Come one, come all...

...and see the insanity first hand.

Last year I entered the NaNoWriMo contest and finished a 100,000-word novel. I still need to edit it, but it's written. I'm also rewriting it, but that's the beauty of the process.

This year I'm unsure of which novel to begin and I may just write two novels since I can't choose. It would be good for me and a friend told me I could write 12 novels a year, or at least six. He's not a writer, but I'm going to give it a good try and November is a good time to start getting serious.

You may read the progress of said novel(s) at NaNoWriMo Novel Challenge 2004 if you're interested in the insane rantings of a writer.

So, I'm going to give it my best shot, quit chatting with friends on IM, focus on writing something more than blogs, of which I have three (and now four), articles and columns and stretch my creative literary wings. It won't be perfect (well, maybe it will be), but it is a start in the right direction. Who knows? I may end up with 12 novels coming out within the next two years and I will have the rest of my dream...living in a cabin in the Rockies and making a good living as a writer. You never know. Stranger things have happened. Now go write something and give me some competition and some company.

Do you know who you're reading?

On September 25, 1999 I had just moved to Hudson, Ohio when a friend called and told me Marion Zimmer Bradley had just died. Marion was a good friend and a mentor, one of many writers who have given me so much of their time and talent and believed in me.

Marion had been ill for several years and had battled diabetes for a very long time. Her body couldn't take any more and she slipped into a coma and died. It was a loss to her family but also a loss to her friends and to the reading public who had been so ensnared by her stories and characters from so many of her worlds and times.

At the time I was reading a new novel, a continuation of her Avalon series. Something was off with the book and I thought it was Marion's illness. The book was good, but it didn't have Marion's signature style. I soon found out that most of the books in the previous few years were not written by Marion, but by one of her proteges. I had no idea such things happened. I knew James Michener had a staff of researchers and writers who churned out his books on an assembly line. He couldn't have written so much in a short time otherwise. But to find out Marion's books were penned by someone else seemed wrong to me.

It's not uncommon, however. Marion had the name and the writer authoring her books didn't, but s/he knew Marion and could mimic Marion's style.

To anyone who reads an author and gets to know them, any change in the nuances of characterization, plot, and mythology are as obvious as a 6 mm pimple on your nose. So many "lost" novels published after Marion's death are more of the same. Case in point, Witch Hill is the latest book published in the wake of Marion's death. It is purportedly a book that wasn't published prior to her death and part of the LIGHT series.

I finished the book Monday night and was immediately struck by the inconsistencies to Marion's style and her literary sensibilities. There is a brief connection to the characters of Frodo and Emily from The Inheritor, which features two sisters, Emily and Leslie Barnes, who are caught up with a musician who plans to use Emily's musical gifts to bolster his own. Colin McClaren and Claire Moffat, who also briefly appear in Witch Hill to help Sara Latimer free herself from the clutches of a coven of dark witches, one of whom will possess Sara and take over her body and her future.

Despite the recurrence of characters from The Inheritor, Witch Hill does not show Marion's fine hand and sensibilities. Devil worship and graphic sexuality were never part of Marion's writing style. It is immediately obvious that Marion contributed little to this book outside of plot and direction. The gossamer thread that binds Marion's characters is frayed and broken throughout and characters who she likely intended to play a more integral part in the story are shuffled to the sidelines and given little more to do than lend their names and shadowy presence at the end.

That is not to say the book is not good. It does have its moments and I am not opposed to graphic sexual content. However, I am appalled that Marion's name is on this book because she would not have written this book. It's sad to see her name used in this manner and her stories darkened with mythologies that she would have opposed--and did oppose--during her lifetime.

Marion belongs to a generation of writers who believed that although sex sold books, it wouldn't be the central theme in any book she wrote. There is a time and place for graphic sexual content and I have enjoyed and written it many times. However, I also enjoy reading books that focus on other things and still offer readers an alternative rich in history, mythology, and characters that don't follow the graphic sexual pack.

If you want to feast at Marion's table read The Fall of Atlantis, which begins the story of Emily and Leslie and provides the background to Mists of Avalon and the story of sisters and the men who loved them reincarnated again and again to learn and grow. You will notice the difference in writing and style.

Marion invited many writers to play in her worlds and created anthologies for new writers to test their wings and grow. Marion also borrowed from history, mythology, and other writers, just as Witch Hill borrows from H. P. Lovecraft's settings of Arkham and the dark backward communities of the eastern seaboard to create his Cthulu mythos, but paying homage to another writer is not taking their name and their audience to turn a fast buck and lie to the public.

Ultimately, it is about the bottom line--money--and not about honesty or faithfulness to an author's creations. The question is how readers and writers feel about this issue. I will not deny a good story, but I prefer honesty. How do you feel? Does it really matter if an author writes their books or not?

Mixed bag o' thoughts

It's Monday and it's snowing just a little bit. Funny, but I always know when it's snowing even when I'm sleeping. Must be something about the difference in sound. Snow softens and deadens sound or maybe it just insulates everything and pushes the rest of the noisy world away. I don't know for sure, but I know when it happens even when I sleep.

I had a semi-productive weekend, finishing off all the library books and three books I need to review, one for my new horror site. I'll be writing more articles and replacing the old stuff today and tomorrow, getting ready for the new launch. I'm getting excited now and anxious to move on. The urge to crawl under the deck and stay there until the shouting and arguing are over (from when my parents were here) is gone and I'm back to feeling normal.

You have no idea, or maybe you do, how sleeping in a too soft bed where you can hear every single snore, gripe, moan, groan, and complaint wrecks my sleep. It took me a while to catch up, but I'm back and the psychic bubble has burst. Time to burn some sage and sweet grass and clear the air.

I knew the psychic bubble had burst on Friday evening when I got a call from Ginny at Atriad Press to tell me she had been trying to get hold of me for two weeks to let me know they were buying one of my stories for their anthology. That's two weeks, bookended before and after my parents' visit, where two of my stories have been bought and checks are being sent. Good news overall. Saturday got better.

I found a strange name on Yahoo Messenger and, since the person was online, asked them who they were. I vaguely recognized the name, but not really and had not had YIM on for at least two years. We began talking and it turns out he was looking for a writer to do something unusual. He hired me for $50 a 2000-word story and the contract could turn into something really big and lucrative. Bingo! Regular money and lots of it. There is one small hitch to the deal, he seems to have developed an affection for me after we talked on the phone. I told him that I wanted to keep things friendly but focus on business since I'm not in the market for a lover/boyfriend/significant other. He seems to think he can wear me down, but 41-year-olds are like that, especially the entrepreneurial types. Oh, and I did eventually remember him when we talked.

On a last note, since the snow seems to have stopped drifting past my window, I received an email about a situation about which everyone should be aware. Ever hear of a 12-year-old Palestinian boy named Mohammed al-Dura who was gunned down by Israeli soldiers? Well, truth is stranger than fiction, but it is evidently fiction the PLO and Yasser Arafat is creating and passing off as documentary journalism. More people should be from Missouri.

That is all. Disperse.

Sunday at home

Yesterday was a very busy day. We got up at 6 oh-my-god-o'clock and got out of the house by 8 after spending part of Friday night (Dad and me) searching the curving road from my cabin to the highway for a half-cord of wood with a sign saying "FREE WOOD" my mother saw when they followed me up to the cabin earlier that evening. She was so insistent Dad and I went on the hunt and didn't find the wood until we passed by the entrance to the Highlands on the way out of town to drive down to Canon City to take the Royal Gorge train ride. Oh, well, no wood. It was gone when we returned home at 9 last night. Long day, but an interesting one.

I mapped the route and had all the directions, but my parents are sticklers for following the rules. Dad drove and the one hour of leeway I figured in was quickly eaten up by Dad driving about 55 and Mom keeping an eagle eye on the speedometer and reminding him (loudly and often) that he was driving too fast and he should "pick a lane," not to mention all the stops for hard candy for Mom, water, and vacation silliness. I'm more of a drive the speed limit, and stop only for gas and bathroom when absolutely necessary, and get there kind of person.

We got to the train station just in time to be told there were no more seats and only passengers holding reservations would be allowed on the train. Okay, I did not come 200 miles to be told we could not get on the train. Mom has had her heart set on this trip for three years and I did not want to disappoint them. So, putting on my best innocent and heartbroken face, I shamelessly talked the ticket agents into allowing us on the train. Quite simply, I told them my parents had come all the way from Ohio to ride the train and this would be our only day in town. The first agent broke quickly, but the head agent said no...at first. I repeated my sad tale and she relented within about 30 seconds. Hey, what can I say? I'm good.

On the train we followed the rest of the crowd searching for a seat and found lots of empty seats with coats, hats, and feet on seats. My parents are in their 70s and my Mom could not stand in the open observation car for 2 hours, so I started asking if the seats were taken and was told over and over they were. Heartless gits.

