Aaah, back in control

There is nothing like a day spent in the library among the dusty stacks and leather and plastic clad spines of portals that take you to different worlds. I'm boning up on Michigan trivia to write a whole bunch of articles for pay for a book about...you guessed it, Michigan. I've been so focused on things I can't change or affect and wallowing in self doubt and confusion, so it was time for me to move on to something I can control -- writing and researching and writing some more.

I hate being out of control. It's an ugly feeling. Of course that doesn't include being in free fall high in the sky above clouds and anthill towns and tracks, but that's a different story. I mean feeling like I'm free falling through life without a net and without a crash helmet, parachute, or soft landing spot. But no more. I'm back up on the horse.

And I have a host of things to catch up on. I have plans to make for a trip to Alamogordo, New Mexico to do an article on a seniors only Harley motorcycle club in two weeks and a trip to New Jersey for job training in a little over a week. I also have to practice taking some decent pictures on chrome but may opt for the digital version since it's easier and faster to see when you screwed up. I'm going to make a stop in Albuquerque to see an LJ friend and share a Mexican repast, lots of eye contact and talk, and I will get to hear his voice and he will hear mine, and I will get to see his much praised and vaunted green eyes.

On March 1st I will stick around in Colorado Springs long enough to see and hear Michael Johnson and bask in the sound of classical guitar.

Walk into the fire...

Fantasist and novelist, H. Rider Haggard, wrote several larger than life tales, among them King Solomon's Mines, featuring Allan Quatermain, and She, about an immortal goddess, an Egyptian princess of ancient lineage who found the secret of immortality and spent the long centuries waiting for the reincarnation of her murdered lover. Even Hollywood has taken Haggard's tales for their own, casting Ursula Andress as She.

In Haggard's tale an English gentleman of mixed descent named Leo inherits an ancient artifact that leads him to a lost city in the depths of Africa where he finds Ayesha, the immortal queen called She Who Must Not Be Named. He falls in love with her beauty and grace, wit and intelligence, but is awed and frightened of her power and her unshakable control over her people. She is an intense woman who intrigues and excites Leo even while he is frightened of his feelings for her and his overwhelming attraction to her.

Ayesha tells Leo, and provides proof, that he is the reincarnation of her murdered lover/husband, Kallikrates, and she offers to make him immortal so they can be together forever: beautiful, unchanged and powerful.

The secret of Ayesha's immortality is bathing in the cold blue flames of a cosmic fire, arresting the decay and ravages of time. Leo loves Ayesha even as he is overwhelmed by her so he follows her along a treacherous path to the cave where he will join her in immortality. Even as Leo approaches the fire his fear overtakes him so Ayesha walks into the flames, taking his hand, urging him to join her, and he finally follows. However, Ayesha ages and dies in the flames, withering into an ancient mummy in his arms, leaving a terrified and trembling Leo to gape in horror. His fear to venture alone into the flames cost him his love, and he must wait for centuries until Ayesha is reincarnated and they can be together again.

Leo fears Ayesha's intensity even as he is drawn to her. She is all he has ever dreamed or desired and yet he fails her, fails himself, in taking that last crucial step, unwilling to trust completely in love and walk alone into the heart of the blaze, scared of making a necessary change that will unite him with his one true love, his soul mate.

Women are called the weaker sex, and yet when you look at the world as it was in Haggard's day, and even today, you will see strong, intelligent, and exceptional women everywhere, women who brave the heart of the fire every day of their lives, beckoning for their men to follow, to be with them.

Was Haggard writing a fantasy or was he voicing some universal truth that resonates even now? Did Haggard fail the woman of his dreams, the bright heart of his fantasies? Did he realize too late that he must face his fears and take the final step in order to attain all he deserved and desired?

We all crave intensity, overwhelming and heart stopping intensity, but in order to touch it and make it our own we must fearlessly walk alone into the heart of the cosmic fire. Will you brave the flames for true love?

The good depression drug

When I'm down I cook. I frequent a site where we exchange recipes and talk about our personal lives, problems, wishes, and desires. Tonight I decided to do something with the chicken in the fridge. Here goes:

Chris's Golden Mushroom Chicken

Boil your favorite chicken pieces or a whole cut up chicken for 20 minutes. Add a little salt and reserve the broth for chicken soup or beans or whatever. Arrange chicken in a casserole dish or roasting pan. Cover with one can golden mushroom soup, sprinkle on shredded mozzarella cheese, cover with tin foil and bake in a 350-degree oven for 30 minutes. Take off foil the last five minutes and let the mozzarella bubble and brown.

You can add diced potatoes (Chris's favorite idea, but add another ten minutes of cooking time) or add sliced red pepper and black olives before adding the golden mushroom soup.

Sprinkle with fresh grated parmesan cheese before serving, dig out the good china, silver, and crystal, dish up your favorite vegetable and salad, pour your favorite wine or beverage, and dig in.

The only problem with living alone is that when you cook something special there's no one to share it with and you eat it for several days. Still, do something nice for yourself anyway if you live alone and make a really special meal like this one. Add a decadent dessert, like my favorite apple-cranberry crepes with cinnamon cream, kick back with some great music and treat yourself to a luxurious evening of pampering. Better than Prozac, Xanax, or any other pharmaceutical drug. The only side effects are a warm glow of accomplishment, a soothing and relaxing evening, and maybe an extra pound or two if you over indulge, but you can always walk it off in the fresh air the next day and increase your endorphin production. To really kick up the endorphins, make the dessert chocolate.

Enjoy.

The bottom line

Many years ago medical insurance was a rarity, but it was a boon to people who could not afford to be ill when specialists were hideously expensive. Now all doctors are expensive. Medical insurance has become more expensive than the cost of buying a car or a house or food and people have to choose between a roof and food on the table, gas in the car to get to work to earn a living to pay for the roof and food on the table, and buying medical insurance. It's a simple equation really.

Doctors inflate their prices to cover the cost of their education and the poverty of their student years, to pay for their roofs and food on the table and gas to get to and from work to buy roofs and food, and to pay for malpractice insurance because everyone wants to get rich quick by suing doctors/hospitals for every imagined mistake, real or fantasy, and to pay for incompetent doctors' mistakes who should never have been licensed in the first place. There is also the cost of trials on drugs that need more drugs to offset side effects that will need more drugs to offset more side effects (the cycle goes on ad infinitum, ad nauseam) and tests that aren't necessary, but lucrative, and more doctors and hospitals...and the list goes on.

Because of this obscene cycle of bottom line conscious doctors and hospitals and insurance companies majors surgeries that require more attention, time, and care end with an overnight stay, at best, and a lot of uneducated and inexperienced family and friends taking care of the patient, not to mention those without such a network of familial and friendly support taking care of themselves or hiring nurses and health care workers at their own expense (the cost sometimes partially defrayed by insurance). One of these major surgeries is a mastectomy that ends with an overnight stay and then home to recuperate on your own.

This is a travesty of justice and a clear breach of the Hippocratic oath, not to mention common sense. If you agree, go to Lifetime TV and sign their petition. I am not talking about a tonsillectomy or removal of a hangnail or even an appendectomy, but a mastectomy, major surgery, life threatening surgery.

Doctors and hospitals and insurance companies are watching the bottom line on their fiscal reports, more interested in profits than health care or human life. Let them know the bottom line on the humanity report has been drawn and they are over the line. Speak out. Let them hear your voice. Let the government, insurance companies, doctors and hospitals know that their greed will no longer be condoned and that humanity will no longer lie down and take their actions without rising up and being heard.

That is all. Disperse.

Snowy days

It was snowing when I woke up this morning and the salty fall reminded me of going to Hot Sulphur Springs last week. It's the first time I have been that far west of Granby since I moved here. I thought it was a busy little spa town. That's not what I found.

On the way there I drove a black ribbon highway between dazzling fields of snow and ice where bushes like herds of dark humped buffalo straggled aimlessly through the fields, up and down the hills, topping fluffy drifts and ice sheened slides glinting in the eye-searing glare of the winter sun. I drove the main street of Hot Sulphur Springs in less than a minute even though I drove less than 20 mph looking for my destined street. I blinked. I missed it. About a mile outside of town I realized there would be no road or driveway where I could turn so I stopped, looked both ways, made a hurried Y turn and headed back to town, (town seems too big a word for such a small and seemingly insignificant almost village collection of old west style buildings puffing anemic trails of wispy smoke into a dazzling blue Colorado winter sky).

Weaving a way down through the back road (there really is only one), I stopped a lone man sliding along the snow-packed track that passed for a street and asked him where Hemlock Street was then drove two more streets, almost to the edge of what passed for civilization, and quickly found my destination. Ninety minutes later I was back on the black ribbon heading home to my little aerie at the top of my mountain, safe and warm and content to gaze out at the snow powdered trees and rocks out my deck windows.

There is no place like home even when the home will soon no longer be yours and all you will have to remember these times are well fingered watercolor memories and vignettes like these.

