 reviews. Time to hit up the boss for a raise.

Since being off work this week to lower my stress levels and take it easy so my back doesn't seize up on me any more, I find that strange thoughts traipse through my mind at all hours of the day and night, although I have been sleeping better (got a whole uninterrupted six hours last night). Last night, I couldn't get Snoqualmie out of my head, and Snohomish followed closely behind in lock-step. Neither word, names of cities in Washington state, had anything to do with the movies I watched, the books I read (I'm reading three right now) or the stories I tinkered with. Two random words that seemed to come from someone else's head and wandered through mine. I did find them on someone else's journal this morning, but it makes sense; she lives in Washington and visited Snoqualmie recently. I didn't. It's not the only strange occurrence recently.

Uncle Bob called me yesterday -- I was asleep at the time -- and left me a message. He received (finally) the box of books I sent and had sent the book meant for someone else to them that day, having received his copy from North Carolina that morning. He called to tell me I owe Mom royalties on my story in Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family, the one I wrote about my ex-husband's mother who was late for her own funeral. It was called "On Esther Time". "Sounds just like Annabelle (Mom's middle name and one she despises), except for the dead part," he said.

"No," I agreed, "she not dead yet."

He really enjoyed the story and, he reminded me, even though he doesn't read fiction, he's going to read my novel and give me some pointers about romance and sex. I can't wait. Yes, I want to hear about sex from my uncle. Ewwww. He's kidding. I hope he's kidding.

As we usually do, Uncle Bob and I ended up talking about life and being happy. He asked me if I was going to get strange when I'm rich and famous and start wearing necklaces and rings on all my fingers and toes and bracelets covering my arms. "No, Uncle Bob, that's just not me. I have one necklace I wear all the time. I'm not a big fan of wearing jewelry." He was talking about Mom and Hoity-Toity, both of whom would cover every square centimeter of their bodies in jewels, gold, platinum and silver (if they can't get gold and platinum) if they could afford it. I think of them as dragons wearing their hoards. That's good then," he said. "But you're happy." It wasn't quite a question, more of a cautious statement. "Yes, I'm happy. Not as happy as if I could write full time and not have to work (except for this week and my upcoming vacation), but happy."

"That's good. Thats good." He seemed pleased with my answer and he said he never doubted I would keep my head on straight. It made me wonder if he was happy and if he'd spent his life doing what he loved.

"When I started in the machine shop, I hated it. Didn't want to get up every morning and go into work, but I had a family to feed and clothe. Took me a while to get my mind right. I didn't have much education and it was a good job, so I decided to get my mind right. Then I looked forward to going to work."

"Would you rather have rehabbed houses for a living?"

"No, that's just another part time job with a different boss." He meant his wife, Aunt Lois.

"So, you don't like taking old houses and making them look good?"

"Not really."

The more we talked, the more I realized just how amazing my uncle is. He came from a wealthy family who had everything during the Depression when most people had nothing. He decided to make it on his own and, after one hitch in the Air Force, which he didn't like, he got a job in Columbus in a machine shop. He owned a house, a little two-bedroom stucco ranch on five acres out in the country north of Columbus, but not much else. He worked on cars and did all his own maintenance and he put in a huge garden on the five acres every year that was canned and frozen for the coming year until new crops could be sown and harvested. His house was right across the road from a dairy farm and he got all his milk in milk cans fresh from the cow. I can still remember Uncle Bob sitting in a chair in the kitchen and talking while he shook a car full of cream until it became butter and the smell of fresh milk every morning when we took the lid off the milk can.

My uncle took that little house and turned it from a pink stucco block into a wooden dream house with four bedrooms, a finished basement, a three-car garage and a breezeway he sold for ten times what he paid for it in the 1950s. He sold that house and bought a rundown farm that he rehabbed into a beautiful home, sold it at a profit, bought another farm house, rehabbed it, sold it for a huge profit and built the house he always wanted just across the road from where he started. He had 30 acres and a much bigger garden yielding even more food to be canned and frozen for the coming year. He's added to his real estate binges with a house on Lake Erie he sold to his oldest daughter Laura, a house on the Muskingum River and several houses in Florida, one of which was on Pine Island opposite Sanibel in the Gulf. He's slowing down and now has only three houses: the house he built, a house on the Muskingum River and a little place in Florida on the Gulf. He loves to fish.

He told me if he had to do it all over again, he'd buy old house, rehab them and flip them, taking the profit to buy, rehab and flip more properties. He has the magic touch with building, construction and carpentry and Aunt Lois is a talented decorator. "I wouldn't put so much work into a house to flip, not like I put into my own homes," he said. He puts a lot of love and work into each of the houses he's owned and rescued from entropy and age. You should've seen the first old farm house he renovated. It was a dump, and it was worlds away from five kids and two cousins sharing the same bath water every night.