On the way back through five cars toward the observation car I stopped when I saw the conductor, explained my mother could not stand for 2 hours in the hot sun in the observation car and asked if they couldn't they find her a seat. He gave her his seat and Dad and I went out to the observation car. We hadn't been out there more than 15 minutes when some smiling, impish-eyed little old lady came out and told Dad he was to come back and sit with Mom. They had found him a seat. He left and I stayed among the rest of the tourist cattle.

Now, five years ago I could not have stood for more than 5 minutes, let alone two hours, but I did... Well, I almost did. Looking at endless striated rock passing in front of me brought back an attack of something I had not had since I was a kid right before Mom doped me up on dramamine--motion sickness. The tales of my delicate stomach have crisscrossed continents, oceans, and states, but I'm older now. I'm a driver. I also can't stand watching slow moving rock walls and tracks and water in a swaying open cattle car without getting nauseous. I drank from the water bottles in my bag and tried to find a stationary point to watch, but the nausea won and I went back into the car where my parents sat and the same impish-eyed little lady took a pile of coats and purses off the seat next to her and told me to sit down. I did and spent the last 40 minutes of the ride inside.

She was a very interesting little old lady and I will write more about her later. She deserves a post all to herself.

At any rate, we drove back to Colorado Springs with Mom wailing about stopping at a Denny's. As luck would have it, a Denny's was one exit before the one we wanted, but I relented and we motored on and down into Old Colorado City for a scheduled meeting with my new coven mates and elementalmuse and her children. Parked the car and Dad checked over my directions while I waited for Mom to get out of the car and get situated with her cane and purse. I thought I saw someone I knew, uniqueluddite to be specific, but when I walked toward him he didn't recognize me so it evidently wasn't him. Couldn't have been anyway; he was wearing shorts and an untucked shirt tail. The Luddite is much neater than that.

We strolled across the street and went inside the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, which was much smaller than I envisioned. It did smell wonderful and freshly made caramel apples were on display. It was like shopping in a sensorium with all the best sights, sounds, and smells in the world decorating every available corner. They were not, however, doing any chocolate demos. Maybe some other time.

Old Colorado City is a delight to the eye and the senses and I want to go back and explore more, not for antiques but for all the arts and crafts and picturesque views. Next time when I am not on a tight schedule.

Outside, having around a doorway a couple of doors east of the chocolate shop like a bunch of colorful characters were elementalmuse and some of my coven mates, Autumn and her husband Brian, in particular, among others. I told Mom I recognized some people and went over to them. She sat at a little patio table and I greeted my friends. Autumn is a petite little thing with delicate bones and features and hair the color of dried cherries and a smile that is open and wide. Brian is a preppy looking guy with an easy smile and darting eyes that seem to catalog everything around him.

After a couple of minutes, I introduced them to my mother and told them we had to leave because Mom was hungry (she's always hungry) and we were going to Denny's. The Muse asked if we'd mind if they met us there, but Autumn and her family had other plans. I told them which Denny's we planned to go to and they said they'd meet us after they got their chocolate fix.

One wrong turn later we finally found the Denny's and went inside. Mom was a little uncomfortable at the idea of my friends sitting down with them because she's not quite as friendly as my father and I are, so I told them I'd sit with my friends at the next booth. Worked out fine, especially when the Muse arrived with the kidlets and Desert Frost followed not long after.

Desert Frost looks like a dusky African with an infectious smile and a musical voice who has lots of stories about family and Colorado Springs and I certainly didn't get to hear enough of them. The time was too short and my parents were tired. For that matter, so was I, but I could have gone on at least another ten hours under sheer power and the unquenchable desire to spend time with friends. So, I said my goodbyes and helped Mom out to the car and we got back on the road.

We missed our turn-off to skirt Denver and ended up driving in the swiftly gathering dark thru the middle of mid-town Denver and finally got back on track and into the heights toward home. As much as I enjoy traveling and seeing sights and friends, and people in general, I have to admit that I love driving home to the peace and tranquility of my mountain aerie.

Like a kid yelling, "Are we there yet?" Mom asked, "How much longer?" all the way back. Just past the little waterfall down a spill of rocks on the mountainside before the final hairpin curve, we entered the final track toward home and back into the star studded night thru the deep shadows and night-dark roads back up into the Highlands. I thought I lost my keys, but found them in my jacket pocket, raced for the door, fumbled the key into the lock, hit the outside and inside lights and toiled up the steps to the bathroom right before my bladder exploded with a delicious sigh of relief. I had to battle a big spider who did not want to go back down the drain to wash my hands and shucked my clothes on my way thru the bedroom and into the comfortable wrinkled T-shirt and back out the other door to grab a pickle and head to the loft to drop into the bed and rest. I changed my mind, went back downstairs to wash my face and for some strawberry shortcake and came back upstairs to get really comfortable, dropped my clothes on the chair by the extra bed in the loft and crawled into the covers and settled down with my paper journal and a really good book I'm finishing about Arthur Conan Doyle, possession, and the psychiatric practices in the 20s in England. This one is getting a good review, but that's because it's a really engrossing and fascinating book.

Soon I was reading the same sentence over and over and forgetting what it said, so I turned out the light, pulled up the covers and sought pleasant dreams until this morning.

Today is a day full of the usual chores of washing dishes, running the vacuum, and more laundry, but Mom and Dad have decided to give me my birthday and Xmas early this year with a brand new electric chainsaw (and hopefully a really long extension cord) so I can quit fussing and fretting over the gas-powered job that doesn't want to start. I'll stain the deck in the warm sunshine and drag down more fallen trees and ready them for cutting up with my new chainsaw and enjoy a relaxing day. Tomorrow we buy the chainsaw and take a trek into Wyoming to see if I can find Cheyenne and then back here for another day of time with my parents who have turned out, after all these years, to be pretty cool people.

And, yes, guys, there are girls who do get all excited about power tools as gifts. Like me, for example.

I'll shut up now so you can go enjoy your own Sunday. Make sure you do.

Debate

No, not the political kind, the personal kind.

There is a discussion going on in one of the communities about whether or not marriage has outlived its usefulness. (wouldn't you just know I'd get caught up in this one?)

At any rate, the idea is that marriage doesn't work any more and poses more problems than answers. I find it rather funny that homosexuals are pushing for marriage while heterosexuals are questioning the validity and need for marriage. Don't you?

The conservative political factions in this country are determined to define marriage in terms of male and female when what marriage has become is a tool for bureaucracy. Easy to get into and really hard to get out of, except where fancy, over priced, and over done weddings are considered.

In the good old days (really old, mostly ancient days), marriage was about political and financial liaisons and legitimizing children. That's why it was imperative the bride be a virgin so the husband could be sure the offspring were his, which turned out to be the case in very few instances. The only parent a child can be sure of is the mother, which is why in really ancient days (before the advent of society, civilization, and marriage laws) knowing a child's father wasn't all that important and most communities were matrilineal. But with civilization came laws and bureaucracies and legal marriages.

I see marriage as a commitment between two people to live and work together for the good of all involved. The kinds of open, multi-partner marriages that Robert Heinlein posited in his later books are more feasible than what marriage has currently turned into. It has become a pleasure trap at best and an emotional and societal trap at worst. Although polygamy is outlawed in this country, there are literally thousands of polygamist marriages. The people involved are happy with their situations, although they are a bit unfair about how such marriages are run, especially since they consist of one male and lots of females. In the Middle East and Asia they are called harems. Personally, I believe in quid pro quo where polygamy is concerned and those women who want to marry more than one man (and the men who agree to that kind of arrangement) should have their share of the polygamist pie.

Has marriage outlived its usefulness? Should a different type of marriage be instituted whereby you contract for a certain number of years? Such a contract could be renewed at the end of each period of the original contract, but if things aren't working out or either of you want to be free to sign a contract with another party, then there would be no onus attached to letting the contract expire and moving on. Children would still be taken care of by their parents, something that could be built into the contract, but there would be no loss suffered on either side. The contract would expire and the parties would remain amicable. Of course, if the contract term is not yet up and both parties feel the need to end said contract, why not end it early without rancor or penalty (mental, physical, emotional, or financial)?

Modern pagans hold handfastings and the term of commitment is usually a year and a day, but can be for longer. However, bureaucracies and lawyers tend not to take handfastings as legal marriage and that poses its own problems.

Personally, I favor the contract method for those who need such things (and to satisfy bureaucracy and lawyers) or polygamy for those men and women who prefer that route. I do not believe government should have any say in the manner or style in which a marriage is conducted or that religions should be allowed to define marriage for people outside of their faith. Marriage is a personal choice and should be more malleable and move with the changing needs of society and religion and the style and mode of marriage dictated only by the people involved.

What do you think?

Foggy day in Tabernash town

...A foggy day in London Town had me low and had me down. The lyrics go with the gossamer veil between me and the rest of the world where trees are ghostly shapes in faded greens and browns, but not with my mood.