This is not the way to start a day

I was blissfully, happily, and deeply asleep when the phone screamed at me and yanked me back to this world where I stumbled, nearly blind, to the phone for an unavailable call that just had to be answered. It was the secretary for the new job I just got, the one for medical transcription that will let me stay home and work in various states of disarray and deshabille (if I wear anything at all) but for which I must fly to New Jersey, land of toxic waste disposal, landfills, and The Sopranos, two weeks from today to take two very expensive and at my own expense days of training. Oh, they will send a car to pick me up at LaGuardia airport in New York and take me back and they will ferry me back and forth from the hotel (way too expensive for my tastes) to the job for training, but I have been informed everyone is happy to put themselves out for training that could very well be accomplished online because they are a family. Somehow waking me rudely from needed sleep is actually what my family would do so maybe they are telling me the gospel. At least after weeks and months of being told I'm over qualified (employer speak for you're worth more than we want to pay and you probably wouldn't stick around long anyway) I have a job that pays a hefty salary every two weeks.

So here I am trawling blogs and journals to see what everyone else has been up to while I have been pupating.

One friend is awake at 4 a.m. because of his and his wife's colds and another is writing about self absorption that does not seem to me to be self absorption at all but focus on his work and his livelihood. That's not self absorption.

As I told him, self absorption is focusing on clothes, shoes, handbags, belts, and personal appearance to the point you must turn a room or two into a closet to house your things, working endless hours at a very good paying job to make more money to buy more things for yourself and thinking of no one but yourself to the exclusion of anyone or anything...not children, friends, spouses, lovers, family, or even passing strangers or the people who offer their service to you. You don't look anyone in the eye and you couldn't give a description of your own family because you don't look them in the eye or even know who they are, which is evidenced by the fact that the last time you remembered their birthday or bought them a gift at Xmas it was the kind of gift that you would buy for a charity drive. That is self absorption.

Of course you could argue that even having a public online journal is akin to self absorption, or that keeping paper journals is focusing too much on the self, but that is not necessarily the case. A journal is also a place to explore the world and your views on the world which you must look in the eye, study, devour, and catalogue in order to write about. Yes, writers are peculiar people and most of us are research hounds who love the thrill, the exhilaration, the sheer joy of delving deeply into the archives of life and coming up with insights, thoughts, and story lines that will one day bear fruit, and sometimes diving deep into the pool of memory to resurrect, relive, and otherwise chronicle the lives of people who will not always walk this earth. That is fascination and curiosity and love of knowledge, not self absorption. You may disagree if you like and tell me I'm out of my mind, and you would likely be right--most writers are somewhat out of their minds, especially when they're writing, or they would not be able to create and people such fascinating alternate realities, but we are far from being self absorbed.

Trail a writer and watch their expressions, body language, and interaction with the world around them and you will find them life absorbed. To be sure there are clothes hounds and writers who are devoted to acquiring wealth, material and financial, but while they are self absorbed momentarily they are most obviously life absorbed especially when they're writing, researching, and editing, or simply giving a bit of their knowledge back to the vast pool of information from which all writers--and people--dip their cups. Writers can tell you the intricate details and mental workings of someone they met five minutes ago with insights and acuity that would stun the subject of their intense scrutiny as well as their families and friends who do not know them so well. Writers are nearly psychic about people and events in the near and far future--look at Jules Verne and many other so called science fiction fantasists for proof.

My family has always looked at me as though I were a cuckoo in their nest or a changeling left by gypsies and called me a dreamer. As I told them, and tell them still today, without dreamers and their dreams we would all still be eating raw meat or lightning struck animals still smoking and charred from nature's electric attention while we huddled deep in autumn's drift of leaves in some dank and wet cave instead of communicating in a heartbeat's time with people around the world with flashes of light.

Okay, so maybe this is the way to start a day.

Ten short days

Ten days from today I hit the half century mark. Yes, folks, I am actually going to be 50 years old and I love it. There are some things about it I don't love -- like not being able to share it with the man I love, but into every life and all that rain-on-my-parade blather.

Sometimes it seems he and I are completely in synch and other times facing off across a great distance and having to shout across the mountaintops to even be heard. Life isn't perfect and love doesn't solve everything. Ask anyone who has truly loved--or thought they did.

There are times when a few hours of passion is enough and other times when it makes the silent hours of waiting too difficult to bear. Time and distance lend enchantment at times, but they also make the loneliness louder and more painful to hear and feel.

The first half century of my life has been marked with joy and pain (a lot of pain sometimes), but in the last few months before this natal celebration of golden proportions I realize that passion and life and even the act of living is fraught with pain and without that pain we would not know we live at all. I am not a big fan of pain but I can--and do--endure its venomous sting because the moments of pleasure and happiness, the feeling of sinking deep into passion's embrace for a moment outside of time, is worth all the pain.

For my birthday wish I want more passion and less suffering and pain. Anybody know to whom I make my desires known? If so, give me their email or snail mail address and I will storm their crenellated towers.

In the meantime, enjoy the moments of happiness and never look back.

I'll shut up now.

The Hours

Two years ago I went to see The Hours with a friend. It was the first of many movies we saw together. I left the theater a bit unsettled and pensive. There was something about the intertwining of the lives of the three women portrayed that left something with me. I decided to get the movie when it came out on tape and bought a second-hand copy the first chance I had.

The movie is about three women: Virginia Woolf, Laura Brown, and Clarissa Vaughn. Since these women lived in different times it would seem they had nothing to bind them together. Virginia Woolf's book, Mrs. Dalloway, is the tie that binds.

Woolf decided to tell the story of a woman's whole life in a day and Mrs. Dalloway is the result of that vision. It is a tale of a very confident woman who chose a life of society and parties and safety instead of a life where passion ruled her days as well as her heart. Shortly after the War to End all Wars, WWI, Clarissa Dalloway throws a party, one that will end in disaster and someone's death.

The Hours begins with Woolf's day, the day she began writing Mrs. Dalloway, segues to a pregnant Laura Brown's day in Los Angeles in 1951 where she wakes up and picks up Woolf's book and reads the first sentence--"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself."--and on to 2001 to the beginning of Clarissa Vaughn's day where she decides to buy the flowers herself for the party she is throwing her friend Richard who has just won a prestigious poetry award. Each woman's life is defined by the book and one day, telling the story of their lives in that one day just as Woolf envisioned it in her book.

I watched the movie again the other day and it struck me that Woolf's words to her husband Leonard at the end of the movie define not only the book but the lives of the three women: "Someone must die so that the rest of us should value life more." This from a woman who took her own life because she could not bear the burden of her mental illness any longer and saw what it was doing to her friends. She died so that those she loved would value life the more--and have a life to live. Death is the current that runs through each of the character's lives. It is an ever present specter that haunts their thoughts and steps.

At the end of the day someone is dead, but the story is not finished because Woolf must also decide Mrs. Dalloway's future. In so doing the futures of all three women are also decided. Woolf writes her strongest book. Laura Brown sets the course of her future. Clarissa Vaughn sees and finally knows true happiness. And in the final moments of the movie the real theme is revealed.

Death is an ever present specter in all our lives, although we manage to ignore him quite handily until he is about to put his skeletal claw upon us or someone we love. Then death becomes all too real and we realize we can no longer postpone the inevitable. What follows is a frantic binge of life.

All too often we mortgage our present for the future, a future that may not come, but a future that will surely end in death. Death is the only sure bet. But we postpone thinking about death until it touches us and continue to pile up our treasures for the future and old age, forgetting to live in the moment. We don't value life.

We put up with unhappiness and discomfort waiting for some bright future that may never come. We live for appearances, doing what looks right but never feels right. We follow guidelines and paths set down by others even when they aren't right for us. We do everything but what our hearts tell us to do. And we lose life, letting it slip through our fingers believing that there will be a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that, and so on, when we will finally be able to do what we really want to do, what stirs us and makes us happy. Too many of us are dead inside and just haven't figured that out, walking dead who haven't the sense to lie down in the graves they have dug so carefully and furnished so well, like the Etruscans who left only their beautiful and well appointed tombs to show the ever existed.

We furnish our tombs with the latest and most cutting edge technology, the brightest and most expensive furniture and tools and toys, with fancy china that never makes it out of the cupboard because it's too nice for every day, with 500-thread count sheets that lie in plastic in the linen cabinet, and beautiful clothes for special evenings that are continually postponed until later. We spend money on vacations to exotic locales and fill the days with an itinerary that leaves us breathless and gasping for a moment's rest. We trim the verge and mow the lawn, lavishly casting chemicals and fertilizers about, ruthlessly waging war on ants and bugs and crab grass that spoils the look of the perfect lawn. We richly furnish rooms that no one is allowed inside. We collect toys and lures and all manner of things just to leave them in the boxes because they're worth more that way. We work longer hours for bigger, fancier, and more expensive houses, cars, and luxuries that we never enjoy. We put everything into our tombs without ever having lived. We choose death in life when we should walk away from all that makes us unhappy, from living for someone else or someone else's expectations.

One of the characters tells another that when he dies she will have to face living.

Who has to die to make us value life and face living?

Googling

Ever Google yourself? I did this morning because I was searching for an article, profile actually, I wrote that was translated into Polish I wanted to show a friend. I found more than I expected--much more.

I found out there are a few notable scientists and literary characters who share my nom de plume. I found out that I had won honorable mention in a contest with one of my stories, Daytona Summer. I found out some of my work has been republished without my permission or notice. I found lots and lots of links to stories and articles and essays I've written. But the most surprising bit of all, besides the contest, was finding out that I have been quoted in a book in the very first paragraph. I was called a biographer.