Uncle Bob's happiest moments are when tax time rolls around and he owes the government money. "It means I made lots of money that year and I look forward to paying." It's not a popular thought, certainly not in these political times when everyone wants the rich to pay to carry the rest of the country who are less fortunate. By those standards, my uncle is very rich; he's in the top 10% of the country in terms of earnings -- and he's retired. He's rich in other ways, too. He has a huge family he loves and cares for and a life that continues to include his gardens and rehabbing and travel from Columbus to the river to Florida and back in his yearly circuit, and he still pays taxes with a big smile every year.

When I think of the American Dream, I don't think of wealth and owning a home, but happiness. For my uncle that happiness is in work, hard work, and paying taxes, raising his family and enjoying what he does. That's the American Dream for me -- enjoying what I do. I enjoy writing and I get to do more of it every year. I'll have to pay taxes this year, too, but, following my uncle's lead, I'm looking forward to it because it means I'm getting closer to my dream -- living on writing alone. I don't need to be wealthy, although I wouldn't turn it down either. I don't need to be famous, although I wouldn't walk away from it as long as I didn't have to make personal appearances. I don't need much, just the freedom to live the way I choose instead of the way I must. In some ways, I am like my uncle. I do my best at the job that pays the bills. I don't like it, but I do get some satisfaction from being at the top of my profession in terms of quality of work. Without this job, I couldn't pursue writing, so I'm glad to have a job that gives me that freedom. I've written over 200 book reviews for one company, hundreds of articles and short stories, edited millions of words and seen my own stories and books published, and all because of a job I didn't choose, but took when it was offered. It's not my dream job, but it's getting me where I want to go, just as being a machinist gave my uncle the money to raise his family and help him pay for the materials to rehab his home, sell it and set him on the path that led him to realize his dreams, and that's what it's all about.

The American Dream is what you make it.

Creative Stretching

Movies and books and sleeping, mostly sleeping, have been the shape of my days for a few days now, as happens infrequently when my back decides to go on a slide slip and leaves me with an acute awareness of how things work and don't work -- mostly don't work. I've been out of it for five days due to a bout of muscle spasming and a slight shift of a lower back disc. It happens.

The last time when we left our intrepid adventuring author she was touting the benefits of doing more than sleeping in bed in response to Tim's doctor's claims that a bed is to sleep as floors, counters and other furniture are to sex. That is not to say that Tim, sweet young man that he is, was in any way involved in things to do in bed other than giving me the idea. He'd be a prodigious young man indeed if his talents stretched from New Jersey all the way to Colorado. And, no, the pictures of nether parts my sister sent me were not Tim's but someone she knows very well and has known for y-e-a-r-s, so now you can stop emailing and calling for details. Some details are meant to remain hidden.

I'm in a strange mood today, bouncing from sleep to reading to trying to find a position in which my open mouth does not emit a high pitched scream of sirens bearing down on a stalled car in the middle of the main drag, although sirens were definitely screaming last evening, at least a two-alarm blaze in practice heralded by the thunderous boom of, well, thunder. At least it sounded like thunder. It was probably nothing more than hollow booming echoes from somewhere people were engaged in actual work and not lollygagging around the house in search of comfort and quiet, especially since ear plugs don't deafen the noise of your own screams. There it is, screaming again. If I keep this up, everyone will believe I'm in actual pain, which is not the case at all. As long as I breathe shallowly and don't move too much, I'm fine.

I did have one interesting few hours this weekend when I looked over a friend's novel. As I do whenever I critique a novel and don't have it in a format where I can -- as one friend would have it -- bleed all over the digital page, I keep a pad and pencil at hand to take notes. There was about a page of notes (the usual things: grammar, spelling, extra words, etc.) and a sense at the end of the book that I had been had. The book was good and I've read enough YA novels to know good when I see it -- from my perspective. Intrigue, really good red herrings, memorable characters and a satisfying ending were all there. The big flash is that during the time I read the manuscript I didn't think about my back, except when Nature forced me to rise and attend to the necessities. No doubt the author, a misguided soul who actually reads this blog, will be surprised to see his experience sandwiched between the mundane daily maunderings and sirens screaming. He shouldn't be. After all this time, he should have figured out I only mention things and people worth mentioning. He's one of them.

In the course of writing I often change the names of the guilty and the innocent just to keep things even, but the stories are all about people I actually know or have known, and I have known a lot of people. Comes with the territory when you've traveled as much as I have over the past nearly fifty-five years. I'm not shy -- never have been -- about approaching people and talking to strangers. It was one of the things that worried my parents most when I was a child. I didn't understand that stranger didn't mean potential acquaintance and possibly friend. I'm still indiscriminate that way. I talk to anyone and anyone talks to me.