This is the kind of day to go for a walk in the fog, disappear into the mists and breathe cool, wet air searching for ghosts and the fairy realms. It's such an unreal day when anything is possible...even dreams. A day when I feel like I can shape my own reality and make it real. This is the kind of day I hope for at Halloween when the walls between the worlds are thin as spider webs and crossing into a different reality is as easy as walking thru the fog.

I am reminded of some sad news I got the other day. One of my friends in Arvada and I talked and he told me his father died. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a year ago and the chemo didn't work. Now he's gone, but, my friend says, not too far away. He still sees his father.

I had many wonderful conversations with his father, who wasn't much older than I am, and I miss him. That makes six people close to me that have died in the past six months. Not a good average. I am sad to know he's gone but happy that he is no longer in any pain. My favorite aunt died of pancreatic cancer after successfully battling breast cancer and I still miss her.

Maybe the fog makes me think of ghosts and dying more or maybe it's just because so many people I knew are now gone. There are new friends to take up the slack, but they can never fill the space left by the friends who are gone.

On a happier note, my parents arrive tomorrow morning and Saturday we will be traveling to Silverton for the Royal Gorge train ride and then back to Old Colorado City so my mother can gorge herself on chocolate and wander among the antiques on Colorado Avenue. I seldom come down from my mountain for long trips. There is some talk among the locals that I'm turning into an anchorite, but it's not that bad yet. I'll be the one with the distinguished and handsome gentleman with the silver hair and very Cherokee features and the tiny little woman with the glittering brown eyes who's telling me my hair is too red. You'll recognize me by my smile.

Low down

I feel lower than an old sow's dugs right now. I need to get busy and write and for some reason I'm getting a lot of requests to review books. Must be that time of the year. I'm saying yes but what I want to say is leave me alone right now. I hope something can pull me out of this silent funk.

I did talk to another old friend from high school that lives in the plains in eastern Colorado. He grows flowers. He also told me there is another one of our classmates here in Colorado and said he'd find out where so all of us could schedule some time to get together up here at my cabin--a little mini reunion of people who don't go to reunions. Interestingly, I'll be the only female -- at least so far.

The minute we started talking last night I realized something I didn't know in high school; he's gay. We talked about everything and nothing and even sex. We talked about the difference in relationships between gay and straight. I asked him how gays started relationships and he said they say "hi". Then they have sex and talk afterward, finding out about each other's likes, dislikes, etc. If there's anything there they move to a relationship and if not they say hi to someone else and start the process all over. He thinks it's easier for straights than gays and I think it's easier for gays. The grass is always greener.

Unfortunately, he is HIV-positive and has been for 25 years but is not in full blown AIDS. He also has a cast iron bathtub in his front yard and I accused him of being a redneck Fred Sanford and he laughed. He actually takes baths in the tub in the front yard under the tree when the weather's nice. That sounds at once sexy and weird. Something about the idea of a warm breeze and water on naked skin makes me weak in the knees. He lives on 15 acres and his neighbors aren't close enough to see (so he says), but I reminded him of telescopes, binoculars, and other spy devices. He laughed. "If they want to see me that bad they're welcome to watch."

He is that rare mix of innocence and openness that is so refreshing. And he's still a virgin at 49. For him, girls have a big YUCK factor and that's so funny, especially when he told me about the girl who chased him into the shower intent on changing his virginal status. He won. She lost. I told him he was safe with me.

I am still amazed how quick the connections are repaired between old friend who haven't seen each other in over 30 years and how much we remember. I've always believed the memories of youth are hard wired, branded into the synapses. Looks more and more like I was right.

Strangely enough he remembered me. I wrote him last week since I couldn't find an email address--and he isn't wired into the net. He has a laptop and it gathers dust on a shelf. Fine situation for an ex-computer programmer. He said I could teach him and bring him up to date.

He told me that several guys considered me out of their league. I can't figure out why. He told me it was because I was so smart, talented and pretty. Wish I'd known back then. I thought I was the original ugly duckling, but that I'd never turn into a swan. He said I was silly. Well, I think the boys were silly for keeping me in the dark.

In some parallel universe there is a Jackie who knew she had value as a youth. I wonder if she's happier?

Serendipity

As a reviewer whose name is all over the net, I get lots of writers wanting me to read and review their books. I get free books and they get my opinion. Readers may or may not agree with what I write, but I stand behind what I write and that carries some weight.

Last Friday night a writer contacted me to review his book About Nursing Homes. I wanted to know how he found me (it's a good idea to know where and how people find you) and he told me. We got into a discussion and have chatted on AIM from time to time, like this afternoon.

This man isn't much older than I am and he has had a rough year. He died twice after he was diagnosed with cancer and had a stroke. He was a quadriplegic in January 2004 and got out of a nursing home in June. Five days after he got out of the nursing home he met a woman online and he told her everything bad about him: broke, recovering from rehabilitation, twice married...the whole ugly truth of his life. She told him the ugly truth of her life. They were married less than one month later.

He has a simple philosophy about marriage and love. He says people are like restaurants. When you meet someone you look at the menu and if you don't want to take everything on the menu you part and go your separate ways. When you find a menu that has everything you want and the other person finds the same in your menu, you've got a match. This is his third time down the aisle and the ugly stuff is out of the way. Nothing was hidden and they like everything on the other's menu.

I know it sounds simple, but it also sounds and feels right. Too many people settle for less than what they want because they're afraid of being alone. To quote Mike, "If someone really wants you [s/]he would eat his[/her] way thru a mile of horse shit just to see you. If [s]/he is married, he would say screw [him]/her and be with you now. There are three bad reasons to stay in a bad relationship: money, vows, kids."

He also said he was an asshole once upon a time, but he died twice and came out of it knowing what was and wasn't important in life. My hope is that those of you currently in difficult or impossible situations right now don't have to die to figure out what is important to you. Don't settle for less than what you want, need, and deserve. If you're in a bad situation, get out of it. Find a menu that has everything you want on it. And when you find it, get all the ugly stuff out of the way. It will only crop up later. Now is better than later. If the person truly loves you they will accept you in spite of the bad stuff because you're the right person for them, too. Don't waste any more precious time figuring it out. You know what you want; start chowing down and go where you really want to be.

Do you have to die to get it? I hope not.

Terrify me with your answers -- HORROR POLL

What are your top 10 classic horror writers?

What are your favorite top 10 classic horror stories?

What are your top 10 favorite modern horror writers?

What are your top 10 favorite modern horror novels?

If you have children, or are children, answer the poll for your children, too.

A new week

And maybe this one I won't screw up.

Looking out the windows thru the denuded trees, I see white capped mountain peaks and I don't think the snow is going to melt any time soon. There was frost on the deck this morning instead of the snow that covered it most of the weekend and the skies are a clear bright blue. When the frost melts and the deck dries I'm going to take advantage of the warm sun (it has been around 30 lately) and stain the deck because I don't know when I'll get another chance and it needs to be done this year. Don't want the deck to rot out from under me. That's a long fall, but it's the hard rocky surface that will stop me that I'm more worried about. The last thing I need is a broken anything right now. No one will find me and I'll end up being eaten by foxes and all the squirrels and chipmunks I ticked off when I took the plants inside.

Yesterday one of my winter visitors came back twice. He is a black crested jay. He has a tall sooty Mohawk crest and light charcoal gray shoulders partially covered by deep blue wings and a long blue tail. If he's here my beautiful iridescent blue magpie with the white shoulders can't be far behind. He brightens my days when I see him out there, his long beautiful blue tail draped over a tree branch like a waterfall of metallic blue.

As the trees lose their summer weight of needles and pine cones, more of the surrounding mountains are visible, all capped with snow. Winter is not far off right now. And there is so much work to be done before winter grips everything firmly and covers everything with glittering snow and ice. So much needs to be done and I have plants I'm going to transplant in the basement and set up under a grow light to see if I can get them moving. Not to mention, the work I need to get done between now and Friday when my parents arrive.

And I begin writing my columns for the new horror literature site I'm hosting. The site hasn't been completely changed over with my columns and info, but it will be done by the end of the week. I'm already looking into books to review and authors to interview. And I'm counting on my friends and casual passersby to give me their horror favorites and finds for adults and children. Keep your eyes fixed here because there will be a pop quiz -- polls actually. You and your families are the target audience, so it just makes sense to poll you all to find out what I should be doing. Get ready for the work ahead. Roll up your sleeves, give me your horrific choices, and then tell me if I do them justice. All opinions are welcome -- even the ones I don't agree with.

That is all for right now. Poll ahead (if I can figure out how to do it).

Don't go too far. Your input is required.

Sunday rains

It started to rain a little while ago, a whispering rustle of sound, first loud and then soft and then loud again conversation in a crowded room. Beyond the windows in the darkness, the rustling hissed and ticked on the deck. Inside it was warm and quiet, a soft light shining against the black beyond the windows.