Granted, I have written lots of profiles, but I've never been called a biographer. This is also the first time a book has even openly referred to me or to my work even though I know some books have taken their inspiration from articles I have written.

If this is the tip of the iceberg that's going to hit my life this year, it's a bloody big one.

I was contacted last night by an Indian publisher (in India of course) about publishing some of my work, a couple of novels in fact. I was also given some information about a Canadian publisher who is interested as well. Pretty good. An American writer who will be published internationally before I'm published here in the States. Being translated into six different languages is one thing, but a novelist read by millions of Indians and translated into Bengali is pretty interesting. I guess this newborn year has lots of surprises in store for me. I love surprises, don't you?

I'll shut up now.

The power of the people...and the BLOG

If you want a look at what blogging has become and where it just might go in the future check out the Free Republic reporting of a Time magazine article about the phenomenon of blogging and what it has done to Dan Rather's news career.

However, in one quote in the article, ham radio has been relegated, spuriously, to an "...embarrassing hobby...", which it most certainly is not and has never been.

Most of you know that I have been studying to pass the exams for my ham radio operator's license. In the course of that study I have learned more about electronics and history and people than I ever thought possible, opening a whole new vista for me of ideas and science that was denied me because I'm a girl. My family had strange and archaic ideas about what a girl should and shouldn't be interested in and I have never been mainstream or typical of that mind set. I'm still not.

For instance, how about a quick look at one ham operator's point of view or a closer look at an Indian ham operator's point of view at the heart of the tsunami devastation. And don't forget, the ham operator in question is a housewife.

Talk about your "...embarrassing hobb[ies]..."

That is all. Disperse

I wasn't going to post tonight...

...but I changed my mind.

This weekend has been a roller coaster of sorts, from getting lost to flunking my exams for making stupid mistakes and not trusting what I know to feeling as though I failed my friends and being blissfully and completely happy.

The drive to Colorado Springs was uneventful and the directions for the first part of the journey were excellent. I had a really great Mexican lunch at Salsa Brava on Rockrimmon and spent some time in a great electronics parts warehouse called OEM that was dusty, dirty, a bit disorganized, but really fascinating. My hands itched wanting to pick up and handle everything, fill a basket with parts and build/rebuild computers and radios and all things electronic and magick. That is one place I want to visit again the next time I go to the springs.

I got turned around and a little lost when I tried to find 's house and ended up calling from a pay phone. She came to lead me back to where we were having the initiation and, although I was late, it turned out great. It was fun talking, laughing, and joking with friends and getting to know them a little better. Back at the muse's apartment we talked to after two even though I had to get up at seven. Woke up about 6:45, got up, got showered and dressed, and went outside in the fresh air to wait for my ride to the exam.

One thing that amazes me still is the difference in weather between here and the springs. This side of the divide is snowy and cold and that side is more like sere autumn than the beginning of winter. Colorado Springs is laid out like a stadium audience around snow-dusted Pike's Peak. The surrounding hills and peaks are craggy and bare, dark faces that frame Pike's Peak while spread out at their feet is the half circle hub of the town. As usual, the good seats are close to the stage and the rest of the seats vary between corporate types and an all encompassing mix of squalor and the different levels of success. Hotels, motels, businesses, strip malls, restaurants of every kind, stores, and car lots dominate the landscape, overwhelming little pockets of houses and apartments and dotted with nearly hidden parks and slowly disappearing lots. It is a much different Colorado Springs than the one I met 30 years ago when I visited Garden of the Gods and Pike's Peak for the first time. It's a much more commercial area where the noise of traffic and construction vie to be the loudest, a symphony of civilized, social chaos. It is also home to the ProRodeo Hall of Fame (I'll have to check it out some time) where white con trails from Air Force Academy jets streak from nowhere in a hazy blue sky and disappear into the ether. The overwhelming smells of diesel fuel, gasoline, and the reek of civilization were stronger than I remembered, a palpable smack in the face of progress and people and crowded spaces, smells I have forgotten in the crisp, clear rural air of my home.

Saturday morning I was the only female present during a ham version of show and tell. One of the hams had built an ingenious antenna for his backpacking rig. I met a shrunken, grizzled old Army Air Corps veteran who learned code during the war and was still obviously in love with the magic of radio and communicating (working) other hams all over the world. One thing is certain, it is evident that those men are still very much little boys playing radio, and it was a pleasure to see and share their enthusiasm.

Although I flunked the test because I didn't trust what I know (even to the point of changing right answers into wrong answers), I don't feel bad about it. A friend reminded me that I have been going thru a lot this past week and that I can take it again. And I will take the exams again in January in Longmont. At least I know what to expect and things (meaning me) should be calmer by then.

My friend and I left, went to the bank, and stopped at Arby's to pick up lunch. He drove to Palmer Park and we sat in the park and talked and ate. The day was cool and breezy, but still fairly warm. There were children playing on the swings and monkey bars a little ways away from us and their laughter and squeals of delight were like music on an errant breeze. After we ate, we went somewhere quiet and talked and laughed and joked and got to know each other better.

I could tell he was antsy and excited and he finally told me why. He had brought a Xmas gift for me. He even wrapped it himself, apologizing for what he felt was a bad job. On the whole, he did pretty well, especially on what was inside. He gave me a copy of Conversations With God, which he forgot to inscribe, and Ken Burns's documentary on Mark Twain on DVD. He knows how much I love Twain. For someone who does a great impression of Scrooge during the holidays, he failed miserably this time. He was excited as a kid on Xmas morning.

He drove me back to the Muse's but no one was there so I waited. Thru a miscommunication our plans with were canceled and instead we ordered a decadently greasy and wonderful pepperoni lovers pizza from Pizza Hut and drank a couple glasses of wine while we watched Room with a View on video. I dozed during part of the movie because I was a little tired and eventually we all went to bed.

This morning we got up, shared a cup of tea for me and coffee for the Muse and her son, and I got dressed, packed, and headed for the door with a bigger bag of books than when I arrived. More reading and reviewing to do. The drive home was quiet and uneventful and, although I was a little sad to leave, once I got onto the highway and I looked forward to going home, back to the snow and cold and peace of my little mountain aerie.

The sky was full of gray wool but patches of robin's egg blue that deepened into summer cornflowers between the dirty, gray lowering clouds were like banners welcoming me home. The snow on the sides of the mountain looked like high tide marks on a morning beach, wet tan ripples below pristine sparkling white powder that drifted and climbed around the pines. Here and there splintered, bare giant's toothpicks leaned against dark green boughs as though discarded and flung like darts to the ground, their pointed ends pricking the sky. I traveled from the sere brown valleys into the thick white clouds surrounding the sparkling white peaks and back down into the snowy valley road that led home.

The guys plowed my driveway all the way to the end while I was gone and I had clear space on either side where I park my car in front of the door. Once inside, the scent of lavender and growing herbs and the familiar cool air greeted me.

There are times, like this past weekend, when the clock does not tick so loudly and I am able to share a wealth of time with my friends, but as precious as those hours are, as much as I enjoy them, I am grateful for the clear, untainted peace that surrounds me every day. One thing I know for certain is that I will visit again because I enjoy the luxury of time with friends, but I will also be glad to come home and open the doors of my refuge to my friends so they, too, can enjoy a little respite from progress.

Another week is...

...to a close and I have plans for the weekend for the first time in a long time. I'm going to Colorado Springs to see my favorite Unique Luddite and have lunch and then on to Elementalmuse's so we can get ready to go to an initiation. Then Saturday morning a friend is picking me up to take my ham radio operator's exam and then we're going to have lunch and celebrate, maybe even get a chance to sit and talk for a while. Saturday night Elementalmuse, CreamyReamy and I are going to go out on the town and I have suggested going to a karaoke bar because I've never tried it. Don't know how much time that will take out of the evening, but as long as CreamyReamy keeps his word and feeds me a great Philly cheese steak sandwich I won't quibble. I'll wend my way homeward back into the snowbound mountains along the dragon's ice-scaled back over Berthoud Pass and to my more than likely snow buried cabin and back into my comfy womb of silence and peace, so the continuation of So you want to be a writer will appear when I am back home safe and sound after my hedonistic, pleasure-filled weekend. Emails will be answered when I get back.

In the meantime, have a good time. Kiss someone just for fun. Let the people you love know it. And have fun this weekend. You never know when you will get another one.

That is all. Disperse quietly to the left with a smile.

So you want to be a writer--Part II

Your book is published. You got through the seemingly endless editing, tweaking, and writing/rewriting. You've seen the galleys, read the whole thing so many times you're sick of your own words. The final proof has been checked and rechecked and your book is ready to ship. You have your complimentary copies and you can have more for a very small fee. Now the real work begins.

Since you're not Stephen King or even Dan Brown, marketing is minimal at best. You might get a mention in Publisher's Weekly or some other trade magazine, but don't count on it. Book signings? Maybe if you set them up. Expensive advertising campaigns, radio and television spots, talk shows? Only if you set them up and pay for them. You are still persona non grata in the publishing industry. And even if you make back your advance and get a second book contract, or 100 book contracts, and you never sell more than 30,000 to 100,000 books you might as well get ready to spend some of your own hard-earned money to set up your own media blitz. There are exceptions.