For instance, this morning a young man (I say young, although I don't really know, because most people seem young to me these days) contacted me about what kind of radio he should buy starting out as a newly licensed amateur radio operator. He had some very strange ideas about power, believing that it isn't possible to reach someone across the country, let alone across the world, without a big rig -- radiowise, of course. I yanked that idea out from under him and gave him the name of a reputable ham radio operator who has proven that you can reach anywhere in the world on 5 watts of power and a long piece of wire. He's pretty amazing that way. I also explained, in my capacity as team contact, that he could talk to old and grizzled professionals at the exam session next month who would be glad to talk first radios and their attributes and drawbacks. I could practically see the glow in his words and on his face when he thanked me. That's me, a fount of trivia and information, none of which is trivial.

Since pain has a tendency to make it difficult for me to concentrate on editing and writing, I decided to take up pencil and paper and do a little sketching, stretching creative muscles I've not used in over a decade. I was surprised to find my muscles in fairly good shape once I took off the restraints and let go the worry and recognizable human features appeared on the page. I've decided, like many other creative people, that I need more than one medium in which to work in order to remain fresh and creative. Drawing and painting have always provided me with new creative energy and fueled my writing as much as watching people and researching and reading. I've occasionally considered writing a children's book and doing all the art work. Maybe one day I shall. Right now I'm in search of creative fuel and different creative muscles to flex, hence the drawing. Unfortunately, sketching with charcoal and sepia are not enough. I need color, the feel of chalk and brush between my fingers as I play with color. I'm sure there will be knives involved at some point; I can feel the handle in my grip and the joy of slashing through layers of colors to open a gash for the light to pour through. That would be a palette knife for those of you worried I might pick up a carving or butcher's knife.

Music has also been helpful in boosting creativity, and I don't mean just Mozart's brain-boosting rivers and streamlets of skirling notes, but all kinds of music. I do have to draw the line at anything with vocals because I have a tendency to begin singing and that throws off the writing. I reserve vocals for cleaning and chores because I forget how tedious bagging trash, vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing toilets and tiles and other household chores are when I sing.

There are so many creative outlets and most of us tend to choose one and ignore the rest, concentrating on getting it right. It is in the exercise of many different arts that we return refreshed and renewed to our primary art, and for me that's writing. Painting. Drawing. Singing. Dancing.

Living.

Things to do in bed

Okay, I get the whole e-book thing now. It's convenient. It's small and fairly lightweight. It fits easily and comfortably in the hand and there's no need to raise the arms to turn the pages, a button does all the work. It takes up about the same space as a paperback and the batteries last a good amount of time. But if I give up real books, the ones with covers and spines and pages, I won't have anything to sleep with. Maybe that's a good thing. Feng shui would have it that having a space on the bed where someone else would sleep is an invitation to someone in the universe willing to sleep on that side against the wall with me on the other side providing furnace heat. Other New Age best selling books say the same thing. So, that only leaves me who wants to sleep with books and magazines and catalogues.

Tim told me his doctor told him (don't you just love he said-she said stories?) that the only thing a person should do in bed is sleep. Tim has insomnia and only uses his bed for sleep. No wonder he has insomnia. I use books and magazines and other reading material like most people use Valium and sleeping pills. Reading lying down makes me sleeping, even with my 1150. Of course, with the 1150, I don't have to roll over and turn out the light; I can -- and do -- read in the dark. When I wake up in the middle of the night and have a little trouble falling back to sleep, I read. Books are necessary on the bed -- and on the floor next to the bed and on the nightstand and on the chest of drawers I pass when I come back from the bathroom on the way to the bed.

I also eat in bed on the weekends or when I'm under the weather. On the weekends, it's a luxury not to have to get up, make breakfast, get showered and dressed and work. I can lounge around all day in bed with pit stops and eat and sleep and read to my heart's content. I think weekends are made for relaxing and unwinding from the hectic weekday pace, and bed is the best place to do that. I drink in bed most nights. I drink fresh, hot cocoa or chamomile tea, and sometimes I have a half glass of wine with my book before turning out the light and going to sleep.

For the first year after I moved here I didn't eat anything in the bedroom and I only kept a glass of water by the bed to drink when I wake up in the middle of the night and I feel a bit parched from the furnace or the summer night's heat. I'd eat in the living room on the couch where there's a table (the coffee table, except I don't drink coffee) and read or watch a movie. The minute I got comfortable and stretched out to read, I fell asleep with the lights on and in an uncomfortable position that made my neck cramp for days. That's when I lifted the self-imposed ban on eating and drinking in the bedroom. I want to be comfortable when I read and to be comfortable I need to be in bed where if I fall asleep I'm not going to wake up with cramps and aches in places that usually don't cramp and ache, thank you very much.