Today was a day of contrasts. The sun cast a bright golden glow over everything and lit the blue sky above to searing brilliance. I slept late because I went to bed late, sitting in my favorite chair in the darkness while the moon silvered and blued everything outside.

Today was a day of thoughts and memories and hopes and wishes while dandelion and spices tingled on my tongue and warmed me inside. The subtle scent of sage still hung in the air from last night, sweet grass a clean under note that tickled my nose and teased the edges of my mind.

Today was a day of solitude and silence and it didn't hurt so much.

Today was a day of revelation and news.

My mother called several times to firm up plans for their arrival on Friday, asking about rental cars and what I wanted them to bring, and complaining Dad had gone to church and left her at home because she is supposed to be at bed rest. Dad told her she was going to stay in bed because he didn't want her ruining their trip out here. Strong words from my father who has spent most of his life traveling the path of least resistance. Made me feel good to know he's excited and happy about coming to visit.

Now, what I'll do with my parents for seven days is still a mystery, but it should be interesting. I do know we're going to take the Royal Gorge train tour from Silverton next Saturday and I have tempted Mom with a stop in Colorado Springs to go on the chocolate factory tour or at least to Russell Stover's for her favorite treat -- CHOCOLATE. Mom had mentioned she wanted to drive up to Wyoming and maybe into Montana, which would be a nice diversion for me and will mean me being gone from my cabin and my computer for several days. It would also mean you all get a break from me. I know you're cheering already.

But today was a day of no work and no thoughts of work, except the ones that flitted at super sonic speed thru the corridors of my mind. I'll get back to it tomorrow and get two weeks' work done in the next five days to make time for a little vacation of my own.

Today was a day of peace and calm, a day for understanding and a tiny glimmer of happiness and hope.

All in all, the Sunday rains dampened the ground and the outside world and provided a refreshing relief for my heart.

Hurricane Soap Opera

Thanks to Bobbie O'Neill who has a very keen sense of humor and sent me this great little saga of storm and fury signifying...

This is what happens as the "Eye" Turns


Rumor has it that Frances was married to Ivan but was having an affair with Charley. Charley used her and left, and she went looking for him--mad. Charley swept through Florida quickly while Frances (a woman scorned) followed close behind taking her time looking everywhere for him.

Ivan (vacationing in the Caribbean) finally got wind of what happened and is now looking for his wife and Charley. Ivan has vengeance in his heart and has the whole gulf coast running for the hills.

Actually Ivan was in the Caribbean with Jeanne and she is now "hot for him", which is surprising because she just broke her engagement with Karl who is out looking for both Ivan and Jeanne. Karl's little sister, Lisa, is trying to keep him out of trouble. Matthew is Lisa's boyfriend who follows her anywhere.

And the rest of this story is....

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Middle East Changes?

My rabid vegetarian Jewish-Israeli semi-retired journalist friend sent me an interesting article by an American-based Egyptian Arab that I thought you might find interesting. I certainly did. Seems shame and guilt have longer reaches than even Christians knew. You are not alone any more. Another group has stepped up to the plate.

Careful, political information ahead. Do not read if you have a brain.


What I Learned From Jews
by Nonie Darwish
September 20, 2004

This week and last is the period of the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I know very little about the Jewish religion, but I understand the significance of this holiday. Even though I am not Jewish, I think that everyone can benefit from these holidays.

I learned from my Jewish friends that it is actually a period of ten days, from the eve of Rosh Hashanah through the day of Yom Kippur. This period is called the "Ten Days of Repentance" in Jewish tradition. The concept of examining myself from within and seeing what I, as well as my community, are responsible for because of our actions, with the goal of self-improvement, sounds both very attractive and alien to me and my cultural background.

I was born and raised in Cairo, Egypt, and the Gaza strip as a Muslim in the 1950s, when classical, more moderate Islam was prevalent. However, the concept of examining oneself deeply without fear of repercussions was lacking in our religious education as a whole. I am not sure if Islam influenced Arab culture or Arab culture influenced Islam, but two of the basic driving forces in Arab society are shame and pride.

I decided to try this wonderful Jewish tradition and apply it to myself and my culture of origin. I moved to the United States in 1978 and came with the usual preconceived biases, indoctrination and baggage from a Middle East upbringing - fear of Jews, of government, of people in power and fear of speaking my mind. Having lived through the 1956, 1967 and 1973 wars with Israel took away my feelings of trust and security. However, living in America made it easy for me to change and look objectively within myself, my history and my culture of origin. Now, I run a new website called ArabsforIsrael.com.


To courageously stand and admit to oneself and to the world one's sins, bad choices and engage them head on, to correct and repent, is hard for most people in any culture, but it is inconceivable and unheard of in Muslim culture. Speaking, even to oneself, of one's shortcomings and examining one's responsibilities first before blaming others would bring shame, disgrace and dishonor not only to the individual, but to his or her entire family. Those who admit fault or guilt, even if it is unintended, are regarded as fools and if the mistake is a cultural taboo, then one's reputation might be scarred for life and the person might end up brutally punished.

We were discouraged from sinning out of fear of an angry God, the flames of Hell and society's cruel punishment awaiting sinners right here on earth. There was no reward for loving humanity as a whole, self improvement and bringing out the best of the human spirit.

Pleasing the brutal dictators to get favoritism and wealth at the expense of the majority of the population was the common thing to do. Arabs were always proud to talk about the old glory and their old contributions to the world, but suppressed discussion and examination of any internal ills or evil. Because of this fear of shame and facing the truth about the negatives in Arab and Muslim culture, they allowed evil to dominate all aspects of Arab and Muslim society.

No one can deny the current sad state of the Middle East's dysfunctional society: terrorism in every Muslim country and poisoning the world; war; genocide of non-Arabs or non-Muslims, such as in the Sudan; the burning of churches, but taking refuge in Muslim holy shrines; the beheading of Jews; the destruction of Buddhist temples; brutal dictatorships; and weak economies. Despite wealth from oil, the Muslim world is among the poorest in the world.

Pollution and garbage are all around the great Nile Valley, unemployment is rampant and nothing can get done without bribery. Arab media forgives and ignores all these problems and is preoccupied with destroying Israel. This is the sad situation in the Middle East, where countries like Egypt cannot survive without generous US aid.

Blaming everyone and anyone but themselves was the only wise thing to do in a culture that showed no appreciation for accepting responsibility. Today, that culture has metastasized and it dominates a billion and a half Muslims around the world.

The only option for survival in such a culture is to always deny wrongdoing and tell yourself "you did not do it" until you believe it. Thus, Israel becomes the useful enemy that Arabs blame for everything; even the last terrorist attack on Russian children was blamed by some on yet another Jewish conspiracy. After defending and supporting Israel in my articles, I was also accused of being part of an Israeli conspiracy. At a time when most religions struggle to explain evil in the world, radical Islam found the answer: without hesitation, they say it is the Jews. Just listen to most Friday sermons in mosques all around the Muslim world. For that, I personally want to apologize to Jews around the world during this, their holiday period.

Jews do not wish each other a "Happy New Year" on Rosh Hashana, the way we are all used to doing on every January 1. The proper greeting is "Shanah Tovah", which means a "good year" or "a year of goodness." The greeting stresses goodness and living a good life; a life committed to improving the world and relationships. I am in awe when I hear my Jewish friends speak and explain the teachings of their faith. I want to take this opportunity to thank them and their culture for their many contributions to humanity. I am grateful to them for teaching me this great tradition that so many non-Jews need to reflect upon.

We all need to examine ourselves from the inside, bring out the good and see what we have accomplished as members of the human race. We all learn from each other and that is good.

May the New Year bring to our reality some of our expectations, and may it bring us more together.

Nonie Darwish is a writer, former editor and translator. Born and raised in the Middle East, although living in the US for over two decades, Nonie recently initiated the Arabs For Israel web site. She is also regularly invited to speak at universities and before other audiences.



Thanks to Mike Diamond for forwarding this fine article to us. Certainly, Nonie Darwish shows a clear understanding of the meaning of the High Holidays to the Jewish people – she is quite correct that these holidays have a special religious significance to better oneself through repentance. Her willingness to look beyond her upbringing in a Muslim/Arab environment in Egypt and become supportive of and defend Israel shows a lot of courage and for this we thank her. As part of the group, ‘Arabs for Israel’, the message to denounce suicide terrorism is in itself a major acknowledgement. Their recognition of Israel as a legitimate state for the Jewish People and their goal of change for the Muslim people to lead to the advancement for their people towards peace and the betterment of civilization are commendable. You can check their web site.

Shirley Anne Haber
The Media Action Group
info@mediaactiongroup.com

Arabs for Israel

First a virus and now greed...

The week started out lousy and it's going downhill fast, according to the latest publishing news.