It seems the romance industry treats their authors a bit better, but they can afford to do that; they publish more books and authors than any other genre publisher in the world. The only other way you'll get better treatment is if some MBA at the publisher decides you are the next new trend. Case in point: Meg, which was supposed to follow Peter Benchley's Jaws and it's meteoric success. Seven figure advance for an unknown author who writes a massive book that the movie studios even optioned. Unfortunately, it cost the publishers a bundle and it never made it even to the mid list, even with inflated sales, and died a quiet and ignominious death...as well it should have. It was a bloated shark carcass of a book. But this is what you're battling: the mind set of a bean counter who doesn't know beans about publishing.

Back to the media blitz you're not going to see. It isn't enough that you spent a lot of time writing, revising, rewriting, and editing your manuscript before you found someone who was willing to take 15%-20% to look at contracts and deplete your advance and the earnings of your book, now you're going to have to hit the road, the Internet, and every reviewer, radio and television station, and talk show host to get someone to pay attention to your magnum opus. There are press packets to put together -- at your expense -- and send out -- at your expense -- and you will have to buy more of your own books to give away to reviewers, newspapers, magazines, and talk show hosts who may or may not actually read it. You will have to buy advertising, set up a web site to publicize your book, write about it, and even send out press releases and set up your own book signings. You're going to spend a lot of time marketing your book to make it a success, which isn't going to leave you a lot of time for the manuscripts buzzing around in your head that beg to be set down in black and white. If you decide to range very far afield, better make sure your credit card can handle the load because you're also going to have to pay for your food, gas, plane/train fares, and hotel/motel wherever you go. The government is generous enough to allow you to take a percentage of that off your taxes, but that will not offset the hours of smiling and cramped fingers (if you're lucky and did a lot of marketing in that area) you're going to have to endure. You won't see your family or friends and have to live out of a battered suitcase for a while if you do any extensive marketing.

Of course, all of this translates (hopefully) to sales and that will make your next advance better because you sold a lot of books, but unless you win the lottery you're not going to see the New York Times Best seller's list. The way that works is even more insidious than you know. The trials are just beginning...and they're going to get a lot worse.

(To be continued)

Fairies

The sun is shining and through the windows at the peak of the roof and I see fairy dust glittering. Actually, it's snow, but it looks like glitter drifting down, swirling and dancing on the breeze. A winter sun shower of crystalline perfection that overwhelms me with its beauty. I catch a spark here and there through the right window, but the left window is the one where the fairies are flying and dusting everything in sight in an orgy of excess. It's incredible what a little sunlight shining at just the right angle and looking out at just the right time can do. Nature, magick, and mystery at its finest.

And now back to your regularly scheduled program while I go back to studying for my exam on Saturday.

"Everyone knows diaries are just full of crap,"

says Bridget Jones as she stands half naked in the snowy street when she finally catches up to Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones's Diary.

While Bridget searches for "...genuinely tiny knickers..." Mark Darcy, finally in her apartment and ready to seal the relationship deal, reads Bridget's diary while he waits and finds out that over the course of the past year she has hated, loathed, and despised him. He says, "Right," and leaves. Bridget, meanwhile, hears the door close, runs to the window and throws it open to the storm, and watches him walk away down the street, calling after him. Dressed only in t-shirt and genuinely tiny knickers, she searches for a reason and finds her diary open to some very hateful remarks about the man she has come to love, and runs after him, desperate to stop him and explain, even if she must deny the feelings behind everything she has written all year to get him back. It's either a relationship with Mark Darcy and happiness or standing by her words. There is no middle ground. After all, "[e]veryone knows diaries are just full of crap."

Aren't they?

When I was a teenager I kept a diary, writing down all my questions, fears, hopes, anxieties, and hurt, exorcising them onto the page where I could see them and sort thru them all. Then my mother, after finding out I was keeping a diary, searched for and found it and punished me for what I wrote. Most of the time I didn't remember what I wrote once I consigned the tears, anger, and pain to the pages and closed and locked the diary. It was my confessional, my place to think, to ponder, to figure things out in my mind. It became a way for my mother to invade my privacy and punish me and so I quit keeping a diary.

I didn't begin keeping a journal again until I was in my thirties as a way of sorting thru my emotions and thoughts, trying out dialogue, working thru characterizations, or just plain complaining about the problems and grief in my life. It was the only place where I felt safe to voice my thoughts and emotions.

When I left Ohio several years ago I entrusted the many, many journals I had kept to my youngest sister with orders that if anything should happen to me the journals were to be burned. Once again my mother, certain I had written horrible, nasty, and vile things about her, got hold of my journals and got a big surprise. There were some entries about my interactions with her, but they were fairly rare. She was shocked at some of the language, but overall she was stunned by what I wrote on hundreds of different subjects. She eventually told me she had read my journals and that she felt I should have them published. That was something I had considered in the back of my mind should I ever become a well known, or even cult, writing figure and why I wanted them burned. I did not want people to pry into my private thoughts and my personal tragedies and pain, but suddenly the idea had merit. After all, I have always been completely open about my life, the good and the bad parts, and having people read my journals was just another way of being completely open.

Two years ago a friend convinced me to get online with Dead Journal, so I did. Then she moved on to LJ and a year later I caved in and followed. I never really thought anyone other than her would actually read what I wrote, but I treated it (and treat it still) like my paper journal, a place to sort out emotions, thoughts, and writing. To me, diaries/journals are not "just crap." What I write is most times not even edited (as you can plainly read and as my youngest sister continues to gleefully point out when I misspell a word), but it is a true version of how and what I feel. Many people sanitize their journals or use it simply as a way to socialize and meet people, a way to fit into online/offline society, a place where they can mask who and what they are, or simply just for fun. What you read on the virtual pages of my journal is who and what I am. These are the day-to-day events of my life and a look into the way my mind, heart, and soul work. This is me.

I treat LJ and all my other online journals, of which there are three, the same way I treat my paper journals. The only thing I hide is what I write specifically to one person, only because they are intimate exchanges and it is one of the few ways we have to communicate. It's like writing love letters to each other and as such is not for public consumption.

What I write here and cross post to my other journals is a true representation of me, most of which are written in the heat of the moment. That is not to say that I do not think out some of my posts, but most of them are stream of consciousness, except, like this post, on occasion when I take the time to think about what I'm going to say and how to say it. I do not sanitize, edit (except for spelling and grammar), or otherwise expurgate my writing. What you read here is my voice, my thoughts, and my feelings, passions, fears, and life.

Welcome to my world.

So you want to be a writer...

Ah, the glamorous life of a writer: book signings, talk shows, movie deals, wining and dining, and seeing your book on bookstore shelves across the country. That's the life you envision, the dream you work to make true. But being a writer isn't all book signings and talk shows. There's another side to the glamorous life that writers won't talk about for fear of being labeled difficult. That's the real life of a writer. So, before you make the decision to follow this path, read the signs along the road, the ones placed in the shadows and covered with dirt and tattered shrouds.

Being a writer is more than just putting words on paper for editors and publishers and agents beating a path to your door. There is a business to writing that very few talk about and fewer still know before their books see shelf space. There are palms to be greased, butts to be kissed, and humiliation to endure before, during, and after the fact. To be sure, there are writers who hit the big time with little or no effort, but they are few and far between, almost urban legends.

You have your manuscript(s) ready and everything has been checked and double checked, edited to within an inch of it's literary life, and you know what you have is good. Or you have written sample chapters and put together a killer proposal and you want an agent to represent you because that's how the big writers do it. You approach an agent and they read your whole proposal (if it's short) or skim the first chapter or two (if they have the time) of your novel and they tell you it's not for them. You try another agent and then another and maybe they pass, too--if they take the time to respond at all. So you send your proposal/manuscript to a publisher, one you've researched thoroughly. You put in an extra stamped, self addressed envelope or manuscript box (called a SASE or SASB) and you put it in the mail and wait. The publisher contacts you and says yes, but more often than not they say no thanks in a form rejection, or a personal note if you're lucky or they're feeling generous, and send it back to you.

If the publisher says yes, they will probably ask for a few changes, to which you will gladly agree because you know you're just starting out and you'll do anything to see your work in print, they will tell you to contact someone else in their company to hammer out the details of the contract. Now, you have heard the horror stories of tiny or no advances and how writers unwittingly signed away their first born manuscript rights because they didn't know enough about contracts and hidden clauses and such, so you contact those agents who rejected you before with a bona fide publishing deal. Suddenly, one of them, the first one who turned you down, jumps on the bandwagon and says they'd be glad to help you out. You've already done most of the work but you want to protect yourself and your manuscript and you happily thank them for their help, forgetting that they didn't see enough merit in you or your work in the first place to work to place your work before. You can afford to be generous because they can help you down the road with your second or twentieth manuscript. You reason it's worth the 15%-20% you're about to shell out for them to look over the contract and protect your (their) interests; never mind they have done jack squat to this point and have also mentioned that if the advance isn't going to be sufficient they still won't represent you because it's not worth their time.