And beds are for having sex, napping and having more sex. Of course, that might be a little difficult with the usually unoccupied side of the bed covered with books, magazines and catalogues, so maybe the e-book reader is a better idea for reading in bed . . . just in case. You just never know. After all, a hundred books in bed, not including catalogues and magazines, are a bit difficult to get off the bed in case of a sex attack, and getting to the sex would be quicker without all my usual companions.

Aw, hell, that's why couches, and floors and kitchen counters were invented -- to have sex when half the bed is covered in books.

I like my 1150 and it is convenient, but I'm not giving up the three dimensional, food-stained, smudged pages of paper and ink books. A girl's got to have something to cozy up to on a sleepless night.

Family fun and frolics

< br>The best way to start a morning is to laugh and I've been smiling and laughing all morning.

Carol, my sister who seldom emails or calls, emailed this morning. She's been reading Twilight. I warned her, but what do I know? Evidently I know quite a bit. Her email was short and to the point. "You're right. Bella is whiny and needy." Of course I'm right. I read the book. I saw the movie. Neither one had been doctored by someone with a talent for dialogue.

Maybe I should refer to Carol by a nickname, as I do with my other sister, Beanie. I could use Grandpa's nickname (Bessie the Bullfrog -- don't ask me why, he never explained) or Mom's nickname for her, Miss Priss, or I could use my nickname for her, Hoity-Toity. So as not to be too confusing I'll pick one and stick to it, probably my nickname. It's funnier, although Miss Priss does fit her as well.

Mom called last night, forcing me to get up from my cozy, comfortable pose on the couch watching "Space: Above and Beyond" and go to the back of the house where my office hides during off hours and get the phone. She wanted to thank me for "The Thorn Birds" DVD I sent her. While we talked, Mom got into a conversation with Carol that had nothing to do with me. Since I missed the call and had to call back, Hoity-Toity answered the phone and didn't know that Mom had called. They live in the same house, but Mom sees it as being split into "her house" and "Hoity-Toity's house", as evidenced by Mom telling me she was going to clean her house tomorrow. Anyway, between her conversation with Hoity-Toity and me, Mom finally broached the subject of my brother Jimmy. We'll call him Idiot, mostly because he is. Idiot has decided he wants to be married again, just not to his ex-wife Bobbie. (There is no good nickname for her that would be acceptable in polite conversation.) The problem is that he works two jobs and spends the rest of his time on the computer chatting up women in the Ukraine, Istanbul and other not American countries on Second Life instead of having a life of his own.

"You won't believe it. Idiot is letting his hair grow long."

"How long, Mom?"

"Past his collar."

"Like a mullet?"

"He always looked so good with his buzz cut and now..." Words failed Mom. "And he has a full beard." Just not for long.

"Has he decided to become a hermit?"

"He looks horrible, like a great big hairy bear." Maybe I should consider changing his nickname. "I wish you'd talk to him."

"Mom, he doesn't pay any attention to what I say. I've been urging him to get out of the house, but he says he doesn't have time. He has time if he'd get off the computer and stop fooling around with Second Life and get out and have an actual life."

"He does listen to you. He respects you."

"Can't tell it by me, but I'll try again. He could enroll in a college course for fun, a cooking class or go to a singles mixer at church. There are lots of options."

"Oh, that's a good idea."

"Which one?"

"All of them. I could get him to join Bruce's group." Bruce is my cousin Laura's second husband, Mom's brother's daughter. Confused yet?

"How many ounces is a pint?" Hoity-Toity got on the other phone. She was tired of listening in and not being part of the conversation.

"Sixteen."

"So what is 31 ounces?"

"One ounce shy of a quart."

"Then how many ounces in a gallon?

"Well, 64 ounces is a half gallon, so 128 ounces is a gallon."

"There's no way I can drink that much water."

"Well, actually you can, but just not all at once unless you want to vomit."

Then Mom started talking to "my baby", Cujo the pint-size chihuahua with the St. Bernard size attitude and the hydrophobic pit bull gleam in her eye, so I suddenly felt the urge to go to the bathroom and said goodbye before Mom got into full Dink love.

That's my family. To them I'm Dr. Cornwell, the Encyclopedia Jackie and Jackie-of-all-Trades who counsels idiots and water drinkers everywhere.

I should mention that none of the above, with the exception of Hoity-Toity agreeing with me that Bella is whiny and needy, not to mention irritating and repetitive as well, had nothing to do with my smiles and laughter this morning. That came from other sources.

That is all. Disperse.