First, the week starts out with an all-pervasive and unconscionable asshole virus that has struck many of you and your families and friends.

Next, I get a notice that Kirkus Reviews, a by-product of the Christian Science Monitor, will review your self-published book for $350. What is going on here?

Kirkus Reviews are definitely vicious and not even close to being subtle, but now they're charging people to review their books? How can they remain impartial -- and vicious -- to someone who just forked over a big chunk of change for their opinion? That not only goes against the grain, but it sets a really bad precedent.

The way the publishing game is played is that writer's write books and, hopefully, get published, and book reviewers read said books for free and give their opinions/criticisms/judgments. Now, Kirkus comes along and says, not only do authors have to provide a free book, but they have to pay for the privilege of being read and reviewed? Bullshit! That is NOT going to fly.

On top of all this, they are preying on self-published authors. Does this bother anyone but me?

What happened to fall?

I woke this morning to a deeper, softer silence. It was snowing. The white sky bird was shaking thick downy feathers over everything and very little of the ground and green of the pine needles remained. I noticed the hush.

Snow deadens and softens sounds. Everything was so quiet I heard bubbles from the soapy water in the sink popping softly and the sh-whoosh and muffled whump of snow sliding down the pitched roof and onto the ground. No other sounds penetrate the silence as showers of fears and sugar slip from over burdened branches and drop to the white ground below. No birds scrabble and squabble over tortilla scraps and apples on the deck or in the yard. Squirrels and chipmunks are nowhere to be seen.

The sky is white and snow sifts and drifts down on errant winds, coming slower and softer now while snow slides down the curved pine boughs on the way to the white humps, drifts, and sprays of white.

I lost the electricity twice this morning and I'm almost uncomfortable posting this now since I do not know whether or not it will blink again. I can't afford to lose my computers to the frequently infrequent power shifts, but that is part of the price of living here off the beaten track and away from the bustle of city streets. And yet when I think of being anywhere but here, I am glad I'm here.

I should have realized this snow was coming. I have had a dull headache behind my right eye and my sinuses have been clogged. Sure sign of storms on the way. My mind was elsewhere, worrying about things out of my control, as indeed everything ultimately is. But I am hopeful that all things will turn out right and my doubts are quiet at this moment.

For some reason, Master & Commander with Russell Crowe sailed thru my mind. I didn't think the movie rated an Oscar. The scenery was nice, the characters interesting for what you got to see of them, but the story was a throw-away with some good moments. There was no continuity, no cohesiveness. Considering they took the movie from a series of books, there is little else to expect. You can't make a good movie trying to get everything in a series of books into 2 or 3 hours. It doesn't work that way without losing the sense of character and place and story line. Nice photography and little vignettes do not an Oscar caliber movie make. Not even with Russell Crowe.

Last night's good news on the acceptance of one of my stories has sparked new ideas for more stories and a way to finish a couple of books. Since I'm not longer whoring for RAC I'll have some time in between working up proposals and flyers for medical transcription and business newsletters. And all of this is happening while a fragrant pot of beans cooks slowly on the stove downstairs, filling the air with warmth and the fragrance of spices, herbs, and dried beans turning soft and rich. I'll have to make some more tortillas for dinner later, but I've almost got that process down to a science.

And speaking of science, I was reading Discover about the Inuits' paradoxical diet of fat and protein. Puts a whole new face on the current low carb, high protein, high fat controversy in diets.

My diet lately has been more towards the vegetarian with meat thrown in occasionally, usually in the form of chicken or turkey (mostly turkey). Meat is really expensive up here and when I'm counting pennies a pot of beans goes a whole lot farther than a chicken or turkey or even ground beef. I also make skillet dishes out of tofu and eat eggs, which makes up the compliment of my protein intake. It's interesting because my Israeli friend is a rabid vegetarian and has been at me about changing my evil meat eating ways. He keeps telling me that with a little push I can get rid of that nasty fowl food and just go completely vegetarian. Of course that means I'd have to stop using chicken stock and bouillon in my beans when I cook them or give up the lovely chicken salad I make with the leftover chicken from making the chicken stock, but he thinks it's worthwhile. I don't. Sometimes I need to sink my teeth into something fleshy and vegetable and soy protein converted to look and taste like chicken and beef and turkey do not taste like chicken and beef and turkey to me. Sorry. You may be able to fool some people, but my carnivorous instincts go much deeper than my olfactory senses. It's either allow me to chomp down on some meat or have me chomp down on a person. Which do you think is better?

I'm listening to more of the ballads John sent me and they wrap me in warmth on this cold and snowy day, making me feel nostalgic and mellow and in need of company. Maybe some beknighted woodsman will stumble on my hidden aerie and ask for a bowl of beans, some warm homemade tortillas, and a fragrant cup of green tea (or coffee -- I actually have some in the freezer that smells good, but I don't drink it because it's strictly for guests). In the meantime, I'll find something else to occupy my time until someone offers to come join me and share a warm cup by the fire.

Visitors

My mother called last night and said she and my father are coming out next week by train. I need to check on rental cars for when they get here, but it looks like they're going to make it before the snow hits...maybe. The weather around here has been strange all year and it has snowed several times in the past two months. It's like the joy and exuberance of summer never made it off the ground and the warmth and love of vacation days, June weddings, and bees buzzing around a million flowers died before it had a chance to settle into that warm and comfortable feeling that follows unbounded joy. C'est la vie.

At least I can get Dad to help me finish cutting up all the wood and getting it stacked for the winter. I hope they didn't really think they were coming for a vacation. Besides, since Dad has gotten so weird about his chickens lately (he built them a condo in the garage and even painted it for them) I think he needs something to occupy his time and his energies that don't have anything to do with chickens. Of course, we'll drive down to take the Silverton train into New Mexico and back. That should be good and cold on that open train. I need to find my gloves. And we'll stop in Colorado Springs so Mom can indulge her chocolate addiction and maybe so I can say hello to some friends.

Snatches of poetry and stories keep battering at the screens of my mind like moths drawn to the light. So much has been happening I haven't had time to do more than jot down bits and pieces and hope I will remember them later. One image keeps sneaking past thoughts of work and arrangements and research.

She stands at the door kissing him goodbye, her body and soul yearning toward him, unwilling to let him go even though his time in her world is short. He walks away but she cannot follow him. The threshold is the boundary of her world, the point of intersection between her life and his world, the world that claims him. Beyond the threshold she does not exist, neither alive nor dead, a wraith caught between reality and paradise.

It feels like a ghost story. A girl who runs away and disappears and gets caught in limbo, a place between two worlds. When the boy comes to find her she can only reach him thru his dreams and she cannot tell him that only he can make her real or she will be trapped between worlds forever. He rises each morning with her name on his lips and memories of her follow him wherever he goes, bits of emotional flotsam floating on the tides of his mind like a siren's call that pulls at his heart and soul. At first he chalks it up to memories and dreams and then he tracks her to the last place she was seen, the cottage where they met and loved, falls asleep and has the most realistic dream he has ever known. He goes back to his life, but the dreams pull him backward, his love pulls him toward the cottage, the only place where she becomes real and they are together.

But I can't figure out the ending. It seems too easy to choose love and find a way to make the dreams a reality. Any suggestions?

What a waste...

...of time. I've been plugging away for weeks, working my butt off for the buyers at Rent-A-Coder and getting squat in terms of money, just to keep my head above water. The site has been down several times due to hurricanes in Florida where the company is based. Due to the site being down last weekend I missed my deadline for a client by a few hours. Now, he has the work I slaved over for weeks and doesn't want to pay me and because of their strict rules I'm going to lose all that work and the money (not that it was much). I'm done. I'm busting my tail for nothing except cheap jerks who refuse to pay a decent wage for my hard work, research and time and then do their best to stiff me into the bargain.

So, I called Colorado Workforce this afternoon to see if they had anything on tap. I don't need much. A part time job will do it. The lovely lady who runs the place, Lisa, had a couple job openings, one in Granby and another farther out (which is not an option right now), but she also had a suggestion. Why not market my skills to local medical practices to do their billing, coding, and transcription? I didn't even think of it. I can take as many or as few clients as I need and work my own hours from home. They don't have to pay benefits, which saves them a lot of money, and they get a qualified, certified, and experienced subcontractor. It will take some time, but at least it's something on the horizon and that's what I need right now. It's either that or go back to selling myself for nickels, dimes, and quarters. I'm done.

One thing I have learned is that when something doesn't work, don't waste your time trying to make it work, pack your bags and walk out. I do not have the time to waste any more. I'm not 20 and starry-eyed. I'm 21 and change and still starry-eyed, but every once in a while I see the gleam of avarice and the potential for someone to use me for wiping their feet. I know enough to get while the getting is good.