The deal is set and your advance is going to be about $5000 dollars, 15% of which is $750 for the agent who did nothing to get you to that point, but you're glad they've agreed to look out for your (their) interests and sign you. After all, you weren't expecting that much for your first advance and you're ecstatic. What's a few dollars off the top for the agent who is the Johnny-come-lately to the party when s/he will get you some really big advances down the road, advances you can barely imagine in your wildest dreams. It's a small price to pay, you tell yourself and you happily wait for the agency contract.

When the contract arrives you see that in addition to the 15%-20% commission the agent also wants an extra amount of money (sometimes spelled out and most times not) for copying, messenger service, and overnight mail, and packaging. You look at it and wonder why the commission doesn't cover the cost of those things, but you don't want to be labeled a difficult author and have the agent bail on you just when you have your first book deal. You're still looking down the road at all those book signings, 6- and 7-figure advances, talk shows, and books on the shelves so you sign the contract, reminding yourself that it's a small amount of money and you will finally be published. Of course, it's sort of like getting a bill for utilities or phone or your new car and having the company or dealership send you an extra bill for the paper on which it's printed, the stamps used to mail the bill, and the cost of ink and computer time for printing up the bill, but it's a small amount and so you pay. Evidently, 15%-20% of your royalties for the life of the book is not enough to cover those charges. You don't think about how there will be times when the agent does not copy, messenger, overnight, or otherwise do anything for you or your future work that you will still have to pay the fee for the cost of them doing business, right down to the staples, paper clips, and tape, but it's a small price to pay; you're going to be a published author. And don't forget that your new agent, the one who has your best interests at heart, is going to collect 15%-20% of every royalty check you ever get for the publication of this book for as long as it is in print even though all they did was look over a contract, something you could have paid a good lawyer to do for $100 or less, but you're still looking to the future. Oh, and don't forget that fee for the cost of doing business comes out of the first check every year.

Your book is finally published and you've earned out your advance (sold enough books to pay for the advance) and the royalty checks start coming in. The checks will be sent to your new agent who will take their commission and extra fees off the top and cut you a check for the remainder. You're a real author now and you have several books making the publishing rounds and you're finally a published author. Your dream has been realized, but there are still dangerous rapids to get around or through.

(to be continued...)

Giving and receiving.

Receiving is an art, especially for some people.

Have you ever noticed that the people who are the most generous and giving are usually the ones who never ask for help when they need it the most?

One of my best friends (who shall remain nameless here) and I had a discussion not long ago about giving and receiving. She needed help and I offered it--actually I forced it on her unawares--and she felt ashamed of needing help. "I'm the one who always gives the help," she told me. I told her that spurning help when you need it is like spitting in the giver's face and on their gift. "But I'm supposed to be the strong one, the one who helps," she said.

I know what she means. I feel the same way.

I have learned that it is a lot easier to give help than to receive it for some people, and I don't mean the people who are always waiting for a hand-out, who are always ready to tell you how much they want and how soon they want it, the parasites who infect society, but for those people who would rather grin and bear the problems than ask for help. They aren't comfortable owing someone else or asking for loans and it takes a major effort for them to even get the words out. If you offer help, they tell you they've got it and can manage on their own. This is a lesson that smacked me in the face yesterday.

Another friend, a wonderful and giving man, told me a story about a pilot who lost control of his F15E in a flat spin. His wing man told him to eject but the pilot said, "I got it. I got it." He fell like a meteor from 15,000 feet down toward the searing desert below. Regulations state that he was supposed to eject under 10,000 feet. His wing man radioed and begged him to eject. "I got it. I got it," he said. Evidently, the trainer sitting in the rear seat didn't believe him because he ejected at 72 feet above the ground. He didn't make it. The pilot rode the plane into the desert. He got it all right.

It's hard to admit you need help. It's so much easier to give your last dollar to a friend or someone in need than to say the words, "I need help," especially if you're not used to getting help when people close to you can see what you're going thru and ignore you. So you close your mouth, grit your teeth, and get thru the best way you know how, getting rid of prized possessions and making do with barely enough to get by just so you don't have to say those awful, bitter tasting words.

I've learned that not everyone is unwilling to help and that there are good people, decent and loving people, who would help you if you only say the words...and even when you don't say the words, but acknowledge that a problem exists.

So here is to all the wonderful people I know who reach out their hands, their hearts, and their wallets to help a friend in need. You know who you are. Blessings on you all and thank you for being there.

Ghosts

I woke this morning to a white world: white trees, white ground, and white sky. Snow ghosts drifted between the trees, occasionally dropping from ghost heavy branches in a crystalline spray, swirling, dancing, flying, spinning like dervishes toward the windows and dissipating in a sparkling spray. The deck is mounded and peaked with white shimmering frosting as the sun peers thru the white and the winds push clouds out of the way so a robin's egg blue sky smiles between the gaps in mare's tail runners of billowing white. Peaks and mounds of frosting decorate the deck railing, mounded in enormous puffs on the planking, waiting to be tossed off the deck and onto the ground, disappearing in iridescent sprays to merge with the snow ghosts still flitting and drifting between the trees.

One thing is certain, I need to call the guy with the plow and begin the battle to remain mobile when I want to get out of here, although I feel safe and peaceful here in my snowy fortress, unwilling to disturb the ethereal quiet and venture down to town away from my winter fastness.

It has snowed for three days and I wish it had snowed harder yesterday, trapping my surprise visitor for a day or two to share the warmth and the silent beauty.

Stephen Bishop is serenading me with songs from the past, ballads that stir feelings I have pushed behind me, reminding me of so much I had forgotten and now clasp close. Jane Olivor has done her turn on the speakers with songs I love and songs I've not heard her sing before. Both are presents from my surprise guest yesterday. He also brought a handmade case for my ham radio equipment, a gift of exquisite workmanship and beauty that begs to be touched, caressed, and used. The wood feels like soft velvet and captures my eyes and fingers every time I look at it.

All the worries and confusion that bubbled within me just one day ago are gone like snow ghosts on the wind, borne away on the warm breath of joy and happiness, shared passions, and love.

Rustic thoughts

Poised on the edge between fear and peace, I am unable to decide which way to go. A sense of accomplishment makes things easier; especially when I conquer my body and the chains it has forged about me, making me afraid to trust what once was mine. My spirit is intact, although at times it hides from me, making me feel weak and unsure, unable to trust my body even though my mind tells me the strength and ability is there.

Thinking back on older times when chain saws and electricity and gasoline were not commonplace, to a time where the strength of the body and a determined spirit were all the tools one could count on, I am not surprised that something in me reaches for simple tools to complete my tasks. The sight of a rust spangled bow saw reminds me there are many ways to cut wood.

My first attempts worked on cut and pressure-treated bards but I found logs a bit daunting, the flexible blade sticking and catching in the wood. I experimented with angle and pressure and speed and found the easiest way to get the logs cut with a minimum of work was to take my time and emulate the tortoise--slow and steady. The saw still got stuck from time to time, but soon I had cut 2 slender trees into sections, enough for at least a day's fire to keep me warm.

By upending two half barrels I made a surface to hold the logs steady but I still need something to help stabilize the log when I'm sawing it. I have enough will to stick to the task, but I still don't trust my body. For too many years have muscles, reflexes, and balance atrophied and they are slow coming back--or so it feels to me. I don't trust them, especially here where an accident could mean my death. I dare not chance too much although something inside urges me forward, reminding me of what I once was and could be again. Even in the grips of that siren's song some small whisper of reason checks my steps, slows my rush and keeps me wary of trusting too far; and so I inch cautiously forward where once I raced boldly. Maybe that tiny whispering voice is age or wisdom or fear or maybe I have at last become cautious. And so I inch forward. Two logs cut into smaller pieces to feed the ravenous stove, twelve pieces of wood to stave off the cold and conserve the propane, ever the specter of want hovering just outside the golden glow to remind me that nothing comes without a price and my days of reckless spending are long ago at an end until I venture forth into the world and accept the yoke of schedule and office politics and demands again.

But I do not want to go back to that world. I want the freedom I have now, but with a more regular income. That's the real problem--money. I need money to keep living here and to keep living and I am stalled, unable (or unwilling) to bear even the light yoke of writing. All my days are filled with others' words and love and study until there is no desire for my own words. Body and mind and will in constant rebellion while I sink lower and lower into poverty. And yet I am not poor.

I have a roof and electricity, phone and computer access, but it is like the wood piled up outside; a visible sign of wealth without access to it. The saw gives me access, but I don't trust my body far enough to do more than nibble away at the logs, one or two at a time, just enough for heat for one day or possibly two. A little and then a little more, stretching farther and farther away from the chains of flesh that bound me and bind me still.

I do feel and see changes: clothes hanging looser, bones protruding from thinning layers of fat. My walk is stronger, more resolute, and I can feel the power and grace returning despite the momentary creaks, groans and twinges of old injuries and protesting joints and ligaments, and so I slow, but the power remains, a coiled spring of nearly infinite capacity waiting for the fear to subside so my rising confidence unleashes my will without reservation.

And it is fear which holds me back, tempers my excitement and joy at the return of what has been buried for so long, maintaining my balance on the edge.