There are very few people in this world who aren't out to gouge you for everything they can get or who would take advantage of someone's naivete or good nature. I've met quite a few of them. That's not to say there aren't good people because there are lots of good people. Unfortunately, the jerks out number the good guys. It's kind of like spending all your time looking thru the haystack for that needle never realizing it's on the ground next to it. Forest for the trees...same thing.

Anyway, it's time to dust off my personality and my smiles and thank yous and hit the road again. I'll make some calls tomorrow and set up some appointments. If that doesn't work I'll hit them cold. Gives me the chills. I'm a good salesman but I hate cold calls and I hate selling. Writing an article or story and convincing an editor to buy it is another kind of selling and I don't have to smile and nod and pretend to like the jerk who just insulted me, but that's life.

Okay, off to the grocery store. I need a few things. Go have fun. Kiss someone just for the heck of it and don't explain.

I'll shut up now.

Sundays are for...

...work this week. I finished the body building articles and I'm glad. I mean, how many times can you say if you want bigger muscles you have to eat right, work out smart, and get plenty of rest? I now know more about the bio-availability of vitamins and nutrients and the percentages of carbohydrate to fat to protein than I ever really wanted to know. I know how muscles are made and how they're destroyed and how they all work together. For the past few weeks I have done more weight lifting, power lifting, and body building than I did in the years when I was actively engaged in it. If I had actually lifted all that weight, I would be dead right now or crushed under weights that would have crushed the great Vasily Alexeev and turned Arnold Schwarzenegger to a sobbing baby. If only that translated to actual muscular gain. I hear the bears this year are going to be harder to wrestle for that last pine nut or mushroom this year, and if I want a real chance at that bee hive I'm going to have to work for it.

At least with my current eating plan, I'm losing weight but it's probably mostly muscle, except for the muscles in my arms from all this typing and mouse clicking, which means my butt is getting bigger and it's already the last to leave anywhere since it takes another 30 minutes for it to follow me home. Nothing like sagging boobs and expanding butt cheeks to make your day.

My excited post about my new Scrabble partner was evidently a gauntlet thrown in the face of one misericorde who feels I was just begging to be beaten and humiliated. At this moment, we are keeping pretty close in points, but she has an advantage; I've been getting nothing but consonants and have to rely on her to provide the vowels. This is just an update. The game is still young and I haven't had the chance to make my big move. I inevitably manage at least one 7-letter play, just ask elementalmuse.

Well, I'll shut up now. I need to eat something even though the tortilla apple tarts with cinnamon I made last night were really good for breakfast, if a little tough around the edges. It's this high altitude, dries everything out.

Go about your quiet and relaxing Sundays as you will and spare a moment to think of me up here slaving away making stronger and bigger arm and shoulder muscles while my butt spreads off the sides of my chair and onto the floor.

It's for bombs, too.

During a discussion on the necessity of methane expulsions from man, woman, child, and livestock, an interesting idea was born. My opponent said that methane expulsions were necessary or the entire world would explode with flying body parts. I disagreed. He countered with the fact that decaying meat of any kind exudes an unforgettable fragrance of rot and gases and that without proper regulation flying body parts would soon ensue. I countered with the fact that free floating gas, however distasteful to the uneducated nose, does not cause explosions and only in enclosed containers is flying body parts a likelihood. In that respect alone, he is correct that out is much better than holding it in and flying body parts might well be the result of lack of egress for such methane buildups.

Thus was born the Tupperware bomb. Long known and lauded for it's air tight seal, rotting meat placed inside, appropriately sealed and burped to expel as much air as possible, Tupperware would provide the most effective and least likely detected bomb. Build-up of methane and other gases due to the continued rot of the meat inside, which would be undetectable to sensors and metal detectors. Placed in a likely location, it would explode and provide the flying body parts my friend believed was inevitable with less modern methods.

The Tupperware bomb is also ecologically friendly, although a big enough bomb might trigger a greenhouse effect in isolated locations, which would quickly dissipate once the gases decay and move out on the winds. It would be unwise to stand down wind of such an explosion and unhealthy for any painted surface.

In case of a Tupperware bomb explosion in your area, get as far from the central detonation area and wear nose plugs or gas masks. Those of you who are familiar with the fragrance of an outhouse on a hot summer day when the resident family has eaten too many unripe apples or late season vegetables or other odiferous comestibles, will suffer no ill effects. After all, your olfactory senses are already blunted and somewhat damaged, so sit back and enjoy the fresh country air.

That is all. Disperse.

From the kibbutz

An old friend who lives on a kibbutz in the desert of Israel, who is also a retired journalist, sends me interesting views from his vegetable patch and peanut butter making business cum bed & breakfast. The one he sent me this morning is quite interesting. Beware. It is full of sarcasm and a pithy view of Israeli-Arab relations that only someone on the inside with intelligence and wit can give. I give you...

Muslim Olympics

By Mike Levine


The Arab/Muslim world, unhappy with the International Olympics Committee for allowing those pushy Jews to participate and win several medals, have announced the formation of their very own Olympic games.

The first games will be held in 2008. A huge Olympic village will be built on the site of the former city of Tel Aviv, which was completely demolished following the massive evacuation ordered by Ariel Sharon, who, in a message to the first all-Arab Knesset, said, “We have no partner on the other side, therefore we must make tough unilateral decisions and make the hard concessions required for real peace. This will once and for all prove to the world how democratic and fair we are and eliminate anti-Semitism forever. This is the solemn promise made to me by US President Bin Laden.”

Although the plans are being kept secret, some information has leaked out. These are some of the events we have to look forward to:

Artistic beheadings. Points will be awarded for the slowness of cuts, the loudness of the gurgling, and the distance the blood squirts. Points will also be awarded based on ethnicity of those beheaded, with Jews earning the highest awards, Americans next, Brits third, and so on. France, of course, will be excluded as they are serving as honorary judges in the competition.

Bomb design. Entrants will be judged on technical skill, ability to handle explosives without killing themselves, and extra points will be awarded for the amount of shrapnel packed into the bomb; things such as razor blades, rat poison, ball bearings, nails, screws, straight pins, and rusty iron bars.


Two-faced lying. Anyone can lie, but it takes great technique to be able to lie your head off when facing western journalists saying things like “we condemn the suicide bombings’, then turning the other face to the Arab/Muslim press and praising the same bombers as honored Shaheeds, martyrs and heroes.


Refugee camp construction. This great sport began in 1948 and reached it’s peak in 1967 when hundreds of thousands of Arabs were encouraged by their leaders to run from a ar they started, and who were then thrown into slums, called refugee camps, told they were unwelcome by their brothers in Arab lands, and turned over to the UN for care and feeding.

Sword rattling. Iranians are masters at this sport, having become champions with the retirement of Saddam Hussein.

Whining. This sport is learned at mothers knee who demonstrates it is far better to complain than to take responsibility for your own mistakes.

Playing the victim. This is the sister sport of whining, and the two games are often played at the same time. Instant ability to wail loudly and beat yourself are greatly admired.

Lynching. A sport played usually by a large team against one or a maximum of two victims. Inspired by the activities held in the Coliseum by the ancient Romans, the main difference is that the Romans used hungry tigers, whereby the professional Muslim lynchers enjoy using their fingers to rip the eyes from their victims, and their hands to rip out the guts and still-beating hearts.

Burning flags. Not as easy as it looks. Takes great skill to drape the flag folds correctly, so the American and Israeli emblems show up well on TV, and the burning must be slow and picturesque. A team numbering thousands who must learn to stomp on the burning flags without themselves being set afire supports this.

Digging tunnels. Points are awarded for depth of tunneling, speed of digging, ability to hide the earth removed, and the dimensions must be large enough to fit the transfer of missiles, shoulder held rockets, thousands of boxes of ammunition and explosives, and all must be accomplished without detection.

Shooting guns in the air. A very exciting and colorful game played at every funeral by thousands, even funerals of car accident victims. Points are awarded by the number of innocent bystanders and kids the falling bullets can hit.

Street fairs and celebrations. To mark important national events, such as 9/11, the murder of Jewish children, and the bombing of bus loads of innocent civilians. Includes skills such as throwing candy in the streets, ululating wildly, as well as shooting in the air.

These are just some of the sporting events contemplating by the organizers of the Muslim Olympic Games in 2008. Others are definitely being considered. In fact the organizing committee, whose chairman is President-for-Eternity Arafart, are requesting members of the general community to make suggestions for other games. Please send your suggestions to me and I will see they reach the committee.

In addition to gold, silver, and bronze medals, outstanding participants will receive 70 dark eyed virgins and an embossed key to paradise.

Deserving women will be awarded the honor of cleaning stadium stands and toilets.

Sleepy

When the alarm went off at 6:15 this morning all I wanted to do was go back to sleep, but another urgent matter called me from my cocoon of warmth. I got up, took care of all biological needs, turned the thermostat up to 64 and hopped back into my cooling bed. I don't usually use an alarm clock, preferring instead to get up when I wake naturally...or until I can't sleep any more.