Fear is necessary to keep me safe but fear is also an insidiously dangerous beast that sucks the marrow from bones and the strength from resolve. Unchecked, fear built a prison of flesh and cowed my naturally determined nature until its ghostly outline could only get me from bed to work and back again. From my prison I glimpsed and reached for happiness and freedom only to be shunned for my prison garments of safe and abhorrent flesh.

Part of me believes I am nearly free as my body responds to my tentative gains. Where once my body moved and worked without more thought than breathing or the beating of my heart, now I focus on the intricate relationship of bone, muscle, ligament, and movement, reveling in the feeling of each individual motion as if discovering the secret of life long hidden. Ripples and dimples appear in once smooth bulges and act like a half seen mirage of wonder that leads me through the gathering dark, and I follow.

There is little pain as I stumble forward, running and walking where the ground permits, always joyous and a little wary that all is but a dream, a fantasy born of desire. As the flesh is stripped away I recall more and more of balance and fluid motion without thought or care beyond the initial desire. I carefully venture forward, but each unchallenged and barely challenged foray breeds hope and desire for more.

I was told I would emerge from this cocoon of silence changed in mind and spirit, but also in body. Maybe this is the beginning of that change and soon I will emerge from my cocoon into the long ago promise that once gleamed and shone from the body I was taught to hate and despise.

I wonder if the caterpillar reviles its flaccid fat curls of insect flesh before it enters it self-made prison to emerge as a moth or butterfly, a winged shape of beauty and grace. Each step, each incarnation is as necessary as the next, for without the corpulent caterpillar gorging on leaves and honey and vegetation it would never be able to spin its prison or remain inside long enough to change.

Not another day...

...will pass without me writing something. I know. I've been MIA these past few days. I have no excuse and no reason. I've been busy and reading and catching up on a lot of things, and, well, I haven't had much to say that would be worth writing about. No pithy observations, no special moments that needed to be inscribed in bits and bytes, nothing to say. And I just took a lot of words to say nothing at all.

Even in my quiet and secluded environment, I have picked up the yarg that is currently making the rounds. Nothing horrible, no gastrointestinal pyrotechnics, just a stuffy head and feeling sub par. It happens. So, taking my own advice I have brewed a cup of green and licorice root tea with honey. That should set things to rights. I culled some wood from the basement and have a lovely warm fire going and I don't feel so cold and icky. I had a short conversation with my favorite person and I think I can finally get motivated to write the reviews I need to write. I also have to write a few articles for the horror site, finish a cat fighting scenario, and dig into the ripped out roots of my NaNo novel and start all over from a better perspective and point in the story.

I've been wrestling with what I need to do with it because it just didn't have the right tone and wasn't doing what I want to do with the story. I just trashed about 15,000 words and I'm starting over. I may be able to salvage what I've already written, but even if I don't at least I know where the story should begin and how it will play out.

The stove is blowing warm air out and up into the loft where I spend most of my days and my fingers are warm and functioning for a change. The licorice root and green tea is soothing my throat and I can breathe again. The washing machine is cleaning a load of clothes and my plants are watered and flourishing--as are the gnats. I don't feel like crawling back into bed with evil intentions of DIY pleasure or just snoozing with another book. The sky outside my window is a fluffy uniform hazy white with ribbons of the palest blue winking between the clouds. I found out there is a chance I will be able to see the aurora borealis tonight since the sun is spitting fire in our direction and I do not want to miss another aurora like the one I missed last night that was visible as far south as Oklahoma.

There is still snow on the ground and the air is crisp, cold, and clear. It's a good day and my mood has definitely taken a detour around icky and slid right into happy and productive. Can't ask for more than that.

Onward and upward...

The first day of the novel writing challenge and I was indulging myself in a hearty breakfast of turkey sausage, eggs, and a big cup of Dagoba Xocolatl (that's pronounced chocolate) Mexican cocoa mix with chilies and cinnamon. For those of you who don't know it, cinnamon has been shown to lower insulin sensitivity in diabetics, but that peculiar mix of chilies and cinnamon is typically Mexican and more delicious than you ever dreamed possible. I'm feeling revved up and warm inside, and not just from the chilies, but from a cup of morning cocoa and good food.

The Dagoba Xocolatl was an impulse buy this weekend at the health food store in Winter Park and I'm already hooked. I had a cup last night with a bowl of frozen mangoes and toasted pumpkin seeds and another cup. I may have another one tonight, so there.

In the meantime, I have cleared out all the emails and made my comments and I'm gearing up for an incest fest of unusual and controversial proportions. I do so love taking the road less traveled and this is no exception, so onward and upward to the 50K words I need to complete before the 15th of this month so I can move on to dark Victorian fiction. I write enough nonfiction all the time that I'm indulging my secret pleasure this month. Humor me or I'll make you read it all.

Join me in the NaNoWriMo challenge even if you think you can't write. You just never know until you try.

That is all. Disperse.

NaNoWriMo

Yes, it's true. I'm going to tackle two books this month because I've been so lazy the rest of the year. Well, not so lazy, but I haven't written any books this year and I need to get back up on that horse.

I see has decided to do the same thing and write two books for the NaNoWriMo challenge this year, but I've decided I am not going to divide my energies and write two books at the same time. So, you ask, how do I plan to write two books in the month of November? Simple. I'm going to write the first one in the first half of the month and then write the second one.

I tend to have tunnel vision when I write, concentrating so intensely I am oblivious to everything and everyone around me, including biological functions. This is a good thing, but it also makes it difficult to write two books at once and still do what I must do to generate funds to pay for the privilege of living and writing. So, the two-pronged approach. A friend told me last year I could write two books a month and I'm going to see if his belief in me is misplaced or simply insane.

I'm going to tackle the incest novel first and then move on to something darker and more Victorian. Or, then again, I may do something completely out of character and write a romance. Quit laughing. I can write romance, but it won't be your Harlequin style, frilly, frothy, empty-headed romance. There will be a story and complex characters. So get ready to swallow your laughter and be amazed.

I am.

Blather

So many thoughts, so much to say, and so little space before the readers get bored or angry and move on. So I'll make it all as brief as possible (for me, too, since I have other things I need to do as well).

Happy Halloween/Blessed Samhain to all and to all a good day and night. Tonight is a special night when the walls between the worlds of the living and the dead are thinnest. It is a time to remember those who have gone on and to, in some societies and beliefs, to set out a little something for them (food & drink) to honor them. It's not such a bad idea, whatever your religion or beliefs, to remember the ones we have loved and who have passed beyond the veil. These are the people who have helped us become who and what we are, good and bad, and who we still think of. Of course, this is also a time of year to remember the opposite side of the coin of death--LIFE! This is also a time that reminds us of the promise of rebirth and the continuity of life. Don't forget to celebrate life as we remember the dead.

Sadly, and her children left this morning. I was sad to see them go. The time went by so quickly this weekend but we had a good time playing games (I actually lost one), carving pumpkins, celebrating the season, watching horror movies (one was good, the others had nothing frightening about them at all except that they were made and people were paid to write and act in the atrocities that they were), and talking. I also made a pot of butternut squash soup and toasted pumpkin seeds to go on top with the sour cream. The kids didn't like it, but their taste buds are still clogged with candy and junk food. It's not their fault, it's just biology. It took me many years to appreciate a good dry or red wine. My palate was immature.

They left this morning for a Democratic rally in downtown Denver at Lincoln Park across from the state house, but not before informing me one of my computers was haunted and dialed up to get online twice during the night. I figured out the problem, but it wasn't haints. It was a rabid program accidentally downloaded when J downloaded some graphics for his PowerPoint presentation for school. No big deal. Just happens sometimes and I seldom use that computer for anything but printing since my main computer was configured improperly and doesn't recognize printers, something I have not had the time or inclination to correct. It was so quiet when they left and I missed them. I always miss them.

The rest of the day I caught up on sleep I missed during our marathon talk fest Friday night/Saturday morning that ended at 5 a.m. We did all the usual fun stuff: shopping, cooking, talking, and just spending time together. I'll go down to see them in December when I take my FCC ham radio operator's tests.

Yes, you read that right. I'm going to get a ham radio operator's license and I'm learning Morse code. I've been told I'm progressing nicely, but it doesn't feel comfortable yet. This morning I had an email from my mentor and friend that said backsliding and plateaus are normal just when I was beginning to believe I was too old to learn and my brain was fried. Well, I haven't been studying that long either. I've only been at this a few days and I tend to get antsy if I don't catch on right away. I need to remember I'm blazing new synapses and not adding new nuances to knowledge I already possess. It's a whole different game. I have six weeks to get it all down and I'm sure I will, but I'm used to learning things a whole lot faster. I'll get over it and I will keep plugging away until those synapses are hard wired. Code will play a big part in a story I've planned to write.

Another bit of my past surfaced this weekend, someone I hear from very seldom--usually when he's updating his contact lists. Now that he's retired (he retired at 49 from the Fire Dept in Columbus, Ohio and the Bomb Squad) and has all this time on his hands he says he misses me. He probably just misses all the days, weekends, and afternoons we spent working on his planes (a Cessna-152 and a home built Cozy), walking his five dogs, and me teaching him how to get the most use out of his computers and peripherals. We did have a good time together, but all of a sudden he misses my physical presence. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder. I have to admit I enjoy spending time with him, too. He was an interesting character, a life long bachelor who loves animals more than most people, and a quick wit. I saw Message in a Bottle with him, and several other movies. We worked good together when we pooled our resources and cooked or just when we spent time together, but time and people (especially me) move on.

Into this maelstrom of remembrance and thoughts of the past rang my mother's strident tones. "Who have you begged, borrowed, stole from, or murdered this week?" she asked when I picked up the phone. I told her the list was very long and indiscriminate and she laughed. She had been reading a magazine and came across the word/herb Rosemary and thought of me. She said my father didn't remember how to make my scalp tonic and I explained it again. They won't remember it even though it is very easy so I'll just make up a batch for them, put it into a spritzer and send it with clear instructions.

Rosemary is a very useful herb in cooking, but it also promotes blood flow, which, in the case of the scalp and thinning hair, is very important. An infusion (or tea for the uninitiated) of rosemary used as a final rinse, and massaged into the scalp, when washing your hair will increase blood flow to the scalp and promote hair growth. Don't believe me? Ask if my hair isn't thicker. My father even noticed it when my parents were here and he asked me how it happened. Herbology is a fascinating subject and I've been studying for a long time.

Since I have been offline for a few days, I got back online this afternoon and began perusing my friends' journals and came across a very interesting and thought provoking post by the usually absent . You ought to check it out.

Basically what it says is that if you are unhappy with the way your county or state treats your civil liberties or your choice of marriage/commitment partner you can take yourself, your family, and your loved one(s) where they will honor your life choices, thus depriving the previous county/state of your tax and consumer dollars. In other words, make your choices known with the currently most powerful force at your command--your money.

Taking that thought a bit farther, it might not be a bad idea to consider moving offshore to Mexico, Pakistan, or India to take advantage of the lower cost of living and go where your job has migrated. You may get less money than what you earn in the U.S. but at least you can continue working and taking your job back. That would also send the legislature of this country a message: If you're going to let companies send my job elsewhere I'll follow the job and deprive you of my tax and consumer dollars.

You may not want to live in a foreign country, but this country is rapidly getting pretty foreign as the government solicits immigrants from all over the world, even to the point of financing their move, while it ignores the native population and their needs/concerns. It's just a casual thought on a dark and snowy night full of shadows and howling winds--at least here. Do with it what you will, but consider your options. You are the captain of your own life and if you fail to guide your vessel the tides and currents will take you where they will and not where you will.

That is all. Disperse.

Blather

So many thoughts, so much to say, and so little space before the readers get bored or angry and move on. So I'll make it all as brief as possible (for me, too, since I have other things I need to do as well).

Happy Halloween/Blessed Samhain to all and to all a good day and night. Tonight is a special night when the walls between the worlds of the living and the dead are thinnest. It is a time to remember those who have gone on and to, in some societies and beliefs, to set out a little something for them (food & drink) to honor them. It's not such a bad idea, whatever your religion or beliefs, to remember the ones we have loved and who have passed beyond the veil. These are the people who have helped us become who and what we are, good and bad, and who we still think of. Of course, this is also a time of year to remember the opposite side of the coin of death--LIFE! This is also a time that reminds us of the promise of rebirth and the continuity of life. Don't forget to celebrate life as we remember the dead.

Sadly, and her children left this morning. I was sad to see them go. The time went by so quickly this weekend but we had a good time playing games (I actually lost), carving pumpkins, celebrating the season, watching horror movies (one was good, the others had nothing frightening about them at all except that they were made and people were paid to write and act in the atrocities that they were), and talking. I also made a pot of butternut squash soup and toasted pumpkin seeds to go on top with the sour cream. The kids didn't like it, but their taste buds are still clogged with candy and junk food. It's not their fault, it's just biology. It took me many years to appreciate a good dry or red wine. My palate was immature.

They left this morning for a Democratic rally in downtown Denver at Lincoln Park across from the state house, but not before informing me one of my computers was haunted and dialed up to get online twice during the night. I figured out the problem, but it wasn't haints. It was a rabid program accidentally downloaded when J downloaded some graphics for his PowerPoint presentation for school. No big deal. Just happens sometimes and I seldom use that computer for anything but printing since my main computer was configured improperly and doesn't recognize printers, something I have not had the time or inclination to correct. It was so quiet when they left and I missed them. I always miss them.

The rest of the day I caught up on sleep I missed during our marathon talk fest Friday night/Saturday morning that ended at 5 a.m. We did all the usual fun stuff: shopping, cooking, talking, and just spending time together. I'll go down to see them in December when I take my FCC ham radio operator's tests.

Yes, you read that right. I'm going to get a ham radio operator's license and I'm learning Morse code. I've been told I'm progressing nicely, but it doesn't feel comfortable yet. This morning I had an email from my mentor and friend that said backsliding and plateaus are normal just when I was beginning to believe I was too old to learn and my brain was fried. Well, I haven't been studying that long either. I've only been at this a few days and I tend to get antsy if I don't catch on right away. I need to remember I'm blazing new synapses and not adding new nuances to knowledge I already possess. It's a whole different game. I have six weeks to get it all down and I'm sure I will, but I'm used to learning things a whole lot faster. I'll get over it and I will keep plugging away until those synapses are hard wired. Code will play a big part in a story I've planned to write.

Another bit of my past surfaced this weekend, someone I hear from very seldom--usually when he's updating his contact lists. Now that he's retired (he retired at 49 from the Fire Dept in Columbus, Ohio and the Bomb Squad) and has all this time on his hands he says he misses me. He probably just misses all the days, weekends, and afternoons we spent working on his planes (a Cessna-152 and a home built Cozy), walking his five dogs, and me teaching him how to get the most use out of his computers and peripherals. We did have a good time together, but all of a sudden he misses my physical presence. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder. I have to admit I enjoy spending time with him, too. He was an interesting character, a life long bachelor who loves animals more than most people, and a quick wit. I saw Message in a Bottle with him, and several other movies. We worked good together when we pooled our resources and cooked or just when we spent time together, but time and people (especially me) move on.

Into this maelstrom of remembrance and thoughts of the past rang my mother's strident tones. "Who have you begged, borrowed, stole from, or murdered this week?" she asked when I picked up the phone. I told her the list was very long and indiscriminate and she laughed. She had been reading a magazine and came across the word/herb Rosemary and thought of me. She said my father didn't remember how to make my scalp tonic and I explained it again. They won't remember it even though it is very easy so I'll just make up a batch for them, put it into a spritzer and send it with clear instructions.

Rosemary is a very useful herb in cooking, but it also promotes blood flow, which, in the case of the scalp and thinning hair, is very important. An infusion (or tea for the uninitiated) of rosemary used as a final rinse, and massaged into the scalp, when washing your hair will increase blood flow to the scalp and promote hair growth. Don't believe me? Ask if my hair isn't thicker. My father even noticed it when my parents were here and he asked me how it happened. Herbology is a fascinating subject and I've been studying for a long time.

Since I have been offline for a few days, I got back online this afternoon and began perusing my friends' journals and came across a very interesting and thought provoking post by the usually absent . You ought to check it out.

Basically what it says is that if you are unhappy with the way your county or state treats your civil liberties or your choice of marriage/commitment partner you can take yourself, your family, and your loved one(s) where they will honor your life choices, thus depriving the previous county/state of your tax and consumer dollars. In other words, make your choices known with the currently most powerful force at your command--your money.

Taking that thought a bit farther, it might not be a bad idea to consider moving offshore to Mexico, Pakistan, or India to take advantage of the lower cost of living and go where your job has migrated. You may get less money than what you earn in the U.S. but at least you can continue working and taking your job back. That would also send the legislature of this country a message: If you're going to let companies send my job elsewhere I'll follow the job and deprive you of my tax and consumer dollars.

You may not want to live in a foreign country, but this country is rapidly getting pretty foreign as the government solicits immigrants from all over the world, even to the point of financing their move, while it ignores the native population and their needs/concerns. It's just a casual thought on a dark and snowy night full of shadows and howling winds--at least here. Do with it what you will, but consider your options. You are the captain of your own life and if you fail to guide your vessel the tides and currents will take you where they will and not where you will.

That is all. Disperse.

Blather

So many thoughts, so much to say, and so little space before the readers get bored or angry and move on. So I'll make it all as brief as possible (for me, too, since I have other things I need to do as well).

Happy Halloween/Blessed Samhain to all and to all a good day and night. Tonight is a special night when the walls between the worlds of the living and the dead are thinnest. It is a time to remember those who have gone on and to, in some societies and beliefs, to set out a little something for them (food & drink) to honor them. It's not such a bad idea, whatever your religion or beliefs, to remember the ones we have loved and who have passed beyond the veil. These are the people who have helped us become who and what we are, good and bad, and who we still think of. Of course, this is also a time of year to remember the opposite side of the coin of death--LIFE! This is also a time that reminds us of the promise of rebirth and the continuity of life. Don't forget to celebrate life as we remember the dead.

Sadly, and her children left this morning. I was sad to see them go. The time went by so quickly this weekend but we had a good time playing games (I actually lost), carving pumpkins, celebrating the season, watching horror movies (one was good, the others had nothing frightening about them at all except that they were made and people were paid to write and act in the atrocities that they were), and talking. I also made a pot of butternut squash soup and toasted pumpkin seeds to go on top with the sour cream. The kids didn't like it, but their taste buds are still clogged with candy and junk food. It's not their fault, it's just biology. It took me many years to appreciate a good dry or red wine. My palate was immature.