I laid under the covers getting warm and knowing the snooze button was about to run out and the alarm would scream at me to get up. Why the urgency this morning? I needed to get up and clean house because I had company coming at about 9...or so I thought. Didn't take very long to get everything straightened up but I do tend to leave house cleaning to the end of the week, which conflicts with my work schedule this weekend because I have two clients to finish work for this weekend. I'm much better at night, more energetic and more likely to get things done when I'm not tired from being up at the crack before dawn...and I heard the crack this morning.

Right now I'm yawning hugely and anxious to get back to bed for a little (all right, a long) nap. But I can't go back to bed. I have company...sort of. The landlords are staining the south side of the cabin and at the rate they are progressing they won't be done by dark. They have covered my wall of windows with blue tape and brown paper and the sun can't get thru to my plants or to me to keep me energized enough to stay awake. I'm like a sunflower on days like this, turning my face and body toward the sun to bask in the warm glow. Not today. I feel more like a potato that becomes poisonous with the touch of the sun.

Maybe I should change the music. Evocative and romantic songs are not conducive to any kind of hard-edged productivity. But all I want to do is sleep.

Luckily, the landlords will be out of here tonight and I will have my sanctuary back. I can turn my favorite music up as loud as it will go, take off all these clothes and get comfortable again. I can leave dishes in the sink for tomorrow and slouch into my favorite chair in the bedroom with my feet up and dive back into Cold Mountain or Mattie's manuscript. You really don't know how precious silence is even when it is punctuated by scolding squirrels, chattering chipmunks, and pattering porcupines chomping circles of bark from the trees. I even miss the soporific drone of bees drunk on nectar and the buzzing hum of hummingbirds dive bombing the deck and whistling past the windows.

Oh, for the simple peace and quiet of the near monastic life of writing, emailing, and research. I'm spoiled.

Quick shots

Welcome to a new visitor who has decided to stick around for the fun (which has been sadly lacking of late), picturebabe.

In other news, I have been hired as the new horror host on Bella Online on my own horror literature page. It will take a bit of time to get it all organized and go thru training, but let me know your favorite hisses and kudos and I'll check them out. After all, it is all about the readership.

Happy Yom Kippur to my Jewish friends and Blessed Mabon to my Wiccan friends, and to the rest of you...have a happy whatever.

Oh, and there is a news flash. The uniqueluddite has succeeded in beating me at Scrabble in our first game together. He knows as many words as I do. And the follow-up game is being hard fought at this moment. Gods, but I love a challenge.

That is all. Disperse.

The now infamous Anne Rice response

Son of ETA: Amazon.com seems to have deleted the Anne Obrien Rice review (and the crop of reviews that came after it). Fortunately, some things which are posted on the internet have a way of being preserved forever.

From the Author to the Some of the Negative Voices Here, September 6, 2004
Seldom do I really answer those who criticize my work. In fact, the entire development of my career has been fueled by my ability to ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism as I realize my dreams and my goals. However there is something compelling about Amazon's willingness to publish just about anything, and the sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you've said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul. Also I use and enjoy Amazon and I do read the reviews of other people's books in many fields. In sum, I believe in what happens here. And so, I speak. First off, let me say that this is addressed only to some of you, who have posted outrageously negative comments here, and not to all. You are interrogating this text from the wrong perspective. Indeed, you aren't even reading it. You are projecting your own limitations on it. And you are giving a whole new meaning to the words "wide readership." And you have strained my Dickensean principles to the max. I'm justifiably proud of being read by intellectual giants and waitresses in trailer parks,in fact, I love it, but who in the world are you? Now to the book. Allow me to point out: nowhere in this text are you told that this is the last of the chronicles, nowhere are you promised curtain calls or a finale, nowhere are you told there will be a wrap-up of all the earlier material. The text tells you exactly what to expect. And it warns you specifically that if you did not enjoy Memnoch the Devil, you may not enjoy this book. This book is by and about a hero whom many of you have already rejected. And he tells you that you are likely to reject him again. And this book is most certainly written -- every word of it -- by me. If and when I can't write a book on my own, you'll know about it. And no, I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself. I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me, and I will never relinquish that status. For me, novel writing is a virtuoso performance. It is not a collaborative art. Back to the novel itself: the character who tells the tale is my Lestat. I was with him more closely than I have ever been in this novel; his voice was as powerful for me as I've ever heard it. I experienced break through after break through as I walked with him, moved with him, saw through his eyes. What I ask of Lestat, Lestat unfailingly gives. For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels -- the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp's party -- and the late night foray into the slums --stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book. You don't get all this? Fine. But I experienced an intimacy with the character in those scenes that shattered all prior restraints, and when one is writing one does have to continuously and courageously fight a destructive tendency to inhibition and restraint. Getting really close to the subject matter is the achievement of only great art. Now, if it doesn't appeal to you, fine. You don't enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I'll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I'm answering you, but for what it's worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you who post anonymously (and perhaps repeatedly?) and how glad I am that this book is the last one in a series that has invited your hateful and ugly responses. Now, to return to the narrative in question: Lestat's wanting to be a saint is a vision larded through and through with his characteristic vanity. It connects perfectly with his earlier ambitions to be an actor in Paris, a rock star in the modern age. If you can't see that, you aren't reading my work. In his conversation with the Pope he makes observations on the times which are in continuity with his observations on the late twentieth century in The Vampire Lestat, and in continuity with Marius' observations in that book and later in Queen of the Damned. The state of the world has always been an important theme in the chronicles. Lestat's comments matter. Every word he speaks is part of the achievement of this book. That Lestat renounced this saintly ambition within a matter of pages is plain enough for you to see. That he reverts to his old self is obvious, and that he intends to complete the tale of Blackwood Farm is also quite clear. There are many other themes and patterns in this work that I might mention -- the interplay between St.Juan Diago and Lestat, the invisible creature who doesn't "exist" in the eyes of the world is a case in point. There is also the theme of the snare of Blackwood Farm, the place where a human existence becomes so beguiling that Lestat relinquishes his power as if to a spell. The entire relationship between Lestat and Uncle Julien is carefully worked out. But I leave it to readers to discover how this complex and intricate novel establishes itself within a unique, if not unrivalled series of book. There are things to be said. And there is pleasure to be had. And readers will say wonderful things about Blood Canticle and they already are. There are readers out there and plenty of them who cherish the individuality of each of the chronicles which you so flippantly condemn. They can and do talk circles around you. And I am warmed by their response. Their letters, the papers they write in school, our face to face exchanges on the road -- these things sustain me when I read the utter trash that you post. But I feel I have said enough. If this reaches one reader who is curious about my work and shocked by the ugly reviews here, I've served my goals. And Yo, you dude, the slang police! Lestat talks like I do. He always has and he always will. You really wouldn't much like being around either one of us. And you don't have to be. If any of you want to say anything about all this by all means Email me at Anneobrienrice@mac.com. And if you want your money back for the book, send it to 1239 First Street, New Orleans, La, 70130. I'm not a coward about my real name or where I live. And yes, the Chronicles are no more! Thank God!

Beyond these waters lies success...DANGER!

As elementalmuse pointed out in her journal, there is a tempest in a teapot that has garnered the attention of at least one major newspaper. Anne Rice has answered her critics on their mostly anonymous reviews of Blood Canticle, the last of the Vampire Chronicles. Like many another successful author, she has dared to end a beloved group of characters that have become legend. If you're looking for the review, don't; it has been deleted. And yet with the power of the Internet it is here: Anne Rice's response

Being a writer is a double-edged sword and sliding down the razor blade of life (as one close friend calls it) is no picnic for even the most famous. In many senses writing a book is like birthing a child that you give your best and send out into the world to be greeted, hopefully with praise and kindness, but more often than not with catcalls and jeers.

As a reviewer, I bring my experience, taste, and sensibilities to what I read and try to point the way to what I consider good and bad books and stories, but reviewing is a subjective art...and art it is. It is one person's opinion, my opinion. Even Poppy Z. Brite has taken on the anonymous and often vicious reviewers of Amazon.com in the name of striking out on a new track, one that does not involve horror or boy love or anything that is remotely close to what made her a recognizable name in horror. Writers evolve. They take chances. They move forward. And to be trapped by the words you write into yet another book about the same characters when you may or may not wish to continue them is to create the very scenario that Stephen King envisioned in Misery.

Writers become trapped by successful characters and worlds, places that no longer offer them creative freedom or a place to build, remodel, or even imagine any more. So many writers, yes, and even actors, have been trapped by personas they created that took on a life of their own. Unfortunately, without the man behind the curtain or inside the character's skin, the creation dies. It is like being an indentured servant for the rest of your life, forced to perform the same act over and over when your relish and joy are gone.

That being said, good and bad reviews are better than none at all because they generate sales. If you cannot stand the heat, stop standing in the fire. Writing requires strength and a willingness to risk yourself and your literary children, and both must learn to stand on their own and suffer, as Shakespeare once wrote in Hamlet, "...the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..." or find some quiet and safe a/vocation where you will not be challenged.

Is there a story here...?

I'm not counting, but time stretches between us, separating us even when we are close enough to touch. I am constantly aware of you, my mind reaching out to touch you, find some sense of what you're thinking, feeling, experiencing. And in the meantime, I pour those emotions into the writing, making love to you with words since I cannot make love to you with my body.

You infuse my body, my mind, and my soul with a conflict of feelings, first searing me with passion and then filling me with contentment and peace and love. It's disconcerting and exciting and loving and pain all rolled into one.

So, today I wrote more scenes of passion flaring between two people, the scenes building in my mind from a word or a thought, growing from the core of emotion and passion that burns me in unquenchable flames. I immerse myself in you, call you by different names, and yet they are all you. The clear hazel fires that burn in your eyes between the dark fringes of your lashes. The crooked smile that sparks my nipples erect and races along my skin and into the deepest chambers of my heart. The open honesty of love that spears my heart and holds me prisoner. All of them, from the touch of your skin against mine, your touch setting fire to my nerves and body, starting the fountain that opens the way to join us and bind us in pleasure that is so much more than mere pleasure. Through it all, you are here, your hands on mine, your lips a fiery line from my neck to my shoulder and trailing down my spine. I reach for you with words since I cannot reach for you with my arms.

I seek you in dreams and sleep, connecting with the warmth and love I feel every time I taste your name on my lips and feel your heart beating in time with mine. My body aches for you and my soul yearns to be joined with yours. But I know I must wait and wait I do, impatiently at times, but ever hopeful.

Reading Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine, I read one of the little vignettes of the small town of Green Town about an 80+-year-old woman and a young 20-something newspaper reporter. He fell in love with her picture before he realized it was a very old picture, but they became friends, sparking town gossip because they sat and talked over tea and biscuits every day for weeks. On his last visit to her, she signs and seals a letter in a blue envelope and tells him when he gets it she will be dead, but for him not linger more than 20 years and to make sure he dies in his early 40s of pneumonia so that come 1985 or 1990 they can get the timing right and be together as they should have and seemed to have missed the second time around. she says he will order some exotic flavor of ice cream and a girl just the right age will comment. They will talk and it will be their time because they have come around again, gotten the timing right, and they will have their time together without age or circumstance between them. That begs for a story. That screams for someone to take the story to its conclusion and bring these star and time-crossed lovers together where they should have been all along.

Don't you agree?

Electricity off...

Last night, very early evening actually, the lights went out. They flickered and came on and went out again without warning. A blue-white light flashed in the back yard. I picked up the matches I keep near my desk, took a candle from my cabinet, and lit it. Predictably, it was a black candle. Fit my mood last night.

I came face to face with an end to dreaming and a snap back to reality. I tend to forget sometimes that my life is simple because I've chosen to keep it simple and that not everyone is able to do the same. My life has been complicated more times than I care to count, but I always reach for the simple answer.

Today someone asked me if I didn't see gray or did I only see black and white. The answer is that gray is a color, too, but it has become an excuse. Yes, there are extenuating circumstances from time to time, but that does not change things all that much. That is not a gray area. That is an exception to the rule of black and white, but the black and white remain.

Someone else said I was an action oriented person, which is true, but it was not always so. I have been hampered by indecision, by procrastination, and by not wanting to confront a situation head on and it has always ended up creating more problems than the original problem. You can't help avalanches, but if the river is slowly rising, cutting new trenches in the levees and you don't shore up the foundations, you can be sure the river will come crashing thru the disintegrating barrier and take away your house. There's a great line in Cold Mountain.

Ruby Thewes is talking about the insanity of the war. Basically it boils down to: everybody's complaining about the rain, but they made the weather and then they go outside and stand out in it and yell, "Shit! It's raining!"

I usually save my personal rants for my paper journal because writing helps me think and sort thru things. But this is my journal, too, and something I'm going thru might help someone else sort something out or get a different perspective. Writing in my paper journal helps me talk to me, but I'm not much good for interactive feedback...not without someone sending for the white coats with the wrap around jacket and the big net.

So you're all guinea pigs in my evil plot to make the world a simpler place. So quit kicking and fall in line. Make your life simpler. Follow me right off the cliff and into the sea like the good little lemmings I know you all are.

But seriously, we all tend to make things more difficult than they are. We worry about next year, next decade, and about things that haven't even happened. I've done it. You've done it. And it paralyzes us all. You don't know what will happen until you make a move. Think of the absolute worst that could happen (and I don't mean important parts falling off either) and if you can face that you can face anything.

I've had some interesting adventures in my life and things have not always been easy, but one thing I know that few people ever find out is that I can face anything and live thru it. I have walked thru the fire and walked out the other side intact. I wouldn't suggest anyone follow in my footsteps, but if you never take a chance, if you spend the rest of your life being afraid of what might happen you will never move far enough away to find out that you just missed out on the best part of your life.

Life is about risk. Take a risk, even if it's only doing something you've always wanted to do but were afraid to try. Go to a mall and sit and watch the people if you're afraid of social situations. Tell someone you love them even if they don't say it back. Be honest with yourself and put yourself out there. Sometimes you will fall down and get dirty and sometimes...more times than you realize...someone will offer you a hand and help you up. And then there are the times you try something completely out of the ordinary and find you like it so much you want to do it again.

My grandmother always said we weren't allowed to not like something unless we tried it first. Gagging, coughing, and various disgusting sounds followed sometimes, but at least we knew what we did and didn't like. And sometimes we got a surprise and something we were sure we'd never like turned out to be something we loved.

In the meantime, here are a few lyrics:

I got crazy yesterday and I called her to say,
"Please, baby, won't you come home tonight?"
I can't even trust my brain to get my heart in from the rain
I know that girl's a hurricane in her own right.
Then, early next morning after she was going I sat there in my chair all alone
I called my friend a cryin', asking him why that girl was always doing me so wrong.
He said, when the gates are all down and the signals are flashing
and the whistle is screaming in vain,
if you stay on the tracks ignoring the facts,
well, you can't blame the wreck on the train.

No, you can't blame the wreck on the train.

Well, how many times have I promised myself
not to do the same thing as before?
I swear I will leave it alone and believe it
and then I'll turn around and do it some more.

Well fool me one time it's shame on you
Fool me twice it's shame on me
That's what my best friend warned me
when he called me this morning
then he reminded me...

He said, when the gates are all down
and the signals are flashing,
and the whistle is screaming in vain,
if you stay on the tracks ignoring the facts,
well, you can't blame the wreck on the train.
You gotta quit blaming that train.


Believe it.

You're not safe...

These past few months I have read a lot of journal postings by people enmeshed in untenable relationships. They complain. They moan. They gnash their teeth, but they do nothing about it. They might send a link to a web site or a journal post or even write a letter, but nothing changes for more than a minute. Nothing happens. And still they complain, still they moan and gnash their teeth about their horrible situations.

Guess what? It's time to do something about your situation. No one can do it for you.

If you're unhappy and not getting what you need from your relationship you have two options: get out or shut up and put up with it.

Your friends want to be supportive, but you should not expect your friends to be tolerant and supportive forever unless you do something to change the situation. It's in your hands. Whining about the same situation post after post is the same as standing out in the rain griping about getting wet. Get out of the rain or enjoy being wet. There is no middle ground.

It may seem safe in that little hell away from paradise you have constructed and it certainly is familiar, but it is not safe. Dying by inches is not safe. You might as well climb into your grave and pull the dirt in over you because you're dead. No situation is safe--not love, not hatred, not living. But hell can be really comfortable when you trade happiness for it. After all, who cares about the heat and the darkness when it's something you know?

What does it take for you to do something about your situation? Guts? A fire under your fence? Hope?

You're not safe. Living is not safe. Happiness is not an easy road and it is not safe either. You have a choice and making no choice is still a choice.

If you're unhappy, find what makes you happy and go after it. If you're afraid, forget it. Everyone is afraid. If you're dying by inches, either climb into the grave and die or get up off the fence and live. There is no middle ground. You cannot eat your cake and have it, too. So, get out or shut up and crawl back into the hell you created with a smile on your face and a shovel for the coal to keep it nice and hot. Life will not wait forever. Sooner or later it will give up and move on.

Masculinity 101

If you haven't read wordweaverlynn's post or aren't on her friends list, check it out. I've said the same thing for years, garnering lots of unwanted attention from the feminist front.

If you don't read the comments, read this: Just because the grass is greener on the other side doesn't mean it isn't over the septic tank.

Be smart. Check it out for yourself and learning Masculinity 101. You owe it to the rest of us to see things from the other side.