They left this morning for a Democratic rally in downtown Denver at Lincoln Park across from the state house, but not before informing me one of my computers was haunted and dialed up to get online twice during the night. I figured out the problem, but it wasn't haints. It was a rabid program accidentally downloaded when J downloaded some graphics for his PowerPoint presentation for school. No big deal. Just happens sometimes and I seldom use that computer for anything but printing since my main computer was configured improperly and doesn't recognize printers, something I have not had the time or inclination to correct. It was so quiet when they left and I missed them. I always miss them.

The rest of the day I caught up on sleep I missed during our marathon talk fest Friday night/Saturday morning that ended at 5 a.m. We did all the usual fun stuff: shopping, cooking, talking, and just spending time together. I'll go down to see them in December when I take my FCC ham radio operator's tests.

Yes, you read that right. I'm going to get a ham radio operator's license and I'm learning Morse code. I've been told I'm progressing nicely, but it doesn't feel comfortable yet. This morning I had an email from my mentor and friend that said backsliding and plateaus are normal just when I was beginning to believe I was too old to learn and my brain was fried. Well, I haven't been studying that long either. I've only been at this a few days and I tend to get antsy if I don't catch on right away. I need to remember I'm blazing new synapses and not adding new nuances to knowledge I already possess. It's a whole different game. I have six weeks to get it all down and I'm sure I will, but I'm used to learning things a whole lot faster. I'll get over it and I will keep plugging away until those synapses are hard wired. Code will play a big part in a story I've planned to write.

Another bit of my past surfaced this weekend, someone I hear from very seldom--usually when he's updating his contact lists. Now that he's retired (he retired at 49 from the Fire Dept in Columbus, Ohio and the Bomb Squad) and has all this time on his hands he says he misses me. He probably just misses all the days, weekends, and afternoons we spent working on his planes (a Cessna-152 and a home built Cozy), walking his five dogs, and me teaching him how to get the most use out of his computers and peripherals. We did have a good time together, but all of a sudden he misses my physical presence. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder. I have to admit I enjoy spending time with him, too. He was an interesting character, a life long bachelor who loves animals more than most people, and a quick wit. I saw Message in a Bottle with him, and several other movies. We worked good together when we pooled our resources and cooked or just when we spent time together, but time and people (especially me) move on.

Into this maelstrom of remembrance and thoughts of the past rang my mother's strident tones. "Who have you begged, borrowed, stole from, or murdered this week?" she asked when I picked up the phone. I told her the list was very long and indiscriminate and she laughed. She had been reading a magazine and came across the word/herb Rosemary and thought of me. She said my father didn't remember how to make my scalp tonic and I explained it again. They won't remember it even though it is very easy so I'll just make up a batch for them, put it into a spritzer and send it with clear instructions.

Rosemary is a very useful herb in cooking, but it also promotes blood flow, which, in the case of the scalp and thinning hair, is very important. An infusion (or tea for the uninitiated) of rosemary used as a final rinse, and massaged into the scalp, when washing your hair will increase blood flow to the scalp and promote hair growth. Don't believe me? Ask if my hair isn't thicker. My father even noticed it when my parents were here and he asked me how it happened. Herbology is a fascinating subject and I've been studying for a long time.

Since I have been offline for a few days, I got back online this afternoon and began perusing my friends' journals and came across a very interesting and thought provoking post by the usually absent . You ought to check it out.

Basically what it says is that if you are unhappy with the way your county or state treats your civil liberties or your choice of marriage/commitment partner you can take yourself, your family, and your loved one(s) where they will honor your life choices, thus depriving the previous county/state of your tax and consumer dollars. In other words, make your choices known with the currently most powerful force at your command--your money.

Taking that thought a bit farther, it might not be a bad idea to consider moving offshore to Mexico, Pakistan, or India to take advantage of the lower cost of living and go where your job has migrated. You may get less money than what you earn in the U.S. but at least you can continue working and taking your job back. That would also send the legislature of this country a message: If you're going to let companies send my job elsewhere I'll follow the job and deprive you of my tax and consumer dollars.

You may not want to live in a foreign country, but this country is rapidly getting pretty foreign as the government solicits immigrants from all over the world, even to the point of financing their move, while it ignores the native population and their needs/concerns. It's just a casual thought on a dark and snowy night full of shadows and howling winds--at least here. Do with it what you will, but consider your options. You are the captain of your own life and if you fail to guide your vessel the tides and currents will take you where they will and not where you will.

That is all. Disperse.

More politics from the demon side

Say what you will, but Joss Whedon created something special in Buffy and her demon-bashing Scoobie friends and with Angel. You may think he was just writing about demons and vampires and fighting evil, but there was so much more to the show than teenage angst on the Hellmouth. Buffy, the Scoobies, Angel, and (my favorite) Rupert Giles offer so much more.

If you haven't seen Buffy yet, check it out on video. The final season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer will be out on DVD Nov. 16, but be sure to start at the beginning and watch it all the way thru. You'll be glad you did.

The politics of pie

Slapstick is alive and well in Arizona where two students used their right of free speech to make their politics known in a very public way.

Ann Coulter was speaking at the University of Arizona in Tucson when two male students pelted her with something stickier than tough questions.

That is all. Disperse.

Lunar Eclipse Tonight

If you haven't heard about it yet, check out the best times for your area to watch tonight's eclipse.

NASA has all the info and lots more besides. Go down the page and click the link that matches your time zone. Then make sure you're outside with family or friends or just go by yourself and watch.

That is all. Disperse

Lunar Eclipse Tonight

If you haven't heard about it yet, check out the best times for your area to watch tonight's eclipse.

NASA has all the info and lots more besides. Go down the page and click the link that matches your time zone. Then make sure you're outside with family or friends or just go by yourself and watch.

That is all. Disperse

Autumn reminder

I have been so caught up in dealing with the past and finances over the past few weeks, not to mention my parents' visit, that I completely forgot it was autumn. I got a huge reminder yesterday.

I went to the store to pick up some vegetables, envelopes, and pens (since mine are all used up--I go thru so many of them). As I pushed the crotchety cart down the soup aisle I noticed packages of split green and yellow peas, which put me in the mind of split pea soup with ham. I picked up a package of each and made my way to the meat counter to look at ham. The prices were pretty outrageous for something that is sold by the weight, especially when most of the weight is water, but I found a nice butt end with the bone still intact that wasn't too big or too small and within my budget--sort of. Picked up the rest of my things and received a coupon for a free grande anything from the Starbucks in the store. I chose a pumpkin spice latte, decaffeinated, of course, loaded the groceries in the car, parked the crotchety cart in the corral, and headed for home.

All the way down to Fraser the sky was an iron gray that spat snow and ice pellets. By the time I was back to Tabernash lacy flakes and clumps of snow were drifting down thru the leaden skies while smoky trails wound up from chimneys here and there along the road. Safe in the back seat two butternut squash whispered to me of creamy butternut squash soup laced with maple syrup and a caramel apple reminded me of the treat in store for me when I finished putting everything away. Bright red pomegranates rolled thru my memory, another sure sign of autumn.

As I rounded the curve on the lower part of the winding dirt road that leads to my cabin a doe bounded across my path and stopped on the down slope. I stopped the car and we looked at each other for several minutes, her with curiosity at my strange behavior and me with wonder that I live where beautiful creatures like her wander wherever they will. Smiling, I drove on. I pulled into the road that leads to my cabin and stopped again as a magnificent stag leapt in front of me and into the woods on the other side of the road. He stopped and turned just as I stopped the car. His antlers told the tale of a king among stags, proud and arrogant in his powerful grace, deigning to notice me. He reminded me of the woodcuts in Felix Salten's story of Bambi, Bambi's father standing on the hill waiting for his son to catch up with him.

Just then a yearling buck hop-skipped across the road and stopped, looking up at the stag as if waiting for permission to move. In the gathering dusk, it looked as though he had four points on his tiny rack. Suddenly the stag move regally toward the brow of the hill and down. The little buck hesitated, looking over at me, and then hop-skipped after the stag to disappear into the deeper shadows of the pine trees.

Moments later I pulled into the drive and unloaded the car, locked the door, and dragged my bags upstairs. As I put away the groceries, setting my caramel apple aside and taking a sip of the pumpkin spiced latte, the weight of the past few days lifted. I walked over to the doors that look onto the deck and dreamily watched snowflakes fluttering to the ground, pilling in soft drifts on the deck and across the slopes and rills of my yard, catching in the still green pine needles and sifting thru the branches in a fall of glitter.

Out on the deck as snowflakes settled on my eyelashes and hair, I breathed deeply of wood smoke and the spicy scent of one of my favorite seasons of the year--autumn. I almost forgot and let the season slip away from me in all the worries and day-to-day dealings that I let weigh me down. The bucks and the doe were a reminder to stop and inhale the scent of freedom and joy that comes bounding out of the shadows across my path. I'm glad I paid attention.

Lottery

How many of you have heard about the Green Card lottery?

Now you know